The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Before he could respond, Sobieski said, “Get that girlfriend in here for an interview.”

  “Others?”

  Drexel rolled his fingers on the table and then waved his hand.

  Kaito nodded. Daniela then stated her current status, which consisted of little usable physical evidence. The entire apartment had a lot of fingerprints: The Bull, Kara, Stacy, and a housecleaning service. The latter personnel had already established verifiable alibis. The spirulina bag was clean of fingerprints, though the trash bag itself had Kara’s fingerprints on it—not an unreasonable expectation that she had touched the bag when she placed it in the trash can or pulled it out to toss down the chute. Nothing definitive could be said about the etching beyond what they all new. Knife or razor blade. Lighter fluid. Lighter.

  “I wonder about that phrase in the desk,” said Drexel. “It’s important, and it may crack this case.”

  Sobieski sighed. “That’s a waste of fucking time. You’ve got too many goddamned threads out there. Business. Politics. Family. You know this shit. It’s usually the family. And the Bull had one element there. The girlfriend. She had opportunity. You can walk between the club and the tower fast. You proved that. She knew what the man was allergic too. Maybe he was fucking around. Probably she was. I don’t know. We don’t need to know. Press harder on this girlfriend. Don’t be easy on her just because she pretends to be grieving or you think she’s beautiful.” He tapped the table three times. “It feels right to me.”

  Drexel started to defend himself, but stopped because it was useless and because he did think she was beautiful, which unnerved him. He rubbed his chin and nodded his head.

  Victor leaned forward in his chair. “Let’s get her in here, but still talk to others. No sense standing around while we wait for her to come in.”

  Drexel nodded. He looked at Daniela. “What about the security footage?”

  “Ah, that’s right boss. I did take a look at those more. I think they were jammed by a portable jammer. Not common things, but you can find them.”

  “Find me a list of places that sells them.” Drexel held up the file on financials. “I’ll get Kara’s financials and logs.” He looked at Sobieski.

  Sobieski stood up. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll get the warrant expedited by a judge. Copy me when you send it, and I’ll push. Let’s get this thing wrapped up.” He walked fast out of the conference room.

  As the others stood up, Drexel pointed at Kaito. “I want you to call Kara. And when you talk to her, tell her this is all standard stuff. I don’t want her thinking she’s a suspect beyond the normal of what a girlfriend would be. In other words, don’t spook her.”

  Kaito winked. “Gotcha.”

  Victor walked up behind him. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I do.” He nodded. “It’s too soon to focus in on her so intensely.”

  “She probably did it, you know. No harm letting her feel some pressure.” Victor patted him on the shoulder and exited the conference room.

  Usually the spouse or girlfriend or boyfriend was the killer, but usually did not make it always.

  * * *

  After the meeting, Drexel left the office to interview the TG Enterprises leadership team. TG Enterprises was a company with public stock that before the Bull’s murder was trading at forty dollars a share but had dropped to fifteen dollars since. Drexel, who had little interest in the stock market, presumed the share price would continue to fall, though he understood a lot of paper wealth had disappeared.

  The TG Enterprises’ office was within easy walking distance west of City Hall at the corner of Wells and Randolph. The company occupied the fourth and fifth floors of a neo-gothic, white terracotta building, which was divided into two sections of different heights—the shorter was built first in the 1910s, and about a decade or so later, the taller section was built. Drexel registered the factoid that the Bull’s residence was in the most modern of Chicago buildings while his offices were part of classic Chicago.

  On the fourth floor, an assistant told Drexel to wait while she called the TG Enterprises publicist, Rachel Nevitz. He sat in one of the two light tan couches of the waiting area. On the clear coffee table between the couches sat brochures and flyers about the company. He leaned over and grabbed one of each, and as he leaned back, his phone buzzed. Ton texted him a photo with the question: “This the guy?”

