The Night Watchman Read online

  “Whatever you need, Ray. When you have more time, let's do lunch. I've still got more things we need to kick around.”

  “Yeah, we'll do that.”

  Oscar escorted me to the back door. Steve, Greg, and Pampas huddled in the hallway as we walked out.

  Everyone said their good-byes, but just before I turned and walked away, I asked Pampas, “Rick, whatever happened with that case at the Coral Bay?”

  “I would've thought with all the free time you have now you would read the papers more. Murder-suicide.”

  “So they were having an affair, the pastor and his girlfriend?”

  “She was a dancer at a strip club and had a history of prostitution,” Rick said. “What do you care?”

  “Just curious, I suppose. I find it interesting that I'd never seen her at the condo before, and neither had anyone else in Security. If she was his girlfriend and he was so crazy over her that he'd kill her, it's just a little odd that he didn't have her over to his place often enough to be noticed.”

  Pampas's eyes narrowed at me, knowing full well I had some knowledge of the case and was probing for more. “They could have met anywhere. He was a pastor. Not real likely he'd take her home to mother, if you know what I mean.”

  “So you say.”

  Pampas eyed me hard as Oscar walked me out the door. I'd hit a nerve, but I didn't feel bad about it.

  “Why are you always messing with Rick?” Oscar said as we made it to my truck. “You need to let bygones be bygones. It's not good to let these things fester. It'll only tear you apart.”

  “Has he solved Trisha's murder yet?” I didn't care about the attempted murder on me, but Trish deserved better.

  Oscar hissed, removed his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know the leads have run out and the case has gone cold. That's not Rick's fault. Whatever you might think of Pampas, he busted his tail like everybody else when that went down. We probably put a hundred people in jail for any charge we could find, including that scumbag Dante Hill. Rick and I worked him over good, but he wouldn't confess to nothing. Nobody's talking about this. You can't make evidence appear from the air. You need to let that go.”

  “I'll let it go when Pampas finds her killer.” I eased into the truck but kept the door open. I didn't need to hear his excuses for Pampas.

  He did arrest Dante Hill, the guy whose house Trisha and I were shot at, but Dante was only arrested for possessing two firearms as a convicted felon and a load of cocaine. He denied any involvement in the shooting, and no evidence linked him to it, other than that it happened in his front yard.

  “If all the other leads have dried up, maybe Rick could start by finding that witness,” I said. I really didn't want to get into the shooting with Oscar or anyone else, but when I'd decided to come to the station, I knew it would inevitably come up.

  Oscar rested his hand on the roof and leaned in. “We all scoured that neighborhood. Some people heard the shots, but no one saw what you said you saw.”

  “Didn't you read my statement? Someone knelt between us and stayed there until the first officers arrived. That person had to have been there the whole time. As soon as I hit the ground, he was right there. He put a hand on my shoulder. I know what I saw, what I felt.”

  “I've been over your statement a hundred times,” Oscar said. “And we've done everything we can to find that person, but you know how that neighborhood is. People don't often come forward to help us out. And—Never mind.”

  “What?” I said, not liking his tone.

  “You'd lost a lot of blood. You should have died too.”

  “What are you saying, Oscar? That I don't know what I saw? I can't be relied on as a witness because of that?”

  “Are you still seeing the psychologist?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Look, Ray, posttraumatic stress disorder is nothing to play with. It kills more cops than any bad guys out there. The department pays for the visits, so use them.”

  “What does that have to do with Pampas not following up on the witness?”

  “You went through hell that day. Trisha was murdered right in front of you, and you were nearly killed yourself. I'm just saying that maybe as you were going unconscious, you thought you saw someone who wasn't really there. With everything else going on, that's not impossible.”

  “I know what happened that day. I know it so well I can't get it out of my head. Someone else was there. There's a witness who saw the whole thing and can solve this. Pampas just needs to get off his keister and find him.”

  “Okay I'll make sure Rick and our guys go door to door and canvass the neighborhood again. I promise.”

  I didn't like it when Oscar patronized me, but I suppose after I just used him to get into the system, I couldn't be too put out. “That's all I ask.”

  “So is that why you took Pampas to task on the condo murder?”

  “It happened in my building. I'm just curious about it. Pampas might have overlooked things there too. You never know.”

  Oscar cocked his head toward me and slapped the top of my truck twice. “Nice seeing you, Ray. Let's get together next week and I'll let you know about the progress with the witness.”

  “Sounds good,” I said as I backed out of my spot. Oscar stayed put and didn't take his eyes off me as I pulled away.

  It really didn't sound good. A witness to Trisha's murder was out there. Now Pampas had fumbled the Hendricks case as well. I'd avoided the station for a reason. I knew I couldn't show up without someone dragging me back to that day.

