The Spike (A Marty Singer Mystery Book 4) Read online

  “What do you make of it?”

  “The developer,” I said.

  “Care to explain?”

  “Wendy Gerson and Alex Montero acted as the legal counsel that helped put together mega-deals for out-of-town, white-shoe real estate investors. The last large deal they did was the Quarters.”

  “The bid for which you find out was won by Atlantic Union,” Julie said.

  “A firm that doesn’t have the most sterling ethical standards,” I said.

  “Don’t assume,” she said. “You’re basing that on some guesses about Gerson’s and Montero’s deaths and a quick exchange with a few old biddies down at the Office of Public Records.”

  “They weren’t old biddies. They were almost my age.”

  “Whatever. The point is that Atlantic Union might be a five-star, triple-A corporate developer compared to its competition. You can’t take guesses like that.”

  “Okay. But Atlantic is still the best lead I have. I don’t see how or why they’d want to ace Gerson and Montero—they all seem to be making money hand over fist together—but I’ve barely scratched the surface. For all I know, they were blackmailing Atlantic’s CEO and he had them taken out.”

  “How is it that Gerson was so involved? Wasn’t she just the transaction attorney? Her job is to grease the skids and that’s it.”

  “True, but I’m getting the impression that Gerson and Montero were more involved in this than just being the well-paid grunts that pulled the papers together. It seems that in this business, the attorneys are very close to the deal making. Maybe the temptation to play all over the board was too tempting.”

  “You need more information about Atlantic,” Julie said, her voice musing. “And not the kind you’re going to find in their corporate brochures.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Let me do some digging,” she said. “When I went to help Amanda at FirstStep, I did some groundwork on how to help nonprofits and associations. The kind of legal aid they needed, their biggest challenges, that kind of thing. There was a list of grassroots organizations here in the city. If there’s a watchdog group or a citizens’ association, they might know about corporate development, Atlantic Union, and anyone else involved in shady lands deals in DC.”

  “You don’t have to—” I started.

  “Don’t read into it,” she said sharply, then her voice softened. “Look, it’s work I’ve already done. It’ll take me two seconds to email. You do use email?”

  “Yes, I use email,” I said, peeved. “In fact, I’m pretty tech savvy. I managed to botch an Internet search just this morning.”

  “Keep an eye out this afternoon. I’ll try to get it to you when I get back to the office,” she said, then pushed her cup to one side and looked at her watch. “I have to go.”

  “Do you…want to do this again?” I asked. I traced the rim of my paper cup, picking at the seam where it folded over on itself.

  She looked at me until I raised my head. “I want to think about this. Maybe you should think about it, too. Give it some time.”

  “A definite maybe?”

  She put her purse over her shoulder and stood. “Look for that email.”

  “Okay,” I said, but she’d already turned and headed for the door. I watched her go. As rapprochements went, it wouldn’t have set anyone’s heart pitter-patter. But at least we were talking.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I’m unhappy that my cancer isn’t gone, I wrote, going slow, being deliberate with my words. I’m used to being presented with a problem, analyzing ways to tackle the issue, then solving it. I don’t know what to do with an ongoing situation that becomes a story, with chapters that continue to expand long after I thought I’d closed the cover on the book—

  A loud kerplunk announced another email making an appearance in my inbox, causing me to glance up from the legal pad. I looked at the clock—I’d been writing for almost two hours. I cracked my neck and stretched my hands over my head until my elbows popped, then picked up my phone and looked at the screen.

  It was from Julie. In a few short, terse sentences, she told me about a group she’d researched, People Over Power, PoP for short. The organization was the premier DC watchdog group that kept one eye on the city government and the other on private institutions to make sure the two didn’t cozy up any more than the law would allow. She included some basic information like their address, phone number, annual revenue, and an index on the amount they spent on activism versus fundraising and overhead. The last number was impressively high. PoP either worked on a lot of volunteer effort or they’d found a magical way of accomplishing their goals with almost no cash outlay. Or maybe both.

  Julie’s email ended there, so I went from email to the web. I did a quick search on PoP, clicked on the line to their website, and kept reading. Founded just a few years before, they’d quickly garnered a reputation for effective action, bold demonstrations, and scrupulous bookkeeping. Or so their website said. The testimonials were far ranging and passionate, especially in regards to their president and founder, Michael Denton. I jotted down the most pertinent information, chewing the end of my pen, thinking, until I realized I was getting ink on my tongue. Julie’s info and the website were helpful, but I was still feeling cautious. Look before you leap. I called Channing Faraday.

  “You again?” he answered.

  “Ever vigilant,” I said. “Quick question. People Over Power.”

  Faraday groaned.

  “Something I should know?” I asked.

  He sighed. “No, not really.”

  “You’re not very convincing.”

  “Their heart’s in the right place.”

  “But?”

