Chapter 4 - The Eviction of 4B
By 6:00 PM, the wind off Lake Michigan had turned into a howling gale, driving the temperature down into the single digits.
I left Mrs. Higgins and Lauren in the private waiting lounge of the West Wing, under the care of my personal secretary, Sarah, whom I had summoned with a single, high-priority text message. I had instructed Sarah to purchase a complete wardrobe for Lauren, arrange for a private suite at the Drake Hotel, and ensure that Mrs. Higgins had a dedicated vehicle to take her back and forth from her apartment.
"Where are we going, Mr. Vance?" Marcus asked as I climbed into the back of the Town Car.
"The corner of 18th and Damen," I said, my hand resting flat against the leather armrest. "An apartment building on the corner. 4B."
"Yes, sir."
The drive took twenty minutes, the city streets becoming darker and more industrial as we moved south. The building was a four-story brick walk-up with peeling green paint on the fire escapes and a flickering neon sign for a liquor store on the ground floor. It was the kind of place where the heating pipes rattled all night and the hallway smelled of fried cabbage and damp carpet.
I got out of the car, my charcoal overcoat immediately catching the cold wind, and walked into the narrow lobby. The mailboxes were dented and rusted, half of them missing their little brass doors. The name plate for 4B was blank, but a small piece of white tape remained, with the words M. Fitzgerald written in a neat, faded hand.
I walked up the creaking wooden stairs to the fourth floor.
The door to 4B was painted a dark, industrial gray. A brand-new, shiny deadbolt lock had been installed above the handle, its polished brass looking completely out of place against the scratched wood. Outside the door, a single black garbage bag sat against the wall, its top torn open to reveal a few children’s books, a pair of worn small sneakers, and a broken plastic doll.
I didn't knock. I took my phone out and pressed a single speed-dial number.
"Vance," a voice answered on the first ring. It was Robert Chen, my firm’s primary real estate attorney, a man who specialized in high-volume commercial acquisitions and municipal zoning disputes.
"Robert," I said, my eyes fixed on the black garbage bag. "Who owns the residential property at 1802 South Damen?"
"Give me thirty seconds," Robert said. I could hear the rapid clicking of a keyboard over the line. "Okay... it’s registered under a shell company called 'Damen Partners LLC.' The primary managing partner is a man named Gregory Vance—no relation to you, Julian—a local slumlord named Greg Vance. He owns about twelve multi-family buildings in the ward. Why? Are we looking at the block for development?"
"I want the building, Robert," I said, my voice dead calm.
"The building? Julian, that’s a low-yield residential tenement. The structural liability alone—"
"I don't care about the yield," I said. "I want the deed by 9:00 AM tomorrow. I want Gregory Vance out of his own office by noon. And I want his personal assets frozen for a code-compliance review. Use whatever leverage we have with the building commissioner. If he wants that campaign contribution for the next ward election, he has twelve hours to make Gregory Vance’s life an absolute hell."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "I’ll get the paperwork started, Julian. Consider it done."
May you like
I hung up, then turned and walked back down the stairs, my boots sounding like a steady, rhythmic hammer against the old wood.
Gregory Vance thought he could throw a five-year-old child's life into a hallway because her mother couldn't pay the rent. He was about to find out that there were some debts in this city that could never be settled with a signature.
