No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (15 page)

It was good that Clayton was elsewhere in the house. I preferred to be alone with him when I told him his tormentor was dead, and his business partner – Cole’s beloved Uncle Parker – was the prime suspect in Ella’s murder.

‘Thomas Benson?’ Andrew Clayton echoed my announcement. ‘Nope, the name means nothing to me.’
Behind the lenses of his spectacles, there wasn’t even a flicker of his eyes. Some people claim you can tell when a person is lying through observation of ‘tells’ in their features, the random flick of a muscle, the dilation response of the pupils. There is much talked about how liars’ eyes flick up and to one side as they access the side of the brain most prone to fantasy, but in my experience it’s bullshit. So much for the eyes supposedly being the windows to the soul. Some liars can look you square on and deliver even the wildest of mistruths without a ghost of movement in their features – anywhere. But to me, Clayton’s lack of response told me more than any facial quirks or tics ever could. He was lying though his teeth.

I’d found Clayton in his den-cum-home office where Cole had directed me. I knocked and he bade me enter like he was the lord of the manor. He was sitting behind a large wooden desk, on which was a new computer, with a wireless keyboard and mouse. I couldn’t see what he was working on, but assumed it had something to do with boats or fishing paraphernalia. After returning from work and greedily chowing down on take-out food without offering my starving friend a morsel, Clayton must have showered. He more or less glowed, his freshly shaved pate shiny under the lights, and was dressed only in a cotton shirt and leisure shorts. I could smell the fragrant aroma of soap that had pervaded the atmosphere, mingling with the ozone from his desktop computer. I fought the urge to sneeze.

There was nowhere to sit, but that suited me fine. I closed the door so that Cole wouldn’t overhear us, and propped my hips against it, folding my arms over my chest. I told him about my eventful day: at least some of it, culminating in Benson stepping into the path of a speeding van on the highway.

‘He was better known as Tommy Benson,’ I clarified. ‘Worked for Wild Point Bait until recently. Ever had any business dealings with them?’

‘Wild Point…that’s that chicken shack up near Oldsmar isn’t it? Yeah, I’ve had dealings with them in the past. Not for a year or two though. I tend to leave the smaller stuff to Parker: he handles the wholesale end of our business while I go after the bigger fry. I deal mostly in boats, engines and outboard motors, jet skis, where the big bucks are.’

‘Benson left his previous job under a cloud,’ I said. ‘From what I can tell his boss was pleased to see the back of him.’

‘Can’t say I’m sad to hear of his passing either,’ Clayton said. It took him a moment to realise how harsh he sounded. ‘Course, I wouldn’t wish what happened to him on anyone. But the guy was causing me trouble, so I’m happy there’ll be an end to it now.’

‘You say you didn’t know him, had no dealings with him, but this is the same guy who knocked you on your arse at the gate. He seemed to have some sort of personal beef with you.’

‘Are you the cops now, Hunter? What’s with all these questions? How do I know what goes on in the mind of a fuck-up like this Benson guy? You said yourself he attacked you, tried to kick you in the nards when you approached him. Well, he might just have done the same to me, without any reason.’

I hadn’t told Clayton about finding the shredded letter, or that the detectives suspected it had been supplied to Benson by a third party. I hadn’t told him about the iPad, or the gun, either, and wasn’t about to. That was for Holker or Bryony to do. A small part of me wanted to secure my employment for another night at least. Rington Investigations could do with the incoming cash, but payment was only a tiny part of my motivation. I was intrigued by what was really going on and didn’t want to leave before discovering the full story. ‘The cops think Benson was working on somebody else’s behalf, someone with a reason to discredit you. The fact Benson worked in the same industry as you is quite telling, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Half the guys on Tampa Bay work in the same industry as I do.’ Clayton made a dismissive noise in the back of his throat. ‘Yeah, I’ve pissed a few of them off in my time. Look around you, Hunter. I’m a successful businessman who’s made my millions while they’re still doing fifteen-dollar trips with tourists. My success breeds resentment from others in my line of work. Any number of the jealous sons of bitches could’ve been behind Benson…’ He grunted in thought. ‘Some more than others.’

‘Names?’

