by J. L. Abramo
Rink lives in a condo within spitting distance of Busch Gardens, the theme park next door to Temple Terrace. Some days, when standing on his balcony, you could hear the faint whoops and screams of delight of those riding the rollercoasters, the whooshing, rushing sounds of the coasters themselves, but that was dependent on the prevailing wind direction and how heavy the traffic was on the nearby I-75. When I drove up East Busch Boulevard there was little traffic around, and the theme park had closed for the night. I’d made good time getting from Mexico Beach, but it was still late, and even the parking lots of Red Lobster and Taco Bell had emptied by then. I kept going, past the public library, then peeled off, using surface streets as short cuts through to Rink’s place. Tampa is a low-lying bayside city, and there isn’t much in the way of high-elevation in the topography of its suburbs either, but Rink’s condo sat on what would be termed a hill by locals, though it was barely more than a bump in the landscape.
I pulled my Audi onto his drive, behind his Porsche Boxster, checking out another vehicle I was unfamiliar with. It was a bog-standard Ford with Florida plates. The car gave me no clue to Rink’s visitor. Lights were on throughout his apartment, but I could see nobody inside. Rink’s place was at the end of a row of similar apartments staggered along the crest of the hill; all with their own dedicated parking bays. Most bays were occupied, so perhaps the car belonged to a neighbour’s visitor, and they’d parked in the first available space. Speculation wasn’t helping. I got out my Audi, grabbed my bag and shut the door. The clunk alerted someone inside, and a figure moved through the living room to the window. I recognised Rink’s muscular shape, though the light behind him set him in silhouette. He raised a hand, then headed for the door. I went to meet him.
‘You musta hauled ass,’ Rink said by way of greeting.
‘I might’ve been a little heavy-footed on the gas,’ I admitted. I craned to see past him. ‘Why the secrecy, Rink? What’s going on.’
He surprised me by cupping a hand at the back of my neck, and leaning in. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture. For a second I thought he was going to kiss my cheek, until he whispered. ‘You’re gonna like who’s here, brother.’
‘Who?’
‘Best you see for yourself.’
He urged me inside, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pause. I suddenly felt nervous, squinting an eye as I checked him for any deceit. If I went in and a group of well-meaning friends jumped out singing “Happy Birthday” I’d struggle to make out I was happy to see them.
‘Go on through,’ Rink said. ‘You know the way.’
I was tempted to head for the spare bedroom, to drop my bag, but Rink closed the door and followed on my heels, ushering me towards the living room like a trusty old sheepdog. I was propelled, to avoid being trampled by him. I could feel the buzz of expectancy rising off him like an electrical charge. Who had got my usually calm and collected buddy all excitable?
Rink’s an ex-soldier, and like many disciplined veterans he keeps a neat and ordered living space. He’s also part Japanese so has that Zen thing going on. So immediately on entering his lounge, I spotted the signs of his visitor, but these gave no immediate hint of who it was. I saw the empty plates and cups on his coffee table, and a rumpled cloth bag set alongside his sofa. The sofa cushions bore indentations from a body. But there was nobody there, and I glimpsed at Rink for direction. He nodded at the door that opened onto his balcony, and through the reflective glass I caught movement as somebody shifted, getting up from one of the recliner chairs outside. The person who entered stopped me in my tracks.
I don’t know whom I was expecting but it wasn’t Bryony VanMeter, a homicide detective with Tampa PD’s Criminal Investigations Division.
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘Hey, Joe,’ Bryony said, and lifted a half-quaffed bottle of beer in greeting. ‘Long time no see, lover boy.’
I smiled at her pet name for me, though it was somewhat through embarrassment. Rink chuckled at my discomfort, and gave me a prod in the kidneys. I’d have squirmed like a schoolboy, but Bryony was watching me too keenly. So I stood stoically.
