No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (16 page)

Footsteps padding downstairs roused me from an easy chair in the sitting room.
I’d rested there for hours, while still being on guard. There was no imminent danger I could think of so could have retired to bed, but I wasn’t asleep, not fully, just drifting. All the lights were off on the ground floor, and my view through the large window allowed me to see across the grounds, past the American flag that the breeze fought to stir, towards where the driveway swept towards the electronic gate. I’d been watching for headlights, expecting Bryony and Holker to turn up, but then the hour had grown late, and segued into the wee small hours, and now into pre-dawn. Throughout the hours I’d mulled over what I’d learned and what still puzzled me about the mess I’d become embroiled in. Nobody has ever accused me of being a good detective: usually I’m forced to react and to think on my feet, where I don’t have much time for navel-gazing while ordering and reordering clues in my mind. This job had been different, there’d been lots of time spent ruminating, and in some way it proved more tiring than fighting my way out of an ambush. There were things that bothered me still, and the more I gave them thought the troublesome clues were leading me in only one direction, and to one person in particular.

And then, there he was entering the sitting room as I stood up in the pre-dawn gloom before him.

Andrew Clayton regarded me from the doorway, his bulk almost filling it. His posture was wary, head hunched down on his wide shoulders. For an instant I felt the spurt of adrenalin shoot through me, and I tensed to meet an attack.

‘It’s only me, Hunter,’ Clayton announced, his voice a low rasp. There was emotion in it that gave me pause, and forced me to relax.

‘I know,’ I told him. ‘What is it?’

We were both standing in the dark, a bit ridiculously, but neither of us reached for a light switch.

‘Could we step outside?’ Clayton asked.

I would have asked why we couldn’t speak right there, but was intrigued by his question, and where it might lead. Clayton immediately doused any suspicions I had about his motive to get me out the house.

‘I don’t want Cole over-hearing,’ he said.

Instinctively my head rose, as if by looking through the ceiling I could check the whereabouts of the boy, and if he was sleeping soundly. There was no hint of noise to suggest the boy was out of bed and creeping along the landing to eavesdrop. But Clayton had a point: there was something he didn’t want Cole to hear, and a walk outside together would negate any chance of it happening. ‘You’re the boss,’ I said.

Clayton turned away, heading for the front door. When I stepped into the vestibule, he was eyeing the joinery work shoring up the smashed door pane. The ply-board was a reminder of his harassment. He glanced back at me, then at the door again. ‘Think that will be safe to get fixed now that another brick isn’t going to damage it?’

I didn’t answer. He already knew Benson was out of the picture, so I took it he’d heard that Parker Quinn had been taken in by the police, the reason he didn’t want Cole to hear about his Uncle Parker being a bad guy. He’d put off making repairs, expecting a repeat attack on his property; perhaps he’d been right to wait, because if I hadn’t disturbed Benson that time down by the pond, who knew what the guy had been planning? Maybe he’d targeted another window for a lobbed stone. Anyway, now both conspirators were no longer an issue, there wasn’t any likelihood of repeat vandalism. Then again, if my suspicions were to be credited, Clayton would know it was safe to make repairs.

He opened the door and went out onto the porch. He walked stealthily, conscious of his weight on the boards. He needn’t have bothered tiptoeing because I’d already determined that none of the boards sung out. I followed, pulling the door shut as he went down the steps. Without waiting, Clayton walked along the front of the impressive dwelling, forcing me to follow. I did so with a sense of wariness that I might be being led into a trap. My SIG was snug in its carry position. I didn’t bother reaching towards it. Only followed where Clayton was taking me. He went around the side of the garage, on to the lawn that sloped gently towards the pond. The same breeze that struggled to shift the heavy flag out front was having an easier time with the long reeds along the pond’s bank, and with the treetops that surrounded it. The storm clouds had well and truly passed, and the sky was a deep indigo spangled with stars, even as the sun made its first stab at climbing over the eastern horizon. The tidal breeze was warm, and I suspected that by mid-morning it would be furnace hot.

Clayton had dressed for the day. He wore an open-necked white shirt, grey trousers and black loafers. On his left wrist was an expensive Breitling watch. The round lenses of his glasses reflected the still pond, making them equally fathomless. But that was only until he turned fully towards me and I got a clear look at his sclera, which were bloodshot. And the lids were puffy: I’d swear Clayton had been crying. He could be a good actor, he’d proven that already if my suspicions were to be trusted, but I doubted it when it came to the gentler emotions. Suddenly doubt wedged into my mind, like a rigid hand forcing back the accusations I was prepared to call Clayton on.

