The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  He shook his head. “I can’t. I need to do it.”

  She did not argue. She wrote in the tip and signed the receipt. Drexel thanked her and drove them to Trump Tower, where he pulled under the overhang for cars.

  “Can I borrow this?”

  Lily looked at him.

  “The car. It’s supposed to snow. Might be handy.”

  She nodded. They both got out of the car as the hatchback door opened. He jogged around and grabbed Lily’s carry-on. She walked fast and said, “Hey. I can do that myself.” She pulled on the carry-on as well, laughing. He let go and grabbed the bigger bag.

  “Jesus, what’s in this?” He laughed. He set it down, but the suitcase wobbled and landed on the ground.

  “Damn it,” said Lily.

  They both knelt down, but she flipped the bag over and unzipped it. She pulled out a cosmetic bag and then pulled out several shirts, one of which she unrolled. “Ah, good.”

  “What is that?”

  She sighed, and pulled it out. A small ceramic vase, colored in splotchy green and red. A daisy on the front was a deep purple. Drexel grabbed it. “Wow. It’s been years since I’ve seen this.”

  She nodded, took it back, and wrapped it up. “I want to give it to him again.” She smiled and began to cry.

  Drexel stood up and pulled her to her feet, and they hugged. Lily had painted the vase when she was six at a local pottery store and had given it to their brother, who was four at the time, for Christmas. The vase had become an inside joke among the family, the famous Christmas pink and lime vase. Drexel had thought it lost all these years later. “He’ll be fine.”

  She nodded into his shoulder.

  “When did you get the vase?” He could feel her chuckle.

  “I was home from school one weekend. Thought I’d play a prank, so I swiped it. I was waiting for him to mention it.” She stepped back and rubbed her eyes. “He never did.”

  He nodded and picked up the cosmetic bag to put it into the suitcase. As he did so, the zipper came loose and a few bottles fell out. He apologized and started putting them back in, but he stopped when he held a bottle of Egyptian oil with extra peanut oil. It looked familiar. Drexel held it up to Lily. “What do you use that for?”

  She smiled. “That’s my massage oil. I love it, so I bring it with me.”

  Drexel stared at it. The connection coming to him. He shoved the bottle in the bag, zipped up the suitcase, and walked Lily into the hotel lobby, telling the valet that he would be back in a few minutes, showing him his badge.

  Lily asked, “Something wrong?”

  “Yes. Ryan’s okay. Nothing changes that. But something else. I’ve overlooked something.” He kissed her on the cheek and walked to the condo side of the tower.

  * * *

  He stood outside the door, yet again, of the Bull’s and Kara’s condo. As he cut the yellow tape, his hand trembled. He opened the door and stepped in. The place seemed stale, the air hanging. Outside the windows a gray sky and a few giant flakes of heavy snow.

  He turned right and headed to the exercise room and paused where the Bull had collapsed, overcome with an allergic shock. Throat swelling. “Like drowning in air,” thought Drexel. And the Bull knew. Knew he was dying. Unable even to summon the strength to get to a phone. A man whose nickname radiated strength, brought down by a peanut and algae. Drexel had been so focused on any potential motives he had overlooked Doggett’s first principle: Motives don’t count for shit. His coarse way of saying some things are never known. But motive had seemed so pertinent to the case, and motive had not been how Drexel careened past simple information. His new theory might still be wrong, but if he was correct, then the reason why the Bull was murdered retreated to a realm of fog, one he had trouble grasping. He wanted to know why; it was in his nature. Montaigne had quoted Pliny the Elder: Solum certum nihil esse certi—the only certainty is nothing is certain.

  He walked into the master bedroom and caught a visualization of the Bull and Kara entwined in love, the very pleasure he had denied himself. He shook the vision away and entered the bathroom and walked to the salon, to the basket of oils. He had picked it up and put it back so long ago it seemed. He snapped a picture on his iPhone, pulled on a nitrile glove, and picked up a bottle of Egyptian massage oil with extra peanut oil. He slipped it into an evidence bag, sealed it, and signed across the seal. He tucked the bottle in his messenger bag as he left the salon and the condo. He hoped his theory was wrong, but it had settled in, it felt right. All other theories retreated into a mist of suppositions, the minor doubts inherent in them now overwhelming. No, Drexel’s new theory of the crime clicked in all the right ways, meeting Doggett’s requirements of credibility. Which meant that Ryan’s kidnapping was Drexel’s fault.

