Drexel shrugged. “I’m antsy. I think this is a giant clue.”
Cosma smiled and her dark brown eyes flashed with understanding. “It’s been running through the computer. Let’s see what we got.” She got up and walked to the monitor, Drexel following behind. The computer flashed images of a variety of beach scenes. She shook the mouse, and the beach disappeared. A list of possible matches with names underneath took its place. “I’m going to need at least thirty minutes—”
“That one.” Drexel stabbed a finger on the screen, leaving an oily, faint print behind.
She sighed and then double-clicked the potential fingerprint match: Jeremy Winston. Jerry. Cosma leaned forward and looked at the screen, using the mouse to highlight characteristics. The two prints on the screen were both plain arches.
Drexel scratched his cheek, watching intently, watching as she mimicked the pattern she had notated from the fingerprint on the syringe to Jerry’s fingerprint. “That’s it,” he said.
“Probably, but not definitively. I need more time. And I have to make sure the others don’t match.”
Drexel nodded. “Right. But I’m sure you’ll land on this one. I’ll look forward to the final report. And have someone test what’s inside it.”
“Later today at the earliest for my report. A couple of days for determining what’s inside it.”
“Right.” Drexel turned and took a few steps and then stopped. He turned back. “Thanks.”
“Yeah,” said Cosma, waving him away, “sure. I must do this because of your endless charm.”
Drexel smiled and winked.
“Got him,” he said to himself as he headed for L station.
* * *
Drexel stood outside O’Lawry’s as business-attired men and women entered and exited. A late lunch if they were entering. He stood outside wondering why he was going to charge into the pub—for he was going to do that—instead of issuing the arrest warrant. He told himself it was his petulant way of getting back at Sobieski and making sure Doggett understood he was tough. However, Drexel knew the official homicide squad hazer was never going to let the taser and pepper-spray incident be forgotten. And getting back at Sobieski was not that big of a deal, really, for it would not slow the commander’s rise in the police leadership. The brass had earmarked him for positions beyond commander, and only a colossal mistake would end that, for he was at a point where others could be blamed. Like Drexel. Or Victor.
Perhaps, instead, Drexel was trying to confirm his captain’s confidence in him. Victor was the cop in Chicago PD Drexel wanted to impress, the cop whose opinion mattered. Victor was not Drexel’s first—and he would not be his last—boss, but he was Drexel’s longest-lasting supervisor, and the one who hired him into homicide. The one who backed him and supported him. But even then, Drexel knew he was not here to make Victor proud or restore faith. No. Drexel forced himself to admit he was here, ready to invade Tunney’s space, because of her. Kara.
A rush of wind raced down Randolph Street, ballooning opened bottom coats, stripping a man of his hat. Drexel held firm to his gray, flat cap and pulled the door open against the wind.
Tunney recognized him, sneered, and shook his head. The man standing next to Tunney was not Jerry, and he held up his hand as Drexel approached, which he flashed his badge at, ignored, and sat on the edge of the seat across from Tunney. “Where’s Jerry?”
The man set down his newspaper and played with the handle on the thick coffee mug.
“Where’s Jerry.”
Tunney glared at Drexel. “Why?”
“I’ve got him at the Bull’s condo. Which means, I’ve got you. Where is he?”
“If you had me,” Tunney added air-quotes to the “had me,” “you wouldn’t be asking about Jerry. And I tell you, whatever it is you think you’ve got on Jerry, you’re wrong. Way wrong.”
Drexel eyed Jerry’s alternate and carefully reached into his pants pocket, pulled out his iPhone, and found one of the images of the syringe. He held it in front of Tunney’s face. “Found that. Has your dope’s fingerprints on it.” He waved the phone. “Found this in the Bull’s apartment.”
“Way wrong. Jerry’s not here. Took a personal day.” Tunney snapped his fingers, and the Jerry alternate turned toward Drexel. “Don’t come here again.”
