“Lane! What the hell were you thinking?”
I had just pulled open the door to the Link-Media office significantly later in the morning than I’d planned, dressed in jeans, a white blouse, and black loafers. No one would be calling me a fashionista today, and this conversation with Lane could not be shuttled politely to the sidelines. I wouldn’t typically be airing my personal dirty laundry within earshot of my coworkers, but I had her on the phone and I wasn’t letting her off until I was done vomiting out my frustrations.
“Did you think your contractor could just walk in the door and start trashing evidence before the cops have finished their work? I told you this might be a crime scene. And on top of it, you didn’t even have the courtesy to let me know that these guys expected me to give them access. At seven a.m., I might add.”
I switched the phone to my other ear and shot a glance at the surprised eyes trained on me. I shook my head and shrugged.
“Hold on a minute,” I said as Lane started in on her whiny sob story that was supposed to counter my objections. I marched through the space, flipped a hand at Brynn, and tried to keep my emotions in check now that I had an audience.
“Enough of this, Lane. You’ve stepped way beyond a simple favor, and I’m not going to get in the middle of you and a fight with the Chicago police force. So I suggest you pick up the damn phone the next time they call or, better yet, get on the next plane. I’m removing myself from your latest mess.”
I hung up feeling just as annoyed with my sister as I had before we spoke. I was done with her. This was the last time I’d let Lane involve me in the endless drama that was her life. The cops could deal with her on this problem from here on out.
I tossed my bag on the desk, then flopped into my chair with a sigh before logging in to email to try to reschedule the two meetings I had missed this morning because of the contractor.
“How nice of you to grace us with your presence.” My boss, Art Borkowski, stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest and a disapproving scowl on his face. He looked me up and down. “What’s with the jeans and no-makeup thing? You sick or something?”
I probably looked like I’d spent the morning cleaning the garage. Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t leave my apartment wearing clothes meant for yard work, let alone properly applied lipstick.
“Yeah, I know, I look like hell. I had a little family emergency this morning,” I said. “Sorry to blow you off. Things were crazy, but I should have called in. Are you ready to reschedule our budget meeting?” I asked, reaching for my file and hoping he’d give me a minute to prep a desperately needed cup of tea.
“Reschedule? This is the second time you’ve been too busy to meet. So that means you lose your ability to vote. It’s done.” He shook his head as he looked at me again. “You got a little blush or something in that bag? You’re going to scare the staff.” He tossed a folder on my desk and left.
Thanks again, Lane. I threw the folder in my tote bag to read at home later tonight, then rummaged for a mirror. Flu victims looked better than I did right now. I ran a brush through my hair before pulling it back in a ponytail, dabbed a little concealer under my eyes, flicked some blush on my cheeks, and swiped on some lip gloss. It wasn’t my normal full treatment, but it might prevent people from thinking I was contagious.
There wasn’t much I could do about my ensemble other than top it off with a black cashmere cardigan I kept in the office for chilly days. I slipped it on, turned up the cuffs on my white shirt and tried to channel Audrey Hepburn. Turning back to my computer screen, I quickly scanned the email addresses and subject lines looking for anything that couldn’t wait. And hoping that one of my leads on the alderman story would come through.
“I’ve got some stuff on the auction process. Do you want to talk about it now?” Brynn asked from the doorway.
“Yes. Anything to distract me from how annoyed I am with my sister.” I motioned her in and flipped down the lid on my laptop.
“I hear you. Family has a way of being complicated. We all have at least one relative that we want to forget we know or never hear from again.” She said it as if she had a story of her own to tell.
She came into the office and settled herself into the chair, pulling her legs up under her like a little girl, as she tended to do. A notepad was in one hand and the largest mug of coffee known to mankind was in the other. I couldn’t think of a time when I’d ever seen Brynn without coffee. How she ever got any sleep at night with all that caffeine was a mystery to me. But then again, did anything affect your system when you were twenty-five?
“Okay, so I talked to that woman at the auction house, the one you met,” she began. “Well, she passed me on to the office manager, and according to her, they worked this specific deal for Driscoll Community Bank. Driscoll sends over a list of foreclosed properties quarterly, and Higgenbotham & Hudson conducts batch auctions. The bank has anywhere from five to twenty properties at a time in various stages of foreclosure. She didn’t know if there were other auction companies involved or if they were the exclusive service provider for this bank.”
“And what’s the process for unloading the real estate? I can’t imagine the bank wants to be in the flipping business.”
My exposure to the foreclosure world was cursory at best, but banks weren’t generally known for their facile, speedy processes. I didn’t imagine the real estate division functioned any better. Visions of antiquated computer systems, miles of red tape, and employees whose customary response amounted to “we’ll get to it eventually” filled my thoughts. No surprise that they outsourced the sales transactions.
