He returned to the kitchen and paused at the doorway. How had the killer gotten the spirulina into the condo and then into the Bull’s drink? He shook his head. Kara’s alibi was she was dancing, though she might have managed to slip out and back. And she had the easiest access. Regardless, the Bull drank his health drinks daily, which meant the killer had to add the spirulina that day. Kara could have done that and returned to make the writing on his desk, but why? Tunney, however, had ample motive but less evidence tied him here. How would Tunney or one of his lieutenants spike it? The method just did not seem like Tunney. Mobster messages were the killing and what was done to the body. Mexican cartels re-emphasized that time and again with mutilated bodies left in public spaces. Chicago’s own Latin Kings and Vice Lords do not settle for subtlety in messaging.
The more Drexel turned it over in his head, the more Kara seemed the likely killer. But he could not, for some reason, get comfortable with that. Images of her flashed before him. Her first drunken appearance. The initial interview. The anger and strength during the Sobieski interrogation—the Kara he liked the most. They shared drinks, and she waited for him after his encounter with Tunney. He could not get his mind around her being a murderer. He shook his head to clear the thoughts, but she lingered there.
Drexel opened drawers and cabinets. He looked through the butler’s pantry, moving aside boxes of Barilla pasta, cans of San Marzano crushed tomatoes, unground Starbucks coffee—French Roast—and bottles of Bud Light. He walked back into the kitchen. He had found the spirulina in the trash, but he did not see a trash can in the kitchen, so he started opening doors in the large island. One pulled out with an installed trash can. Drexel looked into the clear white bag, which had nothing in it. He slid the can on its sliders back in, and he heard something. Faint. He pulled the can back out. No sound. He pushed it back in and heard the same noise. Definitely. Probably a latch mechanism. He lifted the can out of its holder and looked into the void. The sliding equipment filled most of the space. Using his iPhone as a flashlight, he pushed back and forth on the sliding mechanism only, and he still heard the click. On his knees, he looked beneath the metal and above the floor of the cabinet. He said aloud, “Got you.” He took photos with his phone. Then, with magazines and books he grabbed from the Bull’s office, he propped the phone up to take a video record. Using a butter knife, he unscrewed the sliding apparatus. He found a small, double-seal Ziploc bag in the pantry. Pulling on a pair of the nitrile gloves from his messenger bag, Drexel placed a syringe, plunger most of the way down, into the bag, careful to not let the needle poke through. He took a piece of masking tape, wrote his name in pen along with the date, and folded it over the top of the Ziploc.
He had no clue why a syringe would have slipped over the edge of the wastebasket and fallen into the corner, where when it was slid back, it pushed on the plunger’s corner, making a small click. He had no reason to think the syringe was in any way related to the case. He had no reason, but he knew it was. Tucked carefully in his messenger bag was the evidence that would confirm the real killer.
* * *
Drexel dropped off the syringe in its Ziploc with the CSIs, asking for fingerprints first and then an analysis of the yellowish liquid in it. The CSI gruffly told him she would do it in the correct order and that fingerprints always come back more quickly than chemical analysis. Drexel smiled and walked away.
He stopped at Osaka Express before returning to the station. Sitting at the bar, Drexel ate an overly seasoned seaweed salad followed by two pieces of tuna, mackerel, and a spicy tuna roll, all dipped in abundant soy sauce. He was happy with himself, excited about the break in the case. His entire mood changed to a joy was how Zora had always described it. She could tell when he had broken a case regardless if she saw him in person or talked to him on the phone. She had asked him years ago, “Was the victim a good or bad person?”
“What does that matter?”
“It doesn’t. I’m just curious.”
“Usually they’re bad. You know my cases. Drugs are usually the cause—fighting over them, stealing them, paying for them. So most are bad people. Selling drugs. Killing each other.”
Zora had smiled. “Hmm.”
“What?”
