“She’s right,” Julian agreed. “Adrian is relying on that contract to stay liquid.”

Margaret walked over to the leaded glass window, looking out at the dark, rain-slicked streets of Chicago.

“So what do you propose, Claire?” Margaret asked, turning back to face me. “We cannot let this stand.”

“We go to the municipal board,” I said. “Right now.”

Arthur looked at his watch.

“It is nearly nine o’clock on a Thursday night,” he said.

“The executive committee is downstairs in the private dining room,” Julian said, a sharp smile touching his lips. “They are hosting the annual planning dinner.”

Arthur hesitated, then nodded.

“Get your files ready, Claire,” Arthur said. “I will tell them we are convening an emergency session in the library.”

Ten minutes later, we were seated around a long mahogany table in the club’s private library.

Six members of the Chicago Municipal Renewal Board sat opposite us, their dinner jackets loosened, their faces grim.

The room smelled of old leather, paper, and the damp wool of our coats.

Outside, the wind rattled the heavy glass panes.