by Dana Killion
“Oh, yes, I understand. But everyone is in a strategy meeting. It’s a busy week. I could get you on the calendar for the end of next week.”
Not good enough. I needed another tactic.
“Do you have a database of pending building permits? Or requests for zoning changes?”
“Yes, but I’m not really trained on that system.”
“Could we take a look? I’m curious about the process.” I whipped out the sister smile again and tried to nail it home.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt. I did get a demo last week, but I need a PIN number or a street address.” He swung his body over to the ancient PC on the desk and logged in.
In all likelihood, the transaction was too recent to be pegged for zoning changes or permits, but maybe my friend had the magic touch. I read off the address of the paintbrush factory as he typed.
“Nothing in the pipeline on that address,” he said.
As I read over his shoulder, trying to decipher the data on his screen, I wondered if my request was too narrow.
“The items listed on the bottom of the screen, are they properties up for zoning changes?”
“Yes. All of the requisitions are entered in this system. The PIN number, the lot size, current zoning code, the requested change, etc. You know about PIN numbers, right?” he asked. “Each parcel of land has its own Property Index Number. It’s the legal description of the land.”
I nodded. “And this is sorted by request date?”
“I can sort by any qualifiers, but yes, what you see is chronological.”
“Could you print that out for me?”
“Um, I don’t know if I should. Like I said, I haven’t been fully trained on the system,” he said, squirming in his seat.
“I just want to understand the process. A visual reference helps me remember. I wouldn’t want to be inaccurate in my article.”
He shrugged. “No harm, I guess.”
He pushed a key, and a printer on the next desk sprang to life. As he stepped over to retrieve the document, I turned toward the clamor at the far end of the room. Apparently, the strategy meeting was breaking. Alderman Langston and a handful of suits filed in.
Jim returned as I watched the group parade past the staff. Shoulders back, chests out, that special swagger men of a certain status seemed to possess. It seemed to be something handed out with club membership like tote bags. They were off to a luncheon of thick, rare, porterhouse steaks and Glenlivet neat, no doubt. A dark-haired man at the back of the pack locked eyes with me as he passed, looking like he was searching his memory for a reference. Something about him was familiar. The squareness of his jaw? The wide bridge of his nose from an old break?
“Here’s the printout,” Jim said, handing me the document. “Although the property you asked about wasn’t listed, I do see nearby parcels on the list.” He pointed to the third line down.
“And how do you know that?” I asked, searching the page for whatever commonality he was seeing.
“Anyone who owns property in Cook County knows they have a PIN number that is unique to that parcel of land. It’s on every tax bill.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“But what most people don’t know is that the numbers have meaning. The PIN is always fourteen digits. The first two numbers specify area, the next two sub-area, then three digits for the block, and three for the specific parcel on that block.”
I pulled the pages over and felt a smile wash over my face. “And looking at this, you could see that the address I asked about is on the same block as this parcel because the first seven numbers match.” What I didn’t comment on were the five other addresses that a quick glance also told me were also in the immediate area.
“Exactly. Cool, isn’t it?” he said, thrilled to be able to show off his knowledge.
“This seems to be a pretty long list. Is this an unusually high number of zoning applications?”
“Well, I don’t really know since I just started, but Doreen—she’s the supervisor who trained me—seemed to think so. Said there hadn’t been this much activity in the twelve years she’s worked for the ward.”
The group of men were moving past the reception area. My buddy who needed the nose job had turned and was still glowering in my direction as he rounded the corner. Why did this guy seem familiar? Given the look he was shooting at me, we weren’t long-lost buds.
I thanked Jim for his help and exited with my new treasure. How many of the other recent purchases were on this list? I glanced down, running over PIN numbers. I needed to map this out. Needed to see if there were consistencies in the zoning changes. The Orton Group had some grand plan for the area. But what was it?
My mind sped through the options. Greed was driving this. It was one of the words my anonymous emailer had used. The potential for profit had to be so great that nothing else mattered. Was Mezey Development—Dubicki’s employer—behind this? Were they behind the Orton Group? I shoved the documents in my bag, and searched the Mezey website as I moved past reception and out of Alderman Langston’s office.
Engrossed in the profile of Mezey’s founder, I found myself inadvertently in the center of the group of men who had just left, now clustered in the hall outside. Their chatter ended the way it did with men easily distracted by a pretty face. As they grinned their goofy grins and pretended they were gentlemen graciously allowing a lady to pass, I surveyed the faces like they were mug shots.
Langston stood in front of me, arms crossed over the round bulge of his stomach. His bloated face flushed with a web of red capillaries from nose to jowls, the way alcoholics deep into their disease presented. The rest were unknown to me. The man with the mangled nose was the only one who wasn’t looking at me like he was a fourteen-year-old boy. Instead, his gaze cut deeply.
