by Dorien Grey
“Anyway, she came out, said she’d just happened to glance out the window and saw me and we talked some more. She and her husband have only had the building for about three years, but he recently became ill right after losing his job. With no health insurance, they feel they have to sell in case they need money to cover their medical bills. Plus, he isn’t able to do the usual maintenance he once did. I gave her your card and she said she would definitely give you a call.”
“I really appreciate your doing all this,” Elliott said. “I owe you. If there’s anything I can do to repay you…”
“Oh, there is!” Steve said, laughing. “But not over the phone.”
They talked for a few more minutes, until Steve said, “Well, I’d better let you go in case Mrs. Wolinski—that’s her name, by the way, Eleanor Wolinski—is trying to call you.”
“She’ll call back,” Elliott said. “But I suppose we should go. I imagine you want to get to your sketches.”
“Yeah, I do. I’m really excited about it. We’ll talk during the week then?”
“You know it,” Elliott said. “Thanks again, and have a good one.”
He had no sooner replaced the phone on the charger when it rang.
“Elliott Smith.”
“Mr. Smith, my name is Eleanor Wolinski. Your friend gave me your card and says you might be interested in buying our building.”
“I’m always interested in potential properties,” Elliott replied, preferring to be noncommittal at this stage. Steve’s observation that most of the building appeared to be vacant had sounded a small alarm bell in his mind. “You don’t have it listed currently, I gather?”
“No. My husband was a realtor up until the time of his illness, and we’ll be handling most of the details of the sale ourselves. We’d just been talking about selling last week, so having your friend suddenly appear was a very nice surprise. Would you like to come take a look at the place?”
He would, of course, but he found her eagerness a bit disconcerting. Still, it couldn’t hurt to look. “Yes, I think I would. When would be convenient for you?”
“Any time at all!” she said. “Would you like to come by this evening?”
Again, the alarm bell.
“Well, it’ll be getting dark soon, and I prefer to see it in daylight. Would four o’clock tomorrow afternoon be all right?”
“Of course.”
“Fine. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
* * *
Leaving his current job site at three thirty, Elliott found the alley behind the Wolinskis’ building and drove clown it to see if there was a garage. He had noted earlier that the street was posted “Restricted Parking,” which meant a permit sticker had to be displayed on any car parking there after 6:00 p.m. He considered that to be a mixed blessing—good for the residents but lousy for evening visitors looking for a parking place. There was no garage, only an in-bad-shape concrete pad that could accommodate three cars. Just one more element to factor into the equation.
He found a parking spot near the end of the street and walked back to the building, studying the houses he passed on the way. All appeared to be well cared for and about the same age, with the exception of a new three-story. The small iron-fenced front yard was in serious need of mowing, though the two flower beds were well kept. He assumed the owner husband’s illness was responsible for the lack of lawn maintenance.
Taking a few minutes to study the structure carefully, looking for obvious flaws, he found none. The aging white paint that covered the original brick showed a few small chips but was not badly flaked. Opening the gate, he approached the building, spotting one sizable chip of paint that had peeled off. He got close enough to confirm that the surface beneath was what he had suspected—Chicago brick, which had been the city’s main building material for generations. It differed from the brick used in most current construction in that it was solid, as opposed to emulating concrete blocks by being partially hollow. Chicago brick was considered so valuable that several companies in the city specialized in salvaging and recycling it.
Scalloped wooden gingerbread ran along the eaves, but because they were also painted white, he had to look closely to see its detail, which he liked. He envisioned wooden shutters to accent the windows and noted there had apparently been shutters at one time, but that they had been removed. Non-working shutters were impractical, but they added a great deal to the appearance of a building.
He was tempted to circle the entire building, but thought it best to talk with the owners first.
Climbing the front steps, again checking for and making mental notes of existing or potential problems, he reached the beveled-glass front doors, beside which was a mail slot and, above the slot, a small panel of four buttons. Only two had names beside them. The two ground-level apartments, he’d noted, had their own individual doors and buzzers. Looking through the glass-paneled double door he saw a small, shallow foyer with another set of half-glass doors leading into the building proper. He could see a center stairway going up, flanked by one door on either side.
He pressed the button beside the name Wolinski, and a moment later the right-hand inner door opened and a woman in her early sixties, whom he assumed to be Mrs. Wolinski, came toward him. Opening the outer door and smiling warmly, she extended her hand.
“Mr. Smith, I presume?”
Taking it and returning the smile, he said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Wolinski.”
They passed through the small foyer between the two sets of double doors. The carpeted stairway in front of him was centered in the ten-by-eight-foot space and was flanked by an apartment door on either side.
She showed him into her apartment on the left side of the building. As he entered, a heavyset man seated in a chair against the far wall nodded and gave him a tired half-smile.
“Excuse me for not getting up,” he said, “but the doctor doesn’t want me doing much moving around.”
Elliott crossed to him to shake hands. “No problem.”
“Please have a seat,” Mrs. Wolinski said, and he moved to the sofa and sat down. “Would you like some coffee? Tea?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” he said pleasantly, and she settled on the other end of the sofa.
