“You think he’s been set up? Gee. Who would’ve thought? A man who buys his way out of everything has finally had his day.” The sarcasm was clear.
“You—” Hunter stopped as his phone pinged again. He looked at the message.
It was from Esther.
Urgent.
“I have to take this.” Hunter stood and began to walk out of the room. Kokkinos followed him and opened the office door. Hunter stepped outside the building before calling Esther back. “Esther.”
“Tex.” She responded. “You’re not going to like this.”
Esther explained the information that had arrived on her desk. It was from the prosecution.
The news they didn’t want. The news Hunter dreaded.
The news that could change the course of the case.
Hunter listened to what Esther said, and asked her to repeat it, but there was no miscommunication, there was no doubting what she stated—Witness B, Jasmine Langford, was missing.
Chapter 14
During the next five weeks, Tex Hunter found it impossible to sleep more than a few hours. He tossed and turned during the long nights, frustrated at his inability to switch off, his thoughts dashing everywhere but rest. He thought about the sleaze of Rick Cowan. The involvement of John Warden. Tony Kokkinos. The Samoan guard. They all played in his head like it was a playground, a place to run wild and free, but mostly his thoughts were with the missing witness. Jasmine Langford didn’t deserve to be attacked. She didn’t deserve the fate that was handed to her.
No body had been found. That gave him some hope. He ran Jasmine’s conversation over and over in his head—the police threatened to release her name to Cowan, so they could nail him for witness tampering. ‘Not much good if I’m floating down the river,’ she had said. The statement swam in his mind for weeks, repeating itself the second he tried to switch off.
No witness tampering charge had been filed. Whoever made the hit, did it cleanly. There was evidence of a broken lock at Jasmine’s apartment, but no witnesses had come forward, and nothing of significance had been left behind. There was no further trace of her. She hadn’t contacted friends, she hadn’t used her credit cards, and her phone was left in the apartment. Cowan was suspect number one, but there were also other people in the mix. The people that paid her to testify might’ve changed their minds, and considered her too much of a risk. Without a body, there was little chance of an arrest.
Hunter had spent five weeks investigating the case—following leads, conducting interviews, and attempting to have evidence thrown out of court—but still, he was no closer to finding out who framed Cowan. His client admitted he was tipped off and was aware the raid was coming. He said there was a small amount of cocaine in the club, no more than a few hundred dollars’ worth, but he continued to deny any knowledge of the larger amount. Cowan was convinced someone in the CPD planted the drugs before the raid took place.
There was pressure coming on Hunter from all sides of the law—detectives had followed him on numerous days, beat cops had harassed him for jaywalking, and the telephone calls from the prosecution’s office were constant.
As he drove to his apartment, he was rehearsing his opening statement, confident they had the chance to win the case at trial. The case against his client was solid, but not unbeatable. The State had witnesses, constructive possession, and body-cam footage from the day of the raid, but there was still room to doubt he took possession of the product knowingly. The door was still ajar, and Hunter was trying to put his foot through it.
As the gates to the parking lot under his apartment building opened, Tex Hunter noticed the figure standing on the side of the road. The gates raised, and the figure slipped underneath, walking in as Hunter parked his car. Hunter opened his door as soon as he parked.
The closing gates blocked any light from the outside, but the artificial lights were bright. The parking lot was cold, damp, and was half-filled on the Thursday evening. The residents’ parking lot was spacious and filled with new model BMWs, Mercedes, and Audis.
“Tex.” Ray Jones walked down the ramp towards Hunter’s car. “There’s still no sign of Jasmine Langford. No body, no lead, nothing. Five weeks of trying to find this girl and we have nothing. If she’s hiding, she’s doing it well, but a better guess would be that she’s on the bottom of the river.”
“I haven’t given up yet.” Hunter sighed as he stepped out of his BMW. He closed the door and leaned against the side of the vehicle. “Two detectives came to my office today, questioning me about her whereabouts. I told them that I was investigating the case, and had nothing to do with her disappearance, but rumor is the CPD are looking closely at me, and it doesn’t look good, Ray. They have a file and already they’re talking about arrests. And I get it—I go and talk to her, and one day later, she’s missing. This doesn’t look good for me at all.”
“I’ve got a contact in the department.” Jones stood across from Hunter, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Your name is high up on the list in the witness tampering claims. They fed you the name, Tex. They knew you would lead Cowan’s men to her. John Warden set you up.”
“Seems to be the only consistent thing for Jasmine Langford. People played with her life like it was some sort of game. Whoever fed Warden the name of the girl didn’t care about her at all. Rick Cowan is still denying any culpability. Says he knew nothing about it. The first he heard she was the witness was when I told him.” Hunter leaned his head back. “There’s not much chance she’s still alive, is there?”
“It doesn’t look that way. And I get it. I feel responsible as well. I feel like this is our fault. If we didn’t find her, if we didn’t go and talk to her, then she would’ve been safe from Cowan. Winning a case is one thing, risking the life of a young woman is another.”
Another car drove into the parking lot, parking a row away from Hunter’s car. Hunter gave the driver a slight nod, and they did the same in return.
