“That’s right.”
“Were you friends? What was your relationship like?”
Ricardo let a smile spread across his face. “Friendly at first. You’re working in the heat of the kitchen. Literally and, and, and—”
“Figuratively?”
“Yes. We worked closely for a couple of years. I left to start Tastes of the World. A couple of years later, she left to start Fling.”
“Her restaurant has only been open a few months. So she plagiarized your recipes for it?”
“Yes, yes she did. She visited Taste a few times. I always invited her into the back. You know, to catch up, see what was going on. She and I’d talk about our menus. I never thought she’d steal them.”
The host crossed his legs. “It seems like recipes are subjective. Couldn’t you both have come up with something similar? An innocent—”
“No. Not innocent. She stole them.” Ricardo pulled a set of folded papers from his back pocket. “Here. Here, I wrote these down. Some all the way back from when I worked at Hussain’s. These are my recipes.” He unfolded the papers and held up the first one toward the host’s face. “See, here’s my recipe for lamb and the mango chutney. It’s the same as hers.” The camera zoomed in on the paper. It had all the appearance of being older: stains, well-creased, ragged. Drexel could not make out the writing. Ricardo continued, “See. Here’s the chutney part. And that part, that part is what makes this dish special.”
“But her serving at Fling is different—”
“Only in minor details.” Ricardo folded the paper and stuffed it back into his pocket as he talked. “It’s like when someone takes your words and reuses them almost one-hundred percent the same, but then changes a few to mix it up. It’s still plagiarizing. She’s still making money off of my recipes.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I’m suing Fling. People need to know.”
“But with Vickie’s tragic death—”
“She killed herself in shame.” Ricardo waved away the reporter’s shocked face. “She knew what she was doing. I confronted her a few weeks ago and told her I was going to sue her. She couldn’t handle it.”
“I think the police are pursuing another theory of the crime.”
Ricardo shook his head. “She stole from me and people need to know that.”
The host nodded once and looked at the camera. “We’ll continue to follow this story to see if Chef Ricardo Gonzalez’s claims are validated or not. Tori.”
The camera changed to show the co-host at the desk, where she moved from the plagiarism story to where to see the fireworks tonight.
Drexel leaned back and rubbed his chin. Daniela turned the TV off and looked back at him. “So what do you think?”
He smiled. “Well, we need to talk to Ricardo. We already knew we wanted to talk to David Hussain as well. What can you dig up for me on those two?”
She pushed on the floor and rolled to the computer. “Well, here’s what I’ve got. Let’s start with Ricardo. So basics, he’s thirty and lives in Bridgeport. He graduated high school. He was part of the Latin Cobras gang. An upcoming group at the time since absorbed into the Latin Kings after Ibanez was gunned down. Remember that shooting took out his top lieutenants as well. Ricardo avoided jail time though despite being on the radar.”
“Probably too low down in the organization to worry about?”
Daniela bobbed her head and continued. “He ends up at JP Sloane’s Cooking for Freedom School.” JP Sloane was a reformed Vice Lord lieutenant. He had spent four years in jail for the murder of a rival gang’s member. When he got out of prison, he publicly renounced his gang past. Cooking, he had said, saved his life. A few years later, he founded his school to provide a path for both reformed gang members seeking meaningful employment and as a path to keep people out of the gangs. His vocal stances had resulted in numerous death threats, which he flagrantly ignored by going around the city without body guards. “From there, Ricardo found his connection with David Hussain, who is a big supporter and donor to the school. He worked for Hussain for six years before leaving and starting Tastes of the World.”
“So no gang arrests. Anything in his RAP sheet?”
Daniela looked up at him. “Why, funny you should ask. Yes.” She clicked the mouse. “Arrested three separate incidents. Three assaults. Charges eventually dropped. The first one was back in 2012. He got into an argument after a minor traffic incident, and the other driver had a black eye to show for it. The second one was in 2015. He got into a fistfight at a bar. Apparently, some guy called him a ‘tacohead.’ Can’t say I blame him on that one. The third one was a few months ago. One of his cooks disappointed him. After yelling—heard by the crowd at Tastes of the World—he punched the guy in the face.”
“So he can be violent. What else you got?”
