The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  “To be honest, it’s a pretty typical thing we do. We get a lot of information when we first arrive at a scene, and then as we learn more and more, we have more formal conversations. Everything until now, of course, has been official, but we’re at the more systematic part of the process.”

  “Just now?”

  “It’s not like it is on TV. We’ve been doing a lot of work, interviewing a lot of people. And forensic analysis results are not ready in just a few minutes.”

  “Am I a suspect or something because I told you what I was doing that night?”

  “This is routine stuff. We’ll interview others in this very room. Our goal is to get from you a clear picture—I know you’ve stated it before—of what you were doing that night and ask some clarifying questions. Details matter, and sometimes they need our—and I mean in this case my—coaxing out.”

  She nodded her head. Her eyes scanned the room. “Whatever I can do to help, of course, but I don’t know how much I have to offer.” She sniffed and pursed her lips. “There’s already so much to deal with. Banks need their information. Life insurance needs their information.”

  “And not being an official spouse of the Bull’s makes that more difficult?”

  “Endlessly.” She touched the outer edge of her right eye, her finger shaking. “I have no stake in anything. He has no living relatives. Everything went into the company. Or politics. Everything.”

  He tilted his head to the side. “I can’t imagine one gets to his position without working a lot.”

  “Yes, but there’s more than work.” She breathed in and shook her head as if to clear it. “He was a great man.”

  “I know you’ve been through a terrible loss and our goal isn’t to make you suffer more.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just, just—”

  “You loved him.”

  She looked up at him. A tear in each eye welled up at the base of her eyelid but did not spill over. She nodded her head.

  Drexel crossed his hands on the table. “I understand, and this kind of loss is tragic beyond measure. My goal is to provide some sense of final justice to this—to speak for the Bull.”

  Kara nodded.

  “Okay then. First, let’s get the ‘official’ stuff out of the way.” He asked her to certify her name, her residence, and relationship to the victim. “You’re originally from Decatur?”

  “Yes. Came here for college and never left.”

  “You worked a variety of jobs?”

  “Philosophy was a stupid choice. Great discussions. Not much in the way of jobs.”

  Drexel nodded. “So you ended up programming for it looks like—for—yeah—three companies.”

  “I had a knack for it. Ended up doing it by accident almost. Jumped from company to company to get better pay raises basically. Didn’t love it though.”

  “Let’s get back to the day of.”

  “It was a typical day. He got up early like always. He usually started work right away, taking calls and stuff, which he kept doing even when he got to the office.”

  “Alderman or TG Enterprises?”

  “City Hall. From the moment he declared, he focused on that. TG Enterprises hasn’t got much of his time since. A little, but not much.”

  “Sure. Go on.”

  “We had lunch that afternoon.”

  “What time?”

  “Noon. Don’t you have that information already?”

  “Just double-checking our notes.”

  “What difference does it make?” She was tearing up.

  Drexel placed his hands one on top of the other on the desk. “In my line of work, we always try to be extra thorough. We double-check everything all the time. Triple-check.”

  Kara nodded her head.

  “Seems like you guys made time for lunch despite his schedule?”

  “Yes. I insisted. We needed time together for a relationship. He worked all day and into the evenings and nights. Lunch was my pause with him for the day. And he needed the pause too.”

  “After lunch?”

  “Typical. He went back to work. I went shopping.”

  “Did you talk to anyone at all that afternoon.”

  Kara angled her head toward the table but her eyes looked right and up. “Yes. I went to a number of stores. I can give you a list of receipts.”

  “That’d be very helpful. Thanks.”

  “Well, like I said earlier, Hal and I spoke late that afternoon. He had to work. I told him that I was going out. We said our goodbyes.”

  “What time did you leave for your girls’ night out?”

  “I never left. I was already out.”

  “And you went to the Virtuoso with Samantha and Trina, right?”

  “She likes Sam. But yes. After we grabbed dinner across the street.”

  “And you were there all night?”

