Lies in High Places

by Dana Killion

  “And if I don’t have a business address yet?”

  “To form an LLC, you need a managing agent, that’s me, with a local address. Your business can be based anywhere. As far as the requirements go, we are your business location.”

  My mind drifted to the possibilities that provided. Talk about a needle in a haystack. How was I going to learn who controlled Orton if they could hide behind a guy like Abascal?

  “Don’t let that scare you,” he said, mistaking the expression on my face. “I assure you the only authority that grants me is the ability to receive mail on your behalf. So, what do you say—can I sign you up?”

  “I understand you’re the managing agent for the Orton Group.”

  Might as well throw the question out there and see where it led. LRM Properties seemed to operate by another playbook, so I kept that out of the conversation for now.

  “Oh! Porter sent you. You should have said something. I wouldn’t have acted like such a buffoon when you walked in. He’s always sending business my way. Smart guy. Now, there’s someone who knows how to make a buck or two.”

  Porter? I replayed the name several times, drilling it into my consciousness. First name or last? I kept my face neutral. My attorney face. But something familiar pinged in my brain. Porter Gladwyn from the community meeting. Could he be representing both companies?

  “How do you know each other?” I played along, hoping to keep him talking.

  “We worked together back when I was with Blasik. He was my first client when I started up.”

  His hands flashed outward indicting the expanse of his domain, and my mind raced. Gladwyn worked at Blasik, Cameron, and Lord, the same firm that had represented Karl Janek’s ex-partner, Matt Dubicki. At Rendell’s press conference, I’d run into my cop buddy, Coogin, who’d said Dubicki now headed security for a real estate developer. Was it possible that Gladwyn was representing that same developer? I made a mental note to find out who Dubicki worked for.

  “Anyway, I’ll need about fifteen minutes of your time and we can have you up and running and officially filed.” He picked up the pen again and got ready to write. “It’ll take two to three weeks for the paperwork to come back, but it gets you started.”

  Time to make an exit before I had to face some tough questions, like my name. “I should give this a little more thought.”

  I reached across his desk and grabbed a business card, waving it in his direction as if I would call soon.

  “You’ve been quite helpful,” I said, getting to my feet as Gabriel Abascal scrambled for his sales pitch. He’d blown the close and was trying to recover, but I was out the door in four steps. Buddy, you have no idea how helpful. I now had a name I could associate with Orton, and I knew he worked at Blasik, Cameron, and Lord.

  I had a call in to Cai before hitting the landing on the second floor. “Please be at your desk,” I muttered to myself as the phone buzzed in my ear.

  “You’re not getting intimate with an EMT again, are you?”

  “One incident and you assume incurring bodily harm is a weekly event?” I laughed. “What happened to ‘Hello’? ‘How’s your day?’ Even, ‘I was just going to call you.’ You remember those classic social graces, don’t you?”

  “Honey, neither one of us is the classic type or we’d never have been friends this long. Since you’re obviously alive and your normal sassy self, what’s up?”

  “Are you at work?”

  “No, I’m at the Ritz, waiting for my hot stone massage,” Cai responded with her usual snark. “It’s 9:15 a.m. on a Monday. Where else would I be?”

  “I know you’re working. I meant are you at your desk?”

  “I am, but since you’re having a rare moment of not getting to the point, why don’t you tell me what’s got your head in the clouds and we can start over.”

  “I need you to log into Westlaw. Blasik, Cameron and Lord. Look up an associate named Porter Gladwyn.”

  “What’s the matter? Erik too cheap to pay for the service? Oh right, you don’t have access anymore.”

  “Do you have it pulled up?” I asked, hearing the flatness in my voice.

  “Geez, what happened to your sense of humor?” She sighed. “Okay, I see a Porter Gladwyn, forty-two, senior associate. Practice areas are construction, zoning, gaming, corporate, and real estate. That do it?”

  “Fabulous. Now I need a current employer for a guy named Matt Dubicki. He’s not an attorney and Google isn’t giving me what I need.” I hadn’t had an opportunity to ask Officer Coogin which real estate developer had hired Dubicki.