He didn’t know many people in his apartment building, and the ones he did, he knew by sight only. He’d never taken the time to get to know his neighbors, something he often regretted. He understood the need for community, but with working so much, finding the time to chat wasn’t something he felt he could do.
“It’s all one big set up by this corruption racket, but I’m not going to let them play with the system. I won’t let them do whatever they want.” The phone buzzed in Hunter’s pocket. He recognized the number. “Excuse me, Ray. I have to get this. I imagine this is about the witness list.”
Hunter answered the phone, and before he could say a word the person on the other end of the line began yelling.
“I’m going to deliver the redacted witness list in person at 10am on Monday, and no one else better go missing.” Prosecutor Samuel Spencer wasted no time getting to the point. “Do you hear me, Hunter? After I deliver the list, Cowan better not get his hands on these witnesses.”
“I don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
“The stripper. Witness B. A day after you paid her a visit, she went missing. That’s not a coincidence. Nobody else on the list is to be touched. Do you understand me?”
“I had nothing to do with it.”
“I know how this works, Hunter.” The venom in Spencer’s voice was clear. “You play dumb, get the information you need, and relay it to Cowan. But let me tell you this, we will not rest on this case. With or without her testimony, we’re coming for Cowan. And after that, we’re coming for you. Witness tampering is a federal crime, and you’re going to prison for this. We’ve already built a strong case against you.”
“Are you sure she didn’t take a vacation? Florida is appealing this time of year.”
“Don’t you dare.” The sound of spit hitting the phone was clear. “When I find out what you had to do with this, I’m going to bring the full force of the law down on-top of you. You visited her before the redacted witness list was released. You had enough time to plan this. I know you’r
e involved in making sure this witness went missing. I’m coming after you, Hunter. We all are. Witness tampering carries a long prison sentence. You’ll have a family reunion with your father behind bars soon.”
Hunter didn’t answer. As Cowan’s lawyer, Hunter was being painted with the same brush that tarnished his client.
“Do you hear me, Hunter? New evidence has come across our desk that ties you to this. You think you can make witnesses go missing and not have consequences? I expected better from you. You don’t own this game. I do. I own this game. And I’ve already built the file against you. Your fingerprints are in her apartment. We have footage of your car outside her building. You have motive. I’m coming for you, and I’m going to relish the chance to take you down.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Hunter ended the call and looked back to Jones. “Where were we?”
“Sorry, Tex. I’ve exhausted every lead and I don’t have any more information about Jasmine.” Jones kept his hands in his pockets. “When you went to visit her, did you see anyone following you?”
“I had a sense there was someone there, but I couldn’t see anyone.” He shook his head. “I had a tail over the few days beforehand. A Samoan. He looked like the guard from the club, but I thought I shook him before I went to her apartment.”
“They had this planned from the start, didn’t they?”
“It looks like it. And I don’t think Cowan has finished his scare tactics yet. The other witnesses may still be in danger.” Hunter said. “We have to keep him close. That’s the only way we can move forward. And maybe, just maybe, he’ll give us a hint where the girl is buried.”
Chapter 15
The sounds reverberated off the outdoor basketball court, a mixture of disappointment and elation, in the aptly named Wicker Park, which was in the neighborhood of Wicker Park, and off North Wicker Park Ave. Under lights in the early evening cold, the basketball players hustled next to each other, working their sweaty bodies, trying to win the pick-up game. On the first court, the enthusiasm of the young men was high, they were feeling strong, with determined grunts echoing through the air. On the second court, closest to the road, a number of older men were trying to maintain any semblance of their youth, missing more shots than they cared to admit. The trash talk was brash, the knocks were solid, and the effort was determined.
On his day off, Chicago PD Detective Henry Holmes looked slow on the public-use court even when compared to the older players—bouncing the basketball in his left hand, holding out his right hand as a defense, and yelling abuse to the others who dared to step onto the court with him. Despite being at least thirty, maybe even forty, years past their prime, the men on Court 2 were still determined to play like they were in their teens. Muscle definition was being lost by the year and every knee on the court was strapped, but in their minds, they were still competing for a spot on a NBA roster.
Holmes spotted the well-dressed lawyer at the edge of the court, grunted, and when the opposition player also looked in Tex Hunter’s direction, Holmes moved the ball, and proceeded to race through a lay-up, which hit the rim, and was rebounded by another player. The first player complained, and Holmes replied with more comical trash talk.
With the speed of a vintage car, Holmes found the ball again and sprung back into the air, jumping around another sixty-year-old. He hit the jump shot, his first in five, and followed the basket with a few words of poignant wisdom, a high-five and more jibes about the man’s ability.
Five minutes later, Holmes had finally hit another shot, high-fiving the other members of his pick-up team, celebrating a win on court. He bowed out of the game, picked up his towel and water bottle, and walked over to see Hunter.
“Looking great out there, Holmes. The Bulls should be calling soon.”
“If they’d made an offer forty years ago, I would’ve jumped at the chance. But today, all I’d give them is a cranky old man. The only thing that’s gotten better is my trash-talking.”
“Come on,” Hunter smiled. “You don’t look a day over seventy-five.”
