Hollingsworth

by Tom Bont

“You still have your pistol?”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t carried it in months.”

  “Time to dust it off,” Angela advised.

  “You think someone’s coming after me?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t want to take any chances, though.”

  Heather stepped up to the next t-off position and put her ball down. “Hey, you think I could get that cute partner of yours to take me to the range?”

  “Is that the only place you want him to take you?”

  “Sister, it’s been a year since I’ve had a man in my bed. Been too busy. But a man with handcuffs? Hmm, hmm!”

  “Hey!” Angela stepped up to her ball. “We swore off cowboys!”

  “You did. I swore no such thing.”

  “True,” Angela admitted as she swung her putter. “But you don’t want to know where a cop’s cuffs have been. Trust me on that one.”

  “Well, he’s got big, strong hands. I might just have to take a couple days of vacation for that.”

  Angela shook her head with a subtle chuckle. “Hussy.”

  Danny dropped a folder on Angela’s desk as she sat down. “The report on the arrow. Took forensics long enough. Four weeks? Hell, I could have held a séance and got quicker information.”

  “You’re here early,” she grumbled, ignoring his too-damned-cheerful early morning banter.

  “Went for a run before I came to work,” he explained as he dropped into his chair and put his hands behind his head.

  “God, I hate you,” she complained.

  “Why’s that?”

  “I hate morning people.”

  “I’m not people.” He sported a huge grin. “I’m your partner.”

  “Everyone’s a morning person until noon or a cup of coffee. Whichever comes first. Speaking of which, it’s your day.”

  He hopped from his chair. “Sonny Jim,” he burst out. “I forgot.” He pulled a cup of coffee from behind his computer screen. “Here.”

  “Sonny Jim? Wait. What’s going on here…? Oh, crap, Danny. You didn’t go out with Heather, did you?”

  His ears turned red. “No. Well, yeah. Well, not really. It wasn’t a date or anything. I cleaned her pistol and taught her how to shoot.”

  Angela crossed her arms. “Danny, her dad’s a United States Marine Corps general. She’s more qualified to shoot that weapon than you are.”

  “Oh.” He scrunched his eyebrows and gently sat back down in his chair. “So, it was a date?” A hint of a smile crept across his face.

  “Men.” She picked up the proffered cup and held her finger in the air, signally he should hush up. She closed her eyes and took her first sip of coffee for the day.

  Black, just the way I like it. The boy’s coming along just fine.

  She flipped open the cover on the folder. “Give me the highlights.”

  “Sabine’s DNA matched up to an unsolved rape and murder from six months ago. Lisa Reilly. Unsolved until today, that is.” Kent came up and listened to Danny’s report. “And the arrow is an authentic museum piece. The fletching you found in the mortar? As you suspected, it was a perfect match for what was left on the arrow. As if there was ever a doubt, regardless of what Justin had to say. Looks like we got us a real-life, supernatural hunter on our hands.”

  “Justin was an ass,” Angela said. “Worse, he was a moron.” She flipped a few more pages in the folder. “I’m tired of thinking every dead, bad guy we find is the result of a vigilante. This looks too coincidental, though.”

  “What’s your next move?” Kent asked, reminding her he was standing there behind her.

  “Well, we need more information on the arrow,” she said. “We need to find someone who can tell us where it came from, who made it, everything.”

  “Keep me updated,” he said, his voice no more than a gravelly whisper.

  Angela closed the folder. “Yes, sir.”

  As Kent strode purposefully away, Danny stood and put his jacket on. “Let’s roll. I’ll tell you all about my date.”

  “Agent Hollingsworth,” the receptionist said. She was a young woman with light brown hair and a pug nose. Sandy, by the nametag on her desk. “Ms. Mastier will see you now.”

