11
They stood facing a run-down house that time had forgotten with the harsh hand of decay and carelessness. The boarded-up windows and brown-patched lawn reflected total neglect. It was sad, Mason thought. It could have been a nice home for a family, once upon a time.
‘Ready?’ Detective Jane Phillips said.
‘As I’ll ever be.’
Together they approached the house. Mason raised his fist ready to knock, when somebody opened it from the other side. They both stared at a deathly pale teenager; lily-white skin and bloodshot eyes told them everything they needed to know about this kid’s drug habits. The fact that he ran back into the house said the rest.
Mason’s reactions took over. He kicked the door open wide and dove into the house, close to tripping over some unconscious junkies. To his surprise, Jane rushed past, overtaking him with nimble grace. In the blink of an eye, she had the kid pinned, crushing his cheek into the wall and demanding answers.
‘Looking for a friend of yours,’ she said.
Mason closed the door and leaned on it, watching everyone else with an eagle’s eye. Jane seemed competent, and he was more than happy to let her carry on with it. As long as none of the passed-out coke-heads got up to attack her, she would be fine. Although it looked as though that wouldn’t be happening anytime soon – not a single face turned up to witness the shouting and crashing.
‘Look around, bitch,’ the kid said.
Jane took the boy’s wrist and twisted it around his back. When she raised it toward his shoulder blades, he cried out in agony. ‘Let’s try that again,’ she said. ‘I know that Anarchy comes by here, and it’s best that you cooperate.’
Mason watched with amusement, her confidence and aggression more than a little surprising. If circumstances were different, he might have told her to take it easy, but he had been desperate himself – many assholes had been pinned by him in the past in much the same way. Keeping his mouth zipped, he continued to watch with rapt attention.
Until he saw it.
In the back, hiding in the thin crack of the barely open door was a silhouette. An eye could be seen peeping through, but little more than that. Mason drew his gun and slipped off into the nearby hallway, hoping it would lead around. Perhaps he just got lucky, or he was just starting to learn about these things, but he crept through a room and found himself on the other side of that door.
The black man – who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five, stood holding a sub-machine gun. Thankfully, he had his back to Mason, but it looked like he was ready to leap out at Jane Phillips and mow her down.
Mason crept forward, placing the lip of his Beretta into the man’s back. ‘Listen to me carefully,’ he whispered. He could still hear Jane giving the kid hell in the other room. ‘You need to slowly put that gun into my hand.’
But the man remained motionless. Without turning around, he mumbled, ‘Or what?’
Or what? Mason scoffed. He’d thought he’d made himself crystal clear. He pushed the pistol further into his back. Letting the cold, hard metal dig into that tender flesh to drive his point home. ‘Listen, I’ve had one hell of a week. The last thing I need is some junkie kid’s death on my conscience. I mean, how old are you?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m betting early-twenties.’ Mason reached for the gun, preventing the guy from moving it. ‘That means you have at least thirty years to get a nice home, settle down with a beautiful woman. Hell, maybe even get yourself one of those sit-down lawnmowers.’
‘I don’t need saving.’ The man turned around, looking up into Mason’s eyes. Even though his grip on the sub-machine gun began to soften, fierce aggression remained in his eyes.
‘I know. You don’t need anything. But look at your options; you can give me the gun and come down to the station with us, maybe talk to us a little about a guy who comes by here. Or you can fire it, see how quickly backup arrives and spend the rest of your life as some asshole’s… well, asshole. I hear prison’s nice this time of year.’
For a moment, he seemed to be considering his options. ‘You’re just going to arrest me for possession of the gun anyway. Think I’m stupid?’
‘No, no. I don’t think you’re stupid. But you have my word, if you come quietly and tell us what we need to know, you won’t be in trouble for possession of the weapon.’
Just when he thought the kid would kick off and shoot him, he let go of the gun. It slipped into Mason’s hand, and he opened the door. Jane turned to face them, and the look on her face read that she was either confused or impressed.
