Victor drove them south from downtown to the four-story building, parking in the large lot across the street. Drexel wondered how often Sobieski made Victor drive this route, demanding some show of submission to the chain of authority. He thought about asking the question but held back. He held back unsure if it was because he did not want to know how much his captain had to humiliate himself to protect Homicide’s work or the fact that Victor participated in his own humiliation. The status quo seemed easier to live with.
They walked into the main lobby, passed the civilians and the two murals of people in different seasons while Justice stood in the middle on the waters of Lake Michigan holding a scale. The two murals stretched over one hundred feet along the back wall. Victor held up his badge and walked passed the metal detectors in the police line. They rode the elevator to the fourth floor. They turned left and then right down non-descript hallways of light brown carpet and cream-colored walls. At the far end of the hall, the door to the superintendent’s suite was visible. The captain knocked on the first door on the left. Through the tall, narrow glass window in the wall, Drexel saw Sobieski sitting at his desk. “Come in.”
The two walked in. Sobieski, his hair slicked and high off his head, waved them to take the seats in front of the desk. Among the detectives of Central Division, rumors had long circulated that Sobieski had spent his own money decorating his Chicago HQ office. Drexel himself had never been here, and Victor never commented on the office. The floor changed at the threshold from the industrial, short and dense piled beige carpet of the hallway to a deep reddish brown, wide hardwood glistening in the lights. The walls were painted a light and dark maroon in a cross-hatch pattern. The lighter maroon colored squares were textured with thin lines running through them. A floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind Sobieski’s desk prominently featured Illinois’s criminal code, books on police procedures and being a police officer. Not a single one looked to have ever been read, but the display was awesome enough to portray a learned, thoughtful protection and services officer. Sobieski’s desk was a lighter color wood than the floor. Oak if Drexel had to guess. Its size also attempted to impress and awe those who would enter. The computer monitor sat to his right. A desk lamp with green shades to his left.
Victor handed him the report before sitting down. Drexel sat in the leather cushioned chair to his boss’s left. Sobieski looked quickly at Drexel and then started reading. He licked his thumb to turn the page. After ten minutes, the commander closed the folder. “I’ll be back.”
After the door shut behind Sobieski, Drexel asked, “What’s going on, cap?”
“I don’t know. Whatever it is, I don’t think we’ll like it.” Victor rested his elbow on the arm of the chair and rubbed his chin. “We’re not going to like it.”
Drexel’s phone vibrated, and he pulled it out to see a message from Ton asking to see him when he had a chance. Drexel responded he would let him know. He tapped his foot as he checked email and then the Web’s news sites, not seeing anything so much as passing the time. After a half hour, the door opened and Sobieski walked in followed by a woman in dress blues who stood a foot taller than Sobieski. Her hair was a dark blond, and she had it pulled back and tied with a Chicago PD blue band.
Victor stood and Drexel followed his lead. “Chief,” his boss said.
She nodded.
Sobieski looked over at Drexel and said, “This is Deputy Chief Jacobson of IA.”
Drexel straightened up. “Chief.”
They all remained standing in a room of three chairs and four people before Drexel stepped away from his and gestured to it. Jacobson gave him a serious look he could not read, but the three of them sat while he stood near the desk.
Sobieski dropped the folder with the report on the desk. “We’ve been reviewing your report, detective. And there’s some disturbing allegations about Detective Cadenat in here, though you refrain from openly accusing him of being a hit man.” When Sobieski saw that Drexel was not going to respond, he continued. “That may be the case, but the report lacks discretion in that regard. In fact, your entire investigation lacks discretion.” Victor leaned forward, but Sobieski held up a hand. “You began an investigation of Detective Cadenat without authorization. And you violated specific instructions I gave once I learned of your investigation. The appropriate chains of command were not informed. Frankly, this is all an embarrassment to the department and should be to you.”