  She led them from the lobby, with its squeaky vinyl couches, and through a pair of sandblasted glass doors. They followed a long hallway until they entered a corner office. The understated plaque on the door read Diana Mastier, Comptroller, ACME Protection Underwriters, but the inside was anything but understated. Granite topped tables, polished oak bookshelves and a magnificent view of downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan from two solid walls of floor to ceiling windows. Angela slowed her pace in awe as she walked in. She wondered what the nighttime cityscape must look like from there.

  As soon as they stepped into the office, a beautiful, statuesque woman in her late 30s rose from behind a large, mahogany desk. She stood a smidge below six feet and had the type of chest Angela wished for—proud, but not so large as to cause backaches. Black hair, curly and long, and when she stepped out from behind her desk, athletic thighs and stomach brought to mind Angela’s unused gym membership.

  If I were into women, this is the woman I’d be into.

  “Hello, Agent Hollingsworth. It’s nice to meet you.” She smiled, and her sharp, brown eyes twinkled with warmth. “I’m Diana Mastier.”

  “Hello, Ms. Mastier. It’s nice to meet you too. This is my consulting partner, Officer Danny McIver.”

  Danny stepped forward to shake her hand. Shock rattled Angela; his eyes were pale blue, signaling the start of his renovatio. Angela hoped Diana would accept it as his natural color. His forehead had a sheen to it. He tightened his lips, quickly released her hand, and stepped back. The only other time he’d acted so uncomfortable around a woman was when he met Heather. But he was clumsy then, not on the verge of changing.

  He stuttered, “I…I j-just remembered something I forgot to do,” he stammered, heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I’m not the only one attracted to her, it seems.

  Diana’s smile dropped to a smirk as Danny disappeared out the doorway. She looked back at Angela. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? A soda?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Great!” Followed Angela’s gaze to the skyline, she turned and looked over her shoulder. “Pretty isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m a Grand Rapids native and have yet to get tired of it.”

  “I bet.”

  “So, Agent Hollingsworth, what can I help the FBI with?”

  Angela handed her a warrant. “I believe this will explain everything.”

  Diana took a moment to read the document. “A Request for Help?”

  “It’s not a Search Warrant. It’s not legally binding. It’s a request from the government that you voluntarily help us with a case. We’re not asking for open access to your systems, but ever since 9/11, we’ve found it necessary to work more closely with the private sector than ever before. This request shows you we are on official business and not looking for dirt on your company.”

  Diana leaned back against her desk and crossed her ankles. “Our client confidentiality prevents us from sharing this information without an actual search warrant.”

  “We aren’t here to seize information. We’re simply asking your help to clear some things up. The line between confidentiality and something we could glean from data mining government records is fine but distinct. You, not we, will make the call when we go over that line.”

  Diana’s smile returned. “And if I refuse, 200 FBI computer experts will take over my data center, shutting me down for weeks while you dig for what I could give you in a few moments.”

  Angela grimaced. “Yeah. I would really hate to do that. It would get the job done, but the stack of paperwork I’d have to fill out would destroy my Thanksgiving. Plus—” she crossed her arms and rubbed them “—it’s too damned cold here. I’m a southern girl. I
like beaches and drinks with little umbrellas in them.”

  Not that spending it in silence with Mom and Dad is something I’m looking forward to anyway.

  Diana laughed. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, now would we. Consider me at your disposal. What information, in particular, are you looking for?”

  Two days ago, Angela had sat down at her desk and connected to Archives through her own workstation.

  Welcome to the 21st century!

  She was quite pleased she didn’t have to drive across town to Archives any longer. She and Danny had spent a few hours with the coroner generating a list of search terms. They were working under the assumption someone was going after unsolved murder-rapes. If there were any unsolved murders under unusual circumstances—such as locked room mysteries—they wanted to compare those victims’ DNA with any unsolved sexual assaults.

  Her connection to Archives might not have been the fastest leaf in the stream, but as soon as she pressed the Enter key, two results popped up. Three more. Seven more. “Search Complete,” the screen read after about half an hour.

  A baker’s dozen—if you count Marshall—with nearly identical MOs.