She had sat her book down on her lap and brought down her reading glasses on her nose. Drexel remembered it to this day, a copy of poems by W.B. Yeats. “Well, I think it’s interesting you find joy in solving the murder of murderers.”
He had sighed and sat and thought about it. When people asked, as they always did, what did he love about his wife, Drexel early on gave the stock, “She makes me laugh,” answer, which was true. But over time, as he reflected on that comment, he realized the answer was that she made him think. Zora had made him laugh and she laughed in a way he always described as gorgeous. Indeed, she had filled a giant void in his life he never realized he had, by being a friend and a lover. Yet her ability to get him to think about core principles, foundational aspects of life were at the heart of his attraction to her, for Zora had done that like no one else. Sometimes it had been infuriating, but rarely.
After a long pause he had said, “It’s not joy in that. It’s almost like the victim doesn’t matter—which sounds harsh, I know—but it’s about doing a good job. And it’s about justice—not so much for that single victim. More about justice in society.”
Zora had smiled and patted his hand, pushing the bridge of her glasses back up her nose and lifting her book.
Drexel ordered two more tuna, settled his bill, and walked back to the station. He printed off a photo of the syringe and tacked it to his board before he sat down and began writing his daily report. As he worked his way into the second paragraph, Daniela and Kendall approached his desk. “How may I help you?” he asked.
Kendall said, “We’ve found one of Kara’s friend.”
“Samantha,” said Daniela.
Drexel smiled. “Excellent. How’d you find her?”
“Facebook,” said Kendall and Daniela together.
Daniela said, “We were looking at Kara’s page, hoping to see them as friends. It was pretty easy there, except neither Samantha nor Trina had posted to their account for a few days. Until yesterday.”
“Samantha made a post,” said Kendall, who held up her phone for Drexel to look at. “I loaded the post.”
Drexel took the phone. A picture of a smiling young woman about the same age as Kara stared out at him. She was bundled in a parka and wearing a helmet and goggles. The posting said, “Skiing! So much fun!” He scratched his chin. “That’s not very ‘off the grid.’”
Kendall bounced her head. “Depends what you mean. That’s her first post in days. And it’s only one. This Samantha posted constantly otherwise.”
“So where’s she at?”
Daniela said, “I was able to use geolocator metadata in the image to find out. She’s in Beaver Creek. And Kendall’s already called the local police in Colorado.”
Kendall said, “We should hear from them tonight.”
“Sweet,” said Drexel. “It’s all coming together.”
* * *
Drexel stood at the corner of Dearborn and Congress satisfied that the Bull’s murder was leading to a discovery of the truth, insofar as one could get to the truth. Again, he was operating on a hunch. All of today could be a wash, stumbles down blind alleys. Murder cases often did that and would continue to do so, but according to Doggett, a good detective knew. The guy may be an ass, but he was a good detective.
On the L, he texted Ton to see if he wanted to grab a beer. Anticipating an affirmative response, Drexel got off at Division. He crossed Ashland and turned north when he spotted one of Tunney’s lieutenants at the corner, recognizing him from the illegal fight ring. He was looking around. Drexel turned around. An alley halfway down to the next corner allowed access to Pawn Corner. Drexel stepped into the alley and looked back.
The lieutenant was still at the corner, seemingly oblivious to Drexel’s appearance. His heart was racing, and he twinged at the familiar dropping sensation in his stomach.
Drexel was debating what to do when he was hit on the back of his neck and fell forward, pain crawling up across and around his skull and downward to his hips. Someone grabbed his coat at the neck and pulled up violently, choking Drexel, who looked back toward Milwaukee and saw the lieutenant walking fast toward him. Someone else grabbed one of his arms, and they pulled him into the alley, setting him against the wall out of sight from the sidewalk. His neck was stiff and numb and yet still crushingly in pain. He looked up and saw two men standing a few feet away from him and facing the street. They wore black bomber coats and knit hats pulled down tight over their ears. Another man, Jerry from the night before at O’Lawry’s, crouched beside him. He too wore a bomber jacket, and he had a day’s growth of facial hair. Jerry took off his leather gloves and stuffed them in his pocket, and then he rubbed his nose, which was red as if he had been blowing his nose all day.
