The Last Lie Read online

  I was whisked up to the sixth floor where a receptionist directed me down a wide hallway to a conference room. The space was mildly industrial with bright, enticing graphics decorating the walls, open workstations, and multiple small pod-like seating areas set up for impromptu collaboration. Janelle was on the phone when I entered the glass box room. She motioned me in and wrapped up the call.

  “Andrea, so good to see you,” she said, giving me a big embrace. “You look well. Please, let’s sit.”

  Her navy jacket and skirt were more toned down than what I’d seen her wear in the past, but I guessed they were still Armani. A gold lapel pin with the Chicago insignia graced her collar. Ah, it was her new campaign wardrobe.

  “Congratulations on your announcement. It’s quite exciting news.” I took a seat next to her at the conference table.

  “Ha, is that the best you’ve got? Come on Andrea, with our history, I know you’re thinking ‘what the fuck is she doing?’ Everyone else is. Based on what we’ve gone through together, you and I should at least have the balls to be straight with each other.”

  We laughed, and she grabbed my hand.

  “Why don’t we get the personal stuff out of the way, then you can grill me on the business shit. Tell me, how are you holding up?” She shivered. “Sorry, I hate that question. It’s a polite way of asking, ‘are you drinking yourself into a stupor? Or have you tried to slit your wrists yet?’”

  “Neither, thankfully, although there have been moments.” I laughed, a little quieter this time. “I’m managing, some days better than others. Like you, I’m doing what good Midwestern women do—carrying on. I keep using the word ‘numb’ which seems to be the only appropriate word I can come up with. I feel drained of emotion. What about you?” I asked.

  “Still fucking pissed off. But I’m using my anger in the best possible way, for revenge.”

  “By going after the job Owen wanted.”

  “Exactly. The job he thought was rightfully his as deputy mayor. Instead, the greedy son of a bitch can watch me kick dirt in his face, from jail.”

  “What do you think your chances are against Mayor Rendell in February?” I asked, touching the icon of my recording app.

  “Oh, into work mode are you? Darn, now I have to watch my language.” She tugged at the lapels of her jacket, sat up straighter, and brushed her bangs off her forehead.

  Chicago had an unusual no-party mayoral election process. All candidates who met the requirements were on the ballot in February regardless of party affiliation. If no candidate took a majority, the top two participated in a run-off election in April. Current Mayor Rendell and Janelle Platt were the leading contenders at this point in mid-November, but sensing vulnerability, the field was now at ten candidates. A number likely to tighten as the year came to a close.

  “Well, as you know, Chicago has been in turmoil since the casino scandal. Although Rendell was not directly implicated in the backdoor casino wrangling, his administration and his judgement have to be under question. I would argue that his hands-off approach allowed this maneuvering to happen. Chicago needs a mayor who is unafraid to pushback against aldermanic fiefdoms, who will restore confidence in city government, and who is unafraid of getting her hands dirty.”

  “Critics would argue that your hands are already dirty, given that the mastermind of the casino deal was your husband.” I watched the slight tightening of her eyes. It was a tough question for me to ask, since my estranged husband had also been involved, but a question I knew Janelle expected.

  “I would remind voters that not only did I have a hand in exposing the scheme, but I gladly provided extensive testimony in the court case that sent my ex-husband, and his partners, to jail. That should serve as an indication of not only my fortitude, but my willingness to put the city first.”

  She leaned forward and looked directly into my eyes as if daring me to counter. Or maybe she was just practicing for a more hostile audience.

  “Look,” she said. “We’ve seen enough of what men have brought to the table as leaders, and it’s often been ugly. It’s time for a woman’s perspective.”

  “Beyond restoration of trust, what would your priorities be as mayor?” I asked.

  As we spoke, it was hard to suppress thoughts of the personal undercurrent running through this conversation. Janelle, even more so than I, had had a front row seat to the abuse of power inflicted on the city by her husband. We’d spoken since the issue had become public, but didn’t know each other well enough to have gone into full-disclosure sharing. I presumed trust was a hot-button issue for both of us.

  She twisted a ring on her right hand, pausing to collect her thoughts. “One issue I believe in strongly is that Chicago has an opportunity to support women-owned businesses. Not just an opportunity, but an obligation. We’re here at 1871 because I wanted to bring light to two companies based here in the tech incubator that are poised on the brink of an IPO. I applaud them for their success and hard work. Millions of dollars in investment are flowing into Chicago’s economy. Innovation and entrepreneurship is vital to Chicago’s future. I’ll be working with the business leaders and education community on job training initiatives.

  “We’ve had eight IPO’s out of this wonderful incubator alone in the past year and a half. Chicago is becoming a serious entrepreneurial force. What isn’t being discussed is that, all of them were male-owned companies. Where are the women? We can’t let women miss out.”

  “Is that a function of the tech industry or other factors?” Seth’s comments about his IPO plans immediately came to mind and I wondered what the financial upside was for him personally.

  “Like most issues, the solutions are multi-part—recruiting, financing, training, press—are all factors, but factors we can influence. This doesn’t have to be a boys’ game. For long enough, we’ve seen how they handle themselves and it’s not pretty. Now, why don’t we go meet the hotshots.”

