No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (3 page)

‘Why hasn’t a patrol car been allocated to sit outside the house?’ I pondered, though I suspected the answer.

‘Budget constraints, manpower issues, conflict of interest where a possible suspect is concerned…take your pick.’

‘And that’s where I come in?’ I said.

‘Exactly. Andrew claims he isn’t worried for himself, but he doesn’t want any harm to come to Cole, and nobody can blame him for that. When I informed him that Tampa PD couldn’t supply round the clock protection he asked me if I knew anybody who could.’ She pointed at me. ‘
That’s
where you come in, Joe.’

I exhaled slowly.

‘You don’t want the job?’ Bryony pressed.

‘It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of Andrew Clayton; there’s an innocent child involved. Was there ever any doubt I’d take it?’

When he used to be a cop, nobody would have got the drop on Jed Boaz like this.
Back when he’d carried a shield and a gun, he’d been switched on. Neither a badge nor a firearm was armour against assault from those who had little respect for the accoutrements of a detective. So he’d always ensured that he was alert, on-guard, prepared for when the shit came down. He’d never been caught napping. But that was eight years ago now, and in the intervening years the fall out from an acrimonious divorce, and a dependency on prescription painkillers and bottles of scotch, had dulled him. He’d shattered both legs in a pile-up on the I-4. Ironically it hadn’t been during a high-speed chase – many of which he’d been involved in during his law enforcement career – but on a slow Sunday afternoon after visiting family up at Lake Buena Vista. He didn’t recall much about the collision afterwards, but he’d the State Troopers’ report to go on: a car full of French tourists had blown a tyre, and over-reacting the driver had yanked the steering, throwing their car under the wheels of a truck. The truck had jack-knifed, swatting Jed’s vehicle across the central median and into the path of an oncoming bus. His wife’s injuries had been blessedly superficial – minor cuts and bruises - but Jed had to be cut out of the mashed wreckage, and it had been touch and go as to whether he’d keep his right leg due to the crush injuries. The surgeons had saved his leg, if not his full mobility. Recuperating from his injuries had been a bastard, but so had his behaviour. He was unfit for work, and was pensioned off on medical grounds, but he hadn’t welcomed early retirement. Less than a year after the accident his wife, Barbara, said goodbye to the boorish man he’d become, taking half of everything with her including a cut of his pension. In hindsight he couldn’t blame her, because he had been a spiteful asshole. He could try to blame the meds or the bottle, but really it was down to him. He’d lost pretty much everything: His job, his wife, his home, and his self-respect. But he’d tried to climb back out of the hole, though the private work he’d undertaken didn’t give him the same credibility he once had, but it paid his bills and put scotch in his belly most evenings, so he wasn’t complaining. Not much. What it hadn’t done was remind him that there were dangerous, evil bastards out there just waiting for the moment you dropped your guard so they could inflict pain on you.

Most days, when he was sober, he conducted business from the seat of his Honda Civic, the tools and paperwork associated with his business scattered on the seats both front and back, all of it smelling of take-out fried chicken or burgers, and sour whisky breath. When he wasn’t sober enough to be behind the wheel, he used a room he rented above a tool hire shop in a strip mall off West Waters Avenue. The room was small, cluttered, but cheap enough, and was in staggering distance of a Panda Express and McDonald’s for when he got hungry, and a Walmart for when he grew thirsty. He required a business address, and somewhere his mail could be delivered. Also, he needed somewhere he could crash out when he was too drunk to haul his ass home to his miserable condo a few blocks away in River Oaks. Tonight was such a night.

He wasn’t as drunk as he wished to be, but he was soused enough not to trust himself to drive and arrive home in one piece. His legs were aching like crazy, and twice his reconstructed left knee had almost given out on him since he’d left the bar. His right leg, atrophied an inch shorter since his accident, was the weaker leg of the two. He walked like a constipated duck, even when he wasn’t loaded. His gait made him a target of jokes, and sometimes of predators, and for that reason he kept an equalizer on hand to teach those who’d target him a lesson. He reached in his jacket pocket and racked out his extendable truncheon, even as he turned to confront the guy who’d followed him down the alley behind the strip mall.

