Top Producer

by Laura Wolfe

  Top Producer

  A Novel of Suspense

  Laura Wolfe

  Published by Blue Pond Press 2020

  Top Producer ~ Copyright © 2020 by Laura Wolfe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-7347813-1-1

  Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover Art by RebecaCovers

  For JP, for giving me the idea.

  CITY OF CHICAGO POLICE DEPARTMENT

  Case Report

  CR No: 580000029-362

  Written by: Harley, S. - Detective

  On Tuesday, April 9th, at 1440hrs, construction foreman of LDR Renovations, David Harken, discovered unidentified human remains beneath a dirt subfloor while excavating the basement of a townhome located at 1934 N. Lincoln Avenue. Harken contacted police after digging into a blue tarp containing what appeared to be human bones.

  Property owners, Phillip and Stephanie Mason, stated they purchased the townhome eight months ago and had no previous knowledge of the remains.

  Forensics expert, M. Dully, was present at the scene and observed multiple fractures to the skull bone recovered from the property. Dully stated victim’s cause of death is consistent with numerous blows to the head with a blunt instrument, such as a hammer.

  Dental records are being processed for purposes of victim identification. Further supervised excavation of the basement is scheduled for tomorrow.

  No further information at this time.

  1

  Three years earlier

  This wasn’t an interview for another dead-end office job. I wanted the position so badly I couldn’t sit still. I scooted forward, trying to relax. Conversations and laughter bounced off the stone walls of Bistro Maria, magnifying the awkward silence between me and one of Chicago’s top realtors, Jacqueline Hendersen. The competing aromas of sautéed vegetables and fried calamari drifted over from nearby tables as my stomach turned with nerves and hunger. I fumbled with the oversized lunch menu, unsure whether to balance it across the tiny table, tuck it behind my purse, or hide it in my lap.

  Jacqueline tilted my resume, eyes flickering, and lips pinched.

  The ice rattled in my glass as I raised it to my mouth, the bullet-pointed list of underwhelming work experience scrolling through my mind. My eyes connected with hers just as the menu slid off the table again. I set down the glass and snagged the enormous piece of cardstock with my other hand, pinning it under my appetizer plate.

  Jacqueline leaned toward me. Her dirty-blonde hair was folded into a neat twist at the back of her head, her eyes unwavering.

  “So, Mara. Why the sudden interest in real estate?”

  I inhaled, retrieving my canned answer. “I’ve always had a passion for real estate. I’m obsessed with the real estate shows on TV.”

  Jacqueline nodded but said nothing.

  Sucking in my stomach and stretching up taller, I mimicked her perfect posture. A piece of my partially grown out bangs escaped from my bobby pin and fell over my eyes. I pushed my hair back into its clip and refocused. “I got my salespersons license about two months ago and hung it with a discount brokerage firm, and then I represented myself in the purchase of my condo.”

  Jacqueline’s eyes glinted, her lips drawn together as she waited for me to continue.

  “On the weekends, I like to wander through the neighborhood open houses for fun. I’ve gotten pretty familiar with pricing in different areas of the city. And there’s something really appealing to me about being in control of how much money I make.”

  Jacqueline touched her chin and smiled. “That’s true. We eat what we kill, so to speak.” She pinched the corner of my resume with her manicured fingernails, then set it down again. “I see you were a consultant. Do you still work at Averly Consulting?”

  “No. I recently quit.” My hand balled into a fist as I glanced toward the windows. I’d been fired last week, although I’d dreamed of quitting. My boss had beaten me to it.

  “That’s good. I need a full-time assistant. You’ll have to hang your license with Greystone Realty if you work for me.” Her eyes darted toward my resume again. “I recognize your address.”

  I leaned in, my insides rippling with hope. “Yeah. I closed on my condo a little over a month ago. I’m not sure if you remember, but you were the listing agent. You showed it to me the first time. I worked with your assistant after that.”

  “Peter?”

  “Yes.”