  Janelle stood, so I turned off the recorder and followed her out of the conference room. As we walked down the hall to meet the troops, I also wondered what Seth stood to lose if his IPO didn’t go through. If Cavanaugh scared away Seth’s money guys, it wasn’t just the IPO windfall gone; it was damage to the existing company’s bottom line.

  “Do you happen to know Seth Bowman? He owns VTF Industries, they make energy drinks.”

  “Of course, I know of the company, but haven’t met Bowman. Isn’t he the guy who was involved in that shooting at the Peninsula?” She smiled and nodded at two bearded men in T-shirts walking past.

  “Yes. There was an incident earlier this week at the Drea Foundation gala. A grief-stricken former employee decided to take out his anger on Seth. Luckily he’s doing well.” I kept my summary brief seeing no reason for me to add any color to the incident.

  “That had to add a little entertainment value to the event. I bet Candiss was wetting her pants,” Janelle chuckled. “That kind of tawdry attention doesn’t play well in her crowd.”

  “You know her?”

  “She, and her husband, Aaron. Speaking of tawdry…”

  I stopped walking. “What do you mean? Has he been involved in something?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

  Janelle looked over her shoulder. “Other than playing fast and loose with other peoples money?” she said, her voice low. “There’ve been rumors for years about his firm being on shaky ground. Risky investments, overstated returns. Even an illegitimate child.”

  I wracked my brain for anything I’d heard over the years that would have suggested Nadell Capital was a troubled company, but came up with nothing. I wasn’t tied in to the city’s financial movers and shakers, but Chicago wasn’t as big of a town as some would believe, not where reputations were concerned. It should be easy enough to find someone who could corroborate this. I could feel excitement settling into my stomach the way only a hot tip with home page potential could.

  “Sounds like fraud. Did he not get caught? Or wasn’t there enough to hang
him?” I asked, putting on my poker face.

  “I don’t have details. Like I said, it’s the rumor mill. I doubt it reached Ponzi scheme status or the guy wouldn’t still be operating, but he’s always struck me as someone who would sell his mother if it meant making a buck. I’d put my money in my mattress before I’d give it to him.”

  Well, that little tidbit wasn’t what I’d expected to hear, but thank you Janelle! I was already running through potential sources in my mind.

  9

  So? Did she dish on the ex?”

  Borkowski shouted at me as I returned to the office. He was standing in the aisle next to Brynn’s cubicle, his arms crossed over his chest, tortoise shell glasses pushed up to the top of his balding head. Apparently I wasn’t going to have a chance to take off my coat before updating him on the interview. What did he want, a Tweet or a story? I was feeling prickly after seeing Janelle again. It had yanked the Band-Aid off the wound I kept pretending had healed, until something slapped me upside the head with reality. Right now all I wanted to do was hide in my office and go back into denial mode.

  I walked over, placed the hot container of soup I had in one hand and the Pellegrino I had in the other, on Brynn’s desk and unbuttoned my coat before responding. No sense spilling my lunch if you could call it that at nearly 4:00 in the afternoon.

  Brynn leaned back in her chair and smiled but said nothing, probably grateful to have Borkowski’s attention elsewhere.

  “Not exactly,” I said, responding to Borkowski. “But don’t be surprised by her very pro-female agenda. I don’t know if she’s always been such a strong feminist, but it seems she intends to use her husband’s behavior to punctuate her argument for having a woman in charge.”

  “In other words, her challengers will portray her as a militant man-hater. Good. That will bring us eyeballs.”

  “So sexism sells?” I said, my voice rising an octave. “Do you have any idea of the double standards women face? If she’s tough, she’ll be told she doesn’t smile enough or will be called angry. If she’s softer, then she doesn’t have the cojones for the tough decisions. Women are torn apart for their hair, their clothes, how old they look, as if appearance is more important than the contributions they make. When was the last time any male politician was criticized because of his turkey neck or ill-fitting suits rather than the behavior he displayed?”

  I was offended by his comment and allowing myself to get worked up in anticipation of the battle Janelle Platt would be facing even though I knew his comment was dead on. Just the thought of the narrow-mindedness that would be on display was irritating me.

  “Whoa, cool it,” Borkowski said, his hands up in surrender position. “Nobody called you any names here. You don’t need to defend the entire female gender just because I speculated on the ugliness of the contest.”

  I let out a breath. “Sorry I jumped down your throat. Sensitive subject.” As much as it had given an interesting news angle to explore, my interview with Janelle had also brought me back down into the depths of the ugly side of my former marriage. I was deflecting. The unresolved anger and confusion I felt over Erik’s behavior and death had been brought to the surface. Janelle was coping by using her anger; I was still suppressing. Screaming at a dead man didn’t accomplish much.

  “I’ll take that as a sign of Platt’s persuasiveness.” Borkowski raised his eyebrows and shot a look at Brynn wondering if she was going into attack mode too. She remained quiet and sipped her coffee, more interested in watching the show than participating.

  “Get me the draft by Monday.” He shot me another look, shook his head, then trotted back to his office.

  I gave Brynn a weak smile and picked up my lunch from her desk. “I have a project for you but give me a few minutes to regroup.”