I waited for him to speak.

It took him another moment to gather himself. He looked out across the pond again; unable to meet my gaze for fear his tears would deem him weak.

‘It’s Parker,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ I replied.

‘Did the police call you already?’

I shook my head, even though he couldn’t possibly see me as he stared over the water. ‘After Bryony dropped me, I knew she was going back to arrest him.’

‘You didn’t say,’ he said, and his voice had taken on an accusatory tone.

‘At the time there was nothing to tell,’ I replied. ‘The cops were following up on something they’d found at Benson’s place. I wasn’t party to the details, so didn’t think I should be talking to you about it. Quinn’s your business partner; it wasn’t my place to tell you he might be the one behind Benson. I expected the detectives to come by last night. I guess events overtook them and they didn’t get the chance.’

‘Huh! Things certainly overtook them,’ Clayton said, gesturing hard at the ground with one clenched fist. ‘Detective Holker rang me on my cell; they’re coming over in an hour, him and VanMeter. But he wanted to make sure I heard from him first, before I caught anything in the news.’

‘They’ve charged him?’ I asked, but felt that wasn’t it. He snapped a look at me, sneering at my stupidity. Worse news was coming.

‘Parker’s dead!’ His voice was raised, and it had been a good idea to walk some distance from Cole, because I felt the force of his words like a slap to the cheek.

What the hell happened? My first thought was that Parker Quinn had resisted arrest and been shot in the attempt. Holker and - more importantly to me – Bryony were safe, because Clayton had just told me they were going to drop by, but had either of them shot Quinn?

‘Not only is he dead, Parker was murdered!’

I was too stunned to reply.

‘Didn’t you hear me? I said he was murdered! Fucking killed.’

‘I heard,’ I said, ‘I’m just trying to make sense of it.’

‘Fucking Tommy Benson…’ Clayton had restrained his anger for long enough. He suddenly kicked at the lawn, sending a divot of grass sailing towards the pond. It landed in the reeds. He rounded on me, and the ligaments in his neck were rigid, tight enough to strum a tune on. ‘Holker says the sick fuck stole into Parker’s house and killed him. Caught the poor schmuck in his bath and slit his wrists. Watched him bleed to death, then set up the scene to look like a suicide. He went to some detail, Holker said, even leaving a forged suicide note. They say that’s why he ran from you when you caught him trying to wash the evidence from his clothes: he thought the game was up and was desperate to escape. No wonder the bastard jumped in front of a van. Can you fucking believe it?’

No I didn’t. Sure I believed Quinn was dead, murdered even and posed to make it appear he’d killed himself, but I didn’t imagine for a second that Benson was his slayer. The reason being, I believed the same man who’d killed Quinn was also the same as killed Ella. Tommy Benson just didn’t fit the bill of someone capable of planning, let alone carrying out two murders, then elaborately dressing the scenes.

‘I’m sorry to hear about your friend,’ I said.

‘Why? By all accounts he was the one sending Benson round, and the one sending those emails blaming
me
for Ella’s murder. Why should you be sorry for the son of a bitch? I’m not.’

He was mixed up, or he was playing a role. His tears, and the tremble in his voice, told me that the news of his partner’s death was as troubling as the thought Quinn had been plotting to ruin him.

‘It’ll be difficult for you when it comes to telling Cole. I think the boy was fond of his Uncle Parker.’

Clayton steepled both hands over his face. His fingertips dug into his forehead. ‘Oh, God…’

I hadn’t been around them when the boy had learned of his mother’s murder, and for all I knew he’d bawled and screamed for a week, but from what I’d witnessed in the past few days Cole had been internalising his grief. It’s often said that kids are resilient, and are able to bounce back from loss easier than most adults, but I knew from experience what it was like losing a parent at a young age. It can mess you up. Perhaps the news that his uncle had also been murdered would open the floodgates – the best of a bad situation – or it would send him deeper into his self-imposed hole. I didn’t envy Clayton the task of telling the boy, but it was something that couldn’t be put off. It was best that he broach it before Cole found out Parker was suspected of being responsible for Ella’s killing.

‘Do you want me to speak to Cole first?’ I offered, though it was about the last thing I wished to do.

‘No.’ He lowered his hands, made an adjustment of his spectacles, and looked at me again. His anger of moments ago had dissolved fully, and now he only looked deeply sad. Was I totally on the wrong track?

At a loss at what to say next, I sighed at the floor between my feet.

I was prepared to ask some pointed questions, there were still anomalies that troubled me, but the sudden doubt held my tongue.