Drexel seethed. The commander had manipulated the situation to remove him from the decision-making process, leaving Drexel to take the heat while implying Cadenat was somehow an upstanding officer despite the dead SWAT trooper in Wisconsin. He paused to gather his words, but Victor jumped in. “This is outrageous. You ordered us to investigate Cadenat and not—repeat not—inform IA or MPU.”
Jacobson turned to look at the captain, but Sobieski intervened. “Clearly, there is a problem with your hearing, Victor. I would never have operated outside the established protocols. Your and Drexel’s culpability in this investigation will be determined by Internal Affairs.”
Jacobson looked back at Sobieski, then Victor, and finally at Drexel. “Detective Lieutenant Steven Leary will conduct an inquiry to establish if there were any violations of protocol or errors in the investigation you conducted. He’ll then file a report with me and that will determine the next steps.”
Sobieski rose up. “So at this time, you’re suspended—”
“Commander,” said Jacobson, “we’ve discussed this. Detective Pierce nor Captain Macleod are suspended. They can continue their work so long as they have nothing more to do with the investigation into Detective Cadenat. Given his death in Wisconsin, I wouldn’t think that would be a problem.”
Sobieski dropped back down in his chair. “I continue my objection to that policy.”
“Noted. Detective Leary already has all the notes and reports you’ve made to date. He would like to speak to you both today.” She stood up and nodded at Sobieski.
Victor rose to follow Jacobson, but the commander pointed with his finger for the captain to sit. As Sobieski waited for the door to close, Drexel shook his head at Victor. Sobieski stood up. “You’re lucky your ass isn’t suspended, Pierce. When they find wrongdoing, you’ll lose that badge. You’ll wish it was a suspension then.”
“Am I dismissed?”
“Just remember Pierce. Just remember.”
Drexel stared at him and nodded once. “One day, you’ll go too far.” He walked out, followed by Victor.
In the hallway, Victor gripped him by the shoulder and pulled him aside near the elevators. “What the hell Pierce? This is bullshit.”
“Tell Leary what happened.”
“I plan on it, but that doesn’t explain what the hell’s going on. When you were fresh into Homicide you were a tiger with him. Then it all switched. What does he have on you? I know there’s something.”
Drexel bit his lip. He looked up and down the hallway. “It’s not what he has on me. It’s what he has on Ryan.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. It’s bullshit, but it’s powerful. Look, I’ll tell you later. Let’s get this interview with Leary over with. Maybe tomorrow we can get drinks and talk.”
Victor stepped back and nodded.
Drexel wondered if Sobieski had finally pushed too far. Victor had always been his ally against the commander, but Drexel had never known what Sobieski had. Perhaps now, he would.
Chapter 29
They found Internal Affairs on the second floor and Detective Lieutenant Steven Leary sitting at his desk among a collection of desks butted up and facing each other, with small partitions between them rising a couple of inches above the desktops. Leary was an athletic-looking man—thin, but not wiry—with close-cut hair. Wisps of gray dotted the temple and sides. His skin was a dark, rich brown. If one had slapped a thin goatee on him, he might have passed f
or a brother of Thelonius Monk.
“Detective Pierce and Captain Macleod?” Leary extended his hand.
Drexel shook it. “Yep. Pierce.”
Victor nodded his head once as he shook Leary’s hand.
Leary wanted to interview them separately. Drexel was up first, so Victor agreed to come back in an hour. Leary led the detective to an interview room, which was much like the one the detectives had fashioned at their station, only the HQ one was nicer.
Leary dropped a small folder on the table and placed his notepad and pen beside it, both lined up. After Drexel sat in the chair opposite, Leary leaned over. “I’ve been reviewing the notes and details I’ve got. Frankly, I don’t understand why we’re having this conversation.”
Before Drexel could respond, Leary flipped the button on the table to begin recording the interview. They stepped through the preliminaries, ensuring Drexel did not want a lawyer or his union rep, the whole spiel he himself had conducted thousands of times. When Ton asked Drexel one day if getting a lawyer or not for a police interview was important, Drexel had said to always get a lawyer and say absolutely nothing. Even if the police pulled out the “makes-you-look-guilty” line, have a lawyer. He ignored his own advice, something he counted on daily on the job.
