No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (6 page)

Once Rink arrived and took over guard duty, I collapsed on the bed in the guest room, and slept like the dead for six hours.
When I woke, and had showered and shaved, and taken a bathroom break, I let my big buddy get off again. Before he got in his car, he raised his eyebrows at me in question, but I’d not a lot to tell him yet. I’d mentioned the prowler that dropped the glove when he arrived earlier, and guessed he’d spoken with Clayton about the incident while I slept. Because Andrew and Cole were home, I told him I’d give him a call later and bring him up to speed on my suspicions.

‘I’ve nothing much on tonight,’ he said. ‘Want me to come on by later as a second set of eyes?’

‘There’s no need, yet, Rink.’

‘What if the creepy dude comes back for another look?’

‘I want him to,’ I said. ‘But he might be put off if security’s too tight.’

‘He’d never know I was here,’ Rink said, and he wasn’t boasting, though he’d earned the right. For all he was the size of a pro-wrestler, and almost as flamboyant in dress at times, Rink could be an invisible man when he wished. There’d been times when he’d infiltrated the strongholds of terrorists and enemy fighters under their very noses, and completed his mission without anyone suspecting he’d ever been there – until they found the evidence of his work; usually it had been bloody.

‘I’m just on the other end of the phone if you want me,’ he said.

‘I know.’

He flicked a salute and took off, the thick tyres of his Porsche kicking up a mini-tsunami of crushed shells in his wake. There was an electronic sensor on the gate that allowed him easy exit, and I waited until the gate had fully locked again before going indoors. Clayton was in the kitchen. He heard me enter, and walked out from behind the central counter to meet me.

‘What did the cops have to say about the prowler?’ he asked without preamble.

‘They’re following up on it. I gave the glove to Detective VanMeter and she promised to get back to me once it’s been examined.’

‘I guess these things can take time,’ he said.

‘It’s not like you see in the movies,’ I told him. In fact, from what I’d learned, a lot of forensic investigation was determined by budgetary constraints and how important any single piece of evidence was to a case. On the face of it, the glove I’d seized had nothing to do with the murder inquiry Bryony was investigating, so it might be put aside altogether. Then again, she’d be a fool to discount the presence of the prowler because I for one hadn’t changed my opinion: he was involved somehow, I just hadn’t figured out how yet.

‘Think he’ll come back?’ Clayton asked, and I noticed him again rubbing at his forearm. I wondered if it was a nervous tic.

‘He might…then again he might not. He must realise he dropped his glove and that he might’ve made himself a suspect.’

‘What are you planning on doing if he does show up?’

‘Grab him, hand him over to VanMeter and have him answer some difficult questions.’

Clayton adjusted his spectacles, his mouth puckering slightly as he turned. My answer hadn’t been what he wanted to hear. Perhaps, like Holker did, Clayton expected me to gun the guy down. As tempting as the notion was, we’d no evidence yet that he’d done anything to harm Ella, or even if he was the person responsible for hurling the brick through the door. Until I knew otherwise I wasn’t going to jump to conclusions.

‘As long as my boy’s safe,’ Clayton said, ‘I don’t care what happens to the bastard.’

As if mention of his name had summoned him, Cole appeared in the doorway. He was looking at his feet, shuffling his sneakers on the tiled floor.

‘Everything OK, son?’ Clayton asked.

‘I’m thirsty,’ said Cole without raising his head.

‘I filled your bottle for you.’ Clayton gestured towards a sports bottle on the counter, containing some kind of purple juice.

‘I want chocolate milk,’ Cole said.

‘We don’t have any,’ Clayton said. ‘You finished it yesterday, and I didn’t get a chance to go grocery shopping today.’

Cole hung his head even lower.

‘How about I go out and get some? I can be back in no time,’ said Clayton.

‘Can I come with you?’ asked the boy hopefully.

Clayton glanced at me. I was about to suggest accompanying them to the nearest convenience store, but Clayton pre-empted me. ‘No, you have to wait here with Mr Hunter. I won’t be long; promise I’ll be back before you know it.’

I could tell Cole was displeased, and was about to argue, but it was as if he knew his appeal would be pointless. ‘Can I have Yoo-hoo?’ he said instead.

‘Yoo-hoo it is,’ said Clayton. As an afterthought he looked at me. ‘You’re OK with keeping an eye on Cole, right?’

‘It’s why I’m here,’ I said, more for the boy’s sake than anything.

Clayton nodded. ‘You want me to grab something for you?’

