“And Jeffrey?”
“Have you read any of his books?”
Drexel chuckled. “No. I didn’t even recognize some of the names.”
“Well, don’t waste your time. They aren’t that good, and I think—deep down somewhere—Whitney knows it. But they’re in love. Have been since I’ve known her. He’s a decent guy, just not that great of a writer or scholar.”
He took a drink of his beer and set the glass down on the bar but kept his fingers on the edge. “Think they could’ve had anything to do with Brittany’s death?”
Barber looked at him. “Absolutely not.”
* * *
Walking into the afternoon sun, Drexel paused on Cottage Grove Avenue. While he did not miss classes and studying, he did miss the sense of freedom and time of college life. Not before or since had he ever had so much free time and the energy to use it. Not that he knew it then. No, he was not wise enough. He took in a deep breath and held it and let it out in dribbles and drabs. And he thought of Brittany. How she could never stand on a sidewalk in middle age and be sentimental. She deserved better than she received.
He texted Daniela he wanted to stop by O’Neal’s and the site where Brittany was last seen on video. He then walked north alongside gleaming new steel and glass buildings, a large, fenced construction site, and brick towers constructed in the sixties or seventies and showing their age. Tired and dull. He crossed the Midway Plaisance Park—a strip of green and trees connecting Washington and Jackson Parks. As if to rub in his thoughts on his youthful self, the Fountain of Time. Made from a combination of pebbles and concrete, a hundred figures in various representations of life in a north to south order. The infant with his parents. The child with a ball. The young man with helmet, shield, and sword. The commander on his horse. Then the elderly followed by the senile. All overseen by Father Time across the waters of the fountain. Drexel found the figures emerging from the base both abstract and individual. And it dawned on him that the mass having a lack of individuality while paradoxically having unique features to be, in essence, the human condition. He smiled to himself and continued north. The park gave way to the campus and the University of Chicago Hospital. As he passed Stagg Field, he wondered why he walked the distance, but it was too late now, so he kept walking, reminding himself it was a beautiful day. At Fifty-First Street and Cottage Grove, in a strip mall with a Subway, Walgreens, Cricket Wireless, and Sharks Fish and Chicken, he found O’Neal’s. He crossed the parking lot full of cars and walked in.
The place felt like a bar for a bunch of undergraduates. Posters on the billboard next to the entrance boasted student plays, musical acts, festivals, poetry readings, and rock concerts. The two-, four-, and six-top tables were battered at the edges. The bar was uninspired but functional with stools that matched the chairs of the tables, also battered. A lone barkeep looked up at the detective and then returned to wiping the counter down with a white towel. Sunlight fell on the floor and across the chairs, but the place was dimly lit otherwise. The place had an odor of old, spilled beer and sugary cocktails. He nodded once for an unknown reason, turned, and walked back out to the sidewalk of the strip mall. He spotted the camera that recorded Brittany for three seconds at 9:09 p.m. He knew that Brittany walked east on Fifty-First, so he walked to the corner of Fifty-First and Cottage Grove, waited for the walking light to turn white, and then crossed. Fifty-First’s name changed to Hyde Park Boulevard. An apartment complex on the north side of the street was set back aways with a nice lawn. On the south side, a small park called Drexel Square. He kept walking. He presumed Brittany was walking home. A straightforward enough walk along Hyde Park to Kimbark a few more blocks east and then south to home. He stood at the corner of Hyde Park and Drexel Boulevards. At this location, the north- and southbound lanes of Drexel were split by a tree-lined median. He looked back and to his left. He spotted a camera right away mounted on the southeast corner of the apartment building. Brittany had stood here at 9:10 p.m. The camera moved. He watched it and then it swept back. He realized that in the brief spurt of time as the camera shifted its perspective away from that corner, Brittany had been abducted.
The perp could have turned either east or west onto Hyde Park or driven straight through south on Drexel Boulevard, which on the other side of the small square split into a westbound Payne Drive or continued on south with its original namesake. He looked down at the sidewalk and then back up and took in the scene. And he wondered, not for the first time, if there were any good places to die.
Chapter 10
As the sun drifted down and was caught in the sawtooth of the skyline, Drexel caught up with Daniela a few houses down from Marshall’s apartment complex in Edgewater. She walked out of a two-story, brown-sided house. She pulled on a light-blue jacket. “Any luck?”
Drexel said, “No. Not really. None of her friends or professors flashed on the photo. You?”
“No. But I figured the people in the houses wouldn’t. Want to do the apartment neighbors with me?”
“Sure. Being in an apartment makes it tougher to hold someone and then kill them without someone knowing.”
“Yeah, but not impossible. That said, I’m sure he could find where abandoned or empty buildings are.”
Drexel nodded, and they walked down the block. They found someone to buzz them into the six-story concrete building and began knocking on doors. Slow, methodical. Many people were not home and either Drexel or Daniela wrote “Call me” on the back of a card and stuck it between the door and the jamb. They would not get a call back in most cases.
