***
At the station—located on Dearborn near the LaSalle L stop—Drexel set his messenger bag on his assigned desk. The third floor housed the homicide detectives of Central Division. They had been moved here a number of years back while their home for years, the Wentworth station, was being renovated. As one would expect from a temporary—no matter how real or not—dislocation, the place was haphazardly arranged. Dayshift detectives shared a desk with a nightshift counterpart. And desks were arranged in pairs, butting up against each other’s back. File cabinets lined the walls, and on them were piled boxes holding case files. Three rooms had been converted to interview rooms. Detective Martin Doggett had ensured the requisite chairs with one leg shorter than another and thermostat controls were in place for each. A large conference room often served as a case room for major investigations. Captain Victor Macleod’s office was situated next to the conference room and across the floor from the elevators in what many believed was an attempt to give him forewarning of the appearance of their commander, Carl Sobieski. A man not respected in this homicide division.
Drexel tapped the keyboard for the computer to wake it up. As it did so, he unlocked the bottom drawer. The top was the reserve of his nightshift counterpart, a new detective named Hassan Iqbal, who had been decorated last year by the superintendent for bravery—running into a school with an active shooter the moment he arrived. Iqbal had saved dozens of children from a boy with a shotgun and pistol. Drexel pulled out an electronic frame that cycled through a series of five-by-seven photographs and plugged it in. The first image that appeared was of the Gulf of Mexico from a beach near Sarasota. He had taken it a couple of years before. He then pulled out his Sammy Sosa autographed baseball stored in a plastic cube. He held it. The all-star break was approaching, and the Cubs seemed lackluster so far this season, struggling at the five hundred mark. The solace of his team having won the World Series for the first time since 1908, had passed, and he feared a return to the team that routinely broke hearts.
As if designed by fate, the photo frame displayed a picture of him and Zora at a Cubs game the year before her murder. They attended several games a year, and that particular photo was when the Los Angeles Dodgers visited. He did not know at the time it would be their last. She wore a v-neck T-shirt sporting a large version of the alternate logo: A giant C with a bear cub in the center. She wore the traditional Cubs cap. Drexel knew what others could not see from the photograph: Her hair, lightened by long days in the summer sun, was tied back in a pony tail and poking out the back of the cap. The sunglasses with mirrored, large-framed lenses hid her eyes, but her smile was brilliant and brought one to his face.
The computer prompted him for his password pulling his attention away. He typed it in and then pulled up the blank warrant form and paused. He needed the case number first, so he switched to a different program, the Chicago Case Incident and Reporting System—pronounced as “sirs” by the detectives and patrol officers. He accessed the homicide reporting screen and clicked Start New Report. A form appeared with an automatically assigned number: 16401. Homicide reports started with the last two digits of the year followed by the assigned number representing an ongoing body count in Chicago. So far, 401 homicides had been reported. Chicago was on track to have the deadliest homicide rate since the late 1990s. The city was fast approaching the year’s deadliest night historically: July 4th. He shook his head, numbed by the sheer mayhem, the disregard for human life.
He typed in some basic information and saved it to complete later so he could continue with the warrant forms, of which he completed two. One to get access to Vickie Lopez’s cell phone logs. Another to get her bank and credit card records. He clicked send on both, where they would enter the electronic warrant queue. A judge would review in a few hours, and then Drexel could serve the warrants. He walked to the small kitchenette, found a clean Chicago Police mug in the cabinet, and poured himself a coffee. He dosed it with four sugars and a three packets of shelf-stable creamer. He returned to his desk and opened up a web browser on the computer. He did a search on Facebook for Vickie and for Fling. Fling had a page. The banner image showed a close up of the sign above the restaurant. He found pictures of Vickie and Esme along with other servers and chefs. One image was captioned as “Vickie and Alex.” Drexel assumed that was Alex Conti. He stood several inches taller than Vickie, and in the photo both are smiling. Other images were of the dining room full of customers, immaculate plates of food, and menus. Vickie had no personal page on Facebook. She did have an Instagram account, which featured similar photographs as the Fling Facebook page.
