by Laura Wolfe
“I’ll drink to that.”
We continued the meal perched on our bar stools and discussing Jacqueline’s new listings.
“Real estate is an emotional business, Mara. Your friends and neighbors will screw you over without a second thought, but you have to be strong.”
Nothing like that had happened to me, but I nodded anyway.
Jacqueline’s eyes swirled with a strange combination of joy and rage. “Nothing kills a realtor more than losing out on a listing in her own building.”
She was right. A few days earlier, I’d received a postcard advertising a condo for sale in my building listed by another realtor. The announcement felt like a punch in the stomach.
“Last year, my next-door neighbor listed his townhome with another company.” Jacqueline shook her head. “This was after I’d watered his plants for him for three weeks while he vacationed in the Bahamas. Can you believe the nerve?”
“That’s crazy.”
“Don’t worry. I got the listing in the end. The other realtor couldn’t overcome the dog problem.”
“What’s the dog problem?”
Jacqueline smiled. “Whenever I saw anyone showing the property, I pointed my speakers at our common wall and blasted a recording of barking dogs. No one wants to live next door to barking dogs. His place sat on the market for three months.”
“Oh.” I swallowed back the lump in my throat. “Wasn’t your neighbor mad?”
“He didn’t know it was me. He was never home during the showings. Besides, I don’t even have any dogs.” She raised her palms in the air and shrugged. “When he finally listed with me, I sold his place in five days for over asking. He recommended me to everyone he knew.”
“Wow.” I pushed my plate a few inches away, realizing I was full.
Jacqueline hopped down from her stool.
“Be right back. Then I’ll give you the complete tour. You have to see the renovations to the lower level,” she said. “My architect added a bar and extra sitting area for parties.”
My eyes darted sideways as I wondered how many parties Jacqueline hosted. She didn’t have many friends outside of Haley, who she occasionally met for lunch.
“Sounds like you’re almost finished with the renovations.”
“That’s what I thought, too, but I realized a few days ago that I should have added a bathroom on the lower level. I’ve been kicking myself for ignoring my architect’s suggestion. A bathroom on each floor is the most practical design. And it will increase the resale value when the time comes. Not that I’m planning on selling anytime soon.”
“Yeah. I’m sure you’ll want to stay there for a while after all the work you’ve put in.”
“You got that right. I’ll be back in a second.” She turned down the hall toward the powder room.
“Okay.” I stood to clear the plates, noticing pizza sauce and crumbs splattered on the counter in front of where I’d been sitting. In contrast, the countertop in front of Jacqueline’s seat gleamed as if it had just been polished. A roll of paper towel rested on the far side of the kitchen next to Jacqueline’s Gucci purse, and I headed toward it, anxious to clean up my mess before she returned. As I reached to rip off a couple of squares, my elbow bumped her bag, tipping it toward the edge of the counter. The contents spilled across the floor.
I swung my head over my shoulder, heat prickling through me, and my heart racing. It was just like me to make a bad situation worse. Crouching down, I gathered up two tubes of lipstick, three quarters, the all-too-recognizable key fob to Jacqueline’s car, and a bottle of natural herbs. St. John’s Wort. The name was familiar because I’d taken the same herb to treat my anxiety and depression during my freshman year of college. Maybe Jacqueline’s rocky relationships with Jeffery and her mom were taking a bigger toll on her than she let on. My heart seized for her. The herb had helped me back then, and I hoped it would give Jacqueline a boost, too.
A toilet flushed from the down the hall, and I rolled my shoulders back, remembering what I’d been doing. I scooped the recovered items back into the purse then ripped off the paper towel. The pizza weighed in my stomach as I gathered a pile of crumbs. Jacqueline appeared behind me, hands on her hips.
“Looks like you made a mess.”
18
It had been almost two weeks since I’d reported the damage to the rundown buildings to the building inspector. Jacqueline said enough time had passed to contact the slumlord owners. The violations should have made their way back to them by now.