  Jacqueline made a face like she’d eaten a bad piece of fish. “He couldn’t keep up.”

  I nodded. Her older assistant had been on the sulky side, but also helpful. He’d walked me through the forms after I’d submitted my offer.

  Jacqueline strummed her fingers on the table. “I remember the condo, though. Great neighborhood. You got a good deal.” She angled her gaze toward the ceiling as an L train clattered past the window behind her. “So, you bought a condo and then quit your job?”

  My fingers pressed into my arm. She’d seen through my white lie. “The timing wasn’t ideal, but I really wanted to throw myself head-first into real estate.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you single?”

  My hands dropped to the table, and I looked at the ragged stubs of my fingernails. I stretched them lower to hide them underneath the tablecloth. Her question was a little inappropriate for an interview. An image of Nate’s face flashed through my mind. I need to be with someone who acts like an adult.

  “Yes. I’m single.” My skin bristled as I spoke the words.

  Jacqueline gave a slight nod. “I’m asking because this is a demanding position. I’m extremely busy seven days a week. I’ll need help with showings, listing appointments, and marketing, for starters. In this business, people don’t always have time for relationships.”

  I blinked away the memory of Nate’s face. “I’m a hard worker.”

  “I pay a twenty percent referral fee for everything you work on. On top of that, you’d be free to cultivate your own deals, as long as they don’t interfere with the duties I’ve given you.”

  I sealed my lips together, stifling my smile. Jacqueline had sold $40 million in real estate last year. Even a half of one percent of that would add up to ten times more than what I’d earned by rotting away in my windowless cubicle at Averly Consulting. I could finally help Mom and Dad with Emma’s medical bills.

  “You came highly recommended by Tom.”

  I nodded, my jaw relaxing.

  “How do you know him?”

  “He works with my dad.” The rogue strands of hair fell into my face again, and I silently cursed my decision to grow out my bangs.

  Jacqueline’s eyes traveled back to the paper. I hoped she wouldn’t get hung up on my lack of relevant work experience or the short amount of time I’d survived at each of my previous employers.

  “A marketing degree from Northern Illinois?”

  I nodded. Her stone-faced expression gave nothing away, but I got the sinking feeling she was judging me. I’d done my research before we met, and her resume was impressive. She was a graduate of Duke University and Northwestern Law School; a former practicing real estate attorney; the Top Producer of Greystone Realty for the last two years; named as one of the top five realtors in the city by Chicago Real Estate Monthly;
recognized as one of the Forty Under Forty by the Chicago Board of Realtors’ CBR Magazine; and a recipient of the Chicago Board of Realtors’ Good Neighbor Award three years in a row. The awards went on and on. As if that wasn’t enough, she resembled a runway model.

  The large-toothed waiter who’d brought us our drinks a few minutes earlier returned to our table. “Are you ready to order, ladies?” He hid his hands behind his back and raised his chin.

  Jacqueline motioned toward me. “Go ahead.”

  I lifted the unruly menu, already having decided this morning to order the Pasta Arriabata. For weeks I’d been living off microwave popcorn, Reese’s Pieces, and beer. Getting dumped by my boyfriend, buying a condo, and losing my job within a month had destroyed my resolve to stick to a healthy diet. The thought of a real meal had been a welcome distraction. One Yelp reviewer had described the bistro’s famous Pasta Arriabata as “the perfect combination of fresh tomatoes, garlic, and red chili peppers. Just spicy enough to dare you to take another bite.”

  “I’ll have the Pasta Arriabata, please.” The waiter reached for my menu, and I let out a breath of relief as I handed it to him, happy to get the sharp corners away from my face. He turned toward Jacqueline.

  “I’ll have the misto salad.”

  I glanced down, realizing a salad would have been the more appropriate thing to order on a lunch interview. No wonder Jacqueline was so put-together. Meanwhile, I was wearing an outfit I’d piecemealed together from items I’d found in the back of my roommate, Grace’s closet.

