Chapter 9 - The Rat in the Rain
By seven-thirty that evening, the drizzle over downtown Chicago had turned into an icy, freezing downpour.
Daniel Miller stumbled out through the brass revolving doors of the LaSalle Street office building, his coat drenched, his umbrella forgotten on his desk.
The street was nearly deserted, the yellow glow of the streetlamps reflecting off the wet black asphalt like streaks of oil.
His corporate black town car had been repossessed forty minutes ago by the leasing agency after Marcus Vance canceled the corporate fleet account.
Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out his personal smartphone.
The screen was cracked from when he had dropped it in terror earlier that afternoon.
There were forty-two missed calls.
Sixteen were from his commercial clients, demanding an immediate return of their investment funds.
Eight were from the local news desks at the Chicago Tribune and Sun-Times, asking for comment on the federal raid of Miller Financial Solutions.
And eighteen were from Margaret.
Daniel tapped his mother’s number and held the phone to his ear, his teeth chattering uncontrollably from the freezing rain.
The call connected, but it wasn't Margaret's voice that answered.
"Cook County Department of Corrections, Central Booking," a gruff female voice barked into the receiver.
"Inmate Margaret Miller is currently in pre-trial processing and cannot receive incoming communications."
"If you are her legal counsel, report to the Criminal Courts Building on California Avenue tomorrow morning at eight-thirty."
The line clicked dead.
Daniel dropped his arm, the phone slipping from his numb, wet fingers and bouncing onto the sidewalk.
"Central Booking..." he whispered, his chest heaving with dry, ragged sobs.
"They arrested Mother."
"They actually arrested her."
He stood on the corner of LaSalle and Adams, completely paralyzed.
His business was dead.
His money was gone.
His mother was in jail on attempted murder charges.
And Tommy Varga’s syndicate was now owned by a man who had more money than God and a personal vendetta against him.
There was only one place left on earth he could go.
The Lake Shore Drive estate.
Daniel bent down, snatched his cracked phone from the puddle, and wiped the screen against his wet sleeve.
The deeds, he thought, his feverish, desperate mind latching onto the only thread of hope he had left.
I signed the deeds in Room 412 this morning.
Even if Vance Global froze my corporate accounts, real estate title in Illinois requires a judicial hearing to reverse!
Elena might be alive, but she signed the quitclaim!
Lawrence Vance witnessed it!
If I can get inside that house, barricade the doors, and call my private real estate attorney, they can't throw me out without a ninety-day eviction notice!
I have tenant rights!
I have three years of residency!
It was the delusion of a drowning man, but Daniel clung to it with the fanaticism of a madman.
He flagged down a passing yellow cab, pounding his wet fists against the hood until the driver angrily pulled over to the curb.
Daniel yanked the door open and threw himself onto the vinyl back seat, soaking the upholstery.
"Lake Shore Drive!" Daniel shouted, breathing heavily.
"Between Division and North Avenue! Drive! Fast!"
The cab driver glared at him in the rearview mirror.
"You got money to pay for this fare, pal?"
"I'll pay you a hundred dollars when we get there!" Daniel screamed, his eyes bloodshot and wild.
"Just drive the damn car!"
The taxi pulled away from the curb, splashing through the icy gutters of the Loop and heading north toward the Gold Coast.
Daniel pressed his forehead against the cold window, watching the city lights blur into streaks of yellow and red.
He tried to reconstruct how everything had collapsed in less than eight hours.
At ten o'clock this morning, he was the master of his destiny.
He was hours away from inheriting a sixty-million-dollar palace.
He was going to marry Jennifer.
He was going to be the most celebrated financial consultant in the Midwest.
Jennifer.
The thought of her name sent a surge of boiling rage and humiliation through his gut.
She was Vance's plant.
Every secret I whispered in her ear, every offshore shell company I showed her on my laptop, she handed directly to Marcus Vance.
She never loved me.
She looked at me like I was a cockroach.
"I'll kill her," Daniel muttered under his breath, his fingernails digging into his palms until they bled.
"I'll kill both of them."
Twenty minutes later, the taxi pulled up to the massive wrought-iron gates of the Lake Shore Drive estate.
Daniel looked out through the rain-streaked window and his heart leapt with a sudden, desperate hope.
The gates were open.
The long circular driveway was clear.
The mansion rose through the freezing mist like a grand, illuminated castle, every window on the ground floor and second floor glowing with warm, golden light.
"Keep the change," Daniel lied, slamming the taxi door shut without paying a single dime, sprinting through the open gates before the driver could even roll down his window to curse at him.
Daniel ran up the wet gravel driveway, his expensive Italian leather shoes ruined, his soaked coat flapping around his knees like heavy wet rags.
He reached the grand limestone steps and took them three at a time.
He grabbed the heavy brass handle of the front door, expecting it to be locked, preparing to throw his shoulder against the wood.
The handle turned smoothly.
The heavy oak door swung open with a soft, inviting creak.
Daniel stumbled into the grand foyer, gasping for breath, water dripping from his hair and soaking the pristine marble floor.
"I'm home," Daniel panted, leaning against the mahogany display table to catch his breath.
"This is my house."
"You're not home, Daniel," a calm, resonant voice echoed down from the top of the grand staircase.
"You're trespassing on the private property of the Vance family."
Daniel froze.
Slowly, terrifyingly, he raised his head.
Standing at the top of the sweeping marble staircase was Elena.
She stood under the massive crystal chandelier, looking down at him with the cold, majestic detachment of a queen looking at a rat caught in a drain.
Beside her stood Marcus Vance, his hands clasped behind his back, his face carved from unyielding stone.
And lining the upper gallery were six armed security officers, their eyes fixed on Daniel with silent, professional lethality.
Daniel looked at me, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
"Elena..." he whispered, his voice trembling so hard he could barely pronounce the syllables.
"You... you're really alive."
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"I am," I replied, my voice carrying down the grand hall with absolute clarity.
"And you, Daniel, have officially run out of days."
