No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (10 page)

‘You put on quite a performance,’ Emilio replied, his small mouth puckering and drawing up the folds of hairy skin from beneath his chin. The effort must have been tremendous because the smile lasted a heartbeat then dissolved.

He checked out his followers. They’d clawed themselves back to their feet. Of the three I’d tussled with only the owner of the bat had been injured, but it was pain that’d pass, nothing permanent. He rubbed at his sore chin and aching gut, undecided on which required most nursing. The others only suffered bruised egos. The dog-handler looked most disturbed by the abandonment of his dog, which was currently hiding somewhere chomping merrily on the bat.

‘There was no need for any of them to get hurt,’ I pointed out. ‘I only wanted to talk, to ask you a few questions.’

Emilio slipped away the revolver so he could brace both hands atop his walking stick. The stick was bent into a crescent. He looked over his buddies the way he would a piece of base metal, then shook his head in regret. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have had them bait you like that,’ he admitted.

‘No, you shouldn’t have,’ I said, and thought about what he’d said; one word in particular was pinging like a warning beacon. I made myself a mental note to check it out later. First I wanted answers about Ella’s ring. I hoped because of his reticence to speak with me that Emilio was holding some good information. ‘I take it you already heard I was coming, and what I want to know about, so I’m going to get straight to the point. Ella Clayton was murdered during an alleged home invasion a couple of weeks ago. You heard about it, right?’

‘I heard. What’s it got to do with me? I’m an honest businessman, I don’t consort with thieves and murderers.’

I gave his gang a scornful glance, and couldn’t help sneering.

‘Those boys are loyal to their employer, faithful as hounds you might say. They want to protect me. Pity the same can’t be said for Caesar,’ Emilio said. He caught them looking at him for instruction and he jerked his head. They slinked off, looking for their own hiding places.

‘I take it that Caesar was the mutt? The only one out of the bunch with any brains,’ I said.

‘It’s a dumb piece of shit, too. You should have shot it and saved me the bullet,’ Emilio grunted.

‘I’d rather shoot you,’ I told him. ‘Don’t touch the dog or I’ll be back.’

Emilio chuckled to himself. ‘You’ll happily throw a man off of a tower block, but won’t see any harm coming to a dumb beast. Maybe you’re not the hard ass I’ve heard about.’

‘It’s not a good idea to test me,’ I warned.

He flapped one hand in the air. ‘This ring you’re looking for? Why come to me?’

‘Trust me, you’re not alone in this. I’ve been around a bunch of other guys before you. If you’d given me the opportunity to explain, we could’ve had this over with by now and I’d be out of your hair. What can you tell me about the ring?’

‘Nothing. And that’s the damn truth. I won’t lie to you and say I don’t handle some questionable merchandise, but that ring you’re looking for…I’d be stupid to get within a mile of it. I just bet those others guys you spoke to said the same damn thing: it’s not worth it.’

‘You’re saying you’ve never bought jewellery from a thief before?’ I said.

‘Nope. I’ve done it a hundred times. But I’ve never bought gold from a murderer before.’

‘Not that you know of.’

Emilio shrugged his expansive shoulders. ‘That’s all I’m saying on the subject. Now if you want to beat anything more from me, I’d best call back those boys. They won’t be caught cold like last time. They might get hurt, but so might you. Too much trouble, right? Same as it’s too much trouble for me to handle the goods from a murder scene. You get me?’

‘I get you. So,’ I said, ‘who else can I ask about them?’

‘You’d be wasting your time, buddy. This ring, it’s either hidden somewhere or been melted down for scrap. You’d be better following other leads, believe me.’

The thing was, I did believe him.

I pointed at a nearby stack of junk cars. ‘That car up there, third from the top?’

Emilio followed my gaze. Nodded. ‘Want to buy it?’

I ignored his stupid question. ‘You see the bumper sticker, the one that says WPB? What do those initials stand for?’

‘West Palm Beach,’ Emilio said.

I nodded in agreement. ‘You see many of those stickers round here?’

‘Plenty,’ Emilio said. ‘Why?’

