No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (19 page)

‘You don’t believe that any more than I do.’

‘Nope. But it’s something we’ll have to look at.’ She snorted. ‘It’s just one of about a hundred things I’ve still got on my plate.’

From what I understood, Bryony and Holker were still primaries on the investigation into Ella Clayton’s murder, and now Parker Quinn’s. By association they had to investigate Thomas Benson’s involvement, and try to prove he was Quinn’s and possibly even Ella’s murderer. She also still had to determine what if any involvement Andrew Clayton had in it all. Finally catching the home invasion crew was another box ticked, but it didn’t lend an answer to the other ongoing facets of their investigation. Especially when a gun possibly used in Ella’s murder was discovered at Benson’s house, and then there were those damn letters, and Quinn’s staged suicide. With Holker injured, and possibly out of action for weeks, it now put extra pressure on Bryony. She could probably do without the inclusion of a new suspect, but there was still the tattooed guy to take into consideration.

Maybe I could lighten her load a bit, I decided. But no way was I about to tell her what I had in mind. If I did, she wouldn’t drop me at Rink’s place, she’d show me the red card with the instruction “Go directly to jail”.

The following afternoon found me driving my Audi down a beaten dirt track between twisted down chain-link fences towards the shoreline of Safety Harbor.
The car was moving slowly enough that its passage didn’t stir the trash in the weed-strewn verges, but it kicked up clouds of pale yellow dust. I closed the windows so I didn’t choke to death.

Once through the industrial estate, the potholed track didn’t get much better, but once I pulled onto the grounds surrounding Wild Point Bait it wasn’t as dusty. I could see across the sparkling bay to Bridgeport, though there was a heat haze that caused the horizon to dance and jiggle in my vision. The scene closer by was vivid, and pinpoints of light lanced off every piece of reflective material, causing me to avert my gaze so I wasn’t temporarily blinded. As I got out my Audi, I turned my head towards the grassy embankment, then the jetties and boats, but there was no sign of the workers I’d spotted there on my previous visit. Intermittent knocking emanated from inside one of the net-strung wooden shacks, which I took to be a storage lock-up, or perhaps a workshop.

The GMC Suburban had been moved to a position nearer the WPB shop, but the faded old truck hadn’t moved an inch: it would probably stay there until it was merely a few flakes of reddish rust and hunks of unrecognisable metal in the dirt, the fossilised remains of late twentieth century engineering. There was also a motorcycle balancing on its stands, and a green saloon car, both of which might have belonged to customers. I pondered waiting before I went inside the shop, to let the customers leave, but for all I knew the bike and car were staff vehicles. Walking to the shop, I thought about Bryony and to what extent her butt reaming had been once she’d reported to Captain Newburger’s office. I hadn’t spoken with her since she’d dropped me at Temple Terrace, and she’d made no attempt to call me. I hoped that no news was good news, and that extended to Holker’s recovery. I’d caught the news this morning, watching on Rink’s TV as I breakfasted on bacon, eggs and toast, and about a gallon of coffee. The media was trumpeting about the raid on the office complex at Tampa Heights. Although they reported a successful outcome for Tampa PD in their search for the home invasion gang, equally they criticised the police for taking so long to catch them, and bemoaned the fact three young men had lost their lives, due to what some deemed over-excessive use of force during the raid. What did they know about anything that they couldn’t invent? They only mentioned in passing that three cops had been shot during the raid, but that told me that the cops – one of whom was Holker – had not sustained life-threatening injuries. Already some campaigning liberals were trying to turn the police raid into a racist statement, due to the targeting of a gang comprising mostly black men. I wondered if I’d be accused of being racist if they heard I’d knocked out one of the gangbangers, something I definitely was not. My closest circle of friends was an Asian American, an African American, a Mexican and an Irishman – when we walked together into a bar it sounded like the first line of a joke.