  Chapter 26

  Drexel called Ton on the way to the store. “I’ll drive,” he said. “With this blizzard, we’ll need something better than the Mustang.”

  “Aye,” said Ton.

  They ate at the Old Towne. Ton, in a black AC/DC For Those About to Rock t-shirt, stuffed two cheese fries at a time into his mouth. He chewed quickly. Drexel ate a patty melt, extra onions, and a side bowl of chili three-way. They ate in silence, washing away the food with a beer: Goose Island Mild Winter for Ton and a Bell’s Kalamazoo Stout for Drexel.

  “What’s the plan?” asked Ton, picking at the label of the beer bottle.

  “Well, things have changed.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m pretty sure now Jerry and Tunney had nothing to do with the murder of the Bull.”

  Ton cocked his head to the side. “The girl?

  Drexel nodded.

  Ton had the courtesy to avoid saying, “I told you so.” Instead, he said, “Okay, but Jerry still kidnapped Ryan.”

  “Yeah. He did. And I’m guessing Tunney didn’t order it. I think Jerry’s gone off on his own. But Tunney will know where he’s at. So I think we go to this fight. We go in when the crowd’s there. I put my chips on the table and convince him he needs to cough Jerry up.”

  “What if he doesn’t?”

  Drexel shook his head. “Hell if I know. I don’t have much leverage. I’m just betting that Tunney’s as pissed at Jerry as I am.”

  Ton grunted.

  * * *

  The drive to the fight location was a straight shot down Western Avenue. The building was large and rectangular with a blue set of awnings over the entrance and office space. Formerly a temporary storehouse for merchandise before being loaded onto barges on the Chicago River, the storehouse sat on a track spur that wove its way all the way back to the stations and lines along Canal and Lumber Streets. Who knows how long it had been abandoned before the Bull’s and Tunney’s ghost company acquired the land.

  The snow had started to come down while they were eating, and the typical twenty-minute drive took forty-five. The visibility had crashed, and the thick, heavy, wet snowflakes had metamorphosed into lighter flakes that had started to pile up. Drexel pulled the Infiniti to a stop far away from the bulk of the cars, again, a mixture of high-end and those more deserving of the junk yard.

  Drexel and Ton checked their pistols and stepped out of the truck. Ton pulled his knit cap down over his ears and pulled up the fleece-lined hood of his puffy navy parka. Drexel slid the pistol into his shoulder holster, buttoned up the wool peacoat, and pulled on leather gloves and a cap. They walked in the snow to the door guarded by a lone man. Snow had already accumulated on the Infiniti and was sliding down the hot engine hood and windows.

  The passphrase got them past the guard. The interior of the warehouse was set up similar to the other illegal fight location, and Drexel walked around the outside of the ring, with Ton following a few steps behind. The office in this building was a permanent structure built along the wall nearest the Chicago River. A door was ajar, the top hinge loose. Two guards
sat outside it, both of whom stood up and grabbed their machine pistols.

  Drexel kept his hands up. “Just want to see the boss. He’s in, right?”

  The nearest guard looked back at the other and gestured toward the door. The second guard entered the office and came out. “Boss says let them in.”

  Drexel took a step forward, but the closer guard said, “Hold on.” He frisked Drexel and removed the pistol and did the same to Ton. “You’ll get these back if you leave.” The guard pulled out the clip and emptied the chamber of Drexel’s Glock and deprived Ton’s revolver of its bullets.

  They walked into the office. Four guards sat at a table, playing poker. Tunney stood behind his desk, holding a cigar and smiling. “Detective. I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t see each other again. I hope you don’t mean to harm me.” His smile grew bigger.

  Drexel shook his head. “Just want to talk.” He lowered his hands. “Jerry took my brother. I doubt you condone that.”

  Tunney let the smile drop a bit. “As I understand it, Jerry is just protecting himself.”