‘No reason,’ I said, but I was lying. ‘Just wondering if it were a generic thing.’

‘You get other designs, but the black oval and lettering on a white background is the most popular I’ve seen.’

I smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Emilio. After our false start, you’ve actually proved helpful.’

My next bout of sleuthing wasn’t as tough on my feet, or on the chins or egos of criminals on the lower rungs of the Tampa underworld. After driving away from Emilio’s junkyard, I parked outside a Walgreens and took out my phone. Though I rarely used it to surf the web, it came with a browser app and I tapped in the initials WPB, but added “Tampa” after it, to differentiate my search from West Palm Beach. As an afterthought, and recalling the mental note I’d made earlier, I included the word “bait” in the search criteria and set it to work. The signal was decent, so I didn’t have long to wait until a list of hyperlinks built in my browser, and I saw a likely candidate for what I’d been searching for. I followed the link.

‘Wild Point Bait,’ I read aloud. ‘We specialize in live bait and fishing tackle.’ I sank a little in my seat as I saw the banner at the head of the website. I recognised the same font and colours from the bumper sticker on the car I was seeking. Now that I had a closer look, the lettering sat atop a diagram of a fishing rod from which hung a leaping fish: through the teeming rain last night the picture of the rod and catch hadn’t been visible to me, but I was certain the sticker on the Toyota Clayton’s assailant took off in was the same. On the Wild Point Bait webpage was a side banner, and in it was a “Southern Fried Florida Native” announcement. It was advertising Saturday evening cookouts - or more likely fish fries – held at the bait and tackle shop’s location off Shore Drive near Oldsmar. I knew the area, and it was only a few miles north along the Old Tampa Bay shoreline from Andrew Clayton’s house. That both graphics I’d seen on the car were also present on the website was too much of a coincidence to ignore. When I thought about it, Clayton was in the boat and fishing business, so who might have a grudge against him more than a rival outfitter? I closed down my phone, started the Ford and headed west on Hillsborough Avenue.

I passed Clayton’s house and felt a trickle of guilt for not pulling in and appraising Rink of what I’d discovered. But as I’d said to my friend, I didn’t want to put any ideas in his head that might prove untrue. I wanted to follow the lead I’d found, see if it went anywhere of value, then I’d bring Rink up to speed. It’d be best to update Bryony and Holker, too, but only when and if I was on the right track. Holker especially wouldn’t appreciate it if I complicated matters, further muddying the murky waters they were already wading through.

Then there was that selfish part of me that wanted more “me time”. The brief scuffle I’d enjoyed with Emilio’s punks had whetted my appetite. It was the kind of action I’d missed for months. And now I was hungry for more.

It was nearing four p.m. by the time I turned off Shore Drive.
At this end of Oldsmar there were a number of residential properties, but there were also an equal amount of commercial premises, some of them arranged as short strip malls, others seated in their own private lots. Wild Point Bait enjoyed a position near the water, which was fitting, but to reach it I had to follow a beaten dirt track that zigzagged through a small industrial complex. Chain-link fences at the trackside seemed pointless considering they were rusted, bent out of shape and even collapsed in most places. The verges hadn’t been attended to in years and were weed-strewn and collecting places for wind-blown trash.  I wasn’t sure it was somewhere I’d come to enjoy a cookout, but that was before I drove round the last building and onto the eastern shore of Safety Harbor. The bait and tackle shop wasn’t much to look at, but its grounds were admittedly impressive and evocative of a certain way of life. I suppose it depends on your personal eye for beauty, but the rustic sheds strewn with old fishing nets, the sloping grassy embankment on which stood an upturned weathered old rowing boat, the sun-faded wooden jetties and small boats bobbing on the lazy tide all appealed to me. After last night’s storm the sea was cerulean, and the water reflected the sky in a similar hue, twinkling in a million highlights where the sunlight caressed the gentle waves. Out on the bay was a small fleet of boats, some under sail, and a flotilla of kayaks originating from a rowing club over towards the Bridgeport side of the harbour. How the owner of the bait and tackle shop had come up with the name “Wild Point” was beyond me, because I thought the place serene. Perhaps the name meant something to fishermen, perhaps not.