  She nodded, and I made my way to my office ignoring the amused glances from the rest of the staff. Setting my food on the desk, I then tossed my coat on back of my chair, and opened email. I scanned the subject lines for anything important as I ate. A note from Lane was in this afternoon’s stash with an estimate of temporary fixes to our three-flat furnace issue but no mention of replacement estimates. Nothing from Ramelli. I added both issues to my Monday to-do list.

  “You human again?” Brynn was standing in the door.

  “That bad?” I asked, motioning her in.

  “No. Of course not. Just trying for a little levity.” She took a seat across from me. “I have to say your timing was spot on, however. Borkowski had just come over to give me a hard time about a missed deadline when you showed up. Funny, but he didn’t seem swayed by the fact that my source got hit by a bus and couldn’t talk to me.”

  “Misdirected priorities. The nerve of the guy,” I laughed, noticing the pink lip gloss again today. “Do you have a date tonight?”

  “What? Where did that come from?”

  “Just wondering. It’s Friday and you don’t normally wear makeup. I thought maybe you had plans after work. It looks nice on you.”

  “Geez, something wrong with trying to look professional?” she said. Despite the sarcasm, I saw a little pleasure in her eyes. “Was there something else you wanted to talk about or did you ask me in for girl talk?”

  I laughed. “I’d like you to look into a company called Nadell Capital, it’s a venture capital firm. Owner is a guy named Aaron Nadell and I’ve heard rumors that the organization is a little shaky. Risky investments, perhaps exaggerated investment returns.”

  “How deep a dive?”

  “For now, I’m just looking to corroborate the rumors. If we’re lucky, you’ll someone with first-hand knowledge.”

  “You got it. I’ll touch base again when I have some leads and you can decide from there where you want me to focus.” She stood. “And get some rest this weekend. I hear it cures everything.” She winked.

  I smiled and turned back to my computer, typing Aaron Nadell into the search bar. In addition to charity events and other publicity fluff pieces, a list of companies he’d invested in rolled up. Thoughts of Erik and the financial scheme he’d gotten himself tangled up in ran through my mind. Had Aaron Nadell also allowed greed to drive his decisions? As I scrolled through the pages, a knot formed deep in my stomach. Greed always had consequence.

  10

  I could hear Walter’s funny little chirp as I put my keys into the lock on my apartment door. The noises he made seemed to come from a bird he had hidden in his chest. Somewhere along the way he’d come to recognize the sound of the elevator and routinely greeted me at the door. I scooped him up, feeling his entire body purr.

  I tossed my bag on the sofa and Walter and I continued our routine by heading into the kitchen for his dinner.

  “How about tuna?”

  He blinked and flicked his tail in agreement as I popped open the can. Wet food in his bowl, fresh water, and a scratch behind the ears, all his needs were met. Too bad mine weren’t as simple.

  I leaned against the counter while he ate at my feet and marveled again at my newly remodeled kitchen. My first project had been to tear out the avocado 1970s kitchen. But that was before I learned my husband was a philandering pig.

  My contractor, an old-world saint-of-a-man originally from Poland, had patiently worked around my tighter finances and then my grief, completing the kitchen shortly after Erik died. I had chosen modern white oak cabinets, quartz counters, and integrated appliances. It was a stunning contrast against the vintage backdrop. The contractor thought I was nuts. Wait until he saw what I wanted to do with the bathrooms.

  I poured myself a Pellegrino and headed back to a spare bedroom where I’d set up a makeshift office. Folding chair, a table that wobbled when I typed, and boxes in various states of openness that I’d paw through whenever I need paperclips or a stapler. I’d lived in this disarray for nearly a year, uninterested in tackling anything that wasn’t essential. But the annoyance of the shaky table was starting to get me. I turned on my laptop and vowed to shop for a proper desk over the week
end.

  I was meeting my dearest friend, Cai, for dinner in an hour, but wanted to put in a little more work on my interview with Janelle Platt before I went out for the evening. As I formulated my thoughts on Janelle’s candidacy, and the two tech companies we had toured, I couldn’t help but think about Seth. There were millions of dollars on the line for the men I spoke with today. I could only imagine what Seth’s windfall might look like if it went forward. That was life-changing money.

  With a rough structure in place, I set aside the article and changed for the evening.

  Tavern on Rush wasn’t our usual hangout but our favorite, Nico Osteria, had been booked with a private party. Friday night at prime time in the Gold Coast, we jumped on the alternate reservation, lest we get shut out. The popular sidewalk terrace was full, despite temperatures in the forties. Heaters tucked into the awning framework blasted down on the patrons. Computer monitors also hung overhead along the expanse projecting a slideshow of photos of patrons, celebrity clientele, and complimentary Tweets.

  I followed the hostess to the quietest table they had where I was content to watch the street scene from inside. I ordered Cabernet for both of us. Cai and I had been friends since our first year of law school at the University of Chicago. Her drink of choice was the easy part. There was little we didn’t know about each other. She’d been there through my former career as an assistant state’s attorney, the painful decision to leave the law, and the breakup of my marriage. She’d been my rock over the last four months.