Lies in High Places

by Dana Killion

I could feel the terrain becoming unstable. Time to change the subject.

  “You were hooked up with Bill Bryson, wasn’t it, when we last worked together?” It seemed a good segue. Dragging deeper into the muck of our respective love lives wasn’t productive.

  “Good memory. Bill retired about a year and a half ago. There was some restructuring going on in the department, and Janek and I ended up together.”

  A year and a half? That would have been around the time of the bribery investigations.

  “Restructuring?” I wondered how rooted his loyalties were. “Don’t you mean an investigation into officers taking payoffs?”

  Michael paused and shot me his cop eyes. I might have just ensured that this evening would be both a first and last. But he had to know that I wouldn’t back down just because he smiled at me. I might get a little weak in the knees, but brain function wasn’t going to shut down.

  “You’re direct, aren’t you?” Michael said without flinching.

  “I would think in your profession, as in mine, it’s a refreshing change from the BS most people dish out.”

  His eyes softened, and a hint of a smile flicked at the corner of his mouth. “And this from a former attorney.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as a reformed attorney.”

  The tension had passed. Michael was okay with honest. That definitely made my knees weak.

  “Since you apparently know the story, let’s be clear: Janek is the straightest guy I know. He wouldn’t take a ham sandwich he didn’t pay for.”

  “Then how did his life get so complicated?”

  “I apologize if this sounds like I’m going all cop on you. I’m protective, always looking for the threat. That stuff gets in your bones. Becomes who you are. I can’t always turn it off. But Janek, he has good reason to keep the press at arm’s length.”

  “I know about the allegations.”

  “The media did the worst thing they could do to the man—they shredded his reputation. Lumping his actions with that scuzzbag of a partner and not questioning anything. And don’t think anyone reported it when Janek was cleared. He lost his wife, his daughter. He’s not the same person since it happened.”

  “I’m sure it was quite difficult. I didn’t know about his family.” Journalism was never warm and fuzzy when there was blood in the water. And a corrupt cop story was always chum. Michael’s jaw clenched, and I could tell bile was rising in his throat.

  “Janek was set up. Framed by one of his own. A dickhead who’d been crossing those lines for years.”

  “Matt Dubicki,” I said. Michael nodded. “But they were partners. Why would Dubicki set him up?”

  “Internal Affairs was getting close to the truth. And Dubicki needed to pull out a fun house mirror to throw attention on someone else. He was also screwing Janek’s wife.”

  11

  When I poked my head into Erik’s office at 8:00 a.m., he was on his cell. After last night’s email from my anonymous friend, I needed to hit him up again about the highway shooting story. After rereading the communication obsessively, analyzing each word choice, each phrase, I was convinced the writer was trying to get my attention and had information about the sniper. He was telling me he knew the shooter and that CPD had it wrong. Excitement tickled my spine. This was it—this was the break I needed.

  Hunched over the vintage Knoll credenza he had installed under the window, Erik spoke in a low tone as he watched something on the street below. Unaware that I was standing in the doorway, his words were clipped, his voice even deeper than normal. Was this part two of yesterday’s conversation? I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but he wasn’t happy. I knew that edge in his voice. I rapped lightly on the door frame to let him know I was within earshot. He held up two fingers, signaling he needed time, but didn’t glance in my direction.

  I watched his body tense with irritation. What the hell was he up to? I hesitated for another second, then turned to go back to my desk. I wasn’t two steps out when Erik shouted into the phone, gluing my feet to the floor.

  “This wasn’t the plan! You need to get this under control now!”

  Shocked by his vehemence, I turned back toward the door, waiting for the next explosion or the words that would explain what I was witnessing. Takeover scenarios played out in my mind, and I had visions of trying to defend my position in the company to some new number cruncher intent on protecting his investment. Even I had a hard time making that argument. My work had been adequate, but far from irreplaceable. There was no doubt in my mind that I’d be the first to get booted to the curb if cuts were called for.

  I needed more time.

