Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3)

by Patrick Kanouse

  “She deserved so much more than what she got from Hank.”

  “Did she not agree when you confronted her that night?”

  Adam frowned. “No. Well, yes, but no at the same time.” He looked up and out somewhere into space. “She was trying to get out. She knew she had to or she’d be dead eventually. But she didn’t want my help. And she didn’t want me.”

  “Her abuser’s best friend and her stalker. Can’t say I blame her on that.”

  “But I loved her. When I figured out what Hank was doing to her, I only stayed his friend to keep an eye on her. As best I could, which wasn’t great. He never got violent with her when others were around. But that meant, the more I was around him, the less likely he would be to hurt her.” He bobbed his head back and forth. “That’s what I told myself at least.”

  “So what happened that night? You told her all this and she rejected you. And you decided if you couldn’t have her, no one would? That old saw?”

  “No. Not quite. She rejected me. She was upset. I went to comfort her. Give her a hug, but she shoved me. She was strong. People don’t know that. But she was. She said I was worse than him.” Adam shook his head and breathed in deep. “Worse than him. I’m not sure anything’s cut so deep as that. She said I knew all along how Hank was and never did anything about it. But she didn’t see what I did.” He paused, and when Drexel thought he was done, Adam continued. “I tried harder to hug her, and I got just so pissed off. And then I tried to kiss her. I thought, if only she would let me touch her and kiss her she’d understand. She’d feel the love. But she slapped me. I tried again, I think. And I grabbed her apron. I pulled on it. Twisted it. I was desperate. And. And then she was dead and my hands on this apron and the ties twisted and her face was horrible.” He dropped his head into his hands and sobbed.

  “You realized what you’d done. You figured Hank deserved to go down for it, though, right?”

  “He’d hurt her so much.” Adam lifted his head. “He was the animal. The criminal. I was trying to help her. But he needed to be punished.” Self-righteousness crept in like a snake slithering into a bird’s nest.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard enough.” Drexel stood. He motioned for Adam to stand and turn around. Drexel put the cuffs on his wrists and then frisked him. He then walked him out into the hot Chicago day, the sun glaring down on them, and Hank bashing a two-by-four against the brick exterior of the nightclub. All the rage coursing through his blood trying to tear down a building.

  Chapter 32

  At the station, Adam asked for his attorney and refused to talk anymore. Drexel gave him his phone and stepped out. Drexel watched him via the monitor without sound as he talked. He stood after a while and knocked on the interview room’s door. Drexel opened the door.

  “He wants to talk,” said Adam, handing the phone to Drexel.

  The detective took the phone. “Yes?”

  “This is Cooper Gage, representing Adam Thompson.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you booking him?”

  “I arrested him for murder, so yeah. I’m waiting for your two’s conversation to end. And let me tell you, there’s a good number of people in front of him. I don’t think he’s getting in front of the judge tonight. You can meet with him at the jail.”

  “Cook County Jail?”

  “The one and only.”

  Drexel handed Adam over to the patrol officers, who would finish the booking process and deliver him to the jail. He sat at his desk a short while, and decided he would complete the reports the next day, so he headed home. His family was expecting him for dinner before Lily and Wayne flew back to Seattle the next day.

  After showering, he put on jeans and a Captain America T-shirt. He pulled out a light brown sport coat to wear to dinner. Ryan and he were supposed to meet Wayne and Lily at 8:00 that night. He wondered if he could tolerate Wayne and decided he needed his boon companion, so he texted Ton and asked if he wanted to join them for dinner. Drexel decided to go ahead with the reports, so he opened up the laptop and fired up a word processing program. About halfway through the narrative, Drexel’s phone buzzed.

  Ton texted, “Where at?”

  Drexel replied, “Hussain’s.”

  “I’ll meet you at your place.”

  Ryan arrived home as Drexel was finishing the report. They exchanged greetings before Ryan retreated to his room and a shower. Drexel emailed the report to himself. He would revise it and put it into the official form tomorrow.