The doorbell tinkled as I entered Wild Point Bait, and I forgot all about the home invasion gang. I’d returned about another matter that I wanted to check with the owner. He wasn’t behind the counter. This time it was a young blond woman, who I thought was the same person I’d seen working on the jetty that first time. She offered me a pleasant smile as I stepped into the cool interior of the shop. She was tanned, with little white lines around her mouth: she was a smiley person, and the perpetual expression extended to her twinkly blue eyes.

‘Hi, there,’ she said, and fist bumped the air. ‘If you need anything, just let me know, OK.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, but continued towards her. ‘Actually, I was hoping to speak with the manager. Is he around today?’

‘I’m the manager. Can I help you?’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean any offense. I was hoping to speak with the same guy I spoke with the other day. He was a tall guy, tanned, with blond hair. I took it he was the manager…’

‘Well, I suppose he is, sir. He’s the owner, but he’s kind of hands on when it comes to running the shop. That’s my husband Harlan you’re describing.’ The woman didn’t make a move to hail him.

‘Any chance I can speak with him?’

‘If it’s about anything I can help with…’ she nodded at the sundry equipment, and I didn’t doubt she was an expert.

‘I’m not here about fishing,’ I explained, ‘I only need to ask him about a mutual acquaintance.’

Her smile stayed in place, but it grew more fixed. Her mind was working overtime as she stared at me.

‘Are you here about Tommy?’ she asked, and her voice had lost its pleasant edge.

It was pointless lying. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Are you a cop?’

‘No.’

‘You’re the man who chased him into the highway,’ she said, and it was with a note of accusation I hadn’t expected. She’d placed her hands on the counter, and now I watched them draw up into semi-clenched fists.

‘I didn’t chase him, I was trying to get him to stop running.’

The woman ignored my lame excuse, her mind working furiously in a different direction. ‘Harlan mentioned you’d been in here asking about Tommy, then in no time poor Tommy was dead. It didn’t take too much figuring out who it was that chased him.’ Her twinkly eyes had glassed over as she spoke, on the verge of tears. ‘What had that poor boy done to deserve
that
?’

I was tempted to tell her that “poor Tommy” might very well be a murderer, but I didn’t believe it myself. I chose my words carefully. ‘That’s what I hoped to speak with Harlan about.’

‘He isn’t here,’ she said dismissively.

‘When will he be back?’

‘A few hours. He took out some tourists on the bay.’ She nodded at the door. ‘Best you aren’t here when he gets back. Harlan said if you ever set foot through that door again he’d…’ she stumbled to a halt, looking down at her clenched fist, realising she might be inviting trouble none of us wanted.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding. I don’t know what you’ve heard about Tommy, but you don’t know the half of it. I’m only looking for answers, and they might help clear up a murder. They might even help prove that Tommy Benson was an innocent man.’

‘Murder? Tommy had his faults but he was no murderer!’

‘I tend to agree with you,’ I reassured her.

‘He had a drink problem, and wasn’t the sharpest worker we ever had, but he was a good guy at heart. He was quick to anger, but easily as quick to laugh and joke and would do anything for you. Easily led, yeah, but…’

I’d nodded as she mentioned Tommy being easily manipulated, and again she stopped speaking. ‘That’s what I wanted to ask Harlan about. He said he had to let Tommy go recently, due to a conflict of interests. Was Tommy doing work for a competitor?’ She didn’t have to answer for me to tell I was on the right track. ‘Was he doing work for Andrew Clayton and Parker Quinn?’

A tear dripped from one eye, as realisation struck her. ‘We heard about Parker taking his own life. It’s very sad, it’s…’ again she stumbled to a halt, and one hand went to her throat as she understood the implication of Quinn’s death, alongside that of Tommy. ‘Oh,’ she said, and for a second looked as if her knees might give out. Her clenched hands unfolded, but only so she could grip the counter top. ‘It’s all connected, isn’t it? Tommy, Parker-’ her eyelids slid shut ‘- and Ella Clayton. Oh, dear Lord.’

I allowed my silence to answer for me.

Her head began to shake. When she opened her eyes, they were tinged red. ‘No. No, Tommy wasn’t working with Andrew or Parker. He was doing something with his cousin, but it wasn’t
for
CQ Enterprises.’

