Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3)

by Patrick Kanouse

  After a while, Ryan yawned and stretched his arms. They said their good nights, and Drexel followed Hart into his bedroom. He pulled up the battered copy of Montaigne from the nightstand. He read a few paragraphs from the essay titled, “That the taste of good and evil things depends in large part on the opinion we have of them.” He let the book lay on his chest as he fell asleep, the lamp glowing bright.

  Chapter 11

  Over a breakfast of strawberry pop-tarts and French roast coffee, Ryan talked his brother into going to O’Hare to greet Lily and Wayne, who were arriving on an early morning flight from Seattle. They kept silent on their dislike of their brother-in-law. They had never discussed it but knew they shared the same feelings. When their sister had met Wayne after moving to Seattle, all seemed great. But Wayne’s gauche behavior and rudeness slowly embittered the relationships, which Ryan’s past addiction did not help. After an evening when a drunk Wayne insulted Zora and Ton, the breach had seemed final. Small improvements since then, but Drexel knew that so long as Wayne was in the picture, his relationship with Lily was only going to improve so much.

  Ryan drove them to the airport in his Plumber Savior van, grabbing from the passenger seat copies of Sports Illustrated and tossing them behind the driver’s seat. The Kennedy Expressway was slow going but faster than those taking it east into the heart of the city. They left the van in short-term parking and waited in the baggage claim area for their sister’s United flight. Drexel saw Wayne first, yawning and scratching his chest while pulling a rolling small, black suitcase behind him. Drexel was always surprised to see doctors in this day and age who sported a beer gut, but Wayne had such a paunch, though not extreme. He had a full head of light brown hair parted on the left.

  He slowed and turned around at which time Lily came into view. Dressed in black slacks, a white polka-dotted black blouse, her hair was pulled back severely into a ponytail. She wore short, black heels, though Drexel guessed she had a pair of slip-on gym shoes in her large Louis Vuitton brown checkered bag. She carried a large cup of Starbucks in her left hand.

  Ryan raised his hand and waved. Wayne noticed, leaned over, and spoke to Lily. Both raised their hands and smiled. They all embraced among hellos and good-to-see-yous. As they waited for the luggage to arrive, they covered the flight. Uneventful.

  “Why the early morning flight?” Drexel asked his sister.

  Wayne said, “She had meetings yesterday.”

  “Important meetings.” She frowned at her husband and then turned and smiled at Ryan. As they walked to the exit with the Louis Vuitton luggage in tow, they arranged to meet for dinner. Lily and Wayne were staying at the Peninsula downtown, with him emphasizing the suite they were expecting. Ryan wanted to walk with them to the rental agency, and Drexel decided to take the L to the station.

  He left them waiting for the bus and rode the crowded train back into the heart of the city.

  ***

  The Homicide squad room was abuzz. Naresh informed him about the triple homicide and the two other homicides overnight. He ended stating he hated the July Fourth holiday. Chicago had made headlines during the past few years for the spike in murders during the holiday. Cops and city leaders across the city prayed for storms, though with little answer from above. In 2014, over a long holiday weekend, 82 people were shot and 14 killed. The dreary tragedy of life in a city with too many people willing to use their guns to settle disputes, wrongs, slights, and pure selfishness.

  The holiday killing spree had just begun.

  Drexel did not bother to unpack his desk. Instead, he pulled up one of the chairs nearby and pulled out the book on Vickie Lopez to prepare for the interview with Alex, her sous chef. As he was reviewing it, the elevator door opened and in walked Commander Carl Sobieski, followed by Victor. Sobieski was an over-the-top, brash, arrogant product of the managerial, bureaucratic strand of the CPD—despised for their inability to completely understand the very nature of the work as they focused on clearance rates, arrest numbers, and so on. Feared because they seemed to have the backing of the all the upper brass. They could and did end careers.

