Vanishing Point: A Warner & Lopez prequel novel Read online

‘Austin was in and out of homes all his life, mother was a heroin addict, father unknown. He was arrested for assault, jailed, bailed, then he drops off the radar for a year before reemerging two months before you collared him in Kankakee.’

  Lopez leaned forward.

  ‘I remember somethin’ about that,’ she said. ‘He vanished. Nobody put out a missing–persons report because presumably nobody gave a damn.’

  ‘Sad story,’ Honor confirmed. ‘Austin pops back up in Chicago and gets arrested for aggravated assault and burglary, was looking at five to ten for that and other crimes when he’s bailed for twenty thousand.’

  Lopez thought about that for a moment. ‘Who bailed him?’

  Honor frowned. ‘The bail was paid by a charity, listed here as based in Cairo, Illinois.’

  ‘What the hell is a charity doing bailing Austin for that much? They must have known he was a flight risk.’

  ‘Looks like they’ve bailed a few undesirables over the years,’ Honor said as she switched to her computer and tapped in a few search terms. She shook her head. ‘Registered charity, based itself in Cairo because it’s a disadvantaged city, one of the ghost towns down south near the Mississippi. Not much on them here, just a simple website, no details of owners or contacts.’

  Lopez’s senses tingled.

  ‘They’re an unknown charity and yet they’re bailing muggers out of Chicago’s south side? That’s gotta be out of whack, right?’

  ‘They’re certainly laying low, whoever they are. Mailing is to a PO Box, nothing else on their site at all. A Chicago company acted as the agent for the bail, I’ve got the details here.’

  Lopez leaned back in her seat and glanced out of the office window at the bright morning sky as Honor printed off the agent’s details. Dwayne Austin had taken a break from life and vanished. He could have simply wandered off to another state and carried on his way of life there, but then why would he have come back again to Illinois and risked arrest on sight here? Lopez had the gut feeling that there was something in the charity that had bailed him that would lead to her figuring out why Ethan had been so comprehensively stitched–up for a homicide.

  ‘I’m going down Cairo way for a look see,’ she decided.

  ‘Watch your step,’ Honor advised as she handed over the paperwork. ‘You can’t go storming in there, it might wreck any defense I can use to support Ethan when his case comes to trial.’

  ‘I’ll just take a look,’ Lopez promised. ‘If anything pops I’ll call. Let me know the moment we get the CCTV from that bus.’

  Lopez headed out of the office to her car, the details Honor had printed out in one hand and her cell phone in the other as a polite female voice answered the line.

  ‘Chicago Respite Incorporated, how can I help you?’

  Lopez gave her details and requested information on the company in Cairo, Illinois and its connection to the bail of Dwayne Austin.

  ‘Austin,’ the woman echoed, ‘I remember that name. Tall guy, kinda rough looking?’

  ‘That fits. You know him?’

  ‘He came in here a week ago to thank us. Thing is, we’d never heard of him.’

  Lopez slowed down. ‘He came to Chicago to thank you?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the reply. ‘He’d been bailed and had turned his life around, although he was wanted for arrest on outstanding warrants. He said he was preparing to go back into the system, pay his dues, and then start afresh somewhere in south Illinois. He seemed really excited, was all for buying us a drink after work and that kind of thing.’

  Now, Lopez came to a complete halt. That sounded nothing like the fleeing, terrified man they’d encountered on the Greyhound bus.

  ‘And you’d never heard of him?’

  ‘We got to the bottom of it,’ came the reply. ‘The company, CRI, had acted as a bail agent to the courts for another company down south Illinois. I can send you the details but there’s not much to go on.’

  ‘P.O. Box, Cairo?’ Lopez asked, and was rewarded with a surprised affirmation.

  ‘Yes, how did you know?’

  ‘I got a picture coming together here,’ Lopez said by way of a reply. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Lopez got in to her car and drove south back to the bridge where a detective had finally been assigned to the site of the homicide. She pulled in just outside the cordon and walked back up the highway, then waited for twenty minutes until the detective decided that he had time to talk to her. A tall, rangy man with receding light brown hair, he strolled up to her with his hands in his pockets, disinterest eveloping him like an apathetic forcefield.