‘Thanks for the offer, Hunter, but there are some things a son deserves to hear from his dad.’

‘You’re probably right,’ I said.

‘But I would like to ask you one thing?’

‘Go on.’

‘I’d rather Cole didn’t hear anything until after the police have left. You were planning on leaving this morning. Do you mind sticking around for a few extra hours and keeping an eye on him?’

I hadn’t planned on leaving, but I’d expected to. Clayton had obviously made a decision on ending my employment, and if not for the phone call from Holker I’d have been sent packing at first light.

‘I don’t mind one bit,’ I reassured him.

He nodded, and turned towards the house.

‘I’d like to ask
you
one thing, too,’ I said to his back.

‘What is it?’ He stopped in his tracks, listening with his ear cocked over one shoulder.

‘That time at the gate, when Benson hit you,’ I said, ‘you described him as having a tattoo on his hand.’

Clayton turned, peering at me quizzically. ‘That’s right,’ he said, and tapped his left fingers on the skin between the index finger and thumb of his right. ‘A spider’s web. Why?’

‘No reason,’ I said, but he knew I was lying.

‘Do you think it’s important?’

‘I was thinking about the home invasion crew. Some gang members tag themselves with tattoos. Just wondered if Benson might be part of the crew after all.’

My explanation sounded feasible. While asking him about the tattoo I’d been watching him for ‘tells’ again, and this time, judging by his forthright description of what and where it was coming without pause, I believed he was being truthful. But that only complicated matters.

The following evening found me in a bar off Nebraska Boulevard, not far from College Hill.
It wasn’t an establishment I’d normally frequent. The neighbourhood had a crime rate twice the national average, and was a well-known hangout of gangbangers who weren’t shy when it came to car-jackings, drive-by-shootings, muggings or assaults with a deadly weapon. This end of Nebraska Boulevard was also notorious for five-dollar hookers, streetwalkers, rent boys and others catering to wilder vices. Ergo it attracted some unsavoury clients. Whenever I’d been on Nebraska in the past it was while engaged in my job. This evening was in part a social occasion, seeing as Bryony VanMeter had joined me. She’d chosen the bar, being roughly mid-way from where she lived and where I’d travelled via taxi from Andrew Clayton’s place. We’d found a quiet corner in what was largely a quiet bar, but I expected that once night began to fall things would heat up quite a lot.

‘I asked to meet here because they stock a full bar of imported beers, even Brit ones,’ Bryony said, as she eyed my bottle with a slice of lime wedged in its neck.

‘I like Corona,’ I replied. ‘What can I say?’

‘Nothing.’ Bryony picked up her glass. The beer in it was so dark it had to be Irish. She held its bottom towards me, and I obliged, knocking my bottle to it. ‘Cheers,’ she said.

‘Cheers,’ I replied. I’d no idea what we had to celebrate, though I was content to go along with her, and was happy in her company.

Bryony had foregone the semi-businesslike clothing she wore on duty, electing for a coral-coloured satin blouse over blue jeans, and heels that added a few inches to her willowy frame. The left side of her auburn hair was clipped back over her ear, disrupting the pixie cut, and making her all the more lovely for it. Her smatterings of freckles were actually complimented by the colour of her blouse, as were her deep honey eyes. Sitting opposite her, I must have looked like a slightly worse for wear older colleague, fresh from a hard day’s work, but a long way from a shower and shave. Then again, the few patrons in the bar appeared further removed from a wash, so perhaps I didn’t look too bad by comparison.

‘This a usual watering hole for you?’ I asked.

‘I chose it for the beer, and the music. I thought both might be to your taste.’

The Rolling Stones were doing their stuff on the jukebox, Mick Jagger claiming that time was on his side, and proving that there was more to him than a strutting rooster. It was my kind of music, though sometimes my Rhythm and Blues was from an even older school. ‘You did well,’ I assured her. ‘But let’s not plan on eating here, eh?’

‘I’m not suicidal,’ she quipped, then realised she might have spoken in bad taste, considering the events of yesterday.

It was a good point to discuss what we were really there for, while we still had some relative privacy. ‘So you’re positive Quinn was murdered, then?’

