Chapter 3 - The Gilded Snake
The gates of the Whitmore estate in River Hills swept open automatically as Daniel’s SUV approached. The house was a massive, French-country manor set on five acres of manicured lawn, flanked by tall pine trees.
I sat in the passenger seat, my jaw set. I had refused to stay at the hotel. If Daniel was walking into the lion’s den, I was standing beside him. My mother was safe at the hotel under the care of a private security guard Arthur Vance had hired.
We parked on the gravel driveway beside Richard Whitmore’s polished Mercedes.
Daniel didn't bother knocking. He used his old key to unlock the heavy oak front door and pushed it open.
The interior of the house was silent, smelling faintly of lemon polish and expensive perfume. In the sunlit dining room, Margaret and Richard Whitmore were sitting at a long marble table, being served poached eggs and coffee by their maid, Elena.
Margaret looked up, her silver hair styled in soft waves, a pearl necklace resting against her silk blouse. She didn't look remorseful; she looked mildly annoyed.
"Daniel," Margaret said, setting her china teacup down with a light clink. "And Clara. You finally decided to be sensible. Elena, leave us."
The maid quickly bowed her head and slipped through the door to the kitchen, shutting it behind her.
Richard Whitmore, a broad-shouldered man of sixty-eight with cold grey eyes and a lifetime of unearned authority, didn't even look up from his financial newspaper. "You made a scene on the phone yesterday, Daniel. Unacceptable. We have a reputation in this city."
"A reputation for what, Dad?" Daniel asked, stepping into the dining room, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets. "Elderly fraud? Theft? Or just plain evil?"
Margaret sighed dramatically, dabbing her lips with a linen napkin. "Oh, stop the melodramatics! Evelyn is seventy years old, Daniel! She lives alone in a house that is far too large for her. She was neglecting the maintenance! The gutters were rotting, the roof needed replacing—it was an eyesore!"
"It was her home!" I shouted, stepping forward, my whole body shaking with fury. "My father built that house! He died in that house! You tricked a confused widow into signing away her life's savings!"
"We didn't trick anyone," Richard growled, finally folding his newspaper and slamming it onto the marble table. "She signed a legal document in front of a licensed notary. Whitmore Capital Management stepped in, relieved her of a burdensome liability, and liquidated the asset. We are putting the net proceeds into a trust for her care."
"A trust?" Daniel laughed—a dark, bitter sound. "Where is the trust document, Dad? Show it to me. Show me the trust where you deposited the $480,000 cash from the sale."
Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent.
"You don't have a trust," Daniel continued, leaning over the table, staring his father in the eyes. "You put the money into an offshore account routing through First National to cover the margin calls on your failed real estate developments in Texas."
Margaret’s face flushed pale under her makeup. She looked quickly at her husband, then back at Daniel. "That... that is private corporate business, Daniel! It has nothing to do with you!"
"It has everything to do with me," Daniel said. "Because as of eight o'clock this morning, I resigned as Chief Investment Manager of Whitmore Holdings."
Richard stood up so fast his chair screeched against the marble floor. "You did what?!"
"I resigned," Daniel repeated coldly. "And before I walked out the door, I informed the board of directors that I am revoking my personal guarantee on your twelve-million-dollar credit line with Chase Bank."
Richard’s face turned from pale to a dangerous, mottled purple. "You foolish boy! That credit line backs the entire summer portfolio! If Chase pulls that line, the firm goes into technical default by Friday!"
"Then I suggest you find twelve million dollars by Friday," Daniel replied smoothly. "Or better yet, you can call the police and tell them why your corporate accounts are being seized by federal prosecutors."
Margaret gasped, her hand flying to her pearl necklace. "Daniel! We are your parents! How can you stand there and defend that... that penniless woman over your own blood?!"
"That 'penniless woman' raised the wife I love," Daniel hissed, his voice dropping to a deadly, quiet register that made even Richard flinch. "She has more honor, more grace, and more dignity in her pinky finger than the two of you have in your entire bloated, miserable existence. You have until four o'clock today to surrender the full proceeds of the sale, sign a complete confession of deed fraud, and hand over the keys to the Whitefish Bay house."
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"And if we don't?" Richard spat, his fists clenched at his sides.
"If you don't," Daniel smiled—a cold, terrifying sight, "Arthur Vance will serve the criminal indictment at your country club during your four o'clock golf game. And I will personally ensure the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel gets front-page access to every single detail."