Elliott had just started to study the room as subtly as possible when he became aware that someone else was present. It was John, but Elliott had no idea as to what he was doing there.
Not feeling any need to ask why the Wolinskis were selling, he said, “So, tell me a bit about the building.”
The couple exchanged a glance, and Mrs. Wolinski said, “We bought it about three years ago, while Earl was still working as a real estate agent. The minute he saw it, he brought me over and we both fell in love with it. Our youngest had just graduated from college and taken a job in New York, and our other children are scattered around the country. So we sold our home and bought this. We still love it,” she hastened to add, “but with Earl’s health, it’s just too much for us.”
“I understand,” Elliott said. “I see that only three of the apartments seem to be occupied. Is there any particular reason?”
Again, an exchange of glances between husband and wife and an unexpectedly strong surge of John’s presence.
“No,” Mrs. Wolinski replied, though it was obvious she wasn’t being truthful.
While he could understand an owner’s reluctance to reveal problems with their property to a potential buyer, disclosure was mandatory by law.
“We’d never owned rental property before,” Mrs. Wolinski went on, “and I’m afraid we didn’t—and still don’t—fully understand all the ins and outs of it. We really have no idea why our turnover rate was so high.”
“You do have your tenants sign a lease, don’t you?” he asked.
“Of course, but it appears they are about as watertight as a sieve.”
“So, there is nothing physically wrong with the property?”
“No! Nothing serious. It needs a lot of cosmetic
work, of course—what building this old doesn’t? But there is nothing serious—plumbing, heating, electrical, all are old but have never given us any problem at all. Would you like me to show you around?”
Elliott decided to hold off further comments until he’d had a closer look at the place. “If you would, please.”
He and Mrs. Wolinski got up.
“We’ll be right back, Earl,” she said as she picked up a set of keys off the lamp table beside her. “Is there anything you need before we go?”
Mr. Wolinski raised one hand off the arm of his chair to give a small wave. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”
Elliott followed her out.
“We’ll start with the ground apartment, if that’s all right. One’s occupied, but…”
“I understand,” Elliott said. “No problem.”
She kept talking as they descended the outer stairs and turned left to the door under the stairway. “All the apartments are two-bedroom except for this one. The space that would be the second bedroom is the utility room—we’ll have to go around back to get in there.”
He followed her into the apartment and was favorably impressed. A large living room with hardwood floors, nine-foot ceilings rather than the twelve-footers in the Wolinskis’ apartment. The place needed painting, but there were no cracks or chips in the walls or ceilings. The kitchen appliances were old but clean. Even the oven had apparently been cleaned either before or after the last tenant left. The bathroom, too, was good-sized, and while the fixtures were obviously old, they seemed in good order. There was no sign of plumbing problems or water damage. The bedroom was spacious with a big closet and a large barred window.
After leaving the apartment, they walked around the building to a door at the rear that led to the utility room containing the furnace, fuse boxes, and various utility shutoffs. His practiced eye missed nothing, and he was pleased to have found nothing thus far that signaled a serious concern. So why, he wondered, the lack of tenants? Even though it was somewhat off the beaten track, he’d have thought people would be lined up to live in such a beautiful building.
As they climbed the front steps and reentered the building, the door opposite the Wolinskis’ opened and a grandmotherly type came out, purse in hand. She smiled and nodded when she saw them, exchanging greetings with Mrs. Wolinski. Elliott held the inner door open for her as she left.
“That’s Mrs. Reinerio,” Mrs. Wolinski explained. “She’s lived here for over twenty years. A really sweet woman. If we had four more tenants like her, we’d never consider selling.”
He found that statement a bit puzzling, but said nothing.
They proceeded up the stairs, and the instant they reached the top, Elliott was again strongly aware of John. Though the doors to the two upper apartments were directly across the hall from one another, Elliott sensed him most strongly by the one to the left.
Mrs. Wolinski unlocked the apartment on the right.
Though he had not seen all of her apartment, he assumed all three apartments on the right half of the building probably had identical floor plans except for the one-bedroom ground floor. More well-kept hardwood floors showed a slight discoloration, indicating the previous presence of an area rug; a small dining room was adjacent to the kitchen, the bathroom across from the kitchen, and two good-sized bedrooms beyond. Crown moldings and door frames bore several layers of paint but looked otherwise unbroken or gouged. Slightly different appliances and fixtures indicated a renovation at some point in the past.
Back outside the apartment, Mrs. Wolinski started toward the stairs.
“Is this one occupied?” Elliott asked, indicating the door across the hall. He knew it wasn’t, since he’d been told only three of the apartments were occupied—the Wolinskis’, Mrs. Reinerio’s, and the right-side ground-level apartment.
Mrs. Wolinski appeared startled. “Oh. No, I’m sorry. It’s the same floor plan as ours and the ground-floor, only reversed. But if you’d like to see it…”
He smiled. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
It was, indeed, a mirror image of the others, and in the same overall good condition. Everything seemed in working order. He tried the stove, ran water in the kitchen sink, tested all the ceiling lights, flushed the toilet, and tested the bathroom faucets. All fine.
