Ton nodded and then gestured to the back seat. Drexel looked in the back to find Deon scrunched down.
“Hello, Deon.”
Deon nodded. He did not have any welts or obvious injuries to his face. He was young, and Drexel could not distinguish his age any better now. Late teens? Early twenties at the oldest. A patchy beard speckled his cheeks and chin. A gold chain hung around his neck and two large diamond studs decorated his ears. He was wearing the pea coat and a Chicago Bulls knit cap.
Drexel pulled out a dog and handed the bag to Ton, who pulled out one and handed it to Deon. “If you eat this, use a napkin,” which he passed back as well. “Damned poppy seeds are a pain to get out.”
Drexel took a bite, having already learned to hold a napkin beneath the dog. “What’s he doing here?”
“He knows the signs.”
“Signs?”
“Yeah. This is one of the places Tunney meets with any of the gangs to talk about the next fight.”
“Black Stones, Latin Kings, Vice Lords?”
“Them and others.”
“How does it work?”
“Deon’s not too sure about that. He’s a gofer and lookout. Working his way up. What he does know is that his boss works from houses in the various gang sections and sets up fights at a couple of abandoned industrial areas toward Gary or out by O’Hare. Those’re the illegal fights. Deon has no clue about the legal fights his boss tries to fix.”
Drexel looked back at Deon. “Why the hell did he follow me the other day?”
“Deon,” Ton looked at him through the rear view mirror, “you want to answer that?”
Deon sighed. “You’re the cop who’s investigating the Bull.”
Drexel waited for Deon to continue but after a couple of seconds, he said, “That’s it?”
“Yeah. Shit. He told me to follow you and let him know where you lived. Who you were seeing.”
“Why?”
Deon shrugged.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I lost you. He wasn’t too happy, but said he’d keep an eye on you anyways. I was going to wait outside the station this afternoon, but then he showed up.” The kid pointed at Ton.
“What does he care about me?” asked Drexel between bites.
Ton grunted. “You’re snooping. The Bull had dealings with Tunney.” He pointed to the house. “Deon, is your boss going to be in the house tonight. It’s past six.”
Deon looked at the house. “No. He ain’t. The mailbox door was closed earlier and the back porch light is not on.”
“It’s on if he’s there?”
“And the mailbox is open.”
“Alright then. Let’s go.”
Drexel said, “You sure about this?”
Ton smiled as he pulled on the door handle. “You can stay. No need to get your hands dirty.”
“Nothing we get out of this house will be admissible anyways, so let’s go.”
Ton nodded, gathered up the trash from the dogs and coffee and put them in the bag, which he rolled up and sat on the floorboard. Both he and Drexel got out of the car. Ton held the front seat forward. “Come on Deon. Let’s go.”
Deon climbed out of the back. Ton closed the door and tested to make sure it was locked. Drexel did the same and nodded. The three of them walked past six houses. Three of which were dark and boarded. One was dark and the other two had lights on and the flickering of a TV. Ton led them down the side of the house and into the back yard, where Drexel had been the previous night. The three stood close. Ton gripped the door handle, but it did not turn. He pulled out a screwdriver from his inside coat pocket and jammed it into the lock, twisting it until it popped and the handle twisted. They walked in and listened for any sound. Nothing. The interior was in complete darkness except for the light from the street lamps that leaked through. They had stepped into the kitchen. A small table without chairs sat along the wall. White refrigerator and other appliances were visible with dark countertops. Two glasses were sitting in the sink and the water dripped slowly, landing in one of the glasses, which was full, water spilling over the edge.
They passed through an empty dining room, the carpet so thin it might as well have been padding in most homes. Stairs on the left led to the second floor. Drexel stepped up them as Ton moved forward on the first floor, keeping a hand on Deon’s arm. At the top of the stairs, Drexel made a sharp right. All the rooms were on the right side, the hallway hugging the left edge of the house. Three bedrooms and a bathroom. All were empty save for curtains and blinds and a lone wire hanger in one closet.