  Sometimes I do hate it when I'm right.

  23

  MY CHARADE WITH OSCAR proved fruitful as I checked my e-mail when I got back to my apartment. I received the confirmation from Doug Farnham on the Yahoo! account I set up for that purpose, and it hadn't been cc'd to Oscar's work e-mail. So far, so good.

  I tried my remote password entry on the system, and it worked perfectly. I had full access to all the police databases and information galore. I ran a check for the name and alias of Tay which would search through all the reports and records for a match. I spelled it several different ways and came up with about a hundred possibilities. I saved them on my external hard drive and would get to them later.

  I searched the Internet for several items I would need soon. As I made several pricey purchases, I came to the painful conclusion that at some point, financial debt was a little like treading water in the middle of the ocean—it doesn't matter if you're in a hundred feet of water or a thousand, you're still going to drown. So I clicked the Finish icon for my last round of online buys and sent them through, as the tide of my latest excesses surged well above my head.

  I still had some of my cop gear with me from when I retired, or was retired. My digital recorders, a camera, binoculars, and bunches of little things. But the investigation would need more in-depth equipment if we were going to be successful. My new toys—a digital scanner for cell phones, several minicameras, audio surveillance equipment, a cell phone cloning unit, and some software to enhance my laptop—would be shipped to me within three days with a money-back guarantee.

  My credit card should be just about ready to melt in my wallet.

  I had a little time before my shift, so I rifled through the file and removed the subpoena for Jamie's phone records. I really needed to review them, but with only the subpoena for the records available, I would have to get a little… creative. I called Jamie's service provider's subpoena compliance center, a division that helps with law enforcement issues twenty-four hours a day. After an infuriating series of computer-generated options, I finally found a human to speak with.

  “Subpoena compliance center, this is Derek. How can I help you?”

  “Yes, this is Detective Ray Quinn with the Orlando Police Department. I was hoping you could help me with a problem.”

  “I'll try.”

  “I'm putting the finishing touches on a homicide case, and I see that we subpoenaed some phone records
. I have the subpoena but not the records. Well, I'm looking to close this case out, and I really need the records as part of the packet. Is there any way you can resend them without a new subpoena? I can't afford to wait a couple more months to get this done.”

  “Hmm,” Derek said. “I'm not sure. Can you give me your case number and the subpoena number?”

  I gave them to him, even adding Jamie's name and date of birth for more credibility. I'd made calls like this a hundred times as a cop and never paid much attention. Now, I parsed every word and voice inflection from Derek to see if he suspected anything.

  “I'll have to run this by my supervisor to see.”

  “I understand. I can wait.”

  Derek put me on hold, and I was treated to a Barry Manilow medley for several minutes. As Barry crooned about writing the songs the whole world sings, my spirit wasn't much in the mood for song and merriment. I wouldn't characterize myself as a liar, though my skills seemed to be improving daily.

  As a police officer, I always used the term bluff, which was a euphemism for a lie. I made excuses for it, though it was for a legitimate investigation to do the greater good by catching bad guys. But as I held on the line, preparing my next round of stories for Derek, I wondered if at some point I would venture so far away from the truth that it would become unrecognizable. How many “bluffs” would I have to pull off to make this case? My flash of self-reflection was interrupted by Derek.

  “Detective Quinn, I show that this information was sent out a month ago.”

  “Yeah, I know. I had a junior detective taking care of that, and he lost the information. You know how it goes. It's government work—you can't fire anyone these days.”

  “Believe me, I understand,” he said. “My supervisor advised that I can release the information again, but only the subscriber information and phone tolls that were covered in the original subpoena.”

  “That would work great. You're a lifesaver.”

  “I can mail them out today.”

  “Derek, I hate to ask this, but is there any way I could get that in an electronic format, maybe by e-mail? I think that would be easier for both of us.”

  “Not a problem. I'll send it out shortly.”

  I gave him my newly reinstated OPD e-mail address. “Derek, you have a great day.”

  “You too.”

  Glad I could brighten Derek's day a little.

  I wanted Jim to join me at my laptop in the living room, but I had to pull a shift at the condo in a couple of hours. Raising my arm over my head, I stretched out my ribs. My body still bore the aches and bruises from the beating. I didn't know if I would tell Helga about the fight. She might get jealous that someone else got to knock me around instead of her. Speaking of my fragile flower, since I missed my session with her yesterday, I hoped she didn't take it personally, or I'd feel her wrath at my next visit.

  Settling back in my chair, I caught the ever-watchful eye of the Duke mounted on his steed. His stare confused me today. He didn't seem to know what to think of me now. We have that kind of relationship, going back to when I was very young.

  The Duke and I first bonded when I lived with the Pearlmans. