Drexel nodded. “Understood. I’ll make sure you get my statement.”
“Thank you.”
“Any word on his two compatriots?”
She shook her head. “Last I heard, they’re still on the loose.”
He thanked her and headed back the way he came. He did not know what to expect anyway from talking to Steve. As he turned to walk back past the duty officer’s desk and into the parking lot, the door at the far end opened. A tall uniformed police officer walked in. Following him was Harrison Dodge, his hands cuffed behind him. Another uniformed officer followed. The first officer looked at the duty officer as he walked up to the portal through the wall. “We’ve got one of the perps being sought. Harrison Dodge.”
Drexel heard Malik say, “I’ll start the booking process. Sit him on the bench there.”
The officer nodded and took a few steps forward before turning to his left. He stopped, his body half in the hallway. “Sit there.”
Dodge nodded and walked past the officer.
The officer trailing Dodge said, “Getting a coffee.”
“I’m with you,” said the first. “Malik, we’ll be back.”
“Got it,” said Malik.
The two officers walked toward Drexel, he slowed his pace and nodded at them as they passed. They returned the nod and disappeared behind him.
Drexel paused at the turn where Dodge sat on the bench, his back straight against the wall, head resting against it, and his eyes closed. “It catches up with you, doesn’t it?” Drexel leaned against the wall, looking around the corner at Dodge.
Dodge’s eyes opened and he looked at Drexel. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Some cultures call it karma. My Dad used the phrase, ‘What comes around goes around.’ But basically, you’re bad deeds catch up with you.”
Dodge snorted. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Drexel nodded his head several times. “That’s where you’re wrong. I know all about your little criminal enterprise. Vandalizing buildings. Terrifying tenants. Getting paid to do it. Here people think the cops are out there to protect them. But we all know that’s not one-hundred percent true, right?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
Drexel smiled. “I’m a Homicide detective with Central.”
“Ooh. How good for you.”
“Victor Macleod is my captain.” Drexel saw the flash of recognition in Dodge’s eyes.
“Congratulations. He was my captain when he was at North.”
“He was. He was. But you still work with him, right? I mean, those envelopes aren’t full of candy.”
Dodge’s eyes narrowed. “I’m done talking. You’re Homicide so you got no business talking to me.”
Drexel pulled at his ear lobe, swung around the hallway, and sat beside Dodge. He leaned toward the man. “There’s a building on Delaware and DeWitt. Not there anymore. A building that experienced vandalism and other things. A lot like what the residents of the building your squad hit tonight. It was torn down eventually. Replaced with something new and bright and shiny.” Drexel looked up and saw a camera in the upper corner. “So I know this about how you operate. You show up at a site. Victor gives you cash. You trash the building. Rinse and repeat.” He took in a deep breath. “Rinse and repeat. So I’m 99% sure this happened at that building in Streeterville I mentioned. Maybe Steve wasn’t with you then. But you. You and Victor have been doing this a long time.” Drexel looked at Dodge, who sat face forward, but his jaw clenched—the muscle beneath the ear and along the jaw taut. Drexel leaned over and whispered, “My wife caught it on film. Then she was killed. You better hope you had nothing to do with it.”
“Whoa, whoa.” Dodge leaned away from Drexel and attempted to pull up his hands, but the handcuffs jingled. “I had nothing to do with any killing. Vandalize and intimidate. That’s it.” He realized he had said too much and bit his lip and looked away.
However, Drexel had the information he sought. Dodge was telling the truth. The last thread of that lead, that his boss had had something to do with killing Zora evaporated for good. Dodge was a hoodlum, but he was not a killer.
Chapter 22
Drexel woke the next morning and ran his path along Milwaukee and back. When he returned to the apartment, his brother was up and biting into a piece of buttered toast. A mug of coffee steamed beside the toaster on the counter. Drexel nodded his good morning greeting before heading to shower.
