Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Kepler’s name was third on the list. “Which one?”

  “Hold on.” Scott pulled out his cell phone, looked up a number, and dialed it. “Yes, sergeant, this is Scott. Yeah. Uh-huh.” A pause. “Good. Look, I’ve got Detective Pierce here. He got the restaurant vic.” Pause. “Yep.” Pause. “Okay, I’ll tell him.” He tapped the hang up button. “He’s down a couple of blocks at Northwestern Medicine Immediate Care. On Dearborn.”

  “Good. I’m heading there now and then I’ll be back. Keep this place buttoned up, alright?”

  Scott nodded. “You bet.”

  Drexel sprinted to the car through the downpour, water splashing into his shoes. He slammed the door closed behind him, breathing out as rain ran down his forehead. He wiped it off with his hand, wiped his hand on his khaki trousers, and started the car. He drove a few blocks down Ohio Street, making his way to Dearborn and into a small parking lot reserved for immediate care patients. He saw a Chicago PD patrol car and parked beside it. The immediate care entrance was on the first floor of a twenty-seven story building. He walked through the automatic sliding doors. Three rows of cushioned chairs faced a nurse’s desk and a long bench sat against the wall at an angle. A mother held an infant in her arms while her daughter, two braided pigtails, leaned her head against her shoulder. A man sat alone wearing a White Sox baseball cap and bending over, his elbow on his knees and his face in his hand. Another man in blue jeans and an orange-red-brown plaid shirt held a brown towel wrapped around his hand. A woman, her eyeglasses sitting on her head, held her son on her lap.

  A nurse slid open a glass door. She held out a brown clipboard with a silver clip that secured a form. “Fill this out and bring it back up when you’re done. Insurance card and driver’s license?”

  Drexel walked up to the window. “Not here for that.” He held up his badge.

  “Ah. She’s coming out soon. Wait over there.” The nurse closed the window.

  Drexel shoved his hands into his pockets and walked to an empty area of the room next to a bottled water fountain. He grabbed one of the paper cones hanging from an attached plastic dispenser. The water was so cold it hurt his front teeth. He crumbled up the cup and tossed it in the small wastebasket.

  The unisex restroom door opened and out walked a uniformed police officer. “Sergeant Kepler?” asked Drexel.

  Kepler looked at him. “Yes?”

  Drexel walked over, extending his hand. “Detective Drexel Pierce.”

  Kepler took his hand and shook it twice. “You got the restaurant?” He did not wait for the detective to respond. “She’s in back. They told me to wait out here for her.” He thumbed to the bathroom. “They promised to hold her if need be while I was doing my business.”

  “Sure. She say anything while you had her?”

  Kepler shook his head. “No. She was crying and shaking her head the entire time. Didn’t say a word.”

  “Esme, right?”

  Kepler nodded once. “Esme Ortega. That’s all I know. And I know that only because she’s got a name tag that says it. She was barely able to say anything on the 911 call. When the officers arrived, they found her at the front door. Adam stayed with her while Jackson cleared the scene and found the vic. When I arrived, they had secured the place. She was inconsolable. Couldn’t say a word. I thought it best to bring her here. Calm her down enough to give an initial statement.”

  “She really that bad?”

  Kepler raised his eyebrows. “Absolutely. I thought she was going to start banging her head against the wall.”

  “Alright.”

  The brown door beyond the nurse’s window opened and out walked a woman clutching a piece of paper. Kepler said, “That’s her.”

  Both of them walked over to her. Her eyes were red and puffy. Kepler started to guide her across the room to a seat.

  The door Esme exited opened. A woman in light blue scrubs stepped out, holding a clipboard. “Ms. Barnes.”

  The woman with the boy on her lap stood up. Both of them walked to the door and disappeared behind its closing.

  Kepler helped Esme into a chair. “This is Detective Pierce.”

  Drexel crouched down and smiled. “I’m very sorry you had to experience that.”

