Lies in High Places
Page 21
“Nash wasn’t the shooter. We picked him up on a tip but it wasn’t him. However, we think he knows who is. Nash runs with the Disciples. Says one of his crew has been bragging about making the hits. For all I know Nash was handing him the ammo, but he has an outstanding warrant. We’re hoping his attorney can knock some sense into him and we can get something useable.” He paused. “Andrea, he’s claiming this was a paid gig.”
I leaned back against the vinyl booth, my head swimming with thoughts.
“Michael…”
“I know. Promise me you’ll stay safe. I’ll come see you tonight.”
“Okay. Call me later.”
A text from Retley popped up. “Can you be here in an hour?”
His office was only a ten-minute walk so I agreed to meet and moved back to the call list. Nothing but voice mail or quick hang-ups once I explained who I was. As my finger hovered over the next digit, another call rang. The guy in the next booth gave me a dirty look, apparently annoyed with my temporary office. I flashed him a weak smile and looked at the screen. Link-Media. It wasn’t Erik—his name would have come up—so I took the call.
“Andrea, it’s Art Borkowski. I need to talk to you.”
Borkowski? What in the world did he want? Other than to annoy me. “I’m sure Brynn can find whatever research notes you’re looking for. Or are you working on getting her fired, too?”
The jab just tumbled out. And it felt good. Petty and childish, but I was so damn tired of condescending, arrogant men with personal agendas and egos the size of a goddamn Goodyear blimp. Well, my personal agenda was the only thing that mattered right now. Unless Borkowski had something for me, he could take a hike.
I heard him clear his throat on the other end of the line. “Okay, I deserved that,” he said, a smattering of humility in his voice. “This isn’t about Brynn. It’s about the business.” He paused, waiting for me to shut him down. When I didn’t, he continued. “I got a call from an acquaintance, a hedge fund guy I use as a source every now and then. I haven’t spoken to him in over a year, but in my Tribune days I could always count on him when I needed finance geek language translated.”
“Fascinating. Is there a point to this story?”
“I know you’re not on the payroll any longer, but you are still a co-owner, right?”
“I own a very small percentage,” I said. “What does that have to do with your friend?”
“Well, this guy starts asking about the staff. Who’s good? Is there any room to cut back on personnel? Do I see myself here long-term? I answer a few questions, just surface level. Seemed innocent enough, but then he wants to dig into numbers. Is there any fluff in expenses? Could we kill the overhead and function with freelancers? And it’s not feeling so innocent anymore.”
“And what did you say?” I asked, but my head had already gone to the phone call I’d overheard. Erik was looking for money, and this guy was a potential investor doing his homework.
“I told him I had no plans to move on, but that he should speak with Erik directly if he needed anything. Like I said, I know the guy, and he was probably counting on me for payback, but hey, that’s over the line.”
“Erik could be doing some restructuring of his loans, or your money guy could be trolling for a competitor. Doesn’t necessarily sound like anything to be concerned about,” I said, fibbing like a five-year-old. “You were right to pass him off, but why aren’t you asking Erik these questions?”
“So you’re not aware of any financial changes in the business?” he asked, being evasive, trying to feel me out before he said anymore.
I told him I wasn’t. The call I’d overheard wasn’t definitive enough to draw that conclusion with certainty, and I wasn’t about to share rumors with an employee, especially Borkowski, despite my suspicions.
Borkowski continued. “I’ll be blunt. I owe you that. I did ask Erik if there was anything going on. Didn’t tell him why I was asking. Essentially, he told me to go fuck myself. Look, I’m sorry to be the source, but according to my guy, Erik isn’t restructuring the loan, he’s selling off a percentage of the company, a big percentage. I didn’t let on with Erik that I’d heard rumors of a sale. I’ll leave that in your court if you want to push.
