The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  * * *

  Drexel stood outside and dug his hands into his pockets, clinching his blazer closer to him. He wanted to see the club Kara was at the night of the murder. He guessed it was a fifteen-minute fast walk, but the semblance of warmth on the L tempted him. He walked to Lake station, took the Red Line to Grand and walked two blocks west to the Virtuoso night club.

  The club occupied the first two floors of an eight-story red-brick building across the street from the Fort Dearborn Post Office. The hours were listed as five p.m. to three a.m. Drexel stood outside the main entrance. Kara had said she walked, which was reasonable enough. It had been a warm night.

  Drexel looked up and down Grand Avenue and decided no one way was any faster than the other, so he walked back toward Grand station and turned south on State Street. As he crossed Hubbard, he looked east and saw Shaw’s Crab House, a special-occasion dinner option for Zora and Drexel. He had not set foot in the restaurant since the last time they had eaten there, some months before her death, when they had gorged themselves on oysters and beer, never ordering a main course. They had split a slice of key lime pie and taken a taxi home.

  He shook his head and crossed the road. Such slices of happy memories would rise at the smallest provocations. They seemed moments of pure joy stained by her death. Drexel clung to them as much as he strove to forget the evening he found her on the kitchen floor, eyes open but not seeing. Cold to the touch.

  At Kinzie Street, he turned left and walked to Trump Tower. All told, it took him ten minutes. Not long at all. Add on a few minutes to be conservative.

  Drexel pulled out his phone. Quarter after one and no text or call from Ryan. He texted his brother he was returning to the office.

  * * *

  Drexel had the Bull’s call logs, credit card statements, bank statements, and official autopsy report on his desk. Reports upon reports. Rachel Nevitz, publicist for TG Enterprises, left a message stating she had the leadership team ready to meet him the following day. No messages from Kara’s alibis.

  Drexel re-found the Reader biography piece about Kara. Her father, Nathan Brandt, had died in a farming accident several years prior. Her mother, Nancy, was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s and institutionalized. She had been in a long-term care facility in Decatur for the first few years of her decline; however, Kara had moved her several months ago to a facility in Highland Park. The facility was substantially more expensive. Cross-checking with the Bull’s bank statements showed several payments to the institution.

  The Bull’s financials revealed nothing untoward: Clothes, food, donations. The clothes were from Nicholas Joseph, Nordstrom, Marc Jacobs, and Wallace Boutique. Bags from Louis Vuitton and Chanel. Food from Whole Foods. An upscale lifestyle appropriate to the kind of money the Bull was making. The biggest splurge was the penthouse in Trump Tower. Drexel shook his head. The views were spectacular.

  The public records for TG Enterprises told a good story for the company. A few minor lawsuits were pending—from the looks of it, disgruntled former athletes represented by TG Enterprises—but no substantial debt.

  The autopsy report from Noelle added nothing unexpected.

  Drexel pulled out the inventory of evidence and looked at the photos. The elevator door slid open. Darrell and Kendall walked out of it, immersed in a conversation.

  Darrell said, “Two guys I tell you. Two guys to do this shooting.”

  Kendall said, “Not necessarily. Could have been just one.”

  Drexel blocked them out and looked at the photos. Nothing new leapt out at him, but he was curious what was on the computer that was on the Bull’s desk. He pulled out his phone.

  “Daniela here.”

  “Pierce. So have you opened the computer yet from this Bull case?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “You better talk to Captain Macleod.”

  “Okay I’ll do that.”

  “Sorry boss.”

  “Yeah.” They disconnected, and Drexel walked to Victor’s office and entered without knocking. “So?”

  “The computer, I take it?” Victor leaned back in his chair.

  “What happened?”

  “We’re not sure…yet. I’ve already requested an investigation.”

  “For what?”

  “The hard drive’s missing.”

  “What?” Drexel walked over to the desk and stood with his arms crossed.

