Chapter 4 - The Architect's Parlor
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Vivien’s hand trembled so violently she could barely turn the deadbolt.
The brass lock clicked back, and the heavy door swung open, letting in a blast of freezing November air.
The gray-haired man stepped inside, ducking slightly to clear the low hanging ferns.
“Miss Adler,” he said, his voice deep, dry, and polite.
“My name is Paul. I work for Mr. Cross.”
“Where... where is Ryan?” Vivien whispered, her gaze darting past his shoulder toward the street.
Gallagher’s gray sedan was still wedged between the two black SUVs, its engine running, but the detective hadn't moved an inch from his steering wheel.
“Detective Gallagher is currently reviewing certain financial records regarding his private gambling accounts in northwest Indiana,” Paul answered calmly.
“He will not be joining you for dinner tonight.”
Vivien swallowed hard, the shock hitting her like an electric charge.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing violent,” Paul replied, pulling a pair of black leather gloves from his hands.
“Mr. Cross prefers leverage to bloodshed whenever possible. Blood makes a mess of the carpets.”
He looked around the warm, fragrant shop, his eyes lingering on the buckets of white roses and baby’s breath.
“Grab your coat, Miss Adler. And your handbag.”
“Why?” Vivien stepped back, her hip bumping against the wrapping counter.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Mr. Cross read your note,” Paul said simply.
“He does not conduct business through scribbled scraps of stationery.”
“If you want him to remove Detective Gallagher from your life permanently, you will have to ask him in person.”
“And if I say no?”
Paul looked at her, his weathered face showing neither malice nor sympathy.
“Then I take my men, we leave the street, and Detective Gallagher comes through that door in about four minutes.”
“And I assure you, Miss Adler, he will be in a very foul mood.”
Vivien didn't hesitate.
She reached beneath the counter, grabbed her wool winter coat, her purse, and her keys.
She followed Paul out into the freezing drizzle, her boots splashing through puddles of melted slush.
The rear door of the trailing black Escalade clicked open automatically.
Vivien climbed into the heated leather cabin, the heavy door thudding shut behind her with the vault-like finality of a bank safe.
The windows were double-paned and heavily tinted, reducing the noise of Chicago’s evening traffic to a muted murmur.
The SUV pulled away from the curb, leaving Gallagher sitting alone in the dark behind them.
They drove north, away from the familiar, brick-lined streets of Lincoln Park, cutting through the gleaming concrete canyons of Michigan Avenue before turning toward the private, gated drives of the Gold Coast.
Ten minutes later, the vehicle slowed, passing through a towering wrought-iron gate that opened silently into a courtyard surrounded by centuries-old limestone mansions.
The car stopped beneath a stone portico lit by bronze gas lanterns.
Paul opened her door.
“Third floor library,” Paul said, gesturing toward the double mahogany doors of the estate.
“He does not like to repeat himself, Miss Adler.”
“Be clear about what you want, and be prepared to pay for what you ask.”
May you like
Vivien stepped onto the damp pavers, the cold wind whipping her hair across her face.
She walked up the wide stone stairs, every nerve in her body screaming that she had walked out of a wolf’s den and straight into the lair of the dragon.