  “Yes. Like I’ve said before. I couldn’t have had anything to do with this. They’ll tell you.”

  Drexel dropped his head sideways to the right and looked at Kara.

  “What?” Kara gave him a look that reminded him, distantly but definitely, of a look Zora would give him for the same reason. Over the years as a cop and then a detective, he had developed a know-it-all attitude at times that was more effective on the job than at home.

  He tightened his lips and rubbed his chin. A knock at the door. “Hold on.” When Drexel opened it, Kendall was standing at the entrance. He whispered into her ear. “Whisper into my ear and then nod.” She did so. He closed the door behind him. “The problem is we haven’t been able to find Sama—Sam or Trina.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Exactly that. We can’t find them.”

  “Well—”

  The door slammed open, and Carl Sobieski strode in, his face red. Victor was standing behind him, shaking his head and giving Drexel a look that indicated he had been unable to stop what was about to happen. Kara jerked back in her chair and stood up. “What the hell—”

  But Sobieski cut her off. “You listen here.” He was not shouting, but his anger was palpable. He used his finger to poke her right shoulder, forcing her back down into the seat. He glared and pointed at Drexel and then looked at Kara. “I don’t know what the fuck this guy’s issue is right now, but he hasn’t been nearly hard enough on you.”

  Drexel stood up. Sobieski glared at him again. “Get out.”

  “Let’s talk outside,” Drexel motioned to the door. He could see Victor approaching.

  Sobieski continued to glare. “Get out.”

  Drexel looked at Kara, who turned her eyes, now wet with tears, to him. Sobieski snapped his fingers in front of her face. “Look at me.” Victor pulled Drexel’s shoulder and stepped him out of the room. Victor went back into the interview room and closed the door, while Drexel darted around the corner to the observation room. Daniela, sitting at a chair looking at the monitor with the feed from the interrogation room, cringed. When he looked in on the room, Sobieksi and Kara were in the same position, and Victor was standing behind the chair that Drexel had just been in. Sobieski had his finger raised in front of Kara’s face. “We know you killed him. You just had to get your hands on his money. Not enough for you that he took you in and gave you whatever you wanted. Ungrateful bitch.” Outside of canvassing and beat cop duties, not once had Drexel ever known Sobieski to conduct an interview or interrogation. He was menacing, using the space of the room to crowd Kara, but this kind of pressure was too early. The ground work had not been prepared to pull the rug out from under her. Not yet.

  Kara turned her gaze into Sobieski’s, and the tears seemed to disappear. Her face hardened as she clinched her teeth.

  “What have you got to say for yourself?” Sobieski said in an even but assertive tone. She stared at him. “Playing it this way, aren’t you? Kill a hard
working man, an icon of this city, and then think you can get away with it.”

  “If I did it, prove it,” Her tone was even and unretreating.

  “Oh, we’ll get you.” He leaned down and gripped both her shoulders.

  Drexel shook his head, for Sobieski had shown his hand. A trained interviewer would never have stated the last phrase in the future tense. Even if Kara did not consciously register Sobieski’s blunder, her shoulders dropped and her face relaxed. Drexel had seen it often enough to recognize that Kara had picked up on that minute phrasing. In a sudden movement, she slid her arms close to her chest and between Sobieski’s arms. She then snapped them open and freed herself from Sobieski’s grasp, pushed him out of the way, and took four quick steps to the door. Victor did not intervene to stop her. As the door opened, Sobieski took two steps toward her. “We’ll get you. Next time it won’t be so easy.”

  But Kara had already exited the room.

  Drexel dashed out of the observation room, almost running into Kara. Before he could say anything, she slapped him hard across the face. “Son of a bitch.” She strode past him with the reverberation of the slap still finding the small corners of the third floor.

  Daniela had followed Drexel, and she looked at him as Kara walked past her. He gestured weakly in Kara’s general direction. Daniela nodded and followed her to escort her out.