  She looked at him. Her eyes were a deep brown. Her chestnut hair fell below her shoulders. She appeared to be in her early thirties. Small, gold hoop earrings. Black slacks, black shoes, and a light tan silky button up. She held her purse on her lap. Her bottom lip trembled. “I— I—”

  Drexel held up his hand. “We’ll get there. But first. How are you feeling right now?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay. That’s completely normal. It’s a shock, and you’ll get through it. I do need to ask you some questions though. Questions that can help us understand what happened. And I need to ask now while they’re still fresh. You up for that?”

  She looked up at him. He could tell she did not want to but accepted she must. Drexel asked, “When did you last see Victoria Lopez?”

  “Vickie. She liked Vickie.”

  “Okay. Vickie. When did you last see her?”

  “Last night. When we closed up after service.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Um.” She looked down at the floor and then back up. “12:30 or so.”

  “So this morning?”

  She nodded.

  “Was that normal?”

  “Yes. Me, Alex, and Vickie are the last there. Vickie usually stays a bit later.”

  “Alex?”

  “Alex is the kitchen manager.” She saw the question in Drexel’s eyes. “Alex Conti.”

  “And he was there with you last night?”

  She nodded. “We walked out together.”

  “And that’s the last time you saw Vickie?”

  Her eyes welled with tears. “Until this morning.” Her mouth opened and closed. She closed her eyes and two tears—one from each eye—rolled down her cheeks. “Why did she do this?”

  Drexel frowned and nodded once in a way he hoped conveyed sympathy. “So tell me about this morning. Walk me through it.”

  Esme looked out the front doors and then looked back. “It was normal. I showed up like I always do to open the restaurant. I turned on the lights, powered up the computers, and checked to ensure the freezers and refrigerators were still working. Then I came back out to the hostess stand and ensured we could see today’s reservations. I knew the food delivery and menu guys would be coming, and Vickie keeps that key in her office, so I went up there. And then…then.”

  Drexel kept his hand low but waved. “It’s okay. Was anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No. No. It looked like any other day. Why? Why would she do that? She had such a, a bright future.”

  He knew from the many suicides he had investigated over the years that a bright future to some was a hellish nightmare to others. “Tell me about that.”

  She pushed a strand of her hair that had fallen across her forehead to back behind her ear. “Well she had started her dream restaurant.”

  “I understand she won a TV show competition.”

  “Yes, America’s Next Great Chef. She was amazing. And she won enough money to open this restaurant. Her dream.”

  “Have you worked with her before?”

  Esme nodded her head. “She was the sous-chef at Hussain’s.” She saw the blank but questioning look on Drexel’s face. “Hussain’s. Owned by David Hussain. He has several restaurants in Chicago.” Not seeing recognition on his face, she moved on. “I worked as a waitress there. We became friends. And when she started Fling, she asked me to be the dining room manager.”

  “How much did she win?”

  “It was like a half million.”

  “That’s quite a chunk of change.”

  “You need a lot to open
a restaurant.”

  “Was business good?”

  “Yes. We had a four-week waiting list to get a reservation. Packed every night. And she was getting ready for Taste of Chicago next week.”

  He raised the blue-ink pen he had been writing notes with. “That I know.” Taste of Chicago attracted over three million people to its annual, multi-day celebration of Chicago food and restaurants held in a park near Lake Michigan.

  “She was going to have a pop-up restaurant. It was going to be huge for her.” Her lips quivered, and she shook her head. “I just don’t understand why.”

  Drexel nodded. “Can you think of anyone who would do this to her?”

  “She didn’t—she didn’t kill herself? You think someone did this?”

  “It’s something I’m considering. Is there anyone who would want to hurt her?”

  Esme shook her head. “We all loved her.”

  Drexel said, “I know this has been difficult. Thank you for your time. Can I ask you to write down Alex’s phone number? And yours?” He tore out a sheet of paper, closed the notebook, and gave her the paper on top of the notebook with the pen. When she finished, he thanked her and had Sergeant Kepler take her home.

  Drexel looked at the sheet of paper with Alex’s name. He would check in later with Alex. First, he wanted to get back to the restaurant.