  As I stood rooted in the hallway, the wooden floor creaked with his footsteps. A drawer opened, then was slammed shut. I gave him a few more seconds, listening for dialogue, then stepped back into the doorway after deciding I had an all clear.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  Erik was sitting at his desk, feet propped up as usual, still on his phone but now texting furiously. “Just an issue with a supplier,” he said, not looking up.

  “Sounded pretty heated.”

  “Nothing you need to worry about.”

  Erik’s face was so tight it might as well have been carved in stone. I nodded and took a seat, waiting while he wrapped up. Until he was ready, prodding wasn’t going to get him to talk, certainly not to me. I’d learned the hard way the man had a PhD in secret-keeping.

  “What did you need?” His voice was clipped and raw. Was this about his phone call or my rejection of him earlier in the week?

  “I wanted to speak with you again about the highway shooting story. You were clear that you feel it’s under control, but I’ve got a new…”

  The words were barely out of my mouth when Art Borkowski sauntered in, a smug smile on his face. He slid into the chair next to me. Damn!

  Erik kept his eyes trained on me, flat and unyielding. The muscles in his jaw flexing as if he were grinding down a couple of back molars. My timing was shit.

  “Art, it seems Andrea has some brilliant ideas on your highway shooter,” he said, staring me down. “Apparently she thinks her six months as a journalist trump your twenty-five years of experience and that she can do a better job.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face and my body go still. He was turning my ambition into a weapon against me.

  “That’s not what I said…” I replied slowly, trying not to appear defensive and childish.

  “What do you think? Do you need help, Art? Maybe Andrea could take notes for you.”

  Erik’s phone rang repeatedly but he ignored it as we sat locked in our little game of wills. Push the knife in and turn. Anger choked in my throat and I struggled to keep a poker face, resisting the urge to shoot a glance at Borkowski as he stifled a low cough.

  “Well, I could use a little help with fact-checking,” Borkowski said. The shit-eating grin on his face made my stomach double over.

  What! Was I now his research assistant? He was speaking to me like I was some first-year journalism student who hadn’t yet learned to qualify a source. One way or another, this was my story. Last night’s emails had sealed that in my mind, despite what Erik and Borkowski seemed to think. I wasn’t going to hand it over without a great deal of bloodletting.

  “Well, Art, I’d love to play errand girl for you, but a self-administered appendectomy sounds more appealing.” I glared at the man. “I’m not your assistant,” I snapped, infuriated by his arrogance.

  “By the way, what were you doing at the press conference yesterday?” he replied.

  I was taken aback for a moment with the question. He wouldn’t have known I was there, unless he showed up long after I had.

  “Were you trying to undermine me? Let me be very clear. If I need help, I’ll assign it to you. Until then, back off.”

  “If you’re so committed, where the hell was your push-back to that drivel? It wasn’t a press conference, it was a distribution of talking points. I did
n’t hear you challenge a damn thing. Or do you intend to let Rendell and Wachowski write the story for you?”

  Erik stood as it became clear to him I wasn’t going to be subservient and shut up. He crossed his arms over his chest, face pinched, ready to referee.

  “Erik and I need a word,” I said, letting the rancor ooze out in my voice. The cost of divorcing my boss had just received a price adjustment. I’d been naive to think we could be business associates without things getting ugly.

  Borkowski didn’t move, so I swung my gaze at him and stared until he got up from his seat. He raised his eyebrows and shot a look at Erik as if to say, “Man up,” but thankfully, he headed for the door without additional persuasion. I imagined he would have been happy being a fly on the wall for the conversation that was about to take place. I waited until I heard the click of the latch.

  “How could you embarrass me like that? You didn’t even hear me out before cutting me off at the knees. Why?” I was struggling to keep my volume low when all I wanted to do was scream, but I wasn’t going to give Borkowski the satisfaction.

  “You wanted in on this story. I just gave you an opportunity. Earn it.”

