The Shattered Bull (Drexel Pierce Book 1)

by Patrick Kanouse

  Drexel walked up to the bartender. “Two whiskeys.”

  The bartender looked at his watch. “Last call was fifteen minutes ago.”

  Ton slapped a fifty on the bar. “I’m sure you can find two glasses.”

  The bartender set down his washcloth, pulled out two whiskey glasses. He touched the Jameson’s bottle, and Drexel nodded. After he poured two fingers in each glass, he pocketed the fifty. Drexel asked, “Any of those ladies over there Tammy?”

  The bartender pointed to a woman, who was holding a pool cue as one of the two men examined how he was going to shoot.

  “Friend of Jerry’s?” asked Drexel.

  The bartender nodded.

  Drexel and Ton downed their drinks and set the glasses on the bar. Drexel watched Tammy, dressed in blue jeans, black boots that went to her knees, and a leather jacket with lots of silver spikes on the shoulders and collar. She was walking around the pool table, holding the cue, laughing at something. Her two companions wore jeans and long-sleeve, striped, partially buttoned up shirts with solid t-shirts showing beneath. Tammy stood next to one, who had large black ear plugs. Tammy leaned over and then scooted, rubbing her ass up against the man’s crotch, making cooing noises.

  Tammy shot, but the tip of the cue skidded over the the top of the cue ball, rolling it slowly down the felt. She laughed and the man slapped her ass, took a drink from his longneck, and eyed the table.

  Drexel said, “Let’s wait outside.”

  They stepped out and leaned against the building near the door. After about ten minutes, the group of five players walked out and split into two groups of two and a single person as they walked to their cars. As they were starting them, Tammy and her two friends stepped out of the bar. Three cars’ lights shined on the entrance of Rigley’s. Drexel said, “Tammy?”

  Tammy stopped and turned to face Drexel and Ton. The two men took a couple of steps before they realized Tammy had stopped. “What?” Her hair was in need of bleaching, for the brown roots were exposed for several inches of her shoulder-length hair. One of the cars pulled away out onto Pershing.

  “You know Jerry Winston?”

  She looked at Drexel and canted her jaw. “I wouldn’t be asking about Jerry.”

  The man with the plugged ears said, “Something up boys?”

  The other two cars pulled onto Pershing.

  Ton said, “We just need to talk to Tammy here.”

  The other man, with a loop earring in each ear and a two-inch beard said, “Just leave her alone.”

  Drexel said, “Where’s the old pipe factory up by O’Hare?”

  “Pipe factory?”

  The bearded man stepped forward, and Ton took a step forward, gesturing to him to stop.

  “Yeah. The place where Jerry takes people to talk to. When they don’t pay up.”

  “Why, he in trouble?”

  “Just want to talk to him.”

  “I knew he’d get in trouble eventually. He’s a screw up.” Tammy jabbed her finger at Drexel.

  The bearded man took another step forward, and Ton said, “Not another step,” which caught the attention of the other. As he stepped forward, Ton pulled out the Smith & Wesson revolver. “Not. Another. Step.” Both men halted.

  Tammy looked at Ton and then back at Drexel.

  Drexel raised his hands. “Look. I just want to know where that factory is. Nothing more.”

  The two men stood still. Tammy looked at Drexel, then Ton, and then back to her two friends. She looked back at Drexel. “I’m through with that piece of shit anyways. A no good screwup. It’s the Ozol and Sons. Don’t know where, but it’s up there by O’Hare.”

  Drexel nodded. “That’s all I wanted. Thanks.” He walked past her, keeping plenty of distance between himself, her, and her friends. Ton did likewise, keeping the pistol trained at the bearded man’s chest, even as he opened the door, rolled down the window, stepped in, and closed the door. He did not lower the revolver until he had started the car, which he then squealed the tires as he flew out of the parking lot, Tammy and her friends standing and bickering.

  * * *

  Ton drove faster than a native Chicagoan drives on the Dan Ryan as it turned into the Kennedy, barreling past the Loop, Goose Island, and roughly following the North Branch of the Chicago River until Avondale, where the river takes a more northerly course.