‘Maybe I’ll try some chocolate milk too,’ I said, and caught a flick of Cole’s attention directed my way. For the first time I noticed his mouth curl up at one side. There were better ways of bonding with a child than over a glass of flavoured milk, but I couldn’t think of one right then. Somehow our shared taste for Yoo-hoo made us allies.

‘…and some Goobers, Dad,’ Cole added, now that he was on a roll.

‘Goobers? They’re chocolate-coated peanut’s, right? I think I’d like some of those too, Mr Clayton.’ I winked at the father, who appreciated what I was doing. He made a pistol of his fingers and pointed them at me.

‘You got it,’ he said, and pulled an imaginary trigger.

Cole barely moved, as Clayton swept past, rubbing his fingers through the boy’s mass of hair before heading for the front door. Cole still toyed at the floor with his sneakers.

I wondered why he looked so different from his father. The boy was tow-headed with expansive curls hanging over his eyes, jutting over his ears and extending over the collar of his T-shirt. He was small for his age, slim to a point of fragility, and had vivid green eyes, though they appeared a little muddied by fatigue as he glimpsed up at me from under his wavy bangs. I knew that some small kids could fill out in puberty, but Cole would have to grow a lot before he matched his dad for brawn. I’d seen photographs of Ella, his mother, and assumed that he’d inherited more genes from her. Ella too had those same green eyes, and wavy hair, and had been tall and willowy. For all I knew Andrew Clayton could have celebrated a full head of curls once, but that was years ago and before his scalp became acquainted with a razor. There was no doubt in my mind whose sweet nature the boy inherited though; he had nothing of Clayton’s pent up aggression, even though he was hurting badly from his loss and could have easily raged at his grief. Right now he only appeared shy, unsure of himself, and more so of me.

‘So you like chocolate milk, huh?’ I said, and immediately felt stupid. I was pushing the flimsy connection too much.

Cole shrugged his narrow shoulders.

He just stood there in the doorway, waiting.

‘You want to ask me something?’ I said. ‘Go ahead. I’ll answer anything you want to know about me.’

‘Are you a police officer?’ he asked timidly.

‘No. Not a policeman.’

‘I thought you were Detective Bryony’s friend.’

‘I am her friend, but I’m not a cop. I’m more like a private cop, if you like?’

‘Oh, a private investigator you mean?’ said the boy.

I laughed in good humour. ‘Yeah, but I’m probably the world’s worst private eye. I’m pretty useless at Cluedo.’

Cole squinted up at me, so maybe he hadn’t heard of the board game.

‘I thought you were here to protect us, not investigate,’ he said.

‘I am. I should have said that I work for a private eye – you met Rink earlier, right?’

Cole nodded. ‘Rink’s funny.’

‘Yep. He is that,’ I said and grinned. I earned a conspiratorial smile from the boy. ‘And incredibly ugly,’ I added with a wink, and this time he laughed. ‘Well, Rink has a private investigations company and I work with him. Usually though, I do -’ I opened my hands, taking in Cole and the house with the gesture ‘- this kind of stuff. I look after people, keep them safe.’

‘So you’re more like a bodyguard then?’

I nodded.

‘Do you have a gun?’

At first I didn’t know how best to answer, except honesty was the best policy in this instant. ‘I do.’

‘The bad men had guns too, when they…came here.’ His voice had faltered towards the end, and I knew he was about to say “when they killed my mom” but couldn’t bring himself to give the words sound.

‘That’s the only reason I’m carrying one now,’ I reassured him.

‘Will they come back?’

‘I won’t lie to you, Cole. The truth is I don’t know, but if they do I won’t let them hurt you.’

He thought about what I’d said. ‘I don’t like guns.’

‘Good boy,’ I told him. ‘Guns are horrible things.’

He looked up at me again, and I’d swear that the mind behind his gaze was much older and wiser than nine years old. ‘But you still carry one.’

‘Do you know what a deterrent is?’ I asked him, and realised I was probably insulting his intelligence. ‘Course you do. Well, my gun’s just a deterrent. I won’t use it unless I absolutely have to.’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Cole.

I waited, unsure what he actually meant.

‘If the bad men come back, I don’t mind if you shoot them. They shot my mom. They should be shot too. I don’t like guns, Mr Hunter, but I positively hate what they did to my mom, so they’d deserve it.’

To say I was uncomfortable was an understatement. I quickly changed the subject. ‘Call me Joe, why don’t you? When you call me Mr Hunter it makes me feel old.’

‘You are old,’ said Cole. Then smiled again at the poke he’d delivered. ‘Not as old as Mr and Mrs Huckabee who live up the block, but you’re as old as my dad…and he’s ancient compared to my friends’ dads.’