  The buzzer chimed and Ton’s voice came through the intercom asking to come up. Drexel buzzed him in. When Ryan came out of his bedroom dressed in khakis and a white button-up shirt, he said hello to Ton.

  “I invited him to dinner with us,” said Drexel.

  Ryan gave a thumbs up.

  They all piled into Ton’s Mustang. On the drive there, Ton asked about the investigation into Zora’s killer. Drexel, who felt like he had been updating people all afternoon, gave a cursory update. Josh Hayden was their man, though that was an alias. The next step was to see if any video footage existed at the place where he bought the phone and the Best Car Rental agency of him.

  “You’ll get him,” said Ton.

  Hussain’s was located a block west of The Magnificent Mile, on Rush Street across from the Conrad Hotel. Ton handed over the keys to his Mustang to a teenager. “Be very careful.” Ton then pulled in close, mimicking LBJ’s infamous physical pressure on representatives and senators. Given the color draining from the kid’s face, Drexel guessed the technique was effective.

  The three of them arrived there before Lily and Wayne, but the hostess went ahead and seated them, adding a fifth chair without protest. The interior of Hussain’s exuded luxury. Dark wood paneling lined the booths with marble pilasters and columns reaching to the twelve-foot ceilings. The tables were a matching dark wood. Tan cloth napkins and a candle centerpiece decorated every table. Despite the openness of the dining room, the noise level was moderate. Most of the tables had customers, and as Drexel walked by them to their table, he noticed each plate was a miniature piece of art. One person had before her a large oval dish with interlocking lines of red and green sauce, a scoop of rice in the middle, and a steak sitting on top of it, with a cone of carrots and asparagus.

  The waiter came and asked for their drink orders. Drexel—self-conscious of the luxury of the place—asked for a Manhattan. He would have preferred a beer or the whiskey straight. Ton and Ryan ordered beers after him.

  Lily and Wayne arrived as the drinks arrived. Both were surprised by Ton’s presence but said nothing obvious to that effect. “Glad to have you here,” said Wayne. They both ordered martinis.

  When their drinks arrived, Lily toasted Wayne on his successful speech earlier that day. Ton inquired on its content, which Wayne happily obliged in describing his update to a surgery technique that should improve patient outcomes by 25%. They ordered their food. Drexel opted for the steak dish he had seen. Ton went for the lamb, as did Wayne. Lily chose the trout, while Ryan hemmed and hawed between the steak and the Cornish game hen. Lily interjected and told the waiter Ryan wanted the hen. Ryan shrugged and handed his menu back to the waiter.

  The conversation flowed and ebbed. Wayne asked, at one point, how Drexel’s day had been and if he had any news about Zora’s killer. The detective shook his head and said, “It’s been a long one. I’m done talking about it for today. Sorry.”

  Lily said, “Thank goodness. I don’t understand how you can talk about crime and murder all day.”

  Drexel, too tired to fight, let the comment go.

  The food arrived and they ate. Wayne, as usual, talked with his mouth full, chewing loudly. He talked about how busy he was back in Seattle.

  Lily said, “It’s like I hardly ever see him. And then my hours can be crazy. We’ll go days with hardly two words between us.”

 
Ton sliced off a piece of the lamb. “My ex’s, they hated my hours.”

  “You have to work at it,” said Wayne.

  “So how do you keep the romance alive? Maybe I can try it out on my fourth or fifth wife?” Ton laughed and bit into the lamb.

  Lily said, “I don’t know. You make the effort.” She looked up at the ceiling.

  Ryan grinned. “Like role-playing?”

  “That again?” She blushed. “I don’t know why I told you that. Yeah, we do. You’ve got to get creative, so we role play sometimes.”

  “You mean like French maid sort of thing?” Ton gave a devilish grin.

  Lily blushed more and Wayne stopped chewing.

  Lily said, “No. Not that. I mean, when we travel together, sometimes we pretend we’re someone else. Strangers finding each other in the hotel. Though now—we’ve got personas in San Diego and New York who hook up every so often.” She set her fork down. “It’s kind of fun really.” She slapped Wayne on the arm. “Diego in San Diego. Remember him.” She winked at her husband.

