by KJ Kalis
The next week was filled with calls from Marlowe, who was freaked out about a schedule change. That’s when Paulie’s idea started to grow inside Vince. The swipes of a couple of thousand dollars here and there to cover his personal expenses started to grow. Because the company had been started by Marlowe, most everything was in her name, but he needed more – all of the money for the project in order to meet his own career goals. There was one catch, though. He needed to be completely insulated from whatever happened to the Lakeview project in order to make his plan work.
Three weeks later, a quick call to his attorney confirmed what he needed to know, “The only exposure you have on this project is on the loan and through your partnership agreement. If you can get Marlowe to sign those away, then you’ll be free and clear. You can move on with other projects. Think you can get her to agree to that?”
“Sure. How quickly can you get the paperwork done?”
“Well, I was supposed to be in court this afternoon, but the case got continued. I can probably have that ready for you by the end of the day if that’ll work. Just make sure you explain to Marlowe what she’s signing. Once she puts ink on paper, the project and the loan are all her responsibility.”
“Of course.” Vince had no intention of telling her what the paperwork was for. He was always asking her to sign things. She never looked and she never asked. She trusted him. That was her first mistake. He was hoping he could get her to make one more.
By two o’clock that afternoon, Vince had the paperwork in his hands. He knew Marlowe was at the office, pouring over design details for the top floor. That had been her most recent, and annoying, obsession. She’d spent an entire morning going back and forth between four different shades of white. They were all so close in color that Vince couldn’t tell them apart. Who cared anyways?
When he got to the office, Marlowe was bent over a table, staring at blueprints that had been laid out. Her tangle of curly hair was mounded up on top of her head, a pencil stuck behind her ear. Occasionally, she’d pull it out and then make a couple of notes on the plans. As he walked into the office, she looked up, “Oh good. I’m glad you’re here. I’m really worried about where the bathrooms are situated. I’m thinking that maybe we need to move all the plumbing to give us more square footage.”
Vince scowled. Moving all the plumbing in a thirty-floor office building would cost millions of dollars. Millions above what they had already budgeted. The plans had already been approved by the city. Making that change just didn’t make sense. Any misgivings he’d had about having Marlowe sign the paperwork evaporated, “Well, we can certainly look into it. We're going to run way over budget if you ask to have every single bathroom moved on every single floor. “
Marlowe stood up and started to pace, ending up in front of the windows with her arms folded across her chest, “I know. I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal and is probably not a good idea, but I just want the project to be right.”
“Come over here for a minute. I have a couple of things for you to sign.”
With a harumph, Marlowe walked toward him, “What’s this for?”
Vince’s stomach tightened. He had buried the legal paperwork, just the signature pages, in a couple of different places within a pile of other things that needed to be signed. The question was, would Marlowe want to stop and look at what he had put in front of her? He was banking on the fact that she never did. He needed his luck to hold out, just one more time. “Just a couple of invoices and a couple of estimates. There is one thing from the bank that lets them pay the property taxes and another thing from the attorney to let the partnership start interviewing anchor tenants.” The last comment was a flat out lie. There was nothing in their partnership agreement that would prevent Vince as one of the business partners from going out and renting space to someone.
Vince put the stack of papers on top of the blueprints, swallowing hard, hoping that Marlowe would be so distracted by what she’d been working on that she would sign and get back to the prints. Chewing the inside of his lip, he watched as she scrawled her signature on every single page, without even looking, just using her thumb to curl the base of the page up to get to the next line to sign. As she handed the stack back to Vince, he sat down in a chair nearby and silently looked through each page, paying particular attention to the ones that his attorney had given him. He wasn’t sure he would get another chance to get her to sign her life away.
A small smile crept across his face as Vince realized Marlowe had signed all of the paperwork he needed — even the papers that took him off the partnership and removed him from the loan. “Hey, listen,” he said, making a show of pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, “I gotta go. I’m late for a meeting with the roofing contractor.”
She stared, giving him a deer in the headlights look, “You need to tell him that the northwest corner of the building leaks. We need to get that fixed so we can get drywall in.”
“Will do. See you later.” Vince picked up his suit coat and the sheaf of papers, sticking them in a file folder. He left Marlowe staring at the blueprints on the table. Vince had no intention of meeting with the roofing contractor, no intention of telling him about the leak that Marlowe had mentioned, and no intention of doing anything other than going directly to his attorney’s office, where he would turn over the paperwork so he could get it filed that day.
That night, after getting a call from his attorney at four-thirty that the papers had already been filed and stamped by the clerk and celebrating with Paulie and the boys at the bar, Vince walked in the door of his apartment building, realizing that it might not be long before Marlowe figured out he was off of the project. He needed to make a move and make one fast. There were no lights on in his apartment, just the glow from the streetlights outside, as he opened the lid to his laptop. A few keystrokes later, he was into their loan account, where he quickly set up draws for several hundred thousand dollars each, a couple of a day over the next week or so. He tagged them all with invoice numbers and subcontractor names but sent the funds to his own account. Opening up another tab, he logged into his business banking account and set up transfers to send the money he was scraping off the Lakeview project to an account in the Cayman Islands. Not traceable, not accessible by federal authorities, Marlowe, or anyone else. Later on, he’d open a new business account and transfer them back. He leaned back in the chair, lifting his arms and knitting his fingers together behind his head. That was his seed money, he thought, staring out the window, the orange glow of the streetlight bathing everything in the area in long shadows.
