by Dana Killion
After another half hour and another fifteen checks of the phone, I finally decided the guy was a no-show. If he was trying to test my patience, he’d won. It was nearly 8:00 p.m. I was tired and hungry, and my shoes were meant for dating, not stalking. I should have called Lao Tse Chen and had food delivered to my corner forty-five minutes ago. I sent Cai a text that the meet had been a bust, I was fine, and I’d call her when I got home. I took one more look at the busy sidewalks, then turned and headed west on Cermak toward my car.
I rounded the corner at Archer, bypassing the opportunity for takeout. Surely there were some salad fixings in the fridge I could throw together before a hot bath, a trashy novel, and an early bedtime.
A man dashed across the street in front of me as I reached my car. Wait, a Cubs hat? Was this the same guy I’d seen at Nico?
I flung myself into my car and tapped the lock. My heart pounding, I watched as he disappeared into a dumpling shop. I was letting paranoia get the better of me. I closed my eyes and let out a breath, feeling my body relax. When I opened my eyes, I noticed a flyer had been tucked under my windshield blocking my view. Probably a menu for a new restaurant with a shoestring marketing budget. I opened the door and tugged it out, tossing the flyer on top of my bag. A hand-written note scrawled on the back caught my eye, and I plucked the paper back.
“Pull back the layers. Expose the lies. Who stands to profit? Who sits on the side? I know who they are!”
Sgnt1764 had been here at my car. I swung around, scrutinizing every person on the street. Was he watching me now? Why hadn’t he identified himself? What did this mean? I flipped over the flyer. It was a notice for a community meeting. Alderman Langston’s meeting. Tonight, starting in two minutes. I shoved the car in gear and flew.
25
Cars lined the street around St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. Finding a spot two blocks south, I parked and scurried into the community center nearly fifteen minutes into the meeting. Had I missed whatever Sgnt1764 had wanted me to see? Why the games? Was there a reason I had needed to stand on a street corner in Chinatown for an hour?
Windows glowed in the waning light of the evening, and I could hear a man’s voice, loud and commanding, resonating through the open windows. I gently opened the doors, careful not to let it slam shut, and tiptoed in. The large central room that had been filled with children when I met with Father Brogan earlier in the week was now a sea of folding chairs. The small tables and toys and easels had been pushed to the side. Thirty, maybe forty adults sat with their backs to me. Some were slumped in their chairs like high school kids listening to a lecture on ancient Greece, others tried to distract young children they’d dragged along, and an eager handful listened with rapt attention.
Alderman Anthony Langston stood at the front of the room. His makeshift dais was a portable wood podium stacked on top of a folding table, with a microphone at his side. He hunched over it awkwardly, the height too low to stand, too tall to sit, as he attempted to pacify a resident angry over the recent addition of parking meters to the street in front of his apartment. Surely that wasn’t what I was here to listen to. Two men in navy business suits sat to Langston’s left, looking every inch as out of place as I was in this room of tank tops and basketball shorts.
Langston’s complexion seemed to flare red as he spoke, as if the effort were causing all the blood to his rush to his head. With his bulbous face and equally round body, I pictured his head deflating like a balloon when he removed his tie.
I took an empty seat in the back row, hoping to be inconspicuous. Unfortunately, as one of only three white faces in the room, blending in was impossible. Father Brogan sat in the first row in front of the suits. He turned when I entered, then smiled and nodded. As the annoyed resident reiterated his belief that he should have special immunity from the new expense, I scanned the faces in attendance. Was Sgnt1764 in the room?
Was it the man in the second row, around twenty-five, small gold hoop in his ear, orange polo? Or the forty-year-old one row in front of me with the close-cropped afro with a Semper Fi tattoo on his forearm? Why was I even assuming it was a man?
I watched the group, attentive to any looks in my direction that hung on too long. I also had the opportunity to observe Langston as he smoothly steered the complaints lobbed at him into vague, meaningless political language. I hung onto every word and the unspoken messages between them. There was something I was supposed to see or learn.
Fighting impatience, I sat through conversations on parking meters, nuisance dogs, inconsistent trash pickup, and rat infestations, waiting for the bolt of lightning that would explain my presence. The last item on the meeting agenda was a discussion on a proposed zoning change for a plot of land, currently zoned residential whose new owners wanted changed to commercial. Largely a moot point—aldermen didn’t need community approval for small zoning changes. The conversation was simply an attempt to put a good face on one of Chicago’s dirty secrets—aldermanic rule resembled dictatorship more than democracy.
As Langston ran down the highlights, the two suits perked to attention. Were these guys the new owners? The request seemed straightforward. The owners of the property were requesting a change to a strict commercial zone with no housing. Langston was effervescent in his enthusiasm for the change, touting the job-creation opportunities.
Nods of approval flowed around the room, but one man stood up. He was around fifty, with a Santa Claus body and long gray hair slicked back into a braid.
“You know this ain’t no different than the last switch they pulled on us,” he said to the group. “You all forget the childcare center we got promised? Ain’t no daycare in that CVS got built instead.” He turned toward Langston. “You wanna tell us what they really goin’ to do?”