After shaving, cleaning up, and putting on a pair of dark brown trousers, a light blue shirt, a red tie, and a dark brown blazer, Drexel walked into the kitchen. He decided on toast, which he topped with orange marmalade. He pulled out his X-Files “The Truth Is Out There” mug and filled it with coffee, milk, and sugar. As he took a drink, Ryan walked out from his bedroom. Instead of wearing his normal Plumber Savior grey boiler suit, Ryan was dressed in jeans and a blue Chicago Cubs T-shirt. Drexel asked, “Why aren’t you dressed for work?”
Ryan smiled, “Have today off. I’ve got a good number of days racked up, so I felt like using one.”
“Got plans?”
“Not until this afternoon. Meeting up with Lily then. Figured I’d find something for this morning.”
Drexel nodded. “I’m heading to Taste of Chicago. Going to talk to that David Hussain chef guy about my victim.”
“Are you asking me to tag along?”
“Well, for at least part of it. You can’t be there when I talk to the chef, but we can grab some pretty good food, I imagine.”
“It’ll be less crowded than this weekend.” Ryan scratched his chin. “Okay. I’m game.” He held up his hands in front of his chest. “And I’m ready.”
Drexel stuffed the last of the toast into his mouth and followed it up with a gulp of coffee. “Let’s go.”
They rode the Blue line into the Loop and exited at Monroe Station. From there, they walked east on Monroe, turning right when they reached Michigan. They walked by the front of the Art Institute, a favorite place of Zora’s. Drexel liked it well enough, though he spent the most time in the Impressionist section, stepping forward and then backward to take in the works of Monet and Renoir. Zora, however, spent most of her time in the Photography collection, devoting hours to looking at the photographs of Nadine Blacklock, Walker Evans, or Richard Misrach. Drexel had told her that her photos deserved a place in the museum. She had laughed away the idea, though he could see it burned true in her eyes.
The city closed the Jackson Street entrance for the festival, but Drexel showed his badge to the lone guard. He let Drexel and Ryan pass, telling them David Hussain was the Celebrity Chef de Jour and could be found across the park—waving vaguely in the direction. “It’s over by Buckingham Fountain. You’ll see the signs,” he said.
Drexel picked up a guide pamphlet as they walked down Jackson Street, blocked for the festival. He flipped it open. The first page listed the food and dining experiences with Celebrity Chef de Jour listed most prominently. Musical acts and art locations were listed across from the experiences. In a circle between those two listings was one for Sabor de Chicago, which billed itself as a celebration of Chicago’s Latino community. The middle of the brochure listed dozens of restaurants across three categories: five-day, pop-up, and food trucks. Ryan was looking at a copy of the brochure he had picked up. He said, “I love this festival.”
The back of the guide had a map. Most restaurants were assigned a location along Columbus Drive, the road that cut north and south through Millennium and Grant Parks. They extended from almost the Monroe Street entrance to the Balbo Avenue entrance. Lakeshore Drive formed the eastern barrier of the park. Drexel and Ryan turned right at Columbus Drive. The three-tiered Buckingham Fountain sat in the middle of a large pond and dominated Grant Park. Eight sea horses divided in pairs sat in the pond around the fountain. At night, the fountain was lit
by lights, whose color could be changed for light shows or celebrating Chicago events.
For the Celebrity Chef de Jour event, a large tent occupied the section of grass on the southeast corner of the fountain. A truck emblazoned with David Hussain Enterprises was parked near a smaller tent. The slogan beneath the company’s name read, “Enterprising taste.” Workers were unloading boxes and taking them into the smaller tent.
Drexel said to Ryan, “I’m going to see if I can talk to him. I’ll catch up with you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Ryan, looking down at his brochure. “Text me when you’re done.”
Drexel gave him a thumbs up and headed for the smaller tent. As he approached, the workers gave him no mind until he reached the back of the truck.
One of them looked at him and said, “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for David Hussain.” When the man gave Drexel a quizzical look, he said, “I’m with the police. He’s expecting me.”
The man’s eyes narrowed and then he nodded. “He’s in the kitchen.” He pointed into the tent where he had carried the boxes.
