by Jan Burke
I saw him jot the numbers down on the back of a memo from Wrigley, more in the way of absent doodling than any serious preparation to do math. “Okay,” he said. “Go on.”
“Studies are done, and lo and behold, the city decides the hotel is within a redevelopment zone. The city might have reasonably decided this old hotel should be rehabilitated into low-cost housing, but the investors believe more money is to be made from office buildings. Another study is done, one that influences the Land Use Element, and somehow it reflects a need for office buildings.”
“And the tenants are evicted.”
“Maybe even beforehand. That might help to convince the city that this isn’t residential property. Now the investors get other benefits—low-cost loans, courtesy of the taxpayer; expedited permits and special construction variances; and so on. But for now, let’s just go back to our ten thousand. Their next move is to present a fancy brochure and prospectus to sell limited partnerships. Let’s say they sell one hundred shares at ten thousand dollars a share.”
“They’ve raised a million dollars,” he said. “Probably from people looking for tax shelters, maybe a group of doctors who don’t have any real estate experience.”
“Right about the real estate know-how, but these things attract teachers, firefighters, retirees—anyone with a nest egg. The general partners get ‘highest and best use’ studies and market surveys and all sorts of statistics together and dazzle the hell out of the investors. California real estate was booming then. Our general partners would work to convince everyone that the boom is permanent, that the downtown area will revive and that every lousy square foot of land in Las Piernas will be worth a fortune.”
“The downtown area has revived.”
“Some of it. Certainly not all. You know what the office vacancy rate is. And not all of the construction was first-rate. But let’s go back to our general partners. They pay themselves administrative fees. Let’s say they charge each limited partner a five percent fee.”
“That’s five hundred each. Fifty thousand all together.”
I shook my head. “Fifty thousand per year. And since the limited partners can’t make decisions about the construction or leasing, if the hotel project goes to hell, they have no recourse—they pay those annual fees anyway.”
“Or sell their shares.”
“Which may be worthless,” I said. “The limited partners are at the mercy of the general partners.”
“Which is what the greedy little limited partners get for trying to avoid taxes.”
“I disagree, but we’ll argue that another time. Besides, what I just presented is probably a worst-case scenario. Let’s suppose the general partners just sell their own shares in the hotel building for a big profit and get out. Or maybe they don’t even bother with the limited partnerships—they sell the building for a more modest profit. No matter what happens, they’ve probably made money—and made it because they had inside information.”
“Your point being?” he said, but he was leaning forward in his chair now.
“Redevelopment was one of three things that Allan Moffett and Ben Watterson had in common. They were part of a group of men who often worked together on these projects, even if some of them—like Allan—supposedly weren’t personally profiting from it.”
“And?”
“Second, they were longtime, active civic leaders who seemed unwilling—until very recently—to step aside from their roles. No one would have predicted that Ben would commit suicide or that Allan Moffett would resign. And yet they did so within a day of each other. What are the odds of that happening, John?”
“Go on.”
“The third thing they have in common is Lucas Monroe. At least twice in each of their lives.”
“Twice?”
“Remember those studies? The earliest statistics Allan needed to set the wheels in motion—to declare an area of the city a redevelopment zone—came from a study Lucas Monroe worked on in the 1970s.”
“And Monroe saw each of them recently.”
“Contacted them anyway.” I told him about the photocopy.
“Hmm. Too bad he’s dead.” It was said in an offhand manner, a newsman’s regret for the loss of a source. But seeing my face he added, “Aw, Kelly, for Godsakes—”
“Forget it. I’ve given up getting so much as an obit for him. I just want you to realize that trying to find out what he was up to is not just a personal project.” Thou doth protest too much, a little voice said. I ignored it. “I’ll know more about Moffett’s resignation if I can learn why Lucas went to see these people.”
“You think he was blackmailing them?”
I quelled an impulse to immediately deny it. “Maybe.”
After a long silence, he said, “Suppose you’re wrong. What if your friend wasn’t doing anything more than trying to find a job?”
“Then I’m still talking to Allan’s nearest and dearest pals.” I shrugged. “I’m still trying to pry things out of Allan’s former coworkers. It would take a vast conspiracy or blackmail scheme of his own to keep that many people silent. I don’t think he could manage it, frankly. I suspect they really don’t know why he left. Even his former secretary—who would love to have her revenge on him—couldn’t offer me anything more than word of Lucas’s visit, tales of a night Allan spent shredding papers, and the story of his hastily arranged dinner party. I’m planning to try to talk to her again.”
“Anyone else?”
“The other people who were at the meeting. I may even try to track down Allan’s first wife.”
“If I allow you to keep following this angle, you suppose you could devote more of your time to this story?”
“John, as far as I’m concerned, I worked on this story over the weekend—on my days off.”
“Admit it, Kelly, that was a personal matter that happened to dovetail with this story.”
“Okay, fine. Have it your way.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. Maybe I’m not the most insolent, insubordinate—what else did you call me, John?”
