No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (13 page)

At much the same time as Tommy Benson fled from outside the laundromat, doggedly pursued by Joe Hunter across the recreation field and to his inevitable doom, another chase was underway, though this one wasn’t in the open and didn’t offer the slightest glimmer of an escape route.

Having endured two unexpected visits to the police station in the previous days, Parker Quinn had just about had his fill of detectives and their persistent questioning methods. He’d spent yesterday evening tidying up his home after a search team had gone through it like a bunch of invading Vikings, pillaging his computer equipment, tablet and cell phones, as well as his notes, records and even bank statements – both personal and business accounts - under the authorisation of a warrant. They hadn’t exactly wrecked his home, and had been respectful of his belongings in their own manner, but nothing was where he’d previously left it. All felt wrong in his home, every piece of furniture out by a fraction of an inch, the angles all skewed. When you were as familiar with your own space as Quinn was with his, it felt oddly alien when strangers disturbed the equilibrium.

He expected his equipment would be returned to him soon. Once the forensic investigation was completed, and it was determined that there was in fact no incriminating evidence on any of his electronic devices, or in his paper records, then everything would be given back, though he doubted he’d receive an apology. Even if somebody did say sorry, he couldn’t give a damn. The cops could keep their apologies; he only wished they’d leave him the hell alone. They should concentrate on the ones truly responsible for Ella’s murder, instead of trying to tie him to this nonsense about a harassment campaign against Andrew.

He believed that pinning a charge on him would somehow appease those criticizing Tampa PD for their lack of tangible results in the ongoing home invasion cases, that had culminated in Ella’s brutal slaying. It was a diversionary tactic, but it would check a box in the correct column for Detective’s Holker and VanMeter, and for their commanders by proxy, earning them some breathing space. Well, fuck them all; there was no way he was taking the heat off them, by sacrificing his own liberty. He knew he wasn’t helping himself by acting aversive to their questions, and by telling only half-truths about certain aspects of his business and personal relationship with the Clayton family, but it wasn’t yet time for the truth to come out. Perhaps he should tell the truth: while he continued being selective with the facts, he’d only fuel the detectives’ suspicions, thus returning their attention to him.

He wondered when he could expect another visit from Tampa’s finest.

He’d lost count of the times he’d snuck to the blinds, teasing them open a slit, to check each time a vehicle approached. He assumed he was under surveillance, and for all he knew there was a bunch of cops staked out in one of the apartments across the street, noting and cataloguing his every move. It was only late afternoon, still bright out, but he’d chosen to close all his blinds, and to lock every door and window. If there was a surveillance team observing his house, he’d give them nothing, and there was no way they could possible sneak inside for a closer look without him hearing. Earlier, he’d considered the probability that during the execution of the search warrant another team were also busy at work, installing listening and recording devices throughout his home. He should have been here when the cops were on site – as that Hunter fella had suggested – so he could watch exactly what they’d been up to. But, after his stupidity led him to go to see Andrew instead of returning immediately home from the station, he’d missed the opportunity to supervise what was going on. While he’d gone through his house, room to room, resettling his furniture and belongings in their correct places, he’d surreptitiously kept an eye open for anything unusual or demanding of a closer inspection. He hadn’t discovered any hidden microphones or pinhole cameras, but he couldn’t be certain there were none, so he’d made a deeper search again today before realisation struck him.

Jesus, he was losing it! Paranoia had overtaken good sense. He was jumping at shadows, forming conclusions based on wild fantasies, looking for things that weren’t there. He had to chill out, relax, get his head in order, or it wouldn’t be the cops coming for him next time but the men in white coats.

But paranoia was what came of hiding a secret.

It made you jumpy. Being in constant fear of everything coming to light wasn’t good for the health, neither mental nor physical. His brain felt as if it was on fire, a swirling kaleidoscope of conflicting thoughts and emotions making it difficult for him to settle, while his body was almost numb with fatigue. One or the other would give out on him soon, and he hoped it was his body. He’d rather collapse from lack of sleep than suffer a complete mental breakdown.

He needed to shower.