  Drexel texted back, “Yes.” He considered what Ton was going to do but let his thoughts drift to TG Enterprises. What would happen to TG Enterprises now that the Bull was no longer around to lead? He flipped open the brochure, which highlighted his connections with then-alderwoman Wozniak and the agreement by Tiger Films to shoot the neo-noir film Revenge in Chicago. The headlines in the Tribune, Sun-Times, and other papers fueled TG Enterprises growth with excellent publicity.

  Revenge was scrapped a year later and no one noticed, just like Adam Stein faded away in the minor leagues. Failure did not seem to deter the Bull’s ability to be successful.

  Nevitz, average height with hair that approached a copper hue and fell just to her shoulders, though the length was a guess because she had it tied back in a pony tail so severely that her brow seemed taut, walked up to Drexel. She wore the typical business-conservative style dress of gray pants and high-collared top, and she wore a flowery perfume. Two large gold hoop earrings swung with her walk. “Hello Officer Pierce,” she said, extending her hand in greeting.

  “Hello Ms. Nevitz.” Drexel stood and shook her hand. “By the way, it’s detective sergeant.”

  “Of course, forgive me.” She pointed down the hallway toward a door at the far end. “The leadership is here. Our apologies that we have to have a group meeting, but as you can imagine we’re very busy in the aftermath of this tragedy.”

  “Certainly, and I hope to take as little time from them as possible.”

  “Yes, we’ve reserved thirty minutes for you.”

  “With that limited time, I may have some follow up questions.”

  “That is expected. Their assistants are here as well to schedule individual meeting times as you require.”

  “So how much cooperation can I really expect?”

  Nevitz dropped her chin just a bit and her eyebrows dropped in equal measure. “I am not sure I like the implication of your question, officer.”

  “Detective sergeant.”

  “Yes, of course. You’re getting our full cooperation. They’re extremely busy, including mourning the loss of TG Enterprises’ most valuable resource, but they’re unrelated to your inquiries.”

  “How is the leadership team structured?”

  “Mr. Pritchard is now the acting CEO, having served as the number two for Mr. Nye for years. He also provided the initial capital to start TG Enterprises. I’m essentially the communications director. You have the various other department heads represented here.”

  Drexel gestured down the hall. “Well, let’s not waste anymore time.”

  Nevitz turned and walked to the end of the hall. Drexel followed. She opened the door to the conference room, where the leadership team sat around a large, dark wood conference table. Nevitz showed him a seat, which Drexel disregarded and remained standing, wandering around the conference room during the course of the interview. Each of the people seated had a small bottle of water near them. Nevitz ignored his refusal of the seat. “This is Officer Drexel Pierce.” She turned and looked at him. She then looked at the clock, which displayed the time, on the wall near the door to the room. “You have twenty-eight minutes before the hard stop. Thank you Officer Pierce for your time today.” Nevitz then sat in one of the two empty chairs around the conference table. She flipped open a laptop.

  Drexel looked at each of the eight leaders. Several of them had their laptops on the table before them, a couple had their tablets there. He looked out the windows. A string of traffic negotia
ted for driving space and drop offs. The sky was uniformly gray.

  He turned to the board. “Thank you Ms. Nevitz. As she said, I am Detective Sergeant Pierce, and I appreciate your time today, which I’ll take as little of as possible. To get a basic—and I do mean routine, basic, SOP sort of thing—out of the way, please provide me your whereabouts during the night of Mr. Nye’s death.” He waved one of his hands to stop the interruptions. “I know you provided them already, and I’m sure there’ll be nothing at all odd, but you know how these things are. Reports to fill out.” Drexel caught a few slight smiles around the table. “Just send them to this email.” Drexel passed out his business card to each of the assistants. “My condolences on your loss, and I assure you we’re working swiftly to find the truth about what happened to Mr. Nye. My main concern this morning is to get some sense if there’re any threats to the company or Mr. Nye that came about as normal operating business.”