Perhaps both.
‘Let him go, Jane,’ Mason said. ‘This one wants to talk.’
12
They were in it together. Mason and Jane sat on one side of the table, with their interviewee on the other. He’d revealed his name as Jason Blake, an ex-decorator from DC, whose mother had kicked him out. After that, his life had quickly fallen to shit.
‘We know he’s been at that crack den of yours,’ Jane said. ‘Care to tell us how you guys met? You know, we have photographs of you and him talking. So here’s the deal. Give us what we need or we’ll pin you as an accomplice. Did you know Anarchy is on the FBI most wanted list?’
‘All right, all right,’ Jason said.
Mason tried to hold back his smile. He had known that Jane was bluffing – if a cop said they have evidence without actually pointing it in your face, then that meant the evidence never even existed.
‘I don’t know much, but I’ll give you what I have.’
‘I’m all ears,’ Jane said.
Jason took a while getting his story out. There was a lot of pausing and looking up at the ceiling, as if he were making it up on the spot. It was either that, or he was omitting details that included his own crimes. ‘This guy came by here sometimes. Stayed here a few nights a week. Sometimes it would be with a woman, but we’d never see her again.’
‘Names?’ Jane said.
‘Beats me. He literally took them into the next room and closed the door on us.’
‘What was your personal involvement with him? You’ve spoken to him, I understand.’
Jason shot glances between them both, until his eyes landed on Jane. He must have known that she was leading the investigation, and Mason supposed she did have that aura about her. ‘Sometimes he paid me to pick him up.’
‘From where?’
He shrugged. ‘His house, I guess. Look, I didn’t do nothing–’
Mason shot forward, slamming his palm on the metal desk. ‘His house?’
‘Did I stutter?’
Jane took a pad and pen from her jacket and slid it across the table.
‘Mr Blake,’ she said, her voice rising in frustration, ‘I want you to write down that address. After that, we’re done here.’
Watching her, his shaky hand reached out and took the pen. He stared at her face as he scribbled on the pad and pushed it back toward her. ‘That’s the street. I don’t know the number but it’s the house with all the gnomes.’
‘Gnomes?’ Mason said.
‘You can’t miss it. So look, can I go now?’
‘No,’ Mason said, standing up and reaching for his handcuffs. ‘You’re under arrest for threatening a police officer. You have the right to remain silent…’
As his Miranda rights were read to him, Jason’s mouth hung open in protest, beads of sweat dripping from his face. ‘What the – you said I wasn’t in trouble! You promised!’
‘I said I wouldn’t punish you for possession. But you pointed that thing at my partner. You didn’t seriously think you’d get away with this?’ Just like that, Mason stood and turned to the two-way mirror, nodding his approval for Jason Blake’s arrest.
Once Blake was safely in custody, Jane followed Mason out of the interrogation room, stopping by her desk. ‘You handled that nicely,’ she said, but it was hard to tell if her tone dripped approval or sarcasm. ‘Well, we have an address. Let’s get going
.’
‘Let’s hold off a minute, shall we?’
‘What? Why?’
‘Just give it the night. If Anarchy knows anything about this, I want him to think it’s safe to return home. I mean, the chances of him actually being there are slimmer than slim. But if he just so happens to have followed me to LA, it’s best he thinks he’s safe.’
Jane gazed at him, clearly trying to understand, but even more clearly failing. ‘If you say so.’ She checked her watch. ‘So, nine o’clock sharp, right?’
‘Right. See you then.’
As she turned to leave, Mason took the cell phone from his pocket. It had only just occurred to him that he had nowhere to stay. With all that was going on, it was probably best that he didn’t remain out in the open, sleeping in his car.
But then Jane turned back, as if she had read his thoughts.
‘Do you have a place to crash?’ she asked.
Mason shrugged.
