Guilt By Association
Archie
maintaining my cover when Georgia walks out wearing dark clothes, carrying a bag of art supplies, and acts so elusive about her plans. I can’t justify following her, though, because if she spotted me, my cover would be blown and I still don’t have anything concrete.
But once again, she comes back after midnight, wearing a huge smile, with her art supplies missing. What am I supposed to make of that?
Now I’m lying awake, unable to sleep, running over everything bit of circumstantial evidence that has come up so far. But that’s the problem. I’ve been here for weeks, and still have nothing more concrete than when I started.
Instead of tossing and turning any longer, I pull out my phone to check the security cameras at my house and set another reminder to stop in to water my remaining houseplants. It may seem like a strange hobby, but my boss back during my 9-1-1 operating days had an office full of plants. He insisted that they helped take his focus off of the stress of the job and kept him present, understanding what was out of his control. I adopted the same hobby, and with each tough case, I’ve brought home another plant to care for. I believe I’m up to thirty-three. This case will definitely result in a few more.
I start running through each of my plants in my head like counting sheep, and eventually drift off to sleep.
Monday mornings are different when you’re undercover. Because you don’t really have designated days off, the stress of a new week doesn’t just appear. Instead, the stress of solving the case without your cover being blown hovers over you in an unrelenting cloud, seven days a week. In addition to that, I have to pretend to have an exhausting regular job, so I’m forced to leave my apartment instead of staying where my actual job requires me.
I pull into OFI headquarters’ parking lot, find a spot, then head into the fire inspector’s office to check in with the chief. Our conversation is short and to the point, which I appreciate. He’s a busy man with no time to waste, either, so asking him to spend even a moment on this sham of a job is a big ask.
On my way out, my phone dings with a text message.
Georgia: Can you clear your schedule for me tonight?
I trip on a step leading out of the building, almost dropping my phone. Clear my schedule?
Archie: What do you have in mind?
I tuck my phone in my pocket and climb into my Jeep, turning the ignition. Before I can pull out of my spot, she replies.
Georgia: Do you trust me?
If I’m being honest, no. I can’t tell her that, but she’s secretive, suspicious, and likely involved in multiple felonies. But maybe this is her way of inviting me in.
Archie: Yes.
Another lie that will linger between us.
Georgia: Meet me in the sky lounge at 7?
So much for my plan to check in at my real home tonight. That will have to wait until tomorrow. Considering the last time she invited me up there, it was to meet her friends, I mull over the possibility that they’ll be there again. That perhaps, this is the break I’ve been waiting for. And while that fills me with professional optimism, it also drowns me in personal dread.
Lancaster insisted I bring Sanders for backup again, so he’s seated in my apartment, tuned into my wire.
I press the button for the sixteenth floor and rocket upward in the elevator to meet Georgia. I’ve anticipated this meeting all day, and spent several minutes practicing my reaction face for when she admits she’s part of a criminal enterprise and wants my expertise as a fire inspector to help.
But when I open the door to the sky lounge, what I get is nothing like I’m expecting.
There are no friends. No hushed conspiracies being discussed. No one, except Georgia, in a stunning black slip dress. She has her hair curled, and must be wearing contacts, because she doesn’t have her glasses. The unimpeded view of her eyes allows me to see her smokey eye shadow and long lashes.
“Hi,” she greets with a smile.
“Hi.” I do a full scan of the room, making sure I’m not missing anything. “What’s all this?” I nod at the counter in the kitchenette area that is covered with dishes.
“I know I’ve been quiet pretty much since we got back from our trip home, but I wanted to properly thank you.”
My stomach sinks. Not because she wants to thank me, but a combination of disappointment this isn’t the in I was hoping for and because she looks genuine. “Thank me for what?”
“Everything. Taking me home, helping me out with that whole fiasco, the eagles… and for what you said to me at The Art Institute. It all really means a lot to me.”
I think back to that morning last week and can’t recall saying anything noteworthy. “You don’t have to thank me… but I’m starving, so I won’t say no.”
She grabs my hand and tugs me through the doors, onto the terrace. “You might not consider it a thank you once you taste any of it, so don’t get your hopes up.”
There is a table set in the center with candles, two glasses, and a bottle of wine. This isn’t a business proposition; it’s a date. And like every other conflicting moment with Georgia, I’m a mixture of disappointment and excitement.
“Sit here. If you can open the wine, I’ll grab the food.” She looks at me, but quickly averts her eyes. The sky is dark, but the moon is bright and the lights inside illuminate her blushing face.
I place my thumb along her chin and tilt her face so she’s looking at me again. “Thank you for this.” As sad as it is, I’ve never felt so appreciated, but how she sees things and my actual intentions for them are very different.
“This is supposed to be my thank you. You can’t thank me for thanking you.” Her eyelids flutter and she tugs on her bottom lip with her teeth.
It takes incredible restraint not to kiss her. Something I’ve been wanting to do since the hockey game, but I certainly won’t with Sanders listening in on the evening. “I’ll get the wine,” I say, breaking the building tension.