Drexel went back downstairs and into the main room of the house, where Ton was standing with the kid. His friend had turned on the lamp on a desk, whose brightness was just enough to cast shadows against the bare walls. A dark red sofa and matching recliner sat facing the front door. The desk was of cheap metal, with a hard plastic chair next to it. Another chair with a side table sat nearby. Ton was opening the desk drawers, while Deon sat on the sofa, his head turned back looking. “You ain’t going to find shit, I told you.”
“We’ll see.” Ton looked at Drexel. “Deon says Tunney arranges things here. I figured he’s got something around.” From one drawer, Ton pulled a ledger and two pay-as-you-go phones still in their plastic wrapping. Ton tossed the ledger to Drexel.
He pulled off the rubber band and opened it. “So Deon. Where else did you see the Bull?”
Deon looked back and forth between Ton and Drexel. He rested his arm on the back of the sofa. “He came to the fights.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I said. He came to the fights.”
“The legal ones.”
“And the illegals. Boss brought him. He watched from an office-like thing.”
Drexel nodded. The ledger had a number of entries, but they were abbreviated or in some sort of code:
R v L: 800 E86 JL $100
R v L: 105 GRA KP $150
Each page had a date. Drexel stuffed it into his coat pocket. “Deon, why you talking so much about your boss?”
Deon looked at Ton and then back out the window. Ton shrugged and closed the last drawer. “A couple of pens and a pencil. Zippo with lighter fluid. And this roll of tickets.” Ton set them on the table—a roll like those used to sell raffle tickets. He pointed to the ledger in Drexel’s coat. “That’s his recording of the bets.”
“But why here? Why not at the fight?”
“He has control here. At the fight, it’s a mob. You book your bets here and then he pays out after the fight. Probably has a copy. I’m sure he takes bets at the fight, but he can do a lot before. I’m betting this is for the legal fights.” He looked toward Deon. “Hey. Did you see what went down in here?”
Deon looked back at Ton.
The door jamb splintered and a sliver of it flew into the air and landed at Deon’s feet. The door swung open, and three men stepped into the room. Dressed in a bomber jacket, sweatshirt, jeans, and baseball cap, the first one raised a pistol. Drexel barely registered the sound or the flash but only saw Deon sink down in the sofa, his head snapping back and then forward with a leftward lean—Drexel’s last sight of Deon. Ton flipped the desk up, threw the chair at the men, and started running to the back exit. Drexel pulled out his sidearm, releasing the safety as he did and fired two shots in the general vicinity of the door. As he followed Ton, a shot punctured the drywall of the hallway and then the cold air hit Drexel in the face. Ton was at the fence line and rounding it. Drexel looked back and saw the men running down the hall, almost to the back door. He ran after Ton and fired two shots at the door, which made the leading man duck, giving Drexel the time he needed to pass the fence line. Ton was running in the direction of his car, so Drexel ran opposite. After a block, he looked behind him to see no one chasing him. He slowed to a jog, holstered his gun, and went south
a block and turned back east toward Ton’s car. He jogged, keeping an eye open. No one seemed interested. He could not hear any sirens. He saw the Mustang, running and Ton sitting in the front seat. Drexel opened the passenger door and sat down.
Ton u-turned and drove south. He gripped Drexel’s shoulder. “What the fuck just happened?”
Once on the Dan Ryan and retreating from West Englewood, Ton said, “I’ll find where the next fight is at.” The city gleamed brilliantly in the night under a clear sky. “Deon didn’t deserve that.”
* * *
Ton dropped Drexel off in front of his apartment entrance. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Ton opened the glove box and pulled out a snub-nosed revolver. “I don’t think they know who I am anyways. You be careful.”
Drexel nodded and rapped the top of the Mustang. Ton drove off. They had agreed not to report the shooting. Drexel was not comfortable with it, but he was even more uncomfortable getting his friend involved, and they had broken into the house. Ton would call 911 from a burner phone. They could not leave Deon.