  Drexel used his iPhone to search for Ozol and Sons. The factory operated from 1903 to 2005 and was built on the site decades before O’Hare airport was developed. The Ozol family was part of the eastern European migration at the early part of the twentieth century. A Google search gave the address of the factory.

  They exited the Kennedy and drove south, past the airport. Drexel directed him to turn left on Lawrence, they cruised beneath the Tri State Tollway and turned south on Ruby Street. Ton pulled into the parking lot for Schiller Park Station, across the street from the back of the factory, a one story, long building made of brick and with large green-tinted panel windows. From the station, the place looked abandoned and empty.

  After pulling flashlights from the trunk, Drexel and Ton walked up to the building. On the north side, a fenced-in area had piles of piping, remnants, and other by-products of the factory process. A set of double-doors was visible behind a stack of pallets and crates. They split. Ton continued on the north side, and Drexel walked along the eastern edge where two large dumpsters sat. He turned and followed the edge of the building’s southern side, peering into the windows along the way. No lights. And he could not see in. Testing a number of doors that were locked, Drexel rounded the corner to the front of the factory, where Ton was standing at the entrance. Drexel jogged up next to him and then tested the double-glass door. The right door opened, and Ton walked through, holding his pistol pointed to the ground. Drexel followed. They crept through the lobby and through a door, propped open by a wood wedge, into the factory proper.

  The building had been cleared of its machinery, leaving boxes, pallets, and years of dust, which clung to the grime. Metal shavings made every step audible, and Drexel gave up stealth. “Ryan. Jerry.”

  They walked down the length of the factory, checking two restrooms and a small office along the way. At the far end, Ton motioned Drexel over to an industrial wash basin, the faucet dripping slowly. Damp rags hung over the side. To the left, they found a chair. The metal shavings had been disturbed in the area. Drexel aimed the flashlight around, looking for any information when it landed on an envelope taped to the wall with “Detective” written on the front.

  Drexel pulled the envelope down, and Ton walked over. Drexel held the envelope up. “What did you find?”

  “Nothing good. I’m pretty sure he tortured people here. There’s some batteries in the corner, nasty looking tools, buckets. Sorry.”

  Drexel nodded and opened the envelope, which contained a single piece of paper with a handwritten note. Jerry had made efforts to be legible, which showed in the mix of cursive and standard writing and delineated letters:

  Detective,

  You won’t find your brother so easy. It’s simple. Have the cops drop the case against me. Get rid of the evidence. Do something. That’s the only way to save your brother. I’ll know. And never trust a girl.

  Drexel crumbled up the paper and threw it to the ground. He shook his head. “Tammy warned him. It’s out of my hands. The evidence is in place. I can’t take it back,” he said to no one in particular. He kicked the chair, which went skittering across the floor on its back.

  Ton grabbed his elbow and walked him back to the car. They drove back to Drexel’s apartment. The dark cold night just creeping toward a cold dawn.

  Chapter 24

  Drexel, still dressed in last night’s clothes, woke to a gray light through the blinds. He looked at the clock. 2:18 p.m. He had crashed after getting home. Drexel pulled the phone fr
om his pocket and looked to see if he had any texts or messages. One from Victor telling him it was okay if Drexel did not come into work that day. Then it struck him. He had not yet told Lily. “Shit.” He double-checked the time. Two hours difference between Chicago and Seattle.

  He tapped her number from his favorites. It rang a few times and went to voice mail. “Lily. It’s your big brother. Call me.”

  He flopped back on the bed and tried to put the entire scenario into some sort of context. What did Jerry think he was going to get by kidnapping Ryan? Faced with the possibility of jail he chose the certainty of jail. “I’m a kidnapper not a murderer” seemed like a poor slogan. Had Tunney ordered this? Tunney seemed too cautious, to put-together for such a desperate move, especially if his orders to murder the Bull had been so careful and so quiet. Kidnapping a cop’s brother would have those who fed Tunney information questioning themselves. No, this did not seem like a Tunney move, but Jerry’s boss might be able to help. Drexel realized he was being nearly as desperate as Jerry, but he rationalized that he had a reason to be.

