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  Chapter Five

  Someone had been busy with a pooper-scooper, Stone saw when he got to the construction site. At least four mounds of dog shit were piled on the ground under the SGF Development sign. The sign was smeared with it too. Someone had spent time and effort to embarrass Stuart Feldman.

  He called over to Public Works who promised to clean it up that afternoon. Then he began hiking around the perimeter of the ten acre site, most of which was overrun with brush, trash, and puddles of fetid water. If CEASE was allied with the preservationists trying to save the prairie, they should have chosen a better spot. This lot was barely worth it.

  Back at the station he discovered that hearings on the Feldman project were scheduled that night at Northview’s Village Hall. Maybe he should make an appearance. Phillips would need something on paper.

  ***

  “This is one of the best things to happen to the village in years,” Deanna Steele said as the waiter pulled out her chair.

  Brasserie B, a trendy French bistro, had become a popular watering hole since it opened a few years ago. The place boasted art deco walls, white floor tiles, and lots of pretense. Stone would have been more comfortable at Mickey D’s than Brasserie B’s, but this was Deanna’s kind of place, and he felt noble for not begrudging her a few letters of the alphabet.

  “I’m starved.” Deanna eyeballed the menu. With long auburn hair, fair skin dotted with freckles, and fine features, she looked terrific at seven months pregnant. Even more gratifying to Stone was her joy at being pregnant. Despite the added weight, there was lightness to her step that hadn’t been there before.

  He looked at his watch. “We’ve got forty minutes.”

  “So much to eat, so little time.” Deanna sighed.

  A white-aproned waiter approached and reeled off a list of wines in French. Guy thinks I’m a rube, Stone thought. In some ways, he was. His features were craggy and he could stand to lose a few pounds. He favored clothes from Men’s Warehouse, and his hair wasn’t styled at Sergio’s. But Deanna refused to let him change a thing. Plainspoken, almost gruff, with sandy hair and eyes that changed color depending on what he wore, he was the Sean Connery type, she said. She could live with that. He felt like the luckiest man in the world.

  The waiter cleared his throat. “May I suggest —-”

  Deanna cut him off with a stream of fluent-sounding French. The waiter froze. “I said I’d prefer seltzer.” She smiled prettily.

  “I see,” the waiter replied after a beat. “And you, sir?”

  “Coke.” The waiter headed primly back to the bar. Stone covered Deanna’s hand with his.

  Deanna laughed. “Hey, Stone, there’s something you should know.”

  “What?”

  “I took your blue suit to the cleaners.”

  Stone bent his head.

  “Along with my white dress. Well, off-white. You know. The summer thing I wear.”

  Stone frowned.

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Should I?”

  “Thick as a slug.” Deanna pushed back her chair and knelt on the floor. “Okay. Just remember. You forced me into it.” With her belly protruding, she scooted back onto her knees so she wouldn’t knock into the table. She almost lost her balance but steadied herself. Stone grabbed her arms and tried to pull her up, but she shook him off.

  “John Stone,” she said in a voice that carried over most of the room. “Will you marry me and give our baby a name?”

  Deanna said later it was only a few seconds, but Stone felt light and spongy, as if time had suddenly stopped. In the eighteen months they had been together, marriage was something they never discussed. Both of them had come from unhappy ones, and though there was no way he could live without her, he didn’t want to screw up a good thing. Especially with the baby.

  “Well?” Deanna asked. “Are you in or out?”

  “Come on, man. She’s begging you,” a shout came from across the room.

  “Yeah, buddy, better do the right thing,” another called.

  “You don’t say yes, I will,” someone else said.

  He leaned over, cupped Deanna’s face in his hands, and kissed her. Several times. In between, he answered yes.

  Deanna raised two thumbs in the air. Applause broke out. Stone helped her settle back in her chair.

  The rest of the meal was a blur. He must have done something very good at some point to deserve this woman. And the child she was carrying. He even smiled peaceably at the waiter, who presented them with cappuccinos on the house.

