by Dana Killion
Toby was still making up his mind whether to trust me. He wasn’t the type to disparage anyone without a damn good reason, but I could see that he knew something, something he wasn’t sure was worth the risk. He looked off over my shoulder, his eyes dark with some unpleasant memory of their past—perhaps an old grudge still smoldering. I waited, trying to read him, but I couldn’t decipher what I saw in his face.
“If it helps, I’m distressed by some friendships that might interfere with Borkowski’s journalistic integrity.”
Nothing pissed off Toby like slimy journalists. If he was going to talk, this would unlock the door.
“So, you’re seeing the asshole behind the accolades. The Art Borkowski I came to know and hate,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread and dunking it in rich green olive oil. “Gimme the names.” He smiled.
“Rami Construction and Delgado Engineering.”
Toby’s eyes got dark again, and he shook his head. “You’re bringing back bad dreams. I assume you know the basics.”
I nodded. “Nelson Ramirez paid to have toxic sludge erased from an engineering report. He got caught. Did some jail time.”
“And Borkowski wrote the award-winning story of this fall from grace. Yada, yada, yada. You’ve read the piece?”
I nodded again. Toby’s voice dripped with sarcasm and resentment. As though he didn’t believe Borkowski deserved the kudos. Professional jealousy? Competition? I’d heard an old grudge had driven a wedge between the men. Opening the wound could work in my favor.
“I take it you weren’t impressed.”
“It was a half-assed story.” He ran his hands through his hair. His eyes followed a waitress, delivering fresh focaccia to the other end of the counter.
“Come on, Toby. Why do you say ‘half-assed?’ I can see there’s something more. Were you involved in the story? You sound resentful.”
“Yeah, I am resentful. I resent the hell out of lazy journalism. I resent taxpayers getting fucked over by corrupt businessmen. I resent colleagues who lose sight of their objectivity and allow themselves to be compromised, and then bullshit their way into an award. So yeah, resentful is an understatement.”
“What happened? Talk to me.”
“Borkowski had dirt on Ramirez. He had a doctored soil test dated two years earlier than the one that sent Ramirez to jail. I saw it myself on his desk. I don’t know where he got it, but he didn’t use it. Didn’t turn it in to the prosecutor, didn’t mention it in his story. If the court had been aware of the past behavior, Ramirez would’ve been sent to the farm for a hell of a lot longer than eighteen months. How many other toxic dumps are buried under our buildings because this guy got a hand slap instead of the root canal he deserved?”
“Why would Borkowski bury incriminating evidence? What journalist would walk away from a major headline?”
“Exactly! I cornered him one day. Told him I’d seen the report and wanted to know what happened to it. He said I should get my eyes checked and suggested I’d had a few too many martinis at lunch. Asshole!” Toby pounded his fist on the counter before continuing. “I ran it up to the editor, but Borkowski was their star. He pushed back, kept at the drinking on the job angle. Pissed me off. What reporter ignores something that big? Right? Especially the great man himself with over two decades of journalistic integrity behind him.”
“So what do you think now?” I said. “That you were mistaken?”
“Fuck no! He buried it. I just don’t know why. Unless he’d developed selective Alzheimer’s, it was a financially motivated decision. I can’t think of any other plausible reason. There was a lot of money on the line for someone like Ramirez. If those lucrative contracts were to dry up, where would that leave his company? What’s a little cash to keep one reporter from a tell-all, when you’ve been paying off engineers for years? The bones of the incident were undeniable. Ramirez wasn’t going to get off scot-free, but eighteen months ain’t the five to ten he could have gotten. Financial win-win. Hell, Borkowski even got the glory from writing the partial story.”
“Proof?”
“Not a damn thing. Just my gut talking.”
I watched the kitchen staff on the grill, considering this new information. It was plausible. The Toby I knew wasn’t inclined toward revenge or petty jealously. If he said he saw the report, I believed him. If Borkowski had been paid off to keep quiet, that was interesting, and it meant my instinct not to trust him was justified. The image of Ramirez, Langston, Borkowski, and the mystery man filled my mind. Was this a simple dinner or a meeting of cohorts? Was there something still going on with these guys?