‘Look in the yellow pages under “boat hire”. Then take your fucking pick.’

I let it go. Changed the subject with a nod towards the computer. ‘Is this also a replacement from what the home invasion crew stole?’

Clayton stared back at me. His spectacle lenses reflected the bluish light from the screen saver, and his mouth was down turned.

‘I asked around about some of your things that aren’t easily replaced,’ I went on. ‘The stuff taken that had sentimental value. Ella’s ring.’ I studied his response, but still there were no tells in his features or posture. ‘I tried the usual suspects, even had to shake one bunch down, but…well, I’m sorry, I didn’t find the ring.’

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Then he sat back, and laced his fingers over the dome of his stomach. ‘I doubt it’ll ever be found,’ he said. ‘But thanks for trying. I owe you one.’

‘Forget about it.’ I nodded backwards. ‘Priority is that Cole is safe, right?’

‘Right.’

‘So until we know otherwise, we assume there’s still a third party who intends causing you trouble. You want me to stay on until the cops give the all clear?’

Finally a reaction flickered through him, as if he knew something I didn’t, instead of to the contrary. He checked himself saying something untoward. Yet in the next instant he’d recovered, and he opened his hands palms up. ‘As long as it takes,’ he said. As an afterthought he leaned forward and manipulated the computer keyboard. ‘Now, if you’re done questioning me, I’ve clients to get back to. Mind closing the door on your way out?’

I left without comment, or fuss. Closed the door respectfully. Walked away down the hall frowning. Whatever reaction I’d expected, Clayton’s wasn’t it. When I’d chased Benson from the trees down by the pond that time, Clayton had acted the tough guy, bragging about what he’d do if he got his hands on the prowler. This time he’d met the news of Benson’s death coolly. Yeah, he’d made that remark about being happy there’d be an end to his harassment, but I’d expected more. Where were the questions: who, what, when, why and how? Clayton had been uninterested, no dispassionate. However, I had to remind myself that people reacted differently during phases of the grieving process. There were times when they’d rage and scream, others when they fell into a funk of despondency. Perhaps Clayton had hit a point where he’d thought so long about death that he’d resigned himself to its inevitability. I’d been in the same place in the past. Sometimes it took a catalyst to stir the emotions again, and I wondered how Clayton would react when another inevitability occurred. A visit from Detectives VanMeter and Holker wouldn’t be long coming. When they informed him they’d arrested Parker Quinn, Clayton might go volcanic, but who knew? Whatever the outcome, I’d a feeling tonight was going to be my last in Clayton’s house as an employee.

While I was in Clayton’s office, Cole had taken to his own room. The soft strains of conversation came from beyond his closed door, and the flickering blue light around its frame told me he was watching TV at low volume. I thought about knocking, checking on the boy, but decided against it. Last night’s nightmares might trouble him again, but for now it were probably best that I allowed the boy to settle. It’d be best if he were asleep by the time the cops arrived.

There was no imminent danger I could imagine. I hadn’t slept but for some short spells in the chair last night, and was beginning to tire, and had to stifle a yawn as I trudged down the stairs. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, those bagels and cream cheese now a distant memory in my gut. I headed for the kitchen. It still held the odour of Chinese food. I began rustling up something less exotic, finding eggs, cheese, milk and a green pepper in the fridge that I began forming into an omelet. I layered butter onto some thick wedges of bread cut from the loaf. Not exactly a feast, but enough to put me on for the time being. While waiting for the omelet to cook, I stood in the kitchen, feeling out of sorts.

The day had been a busy one. Forward momentum always suited me best. But since Bryony dropped me back at the laundromat, it was as if a parachute had opened behind me, dragging me to a halt. Eating and sleeping were necessities, but they only added to the creeping torpor draping over me. I ate in a hurry, as much to be doing something as refueling, and washed it down with coffee from a pot Clayton had left on the hotplate. There was a dishwasher, but I elected to wash the dishes and pans in the sink. I dried them and put them away. Cleaned down the worktops. Menial stuff, but it kept me moving. Stopped me from concentrating on the odd feeling of being in somebody else’s place. Back home at Mexico Beach I’d felt as if my beach house suffered the lingering effects from the violence that recently visited it, and the same could be said of now. In this kitchen, those violating her home had disturbed Ella Clayton. She hadn’t died here, but through in the sitting room after being chased there, but this was where her terror had begun, and I felt the memory of that terrible incident lingering in the atmosphere, pervading it the way the smell of soy sauce, and now fried eggs did.

