Chapter 2 - The Beverly Hills Precinct
The red and blue light bar of the first LAPD cruiser painted the white stucco gates of the Vance estate in rhythmic flashes of crimson and electric blue.
Within six minutes of my call, three patrol cars and an advanced life support ambulance were parked in the driveway. The heavy silence of the dining room had devolved into immediate, panicked chaos the second the sirens hummed up the winding hill.
Grace had rushed toward me, her arms outstretched in a terrifying display of fake maternal concern, trying to wipe the blood from my face with a damp kitchen towel. “Darling, please! Think of the family! Think of Jackson’s reputation! It was an accident—he just dropped the dish!”
I pushed her hands away with enough force to send her stumbling back against the sideboard. “Touch me again, Grace, and I’ll have the officers charge you as an accessory.”
When the paramedics walked through the grand double doors, they took one look at the shattered porcelain on the floor, the blood dripping from my earlobe, and the massive swelling already purpling the left side of my skull, and immediately motioned for the officers to move in.
“Who did this?” the lead officer, a veteran sergeant with a stern jaw, asked as his partner unclipped his handcuffs.
I pointed a steady finger directly at Jackson, who was standing near the fireplace, trying frantically to wipe the wine from his hands while his father whispered furiously in his ear. “My husband. Jackson Vance. He threw a heavy porcelain plate directly at my head from five feet away because I refused to sign over my real estate assets to his mother.”
Jackson’s father stepped forward, holding out a soft, placating hand toward the officers. “Officer, let’s be reasonable here. This is a private family dispute. My son had a little too much wine, my daughter-in-law became hysterical, and a dish fell during the commotion—"
“Sir, stand back,” the sergeant snapped, pulling out his notepad. “Ma'am,” he looked at me, “do you want to press charges?”
“I want him arrested for felony assault with a deadly weapon,” I said, my voice echoing off the high ceiling. “And I want a temporary restraining order issued immediately.”
Jackson’s eyes dilated in pure disbelief. “Chloe, are you insane?! You’re going to ruin my life over a stupid plate?!”
“You ruined your life when you threw it, Jackson,” I said coldly.
The officers didn't hesitate. Within ninety seconds, Jackson Vance was forced face-down against his mother’s pristine marble mantelpiece, his wrists pulled behind his back, and heavy steel handcuffs snapped around his joints. Grace let out a piercing, dramatic shriek, collapsing onto a velvet sofa while Arthur frantically dialed their family defense lawyer.
While the paramedics cleaned my wound, shaved a small patch of hair near my temple, and put four butterfly sutures across the gash to stop the bleeding, I sat on the tailboard of the ambulance and made my second phone call of the night.
I didn't call a criminal attorney. I called Marcus Vance.
Not Jackson’s father—I called Jackson’s estranged uncle, Marcus Vance, the black sheep of the family who had spent thirty years building one of the most ruthless forensic accounting and corporate takeover firms in California after Jackson’s father had cheated him out of his inheritance three decades ago.
“Marcus,” I said softly into the receiver, watching as the LAPD cruiser pulled Jackson into the back seat.
“Chloe?” Marcus’s deep, gravelly voice came through the line. “It’s eleven o'clock on a Sunday. Why do you sound like you’re standing in a wind tunnel?”
“Jackson just put four stitches in my head because I wouldn't give his mother my Minneapolis condo,” I stated flatly. “He’s currently in the back of a squad car on his way to the Beverly Hills precinct. And I remember what you told me at Thanksgiving two years ago about your brother’s offshore holding companies.”
There was a long, heavy pause on the other end of the line, followed by the distinct sound of a silver lighter clicking open.
“Are you safe?” Marcus asked, his tone shifting from casual curiosity to lethal focus.
“I’m in an ambulance. The wound is superficial, but the evidence is documented.”
“Good,” Marcus chuckled, a dark, dangerous sound. “I’ve been waiting fifteen years for an opening big enough to drive a semi-truck through my brother’s shell accounts. If you’re ready to burn that entire house to the ground, Chloe, I’ll be at your apartment in twenty minutes with three laptops and a pot of black coffee.”
May you like
I looked back at the front doors of the Vance estate, where Grace and her husband were standing on the porch, frantically gesturing at their defense attorney who had just pulled up in a Benz.
“Bring two pots of coffee, Marcus,” I said, my hand touching the fresh bandage on my temple. “We’re going to tear down their entire foundation before the sun comes up.”
