Lies in High Places

by Dana Killion

  “Do you have any idea how fucking stupid that was?” The vehemence in his voice startled me.

  “The meet was set up for a very public location in Chinatown,” I continued, trying my best to dial down his emotion with calm logic. “I didn’t climb into a stranger’s car. I didn’t go into a building alone. If this guy knows who the sniper is, it was worth the risk.”

  “So he didn’t show, and you came home, forgetting that you had promised to check in with your friend?” The sarcasm came at me like a wave, as if my veracity were being questioned.

  “No. When I returned to my car, someone had slipped a flyer under my wiper blade.” I pushed off the throw and walked over to my purse, pulled out the flyer and handed it to Michael.

  “And?”

  “And more poetry. Look.” I pointed to the writing on the back. “The guy didn’t show, but this was his personal invitation to the meeting.”

  “And you went?”

  I nodded, watching Michael’s face as he reread the words scrawled on the page. Waiting to see the flicker of comprehension that would tell me he was drawing the same conclusion that I had.

  “All of the emails have been like this. They suggest that the shootings are not what they seem.” I could feel myself getting excited, my hesitation over pulling Michael into my world dissipating as I spoke. Was it the idea of having a partner on this investigation, or that I wanted to chip away at his veneer? “The thing about this note that’s different is one simple word. They. In his previous emails, he always said ‘I know who he is.’ Look at those words. They were chosen deliberately. So yes, you bet I went to that meeting.”

  “And was this mystery bard present?”

  “If he was, he didn’t identify himself. The meeting was routine stuff except for one agenda item, discussion about a zoning change. In any other context, it too, appeared routine. The new owner wants commercial zoning.”

  “So what’s the context that makes this important?” Michael leaned forward, elbows on his knees. I could see that I hadn’t fully convinced him.

  “Two things. The owner lawyered up. Sent a high-priced legal shark to represent him over an empty lot barely big enough to build a three-flat. I drove over after the meeting. And that lot is owned by a corporation that is buying up everything in Englewood east of the expressway.”

  I paused, watching Michael’s face as he processed what I was saying. A little Googling last night after I’d gotten home had given me Porter Gladwyn’s bio. For the life of me, I couldn’t conceive of any reason he should have been a logical choice for a piddly-ass real estate transaction…other than it wasn’t a piddly-ass deal. The owner, the Orton Group, had a plan. A big one. But who were they? People were dead. How could that have anything to do with a real estate play?

  “So let me get this straight. You’re suggesting that these shootings are occurring because someone wants to make a few bucks investing in Englewood? What? They’re killing the competition over a chunk of dirt or a shabby rental building? Do you have any idea how crazy that sounds? People die over dumb things all the time, but you’re reaching here.” His eyes softened. “Look, Andrea, I know you’re just trying to do your job, but concocting some fairy tale isn’t helpful. There is a story. The story is children, neighborhoods, being eviscerated by gangs and greed and poverty. Write about that. We’re on this. I can’t give you details, but we—”

  “What if it’s a cover? What if these assumptions about gang violence are being used, manipulated to hide another agenda?”

  The questions tumbled out. I wanted—no, needed—Michael to hear me. To consider what I was saying.

  “What agenda would that be?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I shook my head, aware that everything fell flat without a motive. “What I do know is that this company is gobbling up land in Englewood as fast as they can. A company didn’t exist six months ago, and they’re making efforts to conceal ownership. Someone wants me frightened enough to walk away. That means something.”

  My voice grew pleading and I realized how much I wanted Michael to get it, to jump on board and support my theory.

  Michael pressed me for details, his face grave with concern as I spoke. When I finished, he said, “I don’t understand how shooting people would further any kind of acquisition goal, but I do understand that your life has been threatened. That changes everything. You have to stop with this foolishness.” He stood. “If you hear from him again or you see anyone that makes you nervous, call me, call 911. I’ll help as much as I can.”

