Chapter 5 - The Ledger in the Floorboards
Richard, Diane, and Tyler fled my office without another word. Watching my father stumble out the door, his hand shaking so violently he could barely push open the glass panel, gave me no satisfaction—only a sick, churning knot of suspicion.
Arthur Vance had died in 1999 of an apparent car accident. A year before that, according to the manifest in my hands, he had discovered that my father was selling counterfeit, dangerous building materials to local school districts.
Why hadn't Arthur gone to the police? Why hadn't Eleanor turned Richard over to the authorities twenty years ago? Why wait?
That evening, I cancelled all my appointments. I hired an off-duty police detective named David Cole, a man I had used previously for corporate background checks, to meet me at a private coffee shop near the Loop.
David sat across from me in a leather booth, reviewing copies of the documents Eleanor had left me. He ran a hand through his graying hair, whistling softly.
“Your father was playing with fire, Charlie,” David said, tapping the manifest. “Substandard rebar in public infrastructure is a federal crime. If those school buildings had collapsed... we’re talking hundreds of counts of manslaughter.”
“Look at the company that bought the materials from my father,” I pointed out, pointing to a name stamped at the bottom. *Apex Urban Development.* “Who owns Apex?”
David pulled out a tablet, typed for thirty seconds, and paused. His brow furrowed.
“Apex was dissolved in 2002,” David said. “The registered agent was a man named Victor Morales. But Morales wasn't just a contractor. In the late nineties, he was an associate for the Cicero crew—organized crime.”
A chill ran down my spine. My father hadn't just been cutting corners. He was laundering money and materials for the mob.
“Arthur Vance was a city inspector,” David continued, reading the historical notes. “He refused to sign off on the building permits for Apex’s projects. Two weeks later, his brakes failed on Interstate 88. He died on impact. The crash was ruled accidental.”
“And Eleanor knew,” I murmured, my chest tightening with sorrow. “She knew her husband was murdered.”
“If she knew, why didn't she run?” David asked. “Why stay next door to the man who helped set it up?”
“Because she was watching him,” I realized suddenly. “She stayed right across the fence, waiting for the right moment. But what was she waiting for?”
“Charlie,” David leaned forward, his voice serious. “If your father was involved in mob construction twenty-five years ago, and Eleanor Vance had proof, that house fire nine years ago wasn’t an accident. Someone wanted her files wiped out.”
“The police report said the fire started in the living room,” I said, remembering the news article. “Faulty wiring.”
David frowned, tapping the table. “I have an old buddy in the Naperville fire department. Let me pull the unredacted investigation file. But in the meantime, you need to be careful. If your father owes $400,000 today, who does he owe it to? Because legit banks don’t break down your door on a Friday.”
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed on the table. It was an unknown local number.
I tapped speakerphone.
“Charlotte?”
It was my mother. Diane’s voice was hysterical, trembling, stripped of all her usual suburban poise.
“Mom? What's going on?”
May you like
“Your father... they came to the house,” she sobbed. “Two men in an unmarked sedan. They broke Tyler’s arm, Charlotte! They said if Richard doesn't deliver the four hundred thousand by tomorrow night, they’re coming back for his other arm, and then they’re coming to Chicago for you!”
***