  Beyond that, Carl and Drexel had a past, and not a good one. Carl bristled under Drexel’s leadership when they patrolled the streets. Once Carl’s famous father, who absconded from police work to advise Hollywood about policing, cleared the path for him to leap senior officers and lead them, Carl had used his influence to try to get back at Drexel. Only the union and Victor had protected the detective. Carl had leverage on Drexel as well, one he used to ensure Drexel stayed in line. The commander used it to cover his mistakes and ensure Drexel received the brunt of management’s ire for them. Ryan was the leverage. Carl claimed to have evidence he could use to convict Ryan of murder. Drexel’s brother had been arrested with two drug dealers. Those two dealers were arrested for a murder. The commander held the evidence at the ready. Whether true or not, Drexel could not take the gamble.

  Carl was corrupt, but not criminally so. He used his power to intimidate and promote himself. He would even bend the rules to ensure confessions and arrests, but he was fundamentally a law-abiding citizen and a sleazy snake of bureaucracy. Victor, on the other hand, was truly corrupt if the IA reports were accurate. A criminal himself.

  The commander wore his dress blues like a banana-republic dictator. He held his peaked cap with its black-and-white sillitoe tartan between his right arm and body. He wore numerous medals on the upper left of his coat. The dark blue and gold Police Medal; the dark blue and white Superintendent’s Award of Merit; the blue, white, and red Bureau of Patrol; the gold bar Patrol Officer of the Month; the dark blue and light blue Attendance Recognition; the 2004 and 2009 Crime Reduction Awards; and the Appearance award.

  Carl swooped his black hair from his forehead back in a wave and kept it in place with some shiny mousse. His double-chin was a sore spot for him, but the black tie and primness of the Class A uniform accentuated it. The black shoes shined in the fluorescents. Drexel shook his head seeing that he wore the damned white gloves.

  “Attention everyone.” Carl said. But his voice did not carry over the din of noise. So he had to shout. “Everyone. Attention.” The detectives immediately in front of him turned and noticed, and the talking and walking and shuffling of papers and boxes and files stopped like the first wave from a pebble thrown into the water. “Thank you.” He stood straighter. “Last night was not a good night for this city. And expectations are that tonight will be worse and tomorrow will be, well worse than today. We’ll get our share of bodies. North and South will get their share as well. Let’s show those divisions by clearing what comes our way faster than they do.” He nodded once, pulled on his hat, and started to turn. He stopped and said, “And God bless America.” But the words were lost in the rising tide of noise as the unit got back to the business of solving crime.

  Victor nodded at his boss, watched him leave, and then turned to his own office. He glanced at Drexel in the threshold and nodded.

  Drexel turned back to the case file. A search done by Daniela had turned up little information on Alexander Conti, born April 4, 1981 in Boulder, Colorado. Lived at an apartment in Kilbourn Park. No arrest record. Drexel was not sure what he expected from Alex other than confirmation of the front of house manager’s statements regarding timing. Looking at his phone, he had about thirty minutes until Alex arrived, so he occupied the time updating his official reports, saving copies on the network, and printing copies for the file.

  The watch sergeant called from the first floor desk that Alex had arrived. Drexel hoofed it down the stairs and escorted the sous chef back upstairs via the elevator. Alex carried his lanky frame awkwardly, hands swinging wide along with swaying right and left. His hands and feet seemed too large for his height, about six foot. His dark brown hair was pulled back and tied in a small bun at the back of his head. His dark blue jeans and light blue, cotton v-necked T-shirt looked freshly washed—crisp
, unwrinkled.

  Other than stating his name, he was quiet for the ride and walk to the interview room.

  Drexel offered him coffee or water, left him in the interview room, and came back with a bottle of water, which he set on the table between them. “Sorry to have you come in under these circumstances.” He pulled out his notebook and opened it to the first blank page. He pulled a pen from his inside coat pocket and frowned at Alex. “But thank you. I want to hear from you about the last day you saw your boss.”

  Alex breathed in deep, held it, and let it out between the circle of his lips. “She was also a friend. This is just awful. Just awful.” He looked away, out through the windows looking down on Congress Parkway. His lower lip trembled. “She was an amazing woman. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  Drexel sensed Alex had more to tell beyond confirming Esme’s telling of events, but he knew to let him talk. People want to talk, and they will say a lot if you let them.

  The sous chef looked back at Drexel. “It was a normal day. I got there early, which is, uh, around one. Started the day’s prep work. Chef was already there. We went over the menu for the night. A couple of changes. Dinner service was really busy. Prepped the brioche for the next day’s service. Worked on cleaning up. Said goodnight to her and walked out with Esme.” He pulled his cheeks down with this right hand, held the skin beneath his chin, and let it go. “I know you guys figure everything out eventually.”

  Drexel could hear Alex tapping his heel on the floor.

  Alex continued, “So I’m just going to say it. V and I had a thing occasionally.”

  “To be clear, sex?”

  “Yeah. Nothing serious. First time happened a few weeks after I started. And a few more times since.” He looked at Drexel, who nodded slightly. “I knew she was married. Knew we shouldn’t be doing it. But her husband was an ass. I’m sure you’ve talked to him. I think he hurt V. I know she wasn’t happy except when she was at the restaurant. Maybe I was her escape.”

  “What was she to you?”

  His jaw clinched and he rolled his lips. “An inspiration.” His eyes moistened. “She was an amazing woman. A brilliant chef. Someone I was learning from. She was tough, you know. She demanded a lot from her staff, but she wasn’t ever mean about it. And I’ve worked with some real jerks in the kitchen. But there was always this sense of tragedy around her. Like she had some bad luck in life and it scarred her. I wasn’t sure she’d ever be happy. Truly happy. You know, content with life.”

  “So you and Esme left together that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And where did you go?”

  “Home. Straight home. Collapsed in bed.”

  “Anyone I can verify that with?”

  Alex shook his head. “I didn’t do it. I know you’re thinking I could. That’s why I told you about the affair. And I was her sous chef. Learning from her meant I could open my own restaurant some day. And, like I said, she was good to work for. Now I have to find a job with someone else. Probably a jerk like Hussain.”

  “Okay. David Hussain? Her mentor?”

  “Oh, she adored him. Idolized him, but I’ve talked to people, V included, who worked in his kitchen. He yells and screams and throws things.”

  Drexel noted to follow up with some employees—current and former—of Hussain’s. “Did you ever meet Vickie’s husband?”

  “Hank, right?”

  Drexel nodded.

  “Once.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “It was at the restaurant. Let’s see, I think it was in March or April. Before we opened for service. So late afternoon. He had a key to the place, so he came in. We were in the kitchen…I don’t know, going over something about that evening’s plating probably. Anyways, he sees us. Now, the kitchen’s not big. You’ve seen it. Pack in a few people and it’s worse. But this Hank guy—and he had one of his friends with him. Don’t know what his name is, but he always seemed to be around when Hank was. Anyway, Hank sees us through the spaces below the shelves and across the stoves. Before the affair too. But her husband acts like we’re doing it right there. The guy shouts across the kitchen, ‘Get away from her.’ I’m shocked. But then, V just withers. I’d only ever known her as strong. And Hank appears, and she shrinks into herself. I’d never seen anything like it.” He rubbed his chin. “He comes over and grabs her by the arm. Rough too, not light like. And they disappear up the stairs. I didn’t hear a thing, but I’d say fifteen minutes later he comes down on his own. Big smile on his face. He walks over to me and says he’s sorry. He’s a jealous sort. Look at her. Grabs his crotch and shakes it. Says he’s all better now and then pats me on the shoulder. Says, ‘You understand, right?’ And then he’s out of there. V comes back down a bit later, back to herself. And she continues the discussion as if nothing happened.”

  “Did you bring it up?”

