“Hey, sorry—”
“First,” said Ton looking both directions down the street, turning west, pointing with his right hand and grabbing Drexel’s elbow with his left, “let’s get comfortable and you can explain it all.”
Over the years, Ton and Drexel frequented the Old Towne Pub a block northwest of Pawn Corner. The bar itself, shoehorned into a long, narrow space with a kitchen in the back, allowed just enough room for a row of four-tops side-by-side. At the end of the bar, with the kitchen entrance just to the side of it, was a small platform that served as a stage. Depending on the night of the week, poets would recite their most recent compositions or a band or singer-songwriters would perform theirs. The overall lighting of the place was a moody electric blue—as if the entire bar was cast into a hazy blue fog. A pale reddish light of similar consistency illuminated the stage. Jason Quinn opened it in 1968 after his tour in Vietnam. He was still running the place, still determining whether he liked a person or not by their opinion of Old Man Daley. If you liked Old Man Daley, Quinn would still take your money, but he might frown.
At this time of the evening, the bar was about a quarter full and heavy with the smell of frying oil. The crowd would arrive later. Drexel and Ton were too old to put in those kinds of hours. They found an empty table toward the back, near the platform. While Ton ordered them each a Honker’s and fried pickles, Drexel texted Ryan where he was in case he could meet.
“So tell me from the beginning what you can.” Ton flashed his broad smile that contrasted with his tattooed skull.
Drexel told him most of the events of the evening, leaving out the details of the current investigation. Over the years, he had relied on his friend’s extensive knowledge of arcana and somewhat dubious contacts. He was a pawn broker after all, and he grew up in Chicago’s battered west side. He was someone you wanted on your side.
Ton, an amateur conspiracy theorist, knew how to run with a dead alderman and someone tailing a cop. “I’ve heard shit about an intelligence unit in the Chicago PD. Like serious stuff.”
“Yeah, they’ve had that for years.”
“Yeah, the one everyone’s heard about. I’ve heard they’ve got a super secret one. Does all sorts of surveillance. Watches all of us. Maybe the Bull was going to expose them.”
Drexel grinned. “Come on. The dude following me lost me. I spotted him. With the likes of him, they don’t need anyone to expose them.”
Ton waved at Drexel and slid a fried pickle into his mouth, dripping with ranch sauce. He used a paper napkin to wipe the sauce off the table.
“You’re getting passionate again.” Drexel drank some of the ale.
“Absolutely. I don’t like surveillance. I’m about people’s rights. And freedom. That’s why I don’t have one of those iPhones and stuff. Too easy to trace, to follow. No thanks. I don’t want the NSA following me.”
Drexel washed down a pickle with a gulp of ale.
Ton asked, “So you saw this guy earlier, right?”
“Yeah, that’s how I recognized him at the station. He was in O’Lawry’s sitting at the bar this morning drinking a beer. I’m thinking I’ll go tomorrow and buy him one.”
Ton laughed and drank from his ale.
“Well, when I first stopped by this evening, it was about something in particular.”
“What is it?”
Drexel took a drink. “This girlfriend of the Bull’s was at a club. I walked from it to Trump Tower this afternoon, but the place was closed. I’d like to swing by there and talk to some people, see if they remember her.”
“And you want me to go with?”
“I think it’s a young club. I don’t want to be the only old man in there.”
Ton winked. “Sure, I’ll go with you. Let’s get something other than pickles and beer in us, though.”
After the waiter took their order, Drexel said, “Ryan asked for more money.”
“How much?”
“Not much. But I assumed he’d screwed up. Instead he wants to borrow money to buy a gift for Lily.”
The waiter set down two more Honker’s in pint glasses labeled with Coors logos.
“But?”
“But. He wanted more than we usually give for gifts.”
“Maybe he’s getting her a nice one.”
“Maybe.”
“He’ll always be an addict. But he’s doing well. Try to trust him. How’s Lily? Still married to that asshole.” Ton laughed uneasily. He had met Lily and Wayne once at a get-together three years ago when Wayne attended an annual conference in Chicago in August, when the humidity and heat had risen up in the city and crushed all thought of idyllic summers. Wayne had proven to be a boorish right-wing conservative. The kind you could not even get to a foundational agreement on. The argument had started over healthcare. Despite Ton’s vociferous libertarian idealism, he leaned progressive. The conversation went as one expects those to go with frustration turning to anger. In the end, Lily slapped Ton. Zora, almost as defensive of Ton as she was of Drexel and the only one sober, had grabbed Lily’s hand and escorted her out. Wayne had followed, a weird triumphant smile on his face.
Drexel vividly recalled that night, had the memory held crystal clear of Zora’s radiance. They had made love that night more passionately than they had for months. The small of her back sweaty and glistening in the glow of the streetlight piercing through the slats of the blinds.
Lily and Drexel had only traded a few phone calls and obligatory holiday cards since.
“Still married to a grade-A asshole.” Drexel knew Ton felt guilty, as if he had cracked Lily’s and Drexel’s relationship. The opposite was true. Lily and he had long been brother and sister in name only. When their mother had died, they took care of everything while Ryan was in prison. Bad words had been said then. Wayne was involved in that as well. Lily’s slapping Ton had only been the last little shove.
