“Another corrupt alderman? Really, Andrea? Why are you even bothering with that story? Our city motto should be ‘Pay to play. That’s the Chicago Way’”.
Brynn Campbell stood on the opposite side of my desk scowling in disgust the way only a not-yet-jaded twenty-something could. She’d been my assistant at Link-Media for almost a year and a half, after graduating from Northwestern University with degrees in journalism and computer science. Initially, I’d brought her on as an intern but quickly found her research skills indispensable and made her a permanent part of the team. As far as I was concerned, she was my secret weapon fact-finding reporter assistant ninja, even if I was occasionally reminded of her fresh-out-of-college idealism.
Idealism. That was a trait I’d lost back in sixth grade.
“I get a kick out of watching these mini-mayors implode,” I shot back. “Who knows, maybe this time we’ll all be shocked and I’ll find out that the latest no-bid city contract didn’t involve massive pocket-lining. But that wouldn’t be a lead story, would it?”
“No, but someone doing the right thing for a change would be a nice surprise. Isn’t there a genetic test or something for tendencies toward lying that would keep these self-involved, greedy pricks out of office?”
“I think it’s called an election.”
Brynn let out a roar of laughter before we reviewed the task list I’d compiled for her. Total campaign donations from Impact Soundproofing to Alderman Dominic Flores, estimates on the average cost of home soundproofing from other companies excluded from the bidding process, the number of homes near Midway Airport that had been identified as part of the target group—in other words, the background fact-based data that Brynn loved to gather and that would corroborate the extent of the corruption. My job was the people and the color.
We wrapped up our touch base, and Brynn returned to her desk while I turned back to my computer screen to flesh out the story as I knew it this early in my investigation. It had started with an anonymous tip, a phone message in the middle of the night left on my work voicemail. A cowardly competitor no doubt hoping for revenge mixed with an opportunity to knock Impact off their pedestal and worm their way into sloppy seconds with the alderman.
Anonymous sources were the bane of a journalist’s existence, but who was I to argue with information if it panned out, even if the caller had a personal motive. Eventually it all came out in the wash. First step was to make sure I wasn’t being played.
I’d inherited the digital media company more than year ago, after my estranged husband died in a scandal of his own that had also nearly taken my life. I hadn’t been ready for the role of owner, let alone the role of widow or divorcée or whatever I was supposed to be calling myself. Hell, calling myself a journalist had barely been a comfortable handle when he died. Needing time and space to process the events that had turned my life upside down, I’d promoted a coworker, Art Borkowski, to managing director, and settled into my primary role as journalist.
It was a delicate and at times uneasy dance that Borkowski and I played—owner, boss, employee, reporter. We were figuring it out as we went along, testing boundaries and loyalty, as well as our own egos, in the process. It didn’t help that certain members of my board of directors didn’t think I had the balls or the background to pull off dual roles. At times I wasn’t sure myself, but I wasn’t going to admit it to any of them. After a near coup a few months back, we were now on steadier ground, but the relationship was one screw-up away from mutiny or massive legal bills.
I logged in to LexisNexis and started poking around for any threads that might show a connection between Impact Soundproofing and Flores. There had to be a cousin or a sibling or a drinking buddy between them. My phone rang as I jotted down names to check out.
Lane? Why was my sister calling?
“Hey, Andrea. Can you hear me? The cell service at my hotel sucks, so call me back if we get cut off. I’ve been walking around the resort with my phone in the air looking for a spot with more than one bar for fifteen minutes.”
“Yeah, I can hear you fine, but I’m confused as to why you’d interrupt your Cabo jaunt to check in with me.” I felt my stomach clench as I listened to the faint beat of Calypso music and waited for the ask. Lane never called just to chat. And if she was reaching out from Mexico during her annual Realtors convention, my gut was warning me I wouldn’t like what was coming next.
“Oh, thanks, my flight was fine and the weather is a balmy eighty-five degrees. Thanks for asking. Jeez, Andrea, maybe you should be the one taking a vacation?”
“Come on, Lane. I’m at work, remember. Did you call to discuss our sisterly relationship, or did you need something?”
Lane always needed something. Money, a favor, a new guy who wasn’t a jerk this time…
“Well, excuse me, I’ll stop wasting your precious time and cut to the chase. Clearly you’re in one of your moods. I need you to go pick up a deed for me.”
“You need me to get you a deed? What? Don’t you have an assistant who can do that?”
“Everybody’s down here. All you have to do is run over and pick it up. It’s no big deal. I bought this investment property at auction, and the contractor needs to get in. He can’t do that until I have the deed in hand. I was going to let it wait until I got back next week, but the contractor called. He has an early opening and wants to start demo right away. If I lose this slot, he’ll go on to another job. It’ll be three weeks at least before he can get the crew back over.”
“Fine,” I said, regretting that I’d picked up the phone. “Where do I have to go?”
Even as I said the words, heard myself agree to another in a long list of favors, my stomach knotted. Boundaries were a problem in this relationship, and I’d just contributed to the problem, again. Lane had nearly died last year from a contaminated sports drink, and despite my determination not to let her run all over me, guilt had been winning out.
“Great! I’ll text you the address. They’re in the Loop. But they close at 4:30. And can you go over to the house and see how much stuff was left? This was one of those take-it-or-leave-it foreclosure auctions, so I might need to get the junk hauler guys in first. Thanks. I owe you one.”
The beep-beep of the dropped call bounced in my ear. I closed my mouth and tossed my phone back on my desk. Played again.