“Andrea, I know we never got off on the right foot. I can be a real jackass. My bullheadedness takes over and gets me in trouble. Despite how I came across, I never doubted your honesty or your commitment. I had a feeling Erik hadn’t been straight with you. Divorce makes men real pricks,” he said with regret in his voice, as if he knew this personally. “If there’s some big shakeup coming, I’d like to know. The Tribune wants me back as managing editor. I’d hate to turn it down, then find out three months later that my paychecks are bouncing.”
I thanked Borkowski for the heads-up and ended the call, my mind numb. I didn’t know how to feel other than terrified that my financial future was dangling at the edge of a cliff. I opened my email and jotted off a note to my attorney, distracted by thoughts of castration. Any naive expectations I’d originally had for a quick and easy divorce were long gone, but this stunt was a new low. I glanced at my watch, threw money on the table, and headed out.
Retley’s office was on the fourteenth floor of a 1930s high-rise on LaSalle, just south of Wacker. Tall ceilings, creaky elevator, carpet that hadn’t been cleaned since 1965. I opened the door to his suite and the smell of fumigant hit me. A cute, young thing with a silly bun on top of her head and earrings the size of pancakes greeted me. She offered me a seat, then phoned Retley. I looked around for a window, afraid my brain would get pickled if I didn’t get some fresh air into my lungs.
A door opened on the left, and Retley stuck his head out, motioning me to come back.
“Good to see you, Andrea. Interesting stuff you sent my way. I knew you’d want to see this ASAP. Don’t know what to make of it, but I guess that’s your problem, ha.” He pulled on his French cuffs and ran a hand over his slicked back hair before walking over to a large white board on the right wall covered with scribbles.
“Okay, so, what we have here are the twenty properties you inquired about. All purchased within the last five months. Plus,” he paused. “There’s another five that haven’t hit the books yet. So, twenty-five in total between them. None of the properties are worth much individually; we’re talking 125k to about 200k. Collectively it’s near the 4.3 mark.” He tapped his finger on the total, a gold chain bracelet clanked as he moved. “As I suspect you already know, it’s the sum of the parts that makes this rich. Given the proximity, I’d bet it’s a development play. But again, I imagine that’s what has you interested.”
I nodded. “Do you have any estimates on the value of that land if it were one parcel?”
“That’s tough to gauge. Parcels that size, ten minutes from the Loop, are practically unheard of. But land value would conservatively have a thirty to fifty percent premium. Which doesn’t suck, but the big money is in the redevelopment.”
Retley was confirming my assumptions. But the question still remained, what were they planning?
“Now to the dollars,” he said. “You were interested in who holds the paper. Before I get to that, some of these deals were financed, some all-cash. I was curious about that, so I sorted the data a few different ways. Turns out that the first five purchases were the all-cash deals. Maybe money got tight for some reason, maybe the plan changed, got bigger as things moved along, and they needed financing to keep going. Not sure it’s relevant, but interesting, I think.”
“Makes sense,” I said. “The original investors might have realized they had a bigger opportunity than they first thought. Needed to take it to another level. What did you learn about the mortgages?”
“Of the twenty properties being financed, we have three different financing companies involved. Two of the financing companies weren’t familiar to me. One, I’ve dealt with before.”
“If they’re spreading the debt around, I’m not sure that helps me.”
A satisfied smile crossed his face as he waited for my reaction.
“Throwing another layer over their identity, is what they’re doing. Makes it hard to track,” I said.
“Bingo. And the guys in the Caymans are happy to play. You ready for a name?”
“A name? You’ve got a name?”
“Yep. Don’t know how high up on the food chain, but I have a name.”
“And…”
“All right, I’ll stop torturing you. My contact deals with a guy named Porter Gladwyn. Mean anything to you?”
“Yes, it does.” I couldn’t hold back a smile. “Peter, you’re incredible. Call me next week. We’ll go have that dinner you’ve been asking about. I’m buying.”