  After a few moments, it dawned on her why no one had made a connection before. The cases spanned twenty years and over the entire country. Every perpetrator was a man with no priors, his DNA connecting him to a crime at least six months old. The interesting part was their method of death; they were categorized under the FBI’s Other column. These were typically things like arrows, knives, or swords. Three of the men had broken necks from what three separate coroners swore were bola attacks. Those three deaths had been assumed linked a couple of times, but without additional evidence, there was no way to pin it on any one person. Angela, however, had one final piece of evidence to connect them.

  Their victims.

  She sent the results to Danny and Kent, and they spent the next few months scouring through records, conducting interviews, assigning other agents around the country to conduct interviews, and reviewing past interviews.

  “…so, after all that work,” Angela revealed with a pointed look, “we found one, and only one, link connecting them. Each of the women had a life insurance policy underwritten and paid out by ACME Protection Underwriters.”

  Diana’s eyes and mouth opened in surprise. “We underwrite a large number of insurance policies, but this is just too fantastic to believe.” She gazed out her window for a moment and slowly turned her gaze back. “You think someone at my company is responsible?” She held the information request up. “That’s what this is for.”

  “Yes. We think someone who has, or had, access to these accounts when they paid out might lead in a more positive direction. Who would have access to these women’s accounts?”

  “This office. Claims, too.”

  “So, you would have access to the records?”

  “Technically, yes, but I don’t get into the system.”

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “Eight years.” Diana threw a piercing look at Angela. “You can check with Human Resources.”

  “We will, thanks. How many in Claims? Over the last twenty years?”

  “All of them? None. Not unless one of them hacked in,” Diana confirmed. Her face was a mask of distraction as she looked off to the side, blinking and mouthing words only she could hear. Finally, she spoke up. “I’ll look into it and get back to you.”

  “We need to look now.”

  Diana glanced back at the request. “Yes. Of course. Follow me.”

  Danny caught up with them in personnel. Simple searches showed over the last twenty years, there had been four different people heading Claims. One was retired. One used a wheelchair. One died eight and a half years ago.

  The current one, Wallace Ingraham, had taken an early lunch.

  Danny checked his watch. “It’s only 9:30. A little early unless he’s on Nova Scotia time.”

  Diana immediately picked up the phone and punched in a number. “Security? This is Diana Mastier. I need you to locate Wallace Ingraham and hold him until I get there.”

  While Diana talked with her security department, Danny kept his distance from her. To the untrained eye, it appeared normal; he was fiddling with his phone. Checking his mail. Observing the area. But to Angela, she knew the difference. Diana spooked him…like the house in Marshall. He was more relaxed than he was upstairs, but his eyes were still pale blue.

  “…already left?” Diana repeated into the phone as she glanced over at Angela. “How long ago? Thanks. Contact me the moment he returns.” She hung up the phone. “He left the building about half an hour ago.”

  Danny called their office. “Kent, we need a Wants or Warrants Check on Wallace Ingraham. Records can contact Diana Mastier here to get the particulars…Yes, sir…That’s fine. Just have them send the report to our phones. And put out an APB on him. He’s a Person of Interest. Requires a Level One Interview. Thanks.” He hung up his phone. His hands shook.

  Angela nodded to him and Diana. “That’s all we can do for now.”

  Diana had taken up a place behind the personnel agent and stared at the computer screen. “I can’t believe Wallace is suspected of murder. I don’t know him that well, but I like to think I’m a good judge of character.”

  This kind of shock was typical. He was such a quiet boy. Got along with everyone. Used to mow my yard. My son would never do that!

  “It’s always the quiet ones, Ms. Mastier.” She turned to Danny. “I think we’re done here. You?”

  Danny nodded in short, jerky movements.

  The elevator doors shut, and Angela spun on Danny. “What the hell was your problem? A pretty face and you go all wolfy?”

  “No!” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what the hell was happening. It took every ounce of willpower I had to hold my renovatio down. It was like I was sitting under a full moon. That’s never happened before!” He held his hands up and to the sides. “I swear it, Angela.”