Drexel’s confidence became braggadocio. His confrontation exposed as the ill-conceived plan it was. Dismantled in under five minutes. Tunney’s contemptuous stance justified. He tried to establish a modicum of respect by walking out, by trying to not let Tunney see, but he knew it was too late.
Outside, back in the cold air, he leaned against the building and cursed himself. Victor had taught him years ago in a confrontation with one of the last old-school mobsters in Chicago, if you mean to intimidate one of them, you have to have everything, a conviction just a drop away. Anything less and…. Drexel had just experienced the anything less, and Tunney was but a gangster in a city full of gangs, where the ethos of the Outfit hardly mattered after the crackdowns in the eighties and nineties.
Drexel headed back to the station, the cold whipping through the city.
* * *
Drexel sat at his desk reading Cosma’s report confirming that Jeremy Winston’s fingerprints were on the syringe. He looked up Jerry’s rap sheet and found nothing surprising. A series of arrests for stolen cars, destruction of property, extortion, pimping, loan sharking, and assaults and batteries. A few years in county lock up for the extortion and pimping charges and another couple for nearly beating to death a store owner, who did not meet the loan repayment requirements. Jeremy was an enforcer, nothing more and nothing less. What was murky was his association with Tunney. Jerry’s initial criminal enterprises were at the behest of the Almighty Gaylords gang, where he had risen through the ranks. His first stint in jail altered that, apparently a decision by Jerry, for the second prison sentence, he was enforcing a loan believed to have been financed by Tunney. No obvious connections in the prison record.
Drexel closed the rap sheet. How Jerry became associated with Tunney was unimportant. Finding him now was what mattered, so Drexel looked up his current address. Victor authorized a SWAT team to serve the warrant at 3033 South Poplar Avenue in Bridgeport.
The captain joined Drexel in serving the warrant behind a phalanx of body-armored, assault rifle-carrying cops. Drexel always felt ridiculous in his vest armed with his Glock 23 Gen4. The house was behind a Walgreen’s and T-Mobile store. Large bay windows on the first and second floors. Flat-roofed and metal siding losing the war with the elements.
The team leader knocked on the door. “Jeremy Winston, this is the Chicago Police. We have a warrant.”
When no response was forthcoming, an officer tested the lock and then motioned for the battering ram, which was applied with swift efficiency, followed by quickly moving SWAT members who cleared the house, finding no one home. Drexel and Victor had followed in but watched that anxious work.
After, most of them stood in the living room, the bay window looking out onto Poplar Avenue. Shoddily furnished was praising the interior beyond its merits. Piecemeal sofas and chairs with cushions so worn they had become merely decorative. A beat-up, chipped wooden coffee table with dirty glasses, mugs, and three syringes of different kinds. Nothing on the wall except for an ultra high-definition TV. The house itself proved unhelpful. Jerry kept his business out of the house or being an enforcer for Tunney did not pay well.
Victor said, “Well, we’ve got the bulletin out to all the precincts. We’re looking for him now. We’ll get him.”
Drexel nodded, his hands at his hips, clutching the pistol’s grip in his holster. His phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket. “Pierce.”
“Detective.”
“Yes? Who is this?”
“Jerry.”
“Jerry.” Drexel pointed at the phone, held it down an
d turned it to speaker.
Victor waved his hands to quiet everyone down.
Drexel said, “Jerry, I didn’t recognize your voice.”
“Yeah, well, take a look at your email. Maybe you’ll notice that.” Jerry hung up.
Drexel opened his email and saw a new message, subject line “Back off cop.” He tapped it open and then tapped the attached video file. That sinking feeling in his stomach rushed through him. Had they gotten to Kara? The video played.