In fact, he’d prefer to bathe in the large tub, but he was too nervous to commit to the time a soak would take. Then again, if he were in the shower, he might not hear if anyone crept close to his house with the water battering him. If he ran a bath, left the tub filling, he could stand guard until the tub was full. Once sunk to his nose in the bubbles, he would be able to hear the softest footfall.

“Jesus Christ, Parker, listen to yourself!”

If he’d done something wrong – and morally he had – it wasn’t anything the cops would be interested in. Sure it might hint that he had a motive for harassing Andrew, but with no proof of any involvement what could they do?

‘Have your goddamn bath. You stink like a polecat!’ he scolded himself.

He knew his actions were illogical, yet he couldn’t deny the impulse to go and check all was clear. He teased open the blinds in his living room. A cyclist rode past without giving his house the briefest of glances. There was no one else out and about. The apartments opposite could conceal observers, but he could spot no sign of anything untoward. But he wasn’t done. He made his way to his kitchen and repeated the process of teasing open the blinds. Once he was satisfied nobody was skulking in his backyard, he went through to the small room adjacent to the sitting room that he used as a home office. He spied out of the blinds there too. Nobody around. Only then did he go upstairs to the en suite bathroom and turn on the faucets. While his tub filled, he sat on his bed, near enough to the window so he could see through a slim gap between the drawn curtains.

He must have zoned out for a few minutes. He heard the patter of water on the floor. Jumping up, he rushed for the bathroom. The bath was full to the rim, slopping over at the foot. A washcloth had dropped over the overflow, partly damming it. He tugged the sopping cloth aside, and heard a satisfying gurgle as the overflow took water down the drain, even as he shut off the faucets. Thankfully he’d got to it before the flood could spread beyond a small puddle. He rung out the washcloth and used it to dab up the spillage as he muttered at his carelessness.

Distracted he didn’t hear the soft click from downstairs.

He continued mopping, then draped the freshly wrung cloth over the faucets. Poured in some muscle soak that he got up to a good froth after swishing his hands through the deep water. He was beginning to look forward to his dip.

But first he had to check.

Back at the window he snooped between the curtains even as he began stripping out of his clothing.

His back was to the bedroom door, so he’d no idea a figure stole up on him along the hall…

…The man who crept towards Quinn had already slipped away the key he’d used to let himself in, placing it deep in a pocket of his coveralls. Before proceeding through the house, listening to Quinn’s soft self-derision, and the splashing of water, he’d pulled on his ski-mask and goggles, though he suspected Quinn would still recognise him the second he laid eyes on him. He paused at the threshold as Quinn stepped out of his jeans, then bent to take another peak between the curtains, dressed only in his jockey shorts.

Quinn was pathetic, half the build of the man who stalked him. But he could prove noisy, and an encumbrance if allowed to voice his screams while trying to kick free. The man stepped aside, concealing himself behind the jamb as Quinn turned for the bathroom, again muttering under his breath. For reasons known only to him, Quinn didn’t close the bathroom door: maybe he was used to bachelorhood and didn’t feel the need or the privacy of closed doors in his own home. That only made things simpler for the disguised man.

He stepped into the bedroom, feeling his boots sink into the carpet’s deep pile. He would unavoidably leave tread marks, so must ensure he brushed them out before leaving the house. Covered as he was head to foot, his sleeves and trouser cuffs sealed to his gloves and boots with duct tape, hair and mouth covered by the ski mask, there’d be slim chance of leaving any trace evidence behind, best he remember to ensure he left nothing as obvious as a footprint.

He’d brought a gun with him, but that was only as a safeguard. He left it holstered on his thigh, choosing to go with the knife he’d already chosen for the task. It was a blade taken from Quinn’s fishing tackle box, when the killer had earlier visited the office shared with his business partner. The knife was sturdy, and locked in place once opened. It was an ideal fisherman’s tool, good for stabbing, gutting, or for snicking through snagged lines. It was scalpel sharp. Plus it wouldn’t be an untoward discovery after Quinn’s body was found.

