ONCE SAID NO UNSAYING C X
A message, and people do not deliver messages by burning it in a desk and hoping the person eats a peanut. Drexel started the car and drove back to Trump Tower, playing Tom Waits’ Closing Time album from his iPhone.
At the door of the Bull’s penthouse, he took in the view. He preferred the quiet of the scene after all the CSIs had left. He imagined what the Bull’s evening must have been like. He returns home. His girlfriend is gone. He knows he has a couple of hours to kill and he’s going to get some exercise in. He’s not going to eat. No. Straight to exercising. Get it out of the way. So Drexel turned right and walked the hallway toward the exercise pool. He paused as he passed the office and visualized the writing on the desk. Unlikely that the Bull would have seen it just passing by. Drexel continued to the exercise pool. The Bull would have needed to change first. Clothes would be in the master bedroom; thus, Drexel walked into there and into the Bull’s closet. He pulled open a couple of drawers until he found a few exercise shorts, pants, shirts, and socks. Several pairs of gym shoes were nearby. Nikes and Adidas. Drexel looked around the closet more. Everything had a place and pattern. Ten suits hung from black to brown. Button-up shirts were organized by color. Ties collected by type of color, width, and pattern. Four pieces of Louis Vuitton luggage at the top of the closet. A chest of drawers broke up the business wear from the casual. Drexel opened the first drawer and stared at three Rolexes. He slid it closed.
Drexel imagined the Bull changing and going to the exercise pool. Drexel stopped at the bathroom and entered it. Soap and shaving cream smells hung in the air. Sink and shower. Marble floors and walls. Dark wood vanity. Silver fixtures. A fogged glass enclosure hid the toilet. An electric toothbrush sat in its charging cradle on the vanity. He opened the mirrored medicine cabinet. Colgate toothpaste. Aramis 900 cologne. Tylenol. Advil. Fingernail clippers. Gillette razor.
Drexel continued his path to the exercise room but again paused before making the turn, staring down the short hall to the other bathroom. The hers bathroom. He took a couple of steps and stopped again. The salon to his left and another walk-in closet to his right. The salon had a mirror with lighting around it and a small make-up mirror sitting on the counter. A small, light-brown basket sat in the corner. Several weaves poked out, and the corners all looked smashed in or had taken a fall. The basket was filled with small vials of Chanel and L’Occitane makeup. An Arbonne masque, eyelash curler. YSL mascara. Lipsticks of various colors. Hand and feet moisturizes. DHC Deep Cleansing Oil, and a small bottle of Egyptian massage oil. Drexel picked up each of the bottles, giving them a once over and putting them back.
Kara’s closet was in stark contrast to the Bull’s mastery of order. Instead, Kara’s organizational method seemed to be wherever a space existed, put it there. He stared at it and began to discern a bit more order. Dresses in that corner. Jeans and sweaters in the pile or hanging. The Louis Vuitton luggage was stored at the top of the closet, but the zippers were incompletely closed, and parts of clothing hung out of them. The hers bathroom was a return to order. In the same marble and wood as the Bull’s bathroom, this one was much larger, adding a full shower. A matching electric toothbrush sat in its charging cradle, and the medicine cabinet contained similar items.
Drexel walked out and to the exercise room, where he stood for a few minutes. He tilted his head as he recalled from the evening prior the exercise pool had been on. He walked over to the wall between the hot tub and sauna. He found a switch and turned it on. Immediately, the exercise pool came to life with a loud rumbling and waves crashing. The Bull would never have heard anyone enter the penthouse while the thing was on. The motor was placed on the end facing the master bedroom, which meant the Bull would have been swimming “away” from the entrance to the exercise room. If someone had entered while he was in the pool, the Bull would not have been able to see them.
The Bull finishes his swim, towels off and tosses the towel on the railing next to the hot tub, and he ends up with a glass of whiskey, but no bottle. Only three locations Drexel was aware of had whiskey in the apartment: the kitchen, the wet bar in the family room, and the office. The office was the closest, so why waste time going any farther. But who drinks bourbon right after a workout?