  “How about next Sunday?” Deanna sipped her coffee.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you, Steele?”

  “Not when I know what I want, Stone.”

  She named the few people she’d like to invite and suggested they go to Greek town afterwards. He hated Greek food, but he nodded. He didn’t care what they ate, as long as he got her.

  While he was busying himself with the check, a woman brushed by their table. Slender and dressed in an expensive-looking beige pantsuit, she was a knockout with dark hair and dark eyes that seemed to capture the light and hold it inside. As she passed the maitre d’, he smiled and kissed both her cheeks. Stone turned back to Deanna, who was watching the woman too.

  “That’s Ricki Feldman,” Deanna said. “Daughter of Stuart.”

  “She must be going to the hearing.” Stone glanced around. “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Sweetheart, your stereotypes are showing. She’s been running the company herself for over a year.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She was my boss when I did that gig up at Fort Sheridan last winter.” Deanna did free-lance public relations work.

  “That was a Feldman deal?”

  Deanna nodded.

  The woman, followed by several other people who were clearly part of her entourage, pushed through a revolving door. He had dealt with Stuart Feldman on a case last year. Now he was dealing with the man’s daughter. The Feldmans got around.

  Chapter Six

  Despite a recent renovation, the Village hearing room was still as dull as the meetings that were held in it. Molded grey chairs filled most of the room, except for a curved blond wood desk in front. Microphone stands curled over the desk, and a podium stood a few feet away. But the raised dais that used to separate petitioners from decision-makers was gone. Everyone was now on the same level, the same “playing field.” Had to be the brainstorm of some industrial psychologist, Stone figured. Architectural populism hits the suburbs.

  The room was filled to capacity, and an overflow lined the halls. A few people held hand-printed signs with the letters “CEASE,” scrawled in black markers. Others had green ribbons pinned to their jackets.

  Ricki Feldman and her staff settled in the front row, seeming oblivious to the many looks that were flashed her way. Stone checked his watch. The meeting was called for seven thirty; it was seven forty-five. He squeezed into a seat.

  Seven people filed into the room and took seats at the desk, each setting a name placard in front of them. The crowd quieted. A ruddy, blond man gaveled the meeting to order. Stone checked the placard. Chairman Sandy Pilsen. Stone knew the name; his son had been stopped for a DUI a month ago.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” Pilsen smiled politely. “First of all, let me apologize for the lack of space. We didn’t expect this kind of turnout. What we have managed to do is pipe the PA system out to the hall, so at least everyone will hear the proceedings. We’ll find a larger location for the next meeting. Please bear with us.” He started to read from a paper.

  “The role of the Planning and Zoning Commission is to make recommendations to the Board of Trustees on specific planning and zoning issues. Tonight, we begin a series of hearings on the parcel of land at the southeast corner of Waukegan and Willow Roads. The Commission will hear from the applicant, SGF Development. Then we’ll take comments.”

  Stone forced himself to pay a
ttention.

  “Let the record reflect the presence of the applicant’s architect, lawyer, and traffic expert, as well as the Executive Vice-President of SGF Development. You take it from here, okay?”

  Pilsen looked over at Ricki. A silver-haired, well-dressed man on her right rose from his chair, walked to the podium, and placed some papers on it. He scanned the crowd.

  “Good evening, Mr. Chairman, members of the commission, and residents of Northview. I’m Paul Landon, architect for SGF Development. I’ll begin with a brief summary of our plans for the proposed Northview Center.” He launched into a description of the mall: a ten-acre complex with approximately six hundred thousand square feet of commercial space, three major anchor stores, fifty to seventy five smaller retail outlets, and twelve hundred parking spaces.

  Twenty minutes later, Landon was still taking the crowd through the plans. Stone got up to stretch. He wandered to the back of the room, nearly colliding with a middle-aged woman and a younger man leaning against the wall. The woman, who looked to be in her fifties, had blond hair with dark roots. She was gazing at the Feldman woman as if trying to memorize her features.

