by Laura Wolfe
My mouth fell open. Had Jacqueline had grown up in this mansion? She’d told me she’d been raised in the city, but she’d never said exactly where.
A moment later, the door creaked open, and a petite woman stood in the opening.
“Can I help you?” The woman wore plain, dark clothes, and her voice held the hint of an accent.
“Yes. I’m Jacqueline. Martha’s daughter.” She stretched her shoulders back. “Please tell her I’m here to see her.”
The woman, who I now realized was the housekeeper, looked her up and down and nodded. “Just a moment.” She closed the door in her face, followed by the click of the deadbolt. Jacqueline stood, unwavering, like one of the garden statues.
A minute later, the door opened. “I’m sorry, miss. Martha does not wish to be disturbed.”
Jacqueline flung her head back and sighed. “What about my father?”
“He also does not wish to be disturbed.”
The woman closed the door and locked it.
I held my breath, not able to imagine anyone slamming a door in Jacqueline’s face and getting away with it. I braced myself for more shouting and banging. Instead, Jacqueline turned and strode back toward me, her chin held high in the air and red splotches forming on her neck.
“My family is so fucked up.”
I tried to imagine a scenario where my mom wouldn’t come to the door for me but couldn’t. My instinct was to offer her a hug, but an invisible forcefield surrounded her.
“Why won’t she talk to you?” I asked.
“Because I’m a disappointment. I’m a lowly realtor instead of a partner in a big law firm. That’s what my parents wanted.”
I stepped back, dumbfounded. “But you’re one of the most successful realtors in the city.”
“Exactly. ‘One of.’ That’s not good enough. I need to be the single most successful realtor, Top Producer of the entire City of Chicago. That’s the only way they’ll respect me. I’m going to prove them wrong. I’ll make sure they see my face on the billboard every time they drive downtown. All their friends will see it too. They won’t be able to ignore my success.” Jacqueline’s eyes remained trained ahead of her as she strode back toward our parking spot.
Hustling along beside her, I did my best to match her pace while avoiding cracks in the sidewalk. By the time we finally reached her Mercedes, my breath sputtered and heaved. Jacqueline wasn’t winded at all. She clicked open the locks. I climbed inside, wondering if I should start going on early morning runs like her.
“Isn’t Natalia Romanov the city’s Top Producer?” I asked between gulps of air.
Jacqueline glared at me, her lips curled back like peeling paint. I glanced toward my hands, realizing I’d said the wrong thing.
“She was Top Producer last year. That’s going to change.” She started the car and swerved into the street. “This year, I’m going to claim the title. With your help.”
I inhaled, a shiver of excitement rippling through my body at the prospect. At least Jacqueline considered me her teammate.
“Peter couldn’t get the job done, but you’re different.”
My body glided along with her car, happy she’d recognized some potential in me.
“It’s not just Natalia. There are a couple of other realtors in the running, too.”
“Who?”
“Michelle Sentry. Marco Toranado.”
A laugh slipped from my mouth. “The Tornado of Real Estate?” I’d seen his cheesy ads all over TV but didn’t think anyone actually fell for them.
“It’s hard to believe, but, yes. He’s low-end, though. He’ll need to do tons of volume to measure up to Natalia’s level.”
“What is Natalia’s level?” I asked, leaning my weight into the leather passenger seat.
“$150 million.”
“Wow.” I gazed out the window, wondering how Jacqueline planned to increase her production by more than three times what she’d sold last year.
Jacqueline cleared her throat. “You’re lucky you come from a good family. I’m not like my parents, you know.”
I nodded, suddenly thankful for Mom and Dad, despite all their quirks.
Jacqueline tapped her fingers on the steering wheel as she pulled up to a red light.
“I was thinking about what you told me…about Emma.”
“Yeah.” My muscles tensed.
“I want to do a fundraiser for her. A charity run.” She hesitated. “What do you think?”
“Wow. Really?”
Jacqueline blinked.
“That’s so nice of you. I mean, that would be awesome.”
