The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Kaito had left a folder on Drexel’s desk with the unis’ canvass of Trump Tower. He sat down, leaned back, and read them through and found nothing of interest. Other than the murder and the cameras not working, nothing was out of the ordinary. Drexel called Samantha and hung up before leaving a voice mail. The same for Trina.

  Detective Martin Doggett rapped two knuckles on the edge of the desk. “Looks like you’re fucked Lone Ranger.”

  Drexel tossed his phone onto the desk. “How do you figure?”

  Martin shoved his hands into his pocket, his tan leather shoulder holster with the metal grip of a pistol peering out from beneath the brown corduroy coat. “You got yourself a dead alderman that’s a whodunit. Good luck solving this one. It’s getting heat from the brass. You know it.”

  “Already feeling it.”

  “Hell. You seen the news?”

  “Nope.”

  Martin walked over to the TV in the corner above the filing cabinet storing forms and grabbed the remote. He clicked it on to CLTV. He turned, winked at Drexel, and tossed him the remote, which he caught with both hands just below his chin. “Fucked. Screwed.” He disappeared around the corner.

  Bob Tower, the typical crime reporter CLTV sent to sites, stood with the CLTV van just to the right of him, and the patrol cars and tower behind him. Videos of the patrol cars, their blue lights shimmering across the gold and glass of the tower’s entrance, from the previous night, played. Then it flipped back live. Drexel turned up the volume.

  “Chicago PD has been tight lipped about the investigation. Only saying they are in the preliminary stages, and it is too soon to rule this as foul play. Attempts to reach Nye’s girlfriend have not been returned. The mayor released a statement saying she is shocked by the death and that Nye’s energy cannot be replaced on the City Council. Nye was one of the mayor’s stalwart defenders as she fights allegations of corruption in the Chicago Housing Authority. She announced a committee will provide her a list of candidates to represent the forty-second ward. Nye was sixty-two years old, a former convict turned multimillionaire, celebrity, and alderman. Public ceremonies are being planned.”

  He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote on the desk. He heard a chuckle behind him and turned around. Detective Joe Dolan strained to keep from smiling while flipping a Bic pen in his hand.

  When Drexel went to Victor’s office to drop off his daily report, his boss was talking to someone on the desk phone. “He’s just gotten here. I’ll definitely relay your concerns. All right. Good day.” Victor leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. The captain’s desk was fastidiously neat, with a few personal picture frames of him and his wife and two daughters, his favorite from several years ago when he took his daughters on a hiking excursion in the upper peninsula of Michigan. They seemed like a happy family ready to embark on a joint adventure. Another photo of Victor’s military days occupied a lone location near the window. In it, he stood with a small group of his platoon. Weapons were casually held and smiles on mud-caked faces made it seem like they were having fun, which they might have been. Soldier’s photos always seemed to follow this template.

  “Pierce, this case may be the death of us.” He looked at Drexel for a reaction. Regardless if it was what he was expecting or not, Victor continued, “That, on the phone, was our illustrious commander.”

  Drexel held back a smirk.

  “The mayor is personally involved in following this, and Sobieski doesn’t think you’re taking it seriously.”

  “I am.”

  Victor nodded. “I know that. You know that. But Sobieski. Well?”

  “He’s wants an excuse.”

  “He’d fire you if he could. Yes.”

  “So I’m trying to not give him an excuse.”

  “Fine. Anyways, the mayor’s interest makes sense given that the Bull was an alderman and giving her big support during her scandal. But the news people will be all over this. They already are. Hell, it’ll go national.”

  “Good thing I don’t watch much news.”

  Victor tapped his desk with a knuckle. “Probably makes sense to watch with this case.” They both fell silent. Drexel knew that his boss was not done yet. The captain scratched his chin and held up the report, bending it just enough so it would stay upright in one hand. He scanned it. “Nothing unexpected in it. But I want this as your top priority. Your other cases, drop those. Toss them to Gavin.” Gavin was the longest serving member of the homicide team. Slow, but methodical and persistent.