  As he rubbed his face, the commander walked out of the interview room and up to Drexel. He laughed. “Got a hard-on for that bitch? I told you to have an interrogation, not a conversation. Next time you fuck up, you’ll be looking for a job.” He started to walked away.

  “You’ve no idea what you’re doing.”

  Sobieski halted and turned around.

  “You don’t use that kind of pressure unless you’ve got something.” Drexel held his tongue, refrained from calling out the commander’s lack of detective credentials. Regardless, the implication hung between them and was as audible to the detectives and unis standing around as Kara’s slap had been.

  Sobieski walked up and stuck his finger in Drexel’s face. “You’re not the boss. I am. I say how we do shit around here. You do what I tell you and how I tell you to do it.”

  “You fucked up.” Drexel clenched his fist.

  Sobieski stood close to him, their noses almost touching. In a low volume so the rest of the room could not hear, “Do it motherfucker. Give me a reason. You know I’ve the shit on Ryan. It won’t be just your life you fuck up. So back down and take it like a girl.”

  Victor’s hand interrupted the space between them. “Let’s cool it. We may not’ve wanted to approach the interview that way, but we got her attention. It should help push the case forward.”

  Sobieski turned and walked away, tugging at his dress coat.

  Victor looked at Drexel. “You okay?”

  Drexel nodded. “What the hell just happened?”

  Shaking his head, his captain said, “I haven’t a clue. He’s clearly convinced she’s the murderer. Why? I don’t know. But he didn’t like your method. Maybe he thought he could get a spontaneous confession.”

  Drexel allowed himself a chuckle. “I’m not sure how you figured that out.”

  Victor patted Drexel’s shoulder.

  “Well, he just messed up our opportunity to win her trust and then get a confession if he was so sure.”

  “Yes, he did. But we’ll have to live with it.”

  * * *

  Drexel gripped his desk’s front edge to stop his hands from shaking. Kendall shook her head and raised her eyebrow. Martin showed his disgust by shaking his head and frowning, for even that old codger of a detective believed a professional should work his or her case as they saw fit, even if the brass did not like it. Breathing in deeply, Drexel closed his eyes with his head down. He held his breath like Zora had taught him. “Hold it.” He could see her smile. “Hold it.” Then she would place her hand lightly on his chest. “Hold it.” Then she would pat his chest with two fingers. And he imagined that now and was amazed at how soothing the memory of it was. He let out the breath and sat down. He rubbed his face and shook his head.

  Carl may have made up his mind, but Drexel had his doubts. He needed to find her alibis. Too many other potential suspects were out there, including the pea coat man and the house in West Englewood. He did not feel like talking to Daniela over the phone, so he got up and went to her office, which was one floor down. The tech area was full of equipment that Drexel had no interest in knowing what it was. But it was—oddly among the throng of computers, monitors, tablets, and cameras—clean and precise, with odd whirrings and buzzes coming from seemingly nowhere. Lights flashed and went through a rainbow of colors.

  Daniela sat at a small desk fitted into the cube. She was gazing into a video. Drexel knocked on the edge of the cube wall. She turned and smiled. “Hey boss.” Daniela Longfurd was too young to have been with Chicago PD for more than five or so years. In fact, she was nearer Kara’s age. She wore her sandy blond hair in a spiky cut. As she typed on the keyboard or manipulated other electronics, the tops of her hands allowed a peek of tattoos to appear at the wrists. Drexel had only ever noticed them when she was operating the tools of her trade.

  Drexel leaned against one of the beams that stood out several inches from the wall. “Hello. Sorry.”

  “Understandable. And I escorted her out.” Daniela shrugged her shoulders. “More correctly, I walked behind her and occasionally said, ‘Left’ or ‘Right.’”

  “How was she?”

  “About the same as when you last saw her.” She turned back to the projection. “Darrell was making comments, just so you know.”

  He grunted. Darrell was the sort of detective Drexel strove to not imitate. “Kendall set him straight?”

  “Oh yeah. Even Martin.”

  “Good. The address?”