  He showered and shaved and put on fresh jeans, a long-sleeve Iron Man t-shirt, and white gym shoes. He made a peanut butter and dill pickle sandwich, filled Hart’s water bottle and food bowl while Hart batted around a small purple spiky ball, his back claws digging into the carpet. He was putting on his coat and grabbing his keys and wallet when Lily called, the heavy-metal chords of Metallica’s “Sad but True” muffled by his jeans pocket. He answered and sat on the couch, still wearing his coat. “Hey.”

  “Hello,” said Lily. “What’s up?”

  “I thought you should know something.”

  Impatient with the pause at the end of Drexel sentence, Lily said, “What’s that?”

  “Well. Um. Ryan’s. Well—”

  “Is he using again?” The last word hung like an accusation. Lily had never had much tolerance for what she perceived as weakness in others. A necessary condition for a corporate attorney.

  “No. He’s not.” The anger on Drexel’s voice was more prominent than he wanted. She did not know. Not yet. “He’s been kidnapped.”

  “What?”

  “He’s being held hostage.”

  A long pause, which Drexel let hang. He knew Lily was processing it, trying to understand.

  “Hostage. What? Why?” she asked. The tone in her voice had gone to protective, concerned. This trait of hers, this ability to bounce from angry to sincere was effective in corporate rooms discussing high-stakes legal issues, but one that Drexel distrusted as being antithetical to himself even as he recognized its similarities to some of his internalization.

  “A case I’m working on. Was working on. Implicated some bad men, and one of them decided to use Ryan to bargain his way out.”

  “A case you’re working on?” Her question sounded more like an accusation to Drexel’s ears.

  “Yeah. I’m a detective. I did my job.”

  “And Ryan was kidnapped?”

  He breathed in. “Look. My boss, he’s personally leading the search for Ryan. Got a team of excellent people. They’ll get Ryan back.”

  “Alive? Jesus, Drex. You’re in a city that’s the murder capital of the world. Just how can they manage to get him safe.”

  Ignoring the hyperbole, he said, “Because he’s family of a cop. Good or bad, that make’s it a priority.”

  “But— Fine. Should I come out there? What can I do?”

  “You can come out here if you want, but there’s not much you can do, and we’ve got a blizzard—”

  “I know about the blizzard. I’m coming out there. I’ll let you know my flight info, but don’t worry about picking me up or anything. I can figure my way around.”

  “Sure. Yeah. Be careful.”

  “I will.” Lily paused. “I wish you hadn’t become a cop.”

  “Bye.”

  “Yeah.” She hung up.

  Drexel set the phone on the counter and rubbed his chin. Why was his relationship with Lily so fraught with tension, ill-at-ease? An accumulation of a thousand slights, perceived slights, forgotten calls, sibling rivalries, and unknown, lost frictions. He shoved the phone in his pocket, pulled a knit cap over his ears, and as he closed the door to his apartment, he admitted to himself he was also jealous, if just a little. She had a husband she loved and lived well. Was it her fault Drexel chose the path he did? Lily had always been lukewarm on Zora, and Drexel presumed that Wayne disliked anyone he liked. Zora certainly did not like her brother-in-law. But Lily still had Wayne, and Drexel had lost everything.

  * * *

  Drexel walked into O’Lawry’s and walked to the far side of the bar. Waiting outside in the cold would raise more suspicion than sitting inside. Tunney was not sitting at his table, but what looked to be one of his goons was sitting at the bar nearest the entrance.

  Drexel ordered a Guinness and turned his attention to the TVs. One was set to ESPNews. The Bulls lost to the Pacers, badly, but the Blackhawks beat the Red Wings. The win more than made up for the loss. Another TV was set to CLTV. The Bull’s murder was forgotten apparently, though a small mention was made about the kidnapping of a Naperville plumber, who was being held hostage. Victor must have let the news filter out, which also meant the team had run into dead ends.

