No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (24 page)

‘You’d be prepared to be a Judas goat for me?’ Bryony asked.

I shrugged. A Judas goat was trained to lure other livestock to the stockyard for slaughter, while its own life was spared the knife. ‘I can’t say I’m happy with the name, but it pretty much sums up what I’m prepared to do.’ To catch the killer, I had to portray something he recognised as a kindred creature and would follow to his doom. ‘Mind you, I like the idea of being spared the knife. I’d prefer to come out the other end with my arse intact. That’s where it down to you, Bryony.’

‘I’ll take your idea back to…’

I shook my head before she even got going. ‘If you bring in a full SWAT team, chances are Royce will spot them a mile off, and he’ll disappear. We have to do this under the radar, Bryony. Keep it between us.’

‘Can’t do it, Joe. I’m a cop; there are strict rules and regulations I have to follow. This isn’t about killing Royce Benson; it’s about arresting him.’ She laughed but it was a sound of derision. ‘If I leave his capture to you, I know he’ll end up dead.’

‘Hey,’ I said, glancing around, ‘did I just hear Holker’s voice?’

Rink grunted in mirth, or more likely in agreement with Bryony. Clayton only stared at me, not getting the joke. Bryony pursed her lips.

‘Who have I killed lately?’ I asked innocently. Since my engagement on this job people had died, but none of them because of me. When I thought back, I’d tussled with a bunch of thugs in a junkyard, entered a footrace with a guy who tried to take a shortcut across a busy highway, punched out a gunman who was shooting at the cops – possibly saving her partner’s life in the process - and even scuffled with my employer, but nobody had died at my hands. If I could keep my record as clean when bringing down Royce Benson then great. If not…well, I was happy either way.

‘I solemnly swear not to kill him,’ I said, with my hand on heart, ‘unless I have to.’

‘Don’t even joke, Joe,’ she warned.

Who was joking?

The killer was more patient than any of us gave him credit for.
Three days had passed since our little war council in Andrew Clayton’s sitting room, and still Royce Benson hadn’t shown. It didn’t surprise us, because none of us believed he’d turn up at the house again. We couldn’t lower our guard though, in case he was stupid and decided a full frontal attack, or even a sneaky ninja-style assault on the estate was on the cards. Between Rink and me we set up round the clock protection of both Andrew and Cole, and we even called in Raul Velasquez to spell me, so that I could go out on the town and try to rustle up some action by motivating Royce a little. I visited various hangouts supplied to me by Clayton and bad-mouthed Tommy Benson, to see if it would stir some family loyalty from his cousin, who would decide now was the time to gain his revenge. Trouble was, without exception those I spoke to tended to agree that Tommy was a feckless asshole who did the world a favour by playing chicken with a speeding campervan. On my second return to Wild Point Bait, Harlan, the owner-cum-manager-cum-husband of the blond, didn’t follow up on his threat to punch me in the face, but he made it obvious I wasn’t welcome in his shop by telling me to leave his premises
tout de suite
: actually his French was a tad more coarse and ended with “off”. When I didn’t immediately go, he took out some sort of Billy club – I guessed it was employed to bash out the brains of large fish – and measured it in his palm with some meaty slaps. His bravado didn’t intimidate me one bit, but I held no rancour towards the man, and had no intention of coming to blows with him. Without telling him that Royce was the prime suspect in three murders, I asked him in a reasonable manner if he knew where to find him.

‘Who says I even know Royce Benson?’

‘Your good lady wife does. She told me it was the reason you sacked Tommy, because he was working for Royce when he was still on your books. From what she said, you knew Tommy was mixing with a wrong one. You know Royce, and what he is, no doubt about it. He’s the reason Tommy ended up dead, so if you have to be pissed off at anyone, make it him.’

‘I’ve a good idea where he might be,’ he replied, but didn’t elicit any further information. Momentarily I thought about encouraging him to tell me, so I in turn I could alert Bryony. But where was the satisfaction in that? I’d done my best to set a challenge to Royce, and I wasn’t one for backing down now.

‘Then do me a favour, buddy,’ I said, ‘tell him he’ll be wasting his time going near Andrew Clayton’s place for the next few days. Clayton has gone fishing.’ I left things at that, because to say more would make it obvious I was extending Royce a direct invitation to try his hand up at Lake Tarpon. I preferred that Royce came to the decision himself. ‘Do that for me, and I promise I’ll never bother you again.’

I left the bait shop, strangling an old ditty popularized by Bing Crosby and Louis Armstrong, my voice as gravel-laden as Satchmo’s. I sang about going fishing by a shady wady pool to the accompaniment of the doorbell, and thought that it was enough to get the hint across.