“There’s a script to follow for this type of call,” Jacqueline said, speaking in a low whisper so the agents walking past our desks couldn’t hear. “Listen and learn.”
I pulled my chair over to her, twisting the beaded bracelet around my wrist. She pressed the numbers on her phone and waited.
“Hello, Mr. Bakersfield. This is Jacqueline Hendersen from Greystone Realty. I understand you’re the owner of the building on the corner of Schubert and Ridgeway. I have a buyer who is interested in purchasing your building for cash.”
Muffled mumbling sputtered from Jacqueline’s phone, but I couldn’t make out what the man was saying.
“The property appears to need quite a bit of work. The porch is sagging, and most of the bricks are cracked. And we noticed gang tags on the side of the building a few weeks ago.” Jacqueline made a horrified face.
Images of the gang tags and the matching cans of spray paint in Jacqueline’s trunk hovered before me. My insides wobbled like an unstable building, but I pressed my lips together, determined not to let it show.
“If you’re interested in having my buyer take the building off your hands, he’s willing to offer $700,000.”
More mumbling.
“Well, let me know after you think about it. I’ll get it in writing and send it over to you for your consideration.”
The next three calls went about the same. No one committed on the phone. Jacqueline said that it was normal, that people wanted to get the offer in writing and run it by their attorneys. She positioned herself in front of me, a silver necklace adorned with a diamond-encrusted key dangling into the V of her neckline.
“Once we email the contract to them, it’s like waving bloody flesh in front of a swarm of sharks. There’s always a few bites.”
“Will you get both sides of the commission?” I asked.
Jacqueline raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see any other realtors here, do you?”
My fingers clutched the edge of my chair. “Just me.”
“You’ll get your twenty percent,” Jacqueline said, her eyes glinting.
I wheeled my chair back to my desk, not bothering to hide the stupid grin plastered to my face.
I helped Jacqueline fill out the contracts. She showed me which clauses to cross out and which boxes to check. She filled in her name in both the Seller’s Agent and Buyer’s Agent spaces on all four contracts and attached the Dual Representation Rider to ensure she’d receive the full five percent commission on each deal. Jacqueline clicked the button on her pen.
“My cash buyer, Don Garrett, is stopping by the office at 6:30 tonight to sign the contracts. Then I’ll email the written offers to the owners.”
The next morning, I sat in the same spot at my desk as Jacqueline informed me that two of the four building owners took the bait, eager to get their violation-ridden, gang-tagged buildings off their hands.
“The other two owners told me to go screw myself.” Jacqueline shook her head and chuckled. “Two outta four ain’t bad.”
I coughed out a laugh and leaned into my chair. “Do you know how much money you’re going to make off of this?”
“Yes.” Jacqueline twisted her lips to the side and stared at the ceiling. “Approximately $88,000 after the house takes their cut.”
My mouth fell open.
“I guess it will be less after I pay you twenty percent. You’ll clear about $10,000.”
I tipped my head back, letting my ponytail reach down my ba
ck. “Yes!” I’d be able to pay back the draw and make my next mortgage payment with money left over.
“You didn’t think I was going to screw you over, did you?” Jacqueline stared at me, wide-eyed. “You’re the one who drove by the buildings and called in the violations.”
“This is so amazingly awesome.”
“Of course, we should never count our commissions before they hatch.” A shadow passed over her face, and I turned away.
A few minutes later, Jacqueline wheeled her chair over to my desk. “Let me tell you about Don.” A hint of a smile crept onto her mouth. “He’s one of my top investors. I met him at a networking event a few months after I started at Greystone. We even dated for a while, but it didn’t last. Outside of real estate, the guy was dumber than a two-by-four.”
“Ha.”
“Anyway, one night over martinis, he asked me this question. He said, ‘Do you know the fastest way to increase the value of a residential building?’”
I shook my head at her. “How?”
“’Add a unit. Or two,’ he said. Then he smiled his crooked, yellow teeth at me.”