  Ryan said, “And your Chicago personas?”

  “Ryan!” Lily giggled. “I’m Katerina Lowsky. A Russian diplomat’s scorned wife.” She leaned back and looked at Wayne. She smiled and said in her version of a Russian-accented English, “And you are Josh Hayden—a CEO with business dealings in Russia.”

  Drexel dropped the fork to the floor. “What?”

  Ton looked at Drexel and then at Wayne and then back at Drexel. “Oh shit,” he said.

  Drexel rose from his chair and by instinct reached for his pistol, which IA still had. Ton’s arm swooped in and wrapped around Drexel like a vise. Drexel thought he was screaming, and the table flipped up from his kicking it.

  Only later, after the doctors had given him a sedative and its effects had worn off did he learn what happened. Ton had dragged Drexel out, shouting at bystanders to call 911. Drexel’s friend had held him until the paramedics arrived and administered a sedative. Ton bore the scratches on his arms where Drexel had fought to free himself.

  Inside, Ryan had leapt at the surprised Wayne, pinning his arms and forcing him to the floor. Lily had screamed, not understanding what was happening. Ryan had held his brother-in-law and shouted at Lily that Wayne had killed Zora. Lily had stuttered a series of No’s and slumped back in her chair before rising and screaming about how that was nonsense. Wayne said nothing other than hissing for Ryan to release him. The police had arrived and took them all into custody—except for Drexel, who had been transported to the nearest hospital.

  Ryan and Ton had updated the officers on the specifics, who then contacted Daniela for verification. The officers had taken Wayne to Central station, where Doggett and Victor interrogated him for hours.

  Wayne had cracked within an hour. Lily had been allowed to listen, and she had collapsed when Wayne had uttered, “I killed her.”

  He had made a pass at her when he and Lily were visiting. Zora had rejected him. He had pleaded with her not to tell Drexel or Lily, but she had refused. He had grabbed her and pushed her. She had slipped and her head had hit the corner of the cabinet. She was dead before she landed on the floor. He had known Isaac from the conference, known he was a drunk and, therefore, used that to try to cover his tracks. Wayne had hung his head after stating it all, mumbling, “God, it’s a relief to finally tell.”

  Zora’s and Vickie’s deaths the products of a rejected advance. Accidental in their own ways. Separated by their contexts but nonetheless erased from the world of the living by men unable to accept rejection.

  After telling his friend about the events after the rage blinded Drexel, Ton patted his friend’s shoulder. They sat on the couch in his apartment. Drexel turned away and cried. A bottle of Bulleit sat before them. Ton said, “We’re going to drink.”

  Chapter 33

  In the days and weeks that followed, no one brought up Wayne’s name or his arrest. Lily had fled Chicago, leaving a simple note in the mailbox: “I don’t know what to say. I love you.” Ryan and Ton hung around Drexel every evening and on the weekends for two weeks.

  Drexel completed the paperwork on the slaying of Victoria Lopez. Drexel spoke with the district attorney and suggested Hank needed to be prosecuted for—at the least—his last beating of Vickie. The district attorney had tossed the folder back on the desk and told Drexel she did not think it worth pursuing. If Vickie were still alive, and the ellipsis hung there. Drexel grunted and left the office. Vickie deserved better. A better father. A better husband. A better life. But almost everyone deserved better. They had all gotten screwed somewhere along the line.

  Drexel was not sure if he or Ton suggested getting word to Chicago Investment Capitalization that Hank’s money tree was gone. She had died without life insurance. Fling was shuttered. All Hank had was a very expensive car. Tunney would have found out anyway, but Drexel took some guilty satisfaction in knowing that Hank would not go unpunished.

  All the while, Chicago’s body count rose through the hot days of summer and into the fall. His great, wonderful city was still at war with itself. The Mexican cartels made more aggressive moves to take over the drug trade, resulting in a flurry of shootings. And then some bad cops—men unworthy of the badge—failed in their basic duties to serve and protect. Drexel’s world seemed on fire.