  I followed him as he walked to the door. We stood in the open doorway, eyes fixed on each other. Conscious of the closeness of our bodies, my bareness. Unsaid words hung over us, daring to escape. I leaned against the door frame, afraid that if he stayed a second longer, I’d do something foolish.

  “You can’t help if you don’t believe me,” I said softly, feeling the gulf between us.

  Michael laid his hand on my shoulder and his touch sent a flutter of desire down my body. As we stood, inches apart, he trailed a finger across my shoulder and over my clavicle as if memorizing the feel of my skin. The heat of his hand rekindled embers long cold, and I stood locked in his gaze. Seeing the longing in his face matching mine. As his finger traced the curve of my neck, his phone rang, jarring us both.

  He stepped away from me, breaking our connection and took the call. A few monosyllabic words later, he ended it. “That was Janek. We have the shooter in custody.”

  27

  “Is that what you’re wearing? First you scare me last night, now this?” Cai stood in my doorway, looking at me like I’d just come in from mowing the lawn and had dirt smeared across my face. Her silk blouse was perfectly steamed, a jacket thrown over shoulders, her Prada heels a mile high. “I know I said casual, but what is this?” Her hand fluttered up and down in disgust. “If you’re not feeling well, you could have called. It’s just brunch.”

  I shook my head, knowing I was on the verge of tears. “I’m not sick.”

  “This is, I don’t know, scrub-the-toilet attire? I can’t remember seeing you without makeup. Ever. Raggedy leggings and Erik’s old shirt? What gives?”

  I motioned her in, closing the door behind her and following her over to the sofa. Cai laid her jacket over the arm, then sat waiting for me to speak.

  If CPD had a shooter in custody, my story was done. Everything was crashing down on me. My failed marriage. Financial fears. My career gone in six months before I’d ever gotten it off the ground. Too little, too late. Everyone would have this story. An also-ran wasn’t good enough. I’d simply be regurgitating facts that were already reported. No story meant no career, and meant I’d be reduced to groveling for Tierney to take me back, my tail between my legs and failure branded on my forehead in big, bold letters.

  Frustration won out, and tears pooled in my eyes, threatening to spill. I opened my mouth to tell her about the arrest, and it all came pouring out, raw and disorderly. The pain, the fears, the defeat I felt. I let it flow, not caring about anything other than release.

  Cai sat patiently, her face a model of concern as I blathered on. At one point, she grabbed a full box of tissues out of the bathroom to help me mop up. When there was nothing left to say, I leaned back, sinking into the downy cushions. I wanted to curl up and not leave this spot for a week.

  “Are you done? Is the feeling sorry for yourself over, now that you’ve had a good cry?” She leaned in and put a hand on my knee. “Life has been shitty lately. So what. Kick it in the balls and fight back. Or are you going to let Erik win? Are you going to hide in a corner and be a girl, let the boys take this from you because it’s easier to give up than to fight?”

  I scrunched my eyes tightly closed, trying to summon Cai’s courage, trying to remember what had happened to mine. Taking a deep breath, I looked up at Cai. “When will it be over? When will I stop hurting?” I asked, my voice quavering.

  She squeezed my knee again. “When you get off your ass and take c
ontrol of the situation. When you start behaving like the strong, confident, kick-ass woman you were a year ago before the asshole you married tore your heart out. Now go take a shower, throw that ensemble in the trash, and let’s go have brunch. You need a cocktail.”

  Two mimosas and a veggie omelet later, I was back in my co-op with a substantially improved attitude. My confidence was still in the toilet, but I no longer had the urge to hide in a cave and lick my wounds for a month, thanks to Cai’s jolt to my backside. I sat on the sofa and pulled my laptop onto my knees, scrolling for coverage of the arrest. “Chicago police have arrested Lashan Nash, 31, an Army veteran and reputed member of the Gangster Disciples, for the three shooting deaths on the Dan Ryan.” Nothing about motive. Why would he do it? Was this the lone wolf Father Brogan had spoken of?

