by Dana Killion
“Nothing that I’m finding.” She looked up at me, then picked up the documents again. “Why? Are you thinking development?”
I handed her a slip of paper. “Does this name ring any bells? They’ve closed nearly twenty deals in the last three months.”
Lane stopped typing and looked at me, eyes wide. “Never heard of them, but I’m not up on the commercial developers.” Again back to the screen. Again a shake of the head as she contemplated the information she was seeing.
She looked at me, brows furrowed, but I had her full attention. “What is this all about?”
“I’m not sure yet.” My mind ran through options, trying to connect the dots. Opportunistic buyers? My gut said no. No one buys twenty properties without a plan.
Lane watched me, uncharacteristically quiet, trying to see where I was taking this. Most likely gauging whether there was an opportunity to make a buck.
“What can you access for me on pricing trends? I’m looking for comps. Unusual spikes in pricing. Anything that feels out of the ordinary.”
“Are you going to tell me what this is about? ‘Cause I’m not the research library. I do have two open houses this weekend I’m trying to prepare for.”
“Just run the report, please.”
She rolled her eyes, but her fingers slid over the keyboard.
“It would be helpful if you gave me some idea of what you’re looking for. I don’t have all day to devote to your pet projects.”
“Short memory, Lane.” I couldn’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “Do I really need to remind you of how often I’ve been the one you called when your credit card bill was two months overdue? Hell, I practically run a finance company devoted to your overspending. Don’t you dare give me grief.” We glowered at each other for a moment. For once, Lane had the good sense to keep quiet, so I proceeded. “I’m not sure what I’m looking for. These guys are buying for a reason, and I need to know why. Look at the data and tell me what feels odd.”
Lane swung back to her desk and thumped on the keys in irritation. Too bad, I thought. She owed me, and I needed her database.
“Okay, here it is.” She pulled a document off the printer and pushed it in my direction. “Prices are flat to last year. Now can I get on with my work?”
“Wait.” I stood and walked around the desk to the map on the wall. “Zip 60621 runs from roughly State Street west to Racine. Is there any additional segmenting you can do that would isolate the area closest to the highway? Say the eastern third of the zip code?”
Lane snatched the printout from my hand, muttering. “Payback’s a bitch.”
“Don’t start,” I said. “Your balance sheet is so deep in the red it’s bleeding. Can you segment it?”
She held her tongue, but continued to type.
As she worked, my eyes rolled over the sparse room. Engraved crystal plaques filled her desk, touting her sales prowess: 10 Million Dollar Club, Top Producer Award, Top Listing Agent. A powerhouse in her professional life, a frickin’ mess in her personal one. I never knew when the next swindling deadbeat boyfriend, overdue debt, or drunken fender bender would pop out of the mayhem that was Lane’s life. Inevitably her problems became mine when she needed help extracting herself from one mess or another. The phone call would come, and she’d need money, my car, a bed for a few days. It had been that way since our mother’s death back when we were teens and would most likely remain that way. My sense of obligation ran too deep.
“I’ve divided the area into thirds. East, middle, west.” She laid another printout on the desk in front of me. “You’re on your own from here. I have to go pick up my brochures before the printer closes at five.” She lifted her hands and shooed me out of the office.
“Hold on.” I read through the numbers, thoughts ricocheting in my head. “This says prices have declined twenty-eight percent since the shootings began, but only east of the highway.” Maybe that was the point.
22
Five a.m. and sleep continued to elude me. My email called to me like a drug, as it had been doing since I’d asked for a meeting with my anonymous writer. I reached across the bed for my phone, willing a response from sgnt1764 to be waiting for me. Telepathy failed me again, and the mailbox remained as empty as it had been the last 147 times I’d checked.
Walter stared up at me through half-opened eyes from his perch at the end of the bed. “It’s still dark out there, dummy. Go back to sleep,” his lazy gaze seemed to say.
Impossible. I dragged over a pillow that had been flung in my late-night tossing and turning, and placed it behind my head. Then I pulled the linen duvet up closer to my chin and traced the city lights and shadows that fell across my ceiling through the open drapes.
Why? Why? Why? reverberated in my head. Why was the Orton Group buying property? I had no information that said these land purchases were connected in any way to the highway shootings, so why was my radar beeping at me? Being threatened with bodily harm did that I guessed.
After a quick shower, I threw on a simple cotton wrap dress, made tea, scooped some yogurt and fruit into a bowl, and sat down to get to work just as the rising sun was lighting up the Hancock Building in a blaze of orange outside my windows.
I started with the pile of documents related to Rami Concrete. Their list of contracts extended throughout the state, many of them governmental. They had nearly three thousand employees at four locations. The company was privately held, so confirming Toby’s estimate of Ramirez’s net worth would take more time and creativity, but projected revenue for Rami Construction was in the just-shy-of-a-billion range according to Crain’s. The Chicago projects alone showed that Rami had gotten their hands deep in nearly every large-scale construction project for the last twenty years.
All that proved was that Ramirez had enough money to shut Borkowski up. Hell, he could probably shut almost anyone up. Who else might he want silenced? Or need favors from? An interesting thought.
