Chapter 8 - The Financial Dominoes
By Saturday morning, the story was no longer confined to Chicago society gossip.
It had migrated to the front page of the *Chicago Tribune’s* Metro section and the business lead of *Crain’s*.
The *Tribune* ran the headline:
*‘Gold Coast Socialite Charged with Domestic Battery Following Thanksgiving Altercation; Prominent Peterson Crest Firm Faces Sudden Multi-Million-Dollar Foreclosure.’*
Below the fold was the mugshot.
Megan Peterson had turned herself in at the 18th District police precinct on Chicago Avenue at eight o'clock Saturday morning, accompanied by two criminal defense attorneys whose retainers Carol had desperately scraped together from her personal jewelry insurance lines.
Megan’s makeup was gone. Her hair, usually blown out into soft, expensive waves, hung limp around her shoulders. Her face was gray, swollen, and unmistakably miserable. The camera had captured her with her chin tucked low, her eyes filled with the sullen, humiliated fury of someone who had finally encountered a consequence she couldn't charm or buy her way out of.
I read the paper from the terrace of our new rental—a sunlit, modern penthouse in Naples, Florida, overlooking the Gulf of Mexico.
The air was eighty degrees, smelling of salt water and jasmine. In the private courtyard below, Lily was running across the lush grass chasing a yellow butterfly, her laughter carrying up through the warm breeze. Her cheek was still faintly discolored, but the swelling was completely gone. Dr. Ward sat on a teak lounge chair nearby, watching her with a watchful, protective eye.
My phone rang on the glass outdoor table.
It was Zoe, calling from the Helios command center in Chicago.
“How’s the weather down there?” Zoe asked, her voice crackling with the manic energy of someone who had spent thirty-six straight hours orchestrating a financial demolition.
“Warm,” I said. “Quiet. How’s Chicago?”
“Burning down exactly on schedule,” Zoe said. “Frank Peterson’s executive committee just held an emergency vote at Peterson Crest. They stripped Frank of his managing partner title and voted to surrender the keys to the Wacker Drive building to Helios without contesting the foreclosure. They know they’re beat, Chloe. If they fight it in bankruptcy court, Arthur will open up the books, and the SEC will be crawling all over their commercial loan applications by Tuesday.”
“And Carol?”
Zoe laughed—a sharp, satisfied sound. “Carol tried to stop the moving vans this morning. Did I mention that? Helios’s asset recovery team arrived at the Dearborn brownstone at seven a.m. with an eviction notice and a court-certified sheriff’s deputy. Frank used the brownstone as secondary collateral on the athleisure loan, remember? The title legally transferred to Helios at five p.m. yesterday.”
I closed my eyes, picturing the scene.
Carol Peterson, who had spent forty years looking down her patrician nose at anyone who didn't have an ancestor buried in Graceland Cemetery, standing on the limestone steps of her beloved brownstone while movers carried out Frank’s mahogany desks and her antique silver serving sets.
“Where are they going?” I asked.
“Frank and Carol are moving into Megan’s two-bedroom rental condo in Lincoln Park,” Zoe said. “The only problem is, Megan’s landlord just served her with a thirty-day notice to cure or quit because the press has been blocking the entrance to the building and harassing the other tenants. And since Megan’s vendor contracts were cancelled by Saks and Nordstrom yesterday, her corporate operating account is thirty thousand dollars overdrawn.”
“What about Mark?”
Zoe’s tone softened slightly, losing its mocking edge. “Mark checked into a cheap extended-stay motel near O’Hare. He tried to call the firm this morning, but his corporate passcard had already been deactivated. He’s completely out, Chloe. Frank won’t take his calls. Carol blames him for marrying you. Megan blames him for not attacking Marcus on the porch. They’ve completely turned on him. Just like you said they would.”
I looked down at the courtyard, watching Lily crouch by a hibiscus bush to inspect a flower.
“They didn’t turn on him because of me, Zoe,” I said. “They turned on him because that’s what predators do when the food runs out. They eat their own.”
“What do you want me to do with the brownstone?” Zoe asked. “We can flip it to an institutional buyer by next month. The Gold Coast market is tight right now; we’ll easily clear eight million on the resale.”
I stood up and walked to the edge of the terrace railing, resting my hands on the warm limestone.
“Don’t sell it,” I said.
Zoe paused on the other end of the line. “You want to keep it?”
“I want you to donate it,” I said. “Transfer the title to the Chicago Women’s Crisis and Protective Shelter Network. Let them turn Frank Peterson’s multi-million-dollar family seat into emergency transitional housing for mothers and children fleeing domestic violence.”
There was a long silence on the line. Then Zoe let out a low, breathy whistle.
“Chloe... Carol will literally lose her mind. The Peterson family name will be on the deed registry forever as the property that was converted into a women’s shelter.”
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“Good,” I said. “Then every time Carol drives down Dearborn Street for the rest of her life, she can look at that front porch and remember what happens when you hit a child.”
***
