“You said you only recently realized what Hank was.”
“I never liked him. Always seemed a bit off to me. I just didn’t know why. Didn’t know he was capable of—of.” Hector bit his lower lip.
The back door to the house opened, and a woman appeared. Missy leapt up and ran to the steps. The woman bent down and grabbed the dog between her hands and petted her. She walked down the three steps and stood by Hector, her arm around his shoulders. She was dressed in slacks and a short-sleeved orange blouse, with black polka-dots on it. Her hair was cut short, with long bangs that arched from the left to the right. Drexel stood up and extended his hand. “Mrs. Lopez?”
“Sabeen.” She shook his hand.
“I’m very sorry for your loss.”
She nodded once. She rubbed her husband’s back. “It’s taken care of. When the police are able to release our daughter, we have the arrangements.” Her English was good, but she retained a noticeable accent. If Drexel had to guess, she was from the Middle East somewhere.
Hector nodded. “I was telling him about Hank. I don’t know how you did that. How you planned our daughter’s funeral with her killer.”
She leaned her head back and looked at the sky. Looking back down at her husband, she said, “I didn’t want him making all the decisions. I did it for her.”
Chapter 6
Hector tossed a log onto the fire, sending sparks cascading up and out. If it had been a normal July evening, the heat would have been unpleasant, but with the cooler temperature, Drexel rather liked the crackle and warmth.
“What did you think of Vickie’s husband?” he asked.
Sabeen looked at him and sniffed. “I think he killed her.”
“You don’t think she did this to herself?”
Hector stood up. “If she did—and I don’t think she did—he drove her to it.” He swung his arm into the air, grunting his frustration to the sky.
Sabeen patted him on the back and turned to Drexel. “You don’t think she killed herself, do you?”
“No.” Drexel scratched his cheek. “No, I don’t. It was made to look like it.”
“Then arrest the pinche pendejo,” said Hector, his hands balled into fists so tight the knuckles turned white.
Drexel had heard the curse before, though he did not really know quite what it meant. He did not need to, though. The message was clear. “Did your daughter mention anything specific recently? I know you thought she was going to leave him, but did she say that?”
Hector shook his head.
Sabeen said, “She told me about a week ago. Said that with Fling open she had the courage and means to leave him.”
“What do you mean by ‘means’?”
“She was dependent on him for a number of years as she worked her way up through the ranks. She started at The Village Eatery. She did that for a year before moving to Hussain’s. And she worked long hours for not a lot of money. Hank earned the money then.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an accountant for Lippel, Seal, and Dalton.” She sat down where Hector had been sitting. “I think he audits businesses. Anyways, he made the money to support both of them. For a while at least.”
“But when,” Hector shoved his hands into his pockets and looked at the fire, “she won that money from that show—”
“America’s Next Great Chef?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Five-hundred thousand,” said Sabeen.
“Yeah. And that gave her some freedom. Didn’t stop him from fucking buying—”
“Language, dear.”
Hector waved dismissively at her. “Didn’t stop him from buying a pinche car.”
“Stop it.” She gave him a hard stare.
He held up both hands in surrender. “Sorry. I’m just—”
Sabeen nodded.
“Anyways, he went and bought that car.”
Sabeen looked at her husband and then seemed to remember.
“Oh, that car. What is it?”
“A Bentley.”
Hector snapped his fingers. “That’s it.” Looking back at Drexel, “That baboso bought a car—an expensive one—instead of her using it for Fling. I think that got her thinking.” He tapped his finger against his temple. “He must of found out.”
Drexel nodded and wrote his notes. Different lines of questioning were available to him and he was not sure which, if any, would bear fruit. “Was she planning on leaving in secret?”
Sabeen said, “Yes. She was terrified of him.” She brushed away tears. “My baby was so scared.” She could not hold back the sobs. “And I didn’t even know until she couldn’t hide the beating. I didn’t help her.” She put her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t even know.”
Hector embraced his wife. “We did what we could.”
Drexel decided to leave them be for now. He told them he would follow up with them if he had more questions and left his business card if they needed to reach out. He closed the gate to the two embracing each other and Missy sitting, looking up at him, tail wagging.
***
Drexel’s apartment, the one he had shared with Zora and now shared with his brother, Ryan, was on the third floor of a six-story building in the Ukrainian Village. He and Zora had moved there when he walked the 1212 beat. They both loved the hum of the city. After she died, Drexel moved out of their master bedroom to the smaller bedroom next to it, leaving their shared space as storage for her numerous canvas versions of her photography. He only opened it and organized it all when Ryan moved in after being used as a hostage in an investigation. There was nothing special about the apartment except for it being the apartment he had shared with his wife, which made it beyond precious.