  Stone didn’t recognize her, but he was surprised at how many others he did. Only a year had passed since he’d moved in with Deanna, but the number of nods he exchanged made him feel settled, a part of the community.

  When Landon finished, the commission members peppered him with questions about height restrictions, setbacks, and ventilation systems. Landon seemed prepared and answered smoothly, including some thorny questions about fire lanes and visual sight lines.

  Next was the traffic consultant’s turn. A tall man with a pinched face, he promised there would be no new congestion in the area. Stone knew the man was headed for trouble.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Christine Renfrow, a commissioner whose oversized glasses gave her an owlish expression, interrupted. “How can you possibly claim that rush hour traffic, which is already a nightmare on Willow Road, won’t be affected by the mall?”

  The traffic expert said the two egresses, one on Willow, and one on Waukegan, would prevent additional tie-ups.

  “But you’re going to have hundreds of cars feeding into a two lane road,” Renfrow went on. “Cars that aren’t there now. Your conclusions were drawn from a study that was conducted at mid-day when traffic is minimal. That makes it virtually useless.”

  The traffic engineer tried to parry, but a buzz went up from the audience. “Why don’t you re-do your traffic study during rush hour?” Renfrow said, “Then let us hear the conclusions.”

  The traffic engineer scowled. Mumbling something off-mike, he looked relieved to sit down.

  “That concludes the applicant’s presentation,” Pilsen said. “After a ten minute break, we’ll hear from members of the community.”

  During the break, someone placed a microphone stand in the center aisle and a line of people queued up at it. Once again, Pilsen gaveled the meeting to order. An elderly man with a shock of white hair and a green ribbon pinned to his jacket was first. “I’d like to go on record —” he said in a raspy voice.

  “Excuse me, sir, please state your name and address,” Pilsen cut in.

  “Sorry.” The man cleared his throat. “I’m Timothy Stargis, Two Twenty-five Bosworth, and I’d like to go on record as saying developments like this are slowly but surely stripping our community of its heritage and turning it into a faceless suburb. Now, I know my time is nearly over, but what kind of legacy are we leaving our children? Enough is enough.”

  The audience applauded. Pilsen banged his gavel. Stargis moved back to his seat. Several audience members pumped his hand.

  Next was a thirty-something woman with a green ribbon pinned to her denim jacket. Stone thought he recognized her. “Good evening. I’m Ann Heller. I live on Sunset Drive, and I’m very upset about this proposal. It puts all our children’s lives at risk. We all know the added traffic and density will force the county to widen Willow. We’ll have a six-lane highway running through the center of town. How many children are going to lose their lives because of reckless drivers? Please, do not approve this.”

  More applause from the audience. Heller smiled as if she’d won a victory. Pilsen frowned. Stone remembered how he knew her. Ann Heller walked her dog down Happ Road. It was a big dog.

  A man in a glen plaid suit was next. “Gerald Krieger, Woodlands North. I’m an attorney, and I have a question. Is the village board bound by your recommendation?”

  Pilsen shook his head. “No. Of course not.”

  “No? Then why does this sound like it’s a done deal? That we’re just going through the motions?”

  Pilsen reddened. “I can assure you that is not the case, Mr. Krieger. The commission won’t take a vote for several weeks.”

  “Look. I know for a fact that the developer on this proposal has already spent a lot of money, and I’d like an accounting of that money. I think we’re entitled.”

  The audience buzzed. Pilsen’s mouth tightened. “Mr. Krieger, as an attorney, you know that a privately owned business is not required to disclose to the village how much they spend on a proposal. Nor is it in our purview to ask. I would direct you to ask SGF Development yourself. But understand they are not required to answer.”

  The audience fidgeted; a reporter from the weekly newspaper scribbled.