  “Did you hear him trying to relegate me to ‘the research girl?’ You’re so blindsided by his reputation as a hardcore journalist and the fancy awards he’s won, but that was fifteen years ago. The world has changed—journalism has changed. That’s why you started this company, to look to the future, not the past. What’s he done lately, beyond rest on his laurels and be a bully? I know you think bringing him to Link-Media was a coup for our credibility, but in reality, you just need good journalism. There are pieces to the puzzle in these shootings that are being missed. No one is challenging assumptions. I can do this, Erik. Let me have a shot.”

  I dug my thumb into my thigh as I struggled to control my emotions. Erik picked up his phone and glanced at the screen, more interested in the calls he had missed than in arguing with me.

  “It’s a shame you can’t appreciate the opportunity to learn from a seasoned pro,” he said, “Maybe then you’d remember who signs your paycheck. Now get back to the story you’ve been assigned, or I can yank that as well.”

  “Appreciate the opportunity?” My voice hiked up a notch. “You mean appreciate the opportunity to get fucked over by my boss?”

  I’d heard enough. I picked myself up and walked out as calmly as I could, using the fifteen feet of hallway to put my game face back on. Becoming Borkowski’s flunky wasn’t on my agenda. One way or another, I was not going to be sidelined.

  Brynn was exiting the break room as I neared the bullpen and I motioned for her to follow me. As I walked through the loft space, the eyes shooting in my direction told me everyone had been aware of the drama that just played out. Co-workers stole looks at me over their computer monitors, checking for tears or maybe waiting for me to kick a trashcan or something. The snippets of argument they’d been able to hear coming from Erik’s office were far more interesting than the work they were supposed to be doing.

  Ever since it had become public knowledge that Erik and I were divorcing, the mood in the office had turned expectant, as if the staff were waiting for a good knock-down drag-out fight in the middle of the afternoon. Something juicy to retell to friends over evening cocktails. After all, journalists were drama junkies. Sorry guys, not today. I walked into my office and gently closed the door before releasing the silent scream that had built up in my chest. A moment, later Brynn stepped in and quietly took a seat.

  “What happened? Borkowski came out of that room beaming like he’d just gotten a BJ. I was ready to smack him to Indiana just for that cocky grin,” she said. “Pun intended.”

  I couldn’t suppress a laugh as that image flooded my mind. Brynn could smell bullshit buried in a bottle of Dior J’Adore.

  “I pressed Erik again to let me have a shot at the highway shooting story,” I said, trying to shake off my irritation. “It didn’t go well.” I’d leave the gory details to her imagination.

  “Borkowski only reports what he discovers in scripted phone interviews. He may have been great back in the day, but if you ask me, he’s like a great actor who started his career with incredible range and now replays the same character in every movie. An easy slide into a paycheck and we’re all supposed to genuflect as we pass.” Brynn took a drink of her coffee, then leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re not going to roll over on this, are you?”

  “I’m not going to be sidelined, at least not without a World War III-level fight. Erik knows I’m furious, but I don’t think he’ll budge. Too much ego on the line. We may need to get creative.” My thoughts were on the anonymous emailer, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. There’d be time to talk about it with Brynn when I had more information.

  “Okay, so what’s the plan? Food poisoning? A minor accident?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with the possibility of a little cloak-and-dagger. I glared at her. “Hey, it was just a joke. You can turn off those fire bombs shooting out of your eyes.”

  “We work in shadow, pulling out whatever we can. Victim histories, gang squabbles, drug busts—anything that might explain what’s behind these shootings. If we have a breakthrough, Erik isn’t going to pass on a lead story just because he doesn’t like how I got there.” I glanced out at the staff room. Borkowski returned the look from his office across the open space, his famous scowl turned on me. Asshole. I turned back to Brynn. “Borkowski’s going to put us under the microscope, hoping I do something stupid. Expect him to make a pest of himself. He’s going to try to become your new buddy just to see what I have you working on. He’ll expect dumb-kid. You don’t need to enlighten him, if you know what I mean.”