“The process is pretty straightforward, at least after the bank passes the property off to the auction house. All the hard work—nasty letters and evictions—has been done. The homeowner is basically out of it at that point. The auction house simply has to get the specs into their system and tee it up into the sales schedule. Potential buyers preregister with the auction house and can then submit their bids for individual properties either online or in-person, the day of the auction.”
“And do these buyers know what they’re getting?”
The shaky porch and rickety windows of the property on Pierce came to mind. As did the dollar signs that came along with extensive renovations. Every penny gambled on the purchase, and subsequent repairs, mattered if a quick profit could be made.
“It doesn’t sound like it,” Brynn said. “At least not in the same way most people go about buying a property. I haven’t been down that road myself, but I do know about inspections and nervous insurance companies. Anyway, the potential buyers know the address of the property and the minimum opening bid, which has been determined by the bank. They know if there are back taxes to be paid, but beyond that, it’s pretty much buyer beware. Most of the time, sales are to professional investors or flippers. There’s not enough hand-holding for the average homeowner.”
A satisfied smile on her face, Brynn took a swig of her coffee. We were opposites in so many ways—her utilitarian wardrobe of Oxford shirts and chinos versus my penchant for obscure designer labels, her closed cropped hair and Chapstick compared to my need for a flatiron and lipliner—at least on the surface. But in this relationship, it was the difference in how our minds worked that made us a great team. Nothing delighted her more than rolling up her sleeves and getting dirty with research; even boring stuff like this made her eyes shine. It was exactly the help I needed to keep my focus on the broader issues.
“So buyers are taking a bet with an ultra-low price and hoping that they’re not walking into a chemical dump site or something,” I said, imagining any number of nasty surprises that might be in store for the purchaser. If you weren’t keeping up with your mortgage payments, it was unlikely you were keeping up with maintenance.
“You’ve basically summed it up. Cross your fingers and hope you hit the lottery.” Brynn took another big swig of her coffee. “The properties are sold sight unseen, although I suppose someone could drive by if they wanted. They just can’t go inside. Oh, and the buyer has to pay with cash. Usually a percentage down the day of the auction and the balance within days.”
“Do we know anything about the bank’s process?” Even though it was technically none of my business, I couldn’t help but wonder where Lane had gotten that kind of cash. My first hand history was of her shuffling bills and asking for loans when she got in trouble, usually from me. Our balance sheet was zeroed out at the moment, other than the locksmith reimbursement, so it really was none of my concern, but it struck me as being unlike her.
“I’ve got a call in to the REO officer,” Brynn said. “He hasn’t had time to talk in any detail, so I don’t know when this property was vacated or when they first started the foreclosure process.”
“Is he stonewalling?”
“I wondered about that, but basically, I think he was just too busy to talk to me. Or just didn’t find it important. So I upped the pressure a little bit and let him know he had a dead body in one of his properties. That got his attention.” She chuckled. “But I think it also moved him into CYA mode and he’s probably consulting with their legal team before he says anything else. These guys are pretty risk averse.” She shrugged. “I know, it’s not much.”
“It’s a start. Do you have a time scheduled to talk to him again?”
“He wouldn’t commit. Like I said, I think he’s calling in legal. Oh, the one thing he did let slip was that the home was not owned by an individual. It was owned by a corporation. When I pressed, he clammed up, but that shouldn’t be hard to unearth.”
“That’s interesting,” I said, recognizing that new tidbit of information might complicate tracing the ownership of the property. Shell companies and complex holdings were a big part of the investment game. “Even the small-time investors form legal entities to hold assets for liability protection and tax benefits. I suspect you’ll be able to get a name. It just might not be attached to a real human being.”
My phone flashed an incoming call. Michael. “I need to take this but stay here,” I told Brynn, then answered the call. “Hi, I was just about to call you. Can you guys turn up the heat on my sister? I had to rush over to the house on Pierce this morning and stop a guy with a sledgehammer from busting up the property before you gave the go-ahead. I don’t know if you’re done with processing, but Lane isn’t listening to me at all, so I thought it may be a good idea if she starts getting some stern phone calls from CPD.”
“Well, coincidental timing then. I only have a minute, but I wanted to tell you that we’ve identified the body.” His voice was stiff and fraught with pain and I felt my body tighten with expectation.
“It’s Janek’s niece,” he said, his voice cracking.
The phone nearly slipped out of my hand. “His niece?” I choked out staring at Brynn and shaking my head as she mouthed “What’s wrong?”—I couldn’t find words.
“She ran off about two years ago,” Michael continued. “Her family hasn’t seen her since. At the time, she had a pretty serious heroin problem. We’re still waiting on the tox screen to know if she overdosed.”