No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) Read Online Free PDF Page A

attack that followed.

4
     
    ‘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