‘We can’t say one hundred per cent, not until the pathology reports come back, but everyone who’s been to the scene are in agreement. There are too many inconsistencies for it to have been done by Quinn. Holker has had the evidence we’ve collected fast-tracked, now that we’re investigating another possible murder and not just a stupid harassment case. We hope to have something solid to tell the press by end of day.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Remember the letter you found at Benson’s house? Well it doesn’t need an expert to tell the same person who wrote it also left the suicide note on Quinn’s bed. At first we thought Quinn supplied the one to Benson, so he could follow the wording when sending the email, but that doesn’t make any sense now. On the surface it appears to be Quinn’s handwriting, I was able to do a comparison against other samples we found at his house, and at his office. We’ve brought in a forensic handwriting analyst to see what they make of it.’

In the old days criminals used to mock-up letters using words snipped from newspapers and magazines. Things had moved on, I guessed, then changed my mind. The way these letters had been created could be by an even older method. ‘Could somebody have traced samples of Quinn’s writing? If they had enough samples they could pick and choose the letters and words they needed to fashion a bogus letter.’

‘Good thinking,’ she said, with another tip of her beer glass, ‘but we have already considered that. The analyst will be able to confirm it.’ She squinted slightly as she considered me. ‘How did you come up with that theory, anyway? Is it you’re not as dumb as you look?’

‘It’s just something I saw at Clayton’s place. Cole was tracing comic book characters and making a collage out of them. I asked him about it and he said his mom showed him how to do it.’

‘You’re thinking Andrew Clayton got the same idea from Ella?’ Bryony asked.

‘I did, the second you mentioned it. But why send emails blaming him for Ella’s murder, if he is guilty? Sounds a bit too “Murder She Wrote” to me.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first case where it’s happened. I did a database search and there was a doctor who murdered his wife, who went on to taunt the FBI to try to catch him with letters claiming to be from the killer, who also happened to be harassing the good doctor. He was trying to waylay blame from himself by inventing this mysterious game-playing killer. He was caught in the end.’

‘You’ll catch this killer too,’ I reassured her.

‘You’ve changed your mind about Clayton?’

‘You put me in that house to find evidence pointing at him being Ella’s killer,’ I said. ‘I’ve been unable to do that; but there are things that I can’t quite get my head around.’

‘Like what?’

‘Ella’s wedding ring for starters.’ The original idea that a home invasion crew were responsible for the robbery never quite sat with me: not when they’d shown how cautious they were, and with their reluctance to kill anyone. I didn’t see the crew responsible for the other robberies gunning down a woman, then looting a ring from her finger, when there were easier targets to concentrate their greed on. ‘OK. Maybe one of the crew couldn’t pass up the opportunity to snatch her jewellery, when it was there for the taking, but I get the sense that we’re on the wrong track. Taking her wedding ring feels more personal to me. That initially made me feel that Clayton had done in his wife, and kept her ring as a memento or even sick trophy. I can’t quite shake that feeling, but am having doubts.’

‘What else? You said there were
things
still bothering you. Plural.’

‘Clayton lied to me.’

‘Perhaps it’s simply in his nature to lie.’

‘He said he didn’t know Thomas Benson.’

‘Maybe he didn’t,’ Bryony said, and took a long gulp of her Guinness. I watched her tongue darting as she mopped the froth from her lips.

‘But he didn’t correct me when I told him it was the same guy who knocked him on his arse that night.’

‘Sorry? You’re saying it wasn’t Tommy?’

‘I asked Quinn this morning about the guy who struck him, and he again described a tattoo, right here.’ I touched my right hand next to my thumb. ‘A spider’s web. Well, I’ve been thinking. After Benson got run over, I tried to ease him on when it was clear he was dying. I held his right hand. It didn’t have any tattoo, Bryony.’

She was frowning long before I’d finished. She had seen Benson’s corpse at the scene, and at the morgue afterwards if I understood police procedures, and had viewed photographs in the murder book she and Holker were compiling. She knew I was correct: Benson didn’t have the tattoo. ‘Originally I thought Clayton invented the tattoo, to further muddy the waters,’ I said, ‘but now I’m not sure. When I spoke with him about it this morning, he didn’t falter when asked about it. Even the best liars have to have very good memories to answer as quickly and forthrightly as he did.’

‘So why do you think he’s lying?’ Bryony said, but I watched the penny drop, her head rolling slightly on her shoulders. ‘You’re suggesting Clayton
did
know Tommy Benson, but he didn’t know the guy who attacked him?’