When I arrived back at the Clayton place, everything was ready for the trip up to Andrew’s lakeside fishing cabin. Tomorrow was Friday, but Clayton had already called in a sick day for Cole at school, to ensure we had a long weekend to spring our trap. Cole – oblivious to our actual reason for heading to the lake – was excited by the prospect of catching an elusive tilapia, and I could only smile encouragement having no idea what species of fish he was referring to. Velasquez had enjoyed his day out, the change of scenery from Rink’s office doing him good, and it was a shame he couldn’t come up to the lake with us, but somebody had to hold the fort, and Rink had pulled rank.

Once we’d grabbed our overnight bags, Rink joined Clayton and Cole in the family SUV, offering protection while we travelled in convoy to the fishing grounds. Velasquez took the pool car back to the office, and I was going to drive up in my Audi, watching for a tail of any kind. Who knew? Royce might already be watching, and have sourced himself another set of wheels after he’d lost the use of Tommy’s Toyota after Tampa PD impounded it for forensic analysis. There was always the possibility that Bryony had put us under surveillance. She only trusted me to behave so far, and despite everything between us, she was still a cop, and as she’d pointed out had strict rules and regulations to follow. Her inclusion at the meeting three days earlier had been off the record, and it was only the friend part of her that had agreed to me staking myself out like a goat, whereas her detective part screamed at her in warning: if her commanders ever discovered she’d advocated vigilantism she’d be out of a job, and would probably join me in a jail term. She was no fool. She’d have a team on stand-by, ready to move the second she got a hint about what I was up to, and I couldn’t blame her. If the shoe was on the other foot…

The thing was, she did know what the general plan was, but I hadn’t told her the genuine timescale. I’d hinted that a fishing trip was planned for the weekend, but had also made it sound as if we wouldn’t be going up to Lake Tarpon until Friday evening. By setting off a full twenty-four hours ahead of schedule it gave us some wiggle space, before the might of Tampa PD fell on all our heads. I didn’t plan on excluding her – that was never my intention – and in fact wanted her there to snap the handcuffs on Royce, but I planned alerting her, and the inevitable stormtroopers that’d come running with her, only once we knew that the end game was on.

‘Stay close on my ass,’ Rink said from the driving seat of the SUV. Clayton was sitting in the back with Cole, who clutched his ever-present drinking bottle. There was a time when I found the presence of the bottle suspicious, and it had forced my thoughts in the wrong direction. Now I recognised the bottle for what it was: a comforter for a boy now too old to openly carry a stuffed toy.

‘Alright in the back?’ I asked.

Clayton scruffed his son’s hair, and Cole grinned bashfully. ‘We’re good,’ Clayton said. ‘Let’s try to keep things that way, eh, guys?’

‘Stick to the plan, and everything should be just fine,’ I said.

Clayton peered at me and I knew what he was thinking: “just fine” wasn’t good enough when it came to Cole’s safety. I tapped the tinted window. ‘Roll it up, Clayton. We don’t need to present any other targets.’

Cole, I suspected, knew more about what was happening than he let on. But he didn’t appear frightened at the prospect, his eyes sparkled with barely subdued excitement, and I made myself a bet it had nothing to do with catching a fish. He was approaching our trip as some sort of grand adventure, and maybe now that we were rolling, he had given some thought to those superhero characters I’d asked him to develop. I only hoped Rink and me could live up to expectation.

The house was locked tight. I still had those keys in my pocket. To finally put my mind at rest I considered holding off following Rink so closely as he drove up the crushed shell drive towards the distant gate, and searching the house for missed clues. Yet, I told myself all my suspicions concerning Clayton’s involvement had been unfounded. So I stuck to the plan, hopped in my Audi and followed close behind the SUV. The motion sensor on the inside opened the gate for us, and after we’d driven through we waited only a moment for the gate to close behind us. I watched the gate through my rearview, and one piece of the puzzle still bothering me settled in place. I’d always wondered how vehicles had been brought up to the house during the staged robbery, and thought that somebody – namely Clayton – had supplied the code to the gate to the thieves. But I recalled earlier that Clayton had said Royce had been to his office, and had taken samples of Parker Quinn’s writing, as well as spare keys to Quinn’s house. I just bet that he’d obtained the security codes to Clayton’s house during a similar foray. It still presented another mystery to consider: after setting up Ella’s murder, the house had been cleaned out of some large items of property, and I still thought that it must have been a huge task for one man to accomplish. Royce would have needed assistance. In all likelihood, he’d enrolled his cousin Tommy to help in the transportation of the stolen goods. Tommy must have known what Royce was up to, and he had to have seen Ella’s dead body when helping shift the stolen property from the house. With that in mind, I didn’t feel so bad about Tommy’s death any longer. And I looked forward to a reckoning with the architect of his downfall.