Alex did have a personal Facebook page. He scrolled through the—what must be pervasive with the now dominance of social media—hundreds of posts and photos and videos of Alex with family, at Fling, out on the waters of Lake Michigan, a girlfriend, then an ex-girlfriend, and so on. Drexel found Hank’s Facebook account. Workout images of a sweaty, muscular man, in the classic strongman pose. In the hundreds of photos Drexel scanned through, there were a few of Vickie, and he was struck by one. She stood alone on a street somewhere. Daylight. She wore a light green skirt and a cream camisole with a bit of a ruffle at the neck. Her hair was down, draping over part of her face. She did not know she was being photographed. She looked off toward where the sun seemed to be. The beginning of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
He scratched his chin and packed up his desk. He had legwork to do.
Chapter 5
Checking in with every business and restaurant around Fling, Drexel learned that only three had cameras facing the street. And only one, a clothing store, had a camera facing the front entrance of Fling. He asked for a copy of the previous three days. The owner disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a thumb drive. Drexel said thanks, put the drive into his bag, and left. Outside, he looked up at Fling’s unobtrusive sign, which hung unlit. Crime scene tape made a bold X across the door.
His stomach growled, and he looked at his watch. Six o’clock. He pulled out his phone and called his good friend Ton Nax.
“Hey there,” said Ton.
“You free for dinner?”
“You said food. Of course.” Ton must have crushed the phone to his shoulder for he heard a muffled voice. “Old Towne?”
“Be there in thirty.”
Drexel walked along Ohio Street and turned right onto State Street. The Marina Towers, famously depicted on Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot album, down by the Chicago River overlooked the street as he walked the block to the sidewalk entrance for Grand station. He clambered down the steps and hopped the Blue line to Division. After walking out of the station at Division, he jogged across Ashland and then walked northwest on Milwaukee. Ton owned a number of pawn shops in Chicagoland, and his most loved one was on Milwaukee, the original store. Others were larger or more profitable, but Ton was sentimental even if he did not admit it. Drexel walked by the store and for another block to arrive at the entrance of Old Towne Pub, a frequent haunt for the pair.
Old Towne was a dive. Long, narrow. The bar ran against the wall on the right, and a row of booths lined the left with a thin aisle separating them. At the end of the bar and just before the kitchen, a set of four-tops wrapped around a small stage where poets would stand up and recite their latest or a singer-songwriter would sit on a stool and serenade the by-and-large indifferent crowd. Ton sat in their normal booth. When he saw Drexel, he slid out of the booth and embraced him in a bear hug. Ton, the finest representation of Chicago Drexel could think of, stood at six-two, but seemed much taller due to the bulk of the man. But this was a bulk that while it seemed soft from the outside was anything but. They had met years ago when Drexel walked the beat in the Ukrainian Village.
The irascible owner of Old Towne, Jason Quinn, still tended bar and shouted at cooks and servers after all these years. He walked up to their table, scowled, and set two pint glasses of beer before them. “Drink it. You’l
l love it,” he said before walking away.
Ton raised his eyebrows. He rubbed his bald head and picked up the glass. “Cheers.”
Drexel tapped his pint glass against Ton’s and nodded once. “Cheers.” He took a drink.
Ton rubbed his bottom lip across his mustache to clean off the foam. He nodded his head slowly. “Tasty. Very nice.” He turned to ask Quinn what it was, but he was nowhere in sight.
“I agree. Very nice. I can’t stay long. Need to eat and go interview a family.”
“Another case?”
Drexel nodded.
“Sure thing. I don’t think Quinn’s in the mood for orders, so he’ll have our food soon. What’s the case?”
Drexel shook him off. While he often consulted Ton, the case was still too fresh. But he did need his friend’s help with the ongoing, unofficial investigation of his wife’s murder. Drexel had found Zora on the kitchen floor of their apartment three-and-a-half years ago. For a good part of that time, he had accepted the medical examiner’s—now retired—report that his wife had died from a freak heart attack. A couple of years ago, during an unrelated case that ended in dramatic fashion just north of the Marina Towers, Drexel learned the truth. And he knew then that he had never really believed the heart attack explanation. However, the grief of her loss had provided space for him to ignore his intuition. With this certainty that her death was a homicide, he began investigating his wife’s murder with the help of Ton, his brother Ryan, and Daniela. The trail was cold, so progress had been slow. But last year, a chance finding had found, perhaps, a new path.
