by Dana Killion
Again, I had the urge to tell all. There was something about Michael that made me trust him. Yet the complications of our respective careers were impossible to overlook. Perhaps just a toe in the water.
“I’ve received an anonymous email,” I said. “An individual who is suggesting that he, or she, has some information. I’m struggling to decipher his messages.” I was intentionally vague, wanting to see how the volleying played out between us. Would Michael be a cop in his personal life, too?
“Why do you have to decipher it?”
“He’s communicating in poetry.”
“Poem? As in Wordsworth?”
“Far less eloquent.” I laughed. “But that’s the general idea.”
“Try me. Maybe I can unlock a clue. I’m pretty experienced with puzzles.”
I hesitated, sensing that he, too, was torn between personal and professional interest and not sure which direction to go.
“I’d like to talk about it with you. But the boundaries between our work and personal lives are murky. I don’t know how to approach that. The last thing I want to do is put you in a compromising position.” I said, voicing the reality that we both knew. “Besides, I’m still trying to figure out if this email is even worth my energy. It could just be some bored teenager with too much time on his hands.”
“Andrea, I respect that, but I need you to be straight with me. Is this associated with the highway shooting story?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not certain, but that’s my suspicion.”
Dead silence on the other end of the phone.
“Michael?”
“Sent to personal or work email?”
“Work.”
“Did he ask to meet?”
“No.” I held back, not adding that I was the one pushing for a meeting.
“Send it to me.”
“Michael, your partner made it very clear that CPD wasn’t interested in collaborating.”
“You have to understand what you’re stepping in the middle of. You’ve seen the murder stats. It’s gang warfare. We have flat-out, hand-to-hand combat going on down in Englewood, and you could be involving yourself in something that isn’t safe.”
“I understand what you’re saying. But at this point, I don’t know that this email has anything to do with the highway shootings. It’s just a hunch. I want to play it out for a while. If there’s anything halfway solid, we can talk. But if I involve you now, before I’m certain, your relationship with Janek could be compromised, as will my source.”
“Send me the email, Andrea. Janek won’t matter if you’re injured or dead.”
18
A soft rubber mat cushioned my head as I lay prone on the floor, eyes closed, listening to the melodic voice of Tara, my yoga instructor. She spoke softly over the gentle harmony of her vinyasa playlist.
“Let the tension leave your body with each deep, cleansing breath,” she cooed.
Not happening. While the workout had moved my body to a state of limber relaxation and eased the tension that remained from the accident, my mind was another story. Bouncing from detail to detail, question to question, I couldn’t get close to clearing my head. And I didn’t have a clue how I was going to excavate the truth behind these highway shootings. Lying still to deepen the yoga afterglow wasn’t working for me this morning; impatience crept in instead. Gingerly I got to my knees and silently rolled up my matt. I tiptoed out of the dark room, leaving twelve other women to explore their bliss before morning coffee.
As I hit the sidewalk, the rising sun cast a beautiful amber glow over the lake, creating a halo around the Hancock Building. It was too early for the Michigan Avenue tourists, so I easily rattled through my to-do list without having to take evasive maneuvers. The short five-block walk back to my co-op moved me full-on back into work mode. Investigating the drilling company and the sale of the paint brush factory were first on the list. Could the sale of this property be relevant to the highway shootings? I couldn’t imagine how it would be tied in.
Returning to my apartment, I showered, dressed, gave Walter some love, then parked myself back in the pitifully ugly and decidedly uncomfortable folding chair that graced my dining table. With the renovation under way, functional office space was a luxury I didn’t have for the time being. With construction dust and floors yet to be refinished, major furniture investments didn’t make sense. I pulled back the coverings on my dining table which sat draped in protective blankets and fenced by crates of kitchen cabinets, releasing a cloud of drywall dust, exposing the beautiful veining of a prized possession underneath: an Arabescato marble Saarinen table. I had scrimped and saved for three years in the early part of my career to pay for it. My contractor had been threatened with bodily harm if so much as a tiny scratch occurred during his watch.