The man took a quick peak around the door. Quinn stood with his back to him, his bony ass paler than the rest of his sun-touched body. He had his face in his hands, using the balls of his thumbs to compress the fatigue out of his eyes. He visibly trembled. The man shook his head in disgust. Pitiful as Quinn might be, the man had no pity for him. In fact he had only a deep-seated hatred of the skinny wretch, and it would please him no end when the little bastard was dead and gone.

‘Knock-knock!’ the man said, and Quinn jumped so high his outstretched arms almost scuffed the ceiling.

Whoever Quinn had been watching out for, it wasn’t the man in full disguise. As Quinn had spun around, one arm out to the side, grabbing at the sink for balance, the man stepped deeper into the bathroom firmly blocking the only escape route. Quinn wore a dazed expression, as he looked the man up and down: he didn’t appear conscious of his nakedness or vulnerability. But that didn’t last. His gaze settled on the soulless goggles, and his mouth opened and a spark of comprehension lit his dull gaze.

‘Wh-what are
you
doing here?’ he finally croaked.

‘Do I need give you three guesses?’ said the man and held up the lock knife.

‘No.’ Quinn shook his head in disbelief, not in response to the man’s snarky question.

‘Yes.’ The man caught the edge of the door and pushed it shut behind him.

‘Please. Please don’t do this,’ Quinn moaned.

‘I have to,’ said the man, ‘and to be honest I
want
to. In fact, I’m going to enjoy doing what should’ve been done a long time ago.’

‘Please…I had nothing to do with…’

‘There you go again, wasting your breath.’ The man moved forward.

The bathroom was about twelve feet by fifteen: a fair size, but woefully compact when trying to avoid a remorseless killer armed with a sharp blade. It didn’t stop Quinn trying to run. He threw his meagre weight past the man, but a slap of a forearm knocked him back into the narrow gap he’d previously occupied between the bath and the sink. Quinn kept moving though, ducking low this time and trying to dodge under the upraised knife. If the man wished he could easily jam the blade between his shoulder blades and that would have been it for Parker Quinn. But he’d brought the blade for a different reason. He merely lifted one leg, bracing it against Quinn’s chest, then booted him back into the cramped space again.

Quinn was bleating, pleading, but the man was confident the sounds wouldn’t carry. Quinn scurried by the sink, one hand braced on it, using it as a prop to help hurdle past the man. He was knocked backwards again.

‘You can stop trying to run. It’s not happening,’ said Quinn’s tormentor.

Quinn was still desperate enough to try to get by again. He almost succeeded, and got a hand on the door handle, slapping it down before the larger man grabbed the nape of his neck and dragged him around. The backs of Quinn’s thighs butted up against the rim of the bath.

‘Don’t. Please! I beg you! Don’t do this!’ Quinn must have known his pleas were as pointless as his desperate attempts at flight, though it didn’t stop him trying. ‘We can sort this,’ he cried, ‘I’ll give you anything you want. Money, I can get you money-’

‘Shut up. Don’t even go there.’ The man clamped his left hand firmly over Quinn’s mouth as he forced him backwards over the tub. To ensure compliance he held the tip of the blade under Quinn’s chin. ‘There’s not enough money on earth,’ he assured his captive, ‘to buy back what you took from me.’

Quinn screamed in desperation, hollering the man’s name for all who might hear. Muffled by the leather glove, Quinn’s voice was nonetheless still recognisable to the man. He couldn’t chance anyone overhearing. He immediately thrust Quinn down and the smaller man went butt first into the bath. He was forced around, his head jammed under water.

‘Don’t dare mention my name again, or I’ll make you sorry,’ the man growled. His words were wasted, because beneath the surface frothing bubbles surrounded Quinn, jetting from beneath his attacker’s gloved fingers. There was no possible way he could hear the warning, not while his mind rebelled against drowning. His arms flailed at the edges of the tub, water splashing everywhere. His feet kicked and pounded on the foot of the tub. One of Quinn’s knees thudded solidly in the man’s gut as he leaned down, exerting pressure, forcing Quinn deeper. He held him submerged until the fight went out of him. For a moment he feared he’d held Quinn down too long, because when he released the pressure from Quinn’s face, he stayed as he was submerged in the steaming water.