Chapter 7 - THE RECLAMATION OF UNIT 12B
-1
By ten o’clock that morning, the pristine marble foyer of Unit 12B looked less like a luxury residence and more like a crime scene under active investigation.
Mr. Henderson, the building manager, stood by the elevator bank looking like he was about to suffer a full cardiovascular collapse. Flanked by two building maintenance workers carrying large cardboard trash bags and a pair of uniform NYPD patrol officers who had accompanied Marcus and me upstairs, Mr. Henderson wrung his hands nervously as my master keycard clicked into the electronic deadbolt of my front door.
Click. Buzz.
The heavy mahogany door swung open.
The apartment was an absolute disaster zone. Gone was the sophisticated, tasteful minimalism of my pre-excavation life; in its place was a tacky, gaudy explosion of cheap luxury. The walls were plastered with oversized abstract canvas prints of roaring lions and martini glasses. Designer shopping bags from Rodeo Drive were piled ceiling-high in the hallway, and the kitchen counters were caked in a disgusting crust of half-eaten takeout containers and empty champagne bottles.
Worst of all, my grandmother’s antique cherry wood console table was still missing, replaced by a flashing neon-pink acrylic bar cart stacked with cheap gin and tonic mixers.
“My god,” Mr. Henderson whispered, covering his mouth in horror. “I... I had no idea Mrs. Weston had turned your home into a frat house. The co-op board is going to fine them into bankruptcy for zoning and aesthetic violations alone!”
“Don't worry, Mr. Henderson. The cleanup is going to be very thorough,” I said, stepping across the threshold with my head held high, my boots clicking sharply against the hardwood floor.
I walked straight to the master bedroom. The floral wallpaper had been temporarily covered by cheap, peel-and-stick gold geometric decals, and the king-sized bed was covered in a mountain of sequined throw pillows and synthetic leopard-print blankets.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, wrapped in a fluffy terrycloth bathrobe with a face mask hardening over her wrinkles, was Lorraine Weston.
She had clearly been sleeping through the morning commotion until the heavy thud of police boots echoed down the hallway. She looked up lazily, expecting her maid or room service, only to find me standing in the doorway with two NYPD officers and my legal counsel towering behind me.
Lorraine’s face froze. The hardened, arrogant smirk that had greeted me six weeks ago vanished, replaced by a twitching, terrified mask of absolute panic.
“You... what are you doing here? How did you get past the lobby security?!” Lorraine screeched, scrambling backward against the headboard, frantically pulling the leopard-print blanket up to her chin. “Get out of my bedroom! I’ll call Daniel—I’ll have you thrown in jail!”
“You can try calling Daniel, Lorraine,” I said smoothly, stepping into the room and walking over to the vanity mirror where my missing jewelry box sat half-open. I reached down, retrieved my grandmother’s chipped cobalt-blue ceramic mug from the nightstand, and cradled it safely in my hands. “Unfortunately, your son is currently indisposed at the federal holding facility downtown, assisting agents with a little RICO investigation regarding Viktor Sterling’s syndicate.”
The color drained from Lorraine’s face until she looked like chalk.
“A federal... what?” she whispered, her voice cracking into a pathetic, breathless wheeze.
“Federal racketeering,” Marcus Vance chimed in helpfully from the doorway, flashing a brilliant, shark-like smile as he held up a certified eviction notice and property repossession warrant signed by a state judge ten minutes ago. “And as for you, Mrs. Weston, you have exactly twenty minutes to pack your neon sneakers, strip your satin robe off, and vacate this premises before the maintenance crew starts hauling your designer junk out to the curb.”
Lorraine let out a shrill, banshee-like wail of pure, unadulterated rage and despair, bursting into frantic, ugly tears as she realized her free ride on the coattails of her son’s criminal enterprise had officially crashed and burned.
May you like
I didn't watch her pack. I turned my back on her hysterics, walked down the hall to the foyer, and carefully placed Nana’s ceramic mug back onto the newly retrieved cherry wood console table where it belonged.
The apartment was mine again. The ghosts were gone. And the foundation was finally, rock-solidly secure.
