The Night Watchman Read online

  20

  AFTER OUR OPRAH-LIKE emotive session with Mario the Weeping Felon, my stomach beckoned me to fill it with something that would clog my arteries and shut down my heart on the spot. I was hankering for a huge sloppy burger and fries.

  I wanted to run some things by Pam, so I asked her to join me over a late lunch, early dinner, or something. She agreed, so we drove to the Wildside BBQ & Grill on Summerlin Avenue, east of downtown.

  I ordered a double burger and cheese fries, and she ordered a chicken salad. She ate like she lived, no frills or fluff. I didn't see her as a chili-and-hot-wings kind of gal. Sometimes it bothers me that I'm always analyzing every aspect of a person, but I do enjoy making the connections between one personality trait and another, how one aspect or pattern of a life feeds directly into others. I wish I could turn it off, but I am a ruined soul.

  I was glad to hear Mario's confession. It helped me focus on other areas that needed to be fleshed out. I slugged down my first iced tea in record time. My sparring session with Jim last night was just about wearing off, but I was still a little dehydrated.

  “I checked Jamie's cell phone records,” I said. “The subpoena for the records is in the report, but the records themselves are missing. I don't know if they were just never followed up on, or if they were removed.”

  “Why are the phone records important anyway? And why wouldn't they be in the report?”

  “I'm not sure what to make of that. They should be in the report with everything else. I like checking phone records. They tell patterns about people—when they're up and moving around, who's their favorite person to call, then the second, and so on. If Jamie and David were killed by someone else, then it's very possible one of them knew and had contact with that person. The phone records should provide more people to interview. I need to get ahold of Pampas's investigative notes and see if the phone records were mentioned, or if there's anything in the report I don't have.”

  “So can we get that information now?”

  “Maybe,” I said as the waitress arrived with my refill. “We have a couple of options. Plan A, and my least favorite, is I ask Oscar if he knows what happened to the records and if he can give me full access to all the case notes and let me conduct a review. But then I have to explain why I want them and what I'm doing. It won't play well with my old unit that I'm going back over their work. If we start making progress on this case, they'll find out anyway, but the longer I can delay that, the better. I might be able to glean a lot of information without their knowing it, before we have to go public. And with a possible dirty cop involved, I need to be very careful. I don't know who I can trust at OPD.”

  “Any other options?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I don't think you want to know what I have in mind for plans B through Z.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “But I… never mind.” She held up the palm of her hand.

  “When I tell you that you don't want to know something, trust me, you really don't want to know It's for your own good.”

  Pam rolled her eyes. “Is there anything else going on?”

  She nibbled on her salad, and I eased back in my chair. The chaotic sounds of waitresses hurrying past and glasses and silverware clanking carried with them a fresh realization that I had not been out to a restaurant for a relaxing meal with anyone in many months. But with Pam it just seemed to flow naturally.

  As much as I searched and parsed her every word, I had yet to see a false motive in what she was doing or who she was. She loved her brother and wanted to find his killer. She was sincere and honest, something I wasn't used to, and it was throwing me a bit off kilter. I breathed in the atmosphere.

  “We're entering a time in this investigation that I'm not quite sure how to deal with,” I said. “I'll need more records and subpoena powers for others. I can't go through the state attorney's office because I'm not a sworn cop anymore, and I'm not a certified private investigator. But we've got to dig deeper. I need access to the police data banks and files and such. We'll have to be creative from here on out.”

  “I need to pray about this,” she said. “God has brought us this far. I believe He's going to lead us to the killer.”

  Just when I started to warm up to Pam, the God-talk flowed from her mouth like some holy water spigot forever stuck in the “on” position.

  “I'll leave the praying to you, while I do the work.”

  “You don't believe in the power of prayer? You think it was an accident that we met and now you're working on a case you didn't really want to take?”

  “I don't believe in a lot of things you believe in. It's just dumb luck that you and I met and this whole thing happened. I think we're all just clinging to a giant boulder hurtling through space, and it's up to us to make the best out of what we have.”

  “There's not much hope with your beliefs,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but it's realistic. We don't have a greater purpose for being here. We're just here. That's all.”

  “Didn't you ever go to Sunday school or church when you were younger?” she said.

  “Yeah. At some of the homes I was at, they'd force religion down my throat.”

  “Some of the homes?” Her eyes filled with tenderness. “You were adopted?”

  I bit my lip and felt like a fool. Pam played dumb with me and had used the techniques of a good interviewer to draw information out of me. Not bad for a rookie.

  “Not exactly. I grew up in the Florida foster-care system. I never knew my parents and was never adopted, so I bounced from foster home to foster home.”

  “That had to be tough,” she said.

  “Well, life is tough. I was told the police found me when I was about three years old, walking on the side of I-75 with a note pinned to my shirt that said ‘Ray’ That's all I know. So I don't see a whole lot of God's purpose in leaving a little boy abandoned on the side of the road for just anyone to find. Doesn't sound like a loving God to me.”

  I hadn't shared this much about myself with anyone except Trisha; not even Oscar knew. But Pam caught me hung over and weak, seduced me with iced tea and greasy burgers, then extracted the information like a pro.