  “Maybe, but you know he’ll be found. Sooner or later.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But you’ll lose allies at PD. You took a cop’s brother as a hostage. You know how that plays out.”

  Tunney stood there, and Drexel imagined the train of thought. Crooked cops knowing their family could be used as bargaining chips. Tunney knowing part of his power was illusory—he cannot fight the entire PD, only weaken it with a few of the corrupt. Dead family members make even the corrupt righteous.

  Drexel said, “I just want Jerry. Where is he?”

  “You want me to cough up one of my men.” Tunney gestured to his armed phalanx of men. “Jerry may not’ve acted with my authority, but he’s just protecting his interests.”

  “Look. No one at PD believes or thinks anymore you had anything to do with the Bull’s death.”

  “I knew that all along.”

  “So Jerry took a cop for something that was going to happen anyways. You can’t have one of your men going rogue and screwing up your support on my side of the blue line.”

  Tunney walked up to Drexel. Ton took a step closer to him, but the guards all grabbed their guns. They did not point at Ton, but the threat was palpable. Tunney said, “What you call your side of the blue line is not mine. If you get Jerry, what do I get?”

  “You keep your friends as friends. You don’t get any more enemies. I make sure the entire force knows Jerry did this alone. All on his own. If you want, I can even say you helped find him.”

  Tunney inhaled on his cigar and blew out the smoke. Outside in the arena, a cheer swelled and flew through the office. Someone had fallen. Tunney smiled. “Me being a good citizen and all.” He jammed the cigar into his mouth, talking around it. “Jerry took your brother without consulting me. I would never have condoned it. Never.” He picked up a pen and pulled over a page of the Sun-Times. As he wrote, he said, “I won’t give Jerry up. No. I won’t rat on my men, but I will tell you where your brother is.” He tore the page of the newspaper and held it out toward Drexel between two fingers.

  Drexel took the paper and stuffed it into his pocket and nodded. He turned and followed Ton toward the door.

  Tunney said, “And I mean it this time. I never want to see you again. I don’t care what it’s about.”

  * * *

  Drexel drove the Infiniti in an ever increasing snowfall. Trucks had salted the roads beforehand, which was working for now, but the wind was picking up, and the temperature had dropped several degrees. Drexel began to believe this would be the epic event the weather people prognosticated.

  Ton looked out the window and up at the sky, a view only offering swirling snow. The address Tunney had given them was in Bridgeport. “Do you think he’s screwing with us?”

  Drexel tapped the steering wheel as he braked to stop at a light. “I don’t think so. I think he expects Jerry is there. He’s wiping his hands of it.”

  “Why doesn’t he take care of it himself?”

  “It’s better to get the police to do your dirty work if you can manage it.”

  “Hmmm.” Ton pulled bullets out of his pocket and reloaded his revolver. “Do you have any left?”

  “None. They kept the mag, and I didn’t have any others.”

  Few cars were on the road, most seemed to have heeded the mayor’s warning to stay off the streets. They drove in silence the rest of the way, the wind occasionally buffeting the vehicle. They parked a block away from the address and walked toward the house, passing several vacant properties, though Bridgeport had avoided the catastrophe of Englewood or the Back of the Yards. The house at the address Tunney had given them had an orangish light coming from a second-story window. Its front yard had two leafless maple trees that rose up and claimed the snow on its branches. Drexel and Ton approached cautiously, keeping an eye on the windows. They could hear a generator.

  “Do we pull it?” asked Drexel.

  Ton shook his head. “We’ll leave footprints. He’ll know.” Ton was right. The snow was about a half-inch deep. He said, “I say one of us goes through the back and the other through the front.” He looked at his watch. “You have that stopwatch on your phone, right?”

  Drexel pulled the phone out and opened the timer app.

  Ton said, “When I say ‘Start,’ let’s bust through the doors in three minutes.”

  Drexel nodded.

  “Start.”

