The Devil's Anvil

by Matt Hilton

  ‘Well you’ve given me plenty shit in my time,’ I’d said.

  ‘I’m happy to be of service. Now fuck off.’

  Nice.

  That was the way with some cops. They couldn’t publicly admit that they appreciated my style of doling out law and order, even if they wished they could take off the gloves now and again. But that wasn’t really Holker’s problem with me. I was sure he was envious of my relationship with his detective partner, the lovely Bryony VanMeter, who’d been more open with her thanks in bringing down a murderer. Holker – I thought – carried a torch for Bryony, but it was not reciprocated. Maybe he saw me as a rival for her affections, when really he shouldn’t. Our relationship had cooled after only a few short weeks, and though we’d remained friends, there was no hint of romance left. Bryony was more interested in her career, and don’t let it be said that I’d stand in her way: dating a suspected vigilante wasn’t conducive to career progression within Tampa PD.

  ‘Fancy a beer before turning in?’ Rink didn’t take his eyes off the road as he headed towards his place at Temple Terrace. ‘One of those wussy Coronas you’re so fond of?’

  ‘I’d prefer a coffee,’ I said. ‘Something hot that’ll shift the cold from my bones.’

  ‘I’ve a Mister Coffee at my place. You can watch me drink beer while it brews.’

  ‘I could do with one now.’

  ‘How do you ever sleep?’

  ‘Why do you always ask? I must be immune to caffeine.’

  ‘Definitely addicted.’

  Rink had that right. ‘See if you can find a convenience store, will you?’

  It was just another mundane night for us private eye types.

  Then my cell phone tinkled and I dug it out of my pocket.

  Caller unknown.

  I hit the button and waited.

  ‘Hello?’

  It was a female voice, but not one that I recognised.

  ‘Hello? Is this, uh, Joe Hunter?’

  ‘Who’s calling please?’ I wished to remain noncommittal. It was my personal cell the call had come through on, not the one linked to Rington Investigations.

  ‘I got this number from a . . .’ The woman paused, choosing her words. ‘I got it from a mutual acquaintance. Brandon Cooper said that you could help me.’

  Brandon Cooper? I couldn’t immediately place the name. I mouthed the name at Rink.

  ‘ATF,’ he reminded me.

  I’d never learned Special Agent Cooper’s first name, the reason why mention of it had thrown me. Cooper had been part of a Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives task force I’d come in contact with during a bust on some arms dealers a couple years earlier. At the time, Cooper had been tasked with regulating firearm commerce in and around Tampa, through targeting and arresting violent offenders in possession of unlawfully held guns. Out of gratitude for me saving his arse from a methed-up perp with a hatchet, he’d allowed my owning an unregistered SIG Sauer P226 to slide, and had even given me further hints on how to confound ballistics reports. It was good of him, considering that the ATF was also actively involved in the NIBIN programme, providing support in tracing firearms to state and local law enforcement investigators through the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network. He wasn’t exactly corrupt – not as far as I knew – just more appreciative of my assistance than the likes of Detective Holker.

  I vaguely recalled giving Cooper my private cell number, but this was the first time he’d ever used it. Or, more correctly, passed it on to someone who needed to contact me.

  ‘Who am I speaking with?’

  ‘You are Joe Hunter, right?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m Billie Womack.’

  There was a moment while neither of us spoke. I formed the impression that the woman regretted making the call now. But that wasn’t it.

  ‘I’m sorry for calling at this late hour,’ Billie said. ‘It has just occurred to me that I don’t know where you are and it could be the middle of the night. If I’ve placed your accent correctly, you’re British, right?’

  ‘Yeah, but don’t worry, I’m not in England. I’m in Florida.’

  ‘Florida? Still, you’re three hours ahead of me . . .’

  ‘You didn’t wake me. I’m a bit of a night owl.’

  ‘Too much coffee,’ Rink muttered.

  Ignoring him, I urged Billie to continue. ‘You said that you needed help.’

  ‘Well, yeah, uh, that’s the thing . . .’