  “You know that friend in college who read an article on saving the rain forest or ending poverty and then got so involved with the cause, so fucking earnest, they couldn’t see straight? The one that wouldn’t stop talking about their thing, trying to get you to read a pamphlet or go to a talk or donate your entire paycheck? And if you said no, you were part of the problem?”

  “Yeah.”

  “PoP is that kid. When Rob couldn’t be one hundred percent for them—just ninety percent—they picketed our offices.” Faraday sounded disgusted. “The other guy was shutting city services down, robbing the city blind, and they’re waving signs outside our door.”

  “What’s”—I glanced at my notes—“Michael Denton like?”

  “Denton is the head honcho. Founded PoP. He is PoP, really. There are other full-timers and a bunch of volunteers, but he’s the heart and soul of the place.”

  “Personality?”

  “Everything I just described about PoP as an organization applies to Denton. He’s driven, opinionated, effective.”

  “But does good work,” I said.

  Faraday took a breath. “Yes, damn it. Denton has made a lot of bad people uncomfortable since PoP started. I just wish he’d have a reality check one of these days. Getting things done in politics takes more than a my-way-or-the-highway approach. Crusaders never get that.”

  “Maybe he’d say the same about compromisers,” I said.

  “Denton never had to run for public office or satisfy a constituency of fifty thousand people,” Faraday said. “Protestors only ever have to point out what’s wrong, crusaders only ever have to wage a war. They don’t have to fix the broken pieces afterwards.”

  “Sounds like you’re still a believer, Faraday.”

  “Eh,” he said and made a rude noise. “I gave up when Rob lost the election. Politics will take the heart out of you every time.”

  People Over Power’s global headquarters was located in the Atlas District on H Street in Southeast. The whole neighborhood had been undergoing a renaissance in the past few years, drawing in bars and edgy restaurants with the siren song of cheap rent and a kind of seedy cachet that was made genuine by some of the truly borderline buildings and people still haunting the place.


  The office was on the second floor of a sketchy remnant of those good old days, a three-story brick walk-up that had been around when H Street saw more shootings than happy hours. But today, I parked on the street and went through the street-side door without a problem, climbing uneven steps carpeted in a moldy blue-green shag until I found myself in front of a door emblazoned with the PoP logo: a man stick figure holding hands with a woman stick figure, both of them standing over a fist clutching a stylized twenty-dollar bill, a sword, and a gavel. A happy sun rose in the background, signaling a new day was at hand. I went in.

  An open-plan office, the smell of printer ink heavy in the air, greeted me on the other side. Six desks were crammed into a space better suited for two or three, but natural light streamed in through an old-fashioned triple-pane window, keeping the place from feeling dim as well as cramped. Two doors, shut, exited the office on either side of the room. A neglected rubber tree plant drooped in one corner and the walls were covered with different posters announcing demonstrations or decrying the excesses of certain corporations. They were all highly designed, with the hip, splashy feel of sixties’ protest art. The PoP logo was in the bottom-right corner of each.

  Four of the desks were occupied by young people of both sexes and several different ethnicities, most of them working on laptops and with headphones plugged in or covering ears. One young Asian kid was standing, leaning over a young girl’s shoulder as they both read something on the screen of her laptop.

  He glanced up when I came in and walked over, wary. No surprise. I still looked like a cop and law enforcement wasn’t always welcome in the inner sanctums of subversive protest groups. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Michael Denton.”

  “Is he expecting you?” he asked, doubtfully.

  I smiled, trying to put him at ease. “No. A mutual friend recommended him to me. I’m looking into some potential abuses by a corporation here in DC and she told me PoP might know more about the company than I could find myself.”

  The kid hesitated. I pushed it, saying, “I might have some proof that this company has been systematically kicking out residents of poorer neighborhoods in the city and replacing them with high-income housing and big-box stores.”

  “What do you mean, you’re looking into it?”

  “A friend was one of the people displaced by this company. I thought if I could find more information, have it all ready to go, I could hand it over to a reporter and get them to go public.” I paused. “But I don’t want to waste your time. If you’re not the right people to talk to—”

  “No, hold on,” he said. “I’ll ask Michael.”

  The kid went to one of the doors and knocked. A voice told him to come in, and he disappeared. Two minutes later, his head popped out and he waved me over. I snaked my way through the maze of desks—none of the residents of the desks so much as twitched—and went over to the door. The Asian kid waved me through, then went out and shut the door behind him.

  I was in a tiny office on the other side, neat and tidy. Windowless, but well lit by three soft lamps. Two large file cabinets, a desk, and a small side table held up the walls, upon which were hung several certificates and diplomas, including a law degree I could see was from the University of Virginia, since the thing occupied one-third of the available space. On the side table was a framed studio portrait of a black woman, smiling beautifully. It had that slightly grainy cast and hyper-real colors that said it was from the seventies or eighties.