“I know the weather’s still a little sketchy, but what if we planned it two weeks from Sunday, along the lakeshore?”
“Yeah. That’s great. I mean, are you sure?”
“Of course. It will combine something I love with a good cause. You know, I run every morning?”
“You mentioned that.” My eyes scanned Jacqueline’s lean body. She was built like a runner with legs that reached up past her waist.
“I take the same route every day, starting at my townhome on Lincoln Avenue and winding my way through the neighborhood before cutting down Fullerton through the Lincoln Park Zoo toward the lake.”
“You run through the zoo?”
“It’s the quickest way to the lakeshore path, and it gets my mind off real estate for a few minutes. Plus, I get to see Ellie every morning.”
“Who’s Ellie?”
Jacqueline cocked her head at me, a smile forming in the corners of lips. “The cow who lives in the Zoo.”
I quieted my face, still dumbfounded by Jacqueline’s soft spot for cows. “Oh, yeah. I know Ellie.” Nate and I had strolled through the zoo hand-in-hand, a few times over the years. There had always been a crowd of children huddled around the makeshift pasture in the farm exhibit where the sleepy cow with the matted reddish-brown fur lived. I’d never thought of making the experience part of my exercise routine.
Jacqueline tipped back in her chair. “When I reach the lakeshore, I follow the trail along the water for a good three miles until it’s time to cut back to my place. Five miles, every day. Rain or shine. Sleet or wind or snow. No excuses.”
My hands moved to cover my gut. I was at peace with the curves of my body, but it was difficult not to feel frumpy next to Jacqueline’s string bean physique. Despite my membership to 24 Hour Fitness, I only worked out a couple of times a month. Running wasn’t one of my strengths. Hoping Jacqueline wouldn’t notice my indifference toward physical activity, I swiveled toward her, a smile pulling at my lips.
“Thank you so much. I’ll tell my parents. And I’ll let my friends know.”
“You’re welcome.” She braked at a crosswalk to let two joggers pass. “I’ll get some flyers ordered, and I’ll donate the first thousand dollars to get it started.”
I gasped, my cheeks flushing with emotion. “Really?”
“Yes.” She turned left in front of the office and unlocked the door for me to get out. “Now, get back to work.”
“Okay, boss.” I leaped out of the car and gave her a wave. Good things were happening.
13
The morning sun flooded my bedroom window, prickling against my cheeks and eyelids. Blinking away my sleepiness, I rolled out of bed, feeling lighter. Optimistic. It was 7:45 a.m., and I had tons to accomplish today. After coffee and a shower, I’d drive past the run-down buildings and make the calls to the city building inspector, per Jacqueline’s instructions. Then I’d set up an online search for Grace and find some properties to show her. After that, I had to join Jacqueline on a condo tour in Lincoln Square.
I poured water into my coffee maker and tried not to think of Nate. Even the thought of him with his arms wrapped around his new girlfriend wasn’t going to bring me down today. If anything, the joke would be on him. He’d soon realize he’d lost out on one wildly successful girlfriend, not to mention the top-of-the-line coffee maker was all mine.
A half-eaten bag of Reese’s Pieces lay on the counter. I crumpled it up and heaved it into the trash can, promising myself to eat more vegetables today. I swallowed a bitter gulp of coffee, and my insides jolted to attention. My muscles loosened with every sip of caffeine as I envisioned the charity run Jacqueline was planning for Emma. I still couldn’t believe she would offer up her time and money on behalf of my sister, who she’d never even met.
With the loan from Jacqueline, I finally had some breathing room. Peter and Kevin were wrong about her. She wouldn’t have handed over a check for five-thousand dollars if she hadn’t been sure I could pay it back. She believed in me. It was time I started believing in myself. Today was the day I was going to start making money in real estate.
“Let’s do this!” I yelled and pumped my fist in the air. Astro jumped up from the couch and bounded over to me, assuming I was trying to play some sort of game with him. I patted him on the head and wondered if Grace had taken him out this morning.