Marshall lived on the fourth floor in 407. And in those apartments where someone answered on the first, second, and sixth floors, they gave consistent responses of not knowing Marshall or only passing him in the main entrance or while getting the mail, most not even knowing his name. Some did not recognize him in the photo. Same for most of the third- and fifth-floor residents, as well. Sarah Crannick in 307, directly below Marshall’s apartment, said that sometimes loud noises came from above. Well, she thought it was from overhead, but it could have been from the apartments on either side. The noises? Mostly music. Heavy metal she thought. Sometimes like someone was walking loud. Stomping really.
Leo Chukwu in 306 gave a similar statement, though he tended to think it was 406, and not 407, that was responsible for the noise. Music he said.
In apartment 507, Nadia Olesky confirmed as well that Marshall seemed to like playing his music too loud, though Nadia thought he listened to hip-hop.
Mary Fulston in 616 invited them in for iced tea or lemonade. A large, overstuffed floral couch sat in the living room before a seventy-two inch flatscreen TV that looked as if it could fall over at any moment. Perhaps held in place by the soft focus painting of Jesus holding a lamb. Her late husband—“God bless his soul”—had been a police officer in the eleventh district. Daniela found a polite exit after hearing Mrs. Fulston talk of her husband for thirty minutes. Drexel could not bring himself to do it, for he knew he babbled on like her about Zora. Mutual respect of grief’s scars.
None of them knew Marshall, but only Sarah had reported the noise issue to the superintendent, and that was last year in the summer when it happened the first time. Nothing changed, so she did not waste her time pursuing further.
In 406, right next to Marshall’s apartment, Malcolm Jersey invited them in. He had an accent Drexel guessed was Scottish, but he was poor at identifying accents, something Zora had teased him about along with mocking his attempts at accents, which he admitted were beyond bad. The apartment was not large and conformed to what he expected after having looked into a dozen apartments by then in the building. A living room, a bedroom, a full bath, a small kitchen, and an alcove where a small dining table could conceivably sit, though Malcolm had put a wood wardrobe there, its door partially open. The furnishings were spare. A couch. A chair. A side table. A few religious-themed images on the wall and
several styles of crosses in wood, wrought iron, and a shiny metal. No TV, but a small stereo player.
“May I offer you some tea?” asked Malcolm, rubbing his hand over his shaved head.
“Sure,” said Daniela.
Drexel shook his head.
As he walked back to the kitchen and filled the teakettle, Malcolm said, “What can I do for the police?” He looked out at them through the serving hatch.
“We wanted to ask you about your neighbor, Brandon Marshall.” Drexel wandered over to the small credenza that held the stereo player, a single box with a CD player at the top. On the wall, a reproduction of a painting, pre-Renaissance. The depth of field was flat, and it did not seem intentional. To give a sense of the size of things, the artist had painted large objects, though the priority of personages and subject worked against that neat arrangement. In the image, a group of people—men and women—largely naked, though the genitalia were covered, were being pushed out of a fortress or castle of some sort by men in medieval armor. The colors were dulled by time so that the blues had faded to a light blue and the reds were heading to pink.
“The chap in 407?”
“Yes,” said Daniela, who sat down on the sofa.
“I know him a wee bit is all. See each other in the hall. That sort of thing.”
“Right.” Drexel turned back to see Malcolm grabbing tea cups from a cabinet. “Any complaints about him?”
“What’s this about?”
“Can’t say, other than his name came up in an investigation we’re conducting. Trying to get some background.”
Malcolm nodded. He was arranging items on a tray. “Ah, should I be worried?”
Drexel said, “We’re just trying to understand what kind of neighbor he is.”
“Plays his music a bit loud sometimes is all. I put on my headphones and don’t mind it.”
“How long have you lived here?” Drexel wandered over to the crosses. A series of nine crosses, some familiar to him. The nine were set in a circle with the Latin Cross at the pinnacle. He recognized the crucifix, the Tau-Rho, the Greek, and the Celtic. Others seemed variations on those, but several were wholly unfamiliar.
“Here in this flat?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve, uh, lived here for three years come August.”
“And in the U.S.?” asked Daniela.
“Ah, I’ve been here for ten years. Came over to work for a company.” Malcolm walked out of the kitchen with a silver tray holding a teapot, three mugs, a creamer, and a bowl of sugar. He set it down on the coffee table before sitting on the couch beside Daniela. He poured out three cups of tea. Daniela added a bit of cream to hers and stirred it. Malcolm added several small spoonfuls of sugar and less cream than she. “Worked for them for five years in Glasgow. Moved here. Worked for them for two years. They sacked me. I found my way to the clergy. Better fit for me than business.” He took a small sip of tea. “But I’m sure you didn’t want to learn about me. I don’t know Brandon very well, though.”
“You know his name, which is more than a lot of people around here.”
“Aye, I’m a friendly sort, so I ask.” He pointed to apartment 405. “That’s Elsie Devlin and her fiancé Jordan. A fine couple they are. Down in 404 is Anand Mohammed. He’s from Saudi Arabia. We get along quite well. Have interesting talks on religion and the state of the world.”