I took another sip of tea and considered the possibilities. Politicians, developers, any number of business types could be susceptible to financial arm-twisting. But so what? That didn’t mean there was a connection to the highway shootings. The image of Nelson Ramirez and Alderman Anthony Langston at Gibsons popped back into my head. I wondered if Rami Concrete had done any projects in Langston’s district. Another project for Brynn. Oh right, no more Brynn. I made a note to myself to give her a call later; she’d already left for the day when things blew up and I wanted her to hear the news from me.
I reached for a copy of the story that had convinced Toby of Borkowski’s loose ethics. Was this a pattern? I tapped the keyboard again and scrolled, looking for any additional stories Borkowski had written on Rami Concrete or Alderman Langston. A sixteen month old softball piece about Langston approving a zoning change for a liquor store popped up. The only unusual aspect was that Borkowski had neglected to mention the community outrage over the backdoor fast-tracking when every other journalist had hit that hard.
“Where is that email?”
I picked up the phone and stared at the text Michael Hewitt had just sent, then placed it back on the dining table without responding. This was his second request for a copy of the emails from sgnt1764, and it made me squirm. Was he asking me as a cop? Did I want him to? The voice of the man who had threatened me popped back into my mind.
I sipped my tea and stared at the screen. Sharing the information with Michael would be a gamble. On the plus side, I might be able to win his help resetting the story. The downside was that it would also mean Janek would be pulled in. Hard to imagine that going well. Janek would prefer a dental extraction to working with me. But was trusting Michael smart? I wasn’t certain. Images of a CPD supplied body guard came to mind. Goodbye story.
No, until I knew more, involving Michael had more risk than reward. I slid the phone back across the table, opting for avoidance.
Victims, locations, real estate data, all the known facts. I wrote them all on Post-its and add
ed them to those already gracing the dining room wall. Then I moved on to unknowns and did the same. The soil-testing company at the shooter’s location. The connection between Nelson Ramirez, Anthony Langston, and Art Borkowski. The Orton Group. Father Brogan’s lone wolf. Any bit of information that seemed odd or had a possible association, I placed on the wall.
Standing back, I surveyed my work, hoping the visual map would help me see connections and holes to fill. I rearranged a few of the notes and stared at it some more.
The soil-testing company had come up twice now. Coincidence? Unlikely. I returned to my laptop and reopened their website, scanning the company information. Delgado Engineering was also privately held, run by Colin Delgado, the eldest son of its founder, Charles Delgado. A sweep through the listing of services did little to enlighten me on what might have been occurring at the paintbrush factory. Hazardous waste? Soil stability? Maybe the buyer just wanted to build an addition. I didn’t know enough about the process to come up with options.
Where were these guys? I clicked on the contact page. LaSalle and Hubbard. Maybe I could find someone in the office to enlighten me. I grabbed my bag, threw on a linen jacket to tighten up my casual attire, then headed downstairs to hail a cab.
Delgado Engineering occupied space in a bland mid-rise on the west side of LaSalle. The utilitarian brick and a no-frills entrance seemed appropriate for a business that dealt in dirt. The outer doors were unlocked. That was a good sign, but the glass on the other side of the vestibule stopped my progress. No front desk and therefore, no attendant to let me in.
I located an electronic directory on the wall to my right, stepped over, and paged through to the listing. Delgado Engineering—Room 807. I punched in the code and listened to the phone buzz seven floors above. As I waited for a response, the door behind me opened. A bookish-looking man stepped to the sensor, flashed his badge, and pulled on the door as the buzzer sounded. Perfect. I smiled at him and hustled in after.
The elevators were straight ahead. The car opened immediately, and we stepped inside.
“What floor?” I asked.
“Eight,” he replied.
“Me, too.” His brightly colored plaid pants and lime green polo shirt suggested either a short work day or colorblindness. “Tough day to be stuck in the office. Looks like you’d rather be on the course.”
He smiled and gave a little chuckle. A thin clump of strawberry blond hair fell over his wire-rimmed glasses, and he pushed it back over his thinning crown.
“Vacation interruptus. Just have to file a report, then I’m off to chase a little white ball, not that I’m very good at catching it.”
The doors opened, and he motioned for me to exit. Pausing to glance at the signage, I saw that 807 was just to my right. My elevator companion was already walking in that direction, his hand on the doorknob. He looked at me quizzically as I approached, but said nothing as I followed him into the office.
“Good morning, Patrick,” the receptionist said, contemplating me oddly, as if visitors were a rare event. “Sorry to drag you in here on a Saturday. Kristoff made a bloody mess of the Schiffer report. It’s on your desk. All the data formatting is off. Can’t make heads or tails of it. Of course it was supposed to have gone out last night. The big guy is screaming.”
“Don’t worry about it, Darlene. I’ll get it straightened out, but I’m getting tired of this. That kid needs to learn the software or move on to gentler pastures. I don’t care who his daddy plays nice with around here.”
Patrick nodded at me, then continued past the reception desk and down the narrow corridor. Darlene looked at me over the top of her glasses.
“What can I help you with?” she asked. Her tone told me I had better not be there to complicate her day further.
