"So am I." Owens chuckled. "This is Crenwood you're talking about. Do you know how low property values are already?"
"I do." Cruz spoke firmly. "Sir, I've worked Crenwood for a dozen years. It was always poor, but it used to be a solid neighborhood of working families. Now it's a war zone. And honest people who wouldn't have dreamed of selling a decade ago are taking fifty cents on the dollar."
"Getting worse is in the nature of things." But the alderman stroked at his chin, his eyes narrowed. "Who are these alleged people?"
Jason grimaced. "We know some of them, sir, but not all of them. We've been over legal documents, real estate contracts, shipping manifests, documentation of holding companies. There weren't any personal names, but there was plenty to trace everything back to a source. That's what the men who killed him were looking for." He didn't mention that they didn't have the evidence anymore. One step at a time. Get the guy onboard, then he could tell the whole story. "And they came after us, too."
"What happened?"
"They ran our car into the river." He kept his gaze level.
"Ran your car-"
"Into the river. Off the Thirty-fifth Street bridge. That's how Officer Cruz cut her head." He gestured, and she pulled her bangs aside to show the bruise, still visible under makeup. "We can take you there if you'd like, show you where we went over."
The alderman hesitated. "You said these people are using every means to drive prices down. What does that mean?" Jason felt a thrill of hope. The alderman had said these people, not these alleged people.
"Mr. Alderman, what I'm about to tell you sounds far-fetched," Cruz said, her voice soft but steady. "Sir, the people behind this are fostering a gang war in Crenwood. They're keeping the Gangster Disciples and the Latin Saints at each other's throats. Then they're torching specific properties and laying the blame at the gangs' feet. And to make sure that the war stays hot, they're arming both sides. Last night we watched two of these men sell submachine guns to a group of Latin Saints."
"Submachine guns?" The alderman's eyes widened. A faint sheen of sweat lit his brow. "Who was selling them? Who are you talking about?"
Cruz hesitated. Jason met her eyes, thinking, Moment of truth.
"One of them was an arms dealer named Anthony DiRisio," Cruz said, speaking slowly. "And the other was a police sergeant named Tom Galway."
The alderman stared at her open-mouthed. The noise of the party continued, but it felt far away. Jason's fingers tingled, and spiders climbed his spine. He could see every face in the room. Rich men with sagging bellies, taut-skinned women wearing jewelry that cost more than he'd made in a year of soldiering, all talking and laughing and making deals in slow motion, a twisting dance of flesh and intent.
"This doesn't make any sense." Owens looked back and forth between them.
"It does if you're the right kind of person. If you're rich and want to get richer and don't care about the people in your way."
"But why Crenwood? With the gangs, the violence, the blight, we're hardly the next Lincoln Park."
"Not the next, no. But Chicago is getting full. People keep moving in from the suburbs, and the hot new area to buy keeps pushing outward. It's mostly gone north, but that can't last forever. Besides, there's another reason." Jason saw someone move in his peripheral vision, spun in time to see two men embrace, slapping each other on the back. Jumping at shadows. "It's why I asked where you live."
Owens squinted at him, his hand stroking his chin. "The El."
"Exactly. All the places I've mentioned, the ones that gentrified, they were on the train lines. Like those friends I used to visit. Their parents wanted to live in the city, but it's a pain to drive to work. Traffic is brutal and parking is expensive. So people want property along the mass transit lines. And once all the neighborhoods on the northbound trains are too expensive or too far-"
"The South Side will start to look like prime real estate. And if someone had pushed property values low enough to buy a lot of land, especially around the trains, they'd make a heap of money." The alderman turned to look out the window. The lights of Navy Pier burned parti-colored, the edges shimmering where they met the water. He folded his hands behind his back and stood straight, staring into the night.
"If what you're saying it true, then a lot of innocent people are being hurt." Owens turned back around. "And if it's not, you're asking me to commit political suicide. Accuse a CPD sergeant of arming gangbangers? Start digging into real estate records for the whole ward, hounding investors, maybe even donors?" He shook his head. "I'd be making enemies I couldn't possibly take on."
Jason's pulse beat his forehead as he watched the alderman make up his mind. And why not? Who were they to him? Nothing but strangers with wild theories.
"Sir-" He opened his mouth, willing the words to come. Not sure what they could possibly be, what could make a difference. Realizing that if he didn't say the right thing, right now, he was going to fail Michael one final time.
"Edward." Washington had been so silent through the last few minutes Jason had almost forgotten he was there. Now, seeing the man straighten, he felt a flush of panic. Washington looked at Jason, then at Cruz, and finally over to the alderman. "Sir, you're wasting time."
Oh god. Jason scrabbled for words to stop him.
"How's that, Dr. Matthews?" Owens's face was unreadable.
"Because you listened to all of that."
"Wait a sec-" Jason started to interrupt.
Washington ignored him. "You listened to all of that, and you're not doing anything about it yet."
Jason's jaw dropped open.
Washington paused, and when he spoke, it was in the rich voice of a lecturer. "Edward, I realize you don't know Jason Palmer, and that must make it hard to believe what he's said. But you know me." Washington put a warm hand on Jason's shoulder. "And I'm telling you that his word is all you need."
The party still swirled around them, but for Jason, the world had come down to this single minute. His chest swelled, and his vision went swimmy around the edges. He could feel the rush of blood in his veins, the stickiness of his palms.
Then the alderman nodded. He spoke slowly, saying, "All right, Washington. All right." He turned to Jason. "I'll need all the details you can give me."
Jason wanted to throw his head back and whoop. They'd done it. Maybe their luck was finally changing. He gave Cruz a giddy smile.
Only she wasn't looking at him. Instead, she stared the opposite direction, her mouth open. "What?" He followed her gaze to the entrance of the room.
And realized their luck wasn't changing at all.
CHAPTER 41
The first reaction was fear, an animal panic that made the air hum and buzz, that slowed time, the world gone languid as his instincts screamed for flight.
The second was the copper taste of murder in his mouth. A primal rage, a desire to beat and smash and kill.
Fingers clenched white, stomach loose and warm, Jason stood rooted, staring at the man in the doorway.
An evil spirit in a cheap suit, only this time Anthony DiRisio wore a tuxedo over heavy slabs of muscle. Five o'clock shadow and thin black hair, a nose too large and bent slightly sideways. He stood at the entrance, his eyes scanning the crowd, moving slow and precise. A predator's gaze, working right to left.
"Mr. Palmer?" Owens asked, one eyebrow high.
Jason shook his head, yanked himself out of his stupor. Turned so his back faced the door. "DiRisio." He grimaced. "He must have been watching my apartment after all, and followed us here." Something nagged at him, a detail he couldn't put his finger on. It felt important, but refused to clarify. Maybe something he'd seen on the drive over?