  “I guess I can understand why you'd think that,” she said. “I struggle with a lot of questions too. David really loved God, and sharing that love was his passion. Ever since he was a boy he knew he wanted to be a pastor and to serve God and others. That mission was his dream. Why would God let something like that happen to him? It's so unfair. I can't explain any of it.”

  “And yet you still believe? Even after all this?”

  Pam nodded. “God is still God, even if I don't understand everything. Even when it hurts. I trust that He has a plan.”

  “Sound's like a cop-out.”

  “It's not a cop-out, Ray. He's God. Where else am I going to go?”

  The waitress showed up again, and I accepted my third glass of tea. I'd need it to chug this conversation down. I'd let enough about me slip. It's not that I was paranoid or anything, but information is power. And I didn't like handing others that kind of power over me.

  “Getting back to the case, I'm going to find out about the cell phone records, and Jamie had an ex-boyfriend named Tay I need to find him as well. If nothing else, he could provide some insight into Jamie as a person. Or he could be our suspect. I'll get back to Chance and Club Venus as soon as I can, but right now I should follow up on these leads. I could use another three or four investigators to run down some of this stuff, but it looks like it's just you, Crevis, and me.”

  Pam dabbed her mouth with a napkin and agreed. I could tell she wanted to talk more about God, life, and personal stuff. I was done with that.

  “So what's our next move?” she said.

  “I don't think I have any choice now.” I removed my wallet from my back pocket. “I've got to do something I haven't done in a year.”

  “What's that?”

  “I'm going to the police station.”

  21
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br />   INCOMPETENCE RULED THE DAY when it came to getting rid of employees in bureaucracies as large as Orlando's.

  I kept that in mind as I punched in the old security code on the keypad, then the gate rolled open. They hadn't changed the code in a year, which made me hopeful about other things. The homicide unit was on the second floor of police headquarters on Hughey Avenue.

  I'd waited until almost five o'clock to clear out as many cops as I could. No one was in the parking lot, although a few cars were still there. Oscar's dark blue Buick Century was parked near the front door.

  Just as they hadn't changed the gate code, I'd bet my old passkey hadn't been taken out of the system. I swiped my keyless entry card, and the small light went from red to green. No turning back now.

  I headed up the stairs that led to the back door of Homicide that allowed investigators to come and go without walking through the main lobby. The bull pen was pretty much as I remembered. Cubicles lined the walls, and individual offices dotted the hallway.

  But now a picture of Trisha hung against the wall in the middle of the room, a black ribbon strung across it.

  Her fire red hair was tied back, and she stood in her dress uniform, smiling. A small narrative and a proclamation from the governor were below. The Medal of Valor was underneath that for gallantry under fire. That meant she died well, as if that really mattered now.

  The checkout board still hung on the wall with the names of everyone in the unit listed. Oscar was a freak about detectives signing out when they left the office. You had to record where you were going and when you expected to return.

  “Ray,” Oscars bellowing voice called. “Is that you?” He hurried toward me with his larger-than-life smile. Much of my fear melted with his approach. It was great to see him.

  “Yeah. I thought I'd take you up on your offer to see what's going on.”

  Oscar shook my hand and wrapped a big wing around my shoulder. “Doesn't look like the muggers did too much damage. Lieutenant White said you gave 'em a good fight.”

  “Well, I had some help. Looks like you replaced me pretty fast.” I pointed to my old desk, which was crammed full of someone else's stuff. A picture of a young guy with a wife and three kids occupied the upper shelf.

  “That's Bowden. I brought him over from Narcotics. Pretty sharp kid. I think he's gonna make some good cases. He reminds me a lot of you.”

  “Troublemaker, huh?”

  “A little.” Oscar smiled. “Come on down to my office so we can talk. You look great.”

  Oscar was good with greasing people and building them up. I didn't mind so much. As we walked toward his office, I saw a familiar back of the head at one of the cubicles and hoped he wouldn't see us. No such luck.

  “Ray-Ray.” Steve Stockton rolled his chair out and hurried over to me, meaty arms out.

  I punched my hand out quickly so he couldn't give me an awkward hug. He was a little too touchy-feely for me.

  “Good to see you.” Steve shook my hand like he meant it. But his eyes were at work again. I questioned my sanity when I heard the back door open then slam shut as more detectives approached us.

  “Night Watchman Quinn,” Pampas said. “I heard you got your butt kicked the other day by some homeless guy.”

  I didn't answer Pampas but considered the benefits he could receive from a good cane lobotomy I should have been able to smell him before his approach. Pampas swaggered up to me and almost extended his hand but didn't. What a guy. The detective from the picture on my old desk was with him.

  “Greg Bowden.” He gave me his hand. He was a bit taller than me with a thick build, like a football lineman, and receding brown hair. “Good to see you up and around.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell Bowden where you're working now, Quinn.” Pampas posted his hands on his hips.

  “Is he training you?” I pointed at Pampas with my chin.

  Bowden nodded.

  “Don't listen to what he tells you,” I said. “You really can solve cases and actually arrest people in this unit. And if you want to help Pampas, clean his handcuffs for him and knock some of the rust off I don't think they've been on anyone since Reagan was president.”

