Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO CONTROLLED CHICAGO
“The man who controls this city.”
I stared at the phone.
“That’s a strange way to introduce yourself.”
Silence.
Then, unexpectedly, Adrian Hargrove laughed.
Only once.
Low.
Brief.
“I’ve been told.”
I sat down at my tiny kitchen table.
The soup on the counter continued turning cold.
“Why are you calling me?”
“My mother wants to thank you.”
“She already did.”
“I want to understand what happened.”
“I told the paramedics everything.”
“Not everything.”
My shoulders tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“My mother’s neurologist says her medication should have prevented that seizure.”
I looked toward the window.
Chicago rain streaked the glass.
“Medication reduces risk. It doesn’t make seizures impossible.”
“I know.”
His answer came too quickly.
This was not a man unfamiliar with medical explanations.
“Then what are you asking?”
“Did you notice anything unusual?”
I thought back.
Margaret’s gray coat.
Her purse opening.
Keys.
Wallet.
Two prescription bottles.
One rolling beneath a newspaper box.
Then something returned to me.
The pills.
I had picked up the bottle while waiting for the ambulance.
“Her anticonvulsant bottle looked recently filled.”
“It was.”
“How recently?”
“Two days.”
I frowned.
“Did the hospital test the pills?”
A pause.
“Why?”
“Because the tablet I saw didn’t match the medication name on the label.”
The silence that followed felt different.
Dangerous.
“Are you certain?”
“No.”
I hated how disappointing the word sounded.
“I was looking at a woman having a seizure, not performing a pharmacy audit.”
“What did the pill look like?”
“Small. White. Scored down the middle. There was an imprint, but I don’t remember it.”
“Try.”
I closed my eyes.
The sidewalk returned.
A pill against wet concrete.
Letters.
Maybe numbers.
“L… seventeen?”
No answer.
“Mr. Hargrove?”
“I’m here.”
His voice had changed.
“Is that important?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my mother’s prescription is blue.”
Every instinct I still had from twelve years in emergency medicine came alive.
“Do not let her take anything from that bottle.”
“She isn’t.”
“Take it to an independent lab.”
“Already done.”
I stood.
“And?”
“No active medication.”
My chest tightened.
“What was in it?”
“Mostly starch.”
Someone had filled Margaret Hargrove’s prescription bottle with fake tablets.
I sat again.
“That wasn’t an accident.”
“No.”
“And you think I can help?”
“I think you already did.”
He gave me an address.
A private residence on the Gold Coast.
“Tomorrow. Ten.”
“I have an ambulance shift.”
“I’ll compensate you.”
I almost laughed.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Say things like everyone’s time belongs to you if you pay enough.”
Another silence.
Then:
“Ten-thirty?”
I smiled despite myself.
“My shift ends at nine.”
“Eleven.”
“Fine.”
At eleven the next morning, I stood outside a limestone mansion that looked older than half the city.
Two armed men checked my identification.
That was my first clue Adrian’s introduction had not been metaphorical.
The second was the way they spoke his name.
Not Mr. Hargrove.
Boss.
I almost turned around.
Then the front doors opened.
Margaret Hargrove appeared.
Alive.
Elegant.
And furious.
“Nora.”
Before I could react, she hugged me.
I froze.
Margaret smelled like expensive perfume and peppermint.
“You lost your interview because of me.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“It absolutely was.”
“The recruiter made the decision.”
“She works for my company.”
“That still doesn’t make your seizure your fault.”
Margaret leaned back.
“You’re annoyingly reasonable.”
“I get less reasonable after noon.”
“I like her already.”
The voice came from behind her.
Adrian.
I had seen photographs.
They were inadequate.
He was around forty, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, wearing a charcoal suit without a tie. Nothing about him was loud.
That was the problem.
Men who needed everyone to know they were dangerous usually weren’t.
Adrian Hargrove looked like he had never needed to explain anything twice.
His eyes moved to my right shoulder.
“You’re injured.”
I stiffened.
“Old injury.”
“You favor it.”
“I’m a paramedic. We all have something broken.”
Margaret gave her son a look.
“Do not interrogate the woman who saved me.”
“I’m observing.”
“That’s what interrogators say.”
I almost smiled.
Adrian led us into a private library.
On the table sat Margaret’s prescription bottle inside an evidence bag.
Beside it were lab results.
I read them.
Fake tablets.
No therapeutic ingredient.
Then Adrian slid another document toward me.
“Her pharmacy records show the correct medication was dispensed.”
“Then someone swapped the bottle after pickup.”
“That is our working theory.”
“Who picked it up?”
Margaret answered.
“My driver.”
“Where is he?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“Missing.”
I looked up.
“Since when?”
“The morning after your mother’s seizure?”
“Yes.”
That was bad.
“Police?”
Adrian’s expression became unreadable.
“Some.”
I understood.
Some police.
Some other people.
“Mafia,” I said.
Margaret closed her eyes.
“Nora.”
“What? He introduced himself like a movie villain.”
Adrian almost smiled.
“My legitimate businesses employ twelve thousand people.”
“That was a very specific non-denial.”
Margaret coughed into her hand to hide laughter.
I looked at Adrian.
“Why was your mother carrying the medication herself?”
“She doesn’t trust staff with pills.”
Margaret answered instead.
“Not anymore.”
That stopped me.
“Why?”
She sat.
“For six months, strange things have been happening.”
“What things?”
“Appointments moved without my approval. Documents signed under my name. Board packets I never received.”
Adrian continued:
“And last month, Hargrove Health’s directors voted to begin discussions about selling our emergency-care division.”
My pulse changed.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because my mother opposes the sale.”
Margaret was founder and board chair.
“If she becomes medically incapacitated?”
Adrian looked at me.
“My uncle becomes acting chair.”
“What’s his name?”
“Richard Vale.”
I knew it.
Everyone in Chicago healthcare knew Richard Vale.
Hargrove Health’s chief operating officer.
The man who had signed my interview rejection email.
My stomach tightened.
“He interviewed me.”
Adrian’s eyes sharpened.
“What?”
“Not personally. He was supposed to be on the panel.”
Margaret looked between us.
“What position?”
“Director of Mobile Clinical Operations.”
Adrian went completely still.
Then he asked:
“What did you write in your application about your current ambulance company?”
I frowned.
“That response times were being manipulated to protect hospital contracts.”
Margaret’s face changed.
Adrian said nothing.
I suddenly understood.
Hargrove Health owned one of those hospital contracts.
Adrian stood.
“Your missed interview wasn’t bad luck.”
Cold slid down my spine.
“What are you saying?”
He opened a folder I had not noticed.
My résumé was inside.
Across the top, someone had handwritten two words in red.
DO NOT HIRE.
Beneath it:
TOO CURIOUS.
May you like
The handwriting belonged to Richard Vale.
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