The tool hire shop closed at six p.m. and it was now fast approaching the witching hour. That meant Jed had to use the back door to gain entrance to his office. Ordinarily it wasn’t a problem – not if you discounted the steep narrow stairs he’d to mount – and going down the poorly lit alley didn’t ordinarily concern him. If he came across anyone in the alley, it would be a homeless dude scratching through the Dumpsters for discarded food behind Subway or Krispy Kreme. He knew the local street people and they him. Occasionally he’d slip them a few dollars and stay on side with them. But this guy was no hobo.

‘You want to fuck with me,’ Jed challenged, as he lifted the steel baton towards the man, ‘you made a big mistake, boy.’

He’d made more mistakes than lowering his guard. The first was showing his weapon so openly; the second was misjudging the guy who continued towards him unperturbed. This was no kid who thought he’d roll a drunk for the contents of his wallet. The guy had come prepared for a fight, and had dressed for the occasion in an all-in-one coverall, boots, gloves, ski mask and opaque goggles. He also held a weapon, and Jed’s only sense of relief was that it wasn’t a gun. But it was a knife, and every bit as deadly if it stuck him in the right spot.

Before he lost an inch in height, Jed had been a big man. He was still big, and if he were still fit and healthy, he’d be confident of matching this guy in a fight. But now, unsteady on his feet from both booze and injury, he felt a ripple of terror pass through him. From the confidence in his approach his opponent held no such fear.

In a choice between fight and flight Jed had only one option. He swung the truncheon in a wide arc that fell a full yard short of the man. ‘Keep the fuck away from me!’ he yelled. ‘Just take one step closer, buddy, and I’m gonna smash you in the head.’

The masked man halted. But he didn’t back away. He simply stared at Jed, his gaze impenetrable beyond the smoked glass of his goggles. The only visible hint of the man’s identity was in the white of his skin around his mouth, and the whiteness of his teeth as he grinned maliciously at Jed’s bravado.

‘I’m telling you, man. You don’t know who you’re messing with.’ Jed swept the baton back again in a second vicious swipe.

‘I know exactly who you are,’ said the man.

‘Well you know more than I do, man!’ Jed glanced for an escape route. The door to his office was still a dozen paces away, and locked. No way could he make it in time before the weirdo could pounce on his back. He aimed the tip of the steel rod at the man’s face. ‘Who the fuck are you, anyway? What do you want from me?’

‘Everything, Boaz,’ said the man, ‘I want everything.’

Jed slapped at his pocket. ‘Buddy, I’ve about ten bucks to my name. You want it, fucking take it. It’s more than my trouble’s worth.’

The man shook his head, but didn’t yet approach. He folded away his knife and slipped it into a deep pocket on the coveralls. His confidence was growing exponentially to a point the baton didn’t require a counter weapon. Jed also shook his head in warning: the fucker would learn his mistake at his peril. Jed’s legs were crippled, but he could still swing a metal bar with the best of them.

‘I’m giving you one last chance to walk away, buddy. If you don’t, well, I’m putting a dent or two in that skull of yours.’ Despite his words, Jed began backing away. His left heel went into a puddle of filth spilling from the base of a rusting trashcan. The stench of decomposition wafted up around him, smelling much the same as the rank stink pouring out of his pores.

The man opened his arms, holding out his hands thumbs up, as if begging a question. Or inviting Jed to take another swing. Jed didn’t. He still held the baton between them. It suddenly felt flimsy and insubstantial in his fist.

‘I don’t know what you want from me,’ he said, and hated that he almost whined.

‘I told you. I want everything.’ The man inched forward. ‘
Every
thing you took from me.’

Realisation struck Jed as hard as a punch to the gut.

‘It’s
you
?’ he asked.

‘Don’t act shocked,’ said the man. ‘You must have known I was coming for you next.’

‘Son of a bitch,’ Jed wheezed, and he knew it was now or never. He pushed off his bad knee, jerking forward even as he whipped the baton over his shoulder, building momentum for a slash at the man’s skull. But the man was moving too. Not away, but directly at Jed. His right arm chambered as well, but it was to block Jed’s blow as he snapped down the truncheon. The extendable metal rod whacked the man’s forearm, but with little effect. The baton was designed to concentrate kinetic force into its tip, not up near where it was gripped by its wielder. The blow would leave a welt, but it wasn’t strong enough to break bone, or even deaden nerves, as Jed intended. He yanked back his arm, aiming for another more satisfying cut to the man’s ribs. But the opportunity didn’t arise to land the blow. The man’s clenched left fist struck him under his ribs, and Jed folded over it. He almost vomited, even as he staggered back, his vision threatening to abandon him in a flash of scarlet agony as his guts contracted.