33
Gladwyn. There he was again, hovering around the fringes of these real estate deals. I snaked through the pedestrian traffic on LaSalle, dodging businesspeople and tourists alike, my normal swift pace ramped up a few notches by adrenaline. Was he just the legal talent executing the strategy, or did he have a hand in pulling the strings? My gut said he wasn’t the lead. Not that attorneys weren’t a greedy lot, but this scheme was too audacious. He didn’t strike me as a man who wanted to get his hands dirty. He wouldn’t have been the idea man, but he’d execute the plan like a good soldier. There would be layers and layers between his involvement and the alpha dog. So who had hired him? Could I get at his client list? I racked my brain for names of attorneys I might have met in my previous career who’d worked for Blasik.
Wait, Janek’s former partner Matt Dubicki had been represented by Blasik, Cameron, and Lord in his corruption defense against bribery accusations. The same firm employed Gladwyn. And Dubicki now worked for a real estate developer. Could this be another connection?
As I walked the six blocks south from Rattley’s office to my meeting with Tierney, I phoned Cai.
“Hey, do you remember telling me about Janek’s partner, Matt Dubicki, being represented by Blasik, Cameron, and Lord?”
“Yeah, sure. But why should I interrupt my day to think about the competition?”
“Because I’m the one that’s asking. Is there a better reason?”
“You’ve become very needy since losing your job. I’m not sure it’s a quality I like in you.”
“Then help me get re-employed so I can stop bugging you during the day.” I laughed, nearly bowling over a woman who had stopped dead in front of me to take a selfie.
“Ready to return to the world of motions to compel and understated wardrobes? I’m happy to pass your resume around.”
“I’m not throwing in the towel yet. Dubicki. Tell me how you know he hired Blasik. Who else was on the legal team? What else do you know about the case?”
“You know I can’t talk about that. What’s this all about? You’re moving into murky territory with these questions.”
“Cai, I need a break on this story,” I pleaded. “It’s possible that one of the attorneys on Dubicki’s case might also be involved in a suspiciously large number of real estate purchases in Englewood.”
“Are you saying Dubicki is connected to these land deals or the attorney?” Her voice was hesitant, unsure of what picture I was painting.
“I don’t know, but I haven’t ruled anything out. This land is being purchased through a shell corporation, and the only name I can attach to them so far is an attorney at Blasik who has facilitated the corporate formation. At the very least, he’s also a front man on some of the mortgages.”
“The guy you asked me about? Gladwyn? I can’t imagine anyone at one of the city’s big-five firms getting taking a risk like that.”
“As far as I know, Gladwyn has simply done the filing and helped arrange financing. He may not have the big picture. He may not be aware of any connection between the land deals and the shootings. But then again, maybe he is.”
“You have some reason to be suspicious?”
“I went to see him. He shut me down the second I voiced the name of the company involved. Couldn’t get me out of his office fast enough. It’s not proof of anything, but it did set my alarm bells screeching. Now I’d love a look at his client list, but since I don’t have an inside track to anyone with that information, I’m doing the next best thing I can think of—calling you.
“Dubicki’s current employer is Mezey Development. As you know, they’re one of the largest real estate development firms in the city. And Gladwyn is representing someone buying real estate in Englewood. It’s a long shot, but what if they’re both working for Mezey? If I can establish a connection between Dubicki and Gladwyn, I may have a path to finding out who is behind the transactions. Synergistic, don’t you think?”
The line was silent as Cai struggled with her conscious. I was now standing in front of the State’s Attorney’s Office with only a minute to spare.
Cai wasn’t budging, so I wedged the phone between my shoulder and my ear, then pulled out my iPad and punched in Matt Dubicki + Mezey, hoping for a flash of brilliance to push Cai’s decision making in my direction. A fuzzy series of images flashed across the top of the screen, distracting me for a moment with something vaguely familiar. I clicked over to Google images. Staring back at me was a photo identifying Matt Dubicki, posed with a hard hat and shovel in hand, at the site of a ground breaking for a strip mall in Schaumburg. I hadn’t seen a picture of him before now but it was the same face I’d seen three times now—at Gibsons, at the community center, and in Langston’s office!