If I paused to give the notion of ghosts any credibility it might be enough to throw me over the edge. I’d killed many people during my time as a counter-terrorism operative with Arrowsake, and also a good few since: if there were such things as vengeful sprits stalking the earth then I would attract quite a crowd. It was enough that my dreams were often troubled by the accusing faces of the dead, without suffering their relentlessly pursuit through the waking hours. Yet there, in her kitchen, I could swear I could sense Ella’s presence. It was probably my conscience on overdrive, and the sense that I should do something more, but I made a silent promise to her that I wouldn’t let this go. I’d pledged to protect her son, and it went without saying that I’d adhere to it, but I added the extra assurance that I’d do all I could to bring her resolution too.

It prompted me to an act I’d have never contemplated otherwise.

Forcing entry to the house, Ella’s attackers had kicked through the doors that led from the garage to the adjoined utility space, and hence through the kitchen door. Following the police investigation, the doors had been replaced, and new locks installed. Clayton kept a set of keys on his person, and the doors had spares inserted in the locks within the house that I’d used when locking the house down at night. They’d be missed, but I’d also spotted an extra batch of keys in one of the kitchen drawers. They were still attached to a plastic fob bearing the name of the locksmith. I withdrew them and secreted them in my trouser pocket. I might be leaving in the morning, but I’d be back.

Detective Holker shared a look with Bryony that expressed exactly how she also felt.
Evidence that might break their case was right there in front of them, but it wasn’t a sense of relief she experienced. It was frustration. No, it was a stronger emotion…
aggravation
. Was there anything worse for a cop than finding the murderer they’d been chasing, only to find they’d defied the proper course of justice by taking their own life?

Arriving at Parker Quinn’s home a few minutes earlier, they’d found the house lit in a number of rooms, and his car parked on the drive, but repeated knocking on his door had failed to rouse him. His cell phone was still with Tampa PD, undergoing forensic analysis, so Bryony had called the dispatcher back at One Police Centre, and asked that she ring Quinn’s landline. Standing on his threshold they heard the phone ringing inside the house. It rang out. Holker made an executive decision: they were here to arrest Quinn and it was highly likely he was hiding from them. He forced entry, first breaking the door pane, then reaching in and uncoupling the locks. Weapons drawn they entered, clearing each room before proceeding. Holker was first to reach the master bedroom, the first to see the handwritten note placed at the centre of the bed. Bryony followed him into the room, and turned towards the bathroom, her gun ready should Quinn make a break for it from within the en suite bathroom.

‘Tampa PD,’ she’d announced. Trusting Holker would cover, she reached for the door handle with her left hand.

‘I think it’s safe to go in, Bryony,’ said Holker. He shook his head, and she followed his gaze to the bed. ‘Suicide note.’

Taking no chances, Bryony still prepared for trouble, but the door swung inward on a scene that only forced a sour taste to her mouth.

Parker Quinn lay nude in his tub. Only his head was above the waterline, bent back over the rim, wedged slightly between the faucets. His mouth was wide, but his tongue had retreated back into the recess of his open mouth. He’d upper dentures and they were askew. In direct contrast to the vivid scarlet of the water, his features were bleached of colour. His bathing water was mingled with so much of Quinn’s lifeblood that it served to protect his modesty, and concealed his hands that had slipped down either side of his hips, but there was no doubt what he’d done. Blood had sprayed up the walls, even touching the ceiling, and there was one diluted patch of blood down the side of the bath, various spatters on the floor.

Bryony’s instinct was to check for life.

Holker caught her elbow, stalling her.

She didn’t argue. Quinn was beyond assistance. But that wasn’t it. Holker had halted her because they’d just come from another potential crime scene and were in danger of causing cross contamination.

Holker called in their discovery, requested that another detective picked up the reins, then secured the scene, from their place at the foot of Quinn’s bed. From there Quinn’s sightless eyes still bore into Bryony, but she didn’t look away.

