Chapter 5 - THE EDGE
The wind howling off Lake Michigan slammed into us the second Richard kicked open the heavy metal door to the Bellweather’s rooftop.
It was freezing, the December air cutting through my thin blouse like glass. The roof was expansive, a flat expanse of gravel and ventilation units, illuminated by the harsh red glow of the hotel’s neon sign.
Standing near the precipice, thirty stories above the Chicago streets, was Arthur Harwood.
He had one arm wrapped tightly around Margaret Ellis’s neck. His other hand held a snub-nosed revolver, pressed firmly against her temple.
Margaret was clutching the dented aluminum cake tin to her chest like a shield. She looked terrified, her thin gray coat whipping in the wind, but she wasn't crying.
“Stop right there, Richard!” Arthur yelled over the roar of the wind.
Richard froze, putting a hand out to stop me from taking another step.
“Let her go, Arthur,” Richard shouted, his voice remarkably steady despite the terror in his eyes. “You have nowhere to run. The police are already on their way. David called them from the basement.”
“I don't care about the police!” Arthur spat, his aristocratic veneer entirely gone, replaced by the desperate panic of a cornered animal. “I care about the watch! Tell her to open the tin and give me the watch, or I throw her off this roof right now!”
“Ricky, don't do it!” Margaret cried out, her voice remarkably strong. “He’ll kill us both anyway!”
“Shut up, old woman!” Arthur snarled, jerking her backward.
“Arthur, listen to me,” Richard said, taking one slow, calculated step forward. “You want the watch? I’ll give it to you. But you have to let her walk away.”
“I make the deals here!” Arthur screamed, the gun shaking against Margaret’s head.
I looked frantically around the rooftop, my mind racing. I was a hotel concierge. I spent my days arranging theater tickets and calming angry guests. I had no training for this. But as my eyes swept the darkness, I noticed the heavy, industrial maintenance crane used for window washing, parked just ten feet behind Arthur.
The heavy steel hook was suspended right above him.
I looked at Richard. I needed a distraction.
I didn't whisper. I didn't signal. I just moved.
I stepped out from behind Richard and screamed at the top of my lungs.
“Arthur! Your wife is downstairs sleeping with the board of directors!”
It was a ridiculous, chaotic, completely unprofessional sentence.
But it worked.
For a fraction of a second, Arthur’s aristocratic pride betrayed him. His head whipped toward me, confusion and rage flashing across his face.
That fraction of a second was all Margaret needed.
Seventy-four years old, fueled by four decades of suppressed rage, Margaret didn't try to pull away. She brought her heavy, work-boot-clad foot down as hard as she could onto Arthur’s polished leather dress shoe.
Arthur howled in pain, his grip loosening.
Margaret ripped herself free, stumbling forward.
Arthur recovered instantly, raising his gun toward her back.
But Richard was already moving.
He didn't run toward Arthur. He dove sideways, tackling Margaret to the gravel roof just as Arthur fired.
The gunshot was deafening, the bullet sparking against a ventilation unit inches from where Margaret had been standing.
Arthur turned his gun toward Richard and Margaret on the ground.
He didn't see me running.
I sprinted toward the window-washing crane, grabbing the heavy manual release lever. I didn't know how to operate it properly, but I knew gravity.
I yanked the lever down.
The heavy steel hook and the thick suspension cable plummeted.
It didn't hit Arthur perfectly, but the heavy cable lashed across his shoulder and the side of his head with the force of a baseball bat.
Arthur screamed, the gun flying from his hand and clattering across the gravel. He collapsed onto his knees, clutching his head.
Richard scrambled to his feet, closing the distance in three massive strides.
He didn't punch Arthur. He didn't kick him.
Richard grabbed Arthur by the lapels of his expensive tuxedo and hauled him up, shoving him violently against the low parapet wall at the edge of the roof.
Arthur whimpered, dangling precariously over the thirty-story drop.
“Forty-four years,” Richard hissed, his face inches from Arthur’s, his voice vibrating with a lethal, icy calm. “Forty-four years I believed my father was a thief who abandoned me. You stole my family. You stole my life.”
“Richard, please!” Arthur begged, weeping openly, his hands scrabbling uselessly at Richard’s iron grip.
“Drop him, Ricky,” Margaret’s voice called out from behind us.
Richard froze.
We turned to look at her.
Margaret was sitting on the gravel, the cake tin open in her lap. She was holding the cracked silver pocket watch.
“Drop him,” Margaret repeated softly. “Because he isn't worth the stain on your soul. And because we have what we need to destroy him in the light of day.”
Richard stared at Arthur’s pathetic, weeping face.
Slowly, Richard pulled him back from the edge and threw him onto the gravel like a piece of garbage.
“Don't move,” Richard ordered.
He walked over to Margaret and knelt beside her. I joined them, my heart still hammering in my throat.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Ellis?” I asked, helping her sit up.
“I’m fine, dear,” she smiled, brushing gravel off her coat. She looked at Richard and held out the pocket watch.
“Open the back casing, Ricky,” she said.
Richard took the watch. His large hands fumbled with the delicate silver latch. With a quiet click, the back casing popped open.
It wasn't filled with gears.
Tucked tightly inside the hollow casing was a small, ornate brass key.
And wrapped around the key was a tiny, tightly folded piece of paper.
Richard unfolded the paper. It was a receipt for a safe deposit box at the First National Bank of Chicago.
But as Richard read the name on the receipt, his breath caught in his throat.
It wasn't his father’s name.
It was Margaret Ellis.
“Mrs. Ellis,” Richard whispered, looking at her in shock. “The safe deposit box is in your name. My father put the evidence in your name before he died.”
Margaret smiled, a tear sliding down her cheek.
“I know, Ricky,” she said softly.
“You knew?” I asked, stunned. “Then why didn't you go to the bank and get the evidence forty years ago?”
Margaret looked at the sky, the red neon light washing over her face.
“Because Arthur’s father didn't just threaten your lives, Ricky,” Margaret said, her voice dropping to a heartbreaking whisper. “He took something of mine to ensure I never opened that box.”
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She looked at me, her eyes filled with an unbearable sorrow.
“They took my son,” she said.