  I sent a text to Michael, doubting that he’d engage in any more detailed dialogue with me. But what the hell. Maybe Tierney would? He might be inclined to speak to me privately before the PR machine took over. Once I’d figured out how to manage his bark, we’d had a good relationship. I left a message on his cell, knowing that I was likely just one of over a hundred in the queue.

  Now what? I pushed myself up from the sofa, slipped my phone into my pocket, and headed to the terrace. Maybe deadheading the geraniums trailing over their planter boxes would provide some inspiration. I snipped the spent blooms, inhaled their fragrance, and loosened the soil as I contemplated what to do next, forcing my insecurity back into the pit of my stomach each time it took hold of my chest.

  It had to be the land.

  My cell rang as I doused the pots with water. I jabbed the trowel in the dirt and set down the can before glancing at the screen. Not a familiar number.

  “Ah, Miss Kellner?” a male voice on the other end of the phone asked. “This is Quincy. Jamal’s uncle. Father B. introduced us yesterday. You said it was okay to give you a call ‘bout my house.”

  “Yes, of course, Quincy. I remember you.” Pro-bono legal advice wasn’t where my head was at the moment, but I owed the priest. “Were you able to able to find the documents we discussed?”

  “I just sent them to your email. The one on the card you gave me.”

  “Hold on a minute while I pull them up.” I traipsed back inside, located the message, opened the attachments, and quickly scanned the documents. “Okay, I’ve got them. Now tell me in detail what your understanding was of what LRM Property Holdings was going to provide for you.”

  “Like I said, things been tough. I got a few months behind in my house payments. One day I get a call from this guy, says his company helps people like me. Helped a lot of people ‘round here. Said he can work out a plan with the bank to make my payments smaller and take away all the late fees. Help me get through this rough patch. Sounds good, right? The supervisor, he say they can cut my payments in half. So I say sure. Next thing I know, all my stuff is in the yard, an I got new locks on my door.”

  “And the representative from LRM asked you to sign some paperwork related to your agreement. Is that correct?” I clicked through the contract, honing in on the details buried deep in the pages of legal jargon, already knowing that there was little I could say that would comfort Quincy. The final page bore an unreadable scrawled signature. “Is that your signature on the final page?”

  “Yeah, I signed it, but I didn’t sign nothin’ givin’ my house away.”

  “And your bank. Were they contacted by LRM?”

  “Said no one talked to them ‘bout my payments. I got no home, but the bank, they still want their money. How I supposed to pay them? I can’t afford no lawyers. Me and Jamal stayin’ with my cousin. Sleepin’ on the damn couch. Ain’t no way to live. Ain’t right.”

  “I’m so sorry, Quincy. No, it isn’t right. In fact, it’s illegal. You’ve been a victim of a predatory real estate scheme. The document you signed does in fact transfer ownership to LRM Property Holdings, but it didn’t transfer the loan obligation. That was not the scenario presented to you. You were not given the opportunity to consult an attorney. And most important, you received no compensation for the transfer. I suspect that LRM is what’s known as a shell company, set up to hide the identity of the people behind it. It’s hard to take legal action against people you can’t identify. That’s why the phone number they gave you is disconnected. The office address is likely fake as well.”

  “So that means I’m screwed ‘cause I signed them false papers? Two of my neighbors, they signed too. So we all got played.”

  “No. You were swindled. It’s different. Companies like this target individuals in your situation. They’re playing the odds that you won’t understand the contract or won’t consult with a lawyer prior to signing the documents. You have recourse, but I have to tell you, it won’t be fast or easy to get this resolved.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that it could take years to bring this to closure and that banks were rarely empathic.

  “What am I supposed to do? Can you fix this? I still got my job. I can pay you a little bit every month.”

  “You don’t have to pay me. I’m going to contact the state’s attorney personally. I used to work for him. He’ll be very interested in taking this on, particularly if LRM is targeting your neighborhood. You mentioned that there were others. Talk to them, ask them to get in touch with me right away. I can’t make promises about the outcome, but I will get your case to the right people. Be patient and follow the legal advice you’re given. I know that’s a lot to ask, but have faith. I’ll check in with you soon. It’ll take time, but they won’t get away with it. I promise.”