  “What kind of marketing experience do you…” Jacqueline began to say.

  A high-pitched scream tore through the restaurant followed by glass shattering across the floor. Jacqueline’s fork fell from her hand, clanging against her plate. I turned toward the commotion. A warm mound scurried across the top of my shoe.

  “AH!” I sprung from my chair. My heart slammed against my chest as a rat the size of a small raccoon wove between the table legs. It disappeared beneath a tablecloth, narrowly escaping a waiter who chased after it with a broom. People abandoned their tables. Grown men squealed and hid behind menus. The couple behind me lunged past me as they rushed out the door. A woman at the table next to us stood on her chair, shrieking, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” It took every ounce of my energy to not hop up on the table next to her. My stomach heaved, smothering all cravings for the Pasta Arriabata.

  My leather tote rested against the legs of my chair, and I yanked it off the floor before any rats could contaminate it. I hugged the bag against my chest, feeling the weight of the blank notepads and unused ballpoints inside, everything I thought I might need for my interview. It was just my luck to lose my dream job to a runaway rat.

  As people screamed and hyperventilated around us, Jacqueline placed her hands on the table and inhaled, composing herself. The tense muscles in her face softened, and her chest rose and fell in measured breaths. She leaned back in her chair and stared out the window as if she was calculating a math equation. I lowered myself back into my seat, trying to match her Zen.

  “This place has been struggling.” Her eyes scanned across the floor. “This is going to hurt their business even more.” She pronounced it as a fact, not that she felt sorry about the rats damaging the bistro’s business.

  “Should we leave?” My stubby fingernails dug into the leather bag, and my knees bounced up and down beneath the table. Rats freaked me out, and I wished I could take off my shoe and wipe it down with Lysol, but I forced myself to stay focused on Jacqueline.

  “No.” She folded her napkin into a neat triangle, a sheen of sweat reflecting on her forehead. “Mara, here’s the first rule of real estate: a problem for someone else is an opportunity for us.”

  A woman in the next room screamed as another rat scurried from under the kitchen door and raced across the red clay tiles, its long hairless tail dragging behind it like a dead, bony finger. A dish smashed against the floor. I shot upward, obeying my instinct to get away as the rat zigzagged past us.

  “Sit down.” Jacqueline’s glare pierced through me, nailing me down in my chair. My feet hovered a few inches off the floor.

  “This place is infested!” a guy in a suit shouted as he sprinted toward the door. I clung to the wooden slats of the chair, watching the restaurant clear out around us.

  Next to the swinging door that led into the kitchen, a portly middle-aged couple yelled at each other in Italian. The woman wore a white apron around her thick midsection. She threw her hands in the air and sobbed. The man with the bushy black hair and matching mustache who had greeted us with smiles when we entered the bistro only twenty minutes earlier stopped shouting. He wrapped his arms around the woman and redirected his tirade toward a waiter.

  We must have caught the man’s eye because he wiped his palms on his pants and headed over to our table. We were the only people still sitting in the restaurant.

  “Grazie. Thank you. Thank you for not leaving.” His eyes watered, and he snapped his fingers at a busboy who trotted over to refill our water glasses. “There is no charge for food today. I hope you come again.”

  “I would eat here again, Mr. Sabatino.” Jacqueline’s voice was calm and even. “But you’re going to lose business once word gets out about the rats.”

  Mr. Sabatino dropped his head, his eyelids sagging down in the corners. “I do not know how this happened. We have very clean kitchen.”

  “Let me help you.” She pulled out a business card from a silver card holder and handed it to him. “I know a perfect spot for your restaurant in the West Loop. You’d make a fortune over there with the business lunch crowd.”

  The bistro’s owner scrunched his eyebrows and studied her card before looking up. “We’ve been here for thirty years.”