‘No, that’s not what I’m suggesting. It’s the opposite: I believe he didn’t know Tommy, as he claimed, but he knows exactly who the tattooed guy is. He gave me this bullshit story of going out to meet him at the gate when the guy pretended he was delivering a package. We were in the middle of a bloody thunderstorm at the time. You ask me, Clayton used the thunderstorm as cover, not expecting me to notice he’d left the house. He was talking to the guy at the gate in the pouring rain. After I’d had a go at him about protecting the integrity of the grounds, demanding for starters that he change the code on the electronic gate, he went out and opened it up. The guy was driving a Toyota Corolla for Christ’s sake, not a delivery truck. This was a man who was being harassed, who’d agreed to hiring protection for his son, and he opens the gate to a total stranger he must’ve known was lying about a delivery?’

Playing devil’s advocate, Bryony shrugged. ‘Maybe he receives smaller deliveries by private car. Maybe he was suckered into opening the gate.’

‘There was no delivery I could see. Besides, we now know there was none, it was just a story. The thing was, when Clayton saw me approaching, he said something I didn’t hear. Next thing the guy hit him and took off.’

‘You think he told the guy to punch him?’

‘That’s what it looked like to me. The guy hit him with a little love tap and he went down like a bag of crap. Clayton’s a man who used to fight in bare-knuckle boxing matches and cage fights, not the type to have a glass jaw.’

Bryony considered my words. It took another gulp of beer before she had a comeback ready. ‘So you’re saying that Clayton knew the guy, and from what you’re suggesting they’ve been working together. They’re the ones who used Tommy Benson and Parker Quinn, setting them up as patsies?’

‘The tattooed guy is still out there.’

‘But if they’d been working together, why would Clayton describe him to you when he knows it might lead us to his partner in crime.’

‘Yeah,’ I sighed, ‘there is that. Something you might want to look into though, Bryony…I’m now certain it wasn’t Tommy Benson at the gate that night, but it was Tommy Benson’s car the guy drove off in. They knew each other.’ I thought about the bumper stickers that had led me to Benson, and though I didn’t yet mention to Bryony, I made myself a mental note to go check something with the owner of Wild Point Bait.

‘We found footprints from at least two different robbers the night Ella was killed. There were also at least two firearms used, one of which we think we found at Benson’s house, and will know for certain once the ballistics reports come back. So, Benson and this tattooed guy were working together, perhaps on Clayton’s behalf, and Parker Quinn was totally innocent in all this? When we spoke with Clayton earlier, he struck me as being genuinely heartbroken about Quinn, but I suppose he could’ve been acting…’ In the background Jagger had finished his moody rendition and someone else was now growling about smokestack lightning: Howling Wolf, I bet. Bryony had barely heard her cell’s ringtone over the music. She cocked her head to one side, then lifted a palm to me, begging a moment. ‘Jeez, Joe,’ she muttered, as she fished her cell from her purse, ‘you really know how to throw a wrench in the works.’

‘You going to tell Holker the same thing?’ I offered my most self-effacing smile.

‘Dennis?’ she greeted her partner, then offered me a scowl, working her mouth at me.
How’d you know it was Holker
, her unspoken question said.

‘Who else knew you were meeting me who’d want to break up the party?’ I whispered. Bryony shook her head in amusement, but was busy listening to Holker. I watched as her features pinched in question, then creased up around the temples as she was struck with understanding.

‘I’ll be right there,’ she announced.

Holker tried to say something else, but Bryony was already standing up, gulping her final mouthful of beer. I could hear the distorted tones of his voice as he said something about not waiting. ‘I’m nearby,’ Bryony told him. ‘Just give me five minutes, please.’

She didn’t want the five minutes to say her pleasant goodbyes to me, though, but to drive wherever Holker was waiting. ‘Come on, Joe.’

‘What is it?’

‘I haven’t time to explain; if you want to hear, you’ll have to do it while you walk me to my car.’ She was already heading from the booth, and as she passed the bar, she threw down twenty dollars. I took it that it was enough for both our drinks, so only went after her, lugging the knapsack I’d fetched with me from Andrew Clayton’s place.

Out on Nebraska Boulevard, Bryony picked up pace. The heels didn’t slow her, but accentuated her legs magnificently. I paused very briefly to admire the view before hurrying after her. People got out of our way on the sidewalk, and I admit it did look as if we were engaged in a chase. More than one hooker turned to check out who might be their new rival on the strip, and they were green with envy: there wasn’t a professional girl in sight who could hold a candle to Bryony. Oblivious to the looks she attracted, Bryony headed for where she’d left her car, down a side street.

‘You going to tell me where we’re going?’ I asked.

Without turning, Bryony said, ‘Where I’m going. Sorry, Joe, but I can’t take you with me. Not this time.’

‘You’re going to abandon me in the middle of College Hill? You’re signing my death warrant. Holker put you up to this?’