Ton started talking about the latest movies he had seen while eating his bacon cheeseburger and steak fries, which he slathered in so much ketchup, it may have been the main course. Drexel had seen none of the movies, but let his friend fill him in on the plots and noted his recommendations for the future, should he ever get around to watching a movie. Drexel’s rueben—with Russian dressing instead of Thousand Island—piled high with corned beef and sauerkraut was too much for him, and he left a quarter of the sandwich behind.
As they walked out of the Old Towne, Ton, zipping up his coat and pulling a knit hat over his tattoos, said, “Let me visit O’Lawry’s tomorrow. I’ll talk to the guy. He’ll just run if he sees you.”
Drexel looked at him for a while, nodded, and then smiled.
* * *
The bouncer outside the black metal door of the Virtuoso Club was none too pleased to have a Chicago PD badge waved in his face. The line to get in was twenty or thirty people deep, wrapping around the building into the parking lot. At least half were thumbing and swiping on their cell phones, and most were dressed way too lightly for January. Drexel had buttoned up his blazer in an effort to keep some warmth in. A thumping music made its way to the street.
“I’ll let you in,” said the bouncer, a large man in a tight t-shirt, though he also wore a lined-bomber jacket and black knit cap.
“Yeah, yeah.” Drexel pulled out Kara’s picture and held it up to the bouncer’s face. “You know who this is?”
He studied the image. “Maybe.”
“Maybe. As many people as you see nightly, a maybe is a yes.”
The bouncer shrugged.
“Look, I just want to know if she was here a couple of nights ago.”
“Yeah. She was.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah.”
“No one with her?”
“I said she was alone. But it’s not like I was paying attention.” The bouncer lifted the velvet rope and let
two women through who were shivering and hugging themselves. “I need to work, okay?”
The interior of Virtuoso was a black-light extravaganza. The music was loud, and a set of strobing lights seemed to bounce around every wall and pillar in the place. The club had two dance floors. The first sat in the center of the ground floor, with aisles and two bars around it. Pillars on the ground floor supported the upstairs dance floor, which was made of thick, clear plastic squares. The lights streamed forth from the second floor down. Drexel tapped Ton on the shoulder and said, “Let’s go to the bar.” Ton shrugged and shook his head, so he pointed to the bar and made a walking gesture with his fingers. Ton gave a thumbs up.
Drexel used the badge to get the bartender’s attention. “Were you working two nights ago?”
The bartender, dressed in all black, nodded.
“Did you see her?” Drexel handed him the photo.
The bartender shrugged.
And the pattern repeated five times with all the bartenders. Drexel slid Kara’s picture beneath a paper clip and closed his notebook. He turned around to tell Ton he was done, when a man dressed in a light brown suit with a pink button-up shirt walked up to him. The collar of the shirt was white, and the pink shirt had thin white pinstripes. The man leaned in close to Drexel and yelled, though he could barely hear it, “I’m the owner. Let’s go to my office.”
Drexel nodded. The owner turned sharply around and walked to a door on the ground floor toward the back. Ton followed. The owner opened the door and gestured for them to pass through. As the door closed behind them, the music volume diminished enough to have a conversation, though Drexel thought he was still yelling.
The owner extended his hand. “Reya Orlando.”
Drexel shook his hand. “Detective Drexel Pierce. This your office?”
“No, but it’s quieter here and not as scary as saying, ‘Let’s go to the stairwell.’”
“I’m trying to confirm if someone was here a couple of nights ago.”
“Fucking scaring off my fucking customers is what you’re doing.”
Drexel’s eyes narrowed. “I’m doing my job.”
“Whatever.” Reya swept back his long bangs with his right hand.
“Look. It’s simple.” Drexel pulled out the picture of Kara yet again—pulling it in and out from the paperclip was beginning to wear the top part of the photo. “Seen her?”
Reya grabbed it and looked at it. “Yeah. That’s Kara. Big client.”
He took the photo from him. “Two nights ago?”
“She’s here all the fucking time. And she spends, so I take care of her.”
Drexel held up two fingers. “Two nights ago. Was she with anyone?”
“She’s always with people. She’s popular. Everyone fucking loves Kara.”
“So there were others with her?”
“Hell yeah. They ran up a big tab.”
“On her account.”
“Yeah.” Reya tugged at the edges of his collar. “Look, I need to be getting back out there.”
Drexel held up a finger. “I saw surveillance cameras outside and inside. Can I see those tapes?”
The owner smirked. “Those fucking things are for show. No recording whatsoever. Seriously. I get important clients in here. Big fucking celebrities. They don’t want those things to be real. To sell to the paparazzi and shit. TMZ. Just for show.”
Drexel nodded and watched Reya go back into the club. He looked at Ton. “She was here. We know that.”
“Yeah, but Trump Tower isn’t that far. She could’ve left and come back from there a dozen times.”
“Exactly.”