I set up my laptop, dug out the research materials I had pulled from the office, and then got to work organizing the documents into neat piles, adding a map of yellow Post-its to the opposite wall. Taking a sip of tea and tossing back a couple of raspberries, I powered up the computer and logged into my email account, hoping to see a response from sgnt1764. Nada. Damn. This was getting stupid. Why the hell had he emailed me if he didn’t want to talk? I opened his email. Although I nearly had the thing memorized by now, I read it again, trying to figure out if I was missing something. The words “blight,” “injustice,” and “discarded” seemed to suggest the “throwaway people” were the poor or some other downtrodden group. Was he making a political statement about urban poverty? His subject line, “killer or thief”, kept pulling me back. As did his reference to greed.
Despite my urge to prod, emailing again would only paint me as pathetic and desperate. Both were true at this point, but letting him know that wasn’t going to be helpful. I’d end up with a source expecting to be paid for information. I pulled up the website for Delgado Engineering. The phone rang as I began reading. Brynn. Hmm, 7:15 a.m. on her day off?
“Hi, Andrea, I hope it’s not too early to call,” she said. “You normally get going at the crack of dawn, so I thought I’d give it a try. Didn’t want you to have to wait until Monday.”
“Of course I’m up. Working at home this morning. What’s going on?”
“Well, after you emailed me last night about that paintbrush factory sale, I took a look.”
“Great, what did you find?” I asked, pulling over a note pad, once again impressed with her dedication. I would need to find a way to protect her job or help her find a new one if things got ugly at Link-Media.
“The property was owned by a guy named Anthony Bonilla. Well, I should say owned by his estate. He was the founder’s grandson—died about two years ago. Apparently, Bonilla had been in poor health for years and the property sat vacant after he couldn’t manage the business any longer. Anyway, they’ve been trying to sell the thing ever since. A half dozen agents and just as many price cuts.”
“The recession can’t have been helpful, but it doesn’t sound like the estate was greedy, sitting on an unrealistic price.”
“As of the contract date, it was listed at forty percent of the original ask. The final selling price hasn’t made it into the public domain yet.”
“Who’s the executor?” I could hear the rustle of paper on the other end of the line.
“Ah, here it is. A Jerome Finkleman, Esquire.”
I jotted down the name. It didn’t ring any bells. “And the purchaser?”
“Hold on. The Orton Group, LLC. Coincidentally, they also purchased the neighboring building.”
“That means they want to develop the property.” I ran back through images of the surrounding mix of homes and commercial properties, trying to figure out what might be planned. “The paintbrush factory had to be about 40,000 square feet. The second, was maybe 3,000,” I said. “I wonder if they plan a teardown? Just buying for the land?”
“It gets better. I just sent you an email. There’s some data you should see.”
I clicked back in.
“Got it.” I scanned the spreadsheet, getting a read on the information. “Looks like transaction history for the area.”
“Exactly. The first sheet lists all the completed transactions in the 60621 zip code for the past year.”
“I see the two properties on Wentworth marked as pending. What caught your attention?”
“Take a look at the totals, lower right. Total closed sales of fifty-one. Now scroll to the next page. See the total for the previous year?”
I scrolled down. “Huh, a thirty percent increase this past year,” I said, mulling over the number. “The economy is reasonably strong. Prices bottomed out eighteen months ago. I would expect improvement, although thirty percent seems high.”
“You have to put it into context. That zip code has pretty consistently averaged thirty-five to forty sales a year. Even in 2008, during the worst of the recession, there were thirty-one sales. Granted, it’s very low compared to most of Chicago, but the numbers have always been consistent until this year—fifty-one.”
“So what’s causing the sudden interest in Englewood?”