  Chapter 3

  Back in the restaurant, he found the place quieter than before. The ME and her team had left. The remaining crime scene techs were busy dusting for fingerprints and sorting through items. He breathed in and sat on the step beneath the awning. The rain had slackened, but it was still heavy. He pulled out his iPhone, a couple of generations old now, and dialed Daniela Longfurd. She had originally been a crime scene tech, specializing in computers and electronics. She was so good and so resourceful, Drexel’s captain, Victor Macleod, had made Daniela a special homicide liaison. Every one noticed, of course, that she only worked with Drexel, the only detective Victor let work cases as a sole detective.

  The phone rang a couple of times before she answered, “Hey boss.”

  “Morning. A computer’s coming your way. And I’ve got a name for you. Can you run it?”

  “Give it to me.”

  “Victoria Lopez.” He read off her driver’s license number. He heard her clicking and typing.

  She made a popping noise. Drexel assumed she was tapping her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Got it. I’ll look it up and cross-reference it. Give me a few minutes.”

  “Thanks.” He hung up, stood up, and re-entered the restaurant. When he entered the kitchen, he stopped. The refrigerator and freezer were along the back wall, just beyond the staircase leading to Vickie’s office. He tugged on a pair of nitrile gloves and opened the refrigerator. Metal shelves of boxed vegetables and meats on both sides. He turned on the light and let the door close behind him. He pushed on the safety release button, which opened the door. After turning off the light, he stepped out. The freezer’s safety release also worked.

  At the end of a short hallway, the back door led to the alley. The door had a silver locking handle and deadbolt. The deadbolt was in the unlocked position. He squeezed the handle and turned, opening the door. A patrol officer, dressed in a yellow poncho and baseball cap, spun around. Drexel raised his hand. “Detective Pierce, officer.”

  The officer relaxed. “Tony Jackson, sir.”

  Drexel nodded. He slipped off the messenger bag and set it next to the door before stepping into the alley and letting the door close. The trash bins were to the left of the entrance as he exited the restaurant. An occasional drop of rain among the multitude of rain drops would hit and thunk loudly on the bin’s metal top. He turned around and faced the door and then looked up and down the alley. Crime scene tape cut across the entrance to the alley from Ohio Street. A person wearing a light blue poncho looked down the alley. He or she hugged the wall facing the street, beneath a short awning. Drexel asked the officer, “Was the back door locked when you arrived?”

  The person pulled his or her head back.

  “No,” said Tony. “It was open. But the door was closed.”

  Drexel opened the alley door and jumped back in. He wiped his hands on his sports coat before pulling out the notebook, where he wrote down a question for Esme: Did you close and lock the back door? He stuffed the notebook back into the messenger bag, set the bag down near the door, and stepped back out into the alley. It was wide enough for a delivery truck to drive down. He looked back at the trash bins. He should search them, but he did not want to do that in the rain. He said to Tony, “Don’t let anyone touch those that’s not from the forensics team or Homicide.” Drexel gestured to the trash bins. Tony nodded.

  Drexel looked back down the alley toward Ohio Street, when the same blue-poncho head peered around the corner. “Hey there,” said the detective.

  The person bolted. Drexel yelled back at Tony, “Stay there, but call for assistance.” Drexel then took off in a sprint, the rain drops hitting his face seemed more and harsher. At the alley entrance, he skidded to a stop and looked east along Ohio Street. He saw the blue poncho moving at a good clip, and Drexel ran in pursuit, yelling for the person to stop. The blue poncho ran for two blocks, ignoring the order, looked back, and turned left. Drexel grimaced and pushed himself to a higher speed. He turned the corner and started to feel his feet slip on the wet pavement where an oil spot glistened across its surface.

  This alley was smaller than the one next to Fling, and halfway down it, a large fence rose up ten feet behind a large trash dumpster. The blue poncho did not look back.

  Drexel was halfway down the alley when the runner reached the dumpster and jumped up on it. He slipped on the metal surface and landed on his side. Drexel pushed his legs to run faster. The blue poncho used his arms to lift himself up and without waiting started to leap for the fence. Drexel reached out and grasped a corner of the poncho. He tugged, but the person jumped at the same time and the combined forces of the pull and jump tore the poncho. Drexel lost his grip, but the man’s leap did not reach as high as he expected. He grasped the fence and started to climb the last couple of feet. His hood on the poncho fell back.