“Can you think of any reason Borkowski would still have contact with Nelson Ramirez?”
He gave me a smug smile and leaned in close. “I can think of sixty-four million reasons.”
20
With Rami Concrete valued at $64 million, and seriously in bed with the city, Toby was right—there was ample motivation to keep the contracts flowing and Nelson Ramirez’s reputation as untarnished as possible. The possibilities for collusion preoccupied my thoughts as I returned to the office. But what was Borkowski’s motivation? Was it lucrative enough to be a retirement plan if things went south? Because if there were any truth to this and it went public, his thirty years of hard-won reputation would be reduced to rubble. The intimate group of men I’d seen earlier in the week at Gibsons, flashed in my mind. Suddenly their meeting felt like something more than dinner.
What about Alderman Langston? The toxic soil test that had put Ramirez away had occurred in Langston’s ward. Bribery was commonplace in the office of aldermen—any of them. Hell, in Chicago, a project without payola was a project that never saw the light of day. It wasn’t as crass as envelopes of cash being bandied about, but everyone had an uncle, cousin, or girlfriend who needed a job or a jumpstart to a small business.
As the city’s legislative branch, aldermen influenced or controlled zoning, permits, city contracts, and licensing within their wards. They operated as individual fiefdoms, and the opportunity for graft and corruption was as easy as scoring a Chicago parking ticket. Layer in the lack of policing, and you were left with the Chicago Way. One-third of the city’s elected aldermen had been convicted of corruption charges over the past forty-five years. And that was only the guys who got caught.
Or maybe I was just predisposed to assume devious intent because I thought Borkowski was a dick?
Once back in the office, I put in the call to my attorney I’d been avoiding and updated him on the possibility of a new financial development at Link-Media. I’d held off, hoping that Erik might say something or that I’d realize I’d been mistaken about what I’d heard. Nope, it was time to share, although the lawyer agreed that this was a wait-and-see situation for now. I jotted a few notes for Brynn, then picked up the phone to see if I could get someone at Delgado Engineering to talk to me about their work at the paintbrush factory.
As the receptionist came on the line, Erik brushed past my doorway and roared, “In my office, now!” I hung up promptly, wondering what had set him off. I sighed, grabbed my water bottle, and trotted down the hall after him, feeling like a five-year-old being called out by her parents. I imagined that was his intent.
Erik’s door was closed when I got there. I rapped gently on the glass, let out a deep breath, and entered. He stood next to the window, arms crossed, face prepped for battle.
“What were you thinking, going after Platt?” he shot at me before I’d fully passed the threshold. I closed the door and walked over to face him.
“What are you talking about?” The confusion that must have been written on my face only seemed to aggravate him more. He paced the length of the credenza as I watched, baffled. “I spoke to him about the mayor’s announcement. I was doing my job, Erik. What’s got you so wired?”
“No. You weren’t ‘doing your job’, you were harassing a well-connected individual simply because your imagination and conspiracy theories have gotten out of control.�
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“Harassing? I asked a few questions. How is that harassment?” I stood open-mouthed, stunned by the accusation, playing the conversation over in my mind. Had Platt described our interaction as harassment? Obviously I’d irritated him enough to pick up the phone. “Would it piss you off if Borkowski tried to shoulder his way into a story? Or is it that I didn’t wait my turn.”
As I said the words, it became clear. I knew what had happened. Platt had phoned Erik when I hadn’t kept to the expected script, and Erik had gotten an earful from his powerful friend. My head had been so wrapped up in the jigsaw puzzle of the shootings that it hadn’t crossed my mind that Platt would report back directly to Erik. But it shouldn’t have mattered—Erik should have been on my side.