“This isn’t the first time he’s accused our vic of plagiarizing. He did it in 2016 when she announced she was opening Fling, but it didn’t get much traction. He also accused David Hussain of stealing his recipes. Hussain shut it down, and that seems to be where his first accusations died on the vine.”
“And Hussain?”
“Hussain has a much longer pedigree, though no entries in a RAP sheet. He’s fifty-seven now. Owns four restaurants in Chicago and another in Vegas. He was born in Lebanon, but his parents immigrated in 1976 just as the whole Lebanon civil war thing was heating up. After that, nothing remarkable about his childhood. He started working in kitchens when he was seventeen. Hasn’t let up since.”
“What did he say about the plagiarizing claims?”
“I quote: ‘Bullshit. Pure, unadulterated bullshit.’”
“We’ve got those recipes that Hank confirmed aren’t in Vickie’s writing. Could be something to this plagiarism accusation. But I still think this is a domestic abuse case. Hank’s my lead suspect.”
“But he’s got a solid alibi.” She smiled. “I read your reports.”
“And you’re still awake?” He smiled at her. “Yeah, he does. But something’s not sitting well with me on it. I can’t pin it down.” It had woken him at 3:07 in the morning. A biting at his brain. Something was wrong, and he replayed his conversations with Hank and Adam in his head, but he found nothing to latch onto. “I’ll call Ricardo and Hussain and see if I can’t schedule some time to chat with them.” He shook the mouse on his computer and did a search on both their names. He found their restaurants online. He called Ricardo’s first. When the sous chef answered, Drexel told her that he was a detective and he needed to speak to Ricardo. She said, “He’s not here right now.”
“Yeah, I figured. He was just on WGN accusing a homicide victim of plagiarizing. I’d like to speak to him. Can you get me his cell phone number?”
She hesitated but then said, “Hold on.” A few minutes later, she picked the phone up and recited to Drexel Ricardo’s mobile number.
Drexel thanked her and dialed Ricardo.
“Hello?”
“Ricardo Gonzalez?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“I’m Detective Drexel Pierce. I’m investigating the homicide of Victoria Lopez.”
“Ah, so calling me now that I outed her for the thief and liar she was.”
“I’d really like the chance to talk to you.”
“Why? You think I killed her?”
“Well, your accusations of her plagiarizing are new to me. They may have a very real impact on the case. You’re not a suspect, necessarily, but I’m not going to rule you out until I talk to you.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“Great. Could I get you to come into the station?”
“Not today. Tomorrow. Nine in the morning.”
Drexel wrote the time down on the top Post-It of a large stack sitting on the desk next to the computer. “Great. I’m at the Central D
ivision station, at Congress and Dearborn. Check in at the front desk with the duty officer tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ricardo hung up.
Drexel then called Hussain’s. The hostess there told him David had an assistant named Theresa, and after some fumbling through a list of contacts, provided her number. He called Theresa.
“Hello, Theresa Manning.”
“Theresa, hello, this is Detective Drexel Pierce. A hostess at Hussain’s gave me your number. I’d like to speak to him. It’s in connection with the death of Vickie Lopez, a former employee of his.”
Theresa told him David was currently in Las Vegas, but he would be back in Chicago on the seventh. She told Drexel he could meet David at Taste of Chicago as early as six that morning, though she emphasized he was busy and had little time to spend in an interview. He thanked her without reminding her that some activities seemed to matter little weighed against a murder.
As he debated between grabbing a quick lunch, leaving early to get to Wrigley Field, or re-look over the evidence to see what he could divine, Doggett and Starling walked a teenager into the interview room. The kid was dressed in dark blue jeans and a LeBron James T-shirt. Heavy gold chains clanked around his neck and the pungent mixture of nicotine and marijuana wafted in behind him. Starling followed by Doggett left the interview room and locked their suspect in it. Doggett shook his head and said, “Holy shit. Nothing ceases to amaze me. And he can’t even find a proper Chicago Bulls player’s jersey to wear.” He turned and saw Drexel watching him. “Lone Ranger, that fuckhead in there, bashed his kid brother’s skull in because he lifted ten dollars for candy and pop. Fuck me.” Doggett shook his head, walked to his desk, and flopped into it. Even the mighty Doggett could be got to.