  “One of the evidence locker guys found a smashed computer casing this morning. Apparently, whoever did it took the hard drive but left the rest. It’s the Bull’s hard drive we recovered from his office. We’ve got IA coming down, but I’m leading the initial investigation.”

  “This can’t be a coincidence.”

  Victor shrugged. “It could have been one of our guys who thought he could make some money selling it to some paper or something. I wouldn’t put too much stock in it.”

  Drexel rubbed his chin. “You’ll keep me up to date?”

  “Of course.”

  “Something is wrong about this.”

  “No disagreement with that. Some dipshit is going to lose his pension.”

  Drexel shook his head and left the office. He had worked long enough with Victor to know that his boss was not only displeased with the loss of evidence but also knew that something just did not fit. A person had to know a lot and want to risk a lot to steal evidence from the locker. Did they know what was on that disk and figured the risk was worth it? Maybe. Maybe it was like Victor said.

  When Drexel got back to his desk, a meeting request for an early-morning update popped up on his phone. The requester was Carl, and he expected a progress report.

  Chapter 8

  Drexel put the items on the desk back into his bottom drawer and closed it. The night shift detectives were coming in. Naresh was already at his desk making phone calls. Doggett gave a giant, sarcastic smile and blew Drexel a kiss as he walked to the kitchenette. Naresh’s partner, Natalie Connor—the youngest active homicide detective in Chicago PD’s ranks—sat in the desk across from him, holding a tea bag and slowly dunking it in a mug labeled “World’s Greatest Mom.” She was looking at a file on her desk.

  Drexel stood up, stretched, put on his blazer, and picked up his messenger bag. Natalie looked up and smiled, which Drexel returned. As he opened the stairwell door, Doggett stuck his head out of the kitchenette and said, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

  Drexel walked through the door and as it was closing, stuck his arm around the edge and flipped Doggett off. Buoyant by his petulant response, Drexel took the stairs two at a time and stopped outside. The cold air was a shock. He shook his head and vowed—which he knew he would break eventually—to stop letting Doggett get under his skin. When Drexel had first joined homicide, Victor had paired him with Doggett and Eric Lavanchy, both long-time detectives. Lavanchy had already been half out the door, just waiting for the calendar to flip enough days to collect his pension, so he had been a bearable partner to learn the ropes from.

  Doggett, however, had been the opposite, had been the department’s official hazing committee member. Go get donuts from some small bakery in Edgewater, which he would then complain about. Go get a classic dog from some dive in Morgan Park, which was cold by the time Drexel returned. Buy him coffee. The list went on and on, and Drexel took it for a long time. He did the work, learned the job, for Doggett knew how to be a homicide detective, could clear cases, and was still a legend for a perfect clearance rate in 1998. But the man had learned how to be an asshole as well—or he was born that way. After a year, Drexel had had enough and clocked the veteran detective, who had a shiner for a week. After serving his suspension, Victor let Drexel work his cases alone, which only seemed to piss Doggett off even more. The thing was, thought Drexel as he walked to LaSalle station to catch the
Blue line, he could respect the man as much as he disliked him. Sobieski, however, was a different story, and Drexel knew that was why the elder detective could get under his skin. Sobieski was like the bullies who tormented him in high school. Doggett, on the other hand, was a cruel but effective mentor.

  High school was where Drexel decided to be a cop. He still remembered that January day. The campus was open during lunch back then, and he had stepped out across the street to indulge his dalliance with cigarettes. Toby Lebaron and his posse found him. At the end, with blood dripping and freezing on the cold pavement, doubled-over, trying not to cry, Drexel had shouted after them, “You’ll gets yours someday. You’ll get yours.”

  Toby had looked back and smiled. Laughing, he had said, “Like you’re some kind of cop, dork.”

  In that moment, rising and clutching his stomach, Drexel had seized upon the unexpected authority Toby had provided to “cop.” Drexel realized his desire for revenge, his outrage, his anger, and his helplessness all found their medicine in justice. And Toby got his in the end.