He sensed more than saw the man move towards him, and he swept the baton sideways out of instinct. A gloved hand snapping down on Jed’s wrist checked it. He attempted to roll his arm free, but as he did so, the man’s other hand grasped the baton and wrenched it away. Jed reared up, shielding his head with his free arm, expecting a blow from his own liberated weapon. Except his head wasn’t the intended target. The tip of the truncheon whipped across his reconstructed knee, putting paid to hours of surgery and years of physiotherapy in an instant. Jed hurt too much to scream. He collapsed over his shattered leg, falling in a huddle at the man’s booted feet, grimacing in torment as he tried to pull his injured knee into an embrace. He was shown no pity. The baton came down on his other leg. This time it was his ankle that exploded in agony. Jed pulled up his freshly hurt limb, huddled over both legs to protect them, but that only left open his head and shoulders to the prolonged and brutal attack that followed.

‘It looks as if Andrew will be good for my fee,’ I noted as Bryony VanMeter drove us up the driveway towards a waterfront house off Hillsborough Avenue, near to Double Branch Bay.

It was the morning after we’d met at Rink’s place, and she’d returned early to pick me up, in order to personally introduce me to Andrew Clayton. Despite having downed a few bottles from Rink’s stash of beer she appeared bright and breezy, and was freshly showered and perfumed. By comparison I felt and possibly looked as if I’d enjoyed a heavy drinking session, though it had nothing to do with imbibing too much alcohol. I’d had a restless night, my thoughts churning while considering if I’d done the right thing by accepting the job. Instinct had warned me to turn it down flat. But I was there, now, at Andrew’s home, and it was too late to change my mind.

‘He’s good for the cash,’ Bryony assured me. She sniffed, and I took it there was a good reason Andrew was still on the suspect list. ‘He’s even better placed considering Ella’s life insurance payout he has coming.’

‘I doubt he was short of money before that.’ As soon as the words left my lips, I shut up. The fact that the family’s wealth had made them targets of violent thieves shouldn’t be forgotten.

The Clayton house was impressive, both large and spacious, on its own landscaped plot that edged up to a wide natural pond. On either side were groves of Southern Live Oak and Bald Cypress, strung with garlands of Spanish moss that dripped from their branches. The house emulated the architecture of Saratoga Springs – a style more popular over near Orlando than in Tampa - and was comprised primarily of wood cladding over a timber frame. It was robin egg blue, cream on the window and doorframes, and with grey stone columns highlighting the first floor bay windows. There was a raised porch, picturesque arched windows, and a two-door garage, and if a brief count of the windows was any estimate then a gazillion rooms inside. In my opinion the house was far too large for a small family of three – correction: only two now that Ella Clayton was no longer in residence – but I guess that was down to personal taste, or the whim of a huge wallet. Affluent residents of Tampa tended to live on Harbour Island, or on the Golf View or Parkland estates, and this house could easily have belonged to any of them.

As we approached it didn’t look like a house of death, until I spotted the singular mar on its bright façade. The front door window had been so recently smashed it hadn’t yet been repaired, and as a stopgap measure a sheet of plyboard had been fixed to cover the hole. The plyboard was an ugly reminder of what had recently occurred to blight this family, and what continued to. I was angry on behalf of the Clayton’s, more so that small-minded idiots should torment a grieving child.

Bryony parked her Ford, one of the pool cars used by Tampa PD CID, on the drive comprised of crushed seashells. When I stepped out, the shells were loose underfoot, crunching as I shifted to haul out my bags. Nearby an American flag snapped lazily in the breeze, the flagpole centred on a manicured lawn. Bryony got out and led the way to the raised porch. There were railings up the steps and on the porch, and thicker beams supported a peaked roof. All that was missing were rocking chairs. I could have easily imagined I was setting foot on the veranda of a ranch or plantation house. The planks barely creaked under our combined weight, and they were freshly scrubbed and oiled and gleamed wetly in the morning sunlight. I checked that I wasn’t leaving tracks on the surface, but there was no hint of my passing. Bryony paused a moment, straightening her clothing, and it was more to conceal the gun in her shoulder rig than it was to make herself presentable. There was possibly a small boy inside whose mother had been recently gunned down: seeing a gun might have an adverse effect on the boy’s recovery. She aimed a finger at the doorbell. I didn’t hear a corresponding chime, but the bell must have worked because from within the soft thud of footsteps approached the door.