* * *
Drexel and Ton parted at the L’s Division station. Once in his apartment, Drexel grabbed a bottle of Bulleit bourbon and a glass and sat down on the sofa. Hart wandered out and curled up beside him. He left a message for Ryan telling him to call him. After a long day, the writing on the desk still puzzled, and in it, Drexel thought the key to who killed the Bull lay. The hows usually came faster than the whos and way before the whys. Tired of the case, Drexel turned on the TV and accessed a video file he had put on the Apple TV. As the video began playing, he poured a glass of whiskey.
The scene was a beautiful day at North Avenue Beach. One of those rare Chicago spring days where the weather was cool and yet warm at the same time—when one felt confident in proclaiming the end of winter.
The sun was bright that day, golden in its cast as if permanently emblazoning a beauty and serenity on the scene. Here Drexel felt were those moments where life seemed viewed from a distance but up close at the same time. A moment timeless and fleeting. Moments he wondered if they were what Buddhists considered enlightenment, where he seemed, he felt to be wholly in and out of time. He had had many such moments with Zora, and none since her death eighteen months earlier. This was his favorite memory of their life together. Favorite because it was so mundane, and that made it special because the ordinary everyday with Zora had been spectacular. When he had come home that awful night, found her collapsed and cold on the floor, he had lost that anchor to the ground. He still wanted to know what had happened, for no cause of death had ever been definitively determined. A freak heart attack they said. But that was bullshit. He did not believe it. She had not had a heart attack. This gaping unknown, the weirdness of death, had slowly tortured Drexel. Always, in the back of his head, lurking there and shoved aside, he knew her death was not what it seemed, but he strove to bury it. Instead, he visited this charming picnic years before, but he always needed whiskey to fortify himself to watch it.
She looked at him, smiled, and pointed out to Lake Michigan, where boats were chopping through the water and people were walking its edge. The video always conjured up the lake and the smell of grass and trees contrasted against the city’s antiseptic, mechanical scents. Zora had set the video to a soundtrack of The Pogues’ “Love You ’Till the End.”
In the video, Zora stood up, pushed the sunglasses up onto her head and smiled. “Come on, let’s walk the beach.” Those are the only words she said in this video. Around them, sounds of children, of the boats, of the lake’s gentle slapping onto the beach. She jogged ahead. He set the recorder down on the blanket and ran after her and the lake and they fell out of focus and disappeared. The recorder ran out of power before they returned.
Chapter 10
Drexel walked into the only conference room on the third floor at the station. Victor was already seated and drinking a coffee the color of khaki. Drexel had a Dunkin’ Donuts extra large coffee he bought in the L station, and he was hoping it had cooled enough to finally drink. He lifted the tab covering the opening and snapped it back. Daniela and Kaito, who was leading the unis in any follow up work, sat in a crescent pattern, though with a seat between them, next to Victor.
The conference room was in the corner of the building, so windows looked down to the streets below. The furniture was typical office issue: a light-brown wooden table and black, rolling swivel chairs. Two large overhead fluorescent lights cast the room in a mild bluish hue. Dawn was approaching, though it looked to be a gray, cold day. Drexel took off his overcoat and draped it over the back of a chair across from Kaito and sat down.
Drexel took a test sip of his coffee as he looked at Victor. “Wait for Carl?”
Victor exhaled. “Yes.”
So they waited thirty minutes for the commander to arrive. Drexel flipped open a file left in his office mailbox this morning. More credit card statements and call logs on the Bull’s cell phone. The Bull had a number of credit cards and used them a lot, though he paid them off regularly as well. The amounts were staggering though. The kind of credit card debt the Bull paid off on a monthly basis would have been crippling to most people.
Sobieski breezed in and, without apologizing, flopped into a chair, and demanded the status of the investigation. V
ictor began with a rundown of the missing hard drive. He spoke to the duty officer, a certain James Meier, last night. Over the course of four hours, Meier insisted on his innocence. Victor did not believe him and was planning a more intense interrogation after the meeting, including a lie detector. He had assigned a couple of unis eager to prove to the brass they were ready for promotions to monitor Meier. Their report, hand delivered to Victor that morning read like a man worried about his career. A guy aware of the focus on him and can only drink it away. Meier had gone to a bar, spent several hours there, stumbled home drunk, and departed for work in the morning. “I’ll have an update on the follow up conversation and lie detector this evening.”
Sobieski asked Kaito the status of interviews with the other tenants of Trump Tower. Kaito stated that preliminary interviews of other tenants or potential witnesses had been conducted and revealed little of substance, but they had a baseline for any further interviews or interrogations. After several Supreme Court rulings, Chicago PD and most other police departments were very specific about an interview versus an interrogation. Interviews could be conducted at a scene, in someone’s home, or in an interrogation room, but the interview meant the person being interviewed was not in custody. And “not in custody” meant no Miranda warnings. It was just a discussion. To give the courts no pause, however, about whether a person was in custody or not, any interviews on Chicago PD property required the interviewee to get there on their own. The lone exception revolved around victims or victims’ families at crime scenes who may be too distraught or traumatized to drive themselves.
Kaito looked at Drexel. “Do we need to get any more interviews or interrogations?”
The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1) Page 8