“It’s not your story,” he said, his voice glacial. “You keep reminding me to treat you like an employee and not my wife, so act like it. Your boss—that’s me—gave you another assignment. And even then, you had to sneak in a dig at the mayor’s reputation by bringing these damn shootings into it.” His jaw was locked tight with controlled rage. “The highway shootings aren’t yours. Back off and let Art do his job. Or do you need a refresher on the concept of insubordination?”
“What’s the real problem here? That I went after what I wanted?” I felt my restraint starting to slip away.
“Don’t push me, Andrea.”
“Don’t push you?” Anger was roiling inside me. Anger that my professional life and my personal life had twisted into one big red ball of twine. And I could no longer find the end to untangle it. “Are you saying I shouldn’t push for what I want? Well, we certainly know you’ve had no problem seeing that your wants were taken care of!”
I felt myself on the verge of another meltdown, another painful rant that would offer only the briefest moment of release before the grief, anger, and hurt swallowed me whole. How was this ever going to work? Every time I looked at Erik, the wound was ripped open again.
“You can’t throw my past in my face every time you don’t get your way. I’ve paid enough.”
“Is that what you’re calling it now?” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“We’re done here!” he exploded, flailing his arms at me. “This isn’t working. I’m probably buying my attorney another Mercedes with this, but I can’t function this way. You’re fired!”
Fired? We stared at each other, not saying another word, but every drop of the pain of the last six months was seared across our faces. This moment was an inevitable outcome to our sad, twisted story. I dug deep, somewhere into my gut, to a place underneath the pain, pulled out my impassive lawyer façade, and walked out.
Hold it together, I repeated silently as I shoved papers in my tote bag. I could still feel the sting from Erik’s look as I worked over my desk. Don’t cry. Don’t yell. Don’t fall apart. Don’t let anyone see you lose control. Get the important stuff, the stuff I didn’t want Borkowski to pick over while he did a happy dance on my grave. I grabbed the research on the highway shootings and got the hell out.
21
Too angry to think, I barreled out of the building, and stormed down the sidewalk. The art gallery windows and modern furniture stores that typically beckoned to me didn’t even make it into my peripheral vision as I walked. People on the sidewalk were simply obstacles to avoid, their conversations nothing but the buzz of mosquitoes. I pounded forward, not having a destination, my feet taking the lead because my brain couldn’t.
The L rumbled overhead, moving north on Franklin, shaking me into awareness of my surroundings. I was too incensed to go home and lick my wounds, and too agitated to do anything productive. I spotted a Starbucks half a block north on the corner of Franklin and Chicago. A cup of tea and a chair should buy me a few minutes to regroup before I did anything I’d regret tomorrow.
A cardboard cup in hand, I sank into an upholstered chair in the corner. Resting my head against the chair, I dipped my tea bag and fought to control my emotions. I didn’t know who I was angrier with, Erik or myself. How had I let this happen? More important, what the hell was I going to do about it?
Go back and apologize? Beg for my job back? Even if it worked, Erik would lord it over me with the satisfaction of a child toying with a grasshopper before he killed it. I could call Tierney, do my penance, and pretend to be happy there. Not appealing, but an option. And options were what I needed right now. I sipped my tea and stared at the bag of files at my feet. If I didn’t press forward on this story, would anyone?
The balances in my bank accounts flashed in my mind. I had some time, not an indefinite amount, but enough of a cushion to play this out if I was careful. If I could prove something else was going on, that CPD’s assessment wasn’t the full story, and could get to the bottom of it, I could convince the Tribune to run it. Maybe even a national. No one would turn down a freelance writer breaking a story this big. And if I couldn’t? If Erik was right, if everything CPD said was already the full truth, and I was just someone with an overly active imagination rushing to conclusion, Tierney would still be an option.
I grabbed my cup and walked out to the corner to flag a cab. A fleeting desire to enjoy the leisurely Friday afternoon flickered on the edges of my brain. A walk on the lake path, a glass of wine at an outdoor cafe, anything to distract me. I shut the thought down. There would be time for relaxation after I nailed this story.
