Chapter 4 - The Shadows Move In
The ground-floor lobby of Callahan Financial was quiet when the private executive elevator dinged.
The morning rush of commuters had thinned out, leaving only the security personnel, a few straggling building couriers, and the woman standing in the center of the polished Italian marble.
Tracy Vance looked to be in her late forties, though hard living had added a decade to her face. She wore a stained cheetah-print jacket, bleached blonde hair that showed two inches of greasy dark roots, and heavy mascara that had smudged beneath her bloodshot eyes. She was clutching a large patent-leather knockoff handbag against her hip, pacing back and forth near the reception desk, tapping an unlit cigarette against her knuckles.
Two armed security guards flanked her at a distance of six feet. Luis stood behind the marble reception console, his broad hands resting flat on the granite, his radio earpiece humming.
When the elevator doors parted and I stepped out, Tracy whipped around.
“Are you the boss?” she barked, her voice raspy, reeking of cheap menthols even from ten paces away. “Because your rent-a-cops here are violating my constitutional rights. I know my kids are up there. Some busybody on the forty-two bus said they saw a girl matching Maddie’s description dragging a baby into this exact tower.”
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly across the lobby, the heels of my Italian dress shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone.
“You’re Tracy,” I said.
“That’s right. Tracy Vance. I’m their godmother. Their mother died three weeks back—peace to her soul, she was a mess—and she left those kids in my care. Maddie has severe behavioral issues. Prone to running away. Stole three hundred dollars out of my purse before she bolted this morning.” Tracy took a step toward me, squinting. “Now, I don’t know who you are, mister, but if you’re harboring runaways, that’s kidnapping. You bring them down here right now, or I’m pressing charges.”
I stopped four feet from her. I towered over her by nearly a foot.
“You’re not pressing charges,” I said.
Tracy scoffed, attempting a sneer that exposed crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. “Oh yeah? You think because you got money you can take somebody’s kids? I got legal custody papers right here in my bag. Temporary emergency placement from Cook County.”
“Show me,” I said.
She hesitated, her fingers clutching the faux-leather purse tighter. “I don’t have to show you nothing. I’ll show the cops.”
“The cops are already outside,” I replied.
As if on cue, the heavy revolving doors pushed open. Detective Inspector Thomas O’Hagan, an old friend from my days advising the Chicago Police Pension Fund, walked in alongside three plainclothes investigators and two uniformed officers.
Tracy’s sneer vanished. Her eyes darted toward the revolving doors, her body language shifting instantly from belligerent to predatory panic.
“What is this?” she hissed.
“This,” I said, stepping into her line of sight, “is the end of your enterprise, Tracy.”
“Owen,” O’Hagan said, nodding to me as he approached. “We got the ping on her warrant. Outstanding bench warrant for identity fraud and distribution out of Kankakee County.”
“Wait a damn minute!” Tracy shrieked, backing toward the glass walls. “I haven't done nothing! Clara Holt died of natural causes! Her lungs gave out! I took care of those brats out of the goodness of my heart!”
“Out of the goodness of your heart?” I took a step closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that cut through her screeching like a razor. “You stole my sister’s EBT card. You cashed her disability checks. You left two children in an unheated apartment with no food while you spent the morning at the corner bar on Fifty-First Street.”
Tracy froze. The color drained from her face, leaving her foundation looking like cracked chalk.
“Your... your sister?”
“Clara Callahan,” I said. “Her name wasn't Clara Holt. Holt was an alias she used to hide from me. But her name was Callahan. And those girls are Callahans.”
Tracy’s jaw slackened. The arrogance evaporated, replaced by the sheer, sickening realization of the tiger whose tail she had been twisting.
“I... she never said,” Tracy stammered, raising her hands defensively. “She was broke, mister. She was living off three hundred dollars a month. If I knew she had family like you—”
“You would have blackmailed me,” I said coldly. “Instead of starving them.”
I turned to O’Hagan. “Take her. I want every inch of her apartment searched. I want the death certificate for Clara Callahan requisitioned from the morgue within the hour. And if there is so much as a single mark on my nieces that traces back to this woman’s hands, I want attempted murder on the docket.”
“You can’t do this!” Tracy screamed as two uniformed officers stepped in, twisting her arms behind her back with practiced efficiency. The handcuffs clicked shut with a sharp, metallic snap. “I kept them alive! That baby would have starved in the crib without me!”
“The baby was starving in the crib *with* you,” I said.
As they dragged her through the revolving doors into the flashing blue lights of the rainy street, I turned to Priya, who had stepped out of the private elevator.
“Where are they now?” I asked.
“Marcus has Penny hooked up to a pediatric IV in your private lounge,” Priya said softly. “Maddie wouldn't let him leave the room. She’s sitting on the floor next to the crib, holding the IV line so it doesn't pull. Owen... the city is going to send DCFS. Legally, you are not their documented guardian yet. On paper, Clara was single, and the father is unknown. The state is going to want to take custody of them pending an investigation.”
I looked back out at the rain-lashed plaza.
May you like
“Let them try,” I said. “Call our family law division. Tell Arthur Vance to wake up his partners. If the State of Illinois wants to take those girls out of my sight, they’re going to have to bankrupt me first.”
***