After closing the front door, Drexel turned on the light to the kitchenette. Hart, a gray cat, pranced out from the bedroom, and rubbed his body between Drexel’s legs, purring. He reached down and picked the cat up, petting it behind the ears. He pulled out a Bell’s Kalamazoo Stout, pried the cap off, and took a drink. Before leaving the kitchenette, he refreshed Hart’s water and food bowls. He set the bottle down on the coffee table and then locked up his Glock in the gun safe in his bedroom. He loosened the tie at his neck and hung it up with all the other ties before retiring to the living room and the couch.
Ryan must be out, he thought. Probably another date with another woman Drexel would never meet. Ryan made snap decisions, and if the first date was not to his liking, then a second date was off the table.
Hart jumped on the back of the couch and walked along its edge. Drexel let his mind go back to the murder of Vickie Lopez. He fought the urge to not assume her husband was guilty, but he admitted to himself it was difficult. He got up and grabbed the messenger bag off the counter and sat back down. Pulling out his notebook, he looked up the number for Hank’s friend, Adam Thompson. He dialed Adam’s number, which bounced immediately to voice mail. He hung up before leaving a message. If Adam alibied Hank, the scope of the investigation would broaden. One aspect of the crime did suggest to Drexel that Hank was not the killer—the lack of rage. He had seen enough domestic abuse victims killed by their husbands or boyfriends to know that rage often dominated the attack. Multiple stab wounds. Gunshots beyond the requirement for death. Blood. As in everything, exceptions did occur. What he did know was that none had ever attempted to mislead the investigators by posing it as a suicide. But another exception could always find a place.
He finished off the beer and grabbed another.
The drugs in her drawer. He pulled up the image of the Ziploc bag. A small amount. Nothing a dealer would worry about. Perhaps she owed?
The lock turned, the door opened, and in walked Ryan. He stopped when he saw Drexel.
Drexel raised his beer. “Well, if that’s not the smile of a man who’s gotten laid, I don’t kno
w what is.”
His brother blushed and walked into the kitchen to grab himself a beer, Hart meeting him there. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“And I thought chivalry was dead.”
Ryan grunted and flopped down on the couch beside him. He raised his bottle. Drexel tapped it with his. They drank.
“So,” said Drexel, “it went good.”
Ryan shrugged. “You ready for Lily and Wayne to come into town.”
Drexel had shoved it to the back of his mind. Lily, their younger sister, lived in Seattle with her husband, Wayne. The brother-in-law was not a popular figure. Zora and Ton both despised him. Lily was a corporate lawyer. When those two came to town, Drexel ended up paying a fortune for eating out and entertainment, making big dents in his cop’s salary—something Lily seemed oblivious to. And Wayne was a grade-A asshole according to Ton. Decent to Lily but rude, obnoxious, and a know-it-all. The last time Zora, Drexel, Lily, and Wayne were together, it had ended in an argument, one that did permanent damage to Lily’s and Drexel’s relationship. Zora’s death a few months later did nothing to decrease the tension. Only Ryan’s kidnapping had begun to heal the wounds. Drexel lifted his beer. “Sure. I’m ready.” He took a drink. “Another conference?”
“You spaced it, didn’t you?” Ryan winked at him. “Yeah, he’s got another conference. They’re flying in on the third. Flying out on the seventh. Coming early to spend the fourth with us, she said.”
“Sure, fireworks over the Lake. Ruin the Cubs game for us.”
Ryan looked at him. “What?”
Drexel reached into the messenger bag and pulled out the tickets Naresh had left for him. “I took his call and it cost him these.”
His brother grabbed them and looked at them, splaying out the four tickets like cards. “Shit. These are on the first-base line.” He looked over at Drexel and raised his right eyebrow. “You and me?”
“Yes. You and me. And I thought it would be Ton and your latest gal, but I guess Lily and Wayne are the beneficiaries.”
“Damn. I haven’t seen a game at Wrigley in years.” As an afterthought, “And they’re good this year.”
They finished their drinks while reminiscing about their father and the Cubs and the long-dark years of poor teams with occasional glimmers of hope. Drexel called it a night first, retiring to his bedroom. He brushed his teeth and undressed to his underpants. With the nightstand light on, he opened his thick copy of Montaigne’s Essays—the only book he read, and that because Zora insisted he do so. The medieval Frenchman’s essays were philosophy boiled down into anecdotes and musings. One could try to live a life according to his instructions. Honesty. Strength. And accepting that bad things happen.
Chapter 7
At his desk the next morning at the station, Drexel set down his extra-large Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with five packets of sugar and a generous helping of creamer. He flopped down in the chair, leaned back, and shook the mouse to wake the computer up. He unwrapped the bacon, egg, and cheese bagel, leaving it on the paper wrapper. He pulled out his phone and called Esme.
“Hello?” she answered.
“This is Esme Ortega, right?”
“Yes.”
“This is Detective Drexel Pierce. We spoke yesterday.”
“Oh yes.” Her voice seemed to relax.
“I had a follow up question for you. Simple one. Did you close and lock the back door to Fling?”
“No. Alex would’ve done that.”
“Okay. Thank you. I’ll ask him.”