“Alderman Langston, I’m Andrea Kellner with Link-Media.” I extended a hand, not about to waste an opportunity. “Do you have a moment? I was at your community meeting on Saturday evening.” I doubted he’d engage in a conversation with his posse around, but I might not get another chance. “I was curious about the property on Garfield up for a zoning change. I understand there’s a fair amount of real estate activity in Englewood currently. Do you have any development plans you’d care to announce?”
“So nice to see the media take note of good news now and then. Englewood has a real need for entrepreneurial office space. This project will be a great addition to our community and give our residents a much-needed resource for small business. We have a couple of dissenters who fear Englewood will discard its past and let gentrification change the flavor of the community. But they’ll come around when we see the improvement in the unemployment rate.” He laughed, but it was hollow and condescending.
“So you’re saying there is no larger-scale development that you’re prepared to announce?”
“I’m saying that this property on Garfield is one development project, an important one, but just one. It’s a toe in the water. If it’s successful, I’m sure we can count on more. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a situation to attend to. Gentlemen, go ahead. I’ll join you shortly.” With that, he stepped back into the sanctum of his office.
I nodded and walked past the men toward the elevator, aware of the eyes on my backside and, more important, the fact that conversation had not resumed. As I stepped into the car and turned my focus back to my phone, a strobe went off in my head. The guy with the nose. He was the guy outside the community center. He was the guy at Gibsons having dinner with Langston, Ramirez, and Borkowski. Now he’s attending strategy meetings with Langston? Who was this man?
31
The zoning printout, all five pages, lay spread out in front of me on the stained Formica table. My iPad, open to the Mezey Development website, sat propped up on my left, with a legal pad on my right. The chatter of the coffee shop crowd disappeared into the background as did the pedestrians who whirred by outside the window. The sweet scent of lightly crisped waffles drowning in map
le syrup, on the other hand, made it through. Feeling my blood sugar rise just from the smell, I ordered a pot of tea and a fruit salad instead.
“Interesting zoning info you emailed me.” Brynn stood table-side. The sleeves of her burgundy-striped Oxford were rolled past her elbows; a slight sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead. I had phoned her as I left Langston’s office and asked her to meet me with a parcel map and the sales data. “I’m so glad you called. Borkowski’s got me pulling statistics on concrete usage in the city over the last fifteen years. I don’t know which of us is going to slit our wrists first. Me because of the drudgery, or him because he’s tired of my bitching about it,” she said, sliding into the booth.
I flagged our waitress.
“A large coffee, actually, make it two, and a Reuben sandwich, heavy on the fries,” she said to the server. “I know it’s only eleven-thirty, but this is my only shot at food,” Brynn said, as the woman left.
“I said I was buying. The German chocolate cake looks pretty decadent if the sandwich doesn’t fill you up.” Looking at the tiny bowl of overripe bananas slices and dried out grapefruit in front of me, I might be fighting Brynn for her French fries.
A sly smile crossed Brynn’s face as she pulled a file out of her backpack and laid it on a clear corner of the table.
“I took the lists you photographed from the zoning department and cross-referenced them against the list of properties sold over the last six months. I think I’ve got everything. Your photos were pretty clear.” She opened the file and tapped on the papers to show me her spreadsheet. “Then I loaded the data into a parcel map.” She pulled out two printouts gridded off to show property boundaries. “See these?” she asked, handing me a map and pointing at a cluster of red dots on the east side of the Dan Ryan. “All of the properties with dots are owned by Orton. And all either currently have, or have submitted a request for a zoning change to C3-3.”
“All of them?” I had anticipated some correlation, but this was an all-out assault. And an aggressive one.
“Just about anything on Wentworth was already C3 commercial. Some needed a minor adjustment from C3-2 to C3-3. It’s primarily the residential property to the east where the big changes are occurring. So what’s going on? This is a lot of real estate.”
“There are probably more. I have an MLS printout of active and pending properties, so I expect more in the pipeline soon,” I said, wondering how many parcels were in their crosshairs. “And this map doesn’t include parcels owned by LRM.”
“LRM? Who are they?”
“A property company that’s scamming people in Englewood out of their homes. Another shell company, but they might be connected to whatever Orton is doing.”
Brynn took a long draw of her coffee and stared at the map.
“Do you know what parcels they own?”
“Not yet.” I picked up a red pen and dotted Quincy’s address. “I just learned of this scam. Only one address confirmed. I’m expecting to hear from two others. I’ve got a call in to Tierney. I want to see if there’s anything on his radar yet.”
“The way the properties are clustered, it’s clear these are targeted buys. So what do they want to build?” Brynn’s mile-high sandwich had arrived, and she bit into the crispy toasted rye. Russian dressing dripped down her chin as she waited for me to answer.
“I don’t know yet. Based on the parcel map, the potential here is for about ten acres of contiguous land before big obstacles, like the Norfolk Southern rail yard, slow them down. And it appears Orton’s already acquired forty percent of that. There’s an L stop at Garfield and at 63rd as well as highway access, so easy in and out,” I said, trying to figure out the opportunities the location provided. I stared at the parcel map, moved the papers around like they were pieces to a puzzle, hoping that when arranged just right, I would see a clear path to follow. But it wasn’t fitting. I couldn’t see the picture yet.