“You can’t just decide to add units. Don’t you need permits?” I crossed my arms in front of me but wanted to learn more.
“That’s what I thought, too. Don reminded me that the Chicago Water Department holds the oldest records on every property in the city. All you need is for them to change the number of units in the building.”
I leaned forward, intrigued.
Jacqueline narrowed her eyes at me. “Guess who has a connection in the water department?”
My back pressed into the cushiony chair, my lips parting in awe. “Don?”
Jacqueline’s pupils flickered. “After that, I brought him a steady stream of “undesirable” buildings, to which he promptly added a minimum of two residential units and resold for enormous profits. I collected the commissions on both ends and didn’t ask too many questions. His trick was simple and brilliant. I wasn’t doing anything wrong by selling the buildings for him, and his use of city connections wasn’t hurting anyone. Besides, whatever Don did on his own time was none of my business.”
I ran my fingers through my ponytail as a warning bristled down my spine. My intuition told me Don’s actions were illegal. Then again, I didn’t want to ruin my opportunity to earn a $10,000 referral fee. He wasn’t hurting anyone. And like Jacqueline said, whatever Don did on his own time was none of our business.
An hour later, my stomach turned over with hunger. Jacqueline had left to follow up with a potential client, so I decided to make a run back to my condo for a quick lunch. After I collected the $10,000 windfall, I’d be able to eat out more often, but for now, I’d salvage whatever I could from my fridge at home. Packing up my things, I wandered toward the front door, waving to the receptionist, Valerie, on the way out. A layer of clouds hung low in the sky, making it feel like dusk, rather than early afternoon. Traffic zoomed and lurched down North Avenue as a jogger narrowly collided with me on the sidewalk. The corner where Tony usually hung out sat quiet and vacant, the cement sidewalk littered with cigarette butts and a tattered fast-food wrapper. I wondered where he’d set up shop today. I turned left down the neighborhood street where I’d parked.
As I approached my car, a shadow slipped behind a tree beside me. My gut trembled, the cold sweat erupting across my forehead causing me to stop short. Something wasn’t right. I glanced back towards Tony’s spot, but of course, he wasn’t there. Before I could turn around, a towering figure lunged in front of me, a bony hand tightening around my arm. Peter blocked my path, his sunken eyeballs bulging and crazed.
“Mara, please. Listen.”
I yanked my arm away, searching the tree-lined street for someone to help me. I debated shoving past him and making a run for my driver’s side door. I could lock him out and speed away. Before I had a chance, he grabbed my other arm, his grip pinning me in place. With his free hand, he pulled something out of his pocket and flicked it open. The metallic blade of a jackknife hovered inches from my stomach. He stepped closer, his wrinkled shirt pressing against my new blouse.
“I’m sorry to do this, but I need you to listen. Jacqueline will ruin your life, just like she ruined mine.”
Peter’s voice was gravelly and desperate, and I wondered when he’d last had a drink of water, much less a meal. His unwashed hair stuck in thinning clumps to his head. I froze, terrified to be at the mercy of a drug addict whose actions could be violent and unpredictable. For a second, I felt sorry for him, but then his fingers squeezed tighter, and my eyes caught a glint of the blade. Fear vibrated through me.
Peter’s mouth pushed close to my ear. “She’s evil.”
I’d come to realize Jacqueline wasn’t perfect. Visions of spray-painted gang symbols, altered water records, and maybe even strategically released rats scurried through my mind. Maybe she bent the rules to help further her business, but what successful businessperson didn’t push the boundaries of the law? To label Jacqueline as evil was a stretch, especially after everything she’d taught me.
Peter’s mouth quivered. “No one else will hire me.”
I swallowed, every muscle in my body ready to run. “I’m sorry, Peter. Take my purse. Please. Let me go.”
“I don’t want your purse. I need you to listen to me.” Peter’s breath was sour against my face. “Promise me you’ll stay away from Jacqueline. She’s not who you think she is. She’ll make you do bad things.”