Leary let Drexel tell his account, stepping him through the early part of the Simon case, the links between the missing victims and Benoit. He softened Sobieski’s tone when the commander told them not to inform IA or MPU, couching it in terms that justified Sobieski’s actions, or at least cast a good light on them, sweeping them away as concern for the MPU’s reputation. While Sobieski may have had no such intention, Drexel was sympathetic to the corrosive power of an accusation. Like news stories, corrections are rarely noticed or accepted. And he did not know Leary. Despite his opening remarks, Leary did not tell Drexel that the report would not end up in Sobieski’s hands.
After thirty minutes, Leary had yet to open the folder or his notebook. “So how did Detective Cadenat learn you were investigating him?”
“We contacted the ex-wife. I think she called Benoit and alerted him. Probably not in a nice way.”
“I can’t stand my ex. I wouldn’t have called her to tell her she was being investigated.” He winked and shook his head. “I take that back. I might’ve called to gloat.” He laughed and Drexel joined him. With a large smile, Leary stood up and leaned over with both his hands on the table. “I think we’re done here. Sounds like you need to be working on catching that killer.” He turned off the video recording. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, detective.”
Drexel shook his hand and nodded once. He passed Victor sitting in a guest chair near Leary’s office. They smiled at each other.
* * *
Drexel met Ton at Filiki Eteria in Greektown. Ton was at the bar with a bottle of Mythos in front of him and a second bottle in front of the empty stool beside him.
Ton stood up and hugged him. “Our table will be ready soon.”
Drexel smiled and sat beside his friend, taking a long drink of the beer. “Been dealing with red tape today. Any word on the Cathars?”
“No. I got nothing. Like I said, this is some perversion of Cathar stuff. Somebody knows their history, but I can’t tell if they’re playing off something they know a lot about, know just the surface, or are batshit crazy. Probably the last one.”
“But this is some sort of plan. Is he trying to touch the face of god or something?”
Ton scratched his chin. “Okay, so bear with me. It’s an idea that’s floating around in my head. A rough draft. Anyway, what if the killer thinks he’s doing his victims a favor?” He acknowledged Drexel’s quizzical look. “Think of it. The Cathars thought the body, the physical was evil. They were okay with suicide even. Only the spiritual was good. What if, by killing these people he thinks he’s freeing their soul to the good. Helping them shed the evil of the physical self. What’d the first note say. The quote.” He snapped his fingers trying to remember.
Drexel tapped his lips with the mouth of the bottle. “Something like ‘Lord…before Satan fell—in what glory or something did he attend his Lord.’ Something close to that.”
“Right. That’s about Lucifer. The angel of light. God’s chosen. Lucifer fell because of pride. But what did he fall to? Not Hell. Earth. He will reign in Hell, but he fell to Earth. He fell to the physical. What’s the second quote?”
“Um. ‘I have sinned. Have patience with me and I will—’”
“Sinned—sin is associated with the physical world. And to redeem ourselves into the good, into the spiritual, we have to pay for those sins. Death is part of that payment. But torture as well. The third?”
“Something about hating this world and the things in it.”
The hostess told them their table was ready, so they carried their beers and followed her to a booth next to the windows that looked out onto the street.
As Ton slid into his booth seat, he said, “And what does he hate? He hates the body. Look what he’s done to them. Chopped them up. Left pieces of the physical world. Symbols of some sort.”
“So he’s religious.”
“Depends on what you mean by that, but yeah. I think the guy believes this dualist stuff of body bad and soul good and is doing what he thinks he needs to do to save them and himself from Hell. Religious, but delusional. Twisted.” Ton shook his head. “Hell if I know.”
The waiter walked up and paused at the end of the table. He smiled and placed a plate of four warm pita triangles, a dollop of hummus, and a small bowl of kalamata olives on the table. Ton looked up at the waiter as he explained the special that night was swordfish marinated in olive oil and lemon and then grilled. Served with a side of potatoes and green beans.