A quick sigh, and then a crook of her head told him that he was more than welcome. ‘It’s not much, but you can have the couch for a couple of nights. Call it a thank-you for taking care of that armed kid.’
Although the offer had been unexpected, his smile was even less so. Mason tucked away his phone and followed Jane Phillips to her car. For the most part, this woman was still a mystery, but if one thing was clear to him, she was friend not foe.
13
Early in the morning, as the sun began to blaze a hole through a sheet of mist, they arrived at the given address. Mason had expected trouble – a gunfight or a trap of some kind – but when a sweet, frightened-looking elderly lady opened the door, he quickly tamped those expectations down.
‘Is something wrong?’ the old lady asked.
‘We’re looking for a young man who might have lived here,’ Mason said, taking point. ‘We don’t have a name, but we were hoping you could give us one.’
‘I do have one man living here. A lodger. Is he in some kind of trouble?’
‘Ma’am, unless we’re mistaken, your lodger might just be a known serial killer, rapist, terrorist and all-round nasty bastard. We would really appreciate it if you’d let us in for a few minutes so we can have a look around.’
The blood drained from her face, leaving only a very pale and open-mouthed expression. She opened the door for them, Mason and Jane Phillips walking right into the living room where they stood looking at the floral-decorated furniture.
‘What is this gentleman’s name?’ Jane asked.
The lady sat alone on the couch, small and frail. ‘Andrew Clay.’
‘Probably not his real name,’ Mason whispered to Jane, before turning his attention back to the lady. ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Clay?’
‘Oh, not so long ago. He’s very rarely here. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of weeks, but then he rushed in here this morning. Next thing I know, he ran out the door with a stuffed bag. I think… I think maybe he was leaving.’
‘It’s safer for you that way,’ Jane said. ‘Did he leave anything behind?’
‘Yes,’ said the woman, her limbs shaking as she nodded quickly. ‘There were a few things left in the drawer. I know I shouldn’t have gone into his room, but I had to know if he planned on coming back.’
‘Find anything?’ Mason asked.
‘I found his passport and birth certificate, along with a few tattered old photographs.’
Mason’s pulse quickened at that information. ‘Would you mind fetching them for us?’
The woman nodded and left the room, groaning slightly with each agonising step. It looked like walking was something of a chore for her, and she liked to do it as little as possible. She returned within a couple of minutes, handing over a large brown envelope.
‘Thanks.’
As Mason reached into it, his mouth dry and heart pounding, Jane stood too close for comfort. The contents came out in one big handful, but right under his thumb, only the one thing stood out, winding him instantly.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jane asked. She must have sensed the horror in his eyes.
‘It’s him.’ Mason stared down at the photo on the driver’s licence. Those cold and emotionless eyes had lightened up before him once, when he had spoken of murder and torture. That mouth had opened in shock as Mason had shot him a year ago, right before he had fallen into the water, his body never to be recovered. And the name that sat beside it, on an unquestionable legal document; Andrew Clay. ‘It’s really him.’
14
The drive from San Francisco had been tedious enough – he had followed Mason Black as closely as possible. On two occasions he had almost lost him on the highway, but thankfully he’d soon caught up.
Since then, Anarchy had readjusted his plan every step of the way. It was good to have a plan for once, but there was a certain degree of excitement in having to adapt. It was like he had been given a range of tools, and he actually got to choose in which order to use them.
They’d almost had him last night. He’d been three minutes away from heading back to the drug den, just to collect a small package from Davey OneHand (whose name had come to him quite appropriately due to some accident at a local dog food factory). But when Anarchy had spotted Mason crossing the street, he knew he could never go back there.
The rest, as they say, was history.
The clothes on his back were mostly what he needed. He had plenty of money and a whole lot of weaponry. The only thing he could never quite forgive himself for, was having left his ID at Betty’s house.
Screw it, he thought, munching on an apple from the driver’s seat. Let him know who I am. Let him believe that he’s really on to me. At the end of the day, it’s just a name. This will still end exactly how I choose.