Because of the plyboard over the broken pane, I had no view inside, so had no idea what to expect. I’d pictured Andrew Clayton based upon his affluent home and expected one of those guys who wears golfing attire even when he was off the courses, a pullover tied around his shoulders, and quite often a trophy wife hanging off one elbow. But when he opened the door, Andrew Clayton burst my bubble of expectation. I tried not to show my surprise. He was a bull of a man, with wide shoulders, thick legs, and a round shaved head. He wore wireframe spectacles perched on the flattened bridge of his nose, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans, and loafers on his feet. There were old scars on his forehead, and as he held out a hand to usher us inside I saw more scars on his knuckles. He was older than I imagined the father of a young child would be, maybe in his forties like me. I thought of him as a heavyweight boxer who hadn’t been active in the ring for a decade or more. We stepped inside.

‘So this is the tough guy, huh?’ Clayton said to Bryony, but appraising me. He was three inches taller, and about five stone heavier, than me, and his arms bulged with muscle. Judging by his lop-sided smile he didn’t appear too impressed at his first impression of his bodyguard.

‘This is the guy,’ Bryony confirmed. Then with a teasing smile at me, she added, ‘Looks can be deceiving, Andrew. You’re in good hands.’

Clayton held out a paw to shake, and I accepted. He squeezed, the way some big guys with an attitude did, and I felt the bones of my hand begin to grate. I met him eye to eye, and returned the Neanderthal grip. Clayton grunted in mirth, then withdrew his hand and rubbed distractedly at his forearm as if I’d pained him. ‘So what do I call you, buddy?’

‘I’m Joe Hunter,’ I said. ‘Suit yourself. My friends tend to call me Hunter.’

‘Then Hunter it is.’ Clayton glanced briefly at Bryony. ‘My friends have been in short supply lately.’

He led us into a spacious sitting room towards the rear of the house. There was a large picture window, and through it I could see the lawn where it dipped down towards the pond. Sun-bleached reeds formed a tall barrier between the mowed grass and the still water. My gaze went to a pale splotch on one wall. Spackling paste had been applied to fill an indentation in the wall, but to my trained eye I recognised a bullet hole. I made a brief scan of the other walls and saw more cover-up work. Bryony had already explained how the invasion crew had broken in via the garage, entering through a utility room to the kitchen where they’d given chase to Ella. She’d fled into this room, where more than one shooter had tried to bring her down. From the placement of the bullet holes she must have given them quite a run around, or they’d been simply shooting for shooting’s sake. There had also been bullets found embedded in a settee, as I recalled, but Clayton must have replaced the furniture because the current settee looked unmarked.

Clayton watched me as I made my perusal. ‘Yeah, this is where it all happened,’ he said. He nodded to a spot on the floor. ‘That’s where Ella finally died. The bastards chased her in here and shot her like a dog.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I intoned.

The only indication he accepted my words was a jump of one eyebrow, before he turned aside. He moved across the large room, adjusting his spectacles, and I thought perhaps containing his emotions. Even big tough guys grieved, I had to remind myself, even if they didn’t like to show it. I myself had gone through the process too many times not to feel sympathy for him.

Bryony knocked my elbow. ‘Want me to hang around?’

‘No. I’ll get settled in. I think Clayton will be more relaxed without a cop around.’ What I meant was that he’d probably speak more openly if he thought his every word wasn’t being judged. Bryony understood.

Raising her voice, she said, ‘Mr Clayton. Can I leave it to you to show Hunter around? I’ve a lot to do, I…’

Clayton turned so abruptly it caused Bryony to falter.

‘Yes, Detective.’ The sunlight coming through the picture window glared off Clayton’s spectacles: I couldn’t see his eyes behind the whiteout of their lenses. ‘You’ve a lot to do. You should be out there finding the sons of bitches responsible for murdering my wife. If you can’t manage that, then find whoever the asshole is that keeps coming round here and throwing bricks through my goddamn windows.’

Bryony’s mouth formed a tight slit. But she nodded in acceptance of the berating. ‘Speak with you later,’ she said to me, and turned on her heel. Bryony had already told me that Clayton had proven awkward, but little wonder when he knew he was still a suspect in her eyes, and those of others with Tampa PD and beyond. She left, and I heard the front door snick closed. I looked at Clayton, and saw he had a hand over his mouth. He wiped, as if disgusted by his words.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. Detective VanMeter’s one of the few cops I have any faith in. She’s the only one who seems to give a damn, when all the others have just treated me like a suspect.’