“Sir, please, I assure you there is no alternative story,” Langston said, smiling like he was talking to an elderly uncle. “Job creation is my top priority.”
“Then what they building? How many jobs they creating on a lot that ain’t half an acre? We all know that this already worked out. Why you bother talkin’ ‘bout it as if we got any say?”
Langston gestured to the well-dressed man seated immediately to his left. He stood, buttoned his suit jacket and scrutinized the residents. His stance registered control, arrogance, and a touch of superiority.
“Thank you for your questions,” he said, nodding to the speaker. “My name is Porter Gladwyn. I’m an attorney representing the parties who’ve purchased this parcel.”
An attorney? The resident humphed but took his seat.
“The intent is to build an office building. The tenants are unknown at this time, as are the number of jobs they would bring in. These issues are subject to the leasing conditions at completion. But we can safely project in excess of twenty positions.”
The dialogue continued, but in typical legal fashion, Gladwyn used a lot of big words chosen to make him sound smart. After about ten minutes, Langston adjourned the meeting and citizens began to depart, some huddling to share their disappointment.
Why send an attorney to seal the deal for twenty jobs? I reached over and picked up a meeting agenda that had been left on the seat next to me. The property address was listed with the agenda item, so I grabbed my phone and pulled up a map.
Damn, my battery was almost drained.
“Hello, Andrea. This is a nice surprise.” Father Brogan was at my side along with an African American man in his mid-thirties. “I’m thrilled that you are being so thorough in your work.”
He’d assumed this was a get-to-know-the-neighbors visit. I didn’t explain further—my eyes were following the man with the dissenting voice who was speaking with another attendee.
“Your timing is fortuitous. I have someone I’d like you to meet. This is Quincy Harris—you met his nephew Jamal the other day.”
“Yes, it’s lovely to meet you. Jamal seems like a really good kid,” I said as I shook his hand, the incident at the paintbrush factory fresh in my mind. I rec
ognized Jamal’s chiseled features in Quincy’s face, despite the thirty-pound difference in their weight.
“I raised him since he was ten, when his mama died. It’s been tough for us. He’s smart, does real good in school.” Quincy looked at Father Brogan, who nodded as if to say, “Go ahead.” “Father B. says you’re a reporter and a lawyer. Says maybe you could help me out.”
“What’s the issue?” I asked, still glancing occasionally at the man who had challenged the zoning, wanting to speak with him before he left.
“Well, my house got stolen.”
“Stolen?”
“See, I got a little behind on my payments. Broke my arm and couldn’t work for two months. Anyway, this man comes to my door one day. Said his company, they help people goin’ through a rough patch. Said they could take care of me, talk to the bank, get them to reduce my payments till I got square. Few days later, his boss came. Told me I wouldn’t even have to pay the late fees the bank wanted. That they help lotsa people round here. So I signed up. That was four months ago.”
“What happened from there?”
“I get home from work, and there this letter on my door. Says my house don’t belong to me. Locks been changed.”
“Did you speak with the bank?” I asked, suspecting that Quincy had been a victim of one of the insidious housing scammers who preyed on the financially desperate.
“I went right over. They say they been sending me letters ‘bout foreclosure and shit. I got ‘em but I don’t have the money to pay all at once. And then they add on all these penalties. Didn’t know what I was supposed to do.”
“They weren’t willing to adjust your loan.”
Quincy grunted and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Got told I don’t own the house no more. Some company do. Said I signed papers. I didn’t sign no papers that gave away my house. And this company ‘sposed to help me, their phone been disconnected. Didn’t help me. They robbed me.”
Father Brogan and I exchanged a glance, knowing that Quincy had likely signed away his home to a financial predator. I straightened up. My target was on the move.
“Quincy, if you could pull together copies of the paperwork you signed, any documents, notes, contact info. Whatever you have. I’d be happy to take a look.” I placed a hand on his arm and handed him my card. “Give me a call. I’ll see what I can do.”
I said goodbye to Father Brogan and Quincy, then scurried out. The man was heading west, his short legs moving at a pace that surprised me.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called after him.
He turned at my voice as I caught up with him.
“Could I speak with you a minute about your comments inside?”
He looked me up and down, eyeing me like the outsider I was. “What about?”
“I’m a journalist.” I handed him a business card and he looked at it carefully, turning toward the single streetlight. “You seem to have concerns that the developers aren’t being truthful. Why is that?”
“Developer ain’t honest. Langston ain’t honest. We seen this before. They just puttin’ on a show, think we too stupid to care. He switched up plans before. Langston already worked this all out. Done it already. No reason to talk about it like it matters. Nothin’ matters but Langston’s pockets and his friends.”
“Do you have any ideas on why they’d be secretive? Why they’d lie about their intentions for the property?”
He shifted his weight and glanced at a woman leaving the meeting before answering.
“That’s the right question, ain’t it. Guess they don’t think we’d like the truth if we heard it. Easier to apologize later. You have a good night, miss.”
He turned and I watched his back as he headed home. It was exactly the right question. I smiled. Sending an attorney was the red flag. I pulled out my phone to get back to the map, zooming in on the small screen. Come on, don’t die on me yet. Got it! The property on the agenda was on Garfield just east of Wentworth—across the street from where the shooter had been positioned in the third incident.