  “Of course. Can we keep the cause of death out of the news?”

  “Already done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Yeah. Go home. Rest. You’ve got some long, hard work ahead of you and you’re not going to get much more done today.”

  Drexel stood up and started to walk out of Victor’s office, but paused at the threshold. “So beyond the Bull being a big wig in the City Council, what’s the pressure to solve this? Something else, right?”

  Victor nodded. “It’s exactly what it looks like. The mayor’s pressing the brass who’s pressing the commander. He’s feeling the heat with the clearance rate not being so good last year. And then an alderman gets it. He’ll look for the easy win, try to make this a dunker. He’d prefer this wasn’t a homicide.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  * * *

  Drexel road the L’s Blue Line home to Ukrainian Village, a few square blocks of land in West Town. Originally farmland settled by Germans and then Polish. The Ukrainians started arriving in numbers after World War I. They began building a number of Ukrainian-based institutions that still worked to keep the area ethnic in tone.

  After they married, Zora wanted to ensure they were in the city, and Drexel had agreed. They had once claimed to be trendy, moving to the area when it seemed to be up and coming, though the neighborhood had long had a strong middle-class foundation. Not as hip as Wrigleyville or Bucktown and never quite achieving what Ravenswood to the north did in the nineties, the village still turned out to be a good place to move to. And Zora had always liked, for some reason, to say to people she lived in Ukrainian Village.

  Drexel’s walk between his stop and his apartment took him past Wicker Park’s leafless trees and brown grass. Along the way, he grabbed takeout gyros. The apartment building at the corner of Haddon and Damen was a large rectangular building with a facade of gray brick. When they had moved there, the rent was good for a couple of newlyweds just starting out in their jobs. At that time, Drexel patrolled Chicago’s 1212 beat, which encompassed Ukrainian Village, and Zora worked for the Chicago Sun-Times as a photographer.

  He grabbed his mail before taking the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The apartment was the same one he and Zora first rented all those years ago. Two bedrooms and two baths with a small kitchenette and living room. A back balcony looked out onto a small common enclosure that, while pleasantly green in spring and summer, was ill-maintained. Hart, a deep gray, short-haired cat wandered out of the bedroom. A spontaneous entry into the pet store as they walked the street one Saturday afternoon just weeks before Drexel found Zora collapsed in the kitchenette, the cat had stayed and remained one of the last connections he had to his wife. In just those few short weeks left to her, Zora had spoiled Hart beyond all measure.

  Drexel ate at the kitchenette bar, a glass of Honker’s Ale beside the styrofoam takeout box. He ate in silence, digging at the gyros with a fork, forcing all thoughts of the case at hand from his mind. He focused on eating and drinking.

  The apartment still had the furniture and decorative pieces from when Zora was alive. However, Drexel had flip-flopped the bedroom and guest room. As it was, the now guest room was always closed, and he rarely entered it. Beyond that door, the memories of her were physical. Large photo prints on canvas, her art versus her photojournalism, stood stacked against the wall. Many of her clothes st
ill hung in the closet. He often walked up to the door, determined to reclaim the space, but he had not found out how to do so without some sense of betraying Zora’s memory. So the door remained closed.

  Realizing the night’s newscasts were about to begin, Drexel grabbed another ale and sat down in the plush green sofa and turned on the TV. The Bull’s murder was the top news in Chicago at least. The reporter gave some general background information to remind people just who the Bull was. A brief statement outside City Hall by Mayor Jeanne Wozniak indicated how gravely she herself felt the loss and that Chicago PD had made the case a priority. The footage then cut to Sobieski on screen stating he was involved in every aspect of the case to ensure that not only was it done thoroughly but that it was done quickly. No mention was made regarding the cause of death. Drexel raised his bottle to small victories.

