No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (12 page)

He heard. Maybe he understood my words, but I didn’t think so. He squeezed my hand, but his grip had less strength than a newborn. His hold on existence was as tenuous. His lips moved. I had to lean in to hear, but all I made out was the slight smacking of his lips.

‘What are you trying to say, Tommy?’ I coaxed gently.

Others were closing in on us. Some of the bystanders were suffering the immediate revulsion and shock as I had. But a young black woman steeled herself and came to help as the others reached for phones to summon expert assistance. She cupped Benson’s head in her palms, as he again made those smacking noises with his lips. I leaned closer to hear, but couldn’t make out what he said.

‘Paid,’ said the woman to my quizzical frown. ‘He said “paid”.’ She also leaned closer, while muttering soft encouragement to him and Benson mumbled his last words. I felt the life go out him, and air leaked from him like a punctured tyre. His body deflated visibly, and to be honest it was for the best. The woman shook her head, and I met her gaze. She looked back at Benson’s lax features, then back at me. ‘He said he was “paid to run”. What did he mean, sir? That’s just nuts, isn’t it? He was paid to run into the traffic like that?’

No. That wasn’t what Benson meant at all. I had a good idea what he was referring to, but I wasn’t in a position to admit as much to this Good Samaritan.

‘Remember: don’t touch anything. You’re not supposed to be here, Joe.’

Bryony VanMeter stood to one side, allowing Hunter to enter the vestibule of Thomas Benson’s house. He stepped in alongside her, his hands fisted at his sides. ‘I understand the rules, Bryony,’ he reassured her.

‘Pity you don’t stick to them,’ Detective Holker growled as he pushed inside past them.

They’d already had this discussion earlier at One Police Centre at Franklin Street and Bryony didn’t feel they needed to go over it again. Deputies from Hillsborough Sheriff’s department were first on the scene at the fatal accident on the I-275, closely followed by highway patrol officers, and because Hunter had stuck around he was first questioned as a witness, then arrested because it grew apparent that Thomas Benson had been struck by the VW van while fleeing from him. Hunter didn’t resist, but asked that Detective VanMeter be informed of his arrest. Hunter was subsequently released once he’d related the circumstances, how he’d repeatedly warned Benson against running, and three youths and an elderly couple who’d witnessed the chase corroborated his story. Benson had been proven to be the aggressor, while Hunter only beseeched him to stop and talk. Holker still felt Hunter was complicit in Benson’s death and wanted to throw the book at him, but Bryony had told him – off the record - not to be an ass. For a change he’d listened to her, but the uneasy truce with Hunter wouldn’t last long. She was certain Holker purposefully goaded Hunter, hoping to get some kind of rise out him, one he’d push and shove at until Hunter broke and crossed a line. Holker would love to have Hunter in cuffs having assaulted a law enforcement officer. Be careful what you wish for, she wanted to warn him.

Hunter had explained to them how he’d found Benson, following the tip from the owner of WPB, the bait and tackle shop, but didn’t say how he’d got to that point. It was maybe best they didn’t ask. He narrated the actions by rote, explaining how on approaching this very house he’d spotted Benson driving away and identified the vehicle and the man from their previous confrontations, and had followed him to the strip mall. He explained he approached Benson with a view to questioning him about his grievance towards Andrew Clayton, but how he never got the chance.

‘I heard you head-butted him,’ Holker had sneered.

‘Only after he tried to kick me in the balls,’ Hunter had responded. ‘But the eye witnesses already told you that too.’

‘Why didn’t you draw your sidearm?’ Holker asked snippily.

‘I only do that when I mean to use it,’ said Hunter, deadpan.

‘I meant to make him stand still, to hold him until the real professionals could speak with him.’

‘Legally I couldn’t do that, Detective Holker. Are you suggesting I should have broken the law? That’s quite a turn of events.’

Holker had cursed him, and Bryony averted her face to hide her chuckle at her partner’s expense.

She’d had Benson’s Toyota impounded, and currently a CSI team was going over it, checking for trace evidence to Ella Clayton’s murder, but none of them believed any would be found. Hunter had told them Benson’s last words, also corroborated by Shaneesha Dewitt, the off-duty nurse who’d assisted Hunter with Benson during the man’s final seconds.
Paid to run
. None of them were sure what he’d meant, but they were all certain he wasn’t referring to his final minutes on Earth. He was confessing to his previous actions, and they had nothing to do with murder. When Bryony thought about it, twice Benson had run from Hunter on earlier occasions: had he been paid to run both times, and if so, by whom? They’d come to his house hoping to discover a clue. Holker had been reluctant about bringing Hunter, but there was value in having him along. Hunter had learned more about Benson’s involvement than any of them, so perhaps he could add insight to something the detectives might otherwise miss. But he was under strict instructions to touch nothing and do exactly as instructed without argument. Bryony’s friendly reminder was so Holker wasn’t fed the ammunition to provoke him again.