  She smiled like a six-year-old who’d just busted open a piñata. “Absolutely. I’ll just use the word ‘like’ five times in every sentence. He’ll think I’m a typical journalism girl with an IQ of ninety and a burning desire to see my pretty face on TV.”

  “Perfect.” I chuckled. “Borkowski’s the kind of guy who thinks lipstick hampers brain function, so use that to divert him.” She nodded. “What this does mean is we’re also under some serious timing pressure. In addition to having unwanted eyes on us, we have to get this puzzle in place, fast.”

  I sent Brynn back to her desk with a short, but important, to-do list. Digging deeper into the gang violence theory to disprove it seemed like the best starting point. If the previous shooting locations were just as targeted as the Garfield Street overpass, we clearly had a sniper on our hands. And if Brynn could find me an expert on Chicago’s current gang environment, I could verify CPD’s premise, find out the source of tensions, discover which groups were battling for control.

  The words of my mystery poet replayed in my head as they had since the first email. I opened my mail program and reread both messages. Was I fabricating importance where there was none? Probably, but my gut was telling me to keep on this track. Convinced that keeping the guy on the hook was the right choice, I composed a couple of sentences.

  My job is to report, not deceive. Who are they? What deception are you referring to? Are you saying you know who the sniper is? Can we meet?

  I hesitated, then hit send, wondering if I was engaging a nut job or securing my future.

  12

  The large room hummed with the low murmur of staff members conducted the business of city government. Associates sat with phones suction-cupped to their heads while barely audible one-sided conversations played out. People flitted off to meetings or over to hit up co-workers with questions. The atmosphere was one of controlled, purposeful intent. But underneath the surface calm, I sensed the rip current of those accustomed to going to the mattresses at a moments notice. I was led across the carpeted space to a wood-paneled office, shown a chair, offered coffee, and told that Owen Platt would see me shortly.

  I looked around at the memorabilia lining the bookcases. Framed photos of visiting dignitaries, inspirational business books, cr
ystal awards commemorating moments in time. Political badges of honor, too, though honor wasn’t the word that first came to mind when I thought of Platt. Charming, shrewd, cunning, manipulative—all far better word choices for the man responsible for Rendell’s success. Chances are there were a few more adjectives I’d add to the list if I got to know him better. No thanks.

  “Andrea, thanks for rescheduling. So nice to see you again,” Owen Platt said as he breezed into the room, a stunning brunette dressed in Armani at his arm. Platt extended his hand, clasping the other over mine in the way politicians do when they’re shaking the trees for cash or favors. “Have you met my wife, Jenelle?”

  “Only by reputation,” I replied. “Nice to finally meet you. And congratulations on the Compass deal. I understand it was a tough fight.”

  Jenelle was the CEO of MarkSpot, a tech company that developed project management software for the manufacturing industry. The firm’s recent acquisition of Compass Industries was their first and it positioned them strategically for growth into an important industry of the future. Reportedly there had been stiff competition for Compass, which had patented a new 3-D printing machine for use with glass.

  “Nothing I’d want to repeat. It was a rough slog, but I’m thrilled that we can bring so many jobs to Chicago,” she said, her smile gracious. “I’ve followed your work since the deli case.” Seeing that I was disconcerted by the comment, she added. “I make a point of keeping up with the careers of strong women on the forefront. And anyone who can hold her own in the State’s Attorney’s office with Denton can hold her own with the best of them.”

  She carried herself with the confidence of someone accustomed to the world of handshake deals and midnight negotiations. Yet there was a warmth about her, putting me immediately at ease.

  “Darling, stop with the false modesty. There aren’t many poetry majors who can say they’ve led hundred-million dollar companies.” He turned to me. “She may look like a kitten, but trust me, those claws can do damage.”

  “That’s a woman’s secret weapon. We’re underestimated.” She smiled at me and winked. “I have a lunch appointment. Andrea, I hope we can find time for coffee one of these days.”