Drexel nodded his thanks and walked in. Stainless steel ovens and stoves. Stainless steel tables. Pots and pans hung from hooks. If it weren’t for the interlocking soft tile flooring and the white fabric of the tent, Drexel would have thought he was in a five-star restaurant’s kitchen. On second thought, he realized he was—it had been transported and built in Grant Park. A couple of people were unpacking the boxes and loading them into refrigerators or onto the shelves. He saw leafy green tops, potatoes, and vacuum-packed meats. A lone man stood at one of the tables, looking at a notebook. One page held up and ready to turn. He looked up at Drexel. He wore red-framed plastic glasses, which sat low on his nose. He was tan with thick black hair styled in a Caesar cut. Zora would have said David Hussain had “great hair.” His deep brown eyes overlooked a nose a tad too large for his face, which was clean shaven. He was a handsome man, and he knew it. He pulled the glasses off his nose and said, “Yes?”
“David Hussain, I presume?” asked Drexel, walking over and extending his hand. “Detective Drexel Pierce.”
“Oh, yes.” He closed his notebook, wrapped the elastic band around the exterior of it, and shook Drexel’s hand. “Apologies, I was thinking about today’s service.”
“Yeah.” Drexel raised his hand to the kitchen. “Looks like you’re setting up a new restaurant.”
Hussain smiled. “In essence, we are. Pop-up restaurants are a trend these days. This isn’t quite a pop-up restaurant, but it’s close.”
“So how does this Chef de Jour thing work?”
“Each day somebody that the Taste of Chicago board feels is worthy—I guess—gets to feed a tent full of gourmands or foodies.”
“Congratulations then.”
Hussain nodded his head a few times.
Drexel asked, “So what’s the menu? Or is that a secret?”
“I don’t mind sharing. They’ll have their choice between a rainbow trout, short ribs, or duck.”
“Nothing for the vegetarians?”
Hussain frowned. “Salad.”
Drexel chuckled. “I guess we better discuss more serious matters though.”
“Yes. Such a tragedy, though food is very serious to me. And it was to Vickie as well.” He closed his glasses and inserted them into the front pocket of his chef’s jacket with an elegant set of movements. “She was an exceptional chef. Truly gifted. And she was a friend.”
“Tell me a little about her and how you knew her.”
“She was young and full of fury. How the young are supposed to be, right? I remember the day I interviewed her. I had her—I have every potential chef do it—cook me scrambled eggs.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Seemingly simple, but so difficult to get right.” He opened his eyes and looked at Drexel. “And she did, and they were the most luxurious eggs I’ve ever had. Better than my own, though I didn’t tell her that. So I hired her. During the interview, I asked her what her goals were. Some people don’t want to open a restaurant. That’s okay. Some don’t realize it until they’ve been in a kitchen for a while. And that’s okay. But if they know they want to open one when they start working for me, then I make sure they experience all of the kitchen. Give them a good footing for their future.” He turned around, pulled out his glasses, and leaned against the table, tapping the earpiece of his glasses against his chin. “She had such a future. Fling was going to place her as a leading light.”
“What about the plagiarism—”
“Bullshit pure and simple. Alex is pissed off and jealous. And everyone knows it. I make sure that the people that count know it’s bullshit.”
“Who counts?”
“Food critics. Other chefs. Alex will occasionally annoy us like a gnat, but because he’s lying, he doesn’t have any proof.”
“Truth or not, he seems angry.”
“You asking me if he could kill Vickie?”
Drexel shrugged. “We did find recipes in her papers that Alex claims are in his writing.”
Hussain’s eyes narrowed. “I’d hate to think of all the times I wrote ideas down on paper or gave something to one of my sous chef’s to execute. They slip that into the pocket and forget about it after they’ve used it. We share ideas all the time. That doesn’t add up to plagiarism. When I make a Hollandaise sauce, am I plagiarizing La Varenne?” He shook his head and gave a dismissive wave. “Alex is all bluster. He’s pissed that he wasn’t asked to be on that TV show she did. That his restaurant doesn’t get the coverage Fling has or me or Eliot or others get. And he’s using this plagiarism thing as a way to suck that success over to him. Parasite. Well he needs to realize that street food is more important than fine dining. That he’s making good food and that’s all that matters.” He took in a deep breath. “But no, I don’t think he killed her.”