“Youth is not an achievement, Tex. We’ve all been there and done that.” The steam poured off his bald head. “And I can see gray hairs on your head. There’s no mistaking you for a twenty-five-year-old.”
One of the other players called Holmes back to the court, but he declined the offer, his endurance almost spent. He put on a sweatshirt, the steam rising off his head like a boiling pot, and then wiped his brow with the towel once more. He was a solid six-foot, a linebacker in high school, and still retained a broad set of shoulders. His skin had lost it’s tone over the past few years, and the good looks of his youth were nothing more than a memory. With forty-five years of service in the Chicago PD, his time as a cop was respected, if not revered, among the younger recruits.
“But I hear a certain witness might not grow old. I guess that’s why you’re here. You want to find out how close we are to arresting you for getting rid of her.”
“You still owe me a favor, Holmes. I’m calling it in. I want to know what you know about the girl.”
Holmes turned and looked at the players on the court, checking to see if anyone was listening. They all knew he was a cop, his reputation preceded him, but he tried to keep that world separate from the pick-up games. The same players had been attending the weekly meets for much of the past twenty years, and there was a strength in the male bonds forged through physical endeavor. Some players had moved on, and some had been buried, but there was an unbreakable sense of community between them. If needed, they would be there for each other in a heartbeat.
“That’s the thing about retiring—people are in a rush to call the favors in.” Holmes looked back towards the courts. “Lots of people have been asking for favors lately.”
“Is that what happened when you lead the task force raid on the Five-Star?”
“I can’t talk to you about the raid, unless you do it officially.” He shook his head, checked the court again, and then turned back to Hunter. “But I’ll tell you how close we are for the missing witness—your name and picture are on a whiteboard with lines connecting you to other people. You’re a suspect, Tex, and we’ve had people watching you. The file has been built on your past cases and this has happened before. Five years ago, a prosecution witness died before the trial you were involved in, brakes failed on her car. That’s a pattern.”
“I had nothing to do with the disappearance.”
“You and Rick Cowan are the main suspects in the disappearance of Witness B, and Cowan has also been involved with similar crimes in the past. The man is scum. The worst sort too—he takes advantage of vulnerable women and uses them to make money.”
“You’re talking about his dancers?”
“He prowls the streets for vulnerable eighteen-year-old girls, girls that aren’t even old enough to drink, and then throws money at them until they agree to become one of his strippers. From there, they’re trapped into that life. He cuts them off from everything. Gets them addicted to drugs and the lifestyle. Once they’re in his game, a lot of these girls have no way out.”
“Like Jasmine Langford.”
“She saw her chance to take down Cowan, and not only free herself, but also save the lives of all the girls who worked at that stinking club. She was friends with the girl who overdosed, and Lana Nevis was the estranged daughter of a beat cop. The girls in that club are given everything—heroin, opioids, cocaine, ecstasy. You name it, Cowan loads them up with it until they’re all addicted to drugs and money. This isn’t about one case, one drug bust, one little incident—this is about stopping Cowan from doing whatever he wants. This is about stopping bribery. This is about stopping one of the biggest pieces of dirt in the city. We have the chance to stop him, and we will.”
“Sounds like you’re familiar with the club?”
“Been there once or twice.” Holmes looked away, brushing the tip of his nose. “I know what happens there. And I know the missing witness isn’t a coinc
idence.”
“John Warden fed the name of the witness to me, and he did it on purpose. This whole thing is a set-up. He knew how Cowan worked and he knew what he was going to do. That name was fed to Warden by someone in the department, someone close. You’re friends with John Warden. Old friends. Former colleagues in the PD. That could be considered entrapment.”
“You’ve got to be joking.” Holmes mocked, shaking his head. “You think someone forced Cowan to take care of the girl? No chance. He did it all of his own choosing. Nobody even suggested he should do that. Even if the name of Witness B was deliberately leaked, Cowan still made the choice to take her out. Cowan needs to be more like Tony Kokkinos—tough business man but treats his employees like angels.”
“How do you know Kokkinos?”
“We’ve met a few times over the years. He gives me information when needed, and he wants to buy Rick Cowan out. He’s waiting for the right time.”
“Perhaps when Cowan’s facing fifteen years in prison?”
“Maybe.”
The ball bounced nearby and one of the other guys came close to them. Holmes kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, as the man picked up the ball. The player kept his eyes on Hunter longer than a casual glance. Hunter nodded towards the man as he jogged back onto the court.
“Sometimes, I don’t know if I’ve done enough.” Holmes ran a hand over his head. “You know, I’m retiring next year and I’ve been trying to take down guys like Rick Cowan for four decades. The guys above him, the real movers and shakers, they’re the ones I should’ve went for. You always regret the ones that got away.”
“You still have time to change that.” Hunter responded.
“Have I? I’ve made some bad decisions, Tex. Decisions that have let one person go to catch another. Decisions that I still think about a lot. Decisions that wake me up in the middle of the night, wondering was that the right thing? I’ve broken the law to nab guys because I know what they’ve done. I know Schultz is—”
Deadly Justice: A Legal Thriller (Tex Hunter Book 4) Page 8
