Drexel had finally told his boss, before he learned of Victor’s potential corruption, about Carl Sobieski’s threats against Ryan, about him having evidence of participating in a murder. Drexel could not obtain the evidence Carl had except by extralegal methods—a path he had pursued with Ton and Daniela with little result—but Victor had volunteered to assist. “You do?” He pulled the glass toward him and lifted it. He breathed in the bouquet and then took a sip. Black Label was Victor’s every day whisky.
“Yup. One of the guys, a long-timer, pulls evidence files all the time for Carl. Stupid shit, you know. Probably doesn’t ever bother to open them but wants to make sure he looks like a cop. Anyways, I busted him—the long-timer—the other day with some weed. So I got leverage. I can have this guy copy the files on your brother.”
Drexel poured the rest of the whisky down his throat. He very much wanted to look at those files. “Okay. Even if there’s nothing there, though, Carl may have it hidden elsewhere. But I’ll take them. What do I owe you?” He set the glass on the desk.
Victor frowned. He drained his glass of whisky. “Don’t fucking insult me Pierce. I don’t want anything. I only asked you in here to see if you actually wanted me to go through with it. No turning back. Could come back and bite us both.”
His boss was right. If Carl found out, he would push immediately for both to be fired—and with cause. And Victor had leverage he could only burn once. If he had this cop make copies, Victor would never be able to ask him for anything else. The risk was too great Carl would find out.
Drexel pursed his lips. “Yes.” But his voice was low, barely audible. “Yes, yes, I want to see them.”
Victor nodded. He poured a less generous splash of Black Label in each glass. “Slàinte.”
The detective picked up his glass and raised it. “Slàinte.” Both men downed the whisky. Drexel stood up and walked to the door.
“What’s wrong?” asked Victor.
Drexel turned, his hand still on the door knob. “What do you mean?”
Victor shook his head and let out a heavy breath. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but the past few weeks—months even—you’ve been acting like you’re angry with me. You’ve been wanting this so-called evidence Carl has for a long time. Yet you don’t seem at all happy about it.”
“I’m not angry.” He pulled open the door a few inches and realized his reply would not be enough. He frowned. “It’s been tough recently. All this stuff with my brother being around. Stirred up the past, and you know I like to keep that buried. Genetic trait. That’s all.” He felt like he over did it.
If he did, Victor did not seem phased. “Okay. Fine. I’ll let you know when I have the copy.”
Drexel nodded once and left the office, closing the door behind him.
***
As Drexel sat down, Daniela walked up to the desk. “Got the financials and the texts, boss.”
He looked at her, trying to catch up.
She smiled. “I think you need some caffeine.”
He smiled back. “That’s a scientifically verifiable statement.” He stood up and walked with her to the kitchenette, where he poured himself a mug of coffee. In an effort to replace Styrofoam cups, the department had provided a dozen Chicago Police Department mugs. Four of them sat half filled with cold coffee in the sink. He turned on the hot water and picked one of the mugs up. He waited a good long while for the water to heat up before he washed the mug with the dish soap on the counter. After drying it off, he stuck it to his nose and sniffed. Unable to detect any soapy odor, he filled the mug and added cream and sugar. As he turned to walk back to the desk, he saw Daniela leaning against a wall shaking her head. “What?” he asked.
“Oh, mine’s just a lot easier.” She held up a can of Monster energy drink.
“Yeah yeah.” He walked back to his desk.
Daniela followed. She pulled up a chair from the desk across from his and sat down next to it. “Where do you want to start?”
“The texts.”
She nodded. “Open the file in your email that says ‘Texts.’”
He clicked it open and they both began to read. One chain:
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Where are you?
Time: 01/10/2017 19:01:58 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Where did u go for lunch?
Time: 01/10/2017 19:02:03 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Call me.
Time: 01/10/2017 19:02:05 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Now.
Time: 01/10/2017 19:02:07 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Now.
Time: 01/10/2017 19:02:09 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Are u with Alex?
Time: 01/10/2017 19:02:20 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Call me.
Time: 01/10/2017 19:02:30 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: I’ve been working.
Time: 01/10/2017 20:13:02 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: My phone was off.
Time: 01/10/2017 20:13:40 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: Sorry.
Time: 01/10/2017 20:13:48 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Bullshit.
Time: 01/10/2017 20:13:50 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: I’m calling now love.
Time: 01/10/2017 20:13:58 UTC (Device)
Another exchange:
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: U never loved me.
Time: 05/13/2017 23:24:01 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: U just want to fuck around and use me.