  The news media had not forgotten, however, about the Bull’s company, TG Enterprises, who named Pritchard as CEO, and he had bought a majority interest in the company, muscling aside any worries about the Bull’s portion of the company and to whom that belonged. The reporter speculated the company would generate huge profits for Pritchard and the board.

  Drexel ordered a second Guinness and chewed on the TG Enterprises news. Was there any possibility Pritchard could be involved? No.

  Tunney had not shown up. Drexel looked at his watch. 4:25. He drained the Guinness. He texted Ton while the bartender took his credit card, “Tunney not at bar. Thoughts?”

  Drexel signed the receipt, leaving a small tip, and left O’Lawry’s. Ton texted back, “I’ll see if I can find out about another fight.”

  * * *

  Newgate and Starling were at their desks, putting their personal effects in their drawers. Newgate nodded at Drexel. Naresh was already in, a Subway wrapper on the desk, with small bits of banana pepper, black olive, and bread crumbs the only evidence a sandwich had been in it. He smiled, a bit of oily shine around the lips.

  Starling walked up to him. “You doing okay?” She crossed her arms.

  Drexel nodded. “Did you talk to Samantha?”

  She shook her head. “Not yet. Weather delayed her flight in. We’re expecting her to get back here tomorrow.”

  Victor stepped half out of his office and waved Drexel in. He nodded to Starling and walked into Victor’s office, where he sat in the chair across from his captain. “So?”

  Victor scratched the back of his head. “Nothing so far. We’ve traced down a number of potential leads, but we found nothing.”

  “I found his girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  Drexel cocked his head. “You found her too?”

  “Yep. We went to the factory as well. A chair. A sink. Blood wiped off the floor.”

  “Jerry used the place to pummel debtors.”

  “But nothing that led us to any other location.”

  Drexel handed Victor the note. “Found this at the factory taped to the wall.”

  His boss scowled, took it, and read it. “We could fake we lost the evidence.”

  Drexel shook his head. “Tunney has someone on the inside here.”

  “But Jerry’s gone rogue.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, I’m betting Jerry has access to that contact.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no idea. I wish I did, but there’s someone. Maybe more.”

  Victor leaned
back in his chair. “I’m not sure what the next step is.”

  “You know what it is.”

  Victor stared hard at him. “It may cause more problems. May put Ryan at risk.”

  “Yeah, it might. I was at O’Lawry’s this afternoon. Tunney wasn’t there. So I’m seeing if there’s another fight.”

  Victor nodded.

  Drexel continued. “I think I should pay him a visit. Nothing untoward. Just trying to clear the air. But I have to do it. No one else can.”

  “I can’t say I’m a fan of this.”

  “You don’t need to be. Do you have any other ideas?”

  “No. All I can do from here is continue to chase down properties, friends, and stuff. I have no reason to haul Tunney in, and he won’t come voluntarily.”

  “Exactly.”

  Drexel left the station. Any faint hopes the official investigation would turn up Ryan had ended when Jerry had escaped the pipe factory. Chicago was home to ten million people in a metro area covering 11,000 square miles. Ryan could be anywhere.

  * * *

  Drexel sat on his couch absent-mindedly petting Hart. His phone was plugged in, and he had checked the volume to ensure it was at maximum a half dozen times. Lily had texted her flight was leaving Seattle tomorrow morning, arriving late morning Chicago time. She had a room booked at Trump Tower of all places.

  Her last text was, “See you.”

  The front entrance buzzer shattered the perception of aloneness. He stood up, and Hart darted away. Without using the intercom, Drexel pressed the button to open the door. He regretted it right away and retrieved his Glock from the gun safe in the room. Perhaps Tunney or Jerry decided to end him.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Kara stood before him. She wore a large dark red parka, the hood lined with fur. Drexel slid his pistol into the back of his pants and guided her into his apartment. He looked down the hallway in both directions before closing the door. “I’m surprised to see you.”

  She hugged him. “I had to come and see you. I’m leaving Chicago, but I just—” she looked at his face. Her hand reached up to touch his jaw where the lingering bruise delivered in the alley behind Ton’s store had turned yellow and ugly. She had not noticed in the rush to save her. “What happened?”