  Seated at the desk was a black man in his thirties—difficult to tell his height, six-one, maybe?—with short hair. He was dressed conservatively, with a crisp blue shirt, black tie, and understated leather-band watch. One finger sported a class ring and a small white shell hung from a cord around his neck. He stood as I entered. I was right, about six-one, broad-shouldered but proportional.

  “Michael Denton,” he said, holding out a hand. He had a wonderful voice, an anchorman’s rich baritone—full of timbre, but without the smarm. His manner was calm, in control, his face stoic.

  “Marty Singer,” I said, and shook.

  “Jerry said you had some questions for me?”

  “I do.” He sat, so I did, then I gave him a quick rundown on what I knew about Atlantic Union. With Julie’s warnings still fresh in my mind, I refrained from making any assumptions, just laid out what I’d learned at the Office of Records. Denton sat through it all, his face noncommittal and blank.

  “So,” I said. “I want to know more about this company that’s so big and has so much pull with the city that it can do these things.”

  “And why do you want to know all of this, Mr. Singer?”

  I sensed a load of malarkey—while sufficient to bamboozle the volunteer out front—would not go very far here. “I’m looking into the murder of a woman who might be connected distantly to a development project Atlantic is involved with.”

  “And who are you doing the looking for?”

  “The woman’s family.”

  He leaned back and steepled his fingers. I felt like I was being examined. “And who are you to be doing the looking?”

  “I was there when the woman was pushed in front of a train,” I said.

  Denton’s eyebrows moved upwards. “That qualifies you as an eyewitness, not an investigator.”

  “As luck would have it, I’m a former detective with DC Homicide. Retired, now. The family found out about me in the police report and contacted me when the official investigation sputtered.”

  “But you’re not a licensed private investigator?”

  “Only if a driver’s license counts,” I said. “Look, I’m not here in any official capacity. I don’t do this for a living anymore. The family is desperate and they figured my credentials and the fact I was standing there qualify me to look into this. I can get you the name and number of the head of DC Homicide if you need somebody to vouch for me.”

  Denton’s face had gone even stonier—if that were possible—when I’d mentioned the nature of the murder. “Was the victim Wendy Gerson?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Did you know her?”

  “I knew of her. And I read about the murder, of course.”

  “You don’t sound like a fan.”

  “She was connected to some of the most rapacious developers in Washington, DC,” he said. “Atlantic Union is just one of a battery of crooks dressed as real estate firms. And Wendy Gerson was involved with all of them at one time or another.”

  “So the name Atlantic Union isn’t unknown to you.”

  “It is not.”

  “Is it one of the developers PoP is interested in exposing?”

  “Yes.”

  I paused, waiting for more. When Denton didn’t say anything, I said, “No offense, but you seem less than forthcoming about a company that’s on your shit list. I’m offering to see if they might be connected to a murder investigation. Seems like something you’d be interested in.”

  Denton adjusted his watchband. “Mr. Singer, there are many more people interested in getting a commercial advantage than there are in seeing justice and fair play prevail. I’ve had three or four phone calls or visits from developers in just the last week, trying to sic me on a rival or pull us onto their side. In fact, Atlantic Union itself has tried four or five times in the last year to co-opt us by making large donations to our general fund. But we always send the money back, because we know it’s going to be followed by a request for a favor.”

  “Dirty pool,” I said.

  Shrug. “They know PoP is tenacious and can do some damage to a company that is pursuing a bid or applying for a tax abatement. What’s the cost to them if I decide PoP should investigate a developer that also happens to be competing with them for the same project? So we have to be judicious about the information we accept and the information we give out. I refuse to be played.”

  “I can respect that,” I said. “Can you at least tell me how PoP goe
s about exposing the wrongdoing?”

  Denton said, “Several years ago we started a database tracking the major developers. The bids they won, the incentives they received, and the campaign contributions they made. That’s why all the kids in the front room are on laptops ten hours a day. Most of the information is public, but it has to be harvested from a dozen different sources.”

  “Tax records, applications, notices…that kind of thing?”

  “Yes, but even then, the information is structured in arcane ways or can be buried in the wrong document. We connect the dots, but it takes dozens of work hours to do it.”

  “And I imagine the developers would like it to stay that way,” I said. “Obscure and scattered.”

  “They would. And so would the city. We also keep track of the building sites and neighborhoods that get replaced or destroyed as a result of the development. Since it’s the city council that decides what wards get the projects—they have a quaint term for it, ‘surplusing’—they’re just as culpable.” Denton made a squaring motion with his hands, like he was framing a picture. “A ‘revitalization’ project that wipes out a functioning neighborhood and installs a line-up of restaurants. A ‘business improvement zone’ that displaces five hundred families for a new mall.”

  “The database helps you keep track of the victims,” I said.

  He nodded. “In six months, nobody remembers what was there. And when nobody remembers, complaints die out, and the cycle of corruption starts again. Without a protest or an institutional memory, the city can point to the new neighborhood and say, ‘Crime is down, employment is on the rise, and just look at how much money this new row of clothing stores is bringing in.’ ”