Chapter 7 - The Gathering of the Wolves
The gates of the Vance estate in Oakbrook stood wide open when I arrived at 6:15 PM.
The property was a three-acre enclave of mature burr oaks, weeping willows, and winding asphalt driveways, centered around an eight-thousand-square-foot French provincial manor house clad in imported limestone.
In the circular driveway, parked beneath the weeping limbs of a century-old elm, sat three luxury vehicles: Loretta’s cream-colored Mercedes S-Class, Vance’s leased BMW sedan, and an older Lexus belonging to Vance’s uncle, Arthur.
Every window on the main floor was ablaze with warm, golden light.
To an outside observer driving along the private road, the scene was an absolute portrait of Midwestern generational security: an established family gathering for an intimate Thursday evening dinner, insulated from the economic noise of the city by twenty-foot boxwood hedges and private security patrols.
They had no idea that the bank had already turned off the oxygen.
I parked my Audi directly behind Vance’s BMW, blocking him into the narrow turnaround.
I took my leather litigation satchel from the passenger seat, unzipped the heavy brass closure, and verified the contents: three black-bound binders, sixty pages of certified exhibits, and a certified copy of the emergency bench warrant issued forty minutes ago by the DuPage County Circuit Court for Vance Mercer’s arrest on charges of felony identity theft.
I did not knock.
I turned the heavy brass handle of the front double doors and stepped into the two-story foyer.
The air smelled of roasted garlic, dry sherry, and expensive lavender floor wax. From the formal dining room down the hall, the low, agitated murmur of voices carried across the marble floorboards.
"—she can't just ignore forty phone calls, Mom!" Vance's voice was shrill, cracked with exhaustion, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. "I went to the condo this morning and the security desk wouldn't even let me into the vestibule! They had an armed guard standing by the elevator!"
"She's a petulant child throwing a tantrum, Vance," Loretta's voice cut through the air, smooth, haughty, and dripping with venomous condescension. "She thinks because she makes three hundred thousand dollars a year that she can dictate terms to this family. When she arrives tonight, you will sit on the sofa and let your father and me handle the discussion. We will present the deed transfer, she will sign the spousal release, and by Monday morning, Rosemont will have their collateral verified."
"And if she refuses?" Vance cried out. "Mom, you don't understand, Rosemont gave me until tomorrow noon!"
"She won't refuse," Loretta replied with a cold, dismissive laugh. "A woman like Sloan has no family of her own. Her father is dead. Her mother died when she was in college. She has no siblings. She is terrified of being alone, Vance. Why do you think she married you after seven months? She wanted our family. She wanted our pedigree. When she realizes that the alternative is an immediate public divorce and social exile in Chicago, she will sign whatever we put in front of her."
I stepped out of the shadows of the foyer archway and walked directly into the dining room.
"Good evening, Loretta," I said.
The room froze.
The scene was an exact, grotesque recreation of the dinner five nights ago.
The twenty-two-foot mahogany table was set with heirloom silver, crystal water goblets, and bone china platters piled high with prime rib and roasted asparagus.
Loretta sat at the head of the table, wearing a burgundy silk knit dress, her three-strand pearl necklace gleaming against her throat. Vance sat to her right, his tie undone, his eyes hollow, dark circles bruised beneath his lower lids. Across from him sat Uncle Arthur, holding a glass of bourbon, looking profoundly uncomfortable.
The seat to Loretta's left—the chair Tatum had occupied when she drove her fork into the back of my hand—was empty.
Loretta did not jump. She did not gasp.
She slowly set down her silver butter knife, dabbed her lips with a starched linen napkin, and offered me a smile so sharp and venomous it could have stripped the varnish off the walls.
"Well, Sloan," Loretta said, leaning back in her high-backed chair. "You finally decided to grace us with your presence. Take off your coat and sit down. We have a great deal of family business to settle before the dessert course."
I remained standing at the threshold, my leather satchel held firmly in my left hand.
"I won't be staying for dessert, Loretta," I said. "And I certainly won't be sitting at your table."
Vance scrambled to his feet, his chair screeching backward against the hardwood floor.
"Sloan! Thank God you're here. Look, we need to talk in private. Rosemont—"
"Shut up, Vance," Loretta snapped, her voice like a whip-crack across the room. "Sit down. Let the adults speak."
Vance hesitated, looked at his mother's iron glare, and slowly, pathetically, sank back into his chair like an obedient dog.
Loretta turned her gaze back to me, her eyes narrowing to thin, predatory slits.
"You have caused an immense amount of unnecessary chaos over the last forty-eight hours, Sloan," she began, her tone adopting that smooth, aristocratic cadence of an elder disciplining an unruly child. "You locked my son out of his home. You refused to answer my calls. And I understand you had the audacity to dispute a family credit card charge that was made in good faith to protect your sister-in-law's business."
She reached into her small velvet evening bag on the table, pulled out a three-page document clipped with a silver paperclip, and laid it beside her water glass.
"This is an amended deed agreement," Loretta said, tapping the paper with her manicured fingernail. "It conveys fifty percent of the title of Unit 3104 to Vance as community property. It also includes an administrative clause granting our family financial advisory firm power of attorney over your secondary investment portfolios. You will sign both pages tonight."
I tilted my head, looking at the paper on the table.
"And if I don't?"
Loretta’s smile widened, cold and triumphant.
"If you don't, Sloan, Vance will file for legal separation tomorrow morning at the Daley Center. We will petition for temporary spousal support, we will seek an immediate freeze on your consulting partnership disbursements, and I will personally ensure that every senior partner at your firm receives a detailed memorandum regarding your unstable, hostile behavior toward your husband's family. You will be toxic in this city before the weekend is over."
I looked around the room.
May you like
I looked at the silver candlesticks. I looked at the imported crystal. I looked at the broad, red-faced uncle sipping his bourbon, pretending not to hear the extortion taking place four feet from his plate.
And then, for the first time in five days, I laughed.