  The man’s gaze paused at a faux-stone wall dotted with antique frames. I tipped forward to get a better look at the pictures, black-and-white images of people cooking and fishing against rustic backgrounds. Relatives, maybe. Others were of celebrities and politicians who’d visited the restaurant over the years. Bistro Maria was the cozy kind of restaurant where Nate used to take me on dates. Minus the rats. Longing swirled next to the anxiety in my stomach.

  The man turned his attention toward Jacqueline. “This place is like our home.”

  “I’m sure that’s how you feel.” Her brow furrowed. “Your food is the best, but there’s a lot of new competition in Old Town. And now, with your rodent problem… Just think about what I said. I’ll call you tomorrow after the dust settles.”

  “Yes. Okay. I think about it.” He nodded and headed back toward his sobbing wife. A waiter with a broom jogged toward him.

  As the restaurant workers disappeared beyond the kitchen doors, I stared at Jacqueline, unable to speak. Somehow, she’d turned the worst day of these people’s lives into a listing appointment. She must have seen the shocked look on my face because she tipped her head toward me and whispered, “That’s how you create your own business.”

  My mouth hung open as if I’d just witnessed a magic trick with no possible explanation.

  “And by the way, Mara. You’re hired.”

  2

  “No, Astro!” I yanked the rubber sole from the dog’s fangs, drool sliding down my hand and onto my area rug. Mutilated strips of leather littered the hardwood floor around his dog bed. The overgrown lab thumped his tail on the ground and then crouched down and barked. He thought this was all a game.

  My first day of work at Greystone Realty started in thirty minutes, and, thanks to Grace’s dog, I had no shoes to wear. I dug through the pile of dirty clothes on the bottom of my closet, desperate for another option. The beige flats were newer, but Grace’s black pumps would blend in better with my dark pants. I shoved my feet into her shoes, discovering they were a half-size too big. As I bent to adjust my heel, Astro’s tongue found the side of my face. Perfect. Now I’d been slimed, too.

  I wiped my cheek as I stepped through my bedroom doorway and into my condo
’s open floorplan. Grace’s belongings littered the couch. My shoulders tightened. Despite the mess—and the dog, I was grateful she had moved in. From the kitchen, the granite counters and stainless steel appliances gleamed in the morning light. The sustainable bamboo floor clicked under my feet, the floor-to-ceiling living room windows drawing me forward. I’d bought the condo on impulse. Dad said my decision had been reckless. But it was my first real estate investment, and I was going to make it work.

  Over the last year, I’d become obsessed with real estate. I binge-watched reality shows featuring glamorous realtors and finicky clients. I signed up for a nighttime real estate course. I browsed local listings on Realtor.com, searching mostly from my computer at Averly Consulting to kill time in between phone calls to other mindless workers in other windowless cubicles across the country. Before long, I pushed aside the duties of my consulting job in exchange for the thrill of discovering new properties. Each condo, townhome, or single-family home held a different possibility, a fresh start for someone. My pulse quickened at the photos of Gold Coast penthouses with high-end finishes and rooftop decks. I giggled at the wildly overpriced generic boxes that the subpar developers tried to pass for “luxury city living.” I practically drooled over the character-filled refurbished Victorian single-family homes in the city’s most expensive neighborhoods. Hours would pass without me realizing it. My days at Averly Consulting had never passed so quickly.

  Now, as I waited to leave for my first day as Jacqueline’s assistant, the minutes passed slowly. My stomach bubbled with nerves, and my heels pressed into Grace’s shoes. I checked my watch. There were still twenty minutes before I needed to leave. I peered down at the cars zooming past on the street below, thinking back to the first time I’d met Jacqueline. It was the day I’d discovered my condo. She’d been waiting outside a different listing on the other side of town, cloaked in a trim wool coat, tall leather boots, and a knit hat. A frigid January wind slid off the lake and cut into our faces. She waved me and my shivering lips in front of her into the shadowy interior of the garden level condo. The living room was narrow and cave-like, the kitchen smaller than represented online, and even dingier than my overpriced apartment. I sucked in a breath.