“Do you think he forgot to lock the door?”
Drexel wondered if it was locked but one of the patrol officers had unlocked it. He said, “Just making sure I cover everything. Standard procedure.” He entertained a couple of her questions about the status of the case and then politely said goodbye before hanging up.
He turned to his computer and began logging in. The elevator door opened and a patrol officer escorted in a short, blond-haired woman dressed in red slacks with a blue blazer and light blue blouse with a lacy edging along the collar. The cop pointed at Drexel, looked at the woman, and then nodded. Drexel stood up, tugging his pants up, and smiled at the now advancing woman.
“So you’re the one investigating Vickie’s murder?” she said.
Drexel nodded and extended his hand. “Detective Drexel Pierce.”
She shook it once and looked for a chair to sit in. “Tammy Oliver.”
He held up a finger, walked over to Kendall Starling’s nearby desk, and rolled her chair over to Tammy, who sat down.
“How can I assist you Ms. Oliver?”
“Call me Tammy. I want to know when you’re going to arrest that son-of-bitch Hank.”
He opened the case notebook and popped the top off a black, Bic pen. “Why should I be arresting him?”
Her mouth opened and her eyes showed something close to shock. “Excuse me?” She pulled her head back. “Because he killed my friend.” The anger in her voice was undercut by her attempts to suppress her crying. “He killed her.” Her bottom lip quivered in the left corner.
“What do you know of their relationship?”
She huffed. A tear appeared in the corner of her eye.
He pulled out a box of tissue from his drawer and put it on the desk.
She grabbed one and dabbed it at her eye. “He beat her. I know you’ve seen the photos. You had to.”
He nodded.
“And she didn’t always call the police. Sometimes she called me. I talked to her, tried to get her to leave him. She said he’d find her, that she couldn’t escape him. But there were ways. She didn’t have to live like that. No one should have to live like that. And then finally, she gets up the courage to think about leaving him and this.”
“Take me back before. What was she like? How long have you known her?”
She took a deep breath, her mouth forming a small O as she exhaled. “I met her at the White Apron Academy about six years ago.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s a school for wannabe chefs.”
“You’re a chef?”
“I loved cooking. I thought it’s what I wanted to do, but I couldn’t take the kitchen work. Abusive or surly chefs. The hours. The shit pay as you try to climb to the top.” She pushed a bang from the top of her eyebrow. “I didn’t have the passion to do it. Vickie, on the other hand, she found it there. I thought I wanted to be a chef and found out I just liked to cook. She went in hoping to get the skills for a job and found her passion. Hence, she stuck with it.”
“And you do what now?”
“I’m a project manager with Hinkle Software.” She noticed his quizzical look and continued, “Anyway, that’s where she and I met. Not Hinkle. At White Apron.”
“What was she like?”
She looked away and then back. “What’re you supposed to say to that? That she was wonderful and caring and the most amazing daughter, friend, and wife?”
He liked her more for saying that. While death was the inescapable truth, the adulations and memorials for the dead were often the greatest falsehoods. “You tell the truth.” Drexel sat up in the chair and put the notebook on the desk. “You save that other stuff for the family. For your memories.”
“Well, she was great. She was a great chef and she devoted herself to it. I learned long ago, one lived by Vickie’s schedule, not yours. But she could be ruthless. I don’t know, maybe that’s what made her a great chef—a willingness to forget about other people and their needs or wants.”
“So she was a bit of a one-way friend?”
Tammy let out a single chuckle. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put to it. She was ambitious. Fling was everything she wanted. It was her dream.” She shook her head. “And she worked her ass off for it.”
“So when did Vickie and
Hank meet? What’s the story there?”
“They met at some party she was helping to cater. I think it was when she had moved from The Village Eatery to Hussain’s. It was actually a party that Hank’s friend, um, Adam, was having. And Hank was there. They met. Sparks flew. In six weeks she was talking about marrying him. In three months they were engaged.”
“That’s fast. What did you think of him?”
“Have you seen him?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “He’s so handsome. He was charming. I liked him. I thought he was great. But then—and I remember this so clearly—before they got married, we were out with them for dinner one night. My boyfriend at the time was Michael. Anyways, we’re at Ermo’s in Lincoln Park. Vickie got up to use the restroom while we were waiting for the espressos. When she came back, Hank leaned over to her, grabbed her by the arm. He didn’t say it loud, but it was loud enough for me to hear. ‘What did you say to him?’ She shook her head. ‘You want to fuck him, don’t you?’ She said don’t be silly. But there was something about her voice. I knew she was scared.” She shook her head. “I saw other incidents like that. I tried to talk to her, but she’d say it was no big deal, that he was a bit jealous. But it was more than that. He’d text her all the time. Horrible texts. Texts I can’t believe. Have you seen those?”
Drexel shook his head. “I will soon enough. I’ve got a court order to get her phone logs, including texts.” He presumed his warrants went through. “Do you have some examples?”
Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3) Page 5