As the taxi eased through the backed-up traffic moving south on Wells, my mind rumbled through real estate scenarios. My digging had revealed that the Orton Group, formed only six months earlier, had not only purchased the two properties, but seventeen others as well. Why the land grab? And who was behind them?
I jumped out of the cab when we caught the red light at Clark and Wacker, then walked around the corner to a neighboring high rise. I glanced at my watch, 3:15 p.m. Lane would still be in her office attending to last-minute prep for her weekend open house, the only time I could reliably expect to find her behind a desk instead of behind the steering wheel of her car. Lane’s database could access information on the transactions that Brynn couldn’t. After signing in with security, I rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor.
“Hi Rachel,” I said to the firm’s long-time receptionist. “Is she in?”
“Sure is. Go on back. Don’t mind the closed door. She’s just holed up in there with her music.”
I walked past the warren of cubicles, then rapped lightly on the door, but didn’t wait for a response. Tim McGraw’s melodic voice played at concert volume, as I stepped in, wincing at the volume and the harshness of the fluorescent light in the windowless room.
“Have you ever considered headphones?” I yelled, a headache already starting to form behind my eyes.
“Your country-western music bias has no place here. Do what you want in your office. Here I control the playlist,” she said, but turned the volume down anyway. “Quite frankly, I don’t understand your problem. Have you seen McGraw? He could sing me the Constitution and I’d be drooling.”
“Great way to judge musical talent.” I slipped into the chair in front of her. “How do you work in here without any natural light?” The room sent quivers—not the good kind—racing up my back every time I was here.
“Did you drop in just to give me advice on office acoustics?” She tugged on the neckline of the knit top threatening to fall off her shoulder, then pushed her purple reading glasses to the top of her head. “Functional is all I need. You know I don’t spend much time in the office. The address on my business card should read, ‘black Mercedes, C-class,’ and my license plate number. That’s where the real work is done.”
Lane rambled on, her speech playing at double speed. She was typing with one hand and pawing through papers on her desk with the other. Some would compliment her multitasking skills or praise her obsessive, one-dimensional focus on the deal. But I knew firsthand how easily her frenetic side could spill over the edge.
“Hey, I meant to call you,” she said, not lookin
g up. “That unit in your building just went into contract. Twenty-five percent appreciation in two years. Let me know when your reno’s wrapped and I’ll get yours listed.”
“You want two commissions from me in one year?” I laughed. “Lane, I’m not flipping my co-op. We’ve been through this before. I’m staying put for a very long time. Renovating to my tastes, not to the market’s.”
“I just thought with the divorce and all, you could’ve changed your mind. Might want something smaller. It’s just you rambling around in there. Why do you need 3000 square feet? What about investing in a three-flat? I’ve got a new listing on Sedgwick with great cash flow.” She looked at me for a reaction, didn’t get the one she wanted, huffed, and turned back to her screen.
“No, I don’t need all that space, but I’m not selling.” I wasn’t ready to tell Lane I’d lost my job, not today. Couldn’t face the questions, the “you shouldn’t have left him” rant, the “I told you it was a bad idea to change careers” rant, which were really all about her. There’d be time for that later. “My renovation is all the real estate activity I can handle right now. I came over because I need your database.” I pulled Brynn’s spreadsheet out of the bag at my feet and passed it across the desk.
She scanned the top sheet for a moment, then flipped to the subsequent pages. “That’s a lot of movement. What is this?” She turned to the large map on the left wall, the room’s only piece of pseudo decoration. “Englewood, not my territory, but looks like things are heating up. Hmm.”
“Have you heard any rumors about development? Tax incentives? Anything that might spur activity?”
“News to me. The demographics down there are tough. You can’t do residential, unless it’s low-income rental, and private developers aren’t touching that segment of the market,” she mused.
She swung her chair back to face her monitor and hit a few keys. Pulling her glasses back down to her nose, I watched her eyes run down the screen. Listened to the clicks of her keyboard as she worked, her head slowly shaking side to side as she read the screen.