ENVIRONMENTAL ENGINEERS was in the industrial backwoods of Skokie, a locale that was dotted with warehouses and small plants. There was a quiet sameness to the buildings: most were one-story, flat-roofed structures made from indistinguishable yellow bricks. Georgia skirted the grass, almost the same pale yellow as the buildings, and walked up to two glass doors. White letters on the left-hand door indicated she'd arrived at the best kitchen remodeler on the North Shore. Black letters on the right spelled out the company she was looking for.
Inside was a small room with a hallway off the back. A young woman in a black t-shirt, black pants, and black fingernail polish sat behind a gray desk. She looked up from a magazine as Georgia walked in.
"May I help you?" she asked in a voice that bordered on surly.
"Possibly. I'm looking for Mr.—uh..." Georgia pretended to search in her bag for a piece of paper.
The girl failed to help her out. "He's not here."
Georgia smiled. "I'm sorry. What is his name?"
"Jimmy Broadbent."
"Of course. How could I have forgotten?"
"Who are you?"
"My name is Georgia Davis, and I wanted to ask him about a project he worked on."
"He's onsite today."
"Where?"
The girl sighed, as if Georgia had asked for the impossible, and rummaged around the desk. Finally she picked up a slip of paper. "Des Plaines."
Georgia waited. When no further information was forthcoming, she cocked her head. "Des Plaines is a big place."
The girl's eyes narrowed. "What do you want him for?"
"We had an appointment. You know, if you would just tell me where he is, I'll get out of your hair and you can go back to work." She gestured to the magazine.
The girl glanced at her magazine, then at Georgia. She shrugged. "He's at Wolf and Dempster. The old Malden plant."
Georgia made sure to smile. "Thanks."
***
Jimmy Broadbent looked like his name: stocky, lots of brown hair and a thick neck. Georgia wondered if he'd been a boxer once upon a time. Dressed in jeans, work boots, and a windbreaker with a Sox logo, he was leaning over the ground about ten feet from an abandoned building. As she drew closer, she saw him shove a hand auger into the dirt. An open suitcase with test tubes in two neat rows and a glass jar lay nearby. After a moment, he pulled out the auger, dug deeper with a hand trowel, and poured what he'd collected into the glass jar. She waited until he closed the jar and made some notes on his clipboard.
"Mr. Broadbent?"
He looked up, startled.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—Your office told me I could find you here."
He leveled a cool glance her way. "I'm pretty busy right now."
"This will only take a minute. I'm interested in a project you did for Perl Development."
He didn't move, but Georgia sensed his muscles tightening.
"You do recall it, don't you?"
Broadbent frowned. "I work a lot of sites."
"This was an old gas station. Belonged to a man named Fred Stewart."
His eyes went flat. "Sorry. Doesn't ring a bell."
"Are you sure? Illinois EPA said they sent you the NFR letter about two months ago."
He shrugged. "Like I told you, I work a lot of sites. Maybe they gave you the wrong information. Those government types screw everything up."
"Sure. I understand."
He examined her more closely. "Who'd you say you were?"
"My name is Georgia Davis. I'm working on a matter that—that involves the man that used to own the gas station."
"You got a card?"
Something in the way he was looking at her told her to back off. "Sorry. I didn't bring any."
He didn't say anything. Then he nodded.
"So you don't remember the Glenview job at all?"
He shook his head slowly. "Nope."
"Well, in that case, I'm sorry to have troubled you."
She felt his gaze on her as she went back to her car. Broadbent was lying, that much was clear. But why? She tried to piece it together as she drove back to Evanston. Fred Stewart has a piece of property. There's good reason to think it was contaminated. He sells it to Harry Perl, and Broadbent cleans it up. Paul Kelly said the clean-up could take years. But Perl gets a clean bill of health in record time.
There was no reason for Broadbent to lie unless he had something to hide. Then again, there was no reason for him to tell the truth, either. He had no idea who she was or what she wanted. Why extend himself? In fact, why was she? The land deal didn't have anything to do with Cam Jordan or Sara Long, and she didn't have much ammunition to pressure Andrea Walcher. Still, one nagging thought kept bouncing around her brain: anything was possible when you had the right lawyer to fix things. And Tom Walcher, Harry Perl's lawyer, was a fixer.
***
Georgia was back in her apartment when the phone rang a few minutes past four. It was Lauren.
"Where do the requests come in?" Georgia asked after they'd clicked onto the website.
"Clients fill out a form, and that form gets sent as an email to my Yahoo account. I get back to them with the dates and the girl and how they're going to hook up."
"How can I access those emails?"
"First you need to know how to get around the website." Lauren gave Georgia the URL, a user name, and a password. Georgia entered the information.