‘It’s been too long,’ I said. She’d changed her image since last I’d seen her, but she was every bit as lovely. She now wore her auburn hair short and feathered around her freckled face, and small diamond studs in her ears. Her lips were moist from the beer she’d enjoyed, and I noted a small nick on her bottom lip that wasn’t there when we’d last kissed. I wondered if I kissed her now the small imperfection would make any difference to how her mouth moved against mine. We’d enjoyed a fling a couple of years ago, after I’d assisted her in bringing a rich scumbag called Mick O’Neill to justice. O’Neill had a penchant for throwing people off skyscrapers and I’d ensured he got a taste of his own methods. By doing so Bryony and her partner Detective Holker had cleared a few latent murder cases off Tampa CID’s books. Bryony had shown her appreciation as much as Holker didn’t. But then, I hadn’t dated him afterwards. Our relationship hadn’t lasted, because it wasn’t doing her career prospects any good being associated with a suspected vigilante. We’d gone our separate ways, though it was under friendly terms, and with no lessening of the feelings we had for each other. I turned up the corner of my mouth. ‘Then again, I hope this is a social call, Bryony?’
‘Depends on what you’d like to confess to,’ she said.
‘His undying infatuation?’ Rink asked, and expelled a wet laugh that smelled of beer. Bryony shook her head at him, but there was a gleam in her hazel eyes, and a quirk on her lips. I tutted at him, and would have prodded my elbow in his gut but that would only have made me look as immature as his humour.
‘I think Rink already told you about the job I’m offering,’ Bryony said.
‘You want to hire me? A Major Crimes Bureau detective?’ I said.
‘Not me personally,’ Bryony corrected. ‘I’m here on behalf of someone else, a private client. But,’ she strung out that word, ‘you would be working alongside me, Joe. Whether or not your client needs to know about our arrangement is another matter.’
I gave Rink a look. ‘You said this was an easy job. Sounds as if there could be some complications you didn’t mention.’
Rink showed his gleaming white teeth. ‘Easy doesn’t mean things have to be boring,’ he said. He recalled his duty as our host. ‘C’mon...now the greetings are done with, lets go outside. I’ve more beer on ice.’
We went out onto the balcony, where recliners were arranged around a low glass table that was ringed with moisture. As promised there was an ice bucket with bottles sweating inside. Rink handed me a Corona before I could even sit down. There was a chair placed for me, and the others took the ones they’d already used. Rink was opposite me, Bryony to my left. It was warm despite the late hour, and the cicadas were in full volume. I aimed my untouched Corona at Bryony. ‘Want to tell me about this job, seeing as I rushed to get here.’
‘And I thought you broke the speed limit just to see me,’ Bryony teased. She held up a finger. ‘Except Rink didn’t tell you it was me who was hiring, did he?’
‘Rink likes to keep Hunter on his toes,’ said Rink, purposefully emphasising the third person POV.
I wondered how many beers he’d already drank, and by his shit-eating grin decided it was more than his usual intake. He was tipsy, and enjoying playing matchmaker. He’d told me numerous times I was nuts to let Bryony go, and to be fair, looking at how beautiful she was I couldn’t agree more. But this wasn’t about rekindling a love affair, it was about employment, so I made sure one of us from Rington Investigations remained professional.
‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘Have you been following the news lately?’ Bryony asked.
‘I tend not to; it’s too depressing,’ I said.
‘You haven’t heard about the spate of home invasions that have happened these past few weeks?’
I had. We’d talked around the office about the violent robberies that had recently pla
gued the city, but that was as far as we’d gone. Tackling the gang responsible for the home invasions was in the remit of the Major Crimes and Strategic Investigations Bureaus of Tampa PD, and they wouldn’t welcome the interference of a lowly PI outfit. But that shows you what I knew.
‘You want me to help bring this crew to justice?’ I wondered.
Bryony laughed, then excused her disbelief with a wave of her hand. ‘No, Joe, I’d prefer you kept out of the way of this one. We want arrests, not a blood bath.’
I held up my palms, made an I have no idea what you mean face, but didn’t really take any offence. Bryony wasn’t easily fooled though. She knew about some of the things I’d done in the past, and even if in private she silently applauded me, she couldn’t go on the record to do so. It’d ring the death toll of her career.