Daniela placed the cup on the tray. “So what can you tell us of Brandon?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. He comes and he goes. Works as a plumber, I think. Kind of a brooding fellow, but to each his own they say, right? Comes and goes. If I had to guess, I’d say he works, sleeps, and eats like the rest of us. Not that interesting, right?” He took a sip and set the cup down, but his hand trembled and the cup ringed against the saucer. “Sorry. Don’t talk to the police often, I don’t.”
“Right.” She closed her eyes and held up her hand. “Sure. So brooding and loud music?”
“Yes. That’s about it.”
“Okay. Nothing weird? Out of place? Might give you pause?” asked Drexel.
Malcolm shook his head. “Not that I can think of.”
“Well, if you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.” Drexel handed his card to Malcolm.
“Of course.” He slid the card into his pocket.
Daniela and Drexel left the apartment complex, unable to obtain anymore information about Brandon Marshall than they already had. The two returned to the station with a pile of reports from the unis on their interviews. Drexel said he would take a first pass of reviewing that evening.
As Drexel walked to the LaSalle station, he called up Ton. “Hey, interested in doing a stakeout?”
* * *
Drexel stopped by home before meeting Ton. He had not heard from his brother all day and wanted to check in with Hart. He found Ryan with a beer opened and held between his knee and hand. Drexel smiled at him. He pulled out the bag of cat food and poured some into the bowl. “I’m heading back out. Looks like a stakeout is in order.”
“I would say it sounds like fun, but it doesn’t.”
Drexel rounded the table of the kitchenette. “So what do you want for your birthday? And don’t give me this bullshit about it being another day. Just tell me what the hell you want.”
“Okay.” Ryan looked at Drexel. “Okay. You can go with me on a double-date.” He raised his hand, pushing the air, defending against the anger boiling up in Drexel. “Hold on. Let me finish.”
But Drexel did not. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Why did everyone seem to think he needed to move on?
“You asked me. This is what I want. So Alicia’s got a friend. You’d like her.”
Drexel shook his head. “I’m not doing that.”
“I’m not asking you to marry the girl. Just go out. It’s time.”
Drexel took a drink of his beer. The last time someone had told him it was time to move on—which sounded to him a lot like time to forget—it was their sister, Lily, who had told Drexel to convert the master bedroom he had shared with Zora to Ryan’s room. To her credit, she had been more subtle, and Ryan had been in desperate need. But a room was one thing.
Ryan shrugged. “That’s what I want for my birthday.”
“To move on?”
“Don’t be a jerk.” Ryan clenched his jaw and looked down at his beer.
Drexel rubbed his eyes and nose. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But that’s it.” He had no intention of thinking of it beyond these few seconds. He knew that. He was confident his brother knew that as well.
“I’ll take that.”
Drexel walked to the door and put his hand on the doorknob. He turned around. His anger dropping away.
Ryan squinted. “What do you need? You’ve got that look.”
“Hmm. Guess I do. But this needs to stay between us, right?”
“Sure.”
The detective walked back toward the kitchen. “Do you know a fellow named Brandon Marshall? Works for Plumber Savior.”
Ryan looked up at the ceiling. “Not that I can think of. Lots of locations though.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“He a suspect or something?”
“Let’s say a person of interest.”
“I hate that term.”
Drexel smiled.
His brother washed down the last of his beer. “Just another way of calling someone a suspect but not calling them that.”
“Perhaps. But no one likes being called a suspect.” Even if they are.
Chapter 11
Ton drove his ’64 cherry red Mustang coupe to a stop in the road. Drexel jogged to the car, opened the passenger door, and slid in, pulling the door closed with a loud creak. Whenever he rode in the car, the large red and chrome steering wheel, while authentic, st
ood out as extravagant. His friend had nurtured and cared for the car since restoring it years before, hunting down authentic parts from junkyards and conducting searches across the Internet. Cindy, Ton’s second wife, had threatened to take the car in the divorce. Drexel was never sure what his friend had given away to keep it, but he expected it was significant.
Drexel smiled. “So I take it you’re up for this.”
“Shit, man, you know how much I love this. Let’s grab some food and start.”
They stopped at Wolfy’s. Drexel ordered two dogs, standard Chicago-style, with extra celery salt. Ton went for three dogs, without tomatoes but extra hot peppers. They ate them after Ton parked the Mustang in view of the front entrance of Marshall’s apartment complex.
Drexel looked into the back seat, where he saw a long box. In it, individually enclosed items glistened in their plastic sleeves. He reached back and pulled the top one. An old comic book by the looks of the ad on the back cover. He flipped it over. He recognized the title, ROM. Issue 75 and seventy-five cents. The final issue of the series.
Ton leaned over. “Remember that series. That was released in February of ’86.” He pulled it out of Drexel’s hand and placed it back in the box. “A guy brought it into the store today. Asked if these were worth anything. It wasn’t the most popular series in its day. Told him he’d be better taking it to a comic book store, but he wasn’t interested. Needed the cash. So I bought it for myself. I haven’t read a comic in years.”
Kill Them All (Drexel Pierce Book 2) Page 9