Chapter 7 - Blue Lights in the Gated Community
Outside the mansion, the quiet, exclusive community of Highland Crest was in total uproar.
Ten marked Illinois State Police cruisers, two crime scene mobile forensic laboratories, and four unmarked federal command vehicles had completely blocked the cul-de-sac. High-intensity blue and red emergency strobes painted the multi-million-dollar stone facades of neighboring estates.
Wealthy neighbors in silk bathrobes and cashmere sweaters stepped out onto their manicured lawns, recording videos on their phones as armed federal marshals established an armed tactical perimeter around the Sterling property.
Inside the dining room, Sylvia had regained her vicious venom.
“This is an outrage!” Sylvia shrieked, pointing a manicured, trembling finger at me. “She’s lying, General Caldwell! Eleanor’s daughter Chloe is an unstable, violent psychotic who attacked my son this morning and destroyed my five-thousand-dollar Persian rug! We threw her out of the house in self-defense! Marcus was merely protecting our family!”
“Is that so, Sylvia?” I asked calmly, pulling a laminated forensic photograph from my case and sliding it across the table directly in front of General Caldwell.
The photograph showed Chloe lying in the trauma bay at Northwestern Memorial: her left eye swollen shut with deep purple hematomas, her jaw bruised, her split lip stitched with medical sutures, and her frostbitten purple foot wrapped in sterile gauze.
General Caldwell looked down at the photograph. His face darkened into a terrifying expression of cold, military fury.
Beside him, his wife Evelyn gasped, covering her mouth with both hands as tears welled in her eyes. “Dear God... that sweet girl... look what they did to her!”
“Chloe Vance-Sterling is currently in the Level 1 Trauma Center at Northwestern Memorial Hospital,” I addressed the room. “She was beaten within inches of her life inside this foyer, stripped of her shoes, phone, and coat, and dumped onto an open metal bench in sub-freezing weather at the downtown bus terminal at 5:00 AM.”
I turned to Marcus, whose face had turned the color of wet drywall.
“You left her to freeze to death so that your mistress, Tiffany Ross, could wear my daughter’s diamond earrings and sit in her chair at this Thanksgiving table.”
General Caldwell turned slowly, looking at Tiffany Ross.
Tiffany began to tremble violently, backing away from the table until her back hit the sideboard, knocking over a crystal decanter of port wine that bled across the white linen cloth.
“General... please... I didn't know!” Tiffany wept, tears ruining her heavy mascara. “Marcus told me they were already divorced! He said the house was his!”
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“You’re wearing my daughter’s heirloom earrings, Ms. Ross,” I said coldly. “Those were left to Chloe by her grandmother. That constitutes possession of stolen property in a felony assault case.”
Two state troopers moved in instantly, ordering Tiffany to place her hands behind her back.
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