‘I’ll give you the short version,’ Bryony said. ‘There have been six home invasions to date. Thankfully, though the crew used firearms and other weapons, the fatalities have been few. An elderly widower died, but that was due to cardiac arrest, when he tried to fight for his wife’s jewelry back. The other fatality was Ella Clayton. Shot to death while trying to escape when her house was broken into. In the other invasions the properties were empty at the time, or there were only kids home. On those occasions the crew didn’t need to use their weapons, but that doesn’t mean they won’t next time.’
‘They’re punks,’ Rink said. ‘Cowardly punks.’
Bryony briefly raised her eyebrows, but she was in agreement. ‘We have some leads on the crew responsible; hopefully we can stop them before any more victims die.’
‘Amen to that,’ Rink chimed in, and raised his bottle to his lips.
I was busy thinking. ‘So if you don’t want my assistance with this crew, what exactly do you want, Detective VanMeter?’
Bryony squeezed me a smile. ‘I was just getting to that, Joe. I mentioned Ella Clayton. Because of the violent nature of her murder, there’s a lot of pressure on CID to catch her killers. She has become a figurehead for critics of Tampa PD who claim we aren’t doing enough for their tax dollars to find resolution in her case. So it stands to reason that the brass has rolled the crap downhill to Criminal Investigations, and on to the investigating detectives in particular. One of which is moi.’ She touched a hand to her chest. ‘Now, ordinarily I wouldn’t ask, but I need someone to alleviate some of the pressure I’m under, and I think you’re the man for the job, Joe.’
‘I can’t see what I can do to help that Tampa PD would sanction.’
‘I’m not asking that you catch the killers,’ Bryony explained, ‘I want you to babysit Ella’s family.’
‘Babysit?’ I frowned.
‘Okay, that perhaps wasn’t the best choice of words, but you know what I mean. I want you to keep an eye over them, keep them safe until we have Ella’s murderers in custody.’
‘They’re in danger from the home invaders? That doesn’t make much sense, unless they personally witnessed Ella’s murder?’
‘They didn’t. Ella’s husband and son were fishing up at Lake Tarpon when she was attacked.’ Bryony paused to take a pull at her beer, and I knew then there was more to this case than initially believed. She rolled her bottle between her palms, while she ordered her thoughts, then it was as if she decided to hell with it. She might as well say what was on her mind. ‘You know how when a murder happens, we look first at family and close friends as suspects? Andrew’s alibi stands; he was with his nine-year-old son when Ella was murdered. There’s no disputing the fact. But in my opinion that doesn’t make him innocent.’
‘You think he might’ve organised the attack and had his wife killed by proxy?’ I asked.
‘It’s always something we have to consider, and investigate.’
‘But to do that effectively you need someone on the inside,’ I finished for her. I studied my own beer, then tilted it and drank most of the bottle in one long swallow. I glanced across at Rink and caught his slight grimace. He knew what was going through my mind. I’d not long ago agreed to protect Billie Womack, and got shot for my trouble, when really others required protection from her. I’d been used, made to look a mug by a supposed old friend named Brandon Cooper. He was with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives—commonly referred to as an ATF agent—but it hadn’t made him trustworthy. Was I really prepared to jump into the middle of a case where it was apparent a law enforcement officer would manipulate me again? I wondered how much of the debacle at Hill End Bryony knew about from Rink.
‘We’ve nothing on Andrew Clayton,’ Bryony went on. ‘So we also have to consider that he’s innocent of any involvement in Ella’s murder. If he is innocent he deserves our sympathy, and our support. There’s also the boy to think about.’
‘Yeah,’ I agreed, a nine-year-old child should be protected. ‘Do you think he’s in danger?’
‘Not directly from his dad. But there are others to be worried about.’ Bryony tugged gently at an earlobe as she spoke, rotating the diamond stud. ‘It’s not only Tampa PD who has been criticised over Ella’s murder; it appears some people have their suspicions concerning Andrew, and they’ve made their opinions heard. He’s attracted a bit of a hate campaign, and more than once patrols have been dispatched to his home to chase off the rebel rousers. Two nights ago someone threw a brick through his front door. Andrew has also reported a prowler he caught staring through his kitchen window, but we were unable to locate the person responsible. Andrew wasn’t being hysterical, we did find signs that someone had been standing on the flowerbed below the window.’
