Chapter 5 - The Morning of the Locusts
At 7:45 a.m., the front gates of 1440 Sheridan Road did not open.
Grant Calder stood in his driveway wearing a fresh charcoal suit from Ralph Lauren Purple Label, his leather briefcase in his right hand, his encrypted laptop bag over his shoulder. The Lake Forest air was brisk, smelling of damp leaves and the cold, metallic breath of Lake Michigan three hundred yards to the east.
He pressed the clicker on his sun visor.
Nothing happened.
The heavy wrought-iron gates, custom-forged with an intricate pattern of oak leaves and acorns, remained stubbornly, immovably shut.
Grant muttered an oath, stepped out of his Porsche Panamera, and walked to the call box mounted on the stone pillar. He punched in his six-digit security code.
The keypad beeped three times with a high, irritating chirp.
Code Invalid.
"Damn it," Grant hissed, pulling his smartphone from his breast pocket. He unlocked the screen and pressed the speed-dial for Aster Vale’s facilities director.
The phone didn't ring.
A pre-recorded, electronic voice immediately filled his ear: “We’re sorry. The cellular number you are attempting to reach from has been disconnected from the corporate billing plan. For assistance, please contact your account administrator.”
Grant stared at the screen. The small signal bars in the upper right corner had been replaced by a small, mocking notification: No Service.
A cold, greasy drop of panic rolled down between his shoulder blades.
He walked back to the Porsche, threw his briefcase onto the passenger seat, and backed the car down the five-hundred-foot driveway until he reached the service gate on the north perimeter. It was locked with a heavy brass padlock that had not been there twenty-four hours earlier.
He was trapped on his own property.
Before he could reach for the tire iron in the trunk, the sound of heavy diesel engines rumbled through the quiet, leafy neighborhood.
Two white Ford F-250 pickup trucks, each bearing the discreet magnetic door sign of Midwest Forensic Recovery Services, pulled up to the main iron gates. Behind them came a dark blue Crown Victoria with municipal municipal plates and a county sheriff’s star on the door.
Deputy Sheriff Miller did not get out of his car immediately. He sat with his engine idling, drinking coffee from a foam cup, while two men in steel-toed boots and navy work shirts approached the gate with a pair of three-foot bolt cutters.
"Hey!" Grant screamed, running toward the bars, his hands gripping the cold iron. "What the hell do you think you’re doing? This is private property! I’m a managing director at Aster Vale Capital!"
The man with the bolt cutters didn't even look at him. He slipped the hardened steel jaws around the heavy chain, leaned his full weight into the handles, and cut the link with a sharp, explosive crack.
The iron gates swung open with a rusty shriek.
Deputy Miller stepped out of the Crown Victoria, adjusting his utility belt. He was fifty-five, had a thick gray mustache, and looked at Grant with the tired, bureaucratic boredom of a man who had served four hundred eviction notices to people who thought they were too rich to be thrown out.
"Grant Calder?" Miller asked, pulling a folded legal document from his leather clipboard.
"Yes! And I want these men arrested for trespass immediately!"
"Here’s a copy of the emergency protective order issued forty minutes ago by Judge Carolyn Wright in the Nineteenth Judicial Circuit," Miller said, thrusting the papers through the open window of the Porsche onto Grant’s leather passenger seat. "You have twenty minutes to remove your personal effects from the premises."
Grant’s vision went gray around the edges. "Protective order? For what?"
Miller didn't answer. He turned toward the two men from the recovery service. "Start the lock change on the main house. Garage doors first."
"Wait!" Grant lunged toward Miller, his hands clawing at the deputy’s sleeve. "My wife isn't even here! She left last night with her father! This is my house! The deed is in my name!"
Deputy Miller did not raise his voice, but his right hand dropped casually to rest on the grip of his Glock 17.
"The property is titled to the Harrow Sheridan Trust, Mr. Calder," Miller said. "Under the terms of the emergency injunction signed at 6:45 this morning, you are excluded from the residence, the grounds, and any location where Eliza Calder or Owen Calder are currently residing. If you are within five hundred feet of either individual, you will be arrested for a Class A misdemeanor on the first offense, Class 4 felony on the second."
"This is insane," Grant gasped. His tie was coming undone; the immaculate part in his hair had split into greasy strands that fell over his forehead. "Let me call my lawyer. Let me call Richard Sterling."
"You can call whoever you want from the sidewalk, Mr. Calder," Miller said, looking at his watch. "You have eighteen minutes. If your vehicle is still in this driveway at 8:15, it will be impounded under the writ of attachment filed by the judgment creditor."
"What judgment creditor?" Grant shrieked. "I don't have any judgments!"
Miller pulled a second document from the clipboard.
"Aster Vale Holdings versus Grant Calder," Miller read. "For fraudulent use of corporate credit facilities, conversion of partnership assets, and unauthorized lease obligations in Cook County. Total claim amount: eight hundred and forty thousand dollars. A lien was placed on this vehicle forty minutes ago."
Grant’s knees hit the gravel.
May you like
The flamed limestone of the house loomed above him, its nine-foot windows dark and silent, reflecting the gray autumn clouds moving in from the lake. The private chef’s copper pans were still sitting on the kitchen counter inside. The ’82 Latour decanters were still sitting on the sideboard.
And on the front steps, one of the recovery technicians was already unscrewing the heavy brass lock cylinder from the front door with a high-pitched, whining battery drill.