  Nevitz said, “We can provide—”

  He cut her off. “Ms. Nevitz, if you please, you and I’ve had some chance to talk, and now I would appreciate hearing from members of the board. I’m sure they’ll have to answer questions related to the business to their shareholders. And apologies I don’t have your names, but I figure with our limited time, your assistants, and a brief intro when you speak will be enough for now.” Drexel smiled.

  A man across the table said, “Detective. Lloyd Pritchard. Acting CEO for now.” Lloyd looked down at the desk. “We’ve not received any threats or anything I’m aware of. Business seemed to be going as usual.” He was a thin man, with blonde hair and a bit of stubble. His blue eyes seemed thin, tired, while his face pinkish from a mild sunburn.

  “So the company was robust, healthy margins and all?”

  Pritchard gestured to the slight woman to his left, dressed in a white button up blouse with large collars, who said, “Robin Taggert, CFO. What I say is confidential?”

  “Yes, unless it is directly attributable to the investigation, in which case I’ll have to open the confidentiality. That said, nothing related to corporate finances will be released to the public that isn’t already in the public domain. And definitely not without prior communication to you.”

  Taggert nodded and adjusted dark brown plastic eyeglasses. “The last quarter saw the highest profit margin in the company’s history, and we are on track this quarter to exceed even that. Obviously, we’re concerned about the share price, but we think we’ll recover there once the shock of Mr. Nye’s death passes.”

  Seated two over from Nevitz’s right, a woman said, “I’m Solara Madeiros. Business has been so good that we recently received a proposal from Mr. Nye to secure financing.”

  Nevitz glared at Madeiros and then reverted to the canned smile.

  Drexel said, “Forgive me, I’m not a finance person. Why secure financing—I assume you mean loans—when the company is doing so well?”

  Pritchard leaned back in his chair. “Standard business really. When you’re doing well, that’s the time to expand and you do that, most of the time, through loans. You’re in a better bargaining position on rates, collateral, and so forth. Plus we like to keep cash on hand if we need it for dividend disbursements and what not.”

  “What was the expansion for?”

  “Hal didn’t say. It was a preliminary request only. I would expect that we’d hear details in a few weeks time.”

  “How much financing?”

  Madeiros swiped something on her tablet, but Nevitz said, “Detective, we’ll have that information sent to you after this meeting.”

  Drexel looked at her. “Including the expansion proposal?”

  Nevitz leaned over to her personal assistant and pointed to the tablet. “Yes—if we find one. Again, it was very preliminary. And again that information is highly confidential and sensitive.”

  Drexel looked at the person to the immediate right of Nevitz, a short and rotund man, balding. Drexel asked, “You, sir, who are TG Enterprises’ primary competitors?”

  “Joe Kapleau. Well the big agencies in New York and LA—”

  “Chicago only.”

  “Uh. Sure. Our primary competitors—and I say that graciously—are All-Star Agency and Leonard, Roth, and Roth Talent Agency. Both companies are small. Well behind TG.”

  Nevitz stood up. “Looks like that is all we have time for. Mr. Pritchard, you have your next meeting.” She turned and faced Drexel. “Officer Pierce, thank you for your time. The leadership’s assistants will stay behind to get your information about where files and such should be delivered.”

  Drexel smiled warmly. “Okay. Thank you all, and, again, my condolences on your loss.”

  With that, the leadership left the conference room, those passing by Drexel shook his hand. The personal attendants and Nevitz stayed behind. Drexel obtained all their contact information and gave them his. Nevitz then walked him to the elevator back to the first floor and gave him a curt goodbye.

