Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3)

by Patrick Kanouse

  “He has an alibi?”

  “He says he was with a friend. Adam Thompson. I called but didn’t leave a message. Vickie was so scared of Hank—her husband—she put a tracking app on his phone. She was able to keep an eye on where his phone was at. During the time in question—between 12:30 and a little after one—Hank’s phone was at Adam’s address.”

  “You think Adam would cover for his friend?”

  Drexel shrugged. “Haven’t talked to him yet. I’ll do that here in a few.”

  Victor nodded. He leaned back and lifted his left arm, which he rotated at the shoulder while gripping and rubbing his neck with his right hand. “Okay. Keep me up-to-date.”

  The detective stood. “You got it.” He walked out and back to his desk. He picked up his phone, found the number for Adam Thompson in his recent calls, and tapped Call. The phone rang through to voice mail. He left a brief message asking Adam to call before hanging up.

  Chapter 10

  The Black Keys’s guitar riff from “Lonely Boy” cried out from his phone. Drexel picked it up and answered. “What you got for me?”

  Ton said, “Been watching Blair like we discussed. He’s standing outside a six-story apartment building with Stephanie now.”

  On his phone, Drexel looked up the address Ton provided. The location in Palmer Square was along Milwaukee Avenue, several blocks northwest of Ton’s shop. Palmer Square itself was the name of a non-official Chicago neighborhood in the Logan Square community area, which had seen significant gentrifying and upscaling for several years. In fact, the location Ton provided was across the street from the Congress Theater—a designated landmark. Built in 1926, the site had seen recent attempts by developers to renovate and reuse the property. The latest intended to invest millions in making it a movie theater again. A new mixed-use building could reap potential rewards to the developer who built it.

  Drexel rode the Blue Line L to the California stop and then walked down Milwaukee Avenue southeast. A thirteen-story new building was under construction at the corner of Milwaukee and California. A “Now Leasing” banner covered the bottom level of smoke-colored glass panels. He could see construction ladders and boxes through the second-story windows. As he continued down Milwaukee, he saw a backhoe that had dug a trench and young trees, their roots still in burlap, ready for planting. Decorative walking stones were on pallets ready for placing on a gravel bed. White and orange construction barrels, orange construction netting, and temporary chain-link fencing with green screens lined the sidewalk and street.

  The southbound Blue Line train rattled on the tracks to his right. On the left side of Milwaukee, as he walked toward the Congress Theater, new buildings lined the road with advertisements for leasing or stores opening soon. On the right side, existing businesses and parking lots. Many of the businesses had impressive graffiti art on the side of the buildings. At the corner of Milwaukee and Rockwell, an old, six-story brick building sat on a triangular plot of land. It had none of the Neoclassical or Italian Renaissance charm of the Congress Theater. A blocky, brick building with tan concrete cornices. A herringbone brick pattern marking the levels was the only visually interesting thing about the building.

  Drexel’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out. Ton’s bald head and toothy grin appeared on it. Drexel answered. “I’m here.”

  “I see you. I’m a half block behind you. You passed me on the way. On the other side of the street.”

  Drexel turned and walked back the way he came. He surprised himself that he could miss Ton’s pride and joy. His cherry red, ’65 Mustang (Ton would correct him that it was technically a ’64 1/2) parked with a view of the entrance to the apartment building. Drexel rapped his knuckles on the passenger door before opening it and sliding in. The car, true to its original form, lacked air conditioning, so Ton had lowered all the windows. “Damn, I wish you’d install air conditioning in this.”

  Ton offered a dismissive wave.

  The smell of hot pavement and oil poured in. Hints of fried food from a nearby restaurant rode in on the rare current.

  Ton, his hand on top of the wheel, pointed at the apartment building’s front door. “They walked in about thirty minutes ago.” He looked at his watch. “Yeah, thirty minutes. So this is their latest. Trying to get these folks out so that they can tear it down and build a new complex worth a lot more. You still think they had something to do with Zora?”

  Drexel pinched his lips and breathed out heavily. “I don’t know. They don’t seem the violent types, but I think they’ve got some associates who are. They’re connected with the property Zora took those pictures of. Maybe Zora saw one of those officers who was vandalizing the property to drive the tenants out. Didn’t like it.” Drexel did not let his mind go as far as it sometimes did. That Victor was the one who confronted Zora about it. That Victor, knowing she would tell Drexel about his corruption, took care of the problem. Not yet at least.

  Ton’s forehead turned crimson, and he had the good sense to not bring up the connection between Kevin Blair and Victor. “If they had anything to do with what happened—.”

  “Is there some place to get a coffee around here?”

  Ton thumbed in a direction behind them. “The Cozy Corner Cafe back there.”

  The cafe was a classic diner amidst the incoming bistros and franchise coffee shops. The coffee they both got came in thick ceramic mugs, the kind with their own history. Drexel added sugar and cream to his coffee as Ton shook his head and ordered a slice of sugar cream pie. “So what’s the plan?” he asked.

  Drexel said, “I want to interview some tenants and flash a few photos at them. I’ll ask Daniela as well to look up any reports or incidents at the building. Guessing there’ll be a few.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep an eye on this place. Take photos of who’s coming and going.”