“Seems like the right question to ask, particularly after I looked at the monthly breakdown. Here’s the kicker—forty percent of the sales have occurred in just the last three months.”
“Hold on a second.” I pulled up a zip code map, Garfield to 76th, State to Racine. The For Sale signs I’d seen flashed back into my head. “That zip code, 60621, is Englewood, but the majority of the district is west of the Dan Ryan. Do we have a way to segment those sales that are east of the expressway?”
“I’ll have to do it manually, but I can isolate that sector.”
“Let me poke around a bit with this. We can talk about a deeper dive on Monday. Brynn, thank you.”
“You got it. Send me a text if you need me over the weekend.”
I ended the call and went back to my laptop, fingers flying over the keyboard. Line by line, I matched each transaction with the Cook County Recorder of Deeds, working back to March when the pattern had shifted.
Noting purchasers, pricing, and addresses, I worked through the sales list. Click after click, a pattern started to come into focus. I stared at the notes in front of me, running through the data one more time to assure myself I wasn’t mistaken. One company had their eyes on Englewood and were aggressively claiming a stake in real estate. But for what purpose?
I looked at my watch—it was all of 8:30 a.m.—then phoned Platt. Too early for his gatekeeper, he answered himself on the third ring.
“Good morning, Owen. It’s Andrea Kellner.”
“What a delightful surprise. A call from a beautiful woman is not how my mornings generally begin. What can I do for you?”
I nearly gagged at the sexist schmoozing, but knew any response would be perceived as engaging in the flirtation. And encouraging that behavior was the last thing I wanted to do with a man like Platt, unless it had a purpose.
“I’m following up on yesterday’s mayoral announcement. I understand congratulations are in order. It seems there have been some changes since we last spoke. I’d love to sit down and discuss your campaign and your position on the issues,” I said, glossing over his previous denial of intent to run just hours before the news broke.
“I’ll have Jessica get you on the schedule. As you can imagine, the calendar has gotten quite tight. I’m sure you understand.” His voice had taken on that man-of-the-people tone politicians seemed to use when they wanted to avoid something.
“Yes, of course. I’ll follow up with her,” I said, playing along. “Since I have you on the phone, do you care to comment on the information CPD released yesterday that the first victim of the highway sniper was a former gang member?” I had no intention of dragging the victim through the mud, but I wanted to know how quickly the Mayor’s Office would jump on the information to play up the gang theory.
“I’ll leave the official comment for Superintendent Wachowski, but Andrea, I take issue with your continued use of the word sniper. That is highly irresponsible and inflammatory language. I need to caution you against journalistic sensationalism. You may be new to this industry, but your prior career should have taught you proper protocol,” he added, his voice now grave. “CPD has shared their evaluation of the gang situation, and this victim’s connections confirm that is exactly what we’re dealing with. Inserting your own language won’t change the facts.”
I listened to his monologue, thanked him for his time, and ended the call. Experience had taught me that when people were intent on delivering a tirade, let them. It often revealed interesting information. And the question here was, why was Platt trying so hard to control the message? There was always an underlying objective behind the actions of a man like Platt. I just needed to figure out what it was.
My phone rang seconds later. I answered, noting the “unknown” caller ID and expecting Platt to be calling back from a private line.
“Stay out of Englewood.” A male voice growled into my ear. “Or you won’t walk away from the next accident.”
19
The midday sun hit my face as I stepped off the curb at Superior and Wells, but I could only feel the icy chill that remained from the threatening phone call I’d received. I wasn’t sure what I’d done but I was making someone nervous. All the more reason to press forward.
Neither the beautiful weather nor the walk could improve my mood. My eyes jumped, hyper-aware of my surroundings, wondering how real the threat was. Time was pressing on me. If I didn’t find a way to take control of this story, I’d be relegated to covering the St. Patrick’s Day parade and new exhibits at the Field Museum—provided I still had a job after Erik brought in a new partner. Questions bounced through my head, all of which lacked answers. What was motivating the shooter? What connected the victims? And who was I pissing off?