Drexel skipped the office and went to the kitchen and its cherry wood cabinets, black marble countertops, and stainless steel fixtures and appliances. The countertops themselves were nearly empty. Just a Keurig coffee maker, an espresso machine, and a stainless steel toaster. In the sink, Drexel saw a blender jar and a tall glass. The top of the blender jar was on and inside were the remnants of a what Drexel guessed was a green energy drink or smoothie. The same residue was dried on the glass. This is what the Bull had after exercising. He came into the kitchen and made himself a smoothie. Drexel set the jar back into the sink and snapped a couple of photos with his iPhone.
The refrigerator was jammed with food. Drawers of meat and vegetables, containers of pickles and peppers. Condiments. A carton of milk. Stacks of Greek yogurt. Four bottles of Goose Island Honker’s Ale. Drexel had never had an energy drink in his life, so he Googled a few recipes on his iPhone, looking for green ones. Over and over, common green ingredients were spinach and kale.
Drexel called Noelle.
“Hello?”
“Doc, Drexel here.”
“Didn’t I just see you?”
“Yeah, do we have Mr. Nye’s medical records yet?”
“No.”
“Can you give me his doctor’s office number?”
“Sure.”
After he hung up, he called North Wabash Clinic.
“Hello. North Wabash Clinic. Home of Drs. Feidel, Nagarutha, and Conner. This is Beth.” Beth sounded in her middle years and experienced.
“Hello. This is Detective Sergeant Drexel Pierce with the Chicago PD. I’m calling about a patient of yours.”
“We don’t give out such information.”
“The patient was Mr. Hal Nye. Alderman. You may have seen it in the news.”
“I did. But our policy is to fulfill requests only from the ME’s office.” Beth emphasized policy and ME’s office. “With the proper forms.”
“Normally, yes. Thing is, we’re trying to figure out what happened to him. We think we have a pretty good idea. All I’m looking for is what he was allergic to. That’s it. The request from the ME should already be on its way to you.”
“Our policy—”
“Yeah, I get that. Thing is, I’m in his penthouse now with the refrigerator open, wondering what he’s allergic to that might have triggered this. You’d give me this info if he was alive and we needed to know.”
“Detective Pierce you say?”
“Yes.”
“Give me your badge number.”
“604.”
“Hold on.”
“Thank you,” said Drexel, though he was not sure if Beth heard him.
Drexel put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter. The meats were from a butcher down the street. The steak was cut thick. Filets. A flourish of mint, rosemary, and cilantro hit his nose when he opened a drawer that turned out to be full of fresh herbs. The vegetable drawer had half a red onion wrapped in plastic wrap.
“Detective?”
“Yes.” Drexel closed the refrigerator door.
“I have that information.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Uh-huh.” Beth blew a raspberry. “So here’s what we have him as being allergic to. Peanuts. Tree nuts. Latex. Penicillin. Spirulina. And that’s what we got.”
“Spirulina?”
“That’s what it says.”
“What is that?”
“Some sort of food additive. Not an allergy you normally see, that’s for sure.”
“Gotcha. Okay, thanks. I appreciate this.”
“Uh-huh.” Bet
h hung up.
Drexel picked up his phone and Googled spirulina. Wikipedia listed it as a dietary supplement, made from a cyanobacteria. He had not seen any of the items the Bull was allergic to in the pantry or refrigerator. Very unlikely that he would ingest that by accident. Drexel opened several cabinets. He found one that had a number of spices and other smoothie looking stuff. A protein smoothie powder, ground flaxseed, chia seeds. The label on the powder did not cite spirulina.
He walked out of the kitchen. A slight left took him down a short hallway. He looked into the rooms on either side. One was a laundry room. The other was a storage room. Clear, plastic crates were labeled with the seasons and memorabilia. Drexel opened the door at the end of the hallway, which led out of the penthouse. The northwest stairwell door was to his left. To his right, the trash chute with two white bags of trash sitting outside it, the red drawstring ties knotted around the tops. A note on the chute door read, “Do not use until notified.” Drexel took a picture of them and walked toward them. According to hotel management, only the Bull’s penthouse was occupied on this floor.