Holker flicked on lights as he progressed through the dwelling. The house wasn’t a crime scene, so there was no need to take precautions against transferring trace evidence, but Bryony still treated it as such. She checked on Hunter, and saw that he kept his hands by his sides. He caught her looking and offered the ghost of a smile. He was going to behave, his smile promised. Shame, because she preferred him as a bad boy. OK, not that she’d ever describe him as bad, in the sense of the word, but she enjoyed the buzz of excitement he invoked in her when he was around. He always reminded her of some caged beast, raw and dangerous, his true nature confined by the veneer of civilisation but apt to be loosed at any instant. As a child she once saw a Bengal tiger in a zoo, separated from her only by a short stretch of beaten earth and some narrow bars. It had stared at her with implacable intensity, and she knew it wished to eat her, and yet her impulse was to reach out to it, tempting its ravenous appetite while ruffling her fingertips through its short fur. She’d evoked a shriek of alarm from her mother, who’d snatched her out of harm’s way, then scolded her madly for her recklessness – while all the time her mother had also peered over her at the tiger, wishing she’d had the opportunity to stroke the savage beast herself. Being around Hunter was akin to petting a tiger: she couldn’t help herself, even if it meant losing a hand or worse. Feeling warm, she returned his smile, then winked and nodded for him to follow.

She moved away from Holker, heading for the sitting room while her partner moved deeper into the house. It was a small dwelling, suitable only for one person: in fact it was barely fit for habitation, but that was primarily down to Benson’s aversion to housekeeping. The sitting room was a tip. It was strewn with the detritus of bachelorhood, and stank like an ashtray and was coloured fifty shades of tar. In the living space, there was a recliner chair, bearing the indentations where Benson regularly slouched before the TV. There was an archaic sideboard unit, with drawers missing their handles. On top of it was a music centre, the old kind that took cassette tapes and CDs. An unruly stack of CDs showed Benson had a preference for Country Rock and Rockabilly music. There was a confederate states flag nailed to the wall, on it printed the epitaph “The South’s Gonna Rise Again”, but Bryony guessed it had more significance concerning the birthplace of his musical tastes than it had to do with any inherent racism or even homeland pride. His taste in music was probably also why he had fixed a Southern Fried bumper sticker on his car. On one wall was a framed print of Eddie Cochran slinging a Gretsch guitar, and another wall upheld a poster of Hank Williams, so faded it was almost translucent.

‘Looks as if Tommy Benson was living in the past,’ Bryony commented.

‘For such a slob, he had good taste,’ Hunter replied as he studied the CD cases. As Bryony recalled from her dates with him, Hunter too had a liking for oldie music.

‘If you see anything you like, try not to touch it,’ she said, and winked again.

He eyed her, his eyes smoky. Bryony tried not to sashay as she walked across the room and leaned over the TV to check the space behind it. ‘When I said he lived in the past, I was thinking he wasn’t the type to be up to date on computers and such like. By the look of things I might be right.’

‘He’d no phone on him when he died; none in his car?’

‘Nope.’

There were footsteps from upstairs, Holker making his way through the bedrooms. ‘Maybe Holker will have more luck up there,’ Hunter said.

Bryony held up a hand. ‘You see that, Joe?’

He walked over and studied the floor next to the TV. It was strewn with dust balls, lint, grit and a torn strip of notepaper. Bryony crouched, and used the side of her left pinkie finger to adjust the paper so the writing on it was easier to read. Beside her Hunter grew still as he studied what she’d spotted. The words were written in pencil, and because of the way the paper had been ripped they were incomplete, but what were the chances “la Clayto” weren’t part of a very pertinent name?

While she pulled a plastic evidence bag from her jacket pocket, Bryony said, ‘Joe, do me a favour, will you? Take a look around and see if you can spot a waste basket under any of that crap.’

Hunter did as asked. He moved around the room, using the toe of his boot to shift aside some dirty laundry left behind by Benson when he made his fatal trip to the laundromat. Finding nothing, he checked the other obvious places where Benson tossed his trash, but there was no sign of a litter basket. ‘I’ll check the kitchen,’ he offered, and left the room without waiting. Bryony studied the words on the torn paper while it was still in situ, then used the half opened bag to pick it up. She shook it inside the bag, before smoothing the paper so it could be clearly read.