Guys in their forties probably looked like withered mummies to most nine-year-olds, I decided. ‘I’m not as old as I look,’ I reassured him, and poked a finger into my own cheek, ‘I’m in disguise. This is a mask like they wore on Mission Impossible. I’m only eighteen really.’ Being eighteen years of age was a mark of adulthood to kids back home in England, and I hoped it was the same here in the US.

‘If that’s a mask, you didn’t pick a very good one,’ he said, then grinned at my look of mock affront. His chuckle as he walked from the room was musical. I liked the kid, he shared a sense of humour common to me, and I momentarily wondered how much of it he’d picked up from Rink while my buddy was here earlier. Nah, I decided, if Cole were following Rink’s cue he’d have been much cheekier.

Clayton had only been gone minutes, but I heard a vehicle approaching the house, the tyres crunching on the shells. I moved from the kitchen into the vestibule and saw Cole had only got as far as the stairs. He’d screwed up his nose, as he looked at the door, probably thinking the same as I. This wasn’t his dad returning with the promised treats.

‘You want to go on upstairs?’ I said, and it wasn’t really a question. I placed a hand on his shoulder, gently steering him for the stairs. ‘I just want to see who this is, OK? I’ll call you down again when I know everything’s alright.’

Cole glanced at me, and I knew he was checking to see if I’d drawn my gun. I hadn’t, it was firmly wedged in the carry-holster in my lower back, hidden beneath my shirt. I showed him my empty hands. Cole appeared unsure at me being unarmed.

‘Go on up,’ I said, ‘and don’t you worry, everything will be fine.’

Cole paused only a few seconds longer, but it was as if I’d won his trust for now and he went up with no argument. I should have ordered him into his room, but that would have been over-reacting. Visitors weren’t banned from the house, so there was probably nothing sinister about the arrival of this unexpected caller. When I checked, I saw Cole watching from around the bannister rail. His face was motionless as he gazed at me with serious intensity. I winked at him, as though we were partners in this now, and his smile flickered into place once more.

From beyond the plywood barrier on the shattered window I heard the clunk of a car door shutting. I waited, heard the measured padding of feet up the steps and onto the porch, waited a few seconds more then yanked open the door.

The guy standing before me was in his late forties or early fifties, about five-feet nine-inches tall, and with unruly greying brown hair. His eyes were bloodshot and almost forcing their way out the sockets. Earlier I’d told the detectives I’d be able to identify the prowler if I again saw him scrabbling over the wall out back. Now I wasn’t as certain of a positive ID, because from the icy chill that went through my guts, I would also swear this was the same man. But unless he was insane, he wouldn’t present himself at Clayton’s door to ask if he could please have back his misplaced glove. Not that that was what he did. No. On seeing me, he took a jerk backwards, landed solidly on his heel, and shoved a hand quickly inside his jacket front.

Maybe I should have drawn my gun before opening the door.

Drawing my gun would have proved a matter of a second, and firing two bullets into the man’s chest a half second more.
It would probably take longer for him to fall backwards on the porch, wheezing out his last breath. In the same short space of time, he too could draw his gun from inside his coat, and similarly put a round in me. Sometimes mortality is measured in instants, and there are no guarantees who would be the one left standing afterwards.

Instead of reaching for my SIG, I lunged forward, my left hand snapping out and grasping his hand as it dipped in his jacket. I yanked his hand out, my fingers curled around the base of his thumb, and my own thumb-tip digging between the metacarpal bones. I rotated his hand outwards, locking it painfully at the wrist and elbow, even as my right hand shot in and grasped his trachea with crushing force. The guy gasped, and his spittle covered my face in a fine spray.

A quick anticlockwise rotation of his trapped hand would ruin his day; a concerted squeeze to his throat would finish it totally. But there were factors piling in on me that halted further injury. First, I could see no gun in his hand, just a folded piece of paper. Second, the man was already swooning out of shock. Third, and probably most importantly, I heard Cole’s yelp and the rat-a-tat padding of his small feet down the stairs.

‘Don’t hurt him!’ the boy squealed. ‘Please don’t hurt him, Joe, it’s only my Uncle Parker!’

I glanced at Cole. He was a few feet behind me, bent at the waist, head rammed forward on his straining neck like a hirsute tortoise. His green eyes were huge, and strings of saliva meshed his open lips.

‘It’s OK, Cole. I’m not going to hurt him,’ I reassured the boy. Whether my captive heard, or understood, I couldn’t tell, because he was almost sinking to his butt. I relaxed my grip on his throat, grabbed his collar instead and hauled him to standing. Now my hold on his wrist helped steady him. I steadied him until some cognizance came back in his eyes. Cole had moved closer, was almost pressing up against my thigh, but it was so he could check his uncle was unhurt. ‘He’ll be fine in a second or two,’ I added.