It was the land! It had to be tied to the shootings. I ran to my car.
Darkness was descending as I approached the plot. I parked, then stood next to the curb surveying the landscape. It was a double lot, vacant except for a small shed abutting the neighboring greystone on the eastern perimeter. Weeds grew two feet high and a scraggly buckthorn tree invaded the corner closest to Wentworth. An office building? Maybe. I looked around. The Garfield L was only 100 yards to the west, as was the Dan Ryan exit, but unless they had a wildly creative architect lined up, parking wasn’t part of the plan. To the east and across the street, a spotty mix of vacant land and more 3-flats.
A sign had been tacked to the tree. I walked to the corner hoping to get a closer look but the streetlamp was out. Steeling myself against my spider repulsion, I stepped into the overgrowth and felt my way forward, my phone lighting a path. A faded hardware store For Sale sign was on the other end. As I squinted to read the contact information, a rush of movement distracted me. Before I could turn, my body was slammed into the tree, knocking my phone from my hand and my breath from my chest.
“You aren’t very good at listening.” A male voice snarled. His hands gripped my shoulders digging into my bare flesh and pressing me into the rough bark.
I froze, knowing instantly that this was the man who’d threatened me. He must have been watching, following me from the community center. How had been so stupid to lose sight of my surroundings? Perspiration dripped down the side of my neck as I tried to come up with a plan.
“Last warning.”
With that he tossed me to the ground and disappeared.
26
An insistent pounding on my apartment door interrupted me as I poured kibble in Walter’s bowl early Sunday morning. I was still shaken from last nights’ encounter and sleep had only come in fits and starts. Walter looked up at me and yowled, impatient for his breakfast, unconcerned about my state of mind. I put the bowl on the floor and padded over, feet bare, my hair tied back, wearing only a short, strappy, silk nightgown. Please, not Lane again. I really needed to speak to the doorman about sending people up without a phone call. Michael Hewitt stood on the other side of the open door. His face was unshaven, his hair a tangle of misdirected strands. He was dressed casually, wearing jeans and a Cubs T-shirt.
“Hi,” I said, pleased to see him, but also confused about why he was here looking as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
“You’re okay?” He searched my face and ran his eyes over my body before looking past me into my apartment.
Walter mewed at my feet, rubbing his head against my ankle.
“He doesn’t like it when his breakfast routine is disturbed,” I said, scooping up the cat. “Come on in.”
I trotted back to the kitchen as my teapot hissed. Michael closed the door and followed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said. “It’s nice to see you, but why are you at my apartment at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning? Shouldn’t you be home leisurely reading the paper in your jammies?”
Michael looked around, his face a mixture of confusion and curiosity.
“You’re not answering your phone.”
“And this makes you run over here to check on me?”
“Your friend Cai called. Said you didn’t check in with her last night after sending a text that you were on your way home. She got worried, said that you were meeting some source, and that you gave her instructions to call me if something happened. So she called half an hour ago.”
Oh no! After I’d visited the property on Garfield last night, I had forgotten not only to call Cai, but also to charge my phone.
“I’m so sorry,” I said, pressing my hands to my temples, embarrassed at the concern I’d caused. “I did tell her I’d call last night but got distracted and forgot. I didn’t mean to worry her. It was nothing worth dragging you over here for.” I smiled as his shoulders relaxed. “I’m sorry I interrupted your morning. It was
very kind of you to come. Just a false alarm, I’m fine.”
“Wait a minute. You think after you scared your friend, and me, that you can get away with being evasive? No chance. Talk. What were you doing that I became the emergency backup plan? And what’s this about someone threatening you?”
I should have known being vague wasn’t going to work. I looked at him, debating my next move: continued evasion or spill all. By the look on his face, option one wouldn’t be well received.
“Fair enough. Since you came all the way over here, you deserve an explanation. Let’s at least sit down. The water is hot. Would you like a cup of tea? I don’t keep coffee in the house, I’m afraid.”
He shook his head. I dunked a tea bag, stirred in some honey, then led him over to the sofa, suddenly aware how short my nightgown was.
“Just let me plug this in and send Cai a text.”
I could read the impatience in his face. I wasn’t stalling, just needed a few minutes to figure out how deep to go. As I settled into the sofa, I could feel his eyes on me. His nearness confused me, my professional and personal needs were clashing. I pulled a cashmere throw off the back of the sofa and covering my bareness, pulling my legs up under me for good measure.
“You met with that person who emailed you, didn’t you? The poetry guy,” he said, no longer willing to wait. His professional voice was back—controlled, no hint of emotion or judgment. But I sensed the concern under the surface. Could see the change in his eyes.
“Not exactly. We arranged a meet, but he didn’t show up.” I reached for my tea, stalling as Michael’s jaw got tight. “Let me back up. I’ve been receiving emails from someone who’s suggested that he has information about the identity of the highway sniper. And that the situation is not what it seems. I, too, am convinced that other things are at play, so I asked to meet. That’s where I went last night, but he didn’t show up.”