So, why was John following him around so closely?
* * *
They returned to the Wolinskis’ apartment.
“What did you think?” Mr. Wolinski asked.
“Very nice,” Elliott replied, taking, at Mrs. Wolinski’s invitation, his previous position on the sofa. “But I’m really curious about your tenant turnover rate. There has to be a reason for it.”
Again, husband and wife exchanged glances before Mrs. Wolinski spoke.
“Two of them had job transfers out of town…”
Which struck Elliott as a bit unlikely.
“…one claimed his car had been broken into and he was concerned about neighborhood crime, though there really isn’t any that we’ve noticed. And the others had various reasons. We probably could have tried harder to hold them to their leases, but it didn’t seem right. If they wanted to move, it wouldn’t be fair of us to try to force them to stay.”
“But no problems with, in, or around the building itself?” Elliott persisted.
Mr. Wolinski sighed and nodded in response to his wife’s look.
“Well, there might be a reason, though it’s really a very silly one,” she said.
“That being…?”
“I’m not sure exactly why or how, but apparently someone has been getting into the building. We have no idea how, and we’ve changed all the exterior door locks at least three times.”
“So, you’ve had break-ins?”
Both the Wolinskis shook their heads, but as usual it was Mrs. Wolinski who replied, “No! Not at all!”
“Then how do you know someone’s getting into the building?”
Sighing, she said, “It has to be some neighborhood prankster—that’s the only thing we can think of.”
“What do they do?”
“Nothing, really. They just knock on the door. And whoever answers it finds no one there.”
CHAPTER 2
“Someone knocks on the door?” Elliott asked, thoroughly puzzled.
Mrs. Wolinski nodded. “That’s it. Someone gets in, all times of day or night, and all they do is knock on the door, and when the tenant goes to answer it, no one’s there. It’s frustrating, and particularly so when it happens in the middle of the night. We’d planned on installing security cameras, but with Earl’s illness…”
Elliott’s immediate thought was that there was some structural abnormality in the building—temperature-related expansions or contractions, possibly—that created a sound like knocking. “Any particular apartment, or all of them? And you’re sure the sound is coming from the door?”
“Definitely. It’s a very distinctive sound. And there is no pattern to it as to time or which apartment. Sometimes there will be several in one day, other times weeks will go by with nothing. There has to be a simple, logical explanation, and I’m sure someone smarter than we are can and will figure it out, but…”
Elliott was equal parts disturbed and intrigued, especially considering his awareness of John.
“We’ve even called the police,” Mr. Wolinski said, “but there’s really nothing they can do. They said they’d keep an eye on the building, but that’s about it.”
“I do hope this won’t dissuade you from your interest in the building,” Mrs. Wolinski added, and Elliott could hear the concern in her voice.
“No, of course not,” he replied. Even the slightest hint of desperation on the part of a seller normally would have sent him packing. That it didn’t in this case he attributed to a combination of being able to understand the Wolinskis’ situation and, though he had no idea why, the fact that John was involved.
They talked a while longer about general information on the building: avera
ge maintenance and operating costs and heat, water, taxes, assessments, and so on. Elliott was pleased and impressed to discover the Wolinskis had anticipated these questions and had most of the relevant information, bills, forms, and papers ready. Mr. Wolinski expressed concern that whoever bought the property would not merely raze it and put up more condominiums, and Elliott assured him of his own interest in preserving Chicago’s architectural heritage through restoration.
Finally, realizing it was time for him to leave, he said, “Have you determined an asking price yet?”
Mr. Wolinski shook his head. “No,” he said, “we’ve only recently definitely decided to sell. We haven’t come up with a specific figure yet.”
Elliott nodded. “I understand,” he said, and he did. “Why don’t you come up with one and call me.” He took another card out of his shirt pocket and wrote his cell phone number under the printed landline number, handing it to Mrs. Wolinski. “I can’t guarantee anything at this point, but if everything goes well, the next step is for me to have my crew do an inspection. But let’s take it one step at a time. I’ll look forward to your call.”
Getting up, he went to shake hands with Mr. Wolinski then followed Mrs. Wolinski to the door, where he exchanged a handshake and repeated he would be awaiting their call.
* * *
On the drive home, he replayed his mental video of the property. That Mr. Wolinski had been a real estate agent indicated the property was sound or they never would have bought it in the first place. And, assuming the ground-floor apartment he’d not seen and the rest of the Wolinskis’ own unit and Mrs. Reinerio’s were in the same basic condition as the empty units, he was, overall, pleased.
There were, of course, innumerable minor things that would have to be repaired or replaced, plus the more substantial changes and alterations he would want to make in order to turn the property into what he already envisioned it could be.
The bricks would have to be sandblasted to remove the white paint and return them to their original condition, which was likely having an influence on his uncharacteristic haste—with winter coming, he’d like to have it finished as soon as possible. He was curious whether the rest of the bricks matched the one he’d seen. The exteriors of many Chicago brick structures had a subtle mottling created by bricks of many different shades. The ornate exterior woodwork needed refinishing, but looked to be in better-than-average shape.