  I heard the unmistakable sound of swallowing. There was a slight slur to Billie’s voice, and I took it that her nightcap was that bit stronger than the one I was looking forward to. She’d just taken another slug to gird her for what she was about to divulge.

  ‘I might be in danger.’

  ‘Might be?’

  ‘That’s the thing. I don’t know if the threat is for real.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  She related how she might or might not be the target of men seeking her ex-husband, Richard Womack. ‘My husband died more than four years ago: why would anyone come after me now?’

  ‘It’s a fair point. Brandon Cooper encouraged you to call me?’ I had the sense that Cooper wasn’t the hysterical type, and even if Billie Womack had no real sense of the danger she was in, I accepted that he did.

  ‘He seemed . . . concerned.’

  ‘Where are you, Billie?’

  ‘I’m at home.’

  She was stating the obvious, and it took another prompt from me to get the details out of her. She lived in a house near some lake called Baker’s Hole in Washington State, way across country in the furthest corner from where I presently sat in Rink’s car.

  ‘I can be with you by later today,’ I said.

  ‘But you don’t even know if my problem is genuine yet.’

  ‘You said you might be in danger. Whether or not the threat is real, we can’t take the risk. I’ll grab a few things and get the next available flight.’

  Beside me Rink had grown quiet and still.

  ‘When Cooper gave you my number, did he also leave you his?’

  Billie read a number and I memorised it.

  I then checked the details of Billie’s address.

  ‘Is there anyone at home with you?’

  For a moment Billie paused. She didn’t know me from Adam, and was obviously afraid to admit as much to a complete stranger. Her silence answered my question for me.

  ‘I need you to go somewhere where you are in the company of someone you trust. You have my number. Call me when you’re there and I’ll meet you. We can take things from there.’

  ‘You’re prepared to fly across country without the full details?’

  ‘Do you want my help?’

  ‘Uh, yes.’

  ‘Then do as I ask. Go stay with a friend and call me when you’re there. By the time I arrive I’ll have all the details I need.’

  ‘OK.’ Billie didn’t know what else to say. There was another swallow.

  ‘Billie? Make that your last drink. You need to get moving right now.’

  ‘You do think I’m in danger then?’

  ‘I’m not trying to frighten you. Hopefully there’s nothing in the threat as you say, but I trust Agent Cooper’s judgement. Go now, Billie. Rest assured I’m on my way.’

  I hung up.

  Rink had stopped the Porsche outside a convenience store. It was an open-all-hours type from where I’d previously enjoyed the occasional grab-and-go drink.

  ‘Do you still have time for that coffee?’ His expression of resignation wasn’t for my caffeine addiction.

  ‘I’ve a feeling I’m going to need it. And more besides.’

  6

  Special Agent Brandon Cooper looked ten years older than the last time I saw him. But since then he’d been stuck beneath the nigh-on perpetually dull skies of the northern state of Washington for upwards of two years and had lost the healthy tan he wore while based at the ATF field office in Tampa
. He was sallow, a bit grey around the gills, and had lost much of the lustre from his hair and eyes. Wearing a charcoal suit and tie with an off-white shirt added to his monochrome appearance.

  I sat opposite him in a diner on Western Avenue, Seattle, a block from the waterfront of Puget Sound: any view of the water was blocked by a viaduct and the Seattle Ferry Terminal buildings. I wasn’t much more colourful than Cooper, having donned my usual attire of black jacket on black jeans. My only concession to the colour palette was the brown of my short hair, my bluish eyes, and a small yellow motif on my T-shirt: you had to look closely at the motif to tell it was Homer Simpson’s face, proclaiming his trademark utterance of ‘D’oh!’. The shirt had been a present from Rink after he’d reconciled himself to my hasty decision to head off on my latest errant crusade to save a damsel in distress. His words, not mine. Rink had expected me to scowl and throw the shirt back at him, but I liked it. I liked Homer. He was the kind of guy whose off-kilter wisdom I appreciated, and he was often as rash in his decision-making as I was.