  From his phone blared the all-out rock chords and Lennon scream of “Revolution.” He looked at the caller ID even though he knew who it was. He used ringtones because of Zora. He still remembered the morning she said, “I love soundtracks.” They were in bed on a Saturday morning. Summer had yet to arrive, and the apartment windows were open, a breeze blooming out the curtains. She was sitting up, head against the wall, sheet covering her. “I have one going on in my head all the time. And it’s why I use ringtones. Adds music to the day.”

  “Hello,” said Drexel.

  “Hey bro,” said Ryan, Drexel’s younger brother.

  “What’s up?”

  “Yeah. Just seeing what’s up.”

  “Work and sleep. That’s what I’m doing.”

  “Huh.” Ryan swallowed loudly. “Yeah. Same here. Unclogging damned pipes and stuff.”

  “I guess you don’t have to worry about pipes freezing these past days.”

  “No. Nope. But this blizzard coming they’re talking about, that’ll get us a few probably.”

  “Can’t say I’ve paid much attention to it.”

  “It’s supposed to be a doozy. A few more days like today, and then snow and cold.”

  “Good to know. This weather makes it hard to figure out what to wear.”

  “Hah. Yeah. Look so…”

  “Say it.”

  “I need some cash. You got any you can spare?” Ryan’s last word trailed ever quieter.

  “What’s it for?”

  Ryan breathed in and frustration leaked into his voice. “You’ll never let that go, will you? A few screw ups in my past—which I’ve paid for by the way—and always ‘what’s it for?’”

  “You’re the one asking me for money.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Drexel held the phone to his ear, listening to Ryan take deep breaths.

  “Sorry,” said Ryan. “Sorry. You’ve got every reason to ask. I know that. It’s just—”

  “Yeah. It’ll happen eventually. So?” Drexel, Ryan, their sister Lily, and their mom had attended a family counseling session after his brother’s arrest and before he pleaded guilty to possession and distribution. The counselor had warned them all that Ryan would struggle at humility, at not taking every question personally or as a dig.

  “I just want to buy our sister a gift. Nothing big. But something to let her know her brother remembers her birthday.”

  Lily was the youngest of the three, and she lived in Seattle working as a corporate attorney with her surgeon husband, Wayne. Her birthday was in two weeks.

  “Well, since you’re helping me to remember our sis’s birthday, I can float you some cash.”

  “Hah. That’s right. I’m your entertainment reminder specialist.”

  “How much?”

  “I’m thinking one hundred.”

  He held his tongue. He had already upset Ryan, and he did not want to do so again, for he had never found a happy medium between worrying all cash would be sunk into heroin or not monitoring it at all. “Okay.”

  “Great. Great. Look I have to pick up some parts tomorrow in the city. Damn supply store here ran out. I can swing by and pick it up at your station.”

  “Okay. Call me when you’re ready though because I may not be there, but we can meet up.”

  “Great. Thanks bro.”

  “Yep, talk to you.”

  Hart bounced up on the couch after rubbing his sides along Drexel’s ankles and moved to the far end of the couch and went to sleep. Drexel continued his research on the Bull. Outside of the public eye, Hal’s life seemed mundane. He was, of course, much followed by the media—where he ate, whose clothes he purchased, which premieres he showed up for, and so on. Photos of him at Bulls games, with his clients, and hovering behind film and TV sets were abundant. The man seemed to know everyone and be everywhere. Knew how to get attention, which accounted for his political fortunes.

  Drexel focused in on a couple of articles about his election, which implied something less than an up-and-up fair election, a not unprecedented state of affairs in the city. The Bull had early on made friends with then Alderwoman Jeanne Wozniak from the forty-third ward. The friendship started out as the Bull was making his moves to bring more of the entertainment industry to Chicago. Both Wozniak and the Bull had commented they wanted Chicago to become the new Vancouver. The Bull needed a political ally to maneuver the tax exemptions, permits, and so on, and Wozniak needed a charismatic wheeler and dealer with the time to lure studios and producers to the city. For a number of years, the Bull spent almost as much time in Hollywood as Chicago, but the plan never worked. No one spoke of Chicago as the new Vancouver, but more movies and TV shows were created in Chicago than ever before, so both could chalk it up as a victory.