From across the street, Anarchy watched Mason and the woman – who was small and pretty, but with a tough look about her, which was just his type – leaving Betty’s house. They may have had the upper hand now, but he relaxed knowing that at any moment, he could rocket back to San Francisco and slaughter the detective’s entire family.
The only problem with that was, Mason wouldn’t see it.
And where was the fun in that?
15
By lunchtime that day, they were back in Waltenbaugh’s office. The captain sat listening, chewing loudly on a ham salad baguette, while Jane stood before him giving all the details they had found about Anarchy.
Mason, on the other hand, saw it best to stay at the back, only speaking when spoken to.
‘I gotta call the FBI,’ Waltenbaugh said.
‘No!’ Jane put her hand on the desk, making pens rattle in the ceramic mug. ‘I’ve worked too long and too hard for this. I don’t want to just hand it over to some jerk-weed at the Bureau. Come on, Cap. We’re so close.’
Waltenbaugh continued to chew, staring down at his desk in contemplation. He swallowed, dabbed his mouth with a napkin and scrunched up the packaging. ‘What exactly is it you want?’
‘A warrant,’ Jane said. ‘I want to search the address on his driver’s licence.’
Her request wasn’t entirely unreasonable. Mason imagined that Captain Cox would have signed that off as quickly as she could. As for the FBI, well… they were a different problem entirely. Mason didn’t know what it would be like to see Agent Thomas Kane again. Would he still be suspicious, accusatory and outright arrogant?
Probably.
‘Listen,’ said Captain Waltenbaugh, ‘I don’t take issue with giving you a warrant. If this were up to me, I would hand it over right now. You think I don’t want this son of a bitch in cuffs? Believe me, nothing seems more satisfying right now – save for another ham roll. But if I don’t let the FBI know what’s going on, I could lose my job. You would be the second in line at the employment office, and Mr Black…’
Mason’s ears pricked up.
‘You would be just behind her, wondering what went wrong.’
He didn’t mean to do it, but he found himself rolling his eyes. He looked away th
en, praying that nobody had seen him do it. ‘Look, can I make a suggestion?’
Detective Jane Phillips turned, and the captain gawked at him.
‘Write us out a warrant, then give us five minutes to get out of the building before you call the FBI. Explain the urgency and that we had to act immediately. They will be pissed off with every one of us, sure, but at least they can’t punish us for not telling them.’
In the silence of the room, any one of them could have heard a pin drop. The captain chewed on the end of his pen, and then slumped into the back of his chair. ‘All right, fine. But don’t ask something like this of me again. And I want some credit on this arrest.’
There might not be one, Mason admitted to himself.
Jane took the warrant and they left the building through the parking garage. Before she turned on the engine, however, she checked her gun for ammo and re-holstered it under her arm. ‘You sure you’re ready for this?’
Mason had thought so until now. But being asked out loud reminded him that – not only was he heading to Anarchy’s real home, to find out everything there was to know about him – he could meet him face-to-face again.
They were heading into the lion’s den.
16
Nobody came to the door, and no signs of life lurked inside. They were met with a cold and uncomfortable silence, save for the wind whistling eerily over the dirt-covered lawn.
‘Should we go inside?’ Detective Jane Phillips asked.
Mason rubbed a circle of dust off the window and peered inside. Nothing. ‘We’ve come this far. Here, I’ll head in first. Cover me.’
Jane stepped back and with all his might, Mason kicked the front door with his heel. It flung open hard, smashing into the wall. Gun raised, wary of the danger, he cautiously entered Anarchy’s home.
They searched each room only to find nothing. There was no furniture, no decoration, not even a single footprint in the dusty floorboards of the hallway. Jane stood at the bottom of the stairs, holstering her gun.
Mason Black (The Complete Collection): 6 Gripping Crime Stories: The Complete Collection + BONUS Story Page 57