‘Why hasn’t a patrol car been allocated to sit outside the house?’ I pondered, though I suspected the answer.
‘Budget constraints, manpower issues, conflict of interest where a possible suspect is concerned...take your pick.’
‘And that’s where I come in?’ I said.
‘Exactly. Andrew claims he isn’t worried for himself, but he doesn’t want any harm to come to Cole, and nobody can blame him for that. When I informed him that Tampa PD couldn’t supply round the clock protection he asked me if I knew anybody who could.’ She pointed at me. ‘That’s where you come in, Joe.’
I exhaled slowly.
‘You don’t want the job?’ Bryony pressed.
‘It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of Andrew Clayton; there’s an innocent child involved. Was there ever any doubt I’d take it?’
3
When he used to be a cop, nobody would have got the drop on Jed Boaz like this. Back when he’d carried a shield and a gun, he’d been switched on. Neither a badge nor a firearm was armour against assault from those who had little respect for the accoutrements of a detective. So he’d always ensured that he was alert, on-guard, prepared for when the shit came down. He’d never been caught napping. But that was eight years ago now, and in the intervening years the fallout from an acrimonious divorce, and a dependency on prescription painkillers and bottles of scotch, had dulled him. He’d shattered both legs in a pile-up on the I-4. Ironically it hadn’t been during a high-speed chase—many of which he’d been involved in during his law enforcement career—but on a slow Sunday afternoon after visiting family up at Lake Buena Vista. He didn’t recall much about the collision afterwards, but he’d the State Troopers’ report to go on: a car full of French tourists had blown a tyre, and over-reacting the driver had yanked the steering, throwing their car under the wheels of a truck. The truck had jack-knifed, swatting Jed’s vehicle across the central median and into the path of an oncoming bus. His wife’s injuries had been blessedly superficial—minor cuts and bruises—but Jed had to be cut out of the mashed wreckage, and it had been touch and go as to whether he’d keep his right leg due to the crush injuries. The surgeons had saved his leg, if not his full mobility. Recuperating from his injuries had been a bastard, but so had his behaviour. He was unfit for work, and was pensioned off on medical grounds, but he hadn’t welcomed early retirement. Less than a year after the accident hi
s wife, Barbara, said goodbye to the boorish man he’d become, taking half of everything with her including a cut of his pension. In hindsight he couldn’t blame her, because he had been a spiteful asshole. He could try to blame the meds or the bottle, but really it was down to him. He’d lost pretty much everything: his job, his wife, his home, and his self-respect. But he’d tried to climb back out of the hole, though the private work he’d undertaken didn’t give him the same credibility he once had, but it paid his bills and put scotch in his belly most evenings, so he wasn’t complaining. Not much. What it hadn’t done was remind him that there were dangerous, evil bastards out there just waiting for the moment you dropped your guard so they could inflict pain on you.
Most days, when he was sober, he conducted business from the seat of his Honda Civic, the tools and paperwork associated with his business scattered on the seats both front and back, all of it smelling of take-out fried chicken or burgers, and sour whisky breath. When he wasn’t sober enough to be behind the wheel, he used a room he rented above a tool hire shop in a strip mall off West Waters Avenue. The room was small, cluttered, but cheap enough, and was in staggering distance of a Panda Express and McDonald’s for when he got hungry, and a Walmart for when he grew thirsty. He required a business address, and somewhere his mail could be delivered. Also, he needed somewhere he could crash out when he was too drunk to haul his ass home to his miserable condo a few blocks away in River Oaks. Tonight was such a night.
He wasn’t as drunk as he wished to be, but he was soused enough not to trust himself to drive and arrive home in one piece. His legs were aching like crazy, and twice his reconstructed left knee had almost given out on him since he’d left the bar. His right leg, atrophied an inch shorter since his accident, was the weaker leg of the two. He walked like a constipated duck, even when he wasn’t loaded. His gait made him a target of jokes, and sometimes of predators, and for that reason he kept an equalizer on hand to teach those who’d target him a lesson. He reached in his jacket pocket and racked out his extendable truncheon, even as he turned to confront the guy who’d followed him down the alley behind the strip mall.