  “Hoping to catch the cops that are part of this?”

  “Yup.” Drexel downed the last of his coffee.

  “I can do that, amigo.” Ton wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and walked to the bathroom.

  Drexel pulled out his phone and called Daniela.

  “Hey, boss, what’s up?”

  “I’m looking for some information. I’ve got an address and I’d like to know what calls came in for the police there. Let’s say for the past year.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  He heard her typing the information in. “You’ll have it in a bit by email.”

  They said goodbye and hung up. Ton walked back up and laid $15 on the counter. Drexel looked at him and said, “That must have been a good piece of pie.”

  Ton smiled. “The best.”

  They walked back toward the Mustang. Ton got in on the driver’s side as Drexel walked by. He crossed the street, waving thanks at a car that slowed down for him. At the entrance to the building, he looked at the phone plate. Thirty-four apartments, thirteen of which had names on white slips of paper covered by plastic. He looked at the entrance door and noticed it was ajar by less than an inch. He pulled on the handle and walked into the foyer of the building. Unimpressive. Gray linoleum gave way to tan carpeting, both in need of replacement. The brass-colored strip where the two met was missing in several sections. The mailboxes were embedded into a white-painted wall and were above a small table. When people talk about good, old-fashioned police work, they include investigators knocking on doors and asking people questions. Slow and methodical. But necessary. What he did not do was leave his business card on any door that did not answer. He routinely did this for his homicide investigations, but this was not a sanctioned investigation, and he did not want to alert Kevin or the dirty cops—at least not with a card with this name on it. The first person to answer his knocking was in apartment 204. She answered with “Ah what now? Haven’t you done enough already?”

  Drexel held up his
badge, looped around his neck with a ball chain. “Detective Drexel Pierce with the Chicago police. I’m not—”

  “Like I said, haven’t you done enough already?” She started to close the door.

  “I’m not one of them. I’m looking to stop it.”

  The door paused. She looked him up and down. And he took her in as well. Her long blond hair fell straight to her shoulders. She wore a green T-shirt and cut-off blue jean shorts. “How do I know you’re not one of them?”

  “Have you seen me before?”

  She bit her lip. “No. But that don’t mean nothing.”

  He shrugged that he had no counter to that. “Look,” he said, “I want to show you a couple of pictures. See if you recognize them. Thirty seconds and I’ll leave you be.” He pulled out the picture of Kevin Blair and showed it to her.

  “Yeah. He’s the prick that wants us out. I told him him to shove it. I’ve got another eight months on this lease and I’ll leave then.”

  Drexel nodded. He pulled out the one of Stephanie.

  “Yeah. She’s with him. She’s never been around alone, though, and I’ve never talked to her.”

  He slid that photo back into his sport coat pocket and pulled out the one of Victor.

  Her eyes got big. “Yeah. Yeah. He’s come around saying he’d investigate. Stop people from breaking our windows and shit. He’s done nothing. Probably—.” She shook her head.

  From inside the apartment, crying could be heard interspersed with a call for “Mommy.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Drexel.

  “Brianna.”

  Another cry of “Mommy.”

  “Brianna Whalen. Look, I got to go.”

  Drexel pulled out a business card and handed it to her. “If anyone is vandalizing or harassing you, call me.”

  She took the card and closed the door.

  ***

  Drexel’s phone rang, and he answered, “What’s up?”

  Daniela said, “An Officer Ramsey stopped by asking for you. I told him he could talk to me. He says there’s a guy named Diego Cartegna, street name of Zod, who works the area around the restaurant. Suggest we talk to him. He’s a Latin King. Ramsey suggested you can find him outside La Bomba on Grand and Clark.”

  Drexel thanked her and hung up. He rode the Red Line L to Grand Station and walked the two blocks to La Bomba. He paused across the street. The restaurant had a small outside seating area of six tables with umbrellas and a serving station. A young man dressed in jeans and wearing a Chicago Bulls T-shirt with a Chicago Bulls baseball cap—the rim unbent and stiff as the day it was manufactured—sat in a chair beneath the shade of both the umbrella and building. Another young man sat next to him. Drexel presumed the former was Zod because he sat with his back to the wall, relaxed while the other sat with his arms on his knees, scanning the street. Drexel noted the lookout across the street, who stood against the wall of a CVS.

  Knowing he had already been made as a cop, Drexel walked toward La Bomba and the man he presumed to be Zod. Because no transaction was in place, the three of them had no reason to flee. Drexel walked up to the table Zod and his compatriot were sitting at. Both looked up at him. “You Zod?”

  Zod smiled. His lower, inside right arm was tattooed with “I DIE FOR YOU.” ALKN—meaning Almighty Latin Kings Nation—was tattooed along his neck. Ramon “King Papo” Santos founded the gang in the ‘50s in Humboldt Park. The Latin Kings now exceeded 50,000 members in North, South, and Central America. “How can I help you officer?”

  “I’m not narcotics. So I don’t give a shit about that. Clear?”

  “Yeah.”