I could feel the warmth through my clothing the second I stepped out of my car onto the pale dirt that served as a parking lot. I’d parked alongside a GMC Suburban, and there was some ancient truck that was so faded under the sun I couldn’t determine its original colour. It couldn’t be road worthy but fitted nicely into the rustic setting and it’d be a shame if it were removed. Sadly there was no sign of the Toyota I sought. I wondered if I’d jumped to a conclusion – a trait I was guilty of at times – and the car didn’t belong here: for all I knew the Toyota belonged to a customer who’d slapped on the bumper stickers after a single day out on a hired boat.

I didn’t immediately approach the shop, but took a look around.

A couple of workers were down by the water, tending to the small boats tied off to the jetty. A man was washing the boats with warm soapy water from a bucket, while a woman sat cross-legged on the jetty fiddling with some equipment I couldn’t identify. I ignored the blond woman, checked out the man, but he was old, with a shaved head and thick white moustache, not the man I was looking for, so I ignored him too. Pushing my hands in my pockets, I strolled towards the upturned rowboat, and made out I was admiring the lines of its hull the way an artist might before settling down to forming a composition. I ran a hand over the wood and it was smooth and warm. While I did so, I glanced at the shop. The sign above the window gave the shop its full title. On the door itself I spotted smaller signs, and one of them was identical to the bumper sticker I’d followed here. Because of the glare of sunlight off the window there was no way to tell who was inside. There wasn’t a hint of movement within. Checking on the couple down at the jetty, they were blissfully unaware of my presence. I walked nonchalantly, still admiring the view, towards the shop. My gun was in its usual position, nestled in my lower back, but I fully intended it stayed there this time.

A doorbell tinkled as I pushed inside. It was my first time in a bait and tackle shop, but it looked exactly as I’d imagined. Maybe there were more modern shops in the area, that had brighter lines and décor, but WPB had a retro feel to it, with an old wooden counter running the length of the shop, under which were dozens of individual storage boxes, over which were hinged clear plastic lids. More shelves behind the counter held hundreds of packaged items, and also myriad types of lures, floats, hooks, weights and God knew what else. There were fishing rods by the dozen arranged in racks. Reels. Landing nets. Gaffs. Spear guns. Kit bags. Folding chairs. You name it, whatever you required for a fishing trip, it could be had there. There were a few refrigeration units and a couple of chest-style freezers where they kept the bait; I wasn’t sure where the live bait was stored. Another fridge looked anomalous in one corner, this one stacked with soft drinks and beer, but I supposed fishermen needed to rehydrate regularly when out under the Floridian sun.

The squeaking of hinges announced the arrival of a man who pushed his way through from a storeroom. He had his back to me, struggling to haul an oversized cardboard box through the gap. He cursed softly under his breath, juggled the box about, angrily kicked open the door with one foot, then turned abruptly and placed the heavy cargo down on the counter. Aloud, he suggested the box was of unknown parental lineage. Only then did he look up at me, his expression briefly startled. I nodded in greeting, and he flushed slightly, realising I’d seen and heard his unprofessional antics.

‘Uh, help you?’ he asked, and came out from behind the counter.

He was tall and sinewy, with a tan like polished chestnut. Blond hair, thinning on top, cut short around his ears. He was wearing canvas shorts, sandals, and a baggy T-shirt with the WPB logo on a breast pocket. He was younger than me, maybe in his early thirties. He wasn’t the guy I was looking for.

‘To be honest,’ I said, ‘I don’t really know where to start. I’ve never been fishing before…’ I scanned the shop as if it was a museum of curiosities.

‘Well, wherever you want to start, I can hook you up.’ He smiled. ‘No pun intended.’

I grinned back at him. ‘I’ve been thinking about getting some tackle and stuff, maybe doing some fishing off the beach first.’

He made a motion with one hand to a rack of long poles. ‘I’ll show you a selection of rods if you like? You got a budget in mind?’