  With the combination of cold, righteousness, and regret, Drexel knew he did not want to head home, so he decided to mix some business with pleasure. Many years ago, he had made a contact that had proven useful over time, and he now felt he needed to call on him. Besides, over those years, Drexel and Ton had become good friends, and a drink sounded good at the moment.

  Ton Nax was a Chicago native, who rarely ventured outside its limits. He had enough trees in the parks, and he subscribed to the notion that nothing else in Illinois mattered without Chicago. In fact, Ton struggled to recall the governor’s name when asked. He owned several pawn shops, all called Pawn Corner. The first and primary location was located on Milwaukee Street at Polonia Triangle, the old Polish downtown, where Drexel got off the L.

  As Drexel walked up the stairs from the L station to the street, he paused. His left sock had dropped and was uncomfortable. He pulled it up with a couple of people dodging him, and he glimpsed—or thought he glimpsed—the young man in the gray pea coat from O’Lawry’s. Drexel did not pause but continued up the stairs to the street. Pawn Corner was across Ashland Avenue and a building up Milwaukee, so Drexel jaywalked across the intersection and walked into Pawn Corner.

  Ton recognized him, but Drexel said, “I’m going out the back. I’ll explain.” Ton nodded and went back to his immediate work, which seemed to be polishing some jewelry. Drexel walked—trying not to be too fast—to the back, went through the employee door, and then ran to the back exit. He had no idea if the man had followed him into the store, but he was betting on it. Drexel ran through the alley and across its damp pavement and back to the main street, stopping just short of the sidewalk and looking around the corner toward the store’s door. A clump of indeterminate wrappers lay just at the edge of the sidewalk.

  In a few seconds, the man who had followed him out of the subway station, came out of Pawn Corner, frantic. He looked to his right and left and then jogged to the corner of the alley that Drexel was standing in. Drexel retreated and stepped behind a dumpster full of electronics, broken in pieces, and stripped of the valuable components. He was able to look back toward the main road between the wall of the building and dumpster. The man glanced down the alley, paused, and then continued along the street. Drexel had two options. His first was to wait and let the man go about his business of trying to find Drexel. His second option, and the one he knew he was going to take, was to follow the follower.

  Drexel peered around the edge of the dumpster and walked to the street. He looked northwest down Milwaukee in the direction the man had continued along. The pea coat man was sprinting from store to store and pausing to look through each main door. Drexel looked behind him and did not notice anyone else looking or watching for him—that could not yet be discounted, but he had to start somewhere. Drexel looked back and found the pea coat man turning his head up to the sky and snapping it back toward the ground in a gesture of frustration. Drexel stepped back into the alley as the man looked back down the street at Pawn Corner. Drexel quickly looked back up the street. The man seemed to give up and ran to the side of the road and flagged down a cab and hopped in. Drexel ducked back into the alley as the cab drove past heading southeast, where it stopped at the light.

  Drexel saw a man dressed in business attire flag a cab. When the cab pulled over, Drexel sprinted out, waved his badge in the guy’s face, apologized, and jumped into the back of the cab. Drexel flashed the badge at the driver and thrust his hand through the opened partition. “Don’t lose that cab.” The light turned green and Drexel’s cab driver stepped on the gas.

  * * *

  Drexel told the driver to back off when the cab they were following took the ramp to the Kennedy Expressway, shuttling traffic between O’Hare and the northwest suburbs and the Loop.

  “Keep him in sight, but stay in the middle lanes as much as possible. We may need to exit quickly.” Drexel was leaning forward, his face filling the open space in the partition.

  The cabbie nodded.

  The cab they were following drove fast—only inexperienced out-of-towners or barely operational vehicles ever seemed to go the speed limit on the Kennedy or any of the expressways. They passed the Loop with its iconic skyscrapers to the left, and the Kennedy turned into the Dan Ryan. Drexel always enjoyed twilight in the city, the shapes of buildings visible against the darkening sky simultaneously lit by the lights from the windows. In summer, the boats cruising Lake Michigan added to the splendor. He pulled his attention back to the pursuit. They crossed the South Branch Chicago River, where the expressway jogged east before straightening south.