‘This is bullshit,’ she said.

‘Couldn’t agree more,’ said Holker. ‘The son of a bitch got off too lightly.’

They shared the glance, and Bryony exhaled in anger at how close they’d come to catching Quinn alive. There was no steam rising off the bath water, but she made herself a bet it still wasn’t icy cold. She turned her attention to the note. Read it in monotone. Quinn bleating on about how he couldn’t live with the guilt any longer. How he’d shot Ella, because he was too scared to confront her husband. How he’d tried to make the murder look like a bungled robbery, then thought how he could ruin Clayton after the event by making it look as if he had organised his wife’s murder.

‘
This
is bullshit,’ she said a second time, placing emphasis on the first word this time, and indicating the note. She wished she’d brought the evidence seized from Benson’s house with her for confirmation, but she was certain the handwriting was the same. But therein lay the problem for her. It was too alike. It was too neat, too precise to have been the final words of a man planning to slit his wrists, then sit calmly in his bath while he bled out. ‘I’d stake my ass that it’s a forgery,’ she said.

‘Must admit the thought has gone through my mind,’ Holker said, and he walked to the bathroom door. ‘You see that?’ He indicated a bath mat alongside the bath. It was clean, as if recently laundered. ‘And that?’ This time he indicated the spillage down the side of the bath, the blood that had jetted on the walls and ceiling. ‘There’s not a trace of blood on it. You ask me, I’d say the mat was placed there after the real killer wiped away any footprints he made when he was holding Quinn down.’

Bryony had also spotted the obvious. The surface of the bath water was scummy with blood, but nearer Quinn’s feet there were still frothy bubbles. A branded bottle of muscle soak sat on a tiled shelf behind the faucets. ‘Who planning on bleeding to death would bother adding bubble bath?’

Holker was impressed, but being the guy he was, he didn’t offer praise lightly. He pointed out the pile of Quinn’s clothing, discarded on the bed. Top of the bunch were his jockey shorts. ‘Something else obvious you might’ve missed. From experience, I can’t recall a suicide stripping naked before they got in the bath and opened their veins. Most of them usually leave on their clothing, or only strip down to their underwear. Some have experienced enough shame before they do the deed, so when they are eventually found they want to retain some vestige of dignity.’

‘So we’re in agreement this is a set-up?’

‘We’ll have to wait for the full forensic report, but I think it’s safe to say we won’t be far wrong. This is first degree murder, Bryony.’

‘It seems like a lot of trouble for the killer to have gone to; setting up the scene like this,’ said Bryony, second thoughts assailing her.

‘Unless Quinn already prepared his bath before the killer arrived. He filled the bath, undressed out here, and was truly caught with his pants down. I think the plan was always to pose the suicide – the murderer didn’t write that note after killing Quinn – but made use of the tub when it was presented to him.’

Mulling over Holker’s theory, she concurred with a nod. Though something was still troubling about the scenario. ‘We had to break in. You’ve noticed that every window and door was locked, all the drapes and blinds shut tight? It’s unlikely Quinn left an exterior door open. Now unless the killer went round and secured the house after he was done, which I doubt, he managed to get inside without causing any damage or noise that would’ve alerted Quinn.’

‘That suggests he had a key, right? Which would also suggest he was known to Quinn.’

‘Or working with him.’ Bryony placed a hand over her face. ‘Oh, crap.’

‘Tommy Benson,’ Holker said.

‘Benson,’ she echoed. ‘It didn’t occur to me before but when Joe first approached him, he’d taken a bag of washing to the laundromat. I mean, did his house look as if it belonged to a man who made regular trips to a laundromat? What are the odds he was trying to get rid of Quinn’s blood off his clothing? It would explain why he was so desperate to get away that he ran into traffic: he thought Hunter was a cop about to grab him.’

‘We’re making an assumption here,’ Holker warned.

‘Based on what we’ve seen and found, it’s a fair one,’ Bryony countered. ‘Whether we’re proved wrong in the long run, does it matter? I think it’s something we need to follow up on.’

‘Call it in,’ said Holker. ‘I want someone at the laundromat a.s.a.p. and that clothing seized.’