“I have to go,” I said to Cai, my mind stumbling over the implications. “I’ll call you later.”
The roles were becoming clear. If Mezey was the force behind development plans for these parcels, the company’s owner Ty Mankoff, could coordinate the project, Gladwyn could handle the real estate acquisition, and Alderman Langston could handle the zoning and get mayoral buy-in when the time came. Dubicki had the gang connections, so he could act as enforcer.
This was a goddamn org chart of coordinated greed under the pretense of business development. But where was the money coming from? Unlikely that this group alone had the millions of dollars needed to pull this off. Buying the land was simply phase one.
Could others be involved—like Nelson Ramirez, the owner of Rami Concrete? He had a history of corruption, access to cash, and was buddies with Langston. His concrete business would profit from a large-scale project. Made sense. But could I prove any of this? And I still didn’t know their endgame or a sniper fit in.
All of these thoughts swirled in my head as I passed through security and rode the elevator to Tierney’s office. I dialed Michael. My call went directly to voice mail.
As Natalie showed me into his office, Tierney was downloading instructions to an intimidated young associate with flop sweat staining the collar of his shirt. I took a seat mouthing a heartfelt thank you to her for getting me on the calendar. The young man hid his embarrassment in an averted gaze as he hustled out of the office. I remembered the feeling. It was like having your stomach turned inside out with a sledge hammer. Although I liked to think I hid it better.
Although the purpose of my meeting with Tierney was to discuss Quincy Harris’s situation, and the broader issue of deed theft in Englewood by LRM, I was also hoping to plant a few well-placed questions in Tierney’s mind about strange real estate activity. His own nose for bullshit would start connecting the deed theft with the high number of sales transaction. I
just needed to get that door open. And right now, I needed someone else doubting CPD’s explanation.
“Damn kids. Entire generation wants to pee their pants the minute they don’t get a gold star for knowing the difference between a motion and a brief. Coddled group of brats, the lot of them. You don’t have any, do you, Andrea?” Tierney asked. I shook my head. “Good, don’t.”
I sat quietly, waiting for him to finish his condemnation. I’d heard it all before. It was just part of being initiated into Tierney’s world, a world that didn’t suffer fools, failures, insecurities, or prima donnas. He took a seat and leaned back into his Eames executive chair, its espresso leather battered and worn to match his body like a vintage pair of Levi’s. He’d carted that expensive piece of furniture with him from job to job for the past twenty-five years and would likely keep it twenty-five more.
“So, why the hell are you here? Looking for a favor? You know my policies on the media. If you’ve come here to finagle some quote out of me, walk out now before I have you escorted to the curb by a couple of big, burly men. I told you when you bailed on me that there’d be no special treatment.” I couldn’t help the smile that escaped. “What the fuck is that grin for?” he asked.
“Denton, I was just thinking two things. One, I miss working for you. That no-bullshit style of yours is in short supply out in the rest of the world. I don’t think I fully appreciated it while I worked for you.”
“And the other?” He crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed with my compliment. Probably thought I was sucking up, hoping to be reinstated.
“The other is, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen you smile.”
A huff-like laugh escaped from his throat. Although not quite a smile, it was in the vicinity enough for it to count. “You caught me off guard there.”
“You were expecting groveling. Not today, Denton. I’m not here to get on my knees and ask for a quote or a job. I’m bringing you a case.” I pulled out Quincy’s file and laid it in front of him. “I met a man recently who’s been the victim of deed theft. You know the story: hard times, lack of cash, no access to counsel. Along comes someone who claims he has the magic bullet that will make all the problems go away. Before you know it, papers are signed, and the victim doesn’t even realize he’s signed away ownership of his home. Although the ongoing mortgage and an even angrier loan department are new surprises.”