  I could hear a voice in the background as she typed.

  “My next appointment is here. I don’t have time to run a full background check for you.”

  “Can you get the employer before you go?” I pleaded.

  She sighed yet again. “Okay, but I expect you to tell me what this is all about. Dinner tomorrow?”

  “Sure. I’ll even pay.” I could hear the click of the keys as she searched the database.

  “Dubicki is VP of security at Mezey Development. Been with them for almost two years. I’ll let you research Mezey, although I imagine you already know the basics. I gotta run.”

  “Thanks. You’re a doll.”

  “Don’t tell anyone. Wouldn’t want to destroy my reputation.”

  As I listened to Cai click off, I could feel the warmth of a smile wash over me. A connection. A name. Porter Gladwyn was representing the company that had purchased land near the shootings. He worked for the same law firm that had represented Matt Dubicki in his corruption trial, and Dubicki worked for one of the largest real estate developers in Chicago. This just couldn’t be coincidence.

  But what did Mezey want with the land—and why hide their involvement? They had a role in nearly every significant development deal in the city and weren’t shy about shouting their accomplishments. They’d advertise on the back of a hearse if anyone would let them.

  29

  Damn! Why was there never a cab when you needed one? I flailed my arms frantically until a cab barreled across two lanes and screeched to a halt in front of me. I had called Porter Gladwyn’s office the second I ended my conversation with Cai, fabricating a story about an urgent real estate need. Having just taken a cancellation, the receptionist had plugged me in, provided I could get there in fifteen minutes. I promised the driver an extra twenty if he could get me to the Loop in ten.

  One of the largest law firms in the city, Blasik, Cameron, and Lord occupied a million square feet of office space and employed more than 350 attorneys. Enough money had gone into law school debt in this building to fund a small country. I headed inside to the security desk where I presented my ID and then was directed to the proper elevator for access to the seventy-seventh floor.

  The reception area displayed the pomp and circumstance that first-year law students dreamed of. Visions of prestige, big salaries, and the word “partner” in the job title that kept wannabe attorneys shackled to their desks in law school libraries until 2:00 a.m. It was those dreams that motivated the ones who made it through the bar exam, until the reality of one-hundred-hour work weeks hit home.

  I’d known my competitive instincts weren’t honed enough for the contact sport of litigation, choosing instead a branch of law more akin to chess. But I did know the playbook, and I understood the species.

  Gladwyn stepped toward me, hand outstretched. Close-cropped hair, toffee skin, ice-blue eyes that held me like a specimen. I stood, immediately sensing an undertow. A feeling that there was something cautionary underneath the dashing surface of his precisely chosen hand-tailored suit, Egyptian cotton two-ply shirting, and artfully folded silk jacquard pocket square.

  Five thousand dollars’ worth of wool, silk, and leather adorned his body, and he carried it like a billboard. It was hard to imagine what he and Abascal had in common.

  “Nice to meet you,” Gladwyn said. His grip on my hand held me as tightly as his eyes did. “I have a conference
room reserved. Follow me. I only have a few minutes.”

  “Thank you for squeezing me in. I’m sure your schedule is quite full.” And at eight hundred dollars an hour, he wasn’t going to be spending a lot of time on a free consultation until he knew if it were worth his while.

  As we moved down the hall of glass conference rooms, a tug of regret washed over me. Had I made a mistake leaving my position with the State’s Attorney’s Office? I tried to shake off the vulnerability of my current employment status by drawing on memories of an endless workload and victories that felt hollow.

  Gladwyn led me into a room of glass, marble, and steel. A room designed to smack you in the face with success, to justify the billing rate, and to give off the impression that if the client chooses them, they would somehow become successful, too.

  “So what can I help you with, Ms. Kellner?” Gladwyn asked as he settled into the chair across from me and dated the yellow legal pad on the table. “You indicated an interest in commercial real estate. It’s one of my areas of specialization. There is a great deal we can do to structure purchases to present the most advantageous tax scenario. Smart of you to get legal advice prior to adding real estate to your investment portfolio.”