‘His cousin?’ I prompted.

‘Royce Benson,’ she replied.

‘Did Royce Benson have a beef with Clayton?’

‘Royce Benson has a beef with the world in general,’ she replied. I could tell there was more she wished to say, but didn’t. Perhaps she wasn’t one to pay attention to rumours. I was going to push her on it, but decided not to. Instead I touched the web of skin between my right thumb and index finger and allowed her to fill the gap.

‘Yeah. Royce has a tattoo right there. Not the only one either, I’ve heard. He has them all over his body from when he was in prison.’

‘What does he look like?’

‘You saw Tommy, right? They both come from the same blood. With Royce think bigger, but much the same to look at. Except you’d know you weren’t looking at Tommy if you met him. Unlike Tommy he wasn’t quick to laugh or joke, in fact he’s more likely to spit in your face…’ she snorted in derision ‘…or punch it.’

‘He doesn’t sound like the nicest of guys,’ I said.

‘Harlan warned Tommy to steer clear of him when he got out. Told him he was bad news. But what could he do? They were cousins. Tommy being the guy he was couldn’t turn his back on a family member in need.’

‘He gave Royce someplace to stay,’ I said, and didn’t require confirmation. ‘You said, “when he got out”. Are you talking about prison? He got out recently, then?’

She shrugged. It was obvious.

‘Any idea what he served time for? Violence?’

‘He was violent, but that wasn’t why he was put away. Fraud, I heard. Stolen credit cards, forging cheques, and a few other scams.’

‘He scammed Clayton and Quinn’s company?’ I posed, hoping I’d finally found a motive that tied Royce to the Claytons.

She shrugged again, and said something that made my thoughts shoot off in a totally different direction.

‘Royce’s beef with Andrew goes way back before he was imprisoned. About ten years at least.’

I waited to see if she’d expound, but she didn’t. The arms that had supported her now folded, crossed protectively beneath her breasts. I recognised the defensive stance. Further questions were unwelcome. As was my presence. I thanked her but she turned her back on me, and I left the store. The tinkling of the bell wasn’t half as merry on my way out. In the sunshine again, I didn’t feel warm. I felt clammy instead, and an oily sensation wormed a sinuous track down my spine. Even the sight of birds skimming the cerulean sea didn’t make me feel any better. I turned my back on the scene, and returned to my Audi. When I got in the car it was stuffy and oven hot, but I’d no intention of buzzing down the windows until I was clear of the dust track and back on Shore Drive. My pocket chimed.

Actually, it wasn’t my pocket making the noise, but my cell phone in it. I took out my phone and checked for the text message, hoping it was from Bryony. It wasn’t. It was from Rink, and he was never second best. I read it, and it was short and sweet. “Ring me”. I checked and saw that I’d missed two calls from him while I’d been inside Wild Point Bait, having forgotten to turn on my ringer again after silencing it during my date with Bryony at the bar the night before.

‘Howdy, Rink,’ I said when he answered my return call.

‘Where have you snuck off to now?’

‘Just following up on something,’ I said.

‘You near Clayton’s place?’

‘I’m only a couple of miles away at Oldsmar. Why? Has something happened?’ I reached for the ignition.

‘Relax, brother. Andrew rang the office, officially terminating your employment, and paying up on the fee. He’s of the impression he’s in the clear now, what with the home invasion gang’s capture and Quinn and Benson permanently outta the picture.’

‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘I saw that coming.’

‘But he said he wants a word with you about something before you’re done,’ Rink went on. ‘Asked if you could give him a ring.’

Rink’s words weren’t loaded with double meaning, but to me they were. I didn’t tell my friend so, because my mind could still be on the wrong track.

‘I can do better than that,’ I said, ‘I’ll call by the house.’

Rink paused. ‘There something you ain’t telling me?’

‘You know there is,’ I said.

He sighed. But then he knew any counseling would be pointless. ‘Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do,’ he said, resolved to my hotheaded ways.