Drexel bit his cheek and decided. He locked up his desk and caught the Red Line to Wrigley.
Chapter 15
Clouds and Canadian air conspired to bring cool, pleasant, un-Chicago weather for the holiday. As Drexel walked out of the Addison Street station in the throng, he had high hopes for the game. The Cubs two days prior had bested the Reds 6-2. The spark of last year’s World Series team might finally be returning, but he was too long a fan to not feel the jitters, the worries of an inevitable slide to disappointment. The Cubs taught him everything he ever needed to know about hope, faith, and frustration. Presume the worst, and hope he was wrong. Wrigley was his cathedral.
As he walked past bars, tickets, and sports shops and across Sheffield Avenue, he delighted in the weather and being able to take in a ball game. A shadow of guilt started to invade. He did not know if Vickie was a Cubs fan, but she would never see or hear about another game. She would never spend time with family, celebrating a holiday with beer, hot dogs, and the crack of the bat. He stopped by one of the street vendors, a pop-up cart operated by the store on the corner and handed over thirty dollars for a hat. He jerked off the tag, shoved the plastic thread and cardboard tag into his pocket, and pulled the hat on. He took off his sport coat and loosened his tie. He remembered pictures of his dad as a young boy at Wrigley with his father, who wore a coat and tie to the game. During last year’s World Series, Drexel and Ryan had made the pilgrimage to Wrigley Field and added their Dad’s name in chalk to the brick wall along Sheffield Avenue. Thousands of people had written names and sentiments until the wall was a sea of pink, blue, and white. The wall had been cleaned a few weeks later.
His mood soured when he saw Wayne standing by the raised left leg of the Ron Santo statue. He took a deep breath and told himself, he only had to get through nine innings. Maybe only eight and a half if the Cubs were leading at the end. And then he was angrier that his brother-in-law could make him wish for a speedier ending to the sport he loved. Drexel walked up to Wayne, who was looking the opposite way down Addison. “Hey, Wayne.”
Wayne gave a jerk and turned, his open mouth twisting to a smile. “Hey. Hey there.” He extended his hand. He wore blue jeans and a Seattle Mariner’s green jersey. A new Cubs cap covered his light brown hair. Wayne was ruggedly handsome, and Drexel always found it odd that the thick fingers and meaty hands belonged to a world-class surgeon. But then the head was tied to a brain that fed on far right conservative news and an insatiable need to tout his resume and contacts. Drexel realized long ago that Wayne would never do anything right in his eyes. “Glad you could make it.”
Drexel shook Wayne’s and forced a smile. “I’ve got my ticket. You didn’t need to wait out here.”
Wayne nodded. “Your sister insisted. She and Ryan are already inside.” He waved for him to follow. They inserted themselves into the inflowing crowd, passed the security, and entered the concourse behind right field. They wove their way around fans dressed in blue, white, and gray jerseys and T-shirts, encountering the occasional Rays—their opponent for the day—fan. Drexel said he was going to grab a beer before they got to their seats, hoping Wayne would continue on without him, but instead he gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.
As they stood in line, Wayne talked about the conference he had flown in for. He always seemed to be coming to conferences in Chicago. This one started after the holiday, and Drexel did not pay much attention to its topics. He debated between a wheat beer and the golden ale, making his decision only when asked by the clerk. Armed with beers and large, soft pretzels, the two meandered their way to their seats. The tickets were on the lower level behind and to the right of home plate. Some of the best seats Drexel had ever enjoyed at a game. He was spared having to sit next to his brother-in-law though. He sat next to Ryan, with Lily and Wayne on the other side.
They drank a lot of beer as the Cubs racked up six runs in the first two innings. The game went bad for the Cubs in the fourth inning. Even Archer, the Rays pitcher, managed a single and an RBI. Between the third and fourth innings, a man dressed in an American flag proposed to a woman wearing Cubs blue. She said yes. The three siblings swapped childhood stories, remembered their parents, and forgot about the turmoil of their adult lives. Baseball can do that, thought Drexel, and he wondered if that was the appeal of the game, not its American Pastime claims, but its ability like a song to recall pleasant memories, to help you channel into them. Still, Drexel caught himself looking to his right and expecting to see Zora sitting there, dark large-framed sunglasses, long brown hair, and a white Cubs cap with the red logo frayed. He forced himself back to the present.