  “That’s exactly what I came to discuss. I understand that some of your clients are investing in Englewood.” I slid a business card across the table and watched a tiny ripple of emotion cross his eyes. A shift so subtle that it wouldn’t have registered to anyone who hadn’t been trained in this brand of poker. Discomfort. Interesting.

  “What is this in reference to?”

  “Perhaps we could discuss the parcel you want rezoned? He didn’t respond. “Alderman Langston’s community meeting?”

  “It’s a simple rezone. We brought it before the community out of courtesy. As I’m sure you know, this is not the type of thing that requires a community referendum. Alderman Langston is dedicated to keeping his constituents involved and aware.” A small robotic upturn of the mouth told me he’d recovered from whatever initial apprehension my agenda shift had caused. Let’s see if I could loosen that control.

  “I understand there are other parcels, beyond the one you identified, up for zoning changes. Do you care to comment?” I didn’t, in fact, know that to be true, but I had to fish with whatever bait I had available. Getting a rise out of the guy would tell me if I were in the right pond.

  “I’m not sure where you’re getting your information, but you’ll have to excuse me. I really don’t have time for whatever this fantasy story is you’re working on.” He picked up my business card again, giving it another look. “And quite frankly, I didn’t think sending in reporters under false pretenses was a tactic Link-Media endorsed. You’ll have to excuse me.”

  He got to his feet. But I wasn’t quite done with him.

  “I’m aware that you’ve done some work with the Orton Group. Did that work include real estate transactions in Englewood?”

  “I have no comment.” He snatched up his legal pad and stepped toward the door.

  “I understand that you can’t discuss clients,” I said, adjusting my approach. “Tell me in generic terms what you can do for a company. Tax abatements? Support from the city perhaps?”

  “I’ll need you to leave now.” His voice was modulated in that ice-under-the-surface attorney tone that got played heavily in my own toolbox. He swung open the glass door and stepped into the hallway, waiting for me to follow.

  Got it. Meeting over. Don’t let the door slam you in the ass when you leave.

  “Thank you for your time.” Waste of time, more accurately. But I had gotten under his skin, and that meant something.

  I trotted out behind him as he zoomed off to his next appointment. Despite his pace, he kept glancing back to make sure I hadn’t stopped to go exploring, only relaxing once the hallway branched back to the reception area. I hadn’t expected him to be a pushover, but the total stonewalling was an interesting response.

  As I stepped out of reception toward the elevator, my phone rang. Michael.

  “Can you meet me tonight?”

  “Sure. What’s up? You sound frazzled.”

  “I wanted you to hear this from me. There’s been another shooting. We need to talk.”

  30

  The tap, tap, tap of my heels on the polished marble floor of City Hall echoed louder and louder in my head as I marched down the central lobby. Each click was a reminder that time was pressing on me, that CPD had the wrong man and the shooter was still out there. The elegant neoclassical arches and barrel vaulted ceilings of the stately 1911 building normally fascinated me, but today my thoughts were focused on images of less pristine real estate. And dead bodies.

  I scrolled Link-Media’s website as I walked, bringing myself up to speed on the details of the morning shooting. One man, thirty-five, dead from a gunshot wound to the head at 9:55 this morning on the same northbound stretch of the Dan Ryan. If I had screamed louder, pleaded harder with Michael, would the man be dead? My stomach twisted. I should have done more. I should have made Michael listen to me somehow.

  Borkowski’s byline tugged at me for a fraction of a second, but this wasn’t the time for petty insecurity. I had to connect the shootings to the real estate before there was another victim. It wasn’t just about me anymore. I couldn’t let anyone else die. I’d lived with the guilt of Damon Wilkins suicide. I couldn’t live with more blood on my hands. My phone felt heavy in my hand, tempting me to text Michael, but he would be knee-deep in the investigation. He’d call when he could. But finally I had his attention, though it had come at a cost.