Down the hallway, the opposite door in the other penthouse opened and a woman in a gray Trump uniform wheeled out a hotel cleaning cart. She let the door close behind her and looked up. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail and was streaked with silver. She smiled. Drexel waved and flashed his badge. “Hello.”
“Hello.”
“Can I ask you a couple of questions? It’s about what happened here last night.”
She nodded. “I heard. A tragedy.”
“What’s your name?” Drexel walked up to her.
“Silvana Mendoza.”
Drexel slid out his notebook and started taking notes. “I thought that penthouse,” he pointed with his pen to the one Silvana had just come out of, “was empty.”
“It is. But we clean it once a week.”
“I see. So when was the last time you cleaned there?”
“Last week. About this time.” She adjusted the spray bottles in the front part of the cart so that the nozzles all pointed away from her.
“Did you know Mr. Nye and his girlfriend?”
Silvana shook her head.
“Did you ever hear anything?”
“No, it was always quiet.”
“Those trash bags over there. Are they from the penthouse you just cleaned?”
“No. I think they are from Mr. Nye’s.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We use these clear trash bags.” She pulled one out. “Not those white ones.”
“Why isn’t the chute to be used?”
“Trash service was delayed, so everyone was asked to not use the chute. Trash is piling up down there. Not nice. We’re supposed to bring them down, put them in a different place than normal.”
“How often did you check?”
“Just yesterday. Trash is coming back today. Can I take the bags?”
Drexel shook his head and closed the notebook. “I’ll be taking them actually. What time yesterday?”
“Morning. Before lunch.”
“Thank you. This has been very helpful.”
“Okay. Can I unlock the chute?”
“Let’s leave it as is for now. Can anyone unlock it?”
“No.” Silvana pulled out a key. “Only we can.”
“Thank you.”
Silvana nodded and pushed the cart next to the maintenance elevator.
Drexel walked back to the trash bags and rubbed his chin. He pulled out a pair of the nitrile gloves, knelt down, and opened the first one, looking inside it without pulling anything out. Used tissues, an old Colgate toothpaste tube, plastic wrappings, and so on. He opened the second bag. A couple of boxes from Amazon. Old lettuce, mail envelopes, shredded documents. A glint of a metallic bag caught his eye. He pushed away some onion scraps and saw a label on the bag: powdered spirulina. Drexel took a picture of it and closed the bag.
He called Daniela.
“Yes?”
“Pierce here.”
“Hey boss.”
“Morning. Can I get you to come back to Trump Tower? We’ve got more evidence to collect.”
“On my way.”
Drexel knew then the easy option was no longer remotely viable.
* * *
Daniela arrived and started the process of collecting the trash into official evidence. Drexel also told her to collect the smoothie items from the cabinet, guessing that the protein mix was the delivery agent. With an allergy to such an uncommon ingredient, the Bull would have avoided it. Someone slipped it to him. While Daniela worked, Drexel walked to the office, continuing his earlier walkthrough. He determined the Bull would have seen the etching, in all likelihood, when he entered the office. But what would have been his response? Did he get the drink before or after seeing it? Perhaps he did not see it. Does it matter, for he walked back to the exercise room with a glass of whiskey.
At the bar in the office, he found four bottles of high-end whiskey: Blanton’s, Highland Park Forty-Year Old, Taketsuru Twenty-One-Year Old, and Hudson Manhattan Rye. Drexel had heard of these, had even tasted the Blanton’s, but the others were way out of his price range. Three glasses were on a mirrored tray with space for a fourth. He picked up each of the bottles. With the Blanton’s, he pulled off the stopper with the jockey’s arm raised and put his nose close to the edge. The alcoholic waft of bourbon. It smelled inviting.
Drexel walked back to where the desk had been before the CSIs removed it. He flipped open his notebook and looked at the pictures of the top of the desk. The message itself was either critical to the case or a diversion. Instinct told him this was only worthwhile for a purposeful message. But for whom? The Bull? It was on his desk. What if the etching was after the Bull had collapsed? But what good is leaving a message for a dead person? Maybe the message was for someone else…security, media, someone specific was not clear. Nothing was clear.