  Drexel nodded. Zod—who could not have been older than 18—was confident and schooled enough to not worry about detectives talking to him. “Why do they call you Zod?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve always been called that. I don’t know why.”

  “Superman II?”

  Zod frowned and raised his hands. “I don’t know. What do you want?”

  “A couple of days ago, a restaurant owner was killed. Made to look like a hanging. Victoria Lopez. Went by Vickie or V. Restaurant called Fling. Found a stash of pills in her desk. Trying to find who sold them to her. See if they had anything to do with her death.”

  “You think I had something to do with it?”

  “Didn’t say that. Like I said, though, if you sold her pills, I don’t care. But I do want to make sure it didn’t lead to her death because she owed or something.”

  Zod ran his tongue inside his upper lip. “Didn’t kill her. Didn’t sell her any pills.”

  “You know who she was though?”

  “Yeah. She’s the one who won that show. I know the restaurant. Seen her out and about.”

  “But you didn’t sell her any drugs?”

  “Nope and that’s real.”

  Drexel nodded. He pulled out his phone and pulled up a picture of Hank. He held the phone in front of Zod’s face. “What about him?”

  Zod looked. Drexel turned the phone toward the other man, who had sat quietly the entire time. He looked at Zod. Drexel turned back to him. “Well? Seen him?”

  Zod nodded. “Yeah. He and his brother. But he did the buying.”

  “Brother?”

  “Yeah. Shorter than him, but thinks he’s the shit, you know what I mean?”

  Hank had no siblings. Drexel said, “Tell me more about this brother. What did he look like?”

  Zod nodded. “He was a nervous one. Bald, but he wore a hat. Typical looking white dude. Thought he was all with it, like he was the man. But he was sweating and shit.”

  “What did they buy?”

  “Adderall, Mary Jane. Nothing much stronger. But I serve many customers. He’s the husband of that woman chef?”

  Drexel nodded. He believed Zod did not know about the relationship between Hank and Vickie and, therefore, did not have a reason to kill her. “Thanks for your time.” Drexel stuffed his phone into his pocket and walked back to Grand Station.

  ***

  Drexel took the L back to his Damen station stop and walked the few blocks to his apartment. He called Ton from there and updated him on his interviews. Brianna and two other residents confirmed Kevin and Stephanie had visited and offered numerous buyouts. Three other residents identified Victor as the officer who told them the crimes would be investigated, which did not happen. How was Victor intercepting any calls that would have normally gone to dispatch? As a captain in Homicide, he would not have been part of the communication path from victim or witness to the investigator.

  Drexel ordered a gyro from Nikos’s down the street as Hart slipped out from the bedroom and rubbed his side against Drexel’s leg. He hung up, petted the cat, and then refreshed its water and food bowls on a khaki floor mat. He turned on the TV, ditching CNN for ESPN, but he did not pay much attention to it.

  The door opened and in walked his brother, Ryan, bringing with him the smell of roasted lamb, French fries, warm pita, and tzatziki sauce. “You didn’t get me one?” He held out the Styrofoam box.

  “I didn’t know when you’d be back. You can have that one. I’m assuming you paid the guy for it.”

  Ryan nodded and protested, saying he would make something, but the older brother pulled out his phone and made the call. He put the gyro in aluminum foil and into the oven, turning it to a low temperature.

  Ryan’s Plumber Savior uniform, the logo on the upper left featuring a saintly looking man with a halo, was covered on the left arm with a dark stain. “Don’t ask,” he said. He walked back to his room.

  After showering, Ryan, wearing jeans and a Cubs T-shirt, walked the uniform downstairs to the community washer and dryer. He returned with the other gyro. Over dinner accompanied by two Goose Island Honker Ales, Ryan weaved a long story about a new homeowner’s issues with his garbage disposal, which had been
clogged with grease and other nasty remnants of food, particularly the peelings of carrot and potato skins. This, in turn, had caused a back up in the dishwasher that had sent sudsy water over the sink. As Ryan talked through the event, Drexel reflected on how far his brother had come since his days as an addict. During high school, Ryan had gotten hooked on opioid painkillers, pilfering their mother’s prescription after a hip replacement surgery. Fun and games to have a good time at a party along with the cheap beer. When the opioids ran out and the price was too high, Ryan had started using street heroin. Like so many, he lied and stole from his friends and family to keep himself in supply. Eventually, dealing to make ends meet, Ryan was arrested for possession and distribution and ended up in the Illinois prison system. Since his release, he had held a job, kept clean, and seemed earnest in hewing to the straight and narrow.

  Drexel added the last of his French fries to his gyro and put the final bite into his mouth. The conversation fell to what Drexel thought was a necessary skill to get through life: talking sports. He had found over the years that almost universally he could engage in banter with people about a sport. Not a foolproof mechanism for social engagement, but close. He paid attention to sports he had no interest in so that he would be able to say a few sentences or ask a question. The Cubs, however, he did not need to pretend to keep track of. Ryan and he could talk about them for hours, often referencing the years of their youth with The Red Baron, Marc Grace, and Ryne Sandberg. The years of hopes and disappointments, a necessary youthful embrace of the game and a team for future nostalgic storytelling.