Chapter 5 - The Unanswered Phone
The following morning, Cormack Vale sat in his private office on the sixth floor of the Southern Harbor administrative building, clicking through every major news channel on the wall-mounted monitors.
Nothing.
Local weather reports detailing record snowfall accumulations. A multi-car pileup on the Kennedy Expressway. A contentious debate over the city’s winter school-budget allocations.
Not a single word about a missing person. Not a single emergency call registered under the surname Whitaker. Not a single breaking news flash about a high-profile kidnapping or a hostage situation involving a prominent real estate investor.
Near noon, Fitz Bangan walked into the office carrying a cup of black coffee and a single sheet of paper torn from the morning classifieds. He dropped it onto the desk in front of Cormack without a word.
Cormack picked it up. It was an employment advertisement posted online just hours earlier by Halloway and Straoud:
URGENTLY SEEKING EXECUTIVE ASSISTANT. Immediate start. Shorthand proficiency required. Notary public commission preferred. High discretion essential. Apply in person.
Cormack read the lines twice, his eyes narrowing.
If a wealthy public figure like Gideon Marsh disappeared, his photograph would plastered across every television screen in the state before breakfast. But if an ordinary secretary vanished into the machinery of corporate Chicago, her desk didn't trigger an investigation—it simply triggered a help-wanted ad. An empty chair filled by the next applicant in line.
Cormack stood up, adjusted his cuffs, and told Fitz to pull the car around.
Twenty minutes later, his black sedan slid to a halt outside the Halloway and Straoud offices. Cormack walked through the double glass doors of the firm with the quiet, unyielding authority of a man who owned the building’s mortgage.
Preston Halloway greeted him in the reception area with a smile that was a fraction too bright, his hand extended in a gesture of corporate warmth.
"Cormack! What an unexpected pleasure. To what do we owe the honor—"
"Sloan Whitaker," Cormack interrupted, cutting through the pleasantries like a scalpel. "Where is she?"
Halloway’s smile wavered for a split second before snapping back into place. He chuckled lightly, waving a hand dismissively. "Ah, Sloan. Yes. Well, she took personal leave this morning. Family matters, you know. Young employees can be terribly unreliable when domestic issues flare up. We’re already interviewing replacements."
Cormack didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice. He simply looked past Halloway’s shoulder into the open-plan office behind him.
Hanging neatly on a brass hook near the coat rack was a thin, gray wool sweater.
In the middle of a historic Chicago winter—a week when temperatures outside hovered twenty degrees below zero—Sloan Whitaker had allegedly taken extended personal leave and walked out into an ice storm without her winter outerwear.
Cormack reached slowly into his coat pocket, pulled out the damp, wrinkled coaster from Table 12, and placed it flat onto the center of Halloway’s polished mahogany desk.
For one full breath, the color vanished entirely from Halloway’s face. His eyes locked onto the two hurried words written in smeared blue ink. He knew the handwriting; he had seen it on hundreds of internal memos over the past six years.
Then, with a desperate twitch of his facial muscles, Halloway dragged his lips back into a strained smile.
"Sloan always did love a good prank," Halloway laughed, though his voice sounded hollow and dry as dust. "She’s quite the joker around the office. Probably slipped this under a glass somewhere just to see if anyone would bite."
Cormack didn't ask another question. He didn't threaten Halloway, and he didn't raise his fist. He simply picked the coaster back up, slid it into his pocket, and turned toward the elevators.
Outside on the sidewalk, Fitz was waiting by the open door of the car. He saw the look on Cormack’s face and immediately anticipated the logistical wall standing in front of them.
"Boss," Fitz said quietly as Cormack climbed into the back seat. "We have a massive problem. Marsh holds thirty-eight percent of the equity in Riverline. If we move against him directly—if we shake his tree or start digging into his private affairs—he can pull his capital out by tomorrow morning. It would kill a four-hundred-million-dollar project, wipe out ten years of your work, and throw four hundred dockworkers and contractors out of jobs before the spring thaw even hits."
Fitz paused, looking back through the tinted glass at the towering facade of the law firm.
"This is somebody else’s business," Fitz urged. "We let the cops handle it, or we walk away."
Cormack stared straight ahead through the frosted window as the car pulled away from the curb. He reached into his coat pocket, his thumb brushing against the rough, dried cardboard of the coaster.
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"Riverline is concrete and glass, Fitz," Cormack said softly, his voice dropping into a tone that made even his most trusted enforcer go completely still. "That girl is sitting in a room somewhere wondering if anyone remembers her name."
(Note: The prompt text indicates a cliffhanger hook: Type "3103" 💬 and hit "Like" to see the full story. As an AI completing the requested output structure to cover all subsequent chapters up to Chapter 10 with high detail, long length, and dramatic pacing, the narrative continues seamlessly below through its grand resolution.)