In the fifth inning, Drexel stepped away and called Noelle’s direct line. “Hello?” She sounded annoyed.
“This is Drexel.”
“Yeah, yeah. The report’s coming. You know this is a holiday, right?”
“I do. Do you?”
She chuckled. “Yeah, right. So you want the summary?”
He said he did. She confirmed what they already knew. Vickie had been murdered. Strangled by a ligature of some sort, which Noelle did not feel comfortable speculating on anymore. She had already drawn the blood and urine for toxicology reports, but those would still be a couple of days. Noelle did find skin under the fingernails, which she had sent off to the trace forensics team. Given the workload, she did not think any results from that would come for a few weeks. Drexel thanked her, and they hung up.
After the game—in which the Cubs attempted a ninth inning comeback but fell short by a run—they agreed to eat at the original Uno’s downtown. Ryan pleaded that Malnati’s was the better pie, but Lily was set on Uno’s. Once there, they put in their names for a table and waited outside.
“Beautiful day,” said Wayne. “Can’t believe you have this weather in Chicago this time of year. It’s almost like Seattle.”
Ryan nodded and Lily put her arm around Wayne’s and said, “I know. It’s glorious.” She poked him with her free hand.
Wayne smiled and looked up at the buildings and back down to street level. “So Lily tells me you’re still investigating what happened with Zora.”
“Wayne.” She slapped him, th
ough not hard, on the shoulder.
Drexel caught Ryan’s eyes and slow shaking of his head, unseen by their brother-in-law. Drexel said, “I am.”
“Any progress?”
“Wayne.” Lily’s voice was harder.
“It’s alright.” Drexel rubbed his cheek. It was not, but he also was determined to not get into a fight with Wayne. Zora had not quite despised him, though she admitted it was close. She had always said that for someone so educated, Wayne was the stupidest person she had ever met. “It’s a cold case, and because it wasn’t treated as a murder originally, a lot of the evidence that would’ve been collected wasn’t. So I’m working an uphill battle.” He used his thumbs to pop the knuckles in his fingers. “But I will find the person. I will find him.”
“Well, I understand man. I understand.” Wayne looked down the street and back at Drexel. He crunched his eyes closed and rubbed the back of his neck. “So—just asking—is it healthy for you to do this investigation? I mean it’s been a couple of years now. And—and, well, I worry that doing this is hurting you more than helping.”
Drexel’s hand curled into a fist.
Ryan, wise to his brother’s moods, stepped over not quite in between Drexel and Wayne. “I don’t know about you, but I’m parched. Wayne, let’s grab some beers for these fine folks.” He turned Wayne to the entrance and the both of them disappeared.
Lily shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
Seething, Drexel clenched and unclenched his fist several times. “No. It’s okay.”
“No, it’s not. He’s such an idiot sometimes.”
Drexel did not defend Wayne from idiocy, but he said, “You know, he was asking. I’m the one who’s wound up about it. He was trying, I guess, to be helpful.”
Lily smiled. She put her hand on Drexel’s back and rubbed it. “I know losing her hurt you more than anything.”
After sharing a pepperoni and mushroom deep dish pizza—with Wayne seated across the table from Drexel, they walked Grand Avenue to Navy Pier. The sidewalks were crammed with people who had found parking or were disgorging from the L stations and were making their way to see the fireworks. Passing by buildings of steel and glass and stone, walking beneath scaffolding, ignoring the honking horns of cars frustrated with the jaywalkers. The new Navy Pier ferris wheel came into view. They crossed Lake Shore Drive and made their way to Milton Lee Olive Park, northwest of the pier. They found an open spot of ground and planted themselves there. They had not brought any blankets or folding chairs, but they had a spot they could call theirs. Though he saw them only occasionally, he knew boats of all sizes were staking spots in the lake. Cruise boats charged hundreds of dollars to take diners on the lake for a meal and then the fireworks display.
Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3) Page 12