‘The shop will be closed by now.’

‘I don’t care how late it is. Whoever gets dispatched I want them to make the manager unlock the shop. After Quinn didn’t return for his load, I bet a member of staff put it to one side for safekeeping. I want that clothing. Even if it has been laundered there might still be some incriminating evidence on it.’ As Bryony pulled out her cell, Holker raised a hand. He’d more to add. ‘And I want Benson’s house searched top to bottom again. We weren’t looking for evidence of this murder earlier. I want CSI to go over everything with a fine-toothed comb.’

‘I’ll get on it,’ Bryony promised, but she didn’t yet call in. She looked around the room again. ‘To think we had nothing on Ella Clayton’s murder a few hours ago. Now both of the suspected perps are dead. It’s an unsatisfactory ending, Dennis, but at least it will quieten down a few of our critics. It doesn’t escape me that we wouldn’t have been here without Hunter’s help.’

‘We might still have a live suspect, though,’ said Holker. ‘What is it with your friend that people near him always end up dead?’

‘That’s a little unfair, Dennis…’ Bryony halted. She stared at her partner, her mouth caught in a tight grimace. She’d often suspected that Holker wished their relationship were more intimate. From what she’d experienced he was a married man who actually loved his wife, so his feelings had always been at odds to her. But now she understood that the affection he had for her had nothing to do with getting in her pants: quite the opposite. He was disapproving of her relationship with Hunter because he feared for her. He acted more like a big brother looking out for a little sister. The realisation was endearing, and she reached out and placed her fingertips on his chest. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, you know.’

Holker looked faintly embarrassed. ‘Just looking out for you, kid,’ he said. ‘At first I was only worried that your connection to him might harm your career, now I’m more concerned you’ll end up as another fatality left in his wake.’

‘Wow,’ she said, allowing her fingers to drift away. ‘I appreciate your concern, Dennis, but I think it’s unfounded.’ Hunter had a history of violence, there was no denying it, and even to date his line of work regularly placed him in the line of danger. Inevitably some people close to Hunter had died, but typically it was the criminals he fought who ended up on a slab. She knew Hunter was a good man at heart and despite what Holker thought, wasn’t the demented vigilante he’d been labeled. He wasn’t on a single-minded crusade to clean up the criminal element of the world; his motivation went deeper than that. And it was simpler. He was a protector. His methods might not sit well with some cops, but what Hunter did was defend the helpless. When she’d asked for his help on this case, she knew he’d be hooked as soon as he learned there was a vulnerable child involved. That told her everything she needed about him, and she wished Holker could see the same admirable trait in him. Holker however would always see Hunter as reckless, and those around him prone to the fall-out from his actions.

Holker snorted but it was in good humour. ‘Quinn only met Hunter, what…two days ago? Benson, once they came face to face, only lasted minutes after his first encounter. You telling me that guy isn’t cursed with the mark of Cain?’

‘Now you’re just being nuts,’ she said, but she also chuckled.

This was no place for humour, though, and both detectives realised it. They squeezed away their smiles, and when Bryony made the call and relayed Holker’s instructions she was clipped and professional about it, pacing back and forth. All the while, Parker Quinn’s half-closed eyes seemed to follow her every move. Ending her call, Bryony turned her back on him and looked instead at Holker. Her partner was staring at the suicide note on the bed.

‘Something still bothers me,’ Holker said.

‘About Benson being the murderer?’

‘The torn letter Hunter found at Benson’s place: we thought someone had written it for him.’

Bryony immediately understood where his mind was leading. ‘That’s right, because the samples we compared it to of Benson’s writing were barely literate. So we have to ask ourselves, if it wasn’t Parker Quinn behind it, who wrote the bogus suicide note for him?’

‘Fuck,’ Holker snapped. ‘There’s a third perp still out standing.’

‘Yeah,’ Bryony said, and her aggravation at being denied the proper course of justice by both Quinn and Benson’s deaths evaporated. ‘And do you know what that means, Dennis? You might even get yourself a living suspect.’ As an afterthought she pipped him to the post with a snarky remark. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Hunter doesn’t get to him first.’