I strained against him.“You’re wrong.”
“Think about it, Mara. The reasons people sell their properties. It’s because bad things happened to them. Divorces, job losses, unexpected illnesses, death.” His eyeball bulged. “She’s behind it all.”
“People move for good reasons, too,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He grimaced and shook his head, the blade edging closer to my abdomen. A garbage truck lurched past. There might have been a shred of truth in Peter’s words, but he was taking his accusations way too far. He’d gone off the deep end. I fought the urge to scream for help. It was too risky.
“She’s not going to give you your job back,” I said.
Peter let out a clipped laugh. “I don’t want my job back. That job was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I’m trying to save you. From her.”
All at once, I realized that he only wanted me to agree with him. That was the quickest and safest way out of the situation. Then I could run back to the office and call Jacqueline and the police. I nodded. “Alright. I’ll leave. I’m sure I can find another position.”
“Promise me. Do it today.”
“I promise.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “And don’t tell her you talked to me. Not a single mention of my name.”
“I won’t.”
The grip on my arm loosened, and Peter stepped back, his features relaxing. Looking over his shoulder, he closed the jackknife and shoved it into his pocket, gave me a nod, and jogged away. I exhaled, shocked that he’d required nothing more than my word. As soon as he was out of sight, I bolted back to Greystone, where I tumbled through the front door and burst into tears, recounting my life-threatening experience to Valerie between sobs. Valerie draped her arm around me and called 911. As we waited for the police to arrive, I finally caught my breath and drank a glass of water. Then I called Jacqueline and told her everything.
19
Two uniformed police officers arrived at Greystone within twenty minutes of Valerie’s 911 call, but Jacqueline had beat them there, her presence calming and reassuring. First, she helped me fill out the police report and answer questions about Peter.
A few hours later, the police located Peter at his home and arrested him for assault and battery. Jacqueline hovered over my desk when we’d heard the news, a grim look on her face.
“Don’t let your guard down,” she said. “Our legal system is screwed up. They’ll release him in a day or two.”
My pulse accelerated,
my stomach tightening at the memory of Peter’s knife hovering millimeters from my skin.
Jacqueline patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m going to call in a favor to a friend at my former law firm. He’s in the criminal law division. I’ll have him file a protective order for workplace harassment. It will keep Peter away from us, whether or not he’s in jail.”
“Okay. That’s a good idea.” I inhaled, wiping my palms against my thighs. “What do I need to do?”
“Nothing, right now. You might have to sign a statement in a day or two, but I’ll handle the rest.” Jacqueline strode back toward her desk, her tall shadow passing over me.
“Thanks for your help.” I planted my feet into the floor, feeling more secure already.
◆◆◆
The morning of Emma’s charity run arrived two days later. I adjusted the elastic waistband of my new running pants and vowed to only focus on positive thoughts. A run along the lake to help my sister would be the perfect remedy for my shaken nerves.
It was 7:45 a.m., and the spring chill in the air caused the waiting runners to jump and bounce in place as they pulled their new T-shirts over their running gear. Jacqueline stood behind the table, checking the names of pre-registered runners off her list and handing out shirts.
She waved me over and handed me a shirt. “Good morning, Mara!”
My teeth clenched as I read the white lettering across the royal blue background: First Annual 5K Charity Run—JACQUELINE HENDERSEN—The Realtor Chicago Trusts!—www.JacquelineHendersen.com. I stared at it, taking it in. I’d expected the T-shirt to be more like the temporary website Jacqueline had set up for the event, with Emma’s name appearing somewhere, or the mention of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, or the fact that this was a fundraiser and not an advertisement for Jacqueline’s real estate services. I envisioned the shirts being in more of a cancer-fighting color, like pink, instead of Greystone’s blue and white.
“What do you think? Perfect, right?” Jacqueline flashed a broad smile as I studied the shirt.