Jerry held the camera close to his face. Recorded it on his phone. “Detective. I know you’ve got a warrant out for me. Tunney has friends in many places. Many places. But I think you need additional persuading to leave me alone.” Jerry’s face disappeared to be replaced by a view of a concrete floor, Jerry’s gym shoes, and the camera moving back and forth. The movement stopped with the camera facing the ceiling at an angle. Large windows in the upper half of the wall, a big space. Boxes, crates, and pallets along the walls. The camera swung down. Bound with duct tape—black and white and printed with handle-bar mustaches—left eye swollen shut and bruising, sweating profusely, in a simple chair sat Ryan.
* * *
Drexel ended up at the Old Towne in a seething fury. He kept clenching and unclenching his hands, as Ton—who had arrived some minutes ago—sat across from him, a tall, dark beer sitting in front of him.
Ton said, “Talk to me. You’re kind of scaring me.”
Drexel gave him the phone, video playing. When Ryan’s faced appeared, Ton said, “Motherfucker,” and put the phone down and slid it across the table to Drexel. “Now what?”
He shook his head. “Victor took me off the case. They’re hunting Jerry down.”
“Victor’s a good man. He’ll get Ryan back safe.” Ton took a drink and wiped the creamy head of foam from his lips with his tongue.
“It was right to take me off.”
“Makes sense. Don’t like people having to worry about their family at the same time they may be putting them in danger.”
“Right.”
Ton squinted at Drexel. “Doesn’t help at all though, does it?”
He shook his head, reached out and took a drink of Maker’s Mark, Ryan’s favorite. His brother always bought it as a present for Drexel for his birthday, Christmas, anything—the way some people give Amazon or iTunes gift cards.
“How would you go about searching for Jerry? For Ryan?”
Drexel looked at Ton, clutched his hands together. “Victor will go to Jerry’s known hangouts. Who his contacts are. Reach back into his history to find out places he might be keeping him. The list is long. But Victor’ll be systematic about it.”
“And slow.”
Drexel nodded. “Not because he wants to be, but because it takes time. He’ll do it like a cop should.”
Ton finished off his beer and pursed his lips. “I know someone who might be able to help. Might have access to information that’ll take cops longer to get. A person in a position to know. At least, to learn.” Ton raised an eyebrow and, seeing that Drexel did not say anything, continued. “I’ll reach out to him. Ask him what he’s heard. But,” Ton raised a finger, “this contact can’t be burned. I need him.”
Drexel nodded. “All I care about is Ryan right now.”
Chapter 23
Ton called Drexel at 1:05 a.m., the blues-rock riff startling at that time of night.
“Yeah?”
“Downstairs. Now. Got something.”
Drexel threw on a pair of jeans, grey hoodie sweatshirt, black gym shoes, and coat, grabbing his service pistol before locking the door behind him, Hart sleeping away. Ton’s Mustang was at the curb, running. Drexel flopped into the passenger seat, and Ton pulled forward.
“Okay, so we’re off to see my guy.”
“Yeah.”
“His name’s Jughead.”
“Jug. Head?” asked Drexel.
“Yeah. When you see him, you’ll understand.”
“And everyone calls him this?”
“Hell yeah. To his face.”
“Okay.” Drexel vanquished the train of thought how Ton would know someone by the name Jughead.
They drove in silence, past the Loop on the Dan Ryan, past U.S. Cellular Field, turning off at Forty-Seventh Street and heading west into Canaryville, past rows of houses and strip malls, all quiet in these early hours. After driving under train tracks, Ton turned right onto a road whose last upkeep could easily have been in Boss Daley’s day. They cut through a strand of leafless trees and up onto a set of side rails with a number of train cars sitting on them. The place was dimly lit despite its proximity to house-lined streets. Ton pulled up to the nearest track, cutting the lights and leaving the engine running. Ton looked out the four compass points of the windows. He let his hands drape over the steering wheel and said, “Now we wait.”
They waited for twenty minutes, and the sound of gravel shifting alerted them. Ton looked into the rearview mirror. “It’s Jughead.”
Jughead rapped his knuckles on the window and stepped back. Ton said, “Let’s get out.”