‘G…get off me…’ said the man.

‘If I let go you’ll fall on your arse,’ I told him.

‘I’m…’ He probed at his reddened throat with his free hand and found everything was still in the correct place, though not necessarily in full working order. ‘I’m…OK. Let go of me.’

I propped him against the doorframe, releasing my hold, while scooting Cole clear of us, should his uncle turn obstreperous and require controlling again.

‘Jesus, man, who the hell are you anyway?’ the man said.

‘I’m looking after Cole,’ I said. ‘Who are you?’

He didn’t answer my question. ‘Where’s Andrew?’

‘Out,’ I said. ‘What do you want with him?’

He worked his aching wrist, while shaking his head at me. ‘You must be the damn bodyguard he told me about.’

I didn’t bother agreeing.

‘And you’re Parker Quinn,’ I said, recalling now the full name of Clayton’s business partner. Quinn wasn’t actually a blood uncle to Cole, but I guessed he’d be the next best thing. I was in an awkward position, because according to the investigating detectives, this could be the man behind the anonymous email campaign pointing the accusatory finger at Clayton. But he might not be. I studied him, trying to imagine him clambering over the wall in the dark, moonlit, but not presenting his face to my scrutiny. He was alike the man I’d chased, but how could I be positive?

‘How’d you get in past the gate?’ I asked.

Quinn scowled at me, took a quick glance at Cole for support, then regained his scowl for me. ‘I have the code for the gate. Jesus, man, how’d you think I got in, rammed my way through?’

I made a mental note to have the security code changed once Clayton returned home. I should have thought about it sooner, considering I’d been with Bryony when she had punched in the four-digit code to allow us access on my first arrival. All other visitors, Rink among them, had to press a buzzer and announce himself over an intercom, and Clayton had allowed entry, remotely opening the gate from a control panel in the house. Access to the property was an issue for security, but it also begged questions about the home invasion. The robbers had carted away some large electronic devices, and I doubted they’d carried them all the way up the drive to where they’d left their vehicles. They must have brought them nearer to the house. Had one of the robbers known the access code, or was there something I was missing? I supposed that they could have opened the gate from the control panel once inside the house, and accomplices had then driven closer, but it was a push. If Clayton were behind his wife’s murder, he’d have told the crew the code to get in, but then if he were that organised he’d have made sure they damaged the gate to cover the trail back to him. As far as I knew there’d been no damage reported to the gate. As with the taking of Ella’s wedding ring, the manner of the opening of the gate was an anomaly to be considered further, points to be talked over with Bryony next time I saw her.

‘So why are you here?’ I prompted Quinn.

‘I told you already,’ he snapped.

‘No you didn’t, you asked where Andrew was.’

‘Well isn’t it obvious? I want to see him.’

‘About what?’

‘It’s…private.’ Quinn stared past me and I knew he was eyeing the boy. I watched him smile sheepishly at Cole, reassuring him he was OK. I also caught the subtle undertone of his words. He didn’t want Cole to hear. I turned to Cole, and saw that he’d retreated to the bottom of the stairs. He held the upright of the bannister as if in need of a crutch.

‘Cole. It was just a bit of a misunderstanding between your Uncle Parker and me. Everything’s fine now, so will you be a good boy and go upstairs a few minutes?’

Our shared connection had been tenuous to begin with, and now severely tested, but Quinn also nodded and pointed his chin upwards, silently asking the boy to do as he was asked. Cole pouted slightly, but he turned and went up the stairs, his treads heavier than when he’d pelted down. I closed the door, and pressed Quinn to go to the kitchen, where there was less likelihood we’d be overheard.

When he’d settled his lower back against the kitchen counter, I said, ‘We got off on the wrong foot back there.’

It wasn’t much of an apology, but I didn’t think he deserved one. What the hell had he been thinking reaching into his jacket like that when confronted by a stranger?

He shrugged. ‘Maybe I should’ve announced myself, but I’ve never had to before, normally I just come on up to the house…’

‘Things aren’t normal just now,’ I reminded him.

‘No. No they’re not.’ I watched sadness follow his words, and he looked down at his feet, started toeing the tiles underfoot.

‘I guess Ella’s murder hurt more people than her immediate family,’ I said.

He placed a shaking hand over his eyes and I expected tears to follow, but then his shoulders straightened and he looked directly at me and his eyes, though still bloodshot, were dry. Anger sparked in them. ‘It’s the real reason I’m here. I do want to speak with Andrew, but it’s to ask why the hell I’ve spent all afternoon at the goddamn police station answering hurtful accusations.’