Ton asked for the lamb special, and Drexel asked for moussaka with a side of gigantes and two more beers. They moved away from talk of murders to sports and ongoings at the Pawn Shop. One recent customer brought in a 1964 Lake Placid Blue Fender Stratocaster she claimed Jimmy Page used during recording sessions for In Through the Out Door. Her excitement was quickly ended when Ton looked at the serial number plate and saw the script “F” on it, which meant it had been manufactured in 1965 or later. A ’64 Strat would have had an L at the beginning of the serial number. He offered her a small sum for it. She left with the guitar in hand, convinced Ton did not know what he was talking about.
After they finished eating, the waiter returned to ask about coffee, which Ton declined for both of them. “I want to show you something,” he said. He paid for the both of them over Drexel’s protests, and they walked to his car parked in a garage a block south. Night had descended, so the city’s streets and lights were lit bright. Ton drove them to the Gold Coast and parked two blocks south of Mrs. Darlington’s mansion. “So I’ve been watching Mr. Blair. Not much I could find out about him.”
“Daniela couldn’t either. And she’s good. Probably better than you.”
Ton grunted. “But does she have my winning personality?”
“Doggett actually talked to him. Turned him over to the detectives that deal with con men.”
Ton bounced his head back a couple of times. “You know what, the old lady may be involved in the scam, but I’m not angry at her. I’m mad as hell about this pissant taking advantage or using her.” He draped his arm over the steering wheel. “Thing is, Mr. Blair likes to walk the dog. Well, he walks the dog. A little Jack Russell Terrier named Herman. He’ll be by in about ten minutes.” He turned up the volume on the stereo as Temple of the Dog’s “Say Hello 2 Heaven” started playing.
A few minutes later, Kevin appeared. He wore distressed jeans, slip-on light blue shoes, and a pale blue sweater over a tan V-neck T-shirt. His blond hair was parted down the middle and swept to the sides. He looked like what Doggett would have referred to as a puke.
Ton turned off the radio. “So apparen
tly, Mrs. Darlington doesn’t like the help staying in the household.”
“Help? But Kevin’s—”
“Wait for it.” His friend held up his hand and pointed it toward Kevin, who stopped on the sidewalk and wrapped the dog’s leash around the wrought-iron fencing that surrounded a locust tree. He then walked up a short flight of stairs of a brick building. The door opened and Stephanie, Mrs. Darlington’s housekeeper, stepped onto the porch and gave Kevin a hug and passionate kiss. Ton said, “And there you go.”
“That’s not a surprise. Well, based on what I observed of Stephanie. Does Mrs. Darlington know about Kevin and Stephanie?”
“I don’t know. But I know that her late husband shacked up with one of their former housekeepers. He was exiled to a cold, distant part of the mansion. Had to get his own coffee even. It was months before he returned to his proper status. From then on, the housekeepers were required to live outside the mansion. The Darlingtons, of course, provided a stipend for that, a tradition that widow Darlington continues.”
“What did you find out about Kevin?”
Ton turned away from the scene on the porch. “Mr. Darlington died in 2008. Stephanie was hired as the housekeeper in early 2013, and Kevin shows up in late 2013, and he’s pretty quickly into the widow’s good graces. Within a month, he’s driving a shiny Ferrari. A 2012 F12berlinetta. Beautiful car. Second fastest roadcar Ferrari makes. Nowadays, Kevin’s making decisions about properties.”
“How so?”
“Mrs. Darlington owns a lot of real estate in Chicago. Houses. Condos. Commercial. If you can build on it, she’s got a hand in it somewhere, somehow. And Kevin starts treating it like his own. He sells off some, he buys others, he renovates. But the kid has bad luck. His contractors—and he’s gone through a lot of them—never do the job asked, so he doesn’t pay them. But the contractors, well, they think they did the job.”
“Funny how that’s working out.”
Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2) Page 24
