Chapter 8: Richard Alcott's Office
Richard Alcott's offices occupied the top floor of a building on Michigan Avenue that he had owned for thirty years.
The receptionist knew my name and showed me in without a call ahead — a courtesy extended to major clients and long-standing associates.
Richard was standing at his window when I entered, looking out over the city.
He was seventy-two, broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and had always carried himself with the particular ease of a man who had never once doubted that rooms arranged themselves around him.
He turned and smiled.
"Marcus.
This is a surprise.
Sit down."
"I'll stand."
The smile held for a moment, then recalibrated.
He moved toward his desk but didn't sit either.
"Your mother called me this morning," he said.
"I assumed she would."
"She told me you've found the woman.
And that there are children."
"My sons," I said.
"Their names are Daniel and Thomas.
They're five years old."
Richard picked up a pen from his desk and turned it between his fingers.
An old habit.
I had watched him do it in board meetings for two decades.
"Marcus, whatever Eleanor has told you—"
"She told me about the immigration contact." I watched his hand.
The pen stopped moving.
"She told me you arranged for a flag to be placed on Evelyn's visa renewal if she ever attempted to contact me or file a paternity claim."
Richard set the pen down.
"That was a protective measure," he said.
"For the company.
A paternity claim from an unknown woman could have created significant complications during the expansion phase.
We were acquiring three properties that year.
The timing—"
"You used a government contact to threaten a private citizen."
"I used a relationship to create a contingency." His voice was steady.
"Nothing was ever activated.
The woman was never harmed."
"She spent six years raising my children alone because she believed she couldn't come forward without risking deportation." I took a step toward the desk.
"That is harm, Richard."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he moved around the desk and sat down — not with authority, but with the careful movement of a man buying time.
"What do you want?" he said.
"Your resignation from the Vance board.
Your fifteen percent stake to be offered back to the company at the original valuation from six years ago, before the expansion you were so concerned about protecting." I paused.
"And the name of your contact at the immigration office."
Richard's expression shifted.
Something harder moved underneath it.
"That's a significant ask," he said.
"It's the only ask.
If I leave this office without those three things, my attorney files a complaint with the state bar regarding Gerald Marsh tomorrow morning, and I give a full account of your role in this to every journalist who covers the hotel industry." I held his gaze.
"You've spent thirty years building a reputation in this city.
I don't think you want the second half of your seventies to be defined by this story."
The pen was still on the desk.
He didn't pick it up.
"The contact's name was a man named Farris," he said quietly.
"He retired two years ago.
The arrangement died with his position."
"I'll need that in writing."
Richard looked at me — really looked at me — and for a moment I saw something I hadn't expected.
Not defiance.
Something closer to exhaustion.
"Your father would not have done this," he said.
"My father never knew what you were capable of." I placed James Whitfield's card on the desk.
"Have your attorney contact mine by Friday.
All three conditions."
I walked to the door.
"Marcus." His voice stopped me.
"For what it's worth — I did believe we were protecting the company.
I did believe that."
I looked back at him.
"The boys needed a father," I said.
"That was worth more than the company.
May you like
It always was."
I left him sitting at his desk with James's card in his hand and the city spread out behind him through the glass.