I shrugged. ‘Don’t want to waste your time or anything. Not sure if I want to buy today, just wanted to get an idea about what I’d need to get started.’

There was a moment’s disappointment he couldn’t hide, but then the businessman took over again and he began his spiel, hoping that I’d be leaving with a trunk full of tackle by the time he was done. I allowed him his lead, nodding and agreeing with him as he showed me various rods, then led me over to the counter, and began taking down smaller boxes from the shelves and showing me different types of reels. I played at being interested, but was thinking how to broach the actual subject for being there without it sounding obvious.

‘Not sure I want to lay out as much to begin with, I’m only in town for a few days before going home.’ I allowed him to make his own decision about where home might be, based on my English accent. ‘I was talking to one of your staff who said you might be prepared to hire me some gear…’

There was a visible slump in the man’s shoulders, and I watched the dollar signs fade from his eyes. Before I’d lost an advantage, I carried on: ‘At least I took him to be one of your staff. We got talking in a bar yesterday, and the subject turned to fishing. He gave me directions to get out here, otherwise, well, I wouldn’t have known where to come.’

The man only nodded; giving me no clues to the mystery man I’d alluded to.

‘I didn’t catch his name,’ I went on, and held my hand level with my eyebrows. ‘He was about yay high. Brown wavy hair, medium build. Maybe forty years old.’

I elicited another nod. But then the man exhaled noisily, and said, ‘Yeah, that’ll be Benson.’

‘I expected him to be around today…’

The guy shook his head. ‘Not today. Not ever again if I have my way.’

‘Jeez, I hope I haven’t got him in trouble over this,’ I said.

‘Benson doesn’t need any help getting himself in trouble, Mister.’ He folded down the lid on the box of the latest reel he’d been about to show me. ‘Look, buddy, no offence, but you’ve got no interest in fishing, have you? You’re here about Benson. Why not just come out with whatever it is you want to ask? I’ll decide if I want to answer or not.’

I’d been caught in my lie, but it didn’t matter. The man wasn’t being belligerent; he only seemed resigned.

‘A full name would help,’ I admitted.

‘Tommy. Thomas Benson. You’re right. He
was
an employee, but I had to let him go. Conflict of interests, is all I’ll say on the matter.’

‘Do you know where I can find him?’

The guy looked me over. Came to a conclusion. ‘You aren’t going to hurt him in any way? I don’t have much nice to say about him, but I wouldn’t wish harm on him.’

‘I only need to speak with him about something.’

The man grabbed a pen and tore off a strip of receipt roll from his till. He jotted down an address. ‘You didn’t get that from me, right?’

‘I wasn’t even here,’ I reassured him.

He thought about my answer, then handed over the note. I didn’t look at what he’d written, just slipped the paper in my pocket. ‘Can I ask you one last thing?’

‘Why not?’

‘Does Benson have a tattoo right here?’ I touched a finger to the webbing between the thumb and index finger of my right hand.

‘Not that I ever noticed,’ he said. ‘But I haven’t seen him in about ten days, so who knows what the fool’s been up to in the meantime?’

I nodded, shelved away another mental note. I went to the fridge and pulled out a six-pack of Budweiser, and counted fifty dollars on to the counter.

‘That’s too much,’ said the man.

‘It’s for the beer and your time. Thanks. I appreciate it.’

‘No worries,’ he said as I turned for the door, carrying the beer under one arm. ‘And, hey, buddy, if you ever do get serious about fishing come back, why don’t you?’

‘Will do.’ My promise was empty, but then again so had been his offer. He meant unless it was to buy tackle, don’t bother returning.

Back in my car, I put the beers aside. I’d no intention of drinking them yet. I’d discovered the name of Clayton’s assailant, but it was too soon for celebration.

‘Tommy Benson,’ I said aloud, ‘what exactly is your part in all this?’

Delving in my pocket, I found the slip of till roll and read the address. The street name was unfamiliar, but I knew the neighbourhood. I thought again that I should call Bryony and Holker, or Rink at the very least. But I didn’t. All I used my phone for was to bring up the location of Benson’s house on a sat-nav app. Time to go, I hit the ignition.