Chapter 7 - Blood Money
The blinding blue-and-red strobes of three Chicago Police cruisers painted the concrete walls of the underground garage in rhythmic, violent flashes.
Vincent stood entirely paralyzed between the open door of his Porsche and the icy grille of his vehicle. His eyes darted from the federal badge in Agent Miller’s hand to the sidearm resting on Detective Campbell’s hip, then finally to Eleanor Vance, who stood under the buzzing sodium lights holding an open iPad.
“You... you called the Feds?” Vincent whispered, his voice cracking into a high, pathetic squeak as the reality of his trap sealed around him. “Claire... on Christmas Eve? You had federal agents waiting?”
“No, Vincent,” Eleanor Vance answered, stepping forward, the wind catching the hem of her wool trousers. “We didn't call them on Christmas Eve. We contacted the Department of Justice forty-eight hours ago when Claire discovered the forged clinical trial protocols. Agent Miller and Detective Campbell have been monitoring your financial movements since yesterday morning. When your personal vehicle triggered the automated license plate reader entering Cook County Memorial instead of O'Hare Airport, the warrant was expedited.”
Agent Miller stepped forward, his leather boots crunching through the salted slush. “Vincent Edward Mitchell, step two paces away from the driver’s side door and interlock your fingers behind your head. Do it now.”
For a split second, a flicker of pure, animal panic ignited in Vincent’s eyes. His gaze dropped toward the driver’s seat, toward the ignition, as if he genuinely considered jumping back inside and slamming the accelerator.
“I wouldn't advise that, son,” Detective Campbell warned, his hand unsnapping the leather strap of his holster with a quiet, menacing *click*. “Vehicular assault on a federal officer carries twenty-five years without parole. You’re already looking at enough consecutive counts to keep you in Terre Haute until you’re seventy.”
Vincent’s shoulders sagged. The final shred of his manufactured bravado evaporated into the freezing night air. Slowly, mechanically, he raised his trembling arms and laced his fingers over the crown of his head.
The two uniformed officers converged on him instantly.
One seized his wrists, jerking them behind his back with brutal efficiency. The cold, mechanical snap of stainless-steel handcuffs echoed loudly against the concrete pillars. The second officer patted him down, pulling his platinum money clip, his smartphone, and the keys to the four-million-dollar Barrington Hills estate from his soaked pockets, tossing them onto the hood of the Porsche.
“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer droned, shoving Vincent face-first against the cold metal of his own luxury vehicle. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law...”
Vincent pressed his cheek against the icy hood, his eyes rolling back toward Claire, who stood five feet away, her arms tightly folded over her chest, watching the spectacle with the detached, clinical observation of a surgeon watching a tumor being excised.
“Claire!” Vincent pleaded, his cheek smearing against the dirty frost on the paint. “Tell them! Tell them about the Mitchell Foundation’s indemnity clause! The trust protects the managing partners! You can sign an executive pardon through the board! Claire, think of our baby! You can’t raise our child with its father in a federal penitentiary!”
Claire walked slowly toward him.
The two officers paused, allowing her to approach. She stopped just inches from his ear. The icy wind howled through the open garage slats, carrying the distant, hollow peal of midnight church bells ringing across downtown Chicago. Christmas morning had arrived.
“You still don't understand, do you, Vincent?” Claire whispered, her voice like liquid nitrogen. “There is no indemnity clause for murder. And there is no father for my child. My baby will have my father’s name. My baby will inherit my family’s honor. You... are nothing more than a biological donor who will spend the rest of his miserable life eating off plastic trays in an eight-by-ten cell.”
“You cold, heartless bitch!” Vincent suddenly screamed, thrashing against the officers’ grip, his face contorting into an ugly, purple mask of pure rage. “I built your life! You were nothing before me! Just an uptight, frigid resident who couldn't even keep her own pregnancies! You’re barren, Claire! You hear me?! You’re defective! That baby inside you is going to die just like all the others!”
Detective Campbell didn't hesitate. He grabbed Vincent by the scruff of his cashmere overcoat, yanked him backward off the hood, and shoved him violently into the rear cage of the nearest police cruiser, slamming the heavy door shut and cutting off his deranged screams behind thick, soundproof plexiglass.
The silence that settled over the garage was deafening.
Agent Miller walked over to the passenger side of the Porsche, pulled on a pair of black evidence gloves, and carefully lifted the silver aluminum briefcase containing the original Aegis-409 trial protocols.
“Dr. Mitchell,” Agent Miller said, tipping his hat toward Claire with profound respect. “Your forensic logs were impeccable. The FDA and the SEC will take over the primary prosecution from here. We have three teams executing simultaneous search warrants at Aegis headquarters and the Barrington property as we speak. Get some rest, Doctor. You saved a lot of lives tonight.”
Claire nodded quietly. “Thank you, Agent Miller.”
The police cruisers pulled away, their sirens remaining off, their blue lights painting the falling snow as they wound up the ramp toward the street.
Eleanor Vance walked over to Claire, draping a warm, camel-wool blanket over Claire’s trembling shoulders. For the first time all night, Claire felt the crushing weight of the trauma pressing down upon her chest. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind the raw, hollow exhaustion of a battlefield survivor.
“It’s over, Claire,” Eleanor said softly, resting a comforting hand against the side of Claire’s neck. “The freeze orders on all Vanguard accounts were approved twenty minutes ago. Every dime he stole from your family has been reclaimed. He will never touch you again.”
Claire looked up through the concrete slats of the garage, watching the thick snowflakes tumble through the amber streetlights into the dark waters of Lake Michigan.
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“It’s not over, Eleanor,” Claire whispered, her voice catching in her throat as she thought of the fragile young woman lying in Room 414 and the four-pound premature infant fighting for breath in the neonatal ward. “I still have to go back upstairs.”
***