  She winked at him. “Yes. Yes. House is owned by a corporation: Lansdale Development. Been around for maybe five years and owns a few properties in Chicagoland.” She pulled out a manila folder and handed it to him. “The house you’re interested in was bought last year for under market value. Like way under. Bank trying to just offload the property for anything.”

  He opened the folder. “Who owns Lansdale Development?”

  “A certain Karrie Velazquez.”

  “Interesting. Anything on this Velazquez.”

  “Nothing yet boss. Just the basics. Social. DOB. But not much else.”

  “She’s a ghost.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “She’s not real. At least, that’s my guess. Karrie Velazquez isn’t real. She’s a cover for someone else. An alderman rumored to be the mayor’s handpicked successor isn’t going to be having meetings with a donor his assistant isn’t aware of, who also happens to be buying properties in bad areas of the city. Not buying that. See what else you can find on Lansdale.”

  “You got it boss.”

  * * *

  Drexel stood on the sidewalk outside the station. The forecasts were still on target, predicting this temperature drop from the balmy to the cold. Drexel envied those who complained about the fifties being cold by putting on parkas and gloves. LA. Miami. A short cold snap there sent panic through the city. A nice problem to have, but one that always emphasized the importance of perspective and context.

  He walked to the station and down the steps. When the train bounced above ground, he noticed he had missed a call from Ton. Drexel decided to call Ryan first, who answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “This is your brother.”

  “Oh, hey. I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.”

  Drexel waited for Ryan to continue, but when he did not, he said, “So are we meeting up or don’t you need the money anymore?”

  “Oh, yeah, things got jacked up here at work.
I’ve been busting my hump trying to keep up. When it gets cold after this blizzard, I’ll be even busier.”

  “Good. Good for business I guess.” Drexel reminded himself to make sure he let his faucets drip. “Can I expect to see you soon?”

  “Damn it, I’m busy. Every time I ask for shit, you give me a hard time. Thanks for nothing.” Ryan hung up.

  Drexel stared at his phone. Can you say edgy? Ryan had no idea what Drexel had done for him, and he hoped it stayed that way. But when Ryan acted that way, he was tempted to throw his sacrifices in his brother’s face. Frustrated, he called Ton. “What’s up?”

  “Glad you called.” Ton had a joy to his voice. “Thanks for asking me to talk to the guy that followed you last night.”

  “I think that was your idea.”

  Ton ignored him. “His name’s Deon. Born and raised in Chicago. Works for a fellow name Gordon Tunney, who’s a regular at O’Lawry’s. Like a regular who has meetings there.”

  “Mob.”

  “Yeah, but with a speciality. Gordon likes fixing sporting events and running bets on sports. He likes to stay away from drugs and prostitution. And this Gordon owns a couple of gyms in Chicagoland.”

  “Boxing.”

  “Yeah. Up and comers. Small-time fights. Not big, but lots of money to change hands. Apparently he runs some bare knuckle brawls as well. Definitely not legal. Deon is his man, you see. I flashed the picture of your alderman in his face. Deon knows who he is. Meets with Gordon regularly.”

  “I need to talk to Deon.”

  “I thought you might. I think you know about a house in West Englewood.”

  “On my way.” Drexel did not ask how Ton got Deon to talk. Nor did he have any intention to.

  Chapter 12

  Drexel spotted Ton’s ’64 cherry red Mustang coupe—perhaps Ton’s most loved thing in the world—a block southwest of the house in West Englewood. The car was restored with authentic chrome bumpers and side mirrors, the correct shade of red for the seats and coverings, a manual stick on the floor, and a large red and chrome steering wheel. Even the original radio. Drexel tapped on the passenger side window, and Ton stretched over and lifted the lock. Drexel slid in and handed a cup of coffee to his friend. When he closed the door, the Italian roast’s burnt smell filled the interior. Drexel held up a bag with four Chicago dogs, chopped onions, vinegar, and hot pepper smells colliding with the coffee.