by Chase Potter
My eyes finally abandon Alex and settle on the document. “What is this?”
He leans back. “Over the last three years, thirty developers have applied for two hundred seventy zoning variances. On average, only thirty percent are approved.”
I shrug, but my own breath is loud in my ears. “Sounds about right.”
“I agree,” he says, and I’m glad to detect a vague disinterest in his tone. “But then I dug a little deeper, and I noticed that a handful of developers in particular have received almost all of those variance approvals. The other developers didn’t get hardly any approved. Your firm is one of those getting variances. That’s interesting, don’t you think?”
“Not really,” I say, using a perfect blend of casual and serious. Neither force nor nonchalance is ever truly convincing — they come off as either defensive or fake. But I’ve become a master at this. “I only take on projects that I believe are in the best interest of both my company and the city, so it’s no surprise that my projects have been granted more variances. I imagine it’s the same for those other developers you mentioned.” I hand the paper back to him as I let the words float in the air, doing their work.
After several moments, Alex nods. “Fair enough, that’s what I figured. I just wanted to be able to ask someone more familiar with it without raising a bunch of red flags around town.”
“Happy to help.” I pause, fighting the part of myself urging caution. “Just out of curiosity, why did you bring this to me?” The second question I leave unsaid: why assume I’m not part of the activity you’re trying to investigate?
“The other developers are all sprawling corporations. I’ve been trying to meet with their management but it’s been a struggle.” Alex shrugs and explains with a grin, “You’re just a guy who drives an aging Camry.”
I wonder offhandedly if my crappy car has just saved me from something terrible.
He stands up and holds out his hand. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Archer.” He hesitates, then corrects himself, “Matt, I mean.”
I draw in a breath, suddenly anxious for no good reason at all. I’m sweating, but I don’t think it’s because of this little government inquisition in which I have momentarily managed to avoid suspicion.
Without delaying any longer, I shake his hand. “Anytime.”
He stands, and I get the feeling that he’s lingering. But a moment later, he turns to go. At the door, he pauses and glances back at me. “It was fun getting drinks with you guys the other night. If you ever want to go again sometime…” he trails, and I’m not sure if he means just me or not.
I force a smile. He should never have been invited in the first place, but there’s nothing I can do about that now. “Sure. I’ll let you know.” But I don’t know if I really should.
He grins, and his expression is genuine.
The glass door swings open and then shut again, but I wait until he exchanges some words with Edith and finally leaves. The moment he’s out of the suite, I’ve got my phone pressed to my ear.
James answers after just two rings. “Matt, what’s up?”
In the background I can hear some woman laughing. James is always screwing around, but I have zero patience for that right now. “Alex Price just left my office,” I tell him, and the glass walls of my office reflect my frustration back at me.
I can hear shuffling and a hushed “go wait outside” from his side of the line. When James speaks next, there’s nothing joking about his tone. “What did he want?”
“Oh you know, the usual.” My voice seethes with sarcasm. “Stopped by to say hi and ask some casual questions about our antitrust activities. He’s asking about variances.”
Silence. I steal the moment to gaze out over the high-rises of downtown.
“Don’t fuck with me, Matt. What did he want?”
“He was asking the same questions as that reporter, wondering why some developers have so much better luck with variance requests than anyone else.”
“Shit,” he growls the word. “Why would he tip his hand like that to you?”
“Because he wasn’t smart,” I joke, but as soon as the words are out, I regret their truth. I’m blindsided by the memory of him letting himself into my car and the playful way he introduced himself, the feel of his palm pressing against mine as we shook hands.
I swallow the thought and add, “Apparently he assumed I couldn’t possibly be involved. Something to do with my car,” I admit.
James laughs. “Your car really is a piece of shit. Sometimes you’re too clever for your own good.”
“So what now?”
He sighs, and his breath pushes static across the line. “The reporter was one thing, but if the district attorney is poking into this, it means that someone has been talking.” A sound of displeasure rumbles in my ear. “We’re going to have to clean everything up.”
Anxiety slinks into my voice. “What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” James snaps. “Get rid of the records. Shred them, delete them, burn them. I’ll work with the other developers to make sure they do the same.”
A growl simmers in the back of my throat, but I keep my answer simple. “I’m not going to break the law.”
“If that were the case, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”
Anger roils in my stomach, and it takes a lot of effort to keep my mouth shut. James isn’t exactly lying, but he’s leaving out some important details.
In response to my silence, he finally says, “Oh, and this should go without saying, but stay the hell away from him, Matt,” James presses, his tone hard.
Then he hangs up, and I’m alone once more in my prison of glass.
Chapter Four
Alex stays on my mind. I keep telling myself that it’s because he’s starting an investigation that might eventually lead to me, and that it’s in my best interest to keep him close. What better way to keep tabs on how deep he’s digging?
Notwithstanding James’s warning against contacting him at all, I’m not sure that’s the reason my phone is lying in my open palm.
It’s something about Alex’s confidence, or maybe the youthfulness that he refuses to let go of. I can’t pin down the reason exactly, but the feeling keeps needling me until my thumb dials out the number of his office.