"How do I make changes?"
"It's a little complicated. We use Dreamweaver. Then we upload it to the server. For now, you might just want me to do it." She paused. "What changes do you want to make?"
"Nothing right now," Georgia replied. "But I might later. What about the email account?"
Lauren gave her another password and user name. Georgia clicked to the Yahoo account, then entered Lauren's user name and password. The website jumped to a page which said "Incoming Messages." There were none. "How come there aren't any messages? I thought you had clients writing in every day."
Lauren's voice got small. "Well, see, I kind of sent a message to everyone."
"What kind of message?"
"I—I told them we were going on vacation. That there wouldn't be any action for a while. But we'd be back."
"Why?"
"After Derek, well, I—I got scared so I decided to stop work until things cooled off."
"Probably not a bad idea," Georgia admitted. "Did Charlie get that message?"
"Sure."
"Good. Now, how do I send an email?"
"Once you're signed onto the account, you just send out an email like you would on your own computer."
"When I send out an email, who will it say it's from?"
"I've been using the name 'Yvonne.'"
"Did Derek set this up?"
"Yes. But it's not rocket science," she said. "People do it all the time."
Georgia heard a trace of petulance in her voice. "How are things with your mother?"
Lauren hesitated. "She doesn't like you very much."
Georgia laughed. "That's no surprise."
"Actually, she didn't dwell on it, you know? Aside from saying you were a turd. She was freaked out about something else."
"What?" Georgia played innocent.
"Something about Uncle Fred, I think."
"What about Uncle Fred?"
"I told you he died a few weeks ago, remember? Well, I have a feeling stuff isn't going the way she thought it would."
Georgia tapped a pencil against the desk. "What stuff?"
"His will or something. I don't know." Lauren said impatiently. "Georgia..."
Georgia stopped tapping. This was the first time Lauren had called her by name.
"If Sara and Derek's murder are connected to the business, what—what if I'm next? Please..." Her voice trailed off.
"What?" Georgia asked gently.
There was a pause. Then, "Please don't leave me out there by myself."
"I won't." Georgia stopped short. She was surprised; she'd almost said "sweetie."
She considered calling O'Malley. If someone was targeting Lauren, the cops had better resources than she. If she did, though, everything would go public, and Lauren's life—as well as her parents'—would never be the same. Plus, the police never did much to protect people until after the fact. She cleared her throat. "Look. You're doing the right things. You stopped the business. You're divorcing yourself from the operation. And you're talking to me. I'm on your side." She hoped she sounded convincing.
"Thank you." Lauren's voice was small.
She toyed with her pencil. "Listen. I have another question. Where did Charlie take Sara for their—" She couldn't bring herself to say tricks. "Where did they meet?"
"Charlie likes the McCormick." When Georgia didn't answer, she added, "You know, the one they call the Colonel's place? It's in Highland Park. It's more upscale than the Hyatt, but—"
"I know it." Georgia snapped the pencil in two.
***
The Hotel McCormick was named for a powerful Chicagoan, Robert Rutherford McCormick. Known as "The Colonel'' from a stint as an artillery officer in World War I, McCormick inherited the Chicago Tribune from his grandfather and ran it for several decades. His politics were to the right of Attila the Hun, and he often went over the top, labeling FDR supporters "Soviets," for example, and skewering Eastern liberals with withering epithets. But Colonel McCormick was a well-bred, sophisticated man, and the elegant hotel that bore his name reflected it. Tucked away in the woodsy part of Highland Park, it catered to people with business in Lake or northern Cook County. Georgia knew this because she'd spent a weekend there with Matt. It was the weekend they broke up.
She got up and poured herself a glass of water, drank it down. When she got back to the computer, she clicked on the mailing list and found Charlie's email. She opened the email program, started a new message from "Yvonne", and proceeded to type.
"For our special customers only! A new shipment has arrived: young, blonde, sexy, and guaranteed to give you pleasure over every inch of your body. To introduce you to these new beauties, we're cutting prices by 50 per cent! This offer only good for three days, so if you're interested, act now."
She was just checking it over when the phone rang. The sound made her jump. She reached over. The caller ID said "Private." She picked up.
"Hello?"
No response.
"Hello? Who's there?"
No words, but she thought she heard someone breathing. She quickly disconnected. She didn't play phone games with creeps.
She went back to the email. It sounded okay. She clicked "send." Then she changed the password to both the website and Lauren's email account. Just to be sure.
That night Georgia lit candles. She brought one over to the couch and placed it on the end table beside her. She'd bought it in Galena two years ago during a weekend with Matt. It had a vanilla scent. She lay down, breathed in the fragrance, then gave herself up to sleep.