“How could the real estate transactions be connected to the shootings?”
“I can’t prove they are, but greed makes it possible to imagine anything. I need to find out what’s motivating these sales. Hard to imagine that Langston is in the dark on a development project.”
“Here’s a thought. Could there be holdouts who are putting a damper on the project? People who don’t want to sell. Maybe key pieces are contentious so he doesn’t want to go public.”
“That’s possible.” I nodded. “Controlling the land would be key to getting a substantial development off the ground.”
“Would the Mayor’s Office would be aware of a project like that?”
“The developer would start with Langston. Without the alderman’s buy-in, or payoff, the project would be dead in the water. But after that, yes, the next level is the Mayor’s Office. They would partner in anything this big eventually. For some reason, they’re not talking yet. Maybe they don’t own enough land for Langston to feel he can sell the project, and he’s keeping it close to the vest until then. I hit him up about development this morning, but he’s playing dumb.”
“It might be interesting to speak with other property owners. See if anyone’s been approaching them.”
“Good idea. Let’s divvy up the list. And I want to start talking to anyone hoping to sell as well.” Brynn nodded as her jaw worked over the corned beef. I grabbed the plot map and divided the area into two segments. “We’ll have to do look-ups by address, so it’ll be a bit tedious. You take the southern half of the area, I’ll take the north.”
“Could they be building a convention center?” Brynn asked.
“I doubt it. McCormick Place is only a few miles away.”
“Housing?”
“Given the size of the parcel that make sense, but the developer would need planned development zoning, PD instead of C3-3, commercial. In this area, housing would have to be low-to-middle income and the Mayor’s Office would want the victory dance. A large-scale development plan would certainly have city support.” I said, thinking through how that could play out. “So why keep the project hush-hush? The city has to be involved in any PD approval. Maybe the developer can’t push for planned development zoning until they own a bigger percentage of the land needed. It wouldn’t be the first time entrenched homeowners upended a construction schedule. The developers might not want to start the buzz until a few more deals have been cut.” I stared at the map. “This would also be a great location for some kind of entertainment complex or concert venue—size, access, cheap property. Rendell would give up a kidney for a feather like that in his cap before the next election season.”
“Well, unless you need anything else, I’ll let you decompress. Give me a buzz later, and we can compare notes. While you’re here, take out your frustration on a piece of cheesecake or something,” Brynn said.
“You think a sugar coma is going to help?”
Brynn laughed. “Can’t hurt, can it? I’ll talk to you later this afternoon.”
Settling into my makeshift office, I passed on the cheesecake, ordered a chef salad to round out the wimpy fruit salad, then sent Michael a text asking when we could talk.
Buried somewhere in my contact list was the name of a real estate attorney, Peter Retley, I’d met a few years ago. He called regularly, hoping he could get me into bed regardless of my marital status. Not what I had in mind, but he could order encumbrance reports. If there were mortgages involved in the Orton purchases, I’d have a money trail back to the owners. I made the call, explained what I needed, dodged committing to a meet-up, then emailed him a list of the properties after we hung up. And prayed that the limits of how far I was willing to go for a story weren’t about to be tested.
32
I sat in the coffee shop long after Brynn had left, still staring at the map. The scale of this project meant money, serious money. If I was right and the shootings were tied to the real estate, the profit had to be massive. But what did killing accomplish?
Langston had to know the endgame. It was impossible fo
r him to be in the dark, given the zoning requests. So if this was all legitimate, why wasn’t he talking?
Although not up for re-election this term, Langston had never been shy in front of the media. If there were a deal even halfway close to being wrapped, he’d be getting his mug out in front of any fool with a phone and a Facebook account—that meant the deal wasn’t sealed or didn’t have the proper momentum yet. Or maybe there was be something to be gained by keeping quiet until it was too late for anyone to muck up the plans.
I made another call to Tierney, this time going straight to his executive assistant, Natalie. Unless he wanted to be totally off the grid, she’d be able to get me in to see him. A couple of well-placed questions about her three kids and within minutes I had half an hour on his calendar later today.
Gladwyn was the connector. But did he know the grand plan? Or was he simply executing and not bothering to ask questions? At the very least, I might be able to get a name out of him. If I knew who had hired him, I was another layer closer to identifying the structure that made up Orton and LRM.
Moving back to the list of property owners I began the tedious work of matching properties with contact information. Nearly two dozen calls later, all I had to show for my time was one elderly sounding man who went on a tirade about a door-to-door salesman offering to buy his house. He didn’t remember any names and I couldn’t tell what upset him more, the pushiness of the guy or that his nap had been interrupted.
I was about to punch in the next number on my list when my phoned beeped another call.
“Are you okay?” Michael said when I answered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner.”
“It’s good to hear your voice,” I said, feeling myself relax. “I’m fine, just anxious to know what’s happening.”
“We had the wrong guy.” I heard Michael sigh. “We off the record?”
“You forget I’m unemployed.”