  City Hall was home to the fifty Chicago aldermen, and considered by many to be one of the biggest white-collar crime scenes in the city. Statistically, Chicago was one of the most corrupt cities in the country, with a legacy extending long before its Mob heyday. Malfeasance was the juice that historically ran this city.

  After consulting with the officer at the information desk, I joined the fray of people at the elevator bank and crept up to the eleventh floor, home of Alderman Anthony Langston’s office. Michael’s words bounced around in my head. Another victim. My heart was heavy with the news. Was the suspect CPD had in custody the wrong man? Or did the shooter have an accomplice?

  I pushed my way through the opaque glass door and found myself in a waiting room lined with convention hall chairs and Chicago propaganda posters. A construction-type sitting on the right eyed me from head to hips as if I were a Chicago Red Hot on game day at Wrigley Field. I stepped past him to the receptionist before I had to watch him drool.

  “Good morning. I’m Andrea Kellner, Link-Media,” I said, laying a business card on the counter. Stretching the truth on my employment status wasn’t going to work much longer, but for now I intended to keep the lie going as long as I could. “Is there someone I can speak to about development plans for a parcel in the alderman’s ward?”

  She stared back at me with a plastic smile and flat eyes. Years of public service to a constituency that was never satisfied could do that.

  “Someone will be with you shortly. Please take a seat.”

  Her gray ringlets bounced slightly against her ample ebony cheeks as she spoke, but that was the only sign of life. I thanked her and settled into the last open chair. Lucky me, I was going to be able to watch Joe the Builder slobber after all.

  I fished in my bag for my phone and distracted myself with email while I waited, occasionally looking up to watch the slice of humanity that pressed itself up against the gatekeeper. Most needed to be directed to yet another office, to yet another line, to yet another jaded government worker.

  Forty-five minutes in and my patience was shot. The ripped plastic on my chair was scraping my back, and I hadn’t eaten anything since an uninspired Caesar salad last night.

  “Excuse me, is Alderman Langston available? Perhaps I could speak with him directly. Given the tragic recent shootings in the Twentieth Ward, I’m sure he’d like the chance to comment.”


  “I’m sorry, the alderman is unavailable.” The corners of her mouth lifted slightly, but the rest was frozen in place. “I’m sure someone will be out shortly.”

  An automatic response. The gatekeeper wasn’t budging. I returned to my uncomfortable throne and pushed aside my annoyance.

  “Ms. Kellner?”

  I looked up to see a tall young man standing next to the reception desk. He was fidgeting like a four-year-old who needed the toilet. His arms were inches too long for the sleeves of the navy blazer he wore, as if he were sprouting up so fast it didn’t pay to shop. The pumpkin-colored locks surrounding his earnest, freckled white face screamed “intern.” I wondered whose kid he was. They sure hadn’t pulled this one from the ward.

  I picked up my bag and followed him around the corner to a cramped hallway of a room, grateful to be moving. Four desks, seven people, and an assembly line of postcards being stickered and stamped. Howdy Doody led me to a chair out of the fray.

  “I understand you have some questions about real estate in the Twentieth. How can I help?” he asked after settling into the chair next to mine, our knees nearly touching.

  This kid, who belonged in an acne commercial, was supposed to be my source?

  “Excuse me, but is Alderman Langston available?”

  “Not at the moment, but I’m sure I can help. We have several wonderful brochures that explain our various housing programs. Was there a specific program you were interested in?”

  He reached over and grabbed a pamphlet, flashing his Crest-strip smile as he handed it to me.

  “Jim,” I said, pulling from the pin on his lapel. “Is this your first summer with the alderman?”

  “It is and what an opportunity. I’m majoring in poli-sci at the University of Chicago and hope to represent the great city of Chicago myself someday.”

  Yep, I’d been shuffled off on an intern.

  “The questions I have go a little deeper than a pamphlet can cover. I’d really like to speak with the alderman or someone who’s a bit more conversant about future development in the ward.” I flashed him a big-sister smile to see where playing nice would get me.