  Drexel slapped both his hands on top of the dumpster and pulled himself up. Blue poncho threw himself over the fence, the torn edge of poncho catching the top of the fence and jerking it off the wearer, who landed inside another dumpster. Drexel went to throw himself at the fence to climb, but slipped on the wet surface of the lid of the dumpster. Instead of falling on his side, he fell forward, his hands taking the brunt of the landing, but also placing his head level with the runner.

  They looked at each other. The man was young, Drexel guessed in his twenties, with dark blond hair, a patchy and short beard, and gray-blue eyes. He scrambled out of the dumpster and sprinted away from Drexel, who pulled himself up and looked at the fence, but the man had turned onto the street and was out of sight. He looked behind him to find two officers sprinting toward him. “He’s on the other side. He turned east on Ontario.”

  One of the officers stopped and radioed to others.

  Drexel said, “He lost the poncho. He was wearing a light brown jacket. Probably six foot or so.”

  The first officer climbed over the fence and ran down the alley, pausing at the entrance to Ontario Street before running east and out of sight.

  The other officer clipped his radio onto his belt and ran toward Ohio Street. Drexel saw the poncho on the ground. He climbed over the fence, dropped into the open dumpster, crawled out, and stared at the poncho. He rubbed his right knee, pulled out his phone, and called the crime scene unit back at Fling.

  After a tech showed up and began the process of collecting the poncho as evidence, Drexel walked back to the restaurant’s alley entrance. Inside, along the wall of the hallway leading back into the kitchen, a rolling hamper of towels and dirty aprons caug
ht his attention. He pondered the contents. White towels and aprons so they could be bleached to remove the grease and food stains. Another note: Were the aprons used in the noose clean or dirty?

  He walked upstairs and entered the storage room. Boxes of Styrofoam containers, plastic utensils, paper napkins, and plastic tubs sat on one shelf. Another shelf had unboxed white plates and bowls of various sizes. A box of serving ware. A standing tower of cloth napkins. All the boxes were closed and stacked. Someone had placed labels on the shelves to indicate what was supposed to be there. On the floor, in the corner with one folding lid open and plastic poking out the top was a box of laundered aprons. He rubbed his chin and walked out of the storage room and into the office.

  Only Ben was in the office. “We’re pretty much done here. Just need to get to the locked drawers on the desk like you asked.”

  “Did you guys dust for fingerprints downstairs on the back entrance, the refrigerator handle, and stuff?” Drexel assumed they had not because of the lack of powder residue.

  “No. You want me to?”

  “Please. That and we need to get those trash bins someplace where we can open them. Or put a tent over them and open them. But let’s open these drawers first. Tell me you found a key someplace.”

  Ben smiled broadly. “Well, it so happens, I think we did. It was taped to the bottom of the middle drawer.” He pulled out the drawer, freeing it from the rails, and held it aloft, ensuring he did not spill out the pens and paper clips. After making sure Drexel saw the key underneath, he set the drawer on the desk and pulled it off. He removed the tape and, for good measure, put it in an evidence bag. “You want to do the honors?” He held the key up to Drexel.

  The detective walked over, grabbed it, and slid it into the first locked drawer. A satisfying click. He then inserted it into the second drawer. Another unlocking click. He handed the key back to Ben, who dropped it into the evidence bag holding the tape. His phone buzzed in his pants, but he ignored it. “Let’s open the bottom one first.” He slid it open and let Ben take a picture. A beaten, dark gray metal box with a plastic handle. He lifted it up and sat it on the desktop. Ben took a picture of the empty drawer and then the box on the desk. The box reminded him of ones his grandfather used to store rolls of Super 8 film. He flipped down the metal clasp and opened the box. A small pistol. A flash from Ben’s digital camera. Drexel lifted the pistol. The whole thing was no longer than his hand. Black base with a silver slide. Ruger was imprinted on the handle, and 380 Auto was etched into the shell ejection slot. LCP was engraved on the slide on the opposite side of that slot. He smelled it. Not fired recently. They bagged the gun and box separately.