The late-morning sun beat down on me as I walked south from the Link-Media office in River North toward the Loop via Wells. I should have been working on the Alderman Flores story, harassing his office or the owner of the soundproofing company, but the news about Janek’s niece wouldn’t relax its grip. My head was swimming with sadness and questions.
Brynn had gotten the basics on the auction process; however, the specifics on Lane’s property were thin. I needed a distraction and had decided a visit to Higgenbotham & Hudson was something that might serve both purposes. As I was the person who had found the body, they might be more willing to give me details they would hesitate to share with Brynn.
I also needed the fresh air. Janek’s niece? I shuddered again at the thought.
I was struggling to process it. And the sight and smell of her well-decayed body refused to leave my head. I was nauseous all over again and heartbroken for Janek and his family. The news was crushing, even when drugs and a long-term disappearance had likely prepared them, to some degree, for bad news.
The walk was only a fifteen-minute trek, but between the sun and the movement, I didn’t want to stop, hoping the activity would shove aside some of the frustration and confusion that had filled the early part of my day. I moved past the River North art and furniture galleries and over to Clark Street before again turning toward the river.
Although early in the season, people were beginning to gather on the Riverwalk, craving the sun after the dreariness of the unending Chicago winter. While the tourist boats transported visitors along the various architectural tours, a handful of kayakers inched lazily along the banks, avoiding the larger boats. Crossing the bridge, I was tempted to sit along the steps lining the water below and to try to regain my footing, but my foray over to Lane’s property had consumed enough time this morning.
I arrived at the glass office tower on Wacker, my mood improving but my heart aching for Janek’s loss. It was hard to conceive of a family member, let alone a child, stepping out of one’s life for years. I searched my memory but couldn’t recall Janek or Michael ever having mentioned the young woman or a family member with a drug problem. It made me realize I knew little about Janek’s family, other than being aware his ex-wife had run off with his ex-partner. Guilt washed over me as I wondered if I had missed opportunities to inquire, or if Janek had simply kept his personal life so close to the vest that it was impossible to really get to know that side of him. The one thing the news of her identity did seem to confirm was that an overdose was certainly a reasonable assumption. What wasn’t clear to me was why she had been able to hide in the home for so long without being detected? And why this particular home?
I took the elevator up to the thirty-second floor, where the same receptionist from the other afternoon greeted me.
“Hi. I don’t know if you remember me,” I said, trying to find a smile. “I picked up a deed to a property on Pierce from you on Monday. I was the one who looked dumbstruck over the lack of keys.”
“Yes, I do remember. Were you able to access the home?” she asked, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth.
“I followed your instructions and called the locksmith immediately. Thank you for the tip.”
“Was there a problem?”
“Um, well, more of a surprising find. I was wondering if it be possible to speak with Sylvia Dunham. I’m a journalist with Link-Media,” I said, handing her a card. “I believe she spoke with an associate of mine earlier this morning, and I have some additional questions.”
The smile left her face, but she nodded quickly and reached for the phone. Word of the body must have gotten around. “Yes, of course, let me call her. We heard about the death. I’m sorry I didn’t make the connection right away that it was your property. It’s so disturbing. Just one moment.”
As she dialed her boss, I thought about what other morbid surprises owners of foreclosed properties had discovered along the way. Just as there was dark legal humor, there had to be some of the same in this industry related to oddball or gruesome discoveries. Laughter was life’s great stress reliever.
“She’ll be right up. Would you like coffee while you wait?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
She nodded and gave me a weak smile.
Moments later a woman in her midfifties was at the door. She was impeccably dressed in the way women in male-dominated industries often were. Simple navy suit, low heels, and a thin gold chain at her neck. The only obvious sign of wealth, if you didn’t recognize the beauty of her Italian tailoring, were the substantial diamond studs in her ears. Gray hair streaked the temples of her chin-length bob, contrasting attractively with her tawny skin.
“Ms. Kellner?” she said, extending a hand. “I’m Sylvia. Shall we go to my office? I think we’ll be more comfortable there.”
I nodded and followed her down the hall. Her office was small but tasteful. Classic furnishings. It spoke of a company that knew how to balance authority against the bottom line.
“I have to say I’m absolutely shocked by this discovery,” she said. “Please, let’s sit by the windows. No need for the formality of a desk between us.” We stepped over to two small club chairs, where I could see a tiny sliver of the Wrigley building across the river and an even tinier sliver of Lake Michigan beyond that.
“I understand you spoke to my associate, Brynn. As you can imagine, I have a long list of questions. Would that be okay? I believe you were aware that it was my sister who purchased the property. I’m just the one who made the unlucky discovery.”
“Yes, of course. I really don’t know much, but if I can help in any way, I’m happy to do so.”