She thought about checking the drawers on the sideboard, and moved for them. She employed the tail of her shirt over her fingers to avoid leaving her fingerprints on the broken handles and tugged open the drawers in turn. She was looking for the notepad from which the paper was ripped, but came up blank. From the kitchen she could hear Hunter rummaging, and also the soft thud of Holker returning downstairs. She met her partner in the vestibule. ‘Lookit what I found,’ she said, and flashed her eyes at him as she shook the evidence bag.

‘I’ll raise you a tablet,’ Holker said, with a gloating grin, and held up an iPad, over which he’d folded an empty evidence bag. ‘What are the bets this matches the IP address of those emails we received?’

‘I can do one better,’ Hunter called from the kitchen. ‘One of you might want to seize this so the chain of evidence isn’t broken.’

‘What’s he up to?’ Holker demanded as he stamped down the last few stairs. ‘I thought I warned him…’

‘I asked him to look,’ Bryony told him gruffly, and received a snort of derision, but Holker let it go. They both entered the kitchen, Bryony slightly ahead. Hunter was hunkered over a pile of trash he’d upended from a plastic sack – he’d barely added to the mess that already littered the floor.

‘Lemme see that,’ Holker demanded, snapping the tips of two fingers against Hunter’s left shoulder.

Hunter rose, standing a few inches taller than Holker even in his stacked heels. Hunter wasn’t huge, maybe just a shade beneath six feet, and his build was lithe as opposed to muscular, but alongside Holker he made her partner seem diminutive by comparison. Maybe Holker felt his overwhelming presence and was prickled by small man syndrome: he pressed Hunter aside with the back of his wrist, almost dismissing him. Bryony watched Hunter’s eyes tighten a fraction, and a similar tightening of his lips implied he didn’t appreciate Holker’s treatment. Another man – one not wearing a badge of officialdom – might possibly have ended up nursing a bruised chin. She caught Hunter’s attention with a flick of her head, and when he transferred his gaze to her, she offered a thumb’s up at his discovery. He shrugged imperceptibly, then nodded down at Holker, who was now bent over the
find: it’s all his now, Hunter’s expression said.

As he inspected the items on the floor Holker’s slicked hair had parted slightly, flopping aside and disclosing a bald spot he’d worked diligently to conceal. Some of the hairs at the roots were white. Bryony blinked slowly at it, then lifted her gaze to Hunter’s. He too had spotted Holker’s vain attempt at covering up what the detective felt was a personal failing, but the shiny skin on his crown didn’t hold Hunter’s attention. He wasn’t as judgmental as the man crouching in front of him.

‘I already put them in some sort of order,’ Hunter announced. ‘Don’t worry, I used the handle of that plastic spoon to move them, not my fingers.’

Holker squinted up at Bryony, ignoring Hunter completely. ‘You see what we’ve got here?’

She did indeed. There were approximately two dozen pieces of torn paper, on which was a penciled message. She didn’t require an expert analyst to tell her the notepaper matched the slip she’d found in the sitting room. Hunter had already begun arranging the message as if completing a homemade jigsaw puzzle. The scrap of paper she’d previously seized would sit near the top of the page.

‘Looks as if Benson practiced what he wanted to write before transferring it to an email,’ Holker said.

Who did that these days? Bryony had already concurred that Benson probably wasn’t the type to embrace modern technology, but surely jotting a note on paper prior to transposing it into an email was a supreme waste of time and effort: judging by the state of the house Benson wasn’t one for performing mundane tasks.  ‘Or someone else did,’ she added, and caught a nod of approval from Holker.

‘Check this out.’ Hunter walked over to the fridge. There were a few post-it notes adhered to the front. Reminders of appointments, and some kind of list. On closer inspection Bryony saw Benson had jotted down a shopping list, but it was for sundry items, not groceries. Instantly she noted how spidery, and poorly formed Benson’s letters were. His spelling was atrocious too. She snapped the list off the fridge and took it over to Holker, and he laid it alongside the partially reconstructed message on the floor. The writing on the shredded message was neat, spelled correctly and even used the correct grammar.

‘I think we can safely assume Benson sent the emails from the iPad,’ Holker said, ‘but he did so on somebody else’s behalf. You thinking what I’m thinking, Bryony?’

‘It’s time to go see Parker Quinn again. And this time we have to squeeze him a little tighter.’