“That’s as far as I got. And no one else around here comes close to being as much trouble as you are.”
“Thanks. Do I get to find out what you had planned for me this morning?”
“And like I said, follow up with the Lucas Monroe angle, too.”
“I intend to. Now what was going on?”
Finally realizing I didn’t intend to be sidetracked, he said, “A pager.”
“A pager?” I shook my head. “I hate those things.”
“I know, I know.”
“Electronic leashes. You start out thinking it will help people get in touch with you, but nine times out of ten it’s some nuisance message.”
“I know how you feel about them, Kelly.”
“It’s just that once I was talking to this city hall source—took me three days of phone calls to finally get this secretary to meet with me, and four or five hours of hanging out together before she started to drop her guard a little. Just as I think she’s about to confirm a rumor for me, on the verge of coming across with everything I need to know, the damn beeper goes off. Air raid sirens wouldn’t have caused the woman less alarm. She was out of there. And I go looking for a pay phone, finally find one that works, and now I’m madder than hell. I answer the page and it’s—” I stopped cold. Uh-oh.
“It’s me, wondering if you knew where we were supposed to meet O’Connor for drinks after work.”
“Well, that’s not the point. But knowing how I feel about them, John, why make me carry one?”
“It’s nothing personal. Well… at least, not between you and me. Wrigley wants everyone who works news to wear one. Half the others wear them now. Get used to the idea.”
“If it’s not personal, why wasn’t the new policy announced in a meeting?”
“There will be one later today. But I was supposed to deliver yours to you this morning. Wrigley’s request. He’s impatient for y
our story.”
“You said you changed your mind—does that mean you’ve figured out how to get me out of this?”
“No. But I’ll wait until the meeting to give you yours.”
Comprehension dawned. “I see. Wrigley arranged a show. I’d be singled out, everyone in the newsroom would know it, and they’d assume I caused the change in policy.”
“Something like that.”
“And you were happy to go along with it, John?”
“Don’t try to blame me. You know you’ve made your own contribution to this mess with Wrigley,” he said.
I couldn’t argue with him about that. John was often caught in the middle of my ongoing war with Wrigley. “Well, screw it, then. Go ahead and give me the beeper now.”
“Look, Kelly—”
“Give me the beeper. And if Wrigley wonders why I’m not at the staff meeting, tell him maybe he should try to page me.”
IF THE PEOPLE IN THE NEWSROOM wondered how I had managed to return John to his crabby self, they didn’t ask me to my face. I was too busy to worry about their reactions.
I checked my phone messages. Murray was waiting to see me, and Claire had called. I had been planning to call her anyway, but I wanted to follow up on a couple of other things first.
Through his secretary, I made an appointment to see Roland Hill that afternoon. You would think the woman hadn’t been hanging up in my ear for nearly a week.
Next, I called Ivy Vines.
“I need your help with a couple of things,” I said.
“Sure. What can I do for you?”
“I’m trying to figure something out. You dated one of Andre’s friends before you got involved with Andre, right?”
“Yes. That’s how I met you, remember? I was still dating Jeff when you were with Andre.”
“Jeff, the setup man,” I said. “Whenever Andre wanted to break up with someone, Jeff made sure she walked in on Andre and his new flame.”
“I didn’t know Jeff did that for Andre until much later,” she said meekly. “Sorry.”
“C’mon, Ivy. No need to apologize. Until we all started talking to one another, none of us knew Andre’s M.O.—ancient history by then.”
“I should have guessed what Jeff was up to. I’ve thought about it a lot since then. Anyway, what do you need to know?”
“I’m trying to fill in a blank or two, Ivy. I was with Andre after Helen. Alicia was after me. Were you after Alicia?”
“No, I was a couple of women later.”
“Who was with Andre after Alicia?”
“Hmm. Alicia didn’t last too long, as I recall. I think she was just trying to take him away from you.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t the first time she went after one of my boyfriends, but it was the first time she got what she deserved.”
“Nobody deserves Andre. Not even Alicia.”
“True,” I admitted.
“I don’t remember who Andre was with after Alicia. I could try to find out—wait—I know, we could ask Lisa.”
I thought back to my conversations with Lisa. Lisa had sounded so embittered. “I’d rather avoid that if at all possible, Ivy. Lisa has enough reminders of what a jerk he is without having to recite a litany of his old girlfriends.”
“Good point,” she said.
“Actually, I don’t really need a list of people. I’m just trying to find out about one woman,” I said. “Someone named Nadine Preston.”
“Nadine! Oh, God,” she groaned. “I remember her!”
“You do?”
“Yes, because of what happened with Jeff.” She paused, then said, “Nadine really fell hard for old Andre. Wonder why we’ve never thought of her for SOS? She holds a record.”
“I’m confused. A record?”
“Burned by the same fire twice.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Andre never got back together with anyone, even if she was masochistic enough to beg him to take her back—right?”
“Right.”
“Except Nadine. Technically, anyway. A very brief reunion.”
I was astonished. “Are you saying she went back to him?”