The air was cold, and their breathing sent up clouds of fog.
Jughead said, “That him? That the cop?”
Ton said, “That’s him. He’s cool though. He ain’t here as a cop. Just a concerned family member.”
Jughead leaned around Ton and looked at Drexel. Jughead’s large head was narrow, and he had a patchy beard grown with effort. He looked like his clothier was an Army Surplus Store, dressed as he was in an Army jacket and pants, including combat boots with gators. They all looked ill-fitting. He wore a plaid bomber hat with the ear flaps and center bill upright. Drexel stymied a laugh as he observed the enormous ears, which flaunted their size with the helix angled straight toward an observer, giving him the appearance of, well, a jug. Jughead said, “Okay. Right. Got the cigarettes?”
Ton reached back into the car and pulled out a carton of Marlboro reds. “Here you go.”
Jughead took the carton. “So it’s like this. Jerry got food and shit delivered to an old pipe factory over by O’Hare. Don’t know the name. Word is he left this afternoon. Don’t know where he went.”
“You got to have more than that,” said Ton.
“Yeah. Yeah. Jerry, he liked this girl. Tammy’s her name. Don’t know the last name. But everyone says, if you want to find Jerry, ask Tammy.” Jughead opened the carton and ripped off the cellophane. He pulled out one cigarette and started tapping his pockets.
Ton pulled out an orange disposable lighter from his pocket, took two steps toward Jughead, and held its blue-gold flame up. “Where do we find Tammy?”
Jughead leaned over and inhaled. He nodded as he took the lighter from Ton. “My kid would be upset if he saw me smoking.”
Ton, veteran of four marriages and one stepdaughter, nodded.
Jughead inhaled again. “Tammy likes to go to Rigley’s. A pool hall on Pershing Road.”
“Just up the street.”
“Yeah.”
“Great. Anything else.”
Jughead shook his head. “No, though lots of people think Jerry’s a hothead.”
“Do you know if he was ordered or did this on his own?”
“Hell if I know.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Jughead tossed the cigarette to the ground, orange sparks showering upward, tucked the carton beneath his arm, and walked away south along the track. Ton and Drexel got into the car, warm from the heater.
Ton looked at Drexel. “Ready?”
“So he gives you information for cigarettes?”
Ton smiled as he drove forward into a large u-turn. “No. I help him out too. He needs to pawn something, he gets a better deal than others.” Ton pulled onto the access road, toward Forty-Seventh Street. “And we should leave it at that.”
“Right,” said Drexel, though he wanted to know more and could not help himself. “But how does he get his information? How do you know it’s reliable?”
Ton tapped the steering wheel. “Jughead is one of the biggest cooks in Cook County. Supplies dozens of gangs. Good?”
Though he wanted to know so much more, Drexel held off asking. He would have to let Jughead and Ton’s relationship remain mysterious.
Ton drove back north on the Dan Ryan for a brief spell before exiting onto Pershing Road and turning west. They parked the Mustang in a sparsely filled parking lot in front of a one-story building. Rigley’s unlit sign on the roof above the door was in need of paint. The pool hall and a small donut shop were the only businesses in the building. A red, neon OPEN sign hung in one of the square windows. Only the half dozen cars gave any indication of how many people were inside. As they walked up to the dark brown, wooden door, it swung open and a couple, his arm over her shoulder, hers around his waist, stumbled out, oblivious to Ton and Drexel.
Drexel asked, “Tammy?”
The couple shook their heads.
“Almost closing time,” said Ton.
“Let’s hope she’s still here.”
They walked into the smoky interior—the no smoking signs decorative flourishes among the twelve pool tables, metal mirrors, and neon signs for Budweiser, Coors, Miller Lite. Another dozen booths and tables were on the right side of the bar. Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” played through the speakers in the corners of the ceiling. A single bartender was cleaning glasses, and eight people were around the pool tables in two groups—one of five and one of three.
The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1) Page 19