  Cooper didn’t comment on my shirt, but I caught him checking it out, and we shared a wry smile before we’d shaken hands in greeting. Then he led me to a booth in the corner of the diner he’d chosen for our meeting. The retro diner was part of a chain based upon the one frequented by Fonzie and the gang in that old TV show Happy Days. I almost expected to find Pat Morita serving behind the counter, but instead a team of less-than-exuberant college kids whose modern haircuts didn’t quite fit the scene manned it.

  ‘You want anything to eat?’ Cooper asked.

  ‘I’m good. I ate on the flight over. Just coffee for me.’

  Cooper gave our order to a bored-looking girl who only showed any sign of life while jamming our check under the condiments. She then fell back into slouch mode to return to the counter.

  ‘Kind of spoils the “caught in amber” effect when the staff don’t get into character,’ Cooper noted.

  ‘The music creates enough ambience for me.’ From a replica Wurlitzer jukebox came the dulcet tones and pounding piano of a Fats Domino number. I checked out the memorabilia on the walls: there were signed photos of some of the diner’s famous patrons, a couple of old guitars, a saxophone, and even a rhinestone-covered jumpsuit purportedly worn by Elvis Presley. It wasn’t up to Hard Rock Café standards, but I appreciated the place. I guessed that Cooper had brought me here with that in mind having talked about our shared taste in vintage styles of music while on stakeout.

  ‘Tell me about Billie Womack,’ I said.

  ‘Directly to the point as usual, Hunter? What, no “How are you these days?”; no “How’s the family doing?”’

  ‘You have a family?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘So tell me about Billie Womack.’

  Cooper grinned. ‘I forgot how funny a guy you were.’

  The thing was, I wasn’t trying to be funny.

  Cooper took a look around, a habit for anyone in his game. He appeared satisfied that none of the costumed kids were eavesdroppers. ‘I took a chance calling you in on Billie’s behalf. It kind of works at odds with my current investigation.’

  ‘She told me about how you’re looking into the disappearance of a huge sum of cash: that isn’t usually in the ATF’s remit either.’

  ‘Ordinarily you’d be right, but not this time. The missing cash is related to the commission and resale value of illegal explosives. To make a case against those behind Procrylon Inc. it’d help to have the tangible cash in evidence: it holds more weight with a jury than any paper or digital trail we can present.’

  I’d never heard of Procrylon Inc., and Billie hadn’t mentioned them in her brief summation of her problem. ‘What’s their game?’

  ‘Procrylon? They’re a shell set-up, a dummy corporation, a blind for another company which primarily supplies explosives to the mining and demolition sectors. They develop and manufacture polymer and acrylic “safe” casings and carry boxes for high-explosive components. Through Procrylon they serve another sector of the market. I think you can guess where I’m heading with this . . .’

  ‘Some of their product has been siphoned off to paramilitary and terrorist groups?’

  ‘The casings make the explosives largely undetectable to the usual security equipment, so you can see how some extremists would have orgasms about getting their hands on them. Procrylon, as you might imagine, are making a tidy sum through their black market dealings. The ATF would like to present the evidence of these deals but alas Billie Womack’s husband Richard threw a wrench in the works when he stole their ill-gotten gains. With the evidence going missing it kind of derailed our plans to bring a case to court.’

  I didn’t comment.

  Our lacklustre server returned and plonked down our drinks. Cooper had also ordered himself a turkey club sandwich. It was huge, and it sat between us like an insurmountable barrier. The girl looked at us looking at the sandwich, perhaps waiting for an ecstatic response. We both glanced up at her at which she shrugged and slouched off.

  ‘Billie told me that her husband died years ago,’ I finally said. ‘Why the sudden interest in this case again? How is it that you think Billie might be in imminent danger?’

  ‘Billie didn’t say?’

  ‘I didn’t push her on anything. I preferred to come directly to the source.’ I took a sip of my coffee. It was just the way I enjoyed it, black with no added frippery.

