Chapter 2 - Champagne and Cold Concrete
At precisely 2:15 PM, the glass revolving doors of St. Jude Medical Center spun open, admitting Vanessa Vance into the lobby like a queen stepping onto a red carpet.
She wore a charcoal designer wool coat, oversized Italian sunglasses, and six-inch Christian Louboutin heels that clicked rhythmically against the polished terrazzo floor. Tucked under her arm was a leather-bound catalog of private beachfront villas in Malibu, and on her face was an expression of perfectly rehearsed grief—a delicate, tearless melancholy designed to evoke sympathy from anyone passing by.
Beside her walked Julian Croft, my former Chief Financial Officer. Julian was thirty-four, impeccably groomed, wearing a tailored navy suit that my own bonuses had paid for over the past three years. He carried a small bouquet of white lilies, the kind people bring when they want to pretend they’re honoring the dead before they’re even in the ground.
“Did you check the online portal?” Vanessa murmured under her breath as they approached the bank of visitors' elevators. “Has the hospital updated his status to critical palliative care?”
Julian checked his gold wristwatch, a dismissive smirk touching his lips. “His attending physician noted a severe drop in blood pressure at noon. The nurse said his renal output is practically zero. By this evening, the cardiac arrest will be complete, Vanessa. Digoxin toxicity mimics classic cardiogenic shock in fifty-six-year-old men with high stress. The medical examiner won't even order a basic autopsy unless foul play is formally alleged. And who’s going to allege foul play? His only living relative is you.”
Vanessa chuckled softly behind her manicured hand. “I’ve already spoken to the broker in California. We can wire the down payment on the Pacific Coast Highway property the moment the preliminary probate certificate is issued. I can’t spend another winter in that freezing mausoleum in Naperville. I want that house gutted, listed, and sold within thirty days.”
“What about the workers at the Milwaukee plant?” Julian asked, pressing the button for the fourth floor. “The union representatives called my office this morning asking about their pension stability if Arthur passes.”
“Liquidate the equipment and sell the land to warehouse developers,” Vanessa said coldly, stepping into the elevator as the steel doors slid shut. “Arthur spent thirty years worrying about his workers’ families. It made him soft. It made him stupid. When it’s my company, we trim the fat and cash the checks.”
The elevator chimed, announcing the fourth floor. Vanessa pulled a small tissue from her purse, dabbed the corners of her dry eyes, and adopted her trademark posture of a devastated, devoted wife. She glided down the hallway toward Room 412, preparing herself for the sight of my lifeless body hooked to a muted ventilator.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door, her voice breaking into a dramatic, practiced wail. “Arthur! My darling Arthur, I came as fast as I—”
The words died in her throat.
The hospital bed was completely empty. The sheets were stripped down to the bare blue plastic mattress. The cardiac monitor sat unplugged against the wall, its screens dark and silent. The IV poles had been cleared away, and the bedside table held nothing but an empty plastic cup.
Vanessa froze in the middle of the room, her designer sunglasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. “What... what is this? Where is he? Julian, where did they take him?”
“Did he code?” Julian asked, his voice suddenly sharp with anxiety. “Did they take him down to the morgue already? They were supposed to notify the emergency contact first!”
Before Vanessa could turn around to yell for the floor nurse, two men stepped out from behind the curtain of the adjoining bathroom.
One was Thomas Sterling, holding a heavy manila folder.
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The other was a broad-shouldered man in a rumpled brown trench coat, flashing a gold badge that caught the fluorescent lighting with blinding clarity.
“Mrs. Vance,” the second man said, his voice flat and unyielding. “I’m Detective Marcus Rodriguez, Cook County Homicide Division. Don’t reach into that handbag. Put both your hands on the bedside rail right now.”