  The Bull dated a substantial number of women from all parts of society until he met Kara. They had met at a movie premiere featuring some Chicago mafia down on their luck. Pictures of the two in public were readily available and from all over Chicago and alongside political leaders, athletes, and actors. A few even of Kara alone, signifying her own newsworthiness. One image of her was on the Miracle Mile in the autumn. The photographer must have been walking by her on the street with the camera held low. She may never have realized this portrait was even taken. In it, she wore a deep red beret and large, brown-lensed sunglasses. Drexel paused on the image. She had to be the first in a list of potential suspects. Access to the penthouse. Most likely knew what the Bull was allergic to. She had a potential alibi, but Drexel had not been able to confirm it yet. He Googled Kara. He clicked the first link that sounded interesting, a Reader article titled “Who Is the Bull’s New Girl?”

  Kara Brandt was twenty-six years old. Born in Decatur, a small city three hours south of Chicago. She moved to the city when she enrolled at the University of Illinois at Chicago. She studied philosophy but upon graduation seemed to drift from mediocre job to mediocre job. Her chance encounter with the Bull took her out of that mundane job to a public life of glamor. The Bull seemed willing to let her have that part of his life which his wealth and fame brought. In the videos and photos in the past six months since they met—some as recent as the past week—the Bull seemed to fade into the background while Kara took the forward lead. Looking at them in sequence, Drexel realized that the Bull had not faded but, instead, had pushed Kara forward, sometimes literally so. Impossible for him to completely escape the spotlight, but Hal Nye evaded it more often. To think, though, that he had turned anti-fame overnight would have been false, for his political career and the success of TG Enterprises depended on his ability to negotiate the spotlight. Rather, Drexel guessed that the Bull tired of the constant onslaught. Kara helped shield much of this from him, and the partnership seemed to work as best as Drexel could tell. Was something happening in the background, some thing that prompted the Bull to step back, even if for just a bit?

  If Kara was the murderer, what was her motive? He understood the danger of his question. In most cases, motive was not all that important to the investigation, was not n
ecessary, or was so plainly obvious (over a wad of cash or an argument over a perceived slight that escalated to a violent end) as to be unnecessary. But this was a planned murder. The Bull’s health smoothie was laced with spirulina and his desk scarred with a message. Motive might be key along with alibis, opportunity, and physical evidence in sorting the list of potential suspects.

  Drexel yawned. As he prepared for bed, he knew he needed to cast a wide net—as wide as the Bull’s activities: TG Enterprises employees and clients, people related to his political career, and personal friends and family. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered what Ryan intended to do with the extra money left over from the gift. They had never spent one hundred dollars on gifts for each other before.

  Chapter 6

  Drexel had slept and for a man plagued by insomnia, he prized his sleep, worshipped the comfort and relaxation when it blessed him with its visit, and hated when it ended. Slapping the alarm button to end the blaring, he rolled over, and closed his eyes but knew immediately it was useless. So at 5:45 a.m., he got up, walked to the gym a couple of blocks down, and ran five miles on the treadmill. He returned to the apartment and showered. He needed a cut to trim back the dark brown hair and make the sprinkles of silvery-gray less obvious. Zora had called them his bits of wisdom. He grabbed a towel and dried his face. He put on light tan khakis, a white shirt with a thin brown checkered pattern, a solid dark brown tie with a sheen in a schoolboy knot, and a dark brown sport coat. He bought a venti coffee on the way to the L station and rode it to the police station, unlocking his desk drawer by eight thirty. Detectives Darrell and Kendall were sitting at a small circular table, a fresh folder and two coffees between them. Kendall smiled. Darrell half-waved and said, “A double in Lawndale.”