The Devil's Anvil (5 page)

Billie and Richard’s divorce had been acrimonious. By the end there were only two aspects of their marriage that they could agree on: they had grown to hate each other, but they both loved their daughter. Despite Richard being narcissistic, a conceited son of a bitch and a philanderer, Billie had never doubted his love for Nicola. He’d been petitioning for full custody for Christ’s sake! Why would he do that if only to murder her during his disappearing trick? Cooper had a singular take on things: by sacrificing his beloved daughter it added more plausibility to his own supposed death. Richard had proven to be both incredibly manipulative and supremely self-motivated when it came to embezzling the multi-million dollar sum, to a point where he would not wish to hand any of it away, not even to his child. Agent Cooper believed that Richard Womack was a sociopath, with no love for anyone but himself and his needs.

Nicola had been killed, that fact wasn’t in dispute. She’d been stuck in the car when it went over the bridge, but it had nothing to do with Richard wanting a clean break so he could keep all the money to himself. Why would he need to murder his daughter, Billie asked the agent, when he could as easily have deposited her back with Billie and then staged his death on the return journey?

Something troubled Billie more than Agent Cooper’s insistence that Richard was behind Nicola’s death. It wasn’t his suggestion that Richard might actually have survived his plunge into the torrential river. The agent was concerned that those whom Richard had stolen from might also have come to the same conclusion. The way Cooper saw things, she could be paid a visit by people who didn’t have the same hopes for her well-being as the ATF did.

Billie dipped her hand in her coat pocket and pulled out the card Cooper had handed her.

‘Joe Hunter,’ she read out loud. On the reverse of the card were the handwritten name and a telephone number. Billie turned it over. As she’d expected, Agent Cooper’s details were printed on the front. He’d suggested that she contact Hunter in the event that his skills might prove helpful.

She’d asked who Joe Hunter was. ‘Is he an ATF agent like you?’

‘No. He’s a private operator.’

‘A bodyguard?’

‘Among other things,’ Cooper had said. He’d glanced back at the house to where Monaghan sat in the sedan car. ‘Look. I’m going out on a limb here. I wouldn’t ordinarily hand out the details of a private operator like this, particularly when you’d expect my agency to offer you any protection necessary. But, you must understand, uh, Billie, that there are some of my colleagues who think that you are complicit in your ex-husband’s crimes and that you should be brought in for questioning.’ He’d warded off her concerned look. ‘I don’t think that, but there are some that do. Now, hopefully I’m way off mark and trouble will never come to your door, but in the event that it does, well . . .’ He’d indicated the card in her hand. ‘Call Joe Hunter.’

‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Agent Cooper.’

Cooper had pursed his mouth in confusion.

‘You didn’t drive all the way out here on the off chance that something might happen. You
expect
something to happen.’

Again Cooper glanced back at his colleague. He’d weighed the pros and cons of telling her the truth. Finally, he’d decided that forewarned was forearmed, and it was after all his purpose for driving out into the boonies. ‘I’m tasked with finding your ex-husband –
if
he’s still alive – and recovering the money that he stole. But it has come to my attention that I’m not the only one looking. One of the accounts that Richard tapped to the tune of almost thirty million dollars was in the name of a shell corporation belonging to some pretty dangerous individuals. We’ve started another investigation into those behind Procrylon Inc., and through our endeavours discovered that they are making enquiries of their own. An ATF agent looking into Procrylon was recently compromised, and subsequently turned up dead. We’ve no evidence to say those behind Procrylon murdered my colleague, but I’d be a fool to ignore what common sense tells me. If they’re prepared to murder a federal agent, then they won’t shy away from hurting others to get what they want. It’s why I fear that you might become a target.’

‘But I don’t know anything.’

‘I have your word on that, Billie, but that’s all they’ll have too. I’m willing to take it at face value, but they might not be as accommodating.’

Billie snapped the card against her thigh, and then put it away in her pocket.

Cooper was most likely scaremongering. Despite his reassurances that he believed she knew nothing about the theft or Richard’s disappearance, his words were thinly veiled. He thought that she was involved. Perhaps not willingly, but how could her Richard have conducted his criminal affairs without her at least suspecting something? Cooper intended instilling panic in her in the hope that she’d try to contact her exhusband and lead the ATF to him.

Or was that paranoia speaking?

What if Cooper’s intentions were honourable after all and she did indeed require protection from the men hunting Richard?

She took out the card again and stared long and hard at it.

5

‘Well, brother. I vote we call it a night.’

Rink was at the wheel of his Porsche, but this time I was sitting in the warmth alongside him.

‘Only complete idiots would try another burglary now,’ I said by way of agreement.

‘Let’s roll.’ He took off so quickly I’d bet that twin strips of rubber were etched on the road.

The cops had been and gone, taking the bunch of muggers with them; some of them detouring via an emergency room so the thugs could have their wounds tended. The elderly couple, Gino and Muriel Bidinotto, had given their statements and again profusely thanked Rink and me for intervening on their behalf, before they were escorted home by a duo of uniformed officers. A detective I’d come across before, Holker, had taken down our version of events. Holker didn’t exactly have any love for me – though he did owe me for helping clear up a previous homicide investigation of his – but he had begrudgingly thanked us for our public-spirited work then sent us off with a gruff warning about curbing our excessive use of force. Personally, I thought that the gang had gotten off lightly. Then again, he could have been referring to the last time we’d worked together. Holker was the kind who wasn’t very sympathetic to my cause; when pushed on it he’d said, ‘Hunter, you know where “sympathy” lies in the dictionary, don’t you? Right between “shit” and “syphilis”.’

‘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.’