  Word came that Wayne refused a plea deal. He wanted a trial. Another district attorney, Aaron Evert, called Drexel down to his office and harangued him about how he had contaminated the case by conducting the investigation. That the defense would be able to pick apart the case like peeling a banana. “Were the police stupid?” he asked.

  Drexel stood up. He took a deep breath. “You wouldn’t have a fucking case if it weren’t for me. This was written off, so I investigated. We’ve got him in jail because of me.” Drexel leaned over the desk. “And if you even fucking think about dropping this case, you’ll answer to me. You use that brain that got you your fancy law degree and you nail this asshole.” He turned and walked out.

  Dodge ratted out Kevin Blair and Stephanie Stallworth. Victor had built an airtight case. For two days, the story featured on the front pages of the Tribune and Sun-Times.

  In September, with a box of Zora’s photos beside him, he sat on a bench outside the Art Institute of Chicago. Life had turned ugly after Zora’s death. Not because it had gotten any worse in a real way—only that without her, the whole point of life seemed to have gone with it. He recalled the words of Montaigne, “Let us disarm him of his novelty and strangeness, let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.” Drexel was familiar with death. And he wondered if the French essayist had been right. It did not matter. This was the life he had.

  He picked up the box and took it inside. After some discussion with the person at the information desk and a few incorrect phone calls, one of the junior curators walked down from the offices and met with Drexel. He kept it brief, the story of Zora. He handed the box to the curator. “If I give these to you, can you keep them safe?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean?” she asked, setting her coffee on the floor and flipping through the photographs.

  “Other than what’s in here,” Drexel pointed to his head, “those photographs are what remain of her. I’ll be gone one day, and that doesn’t matter. But those photographs. And the other ones I’ve got, I want them to live forever. At least as much as we can understand that concept. I’m not expecting an exhibition or these things to be displayed permanently or—I guess—even at all. That’d be nice. But no. What I’m expecting is that they’ll be kept safe. That you’ll keep them and maybe some day they’ll be displayed and admired. But I don’t want them sold, trashed—any of that. I want you treating them with the same respect as your Monets get.”

  “I think we can help you.” The curator invited Drexel to her office, and she brought in one of their lawy
ers, who wrote up an agreement expressing the conditions of the donation. Drexel signed and then delivered the rest of Zora’s photos with Ton’s and Ryan’s help. He rested easier that night, knowing that Zora’s life—a fragment of her life at least—would be preserved, would live on. She had been the most precious thing in the world to him. Drexel would never stop experiencing the thought that her death was not real, that when he turned around after hanging up his tie for the day, she would be there to embrace him, or sitting on the couch she would lay her hand on his neck and squeeze it. He still heard laughs that caught his ear and he looked up, waiting to see her—and a sharp pain would strike his gut.

  Even Hart seemed to know the heavy burden of guilt had been lifted from Drexel, laying beside him, purring. Drexel fell asleep with Hart still beside him, Drexel’s hand on the cat’s head in mid pet, Montaigne open but face down on Drexel’s stomach, and the honking and sounds of the Chicago night penetrating the windows. Chicago would keep to its killing ways. But for today, for two victims at least, justice had won. Sometimes justice moves slow, but what comes around, goes around.

  Personal Postscript

  I started writing The Shattered Bull—the first in the Drexel Pierce series—a number of years ago. Justice in Slow Motion is the third book in that series. Beside me the entire time was our darling Yorkshire terrier, Kiki. Every morning or night I wrote, she slept on the recliner behind my writing desk. Sadly, she passed on October 8, 2017. I miss her presence, but I’ll remember her through her fictional and alternate version in Hart. Kiki had an enormous personality, and I’ll remember her growling and grunting as she spun around making her bed on the blankets on the recliner as my typing warmed up every morning.

  DID YOU LIKE Justice in Slow Motion?

  I hope you enjoyed Justice in Slow Motion. If you did, I would be grateful for an honest review on Goodreads or Amazon. Thank you!