Vince stood up and started to pace, the ideas coming faster than he could grasp them. He could just retire, he realized. If he managed to pull the majority of what was left out of the account, which was nearly twenty million, he’d never have to work another day in his life if he didn’t want to. And, with the money in the Caymans, he could easily fly down there, buy a small house on the water and spend his days snorkeling and eating conch fritters.
Or he could get back into the game the way he wanted to. He did some quick calculations. It wouldn’t take long for the Lakeview project to go bankrupt. If he could get another investor or two — people who understood the business of commercial real estate way better than Marlowe — he could sweep in like a knight in shining armor and rescue the project, the very project he stole the money from in the first place. No one would ever know. Marlowe was responsible for all of the funds and she’d signed all of the invoices. He felt a tingle run through his body. Once the Lakeview project held by Marlowe’s company went bankrupt, the bank would want to offload the project, probably for pennies on the dollar. Instead of having to spend ten million to purchase the building like the first time they bought it, Vince might be able to get it for three, or even five. With a new investor, they could put thirty or forty million into it and make it the showpiece that he knew the Lakeview could be. The best part? He’d make money on the project twice with no one the wiser.
Vince was close to meeting his second goal that night as he stared at the balance in the Olivas Land Trust account. He could feel it. The nearly twenty million he’d managed to scrape out of the Lakeview office project had grown with interest. It was now more than twenty-one million and had only been sitting in the bank for a few months. From what he’d heard on the street, the city was getting tired of waiting for Marlowe to figure out if she could get more funding. She’d gone begging and crying to nearly every investor in the city looking for someone to rescue her. With her poor handling of the project on the front end, no one was interested in funding the Lakeview again, especially not to her.
As Vince headed to the shower, feeling a little better now that the aspirin had kicked in, he knew he had a busy afternoon ahead of him. He was going to stop at the city inspector’s office to find out the status on Lakeview, try to catch up with Adam Rossiter at his office, and meet with his lawyer. There was no time for a hangover. Not today…
10
As it got closer to dinner, Emily was still struggling with the case. Mike had been lodged in her kitchen, typing away on his computer, for hours. He didn’t have anything definitive yet, “I need a little more time,” he said, frowning at the screen. “Someone has done a really good job of hiding documents. Why? I don’t know.” It would take a little bit more time before Emily had the information she needed.
The feeling there was more going on in Marlowe’s case than Emily knew about was still nagging at her. It was like an itch she couldn’t scratch, an unsettled feeling that kept whispering in her ear. This wasn’t the first time that her gut had proven to be right. Emily’s stomach rumbled. “Listen, while you’re working, I’m going to walk down to the corner and get us something for dinner.”
“As long as it isn’t chicken, that works for me.” Mike didn’t even look up from the computer.
Emily nodded but didn’t say anything. By the way Mike was hunched over his laptop, she knew he was onto something and she didn’t want to interrupt his train of thought. There would be plenty of time to talk as soon as he finished digging into Marlowe and Vince’s background.
Sammy’s Butcher Shop was just down the street from her house, not more than about a ten-minute walk, and was not, contrary to popular opinion, owned by someone named Sammy. With the traffic and parking so challenging in Chicago, she decided to walk. It was a nice day, at least nice enough for the changing weather. Emily slipped a collar onto Miner and added a leash. Miner loved visiting Sammy’s with her.
Stepping outside, Emily noticed the afternoon had warmed up, though the gray clouds hadn’t lifted, not one bit. The way they were canopying the city, Emily wasn’t sure they would see the sun until January when the winds off the lake started to blow. Her mind drifted back to earlier that morning when she had met Marlowe. Sure, Marlowe was pale and drawn. She was upset about the situation she was in, which was understandable. Anyone who was in the position to lose their entire career, reputation and a whole lot of money would feel the same. Emily knew she had when it happened to her.
For a moment, as Emily and Miner turned the corner to head out of the residential area where she lived to the nearby strip center where Sammy’s was, Emily started to think about the day she had been arrested — the flashing lights of cruisers outside the front of her house, the cool steel of the handcuffs being fixed around her wrists, the whisper from her partner, Lou Gonzales, who offered an apology in her ear. She and Lou had been close. She hadn’t seen him since. Not that it was a surprise. There was definitely a blue barrier. Now that she was on the outside, all the relationships she had built inside the department evaporated.
The clink of silverware and glasses brought her back to the moment. She passed the open door of a coffee shop, where a busboy was filling a big brown tub with used white ceramic mugs and silverware, a table of people leaving their dishes behind. Emily turned the corner and at the front of Sammy’s Butcher Shop, turned the corner again, going in the back door. It was a tradition that started when she adopted Miner. Going to the butcher shop had become a ritual for her, just like boxing. Big Carl was always behind the counter, chuckling and laughing with the customers, while he wrapped their purchases in white butcher paper. Once she got Miner, Carl told her to come in the back door. “Don’t need any of those city health inspectors seeing a dog in the shop if you know what I mean,” he said, winking at her. “I love dogs myself. Got a mutt at home. His name is Ralphie. He loves to steal my socks.”