“Yes. Jeff made a big deal out of it. He was really angry with Andre about it. It was ridiculous. I don’t think Nadine and Andre were back together for more than a couple of weeks. Jeff spent more time being upset about it than Nadine and Andre spent being back together.”
“Why should Jeff care if Andre was reunited with an ex, especially if it was only for a few days?”
“I tried to find out, but he never told me. He just said that it could only mean trouble. Nadine ended the friendship between Andre and Jeff.”
“You lost me somewhere in there, Ivy. I would think Jeff’s friendship with Andre ended because Andre lured you from his side.”
“No, their friendship was already over. It almost ended when Nadine got together with Andre the first time. Jeff told him he was taking a big chance, because Nadine worked for Andre as a graduate assistant.”
“She was an exception there, too, wasn’t she?”
“Right. Andre used to have a rule: none of his own students, no one who worked for him.”
“And Nadine was working for Andre when they got together?” I asked.
“Yes. Jeff thought that was a mistake, but Andre told him to mind his own business. I think it must have hurt Jeff. Until Andre broke up with Nadine, Jeff stopped hanging out with him. I don’t think things were ever really the same between them after that. So when Andre got back together with Nadine, Jeff really felt betrayed. Not that I have any room to talk about betraying Jeff—”
“I don’t get it. Jeff wasn’t attracted to her himself?”
“Not at all. That much, I’m sure of.”
“Then it was a pretty severe reaction, wasn’t it? Jeff must have seen Andre with dozens of women. Why would it bother him to see Andre get back together with someone?”
“Jeff just didn’t like her. He said that Andre was nuts to date Nadine in the first place. He would never elaborate on it. I tried to smooth things out between them, but Jeff wasn’t interested. By then, things weren’t going so well with Jeff and me—he had other problems that got in the way of our relationship. But I guess Andre took advantage of that—got back at him by stealing me away from him.”
“Whew.”
“Yes. Not a time I’m very proud of.”
“Ivy, none of us left Andre with our pride intact.”
She didn’t say anything.
“So why do you think Andre broke his own rules with this woman?” I asked.
“I don’t know. They didn’t last too long the second time—like I said, a couple of weeks or maybe even less. That’s why I thought Jeff was being ridiculous. Andre used to ask me about it. Andre and I didn’t last long together. I was just looking for a way out of my relationship with Jeff. And I think Andre was more interested in trying to find out what Jeff had told me about Nadine than he was in dating me. I always had to tell him what I’m telling you—Jeff thought Andre had crossed some kind of boundary by dating someone he worked with, and he didn’t think Nadine was trustworthy. But maybe Jeff would have ended that friendship anyway. I don’t know.”
“So who arranged for Nadine to walk in on you and Andre?”
“No one. She left him.”
“What?”
“Yes. I think they must have had a fight out on the boat. Went fishing one day, and that was that.”
That’s three records for Nadine, I thought, becoming all the more curious about her. Andre dated his own graduate assistant, reconciled with her, and she left him before he could leave her. “Ivy—do you still have that friend in the college records office?”
“Sure. You want me to have her track down Nadine?”
“Yes. If the records office doesn’t have a current address, maybe your friend could find out if Nadine Preston has asked for transcripts to be sent somewhere.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“Even if I could get her student ID number—it’s the same as her Social Security number, right?”
“Right,” she said. “You think you might be able to locate her with that?”
“Maybe. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to know where Jeff is these days?”
There was a long silence. “You honestly don’t know?”
“No.”
“I guess you weren’t around then.”
“Around when?”
“Jeff killed himself not long after I left him.”
“Jeff? I can’t believe—” I quickly realized that it was the wrong thing to say. The trouble was, there was no right thing to say. “I—I’m sorry, Ivy. I didn’t know.”
“It was a long time ago,” she said, sounding as if it wasn’t. “It happened when you were living in Bakersfield, I guess.”
“No one told me—”
“Don’t worry about it. Now, where should I call you with the information? Are you going to be in your office?”
I looked at the little black object on my desk. “Let me give you my pager number.”
23
I TRAVELED THE TWISTS and turns of the building’s corridors, my thoughts so absorbed with Ivy’s revelations that I passed up the room occupied by the business section and had to double back.
I worried about Ivy, thought of how carelessly I had referred to Jeff throughout the conversation. I had undoubtedly opened old wounds. Ivy had always been kind to me, and inadvertently, I had been unkind to her.
Nadine Preston occupied my thoughts as well. Andre—who was so unwavering in his relationship patterns that a hundred women could recite them chapter and verse—had been remarkably unpredictable in his dealings with her.
I CAUGHT UP WITH Murray at his desk. He was hard at work on the Sunday real estate section, which would go to press on Thursday morning. Watching him work on predated pages, I remembered how disillusioned I was when—early on in my study of journal-ism—I learned that the whole paper wasn’t always printed up the night before it was delivered.
Murray looked up when I cast a shadow across his desk, glanced around, and saw that we were alone. Probably in a world of his own until I stood in his light.