“District Attorney Price,” he answers.
He sounds different on the phone. Not better or worse, just… different.
“Hello?” he says.
“Hey,” I manage to say. “It’s, uh, Matt. Um, Archer.”
Two seconds pass, then three. Finally: “Is this about our meeting yesterday?”
“No, I just…” The words get lost somewhere, and my fingers squeeze the phone a little tighter.
“Yeah?” he asks, and I can hear a curious edge to his question.
It’s that edge that gives me the courage to keep going. “I just figured that if we’re both working in the zoning and development space,” — and if you’re heading down a rabbit hole that has felonies at the end — “then maybe we should get to know each other better.”
Heartbeats sound in my head as I wait for his answer, and I strain my ears so I don’t miss some tiny bit of information that turns out to be important. I remind myself for the twentieth time today that I’m just trying to figure out what makes him tick. To find out what exactly he’s after. Because without that, I can’t know how much risk there is. Like James, I have connections both in city government and beyond, but I can’t make a move if I don’t know what’s coming.
“Oh.” He sounds more pleased than surprised. “I’d like that. You thinking of a beer or something after work?”
I try to feign a casual ambivalence, but my voice tips on the last word. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”
“Great,” he says. “And Matt?”
“Yeah?”
“Please feel free to use my cell number in the future for, um… personal matters.”
I can hear the smile beh
ind his words, but the chastisement still stings as he gives me his other number. After that, I suggest a bar along the river that doesn’t see a lot of traffic during the week. We pick a time two days from now, and then he hangs up.
I set my phone gingerly on my desk and exhale a long breath. I repeat the rationale to myself all over again, that I’m just doing this because I have to. I need to figure Alex out in order to prevent a harmless investigation from turning into a witch hunt.
But telling myself that doesn’t cover up the giddy feeling in my stomach, the one making me look forward to meeting him more than I should. The same feeling that makes me wonder what Alex thinks of this.
But really it doesn’t matter what he thinks. This is just business for me.
* * * * *
I park behind the small brick building that has served as Eric Bradford’s mayoral campaign headquarters for the last year, and I slip through the backdoor and find myself in a packed room. Campaign aides are scampering back and forth, but I ignore them. No one here has any idea who I am, and that’s exactly the way it should be. They also have no idea that I paid for almost this entire shindig, including the buffet table set up on the side wall.
I take a tiny plastic plate and build a mini sandwich for myself, opting for the roast beef over the turkey.
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
I glance up to find James loading up a plate for himself. “Didn’t want to miss the food,” I explain.
“I figured you wanted to stay away from this money pit.”
“It’s not cheap to oust a five-term incumbent mayor.” I shrug and take a bite of my sandwich. It’s not as good as anything Carson makes. Through the bite, I repeat James’s words to me a year ago, “It costs what it costs.”
James smirks. “You know they’ve kept this buffet table stocked for the last three months.”
“They have not,” I snap, glaring him down. “Now go away before someone wonders who you’re talking to.”
“Hey everyone,” he says loudly, “We’ve got Matt here!”
“Shut the hell up,” I hiss. But I have to admit that no one around us even looked up.
James gestures with his plate. “See, no one cares. They’re all too busy spending your campaign contributions.”
“Still…” I argue, and then I shove the rest of the sandwich into my mouth. Giving James a little wave that could just as well have been with my middle finger, I turn to walk away.
“You’re not staying for the election results?” he calls after me.
This is James’s game, not mine, and I don’t give two shits whether Bradford wins or not. I swallow my mouthful, wincing because it was too soon. “I have something to take care of.”
Back in the aging cloth seat of my Camry, I reverse into the deserted street before jamming the pedal down. The engine struggles to respond, barely pressing me against the seat as the car lurches forward.
I navigate farther away from downtown, along streets lined with abandoned industrial buildings. They watch me as I drive, looking down at my passing with ochre brick faces and broken windows for eyes. I drive down empty streets, and the frustration with having to pay for Bradford’s mayoral campaign fades into the back of my mind.
As I pass a five-story building with a particularly industrial façade, I wonder if maybe there’s an opportunity here. Luxury apartments. I slow down, leaning closer to the window to get a better look at the building. The gears in my mind whirr to life. I can see it now. The Lofts by Archer Development. Warehouse chic, stained concrete, industrial lighting, freight elevators revamped for residential use.
My eyes follow the building in my rearview mirror, and the nearly forgotten part of me that used to love the world of design stirs somewhere inside. It’s been years since I built anything I gave a damn about. The property itself would be cheap, and I bet for once I wouldn’t need to pull any favors to get the approval. This part of the city has been dead for decades, and I would have both the starting capital and influence to get investors on board without James’s help.
Of course if I developed here, I’d have to find a new out of the way bar.
* * * * *
“I’m kind of surprised you asked to meet,” Alex admits as the waitress delivers our beers. I made a point to find a spot at a table and not a booth. It’s less intimate that way.