I experienced a twinge of guilt, because Clayton had nothing to do with Quinn being dragged in for questioning. I wondered if, after we’d spoken about Quinn as a suspect behind the hate campaign, Bryony or Holker made the executive decision to bring him in, put some pressure on him and hope he’d fold - before they had any tangible evidence on him.

‘What have you got to complain about?’ I said. ‘Evidently you answered to their satisfaction or you wouldn’t be at your liberty now.’

Quinn went for his pocket again, but jerked to a halt, anticipating another throttling and painful wristlock.

‘Go ahead.’ I said, confident he wasn’t carrying a weapon having discretely checked while propping him up minutes ago. All that was in his inside pocket was the folded paper he’d originally gone for, dropped from his spasming fingers as I’d wrenched everything out of place.

‘I had to stand my own bail, goddamnit!’ He rattled the paperwork under my nose, before throwing it on the counter. ‘I’ve to report to Franklin Street to answer more of those goddamn questions in two days time. Those goddamn jackbooted Nazis are currently at my house executing a search warrant. God knows what I’m going to find when I get back home.’

I thought that at the very least he’d find his computer missing. I assumed his cell phone had already been seized when he was at the police station.

‘It was a stupid move coming here, Quinn,’ I told him. ‘What if there’s a tail on you? Fronting Clayton in his own home won’t help your case if the cops think you’re the one harassing him.’

‘I’m the one harassing
him
?’

‘You tell me,’ I said.

‘I just got my ass hauled to jail, had my hair yanked out and got grilled by some prissy A-hole in stacked heels, and now my house is being ransacked, and Andrew’s the one being harassed?’ Quinn rubbed his mouth with both hands. Then used his saliva-damp fingers to push back his hair. When he realised what he’d done, he looked in disgust at his palms, and then scrubbed them down the thighs of his jeans.

‘You saw the front door, right?’ I said.

‘I had nothing to do with that!’ Quinn’s sclera began turning red again.

‘I believe you,’ I said, and wasn’t lying. I really didn’t think he was involved in Ella’s death, in the vandalism of Clayton’s home, or in sending the emails. But he could have a stake in the outcome if Clayton was charged. He stood to inherit control of their boating and supplies business, and that could be seen as a motive to want Clayton out of the way. Also, there was something else that might fall in his favour if my suspicions were correct. What that inkling was, I chose to keep it to myself for now. ‘Look, Quinn. It’s like I said, you’re doing yourself no favour coming here like this. Maybe you should leave, and wait until you’ve thought things through before you see Andrew. How is throwing any of this at him going to help? Trust me, it isn’t.’

He threw up his palms. ‘You might be right. I was just so mad…’

‘And getting into an argument with Andrew was your first idea?’

‘I didn’t come here to argue, only to speak. He’s my friend, my business partner, who else would I go to?’

‘You don’t have a wife or girlfriend whose ear you could bend?’ I asked.

Quinn’s face almost folded in on itself.

‘It’s only me, man,’ he said, ‘only me.’

‘Then don’t go doing something stupid like spoiling a friendship,’ I counselled him, even as I surreptitiously began leading him to the door. ‘Go on, Quinn. Get yourself out of here before Andrew gets back. If I were you I’d be home, ensuring none of those jackbooted Nazis are tracking dirt all over your house.’

‘I, uh, yeah,’ he said, at a loss now I’d taken the wind out of him. ‘Look, man, I’m sorry about the way I showed up at the door. It wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had.’

I shrugged, unconcerned. After all, I wasn’t the one who’d ended up semiconscious, and with an aching wrist. I kept him moving past the stairs, and to the door. He opened it himself, probably having done so a hundred times in the past. But then he paused and glanced up. ‘I hope I didn’t frighten Cole. The boy’s got enough on his plate without seeing me like that.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. To be honest, Quinn, I’m the one who might have frightened Cole. I think I’ve some making up to do with him.’

‘Aw hell, I didn’t mean to cause any trouble for you,’ he said.

‘Forget about it,’ I said.

‘Man, I don’t even know your name,’ said Quinn, and tentatively offered me his hand.

‘Hunter,’ I said, and accepted his grip.

‘Hunter,’ he repeated by rote. He shook my hand, but was too embarrassed to meet my gaze. He stepped outside. As he walked to his car he slouched with each step, his hair hanging over his face, and I genuinely felt sorry for him. The guy, I’d already decided, was a threat to nobody, except perhaps himself.