  They passed U.S. Cellular Field on the right, where the White Sox called home—or as Drexel often joked, “Chicago has another baseball team?” As they passed a bottling facility and train yard, the cab they were following moved into the far right lane, and Drexel told his cabbie to do the same and get a bit closer to them—he did not want to lose them after exiting. They pulled off the Dan Ryan onto Garfield Boulevard, turning right. The lead car drove past a large park and several more blocks before turning south onto Damen Avenue, where they passed another train yard. As they drove south, Drexel noticed a growing number of boarded homes. They crossed Fifty-Ninth Street, deeper into West Englewood, a part of the city known for having a large number of vacancies.

  They turned right onto Sixtieth Street. Drexel told the driver to hold back a bit, trying to keep some distance. The traffic was busy enough to mask anything but the most obvious pursuit, but Drexel still wanted to be cautious. They drove a few blocks east. As the cab they were following pulled over on the left side of the street, Drexel told his driver to pull over on the right. The pea coat man stepped out of his cab.

  The man they had followed waited for his cab to drive away before opening the chain link fence’s gate and walking up to the door of a two-story, white-sided house. The door opened and the man walked in. Drexel told his cabbie to wait and then got out of his cab. He crossed the street and jogged with his hands tucked in his pockets down a sidewalk with large grooves of grass growing through cracks toward the white house. The street was lined with for-sale signs and boarded windows.

  Drexel stopped at the alley that went behind the house and turned down it. The chain-link fence surrounded the back yard. A wide gate allowed entry for a car, though none was there at the moment. Drexel could see a single light from the house. He looked in all directions and jumped the fence, which jingled. A rusted charcoal grill sat on the concrete patio. A single wood door allowed entry to the house. Drexel approached cautiously, listening carefully, but he heard nothing. He crouched and walked along the side of the house, approaching a window where a sliver of dim light could be seen. Drexel could hear nothing. He stood up alongside the window, close to the siding and tried to peer over the edge, but all he saw was a lace-like curtain obscuring his view. Then two figures, indistinct through the lace, walke
d past the light.

  Drexel heard the front door open and retreated toward the alley, taking care to avoid the crushed Miller Lite cans. He stepped back all the way to the edge of the chain-link fence and entered into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlights. He looked around the edge but did not see the pea coat man, though he heard a car start, saw headlights light up the street in front of the car, and then the sound of it pulling away. Drexel stood up, jumped the fence, and walked down the sidewalk back to his cab, glancing behind him to be sure the man had not followed or seen him.

  He opened the cab door, sat down, and shivered. “Crank the heat, please.”

  “The man got into a car on the street and drove away.”

  Drexel wrote down the corner the house was on: Honore Street and Sixtieth. “Thanks. Let’s get back to where you picked me up.”

  “Uh-huh.” The cabbie performed a u-turn in the street and headed back, uninterested in why a Chicago homicide detective used a cab to tail a man.

  Chapter 9

  Back at Pawn Corner, Drexel found Ton, at six-two and approaching two-hundred fifty pounds, looming over a slender young woman with close cut hair. She was dressed in the typical middle-management business attire of pants and a single-piece top with a large collar. A series of monochrome, abstract tattoos covered Ton’s bald head where hair used to be.

  Pawn Corner was a sizable store—sixty-five-feet wide by ninety-five-feet deep—with multiple rows of stacked merchandise and the edges bounded by locked glass cases housing the valuable jewelry, stones, and other items.

  Ton and the woman both leaned over the counter, studying a document with browned edges, darker brown lines cascading down from the sides. Ton and the customer shook hands, and she left with the document, smiling at Drexel as she passed him. Ton looked over. “Welcome back.” He walked from behind the counter and reached down and tapped a keypad, which beeped with each touch. As the alarm system beeped its countdown warning, Ton motioned for Drexel to follow. They stepped out of the front doors and stood on the sidewalk. Ton deadbolted the door.