Time: 05/13/2017 23:24:10 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: I love you. I love you. I chose to be with you. And I’ve never cheated. I’d never do anything to hurt you.
Time: 05/13/2017 23:24:57 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: I saw how u were with him
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:03 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: The way u hung on his every word. The way u looked at him.
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:11 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: U were wet for him weren’t you
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:18 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: I’m sorry I upset you. I didn’t mean to.
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:22 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: I don’t even remember talking to him
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:33 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text
: I love you.
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:40 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Incoming
Text: Lies!!!!!!!! U might as well be a hooker the way you hit on guys
Time: 05/13/2017 23:25:58 UTC (Device)
Application: Messenging
Direction: Outgoing
Text: I’m sorry. I don’t hit on other guys. Really
Time: 05/13/2017 23:26:08 UTC (Device)
Drexel leaned back. “Shit.”
Daniela shook her head. “There’s tons more. He sent hundreds of texts a day.”
Drexel scanned through the list. Hank sent Vickie texts all the time. Constantly checking on where she was at and who she was with. Texts pleading for calls or responses. Queries to when she would be home. Calling Vickie prostitute, hooker, whore, slut, and easy. In Hank’s mind, every man his wife encountered was someone she wanted to “fuck” or “give herself to him like a slut.”
And Vickie responded often quickly and apologizing or trying to explain. She sought to soothe his ego and bolster him. But these efforts often backfired into accusations of lies and trying to cover up her liaisons. Hank’s texts were a relentless attack on Vickie’s character, motives, looks, and background.
“I can’t read anymore right now.” Drexel shook his head and closed the text. “I’ll get back to it. Let’s look at Fling’s financials for now.”
Daniela told him which file in his email to open. She had already looked it over and provided commentary as they moved along. Fling was in the red, but it was because of the money needed to start the business up. Vickie used $100,000—part of her America’s Next Great Chef winnings—as the initial seed money. The First Great Lakes Bank of Aurora provided another $200,000. Adam Thompson provided $10,000. Chicago Investment Capitalization provided $150,000. A grand total of $460,000. And until the restaurant opened, it burned through cash related to construction and renovations. The restaurant had $74,237 in cash on hand when the restaurant opened, which gave Fling about a four-month cushion should not one customer walk through the door. Fling had opened to success, however, and stemmed the tide from having to dip into the cash reserves. After three months, the cash reserves sat at $62,198—83% of the starting cash. Drexel had to think that was good.
Daniela leaned back in the chair. “So Fling could accommodate 50 guests. In the business plan she submitted to First Great Lakes Bank, to break even, she needed 200 covers a week, each spending an average of $120.” She flipped through the pages. “Looks like she hit that most weeks since they’ve opened. She had been conservative in the plan and said she’d need six months to hit that.”
“I’m seeing why she had to dip into the cash. One of the freezers busted, so she had to buy a replacement.” Drexel clicked close on the file. “Do we know who Chicago Investment Capitalization is?”
“No.” She moved the mouse around and then typed on the keyboard with a rapidity and force that intimidated most of the Homicide detectives who had seen it. “I’ve got nothing on the web on it. And that’s interesting in and of itself. I’ll dig more into it.”
They both moved on to Vickie’s financial statements. She had one account in her name only—a checking account opened in February of this year. Weekly deposits between $50 to $200. A deposit on June 30th, the day before her death. The account balance was $6,050. The deposit was from Fling. Perhaps this was her salary? But he found the fact it was in her name only telling. Was this escape-from-Hank money? Not a substantial sum, but enough to get her through a couple of months. The rest of her and Hank’s finances seemed typical. Credit card debt. Money spent on food and clothing and the like. The injection of the Next Great Chef winnings was quickly reduced by the car payment—at least the drop in the account suggested a big payout. The next big one did not happen until the $100,000 put into Fling’s account.
“How much does a Bentley cost?” asked Drexel.
Daniela whistled, shook her head once, and starting pounding the keyboard. “Looks like they start at $180 grand. Start.”
“So he didn’t use all the Next Great Chef money to get the Bentley. But I’m not seeing payments either.”
“Chicago Investment Capitalization perhaps?”
Drexel leaned back. “Maybe. He got the car a lot earlier than when they needed the money for Fling. But nothing says he didn’t go back for more. You find any accounts just for Hank?”
“No. Nothing.”
“I wonder if he knew about her private account?”
“I’m guessing not—‘cause it’s still private.”
