Chapter 4 - The Fleet of Tinted Glass
The morning sun broke through the October clouds like shattered glass, reflecting off the wet pavement of Racine Avenue in brilliant, blinding glare.
At 7:45 AM, Claire stood in front of her bathroom mirror, tucking a crisp white button-down shirt into her only tailored navy blue slacks. Her blazer was slightly out of fashion—bought four years ago for her father’s funeral—but the seams were immaculate, and she had spent forty minutes steaming the wrinkles out with an iron heated over the stove burner.
Her phone began to buzz incessantly on the kitchen counter.
The caller ID flashed: LANDLORD - PETERSON.
Then it cut out.
Two seconds later: UNKNOWN CALLER - DEBT RECOVERY CORP.
Then: RICHARD STERLING - PERSONAL.
She remembered the man’s words through the door: Do not answer your phone.
Claire grabbed her leather portfolio case, stuffed the cashier’s check into an interior zipper pocket, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the building stairwell.
As she pushed through the heavy glass front door of the apartment complex, the street noise of Racine Avenue was completely absent. No horns. No screeching delivery vans. No shouting neighbors.
The entire block had been effectively sealed off.
Three black Cadillac Escalades, pristine and gleaming without a single drop of road grime, were parked in a parallel formation right along the curb. Behind them sat an extended Mercedes Maybach with deep tinted windows that appeared nearly impervious to light. Two uniformed Chicago police officers on motorcycles were parked at either end of the block, casually diverting traffic toward Halsted Street with orange traffic batons.
On the front stoop stood Mr. Peterson, Claire’s red-faced, pot-bellied landlord, holding a toolbox and a shiny new deadbolt lock. He was frozen mid-stride, staring with his mouth open at the fleet of luxury vehicles blocking his building’s trash containers.
A man in a sharp charcoal suit stepped out of the front passenger door of the Maybach and walked directly toward the stoop. It was the same man who had spoken through Claire’s door nine hours earlier.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said, tipping his head respectfully. “I am Thomas. I hope you slept without interruption.”
“Thomas,” Claire stammered, clutching her portfolio against her ribs. “What... what is all this? Who are those police officers?”
“A standard municipal escort for visiting principals of private investment trusts,” Thomas replied smoothly, turning his gaze toward Mr. Peterson, who shrank back against the brick wall. “Is this individual attempting to interfere with your departure?”
“He... he was coming to change my locks,” Claire said.
Thomas reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a pristine leather checkbook, and uncapped a Montblanc pen. “Mr. Peterson, I presume?”
“Y-yes, sir,” the landlord stammered, dropping a screwdriver onto the concrete stoop.
“The outstanding lease balance on apartment 4B is fourteen hundred dollars, correct?” Thomas asked without looking up as he scribbled on the paper.
“Fourteen fifty with the late fee—”
Thomas ripped the check from the book and pressed it firmly into the landlord’s shirt pocket. “There is ten thousand dollars in certified funds. It covers the remaining ten months of her lease, plus a premium for the inconvenience of your presence. If you touch Miss Bennett’s doorknob, her belongings, or her mail again, our legal division will file forty-two separate municipal housing violations against this building before lunch. Do we have an accord?”
Peterson looked at the check, turned pale white, and nodded frantically. “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Take your time, Miss Bennett.”
May you like
Thomas extended an arm toward the open door of the Maybach. “After you, Miss Bennett. The Monadnock Building is ten minutes away, and Mrs. Sterling—pardon me, Mrs. Evelyn Sterling-Vane—does not tolerate tardiness.”
Claire’s feet moved almost involuntarily. The leather interior of the vehicle was silent, smelling of cedarwood and polished chrome. As the heavy door shut with a solid, airtight thunk, Claire’s world changed from a desperate, bankrupt scramble into a cold, terrifying corridor of extreme wealth.