Turning south on Clark, I dodged the tourists flocking into Portillo’s for a Chicago-style dog and lined up on the sidewalk outside the rock-’n’ -roll McDonald’s for the Untouchables tour. I was on my way to meet an old colleague, Toby Rodale, from my ASA days. Recently retired, Toby had been a reporter for the Chicago Tribune, known for his integrity, persistence, and balanced reporting. In that capacity, he had attempted to insert himself into any prominent case that fell into my hands. He needled me for behind-the-scenes dirt, and I gave him all the prescripted lines. Occasionally, we’d tossed each other a tidbit out of mutual respect, nothing that moved the needle dramatically, but being the first to know had its value. Toby had also been at the Trib with Borkowski during the Nelson Ramirez trial, and I wanted to know how far back their relationship extended.
It might have been a coincidence that Delgado Engineering, the soil-testing company Ramirez had bribed, was working at the scene of one of the shootings. And that Borkowski was buddies with Ramirez. Maybe. But something deep in my brain was whispering. Toby could give me the parts of that old story that had ended up on the editing floor.
I pushed through the door at Eataly, snaked my way through the crowd waiting for gelato and espresso, then climbed the stairs to the second floor. Toby was seated at the far end of the Le Verdure counter. Even with his back to me, there was no mistaking that mop of unruly white hair.
“Did you order one of the those for me?” I asked, nodding at the red wine in front of him.
He held up his glass to the light, as if not sure what to make of it. “This was plan B after I found out I was at the wrong station to get a beer,” he laughed. “It was a nice surprise to get a lunch invitation from you, but what’s up with the vegetable bar?”
I laughed. “Trust me, the grilled bitter greens will change your life.”
“Hmm, bitter greens. Sounds yummy.” He grimaced.
I sat down on the stool beside him and ordered a glass of Nebbiolo.
“Don’t worry, I won’t let you leave hungry. We’ll move over to the salumi bar after this course, and you can gorge yourself on all the pork fat you want.”
He shifted in his s
eat, but a small smile turned up the corner of his mouth. “I hear you’re the competition these days. What’s that all about? The attorney wardrobe getting too boring?” he said, looking at my twisted knit Rick Owens dress and platform sandals.
“Someone had to fill the journalistic void that opened when you retired last year. But I can’t say I miss gray pantsuits.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and raised my glass in acknowledgment.
A waiter appeared to top off our water glasses, and I placed an order of grilled greens and cauliflower cannelloni for us to share. Then we spent a few minutes catching each other up on life and mutual acquaintances before I eased into the real purpose of our meeting.
“Your old friend Art Borkowski has joined Link-Media. Had you heard?”
“Yeah, the word had gotten all the way to my ears,” Toby said, looking at me sideways, as if he felt sorry for me. “But I’m not sure what you’d want with that old hack.”
“Hack? Isn’t he Chicago’s godfather of investigative journalism? I assumed there was a shrine dedicated to his exploits over at the Trib. That’s why Erik stole him away.”
Toby took another drink of his wine and showed a sudden interest in the shishito peppers being blistered on the grill. “Good luck to you,” he said after an uncomfortable pause.
Interesting. I hadn’t considered the possibility that Toby might not be a fan. Given Borkowski’s reputation, I’d assumed he had earned his respect. And that he treated me like crap because he was offended by how I’d gotten my job. Hmm, perhaps I was wrong.
“Look, Toby, I’m going to be straight with you. I don’t kiss Borkowski’s ring. And based on the tone of your voice, I’d say you don’t either.”
He turned toward me, his face expectant, but not ready to volunteer anything.
“I’m working on a story, and as I dig into it, a few old familiar names are popping up. Names that create some questions about associations Borkowski may have or had in the past. I don’t know how to interpret the connections. I asked you here because I need help figuring out if I have anything to be concerned about.”