  I didn’t hold out much hope that Quincy would be back in his home anytime soon. Predators like this were motivated only by cash. They’d be flipping or pulling in a renter almost immediately. Structured to obscure ownership, the shell companies were hard to break. Tierney had done it before, but the position on his priority list would dictate the resources he’d throw behind it. More victims would help. I tapped a few keys. How many layers of muck hid the ownership of LRM Property Holdings?

  I stared at the screen, a small smile forming as a familiar name glowed back at me. Abascal Services.

  28

  I pulled open the door to the four-story walk-up at the corner of Diversey and Lincoln first thing Monday morning, located my target on the short list of tenants labeled on the mailboxes, and headed up. As I climbed the stairs, Taylor Swift tune crooned at me over the hum of blow dryers from the second-floor salon. Abascal Services, the firm listed as the managing agent for the Orton Group, was nestled in the back end of the fourth floor. Its gray metal door was marked simply with an engraved plastic sign. A flotilla of Valpaks, Chinese takeout menus, and cheap oil change coupons littered the floor.

  I glanced at my watch, hoping this guy was the early-riser type. I knocked lightly and got no response, so I tested the door. Finding it unlocked, I entered.

  A man sat hunched over a small desk in front of me. A stringy ponytail bobbed along with whatever was pumping through his massive red Beats headphones. Running my eyes around the twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot space, I saw little more than his desk, a couple of file cabinets that were ready for the local salvage yard, and towering piles of manila folders fencing the room. Guess all his money had gone toward the expensive ear candy.

  I closed the door and took two steps forward before the movement caught his attention. His No. 2 pencil drumstick went flying, as did the contents of the Dunkin’ Donuts cup at his elbow.

  “Aw shit! I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, jumping to his feet and dabbing at the puddle of coffee before yanking the hardware from his ears. “What can I help you with?”

  Pink sunburned skin flushed at the collar of his blue button-down oxford, magnifying the acne that dotted his lower face. He pushed a hank of greasy brown hair behind an ear and shuffled from foot to foot as if unsure of the social requirements for the situation. I guessed walkins weren’t a usual thing.

  “Are you looking for the graphi
c designer?” he asked, assuming my appearance in his office was purely accidental. “She moved out a couple months back. Took a space in the West Loop, I think. Landlord should know. His number is downstairs by the mailboxes.” He folded himself back into his seat, content that I’d thank him and be on my way. Not so fast.

  “Are you Gabriel Abascal?”

  He nodded at me blankly.

  “And you provide business registration services? LLC formation, etc.?”

  The gears clicked in his mind as he realized he might have a live client on his hands. Pulling himself back up to his feet, he jammed an untucked hem into his jeans and extended a hand.

  “Sorry. Clients usually contact me by phone or email. You threw me off. Please have a seat.”

  He reached across the desk and pulled over a folding chair, then turned to a file drawer at his knees. I parked myself on the plastic seat and watched him tab through. Locating whatever it was that he was searching for, he pulled out a couple sheets of paper, placed them on the desk, then settled back down.

  “Okay, so you’re looking to form an LLC. Excellent choice. Cost-effective, great options for pass-through taxation, and of course, much safer for protecting your assets. So, have you decided on a name?” He grabbed a pen, ready to sign me up.

  “Give me a primer on how all this works,” I said, playing along. “You handle all the filing paperwork, right?”

  The real purpose of my unannounced visit could wait. Let the guy talk. See where assumptions could get me.

  “That’s exactly right. I’m an incorporation agent. Depending on your business structure, we can do the EIN, the LLC, any of the official stuff. Why spend your valuable time trying to understand complicated legalese when I can do it in a quarter of the time? You’ve got serious start-up work to do. Staff to hire, space to lease, marketing plans to develop. Smart businesspeople know how to use their resources. It just makes sense—time and money sense—to hire that out.”