“He said you and Mrs. Lopez had a thing,” Drexel said.
“I said that once.”
“What?”
“I said that once. Called her Lopez. Her husband got very angry. Said it was Mrs. Fulsom.”
“We’ll come back to him. What about you and—and Vickie. Did you have a thing?”
“Alex would make that up, of course. He makes things up when he’s angry. Vickie was very attractive. But I’ve been married for almost thirty years now, and I’ve been faithful to my wife the entire time. I’m sure you hear that a lot in your line of work, but it’s the truth.”
“I hear that a lot as well. ‘It’s the truth.’ So other than Alex, anyone angry enough to kill her?”
Hussain shook his head slowly and then more vigorously. “No one other than her husband.”
“Hank?”
“Yes.” He looked directly at the detective. “I know what he did to her. I saw the bruises. I knew she wasn’t that clumsy. And he definitely didn’t like it that she worked with men. I wish I could’ve helped her. I’m assuming he did this to her.” Hussain’s eyes narrowed, requesting confirmation from Drexel. When it was not forthcoming, he continued, “I tried to talk to her once. Told her I’d help her leave him.”
“How so?”
“Money. Places to stay. A good lawyer. Anything, frankly. Anything.” He sighed. “She never took me up on it.”
Drexel thanked him for his time and excused himself. As he exited the tent, the level of activity at the Celebrity Chef de Jour and other tents had escalated as crews prepared for the arrival of that day’s attendees. He pulled out his phone and texted his brother that he was done with the interview. As he walked back in the general direction where he and Ryan had parted, the smells of bread and oil and cooking meat rushed at him. The day was already hot, and with the clear blue skies, he knew the day would only be hotter. Yet, thousands would descend on Grant Park for the food. Chicago was a good eating town. His phone buzzed once. Ryan was at the corner of
Columbus and Jackson. When Drexel saw him, he stood on the street and bit into something. He held a white cardboard bowl in his other hand. With a mouthful of whatever it was, Ryan said, “Oh my god, this is so good.” He thrust the bowl toward Drexel. “I got some for you too. Nice guys.”
Drexel took the bowl. Two small doughnuts filled it, covered with a mix of sugar and cinnamon. He pulled one out and popped it into his mouth. The warm, sweet dough melted. He chewed and swallowed and nodded his head. He ate the other one without a word. “Very good. Thanks.” He crumbled up the bowl and tossed it into a nearby cardboard trash bin. “I’m done here, so I’m going to head to the station.”
Ryan said, “I’m going to hang out here until they officially open. Lily said she’d meet me. Wayne will be at the conference most of the day. If you’re free, let me know.”
“Probably not, but if so, I will. Enjoy.”
They shook hands that became a hug and departed. Drexel walked down Jackson. By the time he reached Michigan Avenue, he had changed his mind about the station. He wanted to go back to Fling. He wondered if revisiting it would reveal new insights in the hunt for the killer.
Chapter 23
He cut through the untouched crime scene tape adhered to the back door. He stepped in and turned on the light. Revisiting a crime scene carried with it a numbing sense. When he initially showed up to a scene, forensic techs, patrol officers, and others moved around, acted out their part of the drama. But returning later, after all were gone, brought a stillness and quiet not found anywhere. A few days before, Fling had been a place with daily activity. Knowing that it was not and had been empty lent a quality to the surroundings as if the place had aged a hundred years. And then the victim’s body. Despite the fact of death, it was a human presence that brought with it the baggage of our violence and greed and hate. Now only the echo of humanity existed in this restaurant, and it had grown dim.
Justice in Slow Motion (Drexel Pierce Book 3) Page 18