  ‘A colleague of mine who was digging into Procrylon was recently murdered. His death was made to look like a typical mugging, but nobody believes that story. His death was too timely, too convenient to be anything but murder. It coincided with a sighting of a man believed to be Richard Womack.’

  ‘Billie’s dead husband? Yeah, she mentioned that you’re convinced that he faked his own death. He’s been spotted? For real?’

  ‘He was picked up by a facial recognition program at Seattle-Tacoma Airport a little over a week ago. Because I’d had him red-flagged, a report came through to the ATF field office. The match wasn’t as concise as I’d like, but I’ve seen the video footage and am certain that it really is Billie’s husband. He’d grown a beard, styled his hair differently, but enough unique points were met for it not to be anyone but Richard Womack.’

  ‘Why come back now?’

  ‘Perhaps he’s worried Billie’s in danger, too, and wants to warn her.’

  ‘This is the same man who supposedly sacrificed his own daughter to add credibility to his own death. You really think he’d care enough to warn his ex-wife that she was in danger?’

  Cooper wasn’t telling the entire truth, I knew. He also knew that I knew. But he wasn’t going to admit anything.

  ‘There are plenty other people you could’ve contacted to protect Billie,’ I said. ‘Why me, Cooper?’

  ‘I was impressed by your capabilities the last time we worked together.’

  ‘You can stow the compliments. I know why you had Billie get me all the way out here. You want a deniable asset in place, but someone you can trust to alert you should her husband come calling. Why not put an undercover ATF agent in place?’

  ‘We already lost one undercover agent, and it’d be easy to assume that we’ve been compromised.’

  ‘You think this Procrylon outfit has a mole inside the ATF?’

  ‘It’s a fair assumption. That’s why I need you, Hunter. Someone they know nothing about.’

  ‘You mean someone who answers only to you.’ I eyed him steadily, wondering about his private agenda.

  Teasing some turkey from his sandwich, but not going as far as eating anything, Cooper considered my words. Finally he nodded, but it was an almost undetectable dip of his chin.

  ‘I trust you to do the right thing,’ he said.

  There was no admission, but he wasn’t fooling me. Perhaps Cooper did care enough for Billie Womack’s welfare to bring in protection for her, but it came with the caveat that I contact him immediately if Richard really had come back from the dea
d. Fair enough. I’d no loyalty to a thief who might very well have murdered his daughter; my loyalty was to his ex-wife, whom I’d already as much as sworn to protect. Call me suspicious, though – Cooper wasn’t engendering any loyalty in me either. It was apparent that he was playing me, but that was the way of most federal agents I’d come across, so I wasn’t surprised. I wasn’t about to walk away from a woman in trouble just because Cooper had another agenda in mind. Truth was, Billie was in danger. Cooper knew more than he was letting on, and that also meant that he had a very tangible reason for fearing for her life.

  ‘Did you bring the items I requested?’

  Cooper finally dry-swallowed some of the turkey from his sandwich. He considered the mayonnaise bottle, reached for it but withdrew his fingers. He pushed the plate aside and rested his knuckles on the table. He met my gaze, and this time he was forthright with the truth. ‘They must not come back to me, Hunter. If they do, I’ll be finished. So will you for that matter.’

  I winked. ‘You can trust me to do the right thing.’

  ‘Good enough.’

  Because I’d flown here, I didn’t bring any weapons from Florida. In the past I’d used a special dispensation notice to transport a firearm, but that was while I was working on a retainer contract with the CIA. This time I enjoyed no such luxury, so I’d pressed Cooper to bring me the weapons I required. Being engaged in ‘the regulation of firearm commerce through the targeting and arrest of violent offenders in possession of unlawfully held guns’ had its perks: it meant that Cooper had access to an available stash of throw-down weapons.

  His agreement to supply me with the tools to do my job, not to mention his foresight in warning me to dispose of them correctly when I was finished with them, also confirmed that the threat to Billie was real. I wished he’d be more specific, but I’d had all the information I was going to get from him . . . for now. Cooper stood, picking up the tab and waving over our server.