Chapter 4 - The 4:00 AM Operation
By four o'clock in the morning, while the rest of Chicago slept beneath a blanket of winter frost, Darcy and I were operating like a military command unit.
Darcy’s junior associate, a sharp young attorney named Leo, arrived at the penthouse carrying two heavy leather briefcases containing stamped court orders from an emergency duty judge Darcy had woken up at 2:30 AM. In Chicago, when you have video evidence of battery, a locked door, and felony bank fraud, judges sign emergency orders without waiting for breakfast.
“Everything is locked down,” Leo announced, setting his briefcase on the table. “The bank accounts linked to Julian Cole and Fiona Cole were frozen at 3:15 AM. Their credit cards will be declined the next time they try to swipe them for a cup of coffee.”
“What about the eviction order?” I asked, leaning over a floor plan of my penthouse.
“Hand-delivered by county sheriffs,” Leo smiled grimly. “Two uniformed deputies are scheduled to arrive at Penthouse B precisely at 11:45 AM tomorrow—fifteen minutes before Fiona’s birthday party begins. They will execute the immediate removal of Julian Cole and Fiona Cole from the premises.”
“Perfect,” Darcy said, sipping her fresh espresso. “Now, Sloan, tell us about the caterers.”
I pulled out my laptop and opened an email draft I had been working on for the last hour.
Fiona had invited seventy guests to her 60th Jubilee feast. These weren't just random friends; they were the absolute elite of her social circle—the president of the Oakridge Country Club, the board members of the Lakefront Historical Society, high-net-worth real estate investors Julian was desperately trying to woo for funding, and every wealthy neighborhood gossip Fiona had spent decades trying to impress.
Fiona had personally sent out the invitations three weeks ago, boasting that her 'doting daughter-in-law, a master of traditional culinary arts,' would be hand-crafting a legendary 60-course heritage feast served across three massive mahogany tables in the penthouse dining room.
I looked at Darcy. “Fiona wanted sixty dishes. If I don't provide sixty dishes, Julian will claim in court that I defaulted on my domestic agreement and caused emotional distress to his mother on her milestone birthday.”
“So we give them sixty dishes,” Darcy chuckled. “Literally.”
I picked up my phone and made a call to a 24-hour commercial catering service in the industrial district of West Loop—a company run by Marcus, a former college friend who managed large-scale corporate event logistics.
“Marcus,” I said when he answered. “I need a favor. A very big, very weird favor.”
“Sloan?” Marcus sounded groggy. “It’s 4:15 in the morning. Did someone die?”
“No,” I replied softly. “But a party is about to. I need sixty distinct catering platters delivered to my penthouse by 11:00 AM today.”
“Sixty platters?!” Marcus gasped, waking up instantly. “Sloan, I can’t chef sixty gourmet meals in six hours! My kitchen staff doesn't even come in until six!”
“I don't need gourmet meals, Marcus,” I smiled wickedly into the receiver. “I need sixty distinct food items. The cheapest, most absurdly literal items you can assemble from your industrial bulk supplier.”
There was a long pause on the line as Marcus processed my words.
“What are you talking about?” he asked cautiously.
I pulled out my notepad and read from the list Darcy and I had constructed over the last hour:
“Platter 1: Sixty raw, unpeeled white onions.” “Platter 2: Sixty cans of unopened, store-brand Vienna sausages.” “Platter 3: Sixty slices of unwrapped single-slice yellow American cheese.” “Platter 4: Sixty cold, unseasoned hard-boiled eggs.” “Platter 5: Sixty dry, plain rice cakes.” “Platter 6: Sixty raw lemon halves.” “Platter 7: Sixty individual packets of fast-food soy sauce poured into a silver bowl…”
As I continued down the list, Marcus stopped breathing. Then, a slow, deep chuckle began to rumble in his chest, growing into a roaring laugh that echoed through the phone speaker.
“Sloan…” Marcus panted, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “You are an absolute monster. Are you seriously serving this to your mother-in-law’s country club friends?!”
“Every single one of them,” I replied with icy precision. “And I need each platter covered in elegant, silver-plated catering domes, labeled with gold-embossed cards describing them in grand, theatrical French terminology.”
“Say no more,” Marcus wheezed, hitting keys on his keyboard. “Platter 1: L'Oignon Cru Traditional. Platter 3: Fromage Américain Affiné. I will personally drive the delivery truck to your building at 10:30 AM. My staff will set up the entire buffet with white linen tablecloths.”
“How much?” I asked, holding up my black hidden debit card.
“For you? Material costs plus a front-row seat to watch the disaster,” Marcus grinned. “Three thousand dollars.”
“I’m transferring five thousand,” I said. “Make sure the silver domes are polished. We want them to look like royalty until the moment they lift the covers.”
I hung up the phone and looked at Darcy.
She stood near the window, holding her coffee mug, looking out over the dark horizon of Lake Michigan as the first faint rays of icy gray dawn began to bleed into the sky.
“It’s 5:00 AM, Sloan,” Darcy said, turning her fierce gaze back to me. “Go get a two-hour nap in my guest room. At eight o'clock, we begin the final assembly.”
May you like
I walked over to the guest room, lay down on the plush king-sized bed, and closed my eyes. For the first time in five years, I didn't feel the terrifying weight of anxiety sitting on my chest.
I slept like a baby.