“I’m a reporter with Link-Media.” I handed her my business card. “I’m doing some background research on a story, and I was hoping to speak with someone who could answer a few questions about soil testing.”
She tugged on a small pearl that dangled from a chain around her neck as she contemplated my card.
“And you thought you’d just sashay in here, without an appointment on a Saturday, and we’d drop everything to help you out?” Her long auburn bob swayed as she scolded me.
“I was in the area, so I thought I would take a chance.” I smiled back. “If I could just ask a couple of basic questions? Then I’ll make an appointment to come back if I need more detail.”
Patrick was back, now standing behind the desk, a thick stack of papers in hand, listening to the exchange.
“I’ve never heard of Link-Media,” my inquisitor said. “Waltzing in here unannounced like this is some 60 Minutes segment ain’t going to work. If you want to interview someone, you need to have an appointment like everyone else.” She tilted her head back to her computer screen. “The boss will decide if he wants to speak with you. I’m not going out on that limb.”
I looked at Patrick and smiled hopefully, directing my plea at him. “Five minutes. I promise.”
He hesitated, then said, “My program will take about that long to cycle. We can talk until then, but if it finishes faster, I’m going to cut you off. I’m not going to miss my tee time.”
After handing the document he was holding to Darlene with a few words of instruction, he motioned for me to follow. Darlene scowled at me over her monitor.
His janitor closet of an office was at the end of the hall. My chest tightened immediately at seeing the pressing tower of books, binders, and charts that formed a chaotic mess in the small room. A tiny sliver of a window faced the brick of the building next door, adding to the gloom. Patrick flicked a light switch, giving the room the harsh glow from a fluorescent pendant overhead, then stepped over a stack of files.
We took seats at his metal desk, the brown enamel chipped and scratched with decades of use. He tapped a few keys on his PC, looked at his watch, then over to me.
“So what is it that you want to know?”
“Why don’t we start with an overview of the services your firm provides?” I had no idea what I was looking for, simply hoping that throwing out questions might spark an idea or lead me down a new path.
“Our services are very focused. As you know, we test soil. Pure and simple. Composition, chemical analysis, thermal resistance, contaminants, structure, compaction, the full gamut.”
“Are you hired by individual land owners or by commercial enterprises?”
“Both, but our emphasis is on corporate work. An individual might hire us to investigate contamination from buried oil tanks on their property, for example. Our corporate work spans a broader range. Environmental issues, of course, are a big part of the business. Regulations have changed substantially over the last fifty years, and remediation can be an enormous expense. Not that lawyers have made that any easier.”
By the tone of his voice, I suspected he’d had an unpleasant run-in with an aggressive litigator. The image of the paintbrush factory pushed into my mind, as did the falsified report that sent Nelson Ramirez to jail. Was the brush factory a toxic site?
“How are these samples obtained?”
“Each situation dictates the number of samples, the depth, and method by which we obtain them. There is no answer to that question without understanding the objective of the test.”
On the wall to the right of Patrick’s head, in a patchwork of paper pinned to the bulletin board, was a photo of a man standing against the type of truck I had seen at the factory.
“Is that the type of equipment you would use to obtain samples for environmental testing?” I nodded at the image of the truck with the monster drill.
Patrick turned his head and squinted at the wall. He got to his feet and pointed to the photo. “Are you looking at this vehicle?”
“Yes, the truck with the large drill.”
“No, that’s used for taking core samples. We use that when a client needs foundation testing.”
“Can you explain what you mean
by that?”
“In simple terms, it’s the ability of the soil to hold weight. Structural integrity to support a building of considerable size.”
“Like a high-rise?”
He looked at his computer screen and typed. “Not in this case. I’d say a commercial complex of some kind. Four-stories max.”
“I was at one of your test sites recently.” He raised a brow. “What can you tell me about testing at this address?” I scribbled the address of the paintbrush factory on a piece of paper and handed it to him.
He looked at the address, then back at me contemplating my request. After a couple keystrokes, he scrunched his eyes and said, “I don’t know what you’re getting at with these questions. The one thing I will tell you, is that we’ve been contracted to perform that same testing on three additional locations within 1000 yards of that site. So like I said, I’m thinking a complex.”
23
I slipped back into the folding chair at my dining table, a Pellegrino in my left hand and a thick falafel sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil in my right. As tahini threatened to drip down my hand, I powered up my computer, and dug into the pita before I had a soggy mess of garbanzo beans on my hands.
Who was behind the Orton Group? A couple of minutes on the Secretary of State’s website and I had the barebones basics. The LLC had been formed six months earlier. The registered agent was Gabriel Abascal with Abascal Services. It sounded like a service provider—one of those business mills that does all the filing for you, serving as a required local contact and mailing address and nothing more. There’d be no association with the business beyond an annual invoice. Completely legal, but was the service being used for convenience or camouflage? Regardless, it made it harder to track down the guys behind the scene.
I plowed on, using my full repertoire of search tricks to find out more about the business. Nothing. Not only was there nothing of substance on the purchaser, but Abascal Services seemed ignored by Google as well. Who operates a business without a web presence when any ten-year-old could design a rudimentary site?