Chapter 3 - The Cold Knock at Midnight
A sharp, rhythmic percussion rattled the wood of Claire’s apartment door, jolting her awake from a dead sleep.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Claire sat bolt upright, heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. The room was pitch black. The glowing green numbers on her ancient bedside alarm clock read 12:44 AM.
The city outside was dead quiet, save for the steady drip of rain gutters. Chicago did not sleep gently, but midnight knocks on Racine Avenue usually meant someone was looking for drugs, someone had the wrong apartment, or the police were executing a warrant on the tenant in 3B.
“Who is it?” Claire called out, her voice raspy from dry air and cold exhaustion. She pulled her legs over the side of the mattress, reaching instinctively for the heavy brass framing square she kept leaning against the nightstand for self-defense.
Thud. Thud.
“Miss Claire Bennett?” The voice was muffled by the thick wood, but it was unmistakably male, impeccably calm, and carried no trace of street agitation. It sounded like an executive on a conference call.
Claire crept across the creaking floorboards, keeping her back against the wall until she reached the entrance. She pressed her eye to the tiny glass peephole.
Standing in the dimly lit, wallpaper-peeling corridor were two men. Both were over six feet tall, dressed in matching charcoal-gray cashmere overcoats over dark suits, wearing leather driving gloves. Neither carried weapons, but the broadness of their shoulders and the way they stood—flanking the door at precise forty-five-degree angles—spoke of professional military or private security training.
“Identify yourselves, or I’m dialing 911,” Claire said, pressing her shoulder against the chain latch.
“You have five dollars and fifty-two cents in your checking account, Miss Bennett, which means your cellular carrier will suspend your outgoing service in approximately twelve minutes for non-payment,” the man on the left said in a flat, polite cadence. “Calling the authorities would also cause unnecessary complications for your current legal standing with Vanguard Crest Financial.”
Claire froze. A cold sweat broke out across her forehead. “Richard Sterling sent you? Tell that bastard that the court order doesn't take effect until noon tomorrow! You can't break in here tonight!”
The man on the right shifted slightly, revealing a manila envelope sealed with dark red wax. “We do not represent Mr. Sterling, Miss Bennett. In fact, our employer holds Mr. Sterling’s personal mortgage portfolio and considers him an exceptionally noisy nuisance. We are here on behalf of the lady with the missing coat button.”
The breath caught in Claire’s throat. The missing button.
“Evelyn?” Claire whispered.
“Our instructions are very brief,” the man on the left continued, his voice never rising above a civilized murmur. “We were directed to deliver three items. First, confirmation of your safety. Second, this package. Third, an advisory: do not pack your belongings tonight. Sleep thoroughly. At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, do not answer your phone, do not speak to your landlord, and please dress in professional attire. You have an appointment at the Monadnock Building at nine-fifteen.”
“What is in the envelope?” Claire demanded, her fingers trembling against the brass chain.
The man slid the heavy envelope through the narrow mail slot at the base of the door. It dropped to the dusty linoleum floor with a heavy, distinct thud, sounding far heavier than mere sheets of paper.
“The answer to the blueberry muffin question,” the man said softly.
Before Claire could undo the latch to see their faces clearly, the heavy footsteps retreated down the hallway carpet. By the time she yanked the door open into the drafty corridor, the stairwell door was swinging shut. The hallway was completely empty, smelling faintly of expensive cologne and damp rain.
Claire snatched the envelope off the floor, slammed the door, threw all three locks, and dragged her desk chair under the handle.
She sat at her small kitchen table under the yellow ceiling bulb, her hands shaking so hard she could barely tear through the thick paper. She snapped the red wax seal. Inside was a cashier's check drawn on Northern Trust Bank, stamped with a certified bank imprint.
Pay to the Order of: Bennett Design & Woodcraft LLC
Amount: $12,950.00
Memo: Interest on one bowl of chicken noodle soup, compounded.
May you like
Taped to the back of the check was a single handwritten note on heavy cream cardstock:
“A good carpenter never sells her tools before the foundation is inspected. See you at nine-fifteen, Claire. Don’t be late. I detest cold tea.”