As Emily pushed the screen door open on the back of the butcher shop, she found Carl sitting in his office, hunched over some paperwork on his desk. He had a frown spread over his face, not his normal smiling expression. “Carl? Everything okay?”
He nodded, slowly, as though the reality of something heavy was sitting on him, “Yeah, come in, Emily.” Miner trotted behind the desk, nudging Carl’s hand. “Hey, Miner. What did you dig up today?”
Emily plopped down in the red fabric chair that was in front of Carl’s desk, picking at the frame with her fingernail. She guessed the chairs were at least thirty years old, the fabric tattered at the edges where it met the wood frame. Not that Carl would have a lot of visitors in the back office, just suppliers and occasional special guests like Miner. “You don’t look yourself, what’s going on?” Emily said, dropping Miner’s leash so the dog could wander in the office.
“Just got a letter from my landlord. Looks like he’s raising the rent. With these numbers, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stay in business.” A scowl formed on his face, “They are raising my rent by half again as much as I pay.”
Emily knew the building that Carl’s shop was in. It was an older building, probably built in the 1960s, red brick on the outside, two stories. There were a few apartments above the shops in the building. She knew Carl didn’t live there — he lived further out of the city. “Did this come out of nowhere?”
“Just got the letter right now. It was in today’s mail. They are giving me thirty days to tell them what I want to do.”
Emily knew a little about the real estate game in Chicago. Her ex-father-in-law, Anthony Tizzano, had holdings all over the city. Nothing big, not like the skyscrapers that Marlowe and Vince were involved with, but lots of small properties. It was one of the ways that the family he controlled made their income. “Who owns this building, Carl?” Emily asked.
“The Donato family.”
Emily had heard the name before, whispered at dinner between her ex-husband and his father. She didn’t know much about the Mafia in Chicago. Since its heyday in the 1950s, much of their operations had gone underground. Many of them had become legitimate business owners, walking away from prostitution and drugs. Others had not, preferring to maintain fronts to help them cover their not-so-legitimate activities on the backend. Emily didn’t know much about what the Tizzano’s were involved in. Luca and his dad had kept their business activities away from her while they were married, and her work in cold cases didn’t focus on unsolved Mafia murders. Those were handled by the Organized Crime Unit, which was completely separate from the Cold Case Division she worked in.
Before she could say anything else, Carl pressed his two giant hands into the desk, standing up. “Well, I know you aren’t here to hear my sad story. You’re looking for something for dinner?”
Emily nodded. She made a mental note to see what she could find out for Carl. He’d always been kind to her. Maybe there was something she could do. She bit her lip. “Yes, that’s what we’re here for. What looks good today?”
“What looks good today? What kind of question is that? Everything!” he roared.
Just like that, they had returned to their normal banter, Carl telling Emily that everything in the butcher shop was fresh and delicious, which it was. Emily laughed, grateful for the break in the heavy conversation they were having, “Of course, it is. I think over the last couple of years, I’ve tried everything you sell.”
Carl stood up behind his desk, his white apron covered in
stains from the work behind the counter. “I know what to get you. Just give me a minute.” He glanced down at Miner, who had lifted his brown eyes, his ears alerted, “And yes, something for you, too.”
As Carl lumbered out of the office, Emily stood up, grabbing the paperwork Carl had been staring at. She scanned the letter quickly, not sure if she should, but her curiosity got the better of her. It was exactly how Carl had described it. The letter, from an attorney the family had hired, said that rent hadn’t been raised in a long time and that it was now time to bring it up to market standards, whatever that meant. Emily put the letter back where she had found it, not wanting Carl to see her looking at his papers. He was a proud man. She didn’t think he’d want her to know how bad it was. Though Emily had no idea how much revenue the butcher shop generated, the figure listed in the letter sounded impossible for any small business to meet, let alone a neighborhood butcher shop. Her mind ran ahead, wondering if the family just wanted Carl out. Sometimes that happened — when people wanted to sell a property or renovate it or bring in a bigger tenant, they simply raised the rent higher than anyone could handle. She chewed the inside of her lip.
From behind her, she could hear Carl’s voice. He was laughing at something. She heard him say, “Be right back.” A second later, he returned to the office, his enormous frame taking up pretty much the entire doorway. In his hand, he held up a package, wrapped in white butcher paper. He passed it to Emily, “We made fresh Italian sausage this morning. No anise, just the way you like it.” He handed the package to her and then bent over, as best he could, to get near Miner, who had walked quickly over right in front of Carl’s black boots, sitting, waiting patiently. “And for you, young man,” Carl said, opening his fist. “A little bit of dried sausage.” He glanced at Emily, “No garlic in this one. I read that’s not good for dogs.”
As Miner greedily gobbled down the little pieces of sausage, Emily stood up, holding the package of meat for their dinner. “Thanks for this,” she said, picking up the end of Miner’s leash. “You’ll put this on my tab?”