  Chapter 11

  Drexel grabbed two Jim’s Original Chicago dogs and returned to the office to find more reports piling up. The TG Enterprise assistants already had sent a mass of material, and he was going to need time to get through it all. Two things required his attention. First, he wanted to get information on the house in West Englewood the pea coat man had entered. Knowing he had limited time, he emailed Daniela and asked her to look it up: Who owned it, for how long, any calls to the address? He thanked her and without waiting for a response, he went to his second task: the Kara interview. She was due to the station at one. It was twelve fifteen, so he began reviewing his notes and determining his approach for the interview. Any interrogation—and this was an interrogation in disguise—was about adopting a character and acting a part. Every interrogation was a lie, a lie to elicit the basic human need to tell his or her story. So the question facing Drexel now was how to approach Kara. He could presume she had murdered the Bull and use an extreme confidence to chart how she murdered him. He could be her best friend in this time of grieving, acknowledging that the Bull had women on the side, that Kara was scorned. Any number of options, but only a few would get the results he needed, which for Drexel was not guilt or innocence—rather, truth. And the pursuit of truth required this lie, required, at times, being an asshole or an idiot or a demon.

  Drexel infuriated the other detectives under Victor, who took a more prepared approach to conducting interviews or interrogations. Doggett spent hours preparing, but Drexel always thought the results were better when he reviewed some key notes and went with it, always knowing what questions he wanted answers for.

  He looked at his phone: 12:40. He stopped by Kendall’s desk and asked her to interrupt his interview when he was asking Kara about her alibi. Watching other interrogations and interviews was a spectator sport in the station. Drexel went downstairs and stood in the lobby just inside the entrance. A few people entered or exited past him. A classic black Chrysler 300 limo pulled up alongside the curb. The driver stepped out of the car. He was dressed in a black suit with a white tie, a beard was filling in around a close-cut goatee and he wore dark, large-lensed sunglasses. Drexel gestured to him to wait. The driver tapped the brim of his cap. Drexel opened the door to find Kara grabbing her purse. She looked up and gave him an odd look as she processed that the detective was opening her door and not the driver. She smiled and extended her hand, which Drexel gripped. She tightened her hold on his hand, pulled herself out of the limo, and stood on the sidewalk. She had tied her hair in a tight bun. Large but simple diamond earrings and a diamond pendant necklace peaked from under her coat. The tan, double-breasted trench coat was cinched at her waist by the belt, and the collar was up around her neck.

  “Hello Ms. Brandt,” said Drexel.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “You’re right on time.” He gestured to the entrance, holding the door open for her.

  Th
ey passed through the metal detectors, took the elevator to the third floor, and walked into the interrogation room, neither of them speaking, though Drexel found himself glancing over at her, telling himself he was assessing her stance, her demeanor. She smiled at him once, and he turned and fought the blushing sensation, cursing himself for acting like a high schooler.

  Because these were temporary offices, no proper interrogation room had been set up. Instead, a ten-foot by five-foot room overlooking Congress Parkway had been converted. Large blinds had been placed over the windows and the door’s window. The walls were a dusty sand brown. A small camera sat in the upper-right corner, facing toward the person being questioned. The camera fed a to display and recorder in the room next door. A simple, light wood table occupied the center of the room. Two cushioned desk chairs and one hard plastic chair rounded out the furniture. A small filing cabinet and tray for holding frequently used forms sat in a corner. The detectives of Victor’s squad had added a dimmer switch on the outside of the room alongside the thermostat they rigged to control that room only, giving them control of the environmental conditions.

  Drexel swung one of the cushioned chairs around to face the camera. He helped Kara out of her trench coat, which he folded over his arm. He motioned for Kara to have a seat while he held the plastic chair. She sat, her back to the wall, facing the camera. Placing the plastic chair in a corner, he laid her coat over it and then sat down opposite her in the other cushioned chair. He started the computer at the edge of the desk, whose display she could not see. As the computer woke up, he pulled out his notebook and a manila folder he had prepared with photos, documents, and other items he thought he might need.

  Kara sat in the chair and looked around, pausing on the few significant features of the room. She brushed the top of her black skirt and picked off a piece of lint, flicking it into the air beside her. “When I was called, they told me this is an interview. What does that mean? This seems like more than an interview.” She used a finger to move a stray hair away from her face.