I hit the gas and took off after the SUV.

The trip up to Lake Tarpon was uneventful. We cut up through Oldsmar and picked up East Lake Road as far as Lansbrook, where we headed west towards Juniper Bay. I’d been up that way before, but was still surprised to find the area around the lake so heavily populated. I’d have preferred somewhere more remote for a showdown with a murderer, but supposed I had to work with what I was presented with. As we got on a few minor trails, we passed more houses, but as we approached the lakeshore, I noted that the distance between the houses and fishing lodges began to thin out. We finally pulled up alongside what Clayton had described as his shack, and I should have known it was a misnomer. It was a plush cabin, which put my small beach house to shame. It enjoyed a private plot a few acres in size, hidden from its nearest neighbours by groves of moss-strung cypress and other trees I didn’t recognise. A lawn sloped gently to the lake, and down its centre was a boardwalk, that extended five or so yards over the water as a jetty. A flat-bottomed boat - I’d heard them called pirogues – was moored to the jetty. There was also a speedboat of some kind up on a metal plinth, currently swathed in a weatherproof tarpaulin. It was approaching evening, but still light. Around here the sunset came quite abruptly, and getting some lights on in the cabin was a priority. Still. There was another thing we must do first.

‘OK, everyone out,’ said Rink as he got out the SUV.

Clayton and Cole slipped out and stood alongside him. They were carrying bags stuffed with the necessities they wouldn’t find to hand at the shack.

‘Put those in here,’ I said, opening the boot of my Audi, ‘then make yourselves comfortable.’

Cole glanced at his dad.

‘We aren’t staying here, son,’ Clayton explained, as he took the boy’s bag from him and dumped it in the trunk.

‘Why not? I like it here, Dad.’

‘I know you do, son, but we’re going on up to a different place tonight. Only Mr Hunter is staying here.’

‘Can’t I stay here with you, Joe?’ Cole asked.

‘You’ll be back here in a day or two,’ I promised, ‘but first your dad wants to show you a new place he’s found for you. Has even better fishing, and if you’re real lucky you might spot an alligator or two. Do me a favour, OK? Watch none of those gators eat Rink, huh?’ I winked. ‘We don’t want any of the poor things getting sick.’

‘Where are we going?’ Cole went on, as unamused by my joke as Rink was.

Clayton pointed across the lake. It was dim enough on the far side that lights stood out in a jumble of pinpoints through the trees. ‘See those lights over there? Well one of them is in the new place I’ve rented. Just thought it might be nice to have a change of scenery. If you look hard enough, you might even be able to spot Mr Hunter from the other side.’

‘I’ll wave,’ I said, but we were over-egging the pudding. Cole wasn’t stupid. He knew something was up.

‘Why are you staying here, Joe?’

‘I’ve a little job to do,’ I told him.

He looked at his dad, then back at me. He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Is it something to do with the bad men?’

‘No. Of course not,’ I lied.

He snorted, shook his head at me, then crooked his little finger. ‘Pinkie swear on it.’

His dad took him by his elbow and led him to the car, saving me any embarrassment. ‘Cole. That’s enough now. Mr Hunter told you he’s a job to be getting on with.’

‘Dad! I just want to…’

‘That’s enough, Cole!’ Clayton snapped gruffly. ‘Now come on. We’re holding up Mr Rington.’

Rink had already climbed into the driving position in the Audi, his arm propped out the window. He drummed his fingers on the door, feigning impatience. To me, he said, “I’ll give you a call soon as we’re settled in.’

Once his passengers were inside, he backed the Audi up the short drive, leaving me standing alongside the SUV, with my overnight bag in hand. It seemed more effort than it was worth to swap out the vehicles, but as and when – if ever – Royce turned up, I wanted him to spot Clayton’s SUV and conclude the family was here, and not safely out of harm’s way on the far side of the lake.

As soon as the soft purr of my car’s engine had faded, I turned and surveyed the lake. There were still a few fishermen in boats out on the water, but I assumed they were already preparing to return to shore. The sun was a bloated orange disc hovering over the distant horizon, minutes away from making a plunge to lavender twilight. On both sides of me the trees swayed with the breeze, the smaller branches rattling, and Spanish moss wafted like bunting at a celebration.

The woods would make good concealment for someone prowling up to the cabin. I stood, waiting, but got no sense of being observed. I turned towards the shack, striding a little way up the boardwalk to the screened entrance door. Clayton had already supplied me with the keys to unlock the padlocks securing the screens. I opened them, and then used a second key to open the door, pushing it open where it swung directly into the living room.

I didn’t check out the décor or furnishings, or anything else for that matter, but for the barrel of the gun aimed directly at my face.