  Alex nodded a few times. “I did. Once.” He shrugged. “She brushed it off. Said he’d had a bad day at work or something. I asked her if that’s why she always wore long sleeves. And she didn’t ask what I meant. She grabbed her arms, looked at me, and said no. But I hit a nerve.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You can just tell.”

  Drexel cracked his right index finger knuckle. “How long were you two sleeping together?”

  “So it began in April—”

  “After Hank’s visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “April until mid June. And it’s stretching to call it a relationship. Anyway, she cut it off. Told me she was trying to hurt Hank but all she was doing was hurting herself.”

  “Did that upset you? Did her only wanting sex and no relationship bother you?”

  Alex bobbed his head back and forth and looked up at the ceiling. “Yeah, it did. More about the sex ending than the no relationship. But even then, I wasn’t upset about the sex ending. I was upset that she cut me off. That I had seen something, and she didn’t like it.”

  “What do you mean that you ‘had seen something’?”

  “I felt like I got to know her beyond being a celebrity chef. We talked about our dreams beyond the restaurant and cooking. She was vulnerable. It’s when I brought up Hank hurting her that she ended our relationship. ”

  Drexel leaned back and used the butt end of the pen to scratch behind his ear. “Did you know she did drugs?”

  Alex opened the water and took a drink and then another. Holding the bottle, he said, “I suspected, but I didn’t know. One hundred percent know. Lots of chefs take Adderall. Long days and nights. Pretty constant. I’d seen it before. Done it a couple of times myself. She seems like she’s about to fall over she’s so exhausted. Heads upstairs. Comes back down a few minutes later and it’s like she had the sleep of the gods.” He shrugged with his head.

  “Did you ever see any one you thought might be her dealer, her source?”

  He shook his head. “But then when I’m in the kitchen, I’m usually not focused on who’s coming in and out by the back.”

  “What about stalkers?”

  “There was this guy. He’d lurk around sometimes. Not sure I would’ve called him a stalker.” Alex shook his head. “I probably should’ve called you guys.”

  “What did this guy look like?”

  “Young. I’m not sure he’s old enough to drink. Kind of sandy blond hair. About your height. Had a beard.”

  “What kind of beard?”

  “A normal one?”

  “Thick? Long?”

  “No. Like a kid who wants to grow a beard.”

  Drexel thought he sounded like the guy he chased. “Tell me about him.”

  “Saw him lurking a few times. In the alley, across the street. I saw him a couple of times when I left the restaurant. I pretended to leave but then came back and kept an eye on h
im. Each time he left.”

  “Did Vickie know about him?”

  “I think so, yeah. It was weird. I brought it up. I asked her if she knew she had a stalker. She said that was the least of her problems. She said she could handle a stalker. It was the other men in her life she was scared of.”

  Chapter 12

  Drexel found Adam Thompson’s address from the notes. He owned a condo on the corner of Wrightwood and Southport Avenues in Lincoln Park. Drexel considered calling but decided showing up would give Adam the seeming comfort of his own home. The conversation should be quick, all told.

  He hopped the Brown Line and got off at Diversey. The July sun was still bearing down on the city, though its brutality had diminished. The same could not be said for the humidity, however—still oppressive, like walking into plastic wrap.

  Adam’s condo was in a three-story, red brick building. Limestone door archways and window casings and decorative knobs between the floors evoked an earlier Chicago, but the building lacked the distinguishing characteristics of age—the fuzziness of decades of grime and auto exhaust and life lived. The building was too perfect and too fresh to be anything but built in the past decade.

  He rang the buzzer for Adam’s condo. No answer. He looked at his watch. Not yet five. Since he did not know how Adam earned a living, Drexel was unsure where to go to talk to him or when Adam would show up at home. As he contemplated what to do, the black iron front gate with a brass door handle clicked and swung open. A man in his sixties, maybe seventies stepped through. He looked up at Drexel and paused.