“Sometimes I can be a bit prickly with new people,” I say, immediately wishing I hadn’t been so forthright.
“Seriously.” He flashes a playful grin as he pokes fun at me.
His casual comfort in this situation is such a contrast to my own, and an electric apprehension tingles in the tips of my fingers. My gaze slides down to my beer before daring to head back to his eyes.
“So…” he begins, but really he’s just trying to get me to talk.
I might as well start in the obvious spot. “Congratulations on being elected as a DA so young. That’s impressive.”
He’s flattered, and he pulls his beer up to his mouth. I follow the movement as he takes a hasty drink. “Thanks,” he says, setting the glass down on the table.
I realize a second too late I’m still staring at his lips. Crap. “Um, so…” My cheeks are starting to burn and the question I was going to ask has disappeared.
Alex’s expression dances with amusement. “Yeah?”
“How is it… um, going so far? The new job, that is.”
He shrugs. “Pretty good, I guess. It’s been almost a year already, but I still feel like so much is going on all at once.” He takes another long pull from his beer, and I make a point not to watch too closely.
He leans into the back of his chair, and I ask, “Oh yeah?”
“I suppose the hardest thing is trying to figure out what’s worth pursuing and what isn’t.”
“Like what?” I prod again.
“I really can’t comment on cases I’m working on.” He nibbles his lip, and when his eyes meet mine, I can’t tell if he wants to share or if it’s something else on his mind.
“Sure,” I say. “I totally get it.”
Across the bar, an older guy sits down and the bartender makes his way over. My attention gets caught up in their interaction, and I don’t notice at first that Alex’s gaze is lingering on me.
This is when I’m supposed to snap my focus back to him, to force him to look away. But I don’t.
Lifting my glass, I take a long drink. Beer flows over my tongue, the vague sweetness of malted barley fills my mouth, and Alex doesn’t stop watching me. Warmth spreads in my cheeks — from the alcohol, I think — and only now do I set my glass down. I meet his eyes, and for some reason I like that he doesn’t flinch. “Why New Zealand?” I ask.
The corners of his mouth pull into a curious smile. “You remembered that?”
I don’t answer as he leans in, and in an instant I become sharply aware that we’re sitting closer than two buddies in a bar normally would. The tension swells, tightens, and finally breaks as Alex leans back with a shrug. “I’ve never been there. Of course it’s beautiful, but…” his words fall into a swig of his beer.
“But?”
His glass taps the tabletop with a clunk, and he’s slow to continue. “Have you ever just… wanted to get away? To travel as far as you can and leave everything behind? No family or friends, no work, no nothing?” He glances away, as if he’s embarrassed. “New Zealand is like the farthest from here you can get.”
His words hit a lot closer to home than he could ever guess, and my hand tightens around my beer.
“It’s dumb, I know,” Alex admits, blushing. He puts on a self-conscious grin and lifts his glass, “So here’s to me making a fool of myself.”
“It’s not,” I argue, leaving him hanging until he sets his beer down again. “I want to get away too sometimes,” I say softly, even as the rational part of me is shouting shut up.
Silence drags out between us, but after a moment Alex hops down from his seat. “Bathroom, be right back.”
/>
Finally alone, I’m met by the frustrating realization that I’ve been doing a much better job of getting to know Alex than I am getting to know his investigation. James’s words from the other day echo in my mind. Stay the hell away from him, Matt.
I glance to Alex’s beer. It’s still half full, and I haven’t gotten nearly that far yet. I take a long drink and wonder if it will help me relax. Calm confidence in social settings is what helped me find success in my career, but tonight I feel like an awkward teenager all over again.
When Alex returns to his chair, he throws a glance at my beer. “Looks like I have catching up to do. Unless you’ve got somewhere to be.”
I shake my head. “Nowhere.”
Alex dutifully puts down a third of his glass in one go. His Adam’s apple bobs, and a trickle of golden liquid drips down both sides of his mouth. I have to admit I’m impressed. For a public servant, he’s not a bad drinker.
I tell him that, and he laughs. “You think that law school is all about studying?”
With a smirk, I say, “I always figured it was just a bunch of dorks reading books.”
“Keep it up and I’ll tackle you to the ground next week too.”
Something in his comeback gives me the impression once again that the first time he did it wasn’t an accident. Doubt flickers inside me, and my voice is quiet when I say, “I think you just got lucky.”
He watches me closely. “Sometimes I do get lucky.”
An awkward pause holds us both captive, and with nowhere else to go, our eyes meet. The longer I look, the more I feel like I’m falling forward, as though gravity has shifted and it’s trying to drag me across the table.
Finally he says, “So about the ongoing investigations thing I mentioned earlier.”
I had all but forgotten this was my reason for bringing him here, and I grin, letting my buzz show through. “I thought you weren’t supposed to comment on those.” But please do.
“That’s more of a guideline than a hard and fast rule,” he says.
I notice him beginning to slur, and even though I should be pleased that my ploy tonight is working, I’m not. Instead, guilt brushes its cold fingers against me. He’s too nice of a guy to take advantage of like this.