  “The rent-a-cop perspective is always a treat to have,” Pampas sneered.

  “Well, it really does feel like the old days,” Oscar said. “Give it a rest, guys. Ray and I have some business in my office.”

  I shook hands again with everyone but Pampas, who deliberately turned away from me and went to his work station. The departments pistol-shooting award was above his desk. After three years in a row of coming in second—to me—he finally pulled it off I didn't mention it. Didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

  We made it to Oscar's office, and he closed the door. I never used to like it before when we'd have our closed-door sessions. It generally meant I had enraged someone or pushed the envelope too far.

  His desk was ordered, much like the man himself. The in-box was empty, as he was efficient as well. Most of the reports these days were automated. When a detective finished with a case, he'd e-mail it to Oscar to be reviewed then forwarded to Records. I remembered the days of reams of paper on his desk, as the reports were booklike. Times had certainly changed.

  A picture of Oscar's wife, Mimi, and his two daughters hung on the wall behind him. He was a family guy, to be sure. If I had a dad (other than the Duke, of course), I'd want him to be like Oscar. He took breaks from homicide scenes to drive across town just to cheer at his daughter's basketball games for a few minutes. Then he'd head back to work. He once told me that he could mess up anything else in his life but not them. I respected that.

  “I'm glad you came around,” Oscar said. “It's long past due.”

  “Thanks for steering me to the Coral Bay gig. It's been good to get out of the apartment.”

  “Not a problem.” Oscar rested his elbows on his desk. “I knew you couldn't sit in there forever. It's not healthy. You're makin' good steps, Ray. Mimi really does want to have you over for dinner.”

  “You married well, Oscar. We'll get together sometime.”

  “How's the therapy going? You making any progress?”

  I shrugged. “It's okay. I'm in a lot of pain and horribly out of shape. Just walking in here wore me out.” I released a deep, drawn-out sigh and feigned my most pathetic face.

  “We'll just sit here awhile until you catch your breath. No need to hurry anywhere.”

  “I appreciate it.” I slumped in the chair, but not too much, trying not to overplay my hand. “I was just hoping I could make it to Personnel and pick up some of my retirement statements before they closed. But I don't think I have the energy right now. I'll have to come back another day.”

  “I'll take care of it, Ray.” He hurried to his feet. “No problem at all. I'll go see if they'll release them to me. Just sit tight and rest.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Oscar. That's a big help.”

  He hustled out the door. After my Oscar-winning performance, I had maybe ten minutes.

  As soon as I couldn't hear him anymore, I maneuvered around his desk and took his seat. I wiggled the mouse, and his computer came to life from sleep mode. I found the Case Management icon and clicked on it. The hourglass spun for what seemed like forever. Oscar needed a computer upgrade so I could hack into what I needed a little more efficiently.

  I typed in the Hendricks murder-suicide case number. The hourglass spun again. I watched the doorway to the hallway. As Stockton's bellowing voice laughed at his own lame joke, my heart spun like the icon, waiting for the stupid machine to finish.

  The file finally uploaded, and I had access to the whole thing. I copied it and e-mailed it to my home address. I'd read it later. It would be more detailed than the report issued to Pam and should have all of Pampas's notes as well as a complete list of the items in the report.

  I pulled up Oscar's e-mail account and found the IT's address. The door to Homicide swung open and smacked the wall. Footsteps
echoed down the hallway… right toward Oscar's office.

  22

  I FUMBLED WITH MY CANE and stood, wobbling. A secretary with her arms loaded with notepads passed by and gazed at me next to Oscar's desk. As soon as she left, I sat back down. I typed a quick e-mail to the IT supervisor, Doug Farnham.

  Doug,

  Could you reinstate Ray Quinn's username and password to the department uplink as well as his e-mail account? He'll be doing follow-up work for some of his old cases coming up for trial in the next few months. Could you also send your response to this request on my personal e-mail at [email protected]? I'll be working from home a lot this week.

  Thanks,

  Sergeant Yancey

  No going back now. I deleted the e-mail from his Sent folder as well as the record of the file I sent myself. That would provide me at least some cover, but it was still a big risk. If Doug courtesy copied Oscars work e-mail as well as the one I had set up, I was toast. I'd think of an excuse later, maybe a medication switch that made me a little loopy.

  The hallway door opened again. I made my way back to my seat and parked my rear in the chair just as Oscar entered the room.

  “Here you go, Ray.” He handed me the folder. “They had the paperwork waiting right there.”

  His sympathetic smile elicited a flicker of guilt that faded quickly. I could have approached Oscar with everything going on and asked him to help. But knowing the bad blood between Pampas and me and that the case had been closed, it would be next to impossible to get the access I needed. And I still had no idea about the cop connection to this case. If I divulged any of that to Oscar, he'd be obligated to tell Internal Affairs and everyone in the chain of command. He might as well broadcast it in the department newsletter. I'd make it up to him, though, maybe with dinner or something.

  “Well, I need to get going. I really appreciate your help, and it was good seeing you again.”