Drexel pulled out a bottle of whiskey Ton had bought him a couple of months after Zora died. A Japanese whiskey: Yamazaki eighteen-year old. When he had given it to him, his friend had said, “Whenever you need a moment of Zen.” Drexel poured a finger and put the cork back in. Hart, sensing perhaps the scent of used adrenaline, gingerly stepped out of the bedroom and then darted beneath the couch, eyeing his owner warily.
Drexel walked over to the couch and flopped down. The ledger dug into his side, and he pulled it out and then shrugged off his coat. Hart jumped onto the back of the couch and crouched. Drexel shook his head and said, “I don’t know, kiddo. What a screwed up day.” He thought of Carl’s demolishing the interview, and then he thought of Kara. She had been strong. Carl had initially shocked her, but she had regained her composure and seen through the bullshit, and she did so with an ease. He found himself drifting and thinking of the neckline of her dress, which had exposed her collarbone and jugular notch. He took a drink and shook his head. But the image of her, of her resilience lingered like the oaky, fruity finish of the whiskey. He fought it and concentrated on Zora, on her memory and her neckline.
Drexel clicked on the TV and changed the channel to the local news. Carl Sobieksi was in front of the camera. “Chicago PD’s currently chasing down leads, and we’ve a person of interest in the slaying of respected alderman Hal Nye. We’re vigorously, aggressively pursuing all leads and hope to make an arrest soon.” Drexel clicked the TV off and finished off the moment of Zen.
Hart clambered down and rubbed along his leg, purring. He petted him along the back until Hart rolled over, so he could scratch his belly. His and Zora’s cat.
* * *
Drexel woke the next morning with a sinus headache that hung around the bridge of his nose and just behind and above the eyes. His sinuses confirming at least the beginnings of a frontal change. He could expect a dull headache the entire day as if it were annoying background music. Mild enough to work and do his job if he kept focused, but always there, waiting to flare up into something more severe. Years of doctors visits, all prompted by Zora, resulted in no diagnosis other than allergies, good luck, and slim, encouraging smiles. Drexel had not seen a doctor since her passing. He would get by. Some meds to keep it at bay.
He rose from bed, splashed water on his face, and started the coffee maker. He showered and dressed as a cup of coffee cooled. Hart was curled up in the corner of the couch as Drexel drank several gulps and ate two untoasted strawberry iced Pop-Tarts, brushing crumbs off his solid brown tie. On the way to the office, he reviewed what had happened the day before with the interrupted interrogation and the investigation of the house in West Englewood. Did the three men arrive knowing who was inside—or at least a vague sense of that—or was it random? Three gang members out for a night’s theft. While gangs were often violent, busting down a house door and shooting someone on sight was not all that common. Most shootings were in the street, down alleys. Drexel replayed the scene in his head. Unless the house and the people inside it were the target to begin with. They burst in. They shot Deon immediately, so they could not have identified him as a rival gang member, and Deon had not worn any gang colors that Drexel was aware of. The men acted quickly, so they were not high—at least not enough to mess with their aim and actions. They came in with guns out and ready. Were they there to kill a cop and his friend, or was the normal occupant of that house, Gordon Tunney, the target? Or had Tunney figured out that Deon had broken and was eliminating him.
When Drexel arrived at the office, Victor poked his head out and asked to see him. Drexel reaffirmed to himself, for now, that his boss did not need to know about West Englewood.
He sat across from the captain, who was sitting in his chair, his feet crossed and on the corner of the desk. “We’ve got Meier.”
“I’m listening.” Drexel crossed his arms.
Victor smiled. “He cracked under the lie detector. He said a tall, skinny man wearing a long gray or brown raincoat approached him at a bar. Bald. Had a goatee, but the man never identified himself. Instead, he told Meier he knew what his position was and could pay him substantially. Fifty thou if Meier could deliver the hard drive. The man then told him the case number and a drop location. If he showed up with the hard drive, the money was his. If not, Meier would never see the man again. The money was too tempting. Hell, he even had a scheme for doubling at a casino in Peoria.”