I shrugged away his apology. It shouldn’t have been given to me, but Bryony. If only he knew that Bryony also suspected him of involvement in Ella’s murder, he might not apologise at all. Then again, I could also understand his frustration: if he was innocent, and I’d no reason to think otherwise, then he had a right to criticise the police.

‘Bryony is a good cop,’ I told him. ‘Your faith in her is well placed. She’ll catch Ella’s killer.’

Clayton waved a hand, inviting me to sit. I put down my bag, but I remained standing. He didn’t seem to notice and slumped into an easy chair. He glimpsed up at me, and now I could see his eyes clearly. They danced over me, appraising again. ‘She speaks highly of you too. Tells me you used to be a soldier. Special Operations guy.’ He sniffed, but it wasn’t in disdain. I’d noticed the stars and stripes banner waving on his lawn. Clayton was patriotic, and probably one of those that stood up and saluted veterans and firefighters at ball games. Perhaps he extended the same gratitude to veterans of US allies. ‘You’re a Brit, right? You sound like those northerners from Game of Thrones on TV.’

‘I grew up in Manchester, England. I’ve been around the world a lot since then.’

‘So are you a United or City man?’

‘Not much of a soccer fan, I’m afraid,’ I admitted.

Clayton held up a scarred fist, inspecting it. ‘Can’t say as I am either. I’m not much into team sports. Prefer it when a guy has to rely on himself to win.’

I wondered if that was his way of saying he didn’t believe he needed me.

‘I used to fight,’ he said.

‘Boxing?’ I asked.

He snorted, as if the suggestion was beneath him. ‘Iron Man. King of the Cage.’

‘Mixed Martial Arts,’ I said. Rink was active in the game, after a long time fighting in Kyokushinkai knockdown karate tournaments.

Clayton waved that description aside. ‘Nah, I did it before the introduction of all the rules and regulations, before it grew soft. Back then we just had two guys, bare knuckles and the last man standing won.’

He wasn’t simply making conversation, but I didn’t believe he was being a braggart. Again I think he was pointing out he didn’t need my protection, but really he was trying to convince himself. He could be the hardest fighter on earth and it hadn’t done a thing to protect his wife.

He hung his head, and I watched him rub at the scarred knuckles of one hand. ‘That was years ago,’ he sighed, and transferred a hand to his right knee. ‘I blew out my ACL fighting a pro-wrestler and that was my career over with.’

‘You seem to have done all right out of it,’ I said with a general nod at his accommodation.

‘Huh! This didn’t come from my purses. All I’ve got to show from all those fights are the scars I carry and a limp on damp mornings. No, all of this came from investing in boat rental. Me and a buddy started off with two fishing boats we had out of Sarasota, built our business up to a small fleet, and from there went into importing and supplying boats to other start-up outfits. Things slowed down for a while after the financial crash, but business is picking up again.’

‘So boats are still your passion?’

‘Angling,’ he corrected. ‘The boats are a means to an end.’

‘You were on a fishing trip with your boy when Ella was killed,’ I said, and even I felt I sounded accusatory. But he didn’t take offence.

‘I’m away on fishing trips most weekends. It’s no secret. I think now that was why my home was targeted when it was. Whether the assholes expected my wife to be home or not is another thing.’

‘They came with guns,’ I pointed out. ‘They prepared for the worst. The thing I don’t get is why they murdered your wife. A bunch of guys with guns, they could easily have controlled her while they took what they wanted.’

‘They obviously didn’t want any witnesses,’ Clayton said.

But I thought of other incidents where the invasion crew had allowed witnesses to live. Bryony mentioned there were kids who had simply been locked in rooms while they went about their business. One old guy had died, but only when he resisted and his exertions brought on a heart attack.

‘What did they take?’ I asked.

‘You mean as opposed to a wife and mother?’ Clayton shook his head. ‘Sorry, man. I know that’s not what you meant. Just stuff. Electronics mainly: two TV’s, a Blu-ray player, our tablets, other bits and pieces. All of it was replaceable stuff. But they also took personal items, my wife’s jewellery from our room, my collection of watches, couple of Breitlings and a Rolex among them, some pocket cash we had lying around. Worst thing they did was take Ella’s wedding ring off her finger after she was dead.’