For years, Zora had been a staff photographer at the Sun-Times—dying before the bloodletting at the paper dumped staff photographers. On her own, she pursued more artistic photographic endeavors. While routinely organized in life, Zora had been chaotic at best in tracking her artistic work. Drexel had inventoried it after her death, but many pieces remained unaccounted for. She had given a picture to a restaurant they had frequented, which turned out to be one of nine segments that made up a larger whole. It was a photograph of a building no longer in the Gold Coast. The one in the photograph was now demolished, and in its stead stood high-priced condos, whose construction was made easier by off-duty and corrupt police officers breaking into the old building’s apartments, vandalizing hallways, and other non-violent crime. He had even learned his mentor and ally, Victor, was listed along with other officers in a secret Internal Affairs police investigation as participating in the corruption. Buried deep in another report by the IA detective Andrew Slater, one resident witnessed a confrontation between one of the police officers under investigation and a female photographer. Attached to the copy of the report Daniela had obtained for him was a picture showing Victor shaking hands with Kevin Blair, part of a con artist couple. Kevin and his partner, Stephanie Stallworth, would bilk elderly widows or widowers of their fortunes. Their latest victim—Lucy Darlington—unwittingly supported Kevin’s purchasing and renovating properties. Funny thing was, the contractors stopped getting paid somewhere during the renovation.
But the photo of Victor and Kevin shaking hands. The statement about a confrontation in front of the building by an officer with badge number 308 (Victor’s) and a photograph outside a now demolished building days before Zora’s death gripped Drexel’s mind like a vise. The details were vague, but Drexel could not help leaping to conclusions, conclusions he wished he could shake away. He had yet to confront Victor about the information, fearing a false accusation or, worse, learning the truth. “I need your help, though. It’s about Zora.”
Ton nodded. Zora and he had been like brother and sister. “Name it partner.”
“What’s the status on Kevin Blair?” Drexel had asked Ton to keep an eye on the man by checking in on him occasionally.
“He’s still sucking Mrs. Darlington dry. I know of at least four houses—all two-flats in up and coming areas—where the contractors are, well, less than pleased.” Ton scratched the side of his chin. “I’m guessing he can go on like this for another year or so. He’s lucky the widow doesn’t have children left alive.” The son, Jerome, was killed in an Army training accident in the 80s. “I don’t think she cares anyway.” He sighed. “Where did Slater’s investigation lead?”
Drexel leaned back. “No where. When he retired, it was binned. I don’t know who shelved it or why. But that’s not uncommon, at least when it comes to investigating cops. Some other IA detective would need to clear space from their caseload. I’d love to talk to Slater, but he was killed a few months after he retired. Shot in a bodega. Wrong place. Wrong time. No one is going to pick up a shelved internal investigation of a now-dead, retired cop.”
Ton, a master conspiracist, raised an eyebrow and rubbed the back of his head. “Convenient that. Wrong time. Wrong place.”
Drexel shrugged. “I’m not sure I’m willing to go there yet.”
“Fine, but I do have this.” Ton pulled out his smartphone, tapped on the screen, and then flipped through items. When he found what he was looking for, he handed the phone to Drexel. I got this yesterday. Caught it on my Nikon with a 500 lens.”
The detective took the phone and looked at the photo of Victor and Kevin shaking hands. Victor was dressed in the clothes Drexel saw him in at work yesterday: gray suit, white shirt, blue tie. Kevin was wearing jeans and a light blue T-shirt. “So there’s still something going on?”
“Yeah. I haven’t figured out what yet. I think I should keep a closer eye on him.”
“Actually, that’s what I was thinking.”
Quinn walked out of the kitchen, the single door swinging closed behind him. He set a plate in front of Ton and another in front of Drexel and walked off.