Seemingly obvious, the message was frustratingly cryptic. Drexel would have preferred some cipher rather than this plain language conundrum. Don’t say something to hurt someone because—even if you did not mean it—it was impossible to pull those words back. Baffled, he decided to return to it later.
The door of the penthouse opened and then closed. Drexel said, “Hello?”
“Where are you?” said Carl Sobieski, commander and Victor’s boss.
“In the office. Second door on the right after you turn right.”
Drexel rubbed his chin and sighed. Carl was three years younger than Drexel. Vigorously tanned, his black hair swept backward and coasted high above the scalp. He had put on some softness around the waist, though his face, with its brown eyes, retained its youthful, taut squarish shape. His eyebrows were thick, black, and bushy, almost meeting above his eyes. Carl’s father, Irvin, was a Chicago police officer famous for bringing down Kraychev, one of the first Russian bosses in Chicago. Irvin had retired and worked in film and TV, earning a small fortune and cashing in favors for his son. Carl rarely appeared at crime scenes or at the detectives’ station, preferring instead his office in the Loop with the top brass overlooking the city. For a few months some years ago, Drexel had commanded Carl as a uni. The relationship had not proved successful. Perhaps more irritatingly for Carl, Irvin had always been fond of Drexel, often assisting him rising through the ranks. Ever since Carl had secured himself the commander promotion, Drexel assumed his own job was in jeopardy. If not today, not too far in the distant future.
Carl did not bother with even a courtesy hello. Instead, he stomped in with his hands buried in his front pockets. Drexel prepared himself for the onslaught of unimportance, dribble, and politics.
Carl pulled out one hand and tugged at his collar. “Did you see the news?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “I thought I’d swing by. I was on my way to the Hall to
see the mayor and superintendent. The biggest case so far this year. Victor wanted you on this, so you better do him proud. I trust Victor, so I let him have his way on this.” He looked at Drexel and continued when it was clear that Drexel was not going to respond. “An alderman, a paragon of this city has died. In his own home, nonetheless. Any leads?”
Drexel waited long enough to be sure he was expected to reply, “None as yet. We’re tracking down the girlfriend’s alibi—”
“I read the reports. Homicide?” Carl looked around the office and spotted the bar. He walked over.
“Given what I’ve just found, I’m thinking it’s homicide.”
“Don’t screw this up. Progress so far is lackluster. We need definites.” He picked up the Highland Park, pulled the stopper out and smelled it, a smile creeping across his face. “Not maybes.”
Drexel toyed with asking Carl for a donation to the city to speed up the process, pay for overtime, and analyze fingerprints faster, but he let it drop. “I have no intention of screwing this up, but this has just—”
“I’d better see some results by the end of today.”
“Yes sir. I’ll do my best.”
“Better than that.” With that, he whirled around and nearly ran out of the office, the bottle still in his hand.
Once the front door closed, Drexel called Victor. “The commander just stopped by.”
“Sorry about that. Didn’t have time to warn you.”
“Next time, text. Anything. Some heads-up would be nice. He’s in here asking for information we couldn’t even possibly have yet.”
Victor chuckled. “I’ll try to keep him off your back, but I can only do so much. Carl’s hot to get this filed away no matter what it is. And he’s always been unreasonable. Where are we at with this?”
“Murder. Straight up whodunit.”
“Ah shit. Nightmare is what this is going to be.”
Chapter 5
Back at his desk by three, Drexel pulled out a whiteboard, taping a publicity photo of the Bull in the top center. Smaller photos of Kara and Stacy, Drexel taped below. Beneath Kara’s name in green marker, he wrote Samantha Feldman and Trina Rodriquez. Beneath Stacy’s name, he wrote Garing’s Grill on Milwaukee, Barbara Connolly, and Mark Schafer. With a black marker, he wrote on the upper-left corner SPIRULINA. On the right side, he began a timeline of the Bull’s last few hours, so far as he knew.
The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1) Page 4