“Detective.” Jerry tilted his head side to side, popping sounds of cartilage with each bend. “You’ve been more persistent than we expected.”
Still in excruciating pain and unable to defend himself, Drexel looked at him.
“The pain is bad, no?” He smiled. “As Mr. Tunney told you, we’ve got contacts. We know what’s going on. He’s asked you politely two times. He even restrained himself yesterday. Yet you persist.”
A slap of wind churned through the alley, flipping over gum wrappers and fliers. A cold that felt like winter. Drexel finally found his voice, though it seemed raspy to him. “I’m just doing my job.”
Jerry smiled. “We know you have a suspect. But you insist my boss is involved. Stay away from him. Tunney did not kill the Bull.”
“I really don’t like you.”
“I don’t like you.” He punched Drexel across the jaw. The action was so fast Drexel never registered the motion. Just before falling unconscious, Drexel heard, as if it were disappearing into a fog, “No, we let him live. We were told just rough him up….”
Chapter 20
Ton’s bald head, thick goatee, and cinnamon breath greeted Drexel as he regained consciousness.
“Come on. Let me help you up.” Ton looked down toward the entrance of the alley before extending his left hand and gripping, with his right hand, Drexel’s right elbow, lifting him to his feet.
Drexel rubbed the side of his face and then his neck. Ton gripped his shoulder and guided them back to the rear entrance of Pawn Corner. In the back office, Drexel sat down in a reclining chair. He drank a whiskey without ever knowing how he got one until Ton filled up the glass again with a clink of the bottle. Ton sat down in the chair next to Drexel.
Drexel drained the glass. “Tunney.” He held the glass out toward Ton.
Ton poured another two fingers worth. “You sure?”
Drexel nodded.
“So he has somebody big on the inside who can protect him.” Ton sat down in the desk chair, setting the bottle on the desk. “Do you think this is the end of it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? I’m not stopping. We’re almost there. New evidence should help out a lot.” Drexel stood. He felt a bit wobbly in the knees still, but the whiskey had fortified him.
Ton stood but stayed behind the desk. “Why don’t you stay at my place?”
Drexel waved him off.
“Well, I’m taking you home.”
Drexel nodded, rubbing his chin.
* * *
Drexel arrived at the station just in time for the daily status meeting. Ton had plied Drexel with Tylenol PM, which had worked. When he woke, he found Ton asleep on the couch, a silver body, black handled Smith & Wesson revolver on the coffee table. Drexel woke his friend. They shared a cup of coffee in silence.
Drexel checked in with Kendall and then jogged into Victor’s office just as Sobieski sat down. Victor was sitting in his chair, fingertips touching each other in a pyramid. Sobieski looked at Drexel, shook his head, and then pushed his index finger down on the desk. “I don’t think you realize how important this case is. Need I remind you that Hal Nye was an alderman? A business owner? The new face of Chicago? If there’s any case we should be able to solve, it’s this. We need a collar, and we need it fast.”
Victor looked at Drexel. “What happened?”
“One of Tunney’s goons assaulted me last night.”
“How do you know that?” asked Sobieski.
“Cause I saw the guy twice. Once sitting in Tunney’s office at an illegal fight and another at O’Lawry’s.”
Victor said, “Let’s get the information and we’ll put out an APB.”
Sobieski grunted, and the captain and Drexel waited for the commander to continue, but he looked at each of them, staring at them. When neither Victor nor Drexel spoke, the commander said, “Back to what’s urgent. So here’s how this is going to work. You’re going to present me the evidence as it stands. I will then tell you who to arrest. Then you will arrest that person. And we’ll let the DA make the charges stick because the heat will be on them. I want this buttoned up by the end of today. Are we clear? So let’s hear it.”