An hour later, I weaved my way through traffic toward the first address on the list. It was only ten blocks west of my condo, but the neighborhood was rougher. Metal grates covered many of the windows. An occasional trendy-looking loft building dotted the landscape, but most of the buildings and houses needed repairs. The city building inspector’s backlog was no surprise.
I parked in front of the property, a three-story building that looked like it had endured too many Chicago winters. It was divided into six units—a six-flat. I’d learned that lingo by listening to Jacqueline talk to her developer-clients on the phone. The building was beat-up, with missing shingles and a sagging roof. The rear balconies weren’t visible, so I got out of my car and edged closer. As I neared the front, the cracks became more pronounced, crisscrossing some of the bricks.
I rounded the corner of the six-flat, halting as if someone had yanked back the collar of my shirt. Neon paint stretched across the side of the building, clashing with the faded bricks. An orange star reached out in six points with two purple pitchforks emerging from it. The purple and orange letters L and A, painted in an urban-calligraphy style, flanked the two sides of the star. In contrast to the rest of the tired building, which melted into the greyness of the cityscape, the paint sprung out bright and fresh. A warning rushed through me. My female intuition urged me to flee to the safety of my car, but I fought the impulse and stood my ground. I’d lived in the city long enough to recognize the elaborate design as a gang symbol. This building had been tagged. By which gang, I wasn’t sure. My suburban upbringing hadn’t schooled me in the differences between gang logos.
Snapping a quick photo of the graffiti with my phone, I ducked around to the back of the building where the wooden porches sagged. I took another photo. Then I hustled back to my car, hoping nobody had noticed me. I drove a few blocks east and parked before pulling to the curb and writing down my notes. Jacqueline wouldn’t want her client to get involved in a dangerous situation.
The next two properties were on the northwest side, and I was thankful to escape the unnerving energy of the first location. A few minutes later, I exited my car, approaching the second building on foot. From the street, all the buildings looked the same—drab brick six-flats or eight-flats with deteriorating roofs, unstable porches, and cracked bricks. Whether it looked like it or not, these dilapidated buildings would be a jackpot for someone, assuming the price was right.
When I saw it again, I gasped out loud as if someone had punched me in the stomach. The same neon purple and orange gang symbol that covered the side of the first building popped out from this building too. The paint was just as fresh. Did this gang target run-down buildings? I didn’t know what to think. I snapped another photo and moved on to the next property.
The third property was the biggest dump of all. It was vacant. At least, I hoped it was. Someone had smashed the windows, and a thick layer of moss crept over the roof. I inched around the building, half expecting to find another gang symbol, but there was none. Even so, I couldn’t imagine anyone paying a dollar for this crumbling pile of bricks. I jotted down some notes and drove south on I-94 toward the Hyde Park property.
My GPS guided me along the highway for several miles, and then to an exit on 63rd. Dollar stores and pawnshops gave way to chain restaurants, tree-lined streets, and well-kept townhomes. “Welcome to Hyde Park,” read a sign a couple of blocks later. I loosened my grip on the steering wheel, admiring the green parks and stately buildings of the University of Chicago’s campus as I passed.
I pulled to the side when I reached the last address on my list. It was a freestanding house divided into three units. The location was ideal, just blocks from campus and one street over from a sprawling nature area. No obvious violations were visible from the street, so I left my car, stretching out my cramped legs. In contrast to the previous properties, the shiny bricks on the building aligned perfectly. The black roof was intact and sparkled in the sunlight. The buzz of power tools screeched through the air. I followed the alley around the side and almost ran into a workman on a ladder. He sprayed the bricks with an industrial-strength power washer. I sucked in my breath when I saw it again, the familiar orange points of a star and three purple spikes of a pitchfork stretched above the newly clean bricks. The worker switched off the motor and looked at me. His shirt read, “Chicago Graffiti Blasters.”
“Watch out, miss! I don’t want to get this stuff on you.”
I stepped back, sweat prickling over my skin. “Is that a gang symbol?”
“Yeah. Owner called it in yesterday. These thugs have been tagging like crazy.”