“But that’s all we got? We don’t have the hard drive, and we’ve only got a vague description?”
Victor shrugged.
“But that doesn’t make sense. Why get the hard drive that way? Just take it after you’ve killed the Bull.”
“All I know right now is that Meier wasn’t able to provide anymore details about who the man was, why he wanted the damn thing, or what he was going to do with it. And I pressed hard.” Victor took his feet off the desk. “Pressed very hard. He stuck to his story. I think he’s telling the truth. He didn’t know who he was selling it to or why. Just saw green. Some journalist looking for a story.”
“Any security footage at the bar?”
“Nope.”
Drexel stood up. “We’re never going to see that hard drive again.”
“Nope.”
Drexel walked out the door and back to his desk. How did the hard drive factor into the murder? Were they connected? The Bull was killed in a complicated way. A phrase burned into his desk. The killer left the hard drive. Either the killer forgot about the hard drive in the confusion of the killing or the killer and the thief were two different people. Or maybe it was what Victor said—just a reporter looking for a scoop.
As Drexel contemplated the situation, his phone buzzed. A text message from an unknown number: “Bull in charge of a ring of illegal fighting and gambling. Converging Interests.”
He called up Daniela. “Morning. Okay, so I’ve got a text message from somebody. Any chance of figuring out where that came from?”
“Bring your phone down.”
Daniela took his phone and plugged it into one of her computers. She worked fast. “It’s from this number.” She pointed at the screen. “So let’s see if we can get anything from that. Probably a burner though.” She swung her chair to another computer and typed in the information, the keyboard rattling with the typing. “Sorry boss. It’s a burner phone. Someone bought the thing this morning and it’s already off.”
Drexel sighed. “Hmmm.” He tapped the side of his phone. “Anything odd in the Bull’s or TG Enterprises finances after further review?”
“Everything seems in order. TG Enterprises is routinely audited because it’s a publicly traded company and that’s pretty rigorous. I can rescan the Bull’s personal finances and see if anything weird pops up. What would we be looking for?”
“Look for debits of some size and the
n credits….a multiplier of the withdrawals two times, three times, that kind of stuff. Anything we can get to see a pattern. He’s got a salary from TG and the city plus any investments.”
“So one hundred times two and three and stuff.”
Drexel nodded.
“Gambling winnings?” Daniela nodded. “It’ll take a while. If he was smart about it, though, we’re not going to find anything obvious.”
“Yeah. We’ve got this tip that the Bull wasn’t only into illegal fights. Find any legit fights in the past couple of months and base a search around them.”
“Sure.” She turned and started entering information in.
“Also. Find out what else Karrie Velazquez owns and if she has any connection to a Gordon Tunney.”
“You got it boss.” As Drexel turned to go, Daniela said, “Oh. I’ve got the list of places.” When he gave her a surprised look, she continued, “I mean, for the jammers. I’ve got the locations where you can buy them.”
He accepted a piece of paper she handed to him. Several stores in the Chicago area were listed, all home security stores. At the bottom of the list, however, were a series of websites.
“You can buy this thing for sixty-five dollars?”
“Not including shipping. Yeah.”
“Well, let’s see if we can get a list of people who bought this item from these stores. Including the online retailers.”
“They’ll all want a warrant. And I’m sure they’ll be slow about it.”
Drexel nodded. “I’ll have the warrant typed up and signed today. I’ll also have Kaito send some unis out and wave a few photos in the local stores to see if they recognize anyone.”
Daniela smiled and turned back to her work.
He left her to the task of looking for patterns in the Bull’s finances. That money had to exist somewhere. Some trail of money. Some trail to activities that may have gotten the Bull killed.
The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1) Page 11