Georgia walks inside, closing the door behind her. I mutter into the wire that there’s no one here and give Sanders permission to sign off. Since he can only hear me and can’t reply, he shoots me a text saying he takes his orders from Lancaster, so he’ll stick around. Do-gooder. I grab the corkscrew and open the bottle of red wine.
She returns wearing a shawl and kitten print oven mitts, carrying a ceramic dish, which she places on the table, still nibbling on her lip. “Lasagna.”
“Kittens?” I gesture to her oven mitts.
“Savannah picked them. She thought it would make me happy since I can’t have a cat.” She places the oven mitts down beside the dish and begins slicing the perfectly browned pasta.
“Probably because she couldn’t find ones with snakes and butterflies,” I reply.
Georgia chuckles but the moon is behind her, so I can’t see her expression well.
“That child will move mountains when she’s older. She’s so stubborn and determined, Michelle says she has to remind herself daily that those qualities will serve Sav well someday.”
“Determination is a good thing.”
She slaps a hardy helping of pasta onto my plate, scoops some Caesar salad into a second dish and slides them toward me. “It is, in some cases, but not when it comes to overruling bedtime.”
I laugh, trying to fill our wineglasses, while she dishes up her food. Then she finally takes a seat across from me. Now I can see her entire face, with the left side lit by moonlight and the right by the faint interior lights.
Over our meal, we maintain casual conversation. With my recent check-in with the chief, I have fresh details to share about my “job”. Georgia gives very vague details on her big project, just saying that she hopes it opens up new opportunities. As much as I press for specifics, she doesn’t give anything away. I try to work everyone in her life I’ve met to this point into conversation, asking about Michelle, Shawn, and Pierre specifically. It’s a difficult dance to probe for answers without coming across as suspicious.
If Georgia is hiding any information, she’s a very good actress. She seems to enjoy talking about her friends. Everything from their time in university to their more recent outings—which she claims flip-flop between paint nights and sporting events. No mention of forging famous works of art or break and enter.
For the duration of our meal, I drop subtle hints that I’m morally ambiguous and that I’d like to find a way to make extra cash to help my family out, but she doesn’t bite. Instead, she looks sympathetic.
It’s concerning. Not only because I’ve got my real-life brother wrapped up in this ever-growing lie, but I’ve stooped to guilt-tripping to build a case. I normally wouldn’t be concerned with what weighs on a criminal’s conscience, but it bothers me using this method with Georgia. She seemed to care about Nate, and exploiting that feels cheap. But I’ve got a case to solve by any means necessary.
Together, we clear the table, taking the dishes into the lounge kitchenette, and placing them in the sink. Georgia runs some hot water over them but abandons them to drag me back outside. The temperature is unseasonably warm, yet still chilly.
“The city is beautiful, isn’t it? I never thought it would warm on me because it’s a far cry from Utica, but it feels like home now. Like every time I’m back in the city limits, it wraps its arms around me and pulls me in, so I never want to leave again.”
I wish I had the same affection for Chicago. Being in my line of work, I see the dredges of society. Criminal underworld, shady businessmen, deceitful people who walk around with a smile that hides their true intentions. It takes a toll, and my escapes from the city often give me a moment to breathe. I can’t tell her that, though.
“It is.” I stare out beyond the railing, taking in the lights between us and Lake Michigan. During the day, this position is a nice view of the water, but right now it’s full of light pollution, making it impossible to see more than a few stars. That’s one thing I miss about Ottawa.
Georgia shivers beside me, which awakens my inner gentleman. I attempt to shrug off my jacket, pausing halfway, realizing I have a hidden wire in the breast pocket. I have two options. Leave it and hope she doesn’t notice, or yank it out and stuff it in my pants’ pocket. I opt for the latter, stealthily grabbing it and hiding it away.
I slip the jacket over Georgia’s shoulders, and she nuzzles into it with a quiet “Thank you.” The sight of her wearing my clothes again is surprisingly intimate. Attractive on a whole other level than her in this dress. It’s as if a primitive urge ripples through me, creating waves from my bones to my skin.
That reaction is squashed by the buzzing in my pocket. And another buzz. Several in quick succession tell me Sanders isn’t pleased the wire is dead. I have a sudden flash of him bursting in here, gun drawn, with Lancaster on the line, blowing this entire case to smithereens. That can’t happen.
I start with a faint cough, working up to an aggressive, hunched over, gasping for breath type. “Wa–water.”
Georgia spins in a hurry and darts inside with my jacket trailing behind her like a superhero cape. Or super villain. I’m not sure yet. I take the split second to pull out my phone.
Sanders: Wire is dead.
Check in.
Prewitt report.
Don’t make me come up there.
Great. He sounds like my mother.
Prewitt: All good. Stay put.
Georgia comes running back out a second after I slip my phone into my pocket and resume my coughing fit.
I take a healthy sip, add in a little throat clearing for effect, then set the cup on the railing. “Thank you. Not sure what happened.”
“Maybe it was the kittens,” she jokes, adding an irresistible smile.
And I don’t want to resist anymore.