AFTER SPENDING an uncomfortable night on Sam's couch, Georgia rented a steam carpet cleaner, went home, and spent the day scrubbing. She scoured the steps and the landing with carpet shampoo and an enzyme cleaner until most of the smell was gone. The only way you could pick up anything at all was to burrow your nose into the carpet fibers. She half expected to run into her neighbor, but he didn't appear.
It was a crisp fall day with an achingly blue sky, and late that afternoon she went for a run. She jogged east to the lake and then up to Northwestern, making a loop around Evanston. As she reached the campus, she passed a couple strolling by the lake, their bodies melded together in a two-step of total absorption. She remembered that absorption: the overpowering need that only one person could satisfy, the joy that came from satisfying it. That joy, the joy that framed the corners of most people's lives, made only a temporary foray into Georgia's life. A dull pain gathered at the center of her chest.
Back home she showered, dressed, then returned the carpet cleaner to the supermarket. She must have still had soup on the brain, because she picked up a container of tomato bisque along with her other groceries. She wasn't exactly sure what bisque was. It looked like cream of tomato but was more expensive. What was the difference, besides the fancy French name? She poured it into a pan and set it on the stove.
She'd never been a soup person until Matt. He loved it. Said it must be the peasant stock in him. Shit. She was doing it again-using Matt as a benchmark for the events in her life. When would she stop? She stared at the bisque, then took it off the stove and poured it down the drain.
She was lugging a load of clean laundry up from the basement when the phone rang inside her apartment. She sprinted up the last flight to get it.
"Hello?"
"Davis," a tinny voice responded. "It's Paul Kelly."
Saturday night. She hadn't figured the lawyer for a weekend worker. "Hey, Paul. What's up?"
He cleared his throat, and there was a moment of silence. Then, "I was just going over my notes on the Jordan case and wanted to check in."
"It's been an interesting couple of days." She told him about the fish guts. "I could have used your help."
Kelly mumbled something she couldn't make out.
"What?" She smiled. "You don't think cleaning up fish crud is in the line of duty?"
"It was the first thing I learned in law school."
"Along with due process?" She opened her door to gaze at the now clean carpet. "Well, given that this was the same thing that was dumped on Sara Long's head, I'd say someone was trying to send me a message."
"Brilliant deduction," Kelly said. "But fish guts? It's crude."
"That may be the only thing they could think up."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm wondering if the perpetrator was a kid. From the hazing."
"You have any leads?"
"You're not going to like this, but one name keeps surfacing."
"And who would that be?"
"Monica Ramsey."
She heard him suck in his breath.
"Just listen, Paul. Apparently Tommy Cashian-he's the Ramsey girl's boyfriend-had the hots for Sara Long. They hooked up over the summer. It didn't last, but according to her friends, Monica knew about it. When I talked to the kid, he admitted he was crazy about Sara. He would have broken up with Monica, except Sara told him not to. In fact, she dumped him."
More silence.
"There's more. Ramsey was at the Forest Preserve during the game. Several people have backed that up, including her boyfriend. But there's no mention of Monica Ramsey in the police reports. Not one word. The boyfriend claims he took her home when the hazing started, but maybe he's covering for her. I'm going to dig deeper, and if we find evidence that she's unstable, or has some-"
"Davis," Kelly cut in. "You know how when you want something to be true, you can stack the deck, slant things, so it seems like it can't possibly be anything except what you want it to be?"
"I'm not doing that."
"Are you sure?"
"It's a lead, Paul."
"Is it the only one?"
Georgia hesitated. "No," she said quietly.
"What else do you have?"
"Sara lied about working at the bookstore."
"Really?"
"The manager says she quit her job last spring. Hasn't worked there in five months."
"What was she doing?"
"I don't know yet."
"Well now, that's what I call a lead." She heard him rustling papers. "What's more, I don't see anything about that in the police reports."
"You won't. They didn't follow up."
"Now that makes things interesting."
"Can you blame them? They're convinced Cam Jordan killed her."
"Like you're convinced it was the Ramsey girl?"
"I'm not-" She cut herself off.
"Look. Instead of chasing after the State's Attorney's daughter, why don't you concentrate on this job thing?"
"I will. But what about the fish guts in my hall? Whoever sent them clearly doesn't like me nosing around."
"Who else have you pissed off?"
"The line forms to the right."
"I'm listening."
"There's Tom Walcher. He's the lawyer I asked you to check out."
"I did. Big real estate lawyer. Successful. Very much on the up and up. As far as I can tell." Kelly harrumphed. "Who else?"
"Sara Long's father wasn't too pleased with me. And the girls I interviewed didn't want to talk to me. I wonder if one of them could be behind the fish guts."
"You thinking of someone in particular?"
"Not sure yet." Georgia tapped her finger on the phone. "You know, there's still the matter of those sketchy police reports."
"I'm on them."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm working on it."
"I thought you weren't going after Ramsey."
"That's correct."
"Well then, who are-" She caught herself. "Are you going after the cops?"
"It wouldn't be the first time."
She shifted uncomfortably. "I wish you wouldn't."
"Why not?"
"I used to be a cop, remember?"
"But you aren't any more. You can't have it both ways, Davis."
She thought about O'Malley. He was her mentor and her friend. She didn't want to make trouble for him. And though she couldn't defend Parker's sloppy ways, she'd been his partner for nearly ten years. When you risk your life every day, and your partner's the only one watching your back, it creates a bond that can transcend the rules.
"Paul, I think it's more personal. I've been picking around the edges, and someone doesn't like it. Don't go after the cops yet. Let me follow up."
"Going after the cops-or, at least, pointing out what's not in their reports-would buy us more time. And deflect attention away from the Jordan boy."
He had a point. "Enough to get him out of jail?" Cam Jordan was wasting away in Cook County in what was, for him, barbaric conditions. If there was a chance of getting his bail reduced so he could be released, it would be cruel not to try.
"It's possible," Kelly said. "Especially now that the hazing is out. Public opinion is bound to start softening." He paused. "You have any idea who leaked the hazing, by the way?"
"No." It came out quickly.
"I see." Kelly cleared his throat. "Probably just some enterprising reporter?"
"Probably." It was possible that someone had decided to play hero. O'Malley, for example. Of course, if it was him, he'd never admit it. And she'd never ask. "Paul, I still think we should wait on the cop angle. Keep it in reserve until, or if, our backs are up against the wall. It just doesn't feel... right."
"Since when did scruples mean anything to a PI who lies to get what she needs?"
She didn't answer. She wasn't sure herself. On the other hand, at least Kelly was involved in the process: brainstorming strategies, trying out leads. One minute he didn't want to go after anyone, the next he was ready to charge ahead on half-assed theories. Talk about being unencumbered by morals.
"Your wife must love watching you weasel your way out of trouble," she said.
"I'm not married," he said in his reedy voice.
Somehow she had the feeling he'd say that.