She twisted an emerald cocktail ring on her right hand as she waited for me to dive in. I found myself wondering if it was a habit or a nervous response.
“It’s my understanding that this particular property came to you through your connection at Driscoll Community Bank,” I began.
“Yes, that’s correct. Banks often find themselves in positions where they end up with real estate on their books as assets due to foreclosure. Obviously, real estate is not part of their business model. By that I mean owning or buying and selling directly. Since they don’t have the ability or interest in functioning as Realtors, nor do they have the patience to list properties individually with the Multiple Listing Service or to deal with individual purchasers, they typically avail themselves of services such as ours.”
“So they do bulk selling because it’s less of a hassle.”
“That’s what it comes down to. As I’m sure you know, selling properties one by one would involve a number of parties—Realtors, mortgage applications, inspections. By the time these distressed properties make it through the foreclosure process, quite a bit of time may have passed. The conditions of the buildings are generally poor, and back taxes are almost always an issue, making any negotiation an unmitigated nightmare. Auctions of as-is property smooth out the bumps for everyone.”
I pictured the real estate auction industry as one that was fast and aggressive, filled with what was basically legalized gambling, each transaction a calculated risk on the future money-making capability of the property. I wondered how such an elegant, poised, African American woman had ended up in this cutthroat business. And what the heck Lane thought she was doing dabbling at the fringes.
“The process of selling foreclosures can be quite complicated,” she continued. “The buyer has to be willing to take on the property in as-is condition. There are no inspections. There are no loans. The buyer is banking on a good value, and hopefully the lender recovers some of the money that they were entitled to or lost due to default. We simply manage the sale process, receiving a small fee from the bank for coordinating. Everybody wins. In theory.”
The sparkle in her eye told me she had stories to tell, and images of some of the HGTV home-flipping shows I’d watched came to mind—vandalism, critters, mountains of trash. I enjoyed remodeling, but this world was too rough and tumble for my tastes.
“What information is available to you when you take on a property?” I asked.
“Address, of course, parcel number, all those things that make identifying the legal description of the property possible,” she responded. “These are the essential bits of information that allow us to transfer the deed once the purchase has been completed. We do conduct a search of property tax records and perform a cursory search for outstanding liens against the property. Often from contractors who weren’t paid. However, we don’t always find every encumbrance, and to be clear, nor is it our responsibility to do so.
“Property taxes are easy since we’re dealing with a government agency,” she continued. “But if there’s an old lien to a contractor that might have been sitting for years, we wouldn’t necessarily find that. By purchasing, the new owner is signing up to take over any and all obligations related to outstanding liens or claims—financial, environmental, it doesn’t matter, that is all on the purchaser’s shoulders. We do everything we can to make that clear. The smart ones who’ve done their research know this. But every now and then we do get a first-time purchaser who is shocked to discover a thirty-thousand-dollar tax bill is now his obligation. Goes with the territory.”
And where did my sister fall in that spectrum? Again, not my concern. And right now financial obligations were the least of the problems.
“And have you ever had a situation where a body was found in the property?” I asked, watching her flinch at the question.
She paused but looked at me directly before answering.
“In all my years in this business, it’s only come up once before,” she said. “An elderly homeowner, without family, who died peacefully in his bed. We have had a number of ‘good find’ stories. Just last year a purchaser found a lovely painting left in an attic. It appraised at nearly half a million dollars.”
Her face lit up, the story seeming to strike a little amusement in her. Perhaps she was a gambler at heart herself.
“That’s a very nice lottery win,” I said, wishing I’d been the one to find art instead of a decaying corpse. “And how long have you worked with Driscoll?”
“I developed the relationship with them eight years ago. We started with two properties. They were happy with how smooth the transactions went, and business has grown from there. Now we handle roughly fifty to sixty transactions a year for them.”
“Would I be correct in assuming that you have no information on the financial history of the property? Such as when the initial default occurred or what efforts were made by the lender to bring the mortgagee back to the table?”
I was mulling over the timing, trying to imagine how Janek’s niece might have remained unnoticed in the basement and for how long.
“Yes, that’s accurate. The name of the property owner is available, but we have no direct knowledge of what played out between the two parties.”
“Would it be possible for you to share your contact at the bank with me? I’d really like some understanding of the timeline for this property.”
“Certainly.” She opened a drawer and rifled through a stack of cards.
“And do you invest yourself?” I asked.
“I hate to admit it, but no, I don’t. One, it seems like a conflict of interest, and two, I’m not very adventurous with my financial decisions. Here you go,” she said, handing me the card. “Phillip Byrne is the REO officer I work with. Please mention my name and if he is at all reluctant, let me know. I have some experience with arm-twisting.” She laughed.
“I imagine you do.”