“Maybe he found out recently. Could have been the trigger. Even if he didn’t know that it meant she was leaving—his gut would have reacted that way. He could’ve confronted her, killed her. Accidentally even. Panicked and rigged it up to look like a suicide.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But the alibi.”
“That’s right, boss. Good theory except for that tiny detail.”
He leaned back and closed his eyes. He thought about the potential suspects he had. Hank. Sous chef Alex. Dining room manager Esme. Her drug supplier. The stalker. A stranger. “We need to find out who supplied her with the drugs.” He opened a form on his computer. In it, he linked to the picture of Vickie from the reviews, indicated which drugs they had found—he was sure they had been at least Adderall and similar types of stimulants. He submitted the form to the Central Division’s chief of patrol for distributing to the patrol officers on the street and asking known drug dealers and snitches if they had any information. Gossip traveled fast, even in criminal circles, so Drexel was convinced that Vickie was not anonymous to her drug dealer, and her death would be known.
Together, Drexel and Daniela returned to the streets and alleys around Fling. They talked to dozens of store clerks and managers if they knew of any drug dealers in the area. Most said they did not. But four mentioned a tall man with two men always nearby him. Tattooed heavily on both arms, neck, and parts of his face, he stood at various corners during the day and sometimes at night. These witnesses said he looked like a drug dealer, but they could not be sure. No one had a name for him. Drexel wrote it all down. They called it a night and walked to the nearest L station. As they walked down the steps leading to Grand Station, Drexel thought he heard a distant gun fire. Then the rush of an arriving train bellowed forth and drowned out the unfolding tragedy.
Chapter 14
The next morning, Drexel woke at 5:30 a.m. and ran. He hated the activity, but he did it to ensure he had a chance against running perps. He showered and put on a pair of jeans and a button-up, light blue short-sleeve shirt. After texting Lily that he would meet her, Ryan, and Wayne at Wrigley Field’s Gate D entrance at a quarter after two that afternoon, he wrote the same note to Ryan and left it by the coffee machine, where he was sure his brother would see it—along with their tickets. He petted Hart and watered the spider plant before closing the door. The L ride was less than half the normal traffic into the city. He remembered from his childhood when his father, a draftsman for Macdonald Chandler, worked on the Fourth of July, only to return home in the evening for the fireworks lobbed from Navy Pier over Lake Michigan. The Fourth was any normal day then—with the addition of an evening’s fireworks. Drexel still wondered when the transition occurred.
The squad room was strangely quiet. Naresh sat in his chair, leaning back, his phone to his ear. His hand rubbed the outer edges of his eyes. Victor’s office door was closed, but the glow of the captain’s desk lamp illuminated his last name stenciled on the door. Daniela looked up. “I thought you’d be in.” She smiled. She wore navy pants and a white button up blouse. “Did you watch Morning News today?”
Drexel took off his messenger bag and set it on the desk. “I did not.”
She smiled and turned on the TV mounted in the corner. She turned to WGN, which was at a comm
ercial break. “I’ll let you know when it comes on.”
“Hint?”
“You want to spoil my surprise?”
“Fine.” He sat down and opened his desk. He looked in at the ball and the frame. He looked back at Daniela, who was focused on the TV. He decided it was pointless to pull them out, closed the drawer, and shook the mouse to wake the computer. He called the ME’s office. Drexel talked to the assistant who told him Vickie’s autopsy was scheduled for later that morning at eleven. Drexel thanked him and hung up. He then sorted through a variety of memos from the department about regulation and legal changes as well as a reminder about the softball league game the following week.
“Here it is,” said Daniela. She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.
On the screen sat the host of the show—at least the substitute for the holiday—in a crisp navy suit, white shirt, red tie, and polished and expensive looking brown shoes. He sat in a cushioned chair. In an identical chair next to the host, sat a man with slicked back black hair with a bit of silver at the temples. He wore black slacks and a slim fit plum Oxford shirt, open at the collar. He wore black plastic glasses.
“Today we have Chicago chef Ricardo Gonzalez, owner of Tastes of the World and a James Beard Award nominee. In a story published by the Tribune today, Chef Ricardo talks about his relationship with Vickie Lopez, who was found dead in her restaurant Fling two days ago. In a shocking allegation, Ricardo accuses Vickie of plagiarizing his recipes.” The host looked at Ricardo.
“It’s not an accusation. She stole them. It’s a fact.” Ricardo leaned forward in the chair. “She stole them.”
The host said, “I understand you worked with Chef Lopez at Hussain’s, both of you mentoring under the famed chef.”
Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3) Page 11