“Do you know which gang it is?” Not that I knew the difference between gangs, but I thought it would be helpful information to pass along to Jacqueline.
“Latin Angels.” He pointed toward the graffiti that he hadn’t washed away yet. “That’s the ‘L’ and ‘A’ on the sides of the crown.”
“Okay. Thanks.” I snapped a photo and hurried back to my car, ignoring the confused look on the man’s face.
My hands shook with something between excitement and fear as I started the ignition and headed east toward Lake Shore Drive. I swerved into the next lane, accelerating around a slow-moving car, but couldn’t escape the sharp angles and ominous swirls of the gang markings painted in my mind.
14
Crouched behind my desk at Greystone, I clicked on my search results for ‘Latin Angels gang tags.’ The neon image on my screen was a perfect match to the designs I’d seen on the sides of the buildings. My chest burst with the anticipation of sharing my tantalizing and dangerous findings with Jacqueline. Hopefully, my discovery would be enough to impress her.
The buzz of my phone drew my attention away from my research. It was Grace.
“Hey, Mara.”
A pang of guilt jolted my stomach, but I did my best to ignore it.
“Hey.”
“I talked to the lender. Guess how much I’m pre-approved for?”
“I don’t know. Five million?”
“Ha, ha. Close. $260,000.”
I placed my hand on my desk and steadied myself. “Great.”
“Can I get a decent place for that?”
“Yeah. Of course. I’ll send you some options this afternoon.” My body felt so light I worried I might float off my chair.
“Cool.”
“What neighborhoods do you like?”
“I don’t know. Bucktown. Or River North. Lincoln Park. Not the West Loop. Too much concrete.”
“Okay. Maybe we can go look at some places tomorrow after work.” My knees bounced beneath my desk as I spoke. Grace was officially my client. I’d help her become a homeowner just like me.
“Thanks, chica.”
“Sure thing.” I clicked on the MLS icon on my laptop, a new real estate search covering the images of gang symbols. My mouth stretched into a smile as I ended the call. Grace was pulling through for me. Before my euphoria had time to transform back into guilt, Jacqueline swooped in behind me an
d sat at her desk.
“Ahh. I hate it when buyers can’t make a simple decision.” She pounded on her keyboard and slammed her laptop shut. “What do you think of this flier for the charity run?”
She slid a glossy piece of paper toward me, featuring a stock photo of people in brightly-colored shirts running. Help Emma Beat Cancer—5K Charity Run, April 30th. 8 a.m., North Avenue Beach. A link to a website stretched across the bottom.
“I set up a temporary website for the event. It accepts payment for registration fees and allows people to leave additional donations.”
“Wow. That looks great.” I ran my fingers over the shiny images, wondering why I hadn’t thought of a charity run for Emma. “Can I have some to give out?” I asked. I wanted to send it to Emma immediately, so she could see that I was doing something to help. I hadn’t failed her yet.
“Sure. I’ll email you the file. I’m going to print out two hundred. I’ll leave some in all of the Greystone mailboxes, and you can have the extras.” Jacqueline straightened the papers on her desk. “Have you accomplished anything today?”
“Yeah. I drove by the buildings. I’m going to call in the violations in a few minutes.” I leaned toward her, my pulse quickening. My fingers clenched the edge of my desk as I envisioned the orange and purple crown and pitchforks on the brick walls. “Three of the buildings were tagged by a gang. The Latin Angels.”
She cocked her head at me.
“The graffiti blaster guy told me, and then I googled it. He was right. He was removing the paint from the Hyde Park building.”
“Gang tags, huh?” Jacqueline strummed her fingers on her desk. “Well, this might be good news. Enough to scare an owner into selling, don’t you think?” She smiled.
I steadied myself, confused by her reaction. “But does your buyer want to buy buildings in gang-infested neighborhoods?”
Jacqueline shrugged. “Gangs are everywhere. My buyer is a long-term thinker. He’ll hold the building until it’s worth enough to sell. If that takes five years, ten years, so be it.”