  Drexel tapped the start button, shoved the phone in his pocket, and headed alongside the house for the back door. The back yard was clear, and a set of concrete steps led up to the door. He hugged the wall and pulled out his pistol. Jerry would never know it was not loaded. Standing in a blizzard, holding the heavy, cold metal of an empty gun made the idea of a bluff ridiculous. He looked at the timer. Almost. He walked to the top of the step and squeezed the storm door handle and pulled. A bit of metal creaking. The door pulled against the wind, wanting to slam shut. Drexel put his body between the screen door and the wooden door before him, with its brass knob handle and deadbolt. He looked at the timer, shut it off, slid it into his pocket. He tested the door. Locked. He kicked at the deadbolt. The force of the kick ran up his leg and the door did not seem to move. He heard a crash of wood that through the wind sounded distant. He kicked again. And again. He threw his body at it, slamming his right shoulder into it. The storm door slammed back and struck him, but he ignored it. Drexel stepped back and smashed again into the door, which began to give way. He kicked again and saw cracks along the jamb at the deadbolt. He stepped back and plunged his body into the door, which finally gave way, bursting into the house and Drexel falling into it, the storm door bashing behind him and a scream of wind sliding beneath the door and frame. His shoulder and knee aching.

  He stood up in what was a kitchen. A hallway led toward the front of house. A stairway at the back led upstairs.

  “Fuck you.”

  Drexel heard the shout from upstairs. Jerry. Drexel held the Glock with both hands, low and pointed to the floor as he side-stepped up the stairs, looking at the top the entire time.

  “Where is he?”

  Ton’s voice. The orange light leaked over the top of the stairs. A hallway with doors on the right and a door at the end. All open. The orange light came from the room at the end.

  “Ton?” asked Drexel.

  Ton stepped backward into the frame of the door at the end of the hall. “Down here.” He had his arms raised, holding the pistol.

  “What’ve you got?”

  “Pretty boy and his girlfriend. Tammy.”

  “Okay. I’m going to check the other rooms here.”

  Ton nodded, keeping his eyes on Jerry and Tammy.

  Drexel cleared the other two rooms and stepped up to the door. “Are they armed?”

  “No. At le
ast not now.”

  Drexel gave him a quizzical look. He stepped into the room, raising his pistol and smiled. Tammy and Jerry had made up apparently. The master bedroom had a queen bed mattress on the floor. A single lamp without a shade but using a Halloween orange decorative bulb sat nearby. An ashtray with stubbed out cigarettes, a green Bic lighter, a pack of Marlboro Lights in a box, and roach clip with a small baggie of weed sat on a small refrigerator. A bottle of Bud Light sat beside it. Jerry stood in a corner near the closet, stark naked, revealing his mass to be mostly soft. A pile of clothes lay next to his feet. A pair of dark blue jeans lay by itself. He held his arms up and scowled at Drexel. A spiderweb tattoo decorated his upper right chest. Tammy had wrapped herself in a blue comforter, clutching it to her chest.

  Drexel looked at her and smiled. Her hair was evenly colored and a bit shorter. “I see you got your hair done.”

  Tammy glared at him.

  Drexel pointed the Glock at Jerry. “Hands on your head, fingers locked together. Turn around. Take two steps to your left. Kneel down. Cross your ankles. ”

  Jerry followed the instructions to the letter.

  “Good,” said Drexel.

  Ton looked at Drexel. “Coitus interruptus, eh?” He laughed.

  Drexel smiled. He looked back at Tammy. “Keep your hands right there, and we won’t have a problem. Got it?”

  She nodded, but she kept her eyes on Drexel. If push came to shove, he knew she would be the tough one of the two.

  Drexel turned back to Jerry. “Where’s my brother?”

  Jerry looked up at Drexel but did not say anything.

  “What, you think you still have leverage?”

  “I’ve got him. You want him.”

  Drexel looked back at Ton. “Did you find his gun?”

  “No. I found him trying to get on those jeans. I think they’re the girl’s.”

  Drexel walked over to the pile of clothes and stabbed at them with his foot. Something hard. Keeping his eyes on Jerry, he kneeled down, and with his right hand felt in the clothes. Jerry was more concerned about putting on pants than defending himself. Drexel pulled out a gun from the pile of clothes. A Browning 1911-22. Drexel felt around more in the clothes, but no other weapons. Drexel stuck his Glock into his holster, ensured the Browning was loaded, and stood back up. “I’ll search the rest of the house.”