Drexel lifted the top slice of marble-rye off his Reuben. Russian dressing instead of Thousand Island. He placed the slice back on and pressed down on the sandwich. Ton grabbed the ketchup bottle and squirted a pile of the condiment next to his fries. The double cheeseburger with bacon was his default choice. He looked up at Drexel. “Well, geez, I guess we want the old standbys today.” He lifted the sandwich up with both hands. “It’s Zora we’re talking about. I’ll do anything to help.”
***
Vickie’s parents lived in Pilsen, named after the Czech immigrants who pushed out the Germans, southwest of the Loop, in the Lower West Side. The Mexican population had displaced the Czechs in the ‘60s and ‘70s. Their two-story house with tan vinyl siding on Allport and 19th was across the street from Marion Mahony Griffin High School. A front bay window with white trim overlooked tall green shrubs and onto the front lawn. Drexel walked up the sidewalk and stopped at the black metal gated entrance.
The rain had stopped, leaving an unseasonably cool evening. The sky’s gray clouds showed no evidence of breaking. He pressed the button on the gated entrance. After what he thought seemed like a suitable wait, he rang again. He heard a shout, he thought, from the back. He pushed on the gate, and it gave way. He stepped off the raised concrete walkway that led to the house and down to the grass. He followed that along the side of the house.
“Back here,” came the voice.
Drexel walked up to a chain link fence, dulled by years of use. The fork latch and collar were rusted along the seams and where it had rubbed against the post for years. Decades.
“Come in,” said the man sitting in a chair. A small fire in a fire bowl burned bright. “Missy don’t bite.”
Drexel looked down at the ground on the inside of the fence. A small dog had run up and was looking up at him anxiously. He lifted the latch and quickly stepped in, closing the gate behind him. He knelt down and petted the dog, who tried to lick his hands. “Cute.” The dog ran over to the man and sat beside him.
“Yep, and she knows it. Missy’s her name.” The man paused. “My daughter—“ He rubbed his eye. “This isn’t a good time.”
Drexel pulled out his badge. “I know, and I’m v
ery sorry for your loss.” He gave his name and walked the fifteen feet to where the man was sitting.
“Hector.” He extended his hand.
The detective nodded. He noticed six bottles of Coors Light next to the chair. All opened and five on their side. The man wore blue jeans and sandals. His short sleeve button up shirt was open at the top, where a silver chain and dog-tags hung. His short, thick hair had specks of gray.
“Did you arrest that fucking bastard yet?”
Drexel gestured to the lawn chair next to Hector, who nodded. The detective sat down and held his hands together. “Who’re you talking about?”
Hector snorted, picked up the still standing bottle of beer, and took a drink. “Her fucking husband. Hank.” He shook his head. “She should’ve left him long ago. I don’t know why, but she loved him. Loved that prick.” He finished off the beer. “I can’t believe Sabeen—she’s my wife—is over there helping him pick out a coffin.” A silence washed over him.
Drexel could tell Hector was crying, the firelight catching the shining rivulets of tears from his eyes down his face.
“We found out a few months ago what Hank was. If he hadn’t been out of town at the time, I would’ve killed him. And I know what I’m saying to you. But I would’ve and I wouldn’t’ve regretted it. I regret not killing him.” He twisted the bottle between his two hands. “I think she was getting ready to leave him.”
“Did she say something to you?”
“No. But it was the way she acted. Look, before she met him, she was a risk-taker. Bold and loud. Sometimes it got her into trouble, but she let no one—” he closed his mouth and pulled in his lips and he raised a finger and shook it, “no one—rule her life. Then she meets Hank. And within a few months it’s like she’s a different person. She still took risks in cooking, but she—she somehow lost her oomph, her independence.” He dropped the bottle. “Fuck. I thought she was in love. I know the stupid shit I did when I met Sabeen. But then a few weeks after, we’re having a cookout here. He was here. And soon after they got married she had told me the only way she would visit is if he came. We talked about it. Debated it. And—in the end—we wanted to see our daughter so we tolerated him. So they’re here. And she’s different. A bit of the old V was back. She wasn’t taking shit. She wasn’t backing down to him. I could see a change.” He rubbed his eyes and then his nose. “I don’t know. Maybe I was hoping she was going to dump him.”
Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3) Page 4