  “I see.” Krieger paused. “Well that being the case, I suggest the village ask itself a fundamental question.” He waved a hand toward the commissioners. “Why are we allowing this to go forward? Is it greed—or need?” Krieger shaped his fingers into a gun and pointed it at Pilsen. “Mr. Chairman, no one has convinced me there is a need for this development, so I can only assume it is greed that is driving this project. And that” he paused again, “is unacceptable.”

  Krieger slid the mike back into the mike-stand with a flourish. The audience went up for grabs. People shouted; some rose from their seats.

  Pilsen, red-faced and sweaty, pounded the gavel. “If we can’t keep this civil, ladies and gentlemen, we’ll call it a night.” He looked at his watch and then at the line of speakers behind the floor mike. “Unfortunately, we have time for only one more speaker, but those of you who would like to comment can do so in writing.”

  A grumble went up from the line of people, but they dispersed without incident. One woman remained at the mike. Ricki Feldman leaned over to whisper to the architect.

  “Barbara Michaelson. 2044 Suffork Road. I am spearheading CEASE, the Citizens’ Effort Against Senseless Expansion. Over four hundred of us have banded together to oppose this project. Members of the PTA, the church, the synagogue, the Village Caucus, the League of Women Voters, even the Garden Club. In other words, we are the village. We believe this development scheme is too large, too late, and too disruptive.

  “We have commissioned our own traffic study which directly contradicts the Feldman document. We believe that in a matter as important as this, it is critical that the commission weigh more than one opinion. Now you have a second. We demand that you analyze it before you make a decision. Do not approve this project.”

  Pilsen bent his microphone. “Mrs. Michaelson, we will certainly review your study. Thank you.”

  By now the mood in the room had soured, and many residents were filing out. Whether they were confident of victory or full of despair, Stone couldn’t tell. The woman and the young man he’d seen earlier brushed by him, the woman looking furtively at the Feldman group.

  An older woman raised a defiant fist as she hurried from the room. “You haven’t heard the end of this. CEASE will prevail!” It was Florence Armstrong, a well-known village activist. Stone jotted down her name.

  Chapter Seven

  Matt squeezed his eyes shut and recited Kaddish. Working his first homicide a year earlier had changed Matt in ways he still didn’t quite understand. He’d decided to try again with Georgia. She was life, the antithesis of death. He needed that. But they had to keep their relationship qu
iet— it was against policy for village cops to fraternize. The only other cop who knew was Stone, but he knew to keep his mouth shut.

  He’d also started going to synagogue again. As a boy, he’d been dragged to his parents’ synagogue, a small, dark building on the North side where they spoke as much German as English. He remembered the elegantly adorned Oren Kodesh, the ark in which the Torahs were kept. A gift from a wealthy congregant, it was covered with delicately carved woodwork depicting different Biblical scenes. Matt would study it during the long boring service, wondering how long it had taken to carve and what had passed through the artist’s mind when he was doing it.

  Now, at the end of prayers, Rabbi Joel Altman tapped Matt on the shoulder. A round, cheerful man with a white beard, they’d seen a lot of him over the High Holidays. Georgia thought he’d missed his calling—he would make a perfect Santa Claus. In that case, Matt said, it wasn’t just his calling he’d missed. Tonight, though, Altman’s face was solemn.

  “I heard about the body at the high school,” he said. “How do you do it, Matt?”

  Matt shrugged.

  Altman stroked his beard. “You found it in a garbage truck?”

  Matt nodded.

  The rabbi hesitated. “I want you to know something. Georgia came to see me yesterday. We’re going to meet again in a day or two.”

  Georgia wasn’t Jewish, but she was considering converting. “That’s good news.”

  “It is, but you need to remember something.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This process is never easy. You’ll both become impatient, frustrated, angry. And there’s always the possibility that, in the end, she might decide not to.”

  Matt nodded.

  “There’s something else. And I say this to you alone, Matt.” Altman lowered his voice. “No matter how it turns out, you should know that anyone who is willing to explore something as fundamental as religious conversion, because another person wants them to, must love that person very much.”