  ‘Detective Torres,’ he introduced himself to her. ‘You a witness?’

  ‘Kinda,’ Lopez replied. ‘It’s my partner who’s on the hook for this but he’s innocent.’

  ‘Aren’t they all,’ Torres drawled, clearly disappointed.

  ‘Until proven guilty. You forget that bit?’

  The detective peered at her. ‘You gotta point bein’ here, miss?’

  ‘You check beneath the bridge?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘See the mooring?’

  ‘You goin’ somewhere?’

  ‘Dwayne Austin got popped after he dived, not before.’

  ‘You figure that how?’

  ‘Why not wait for the autopsy report?’ Lopez replied. ‘It’s gonna show water in his lungs.’

  The detective sighed, his hands still in his pockets. ‘Even if that’s true, it doesn’t mean he wasn’t shot on the bridge.’

  ‘He took a slug through the brain, Einstein. Instant death, no breathing.’

  ‘So, you want me to believe he took a dive off the bridge for the hell of it, then got himself killed after getting out?’

  ‘I’m going round in circles here,’ Lopez replied. ‘Ethan Warner didn’t shoot Dwayne Austin, that much I can be sure of. What counts is that somebody else must have killed him and they’re outta here. I guess you see this scene as all wrapped up, right?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Torres confirmed.

  ‘Where’s the pistol, and the slug?’

  ‘River’s being dredged this afternoon. I’ll put fifty bucks on recovering at least the weapon.’

  ‘Good,’ Lopez replied. ‘And how did the residue test come back on Ethan’s clothes?’

  Torres folded his arms across his chest. ‘I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.’

  ‘They’re clean, aren’t they,’ Lopez smiled. ‘First chink in the armor. I guess I should have realized that whoever set this up couldn’t have covered every angle. If they missed that, there must be other inconsistencies in the picture.’

  ‘The absence of gunshot residue alone isn’t enough to dismiss the charges,’ the detective replied. ‘We find the gun your partner tossed, it’s a closed case.’

  ‘The gun that anybody could have tossed.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, we’re here to prove evidence beyond reasonable doubt,’ the detective replied. ‘It’s up to a jury what they do with that evidence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a crime scene report to write.’

  Torres turned and stalked away from her, leaving Lopez to survey the scene one last time. The shooting of a low–life thief and addict wasn’t going to get the attention it deserved from the local PD as long as someone was on the hook and awaiting trial. She didn’t hold out any hope of a gun being found, as the real perpetrator would have taken it with them to ensure the miniumum of evidence was present but that which they had planned to be seen.

  She turned to her vehicle and climbed in. Cairo was a long way but she knew there had to be something there to tie Austin to the shooter and time was not on her side. Whatever difficulties she might face, they would likely pale against whatever Ethan was enduring right that very moment in jail.

  ***

  VIII

  Jerome Combs Detention Center

  It only took a brief glance for Ethan to know that the game was up.

  A cell across the tier, a dark, s
uspicious gaze. Whisperings among the other inmates, weaker prisoners giving him a wide berth as before but now with curious glances of morbid interest: the dead–man–walking recognition, the relief that they weren’t the same kind of target. Ethan figured that word would travel fast now, that he was a bail bondsman with a long history of incarcerating folks through the system. Warner and Lopez Incorporated was now a target on his back.

  Jones, his scrawny cell mate, became withdrawn and refused to talk to him, mindful of the other watching inmates across the tier. But it was when the bearded biker–twins returned that Ethan knew he wouldn’t have to wait long before Antonio Ferraga would focus in on him once more.

  ‘Ethan Warner,’ said Mikey as he walked into the cell and leaned on the gates with his arms folded across his chest. ‘Well, I’d never have believed it.’

  Even out here, it seemed, Ethan’s name was known well enough.

  Mikey’s brother, whose name had turned out to be “Spike”, sneered at him from nearby, his eyes ringed with muddy purple bruising and his nose splinted.