Victor leaned in, put his elbows on the desk. “Suggesting the assault of one of our officers isn’t urgent is insulting.”
Sobieski shook his head. “Look at him. He’s okay.” He pounded an open hand on Drexel’s back. “I’m not saying it won’t be dealt with. Just our department’s priority right now is the Bull’s murder. So let’s hear it.”
Drexel gave a thumbs-up to his captain. “We’ve been able to track down one of Kara’s friends—Samantha. She’s skiing in Colorado, and Kendall got the local police to go and find her. Word was they did last night. She’s flying back today.”
“So we don’t have her statement yet about being with Kara the night of the murder?”
Drexel said, “Not yet. We have, however, conducted an interview with Lori Williams, the Bull’s mistress. She’s a possible suspect, though like much in this case, we don’t have her connected to the events that happened that night. So far as we know, Kara was unaware of Lori, but Lori knew about Kara.”
“Did Lori do it?” asked Sobieski, looking at Drexel.
He leaned against the wall, the detectives’ desks just the other side and shook his head. “My gut tells me, ‘No.’ But that’s all we got there.”
Victor said, “We know Pritchard was—”
“A person from that kind of family,” Sobieski waved his hand dismissively, “didn’t do this. Of course he wants to be CEO of TG Enterprises. Successful people want to lead. Ambition’s not evidence of murder.”
Drexel pulled out his notes from the messenger bag and flipped them open casually, pretending to read them. “Perhaps the more pertinent item in this case is the Bull’s involvement with organized crime. He seems to have gotten involved with Tunney in financing, operating, and running an illegal fighting ring. We have statements suggesting the Bull wanted out, but I believe Tunney had him by the balls—or thought he did. An alderman is good cover for running this thing. A lot of money changing hands.”
Sobieski sighed. “I admit this doesn’t help the Bull’s reputation, but his murder is not a mob hit. They just shoot people.”
The image of Deon on the couch alive one moment and then dead the next flashed through Drexel’s mind. The image of himself gunned down on the street instead of roughed up.
“Besides,” continued Sobieski, “you still don’t have evidence that ties Tunney or any of his henchmen to this.”
“I filed a piece of evidence yesterday. A syringe. I believe this will give us the information we need.”
“You think Tunney left a syringe with what? The Bull died from an allergic reaction. We have whatever it was that he wasn’t supposed to have that went
into his drink. The syringe is nothing.” Sobieski stood up. “This leaves you with the girlfriend. Who, even if this alibi of hers says she was at a nightclub with her, may not cover all of her time there. You,” Sobieski stood up, pointing at Drexel, “proved it’s not far. You can put Kara in the location, with knowledge of how to kill the Bull. That’s good enough for me. Arrest her.”
Drexel closed his notepad. “We haven’t accounted for the message on the desk. We’ve still got to figure in the missing hard drive, stolen from evidence. I think we wait to talk to her alibi and get the evidence from the syringe.”
Sobieski walked over to Drexel. He held up a finger in the air. “The message is a distraction.” He held up a second finger. “Somebody hoping for pictures or something for tabloids.” He held up the third finger. “And I told you to arrest her.”
“I don’t think she did it…the evidence for her doesn’t add up. Not yet at least. If we arrest her, we bring an end to the investigation for Nye’s murder. We haven’t proven that her alibis are false. It’s premature to arrest her.” He tapped his fist on the table. “If we arrest her now, with what we have, and we’re wrong—”
“We’re not.”
“—If we’re wrong, there’s no going back. We’ll have ruined her life. And we’ll have let other leads get cold.”
Sobieski looked at Drexel hard for what seemed interminably long seconds and stood up. “Detective, let me make this clear. You haven’t convinced me. This case isn’t that fucking complex. Arrest this girl for murder. Close this investigation, and get on to the next fucking homicide. Is that fucking clear?”
The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1) Page 17