  She studied him. He looked calm now, eyes their normal hazel, if not a bit nervous. “What do you think caused it?” She scoured her brain for clues; she had no idea what would cause a werewolf to werewolf. “Did her perfume smell like raw meat to you or something?”

  He scoffed and grimaced at her. “No. A smell sometimes makes us antsy, but that wasn’t it. Besides, I have complete control except at night under a full moon.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and they followed the signs to the parking garage.

  “Can you lose your Frenatus thingy?”

  “There’ve been cases of lupus reverting to wildlings, but only under extreme psychological or physiological circumstances. Torture’s a sure-fire way to cause it.”

  “Am I working you too hard?”

  He scoffed again. “No. I do need a vacation, though.”

  “Where you going? Home?”

  “No. Orlando. Viam Lupus Monastery.”

  She knew that was where lupus learned how to be a Frenator. She looked sideways at him as she opened the car door. “Granted. I’ll make sure Kent approves it.”

  He relaxed into a sigh. “Thanks.”

  “Two weeks, Danny,” she said. “If you can’t figure this out in two weeks, you’re back to being a beat cop in Dumbfuck, Texas.”

  The man strutting up to Angela and Danny didn’t look like a college professor at all. He looked like a rodeo cowboy with his boots and shiny belt buckle. “I’m Dr. Mark Canard. Can I help you?” he asked in a thick drawl. His eyes gleamed with a squint borne of spending quite a bit of time in the sun.

  “I’m Agent Angela Hollingsworth. This is Officer Danny McIver. Thanks for meeting with us. We’ve come to check on our arrow.”

  “Nice to meet you both,” Mark responded. “I apologize for taking so long to get back to you. To be honest, I blew it off as a well-made reproduction when I first saw it. How wrong I was! Follow me, please? I’ll show you why I’m so excited.”

  Dr. Canard l
ed them down a few corridors until they arrived in a room with an excessive assortment of ancient weaponry. It all hung on the walls, mounted in racks, or stored in drawers—half of which were open, showing their contents. A large table in the center of the room had an assortment of arrows spread out across it. “These are the same type of arrows as yours.”

  Angela frowned. “These don’t look anything like ours. These are old and partially disintegrated.”

  Mark’s face lit with joy and amazement. “That’s what’s so spectacular. Your arrow is one of these—” he pointed to the table “—except it looks like it was made yesterday. The same paints, wooden shaft, goose feather, everything. Either the ancient Greeks made your arrow or someone who knows more about the craft than I do made it. Where did you find it?”

  Angela spoke in low, even tones. “Someone shot it through a rapist’s chest.”

  “Wow!” Mark cocked his head to the side, and a sly grin twisted his lips. “Artemis lives!”

  “Who?”

  “Artemis,” Mark stated. “Daughter of Zeus and Leto? Twin sister to Apollo?” At the mention of a twin, she and Danny shared a grimace with each other. “Greek Goddess of the Moon and Protector of Young Girls? The Stainless Maiden?” When she and Danny stared at him with blank looks, he shifted into full professor mode. “The Romans called her Diana, though. Neolithic man called her Callisto. To the Minoans, she was Britomartis. Her favorite weapon was the bow and arrow. Your arrow is Greek. She’s Greek. And she had a soft spot for abused women.”

  Angela glanced at Danny. “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into this time? A Greek Goddess? Roaming around, killing off rapists?”

  “No, of course not,” Mark sniggered. “It was the first thing to come to mind. That’s all.”

  “Can you tell us where it was manufactured?” Danny asked. “Any serial numbers on it?”

  Mark let out a short, sarcastic chuckle. “You don’t understand. This arrow, from everything I can tell, was made 2,700 years ago.” He pulled out a sheet of paper with a bunch of graphs on it. “I ran it through the spectrometer. The materials in your arrow, they perfectly match the materials in these—” he pointed to the arrows on the table again. “As I said, it’s either a perfect forgery or an authentic specimen from that time period.”