  ‘You’re gonna pay, Warner. We got some folks in here who can’t wait to see you again.’

  Ethan smiled without fear. He’d only been here for twenty–four hours but already he’d begun to meld into the rhythm of the jail. While there was much talking of stomping on heads and kicking of asses, the vast majority of inmates avoided violence and merely found their rank within the jail society and tried to survive. Only a small but vocal and active minority of inmates conducted the bulk of all attacks. Ethan knew that most of them were cowards, surviving only as part of one gang or another. He knew also that while they could attack him at any time en masse, they would find it hard to do so without being identified by the ever–watching guards and security cameras. Violence did occur, but Ethan knew that it was rare for fatalities to happen in a jail like Kankakee’s. His solution to this new problem was simple.

  ‘I’ll go pay ‘em a visit then.’

  He swung his legs off the bunk and dropped lithely to the floor. Jones’s eyes widened.

  ‘You’re gonna go lookin’ for them?’

  ‘Sure,’ Ethan replied with far more confidence than he actually felt as he grabbed Mikey’s cigarette tin and emptied it onto his bed before slipping the tin into his pocket. Ethan then stepped out onto the tier. ‘Why wait?’

  The prisoners were on social time after breakfast, not locked down as was often the case. Although only one block was ever on release at any one time, to reduce the number of inmates requiring observation, most of the folks that Ethan had to worry about were on the same block, the ones that had access to him. Ethan had learned from his time in the Marines that you didn’t wait for a confrontation to occur on your enemy’s terms. It was far better to provoke the confrontation and control it for as long as you could, giving Ethan the edge over how it played out. It might even buy him some more time if he could talk his way out of it.

  And he’d never been much good at waiting around anyway.

  Ethan walked down the steps into population, which was nothing more than an open area with tables and benches bolted to the floor. Various factions controlled certain areas of the block, with the boss and his cohorts holed up in one of the ground tier four–man cells at the far end. This was also next to the latrine, which they controlled and allowed access to in return for payments and favors from the other inmates. That the latrine could be so openly controlled by inmates rather than the screws said a lot about life in jail.

  Ethan made his way to the washroom and let everyone see him do it. There were no cameras inside the washroom, a vague nod to inmate privacy. The showers on the right were open stalls, with a row of sinks and steel mirrors bolted to the far wall. Ethan made his way to one of the sinks and began filling it with water as he waited.

  He didn’t wait long.

  Before the sink was even full there was a low, mournful whistle from outside the washroom. Two other inmates in the shower stalls suddenly high–tailed it out at the sound. Ethan undid his prison shirt and slipped out of it, began rolling it up in a long, twisted bundle. He fished the cigarette tin out of his pocket and filled it with water, then sealed it. He put it into the sleeve and tied the end off before rolling the shirt over on itself into a ball to hold together. The he sank it into the water as in the steel mirror he saw several men walk into the washroom.

  Antonio Ferraga was at their head. Squat, almost square in build with broad shoulders and muscular arms and legs, he strolled in without hurrying. His gray hair and stubble belied his years, but his age gained him respect from younger inmates. Behind him, four more heavies belonging to his crew followed, while another two stood watch near the washroom entrance.

  ‘Ethan Warner.’

  Ferraga’s voice was tinged with the broad notes of the Bronx and a hint of Italian that Ethan figured was something Ferraga liked to add himself. Ethan did not turn to face Ferraga as he pretended to wash his hands.

  ‘Somethin’ you need?’

  Ferraga smiled and opened his arms and hands out to show that he wasn’t armed, although Ethan knew that he would not touch another convict and instead let his crew do the damage and, if necessary, take the rap for it.

  ‘There’s no need to be like that now, Warner, I come in peace.’

  Ethan let go of the shirt and grabbed a dirty old towel that hung over some pipework. He turned to face Ferraga as he dried his hands.

  ‘Sure you do. Want your phone back?’

  ‘You got dues to pay Warner,’ Ferraga said by way of a reply. ‘The phone’s yours now, and you’re mine.’

  Ethan smiled, and tossed the towel at Ferraga’s face. The mobster ducked the towel and then shook his head slowly.

  ‘Man, for a low–life bail ratter you sure got some balls. I oughta have you nailed to a cross and paraded around the block. You know, some states are talking about out–lawing commercial bounty hunters? Rats like you’ll be out of a job soon.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll be penniless with only forty–eight other states to work in.’

  Ferraga grit his teeth. ‘Last chance to play nice, Warner. You’re not worth four of my guys, no matter how tough you think you are, and those Marines tattoos don’t count for nothin’ in here. I got a problem with the Surenos on C, they’re not showing us the respect that they should. You’re gonna shank their leader, today.’

  Ethan glanced at the other men behind Ferraga, all of them hardened criminals and tough street fighters, but probably none of them had more than two brain cells to rub together. As for the Latinos, stabbing any one of them would provoke an even bigger problem than Ferraga represented, as they were far more numerous and liable to kill first and ask questions later. He’d worked with Lopez for years and knew what a firebrand she could be.

  ‘The only shanking gonna happen here today is yours, if you don’t turn tail and walk outta here,’ Ethan replied calmly.

  Ferraga’s eyes widened and so did those of his lackeys. Ethan had virtually committed suicide right there and then. Ferraga overcame his shock and chuckled, then shrugged.

  ‘Have it your way, Warner.’ Then he turned to his crew. ‘Make it messy.’

  Ferraga walked out of the washroom and Ethan unfolded his arms as the heavies moved in.

  ‘Last chance to be smart and walk away guys,’ Ethan said to them.

  The heavies exchanged bemused glances as they advanced, line abreast, to block Ethan’s escape while coming at him from all angles. There were no smiles, no one–liners that came back at him. These four were serious about the business of violence and they did not hesitate in the slightest.

  Ethan reached behind him and pushed off the sink, and as he did so he slipped his hand into the water and dragged the laden shirt out as he swung it hard at the guy to his right. The heavy material swung around and the water–filled tin inside slammed into the man’s temple with a dull thud that sent him reeling to one side, the entire mass far heavier than its contents betrayed.

  The
second nearest man got a surprise boot in his testicles before he could pull a makeshift shank from his prison pants. Ethan danced lightly clear of the other two men, who both produced crude weapons from their pants, a razor blade duct–taped to a six–inch nail and a toothbrush handle sharpened to a point. Ethan would have laughed were he not certain that the two men would do everything they could to maim him in the next few seconds.

  Ethan swung the shirt as the two men lunged in, caught the forearm of the closest with a solid impact that spun the razor blade from his hand with a cry of pain. The fourth man stepped in as the shirt swung clear and Ethan was forced to let it go to block the point of the toothbrush from plunging into his flank. Ethan turned and pinned the man’s arm against the sinks as he swung a punch that cracked across his forehead and spun him sideways.

  Ethan swung two more punches against the other two men as they struggled back to their feet and plunged in, but within moments he was being overpowered. Blows rained down in random bursts, grunts and cries of pain and effort, and the weight of the men now forced Ethan to a floor slick with water and stained with age. A series of heavy blows to Ethan’s guts folded him up and they pinned him in place on his back.

  One of the men grabbed the dropped razor blade and with a savage grin he held it to Ethan’s throat.

  ‘No,’ groaned the man whom Ethan had kicked in the groin, ‘cut his balls off!’

  A snigger of delight as the convict reached down and pinned Ethan’s hips in place with one hand. He drew the blade arm back as far as he could and then with a shriek of delight plunged the weapon toward Ethan’s groin.

  ‘Down, down, down now!’

  Ethan saw the jail’s response team officers flood into the washroom, riot shields and masks on, cans of pepper spray and tasers ready. Instantly, Ethan’s assailants dropped their weapons and leaped clear as they were tackled to the ground. Ethan sucked in a breath of relief as he saw Ferraga’s door guards melt out of sight. Beyond them, standing on a nearby tier, he saw Jones watching. The kid gave him a brief wink, then vanished from sight.