Chapter 3 - The Doctor’s Office
Two hours later, the rain was sweeping across Lake Michigan in sheets of slate gray.
We weren't at the estate anymore. I had moved my mother to a secure, private medical suite at Northwestern Memorial under an alias, surrounded by armed private security vetted through my personal network. Marta sat in the corner of the sterile white room, holding a cup of chamomile tea, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but vigilant.
I stood by the window, watching the tail lights streak across DuSable Lake Shore Drive, while my phone buzzed against my palm.
"Mr. Vance?"
It was Marcus, my head of security.
"Talk to me," I commanded.
"We got him. Dr. Sterling tried to clear out his office on Ohio Street about twenty minutes ago. Shredding patient logs and backing up hard drives into a burner cloud. We intercepted him before he could reach his Lincoln Navigator."
"Bring him to the warehouse on 22nd Street," I said quietly. "The climate-controlled one. I want him comfortable enough to talk, and miserable enough to tell the truth."
"Copy that, boss. ETA twenty minutes."
I hung up and turned to Marta. "Watch her closely. I have an appointment to keep with a man who forgot his Hippocratic oath."
Marta nodded firmly, her calloused hand resting gently on my mother’s blanket. "Go, Mr. Victor. I will protect her with my life."
The drive downtown was a blur of neon reflections and roaring tires. My mind raced through the mechanics of the betrayal. Why would Audrey want my mother dead so slowly, so systematically? Sylvia’s stroke had left her incapacitated, but her death wouldn't trigger the inheritance clause for another two years under the prenuptial agreement we had signed six months prior. Unless... unless Audrey needed the estate liquidated immediately to cover debts that even a federal judge’s salary couldn't hide.
When my black SUV rolled into the loading bay of the 22nd Street facility, the heavy iron doors slid shut behind us with a final, echoing thud.
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Dr. Richard Sterling—chief of neurology at Mercy Hospital and a regular guest at elite Chicago charity galas—was tied securely to a steel-framed chair in the center of the brightly lit warehouse floor. His expensive silk tie was untied, his lab coat wrinkled, and sweat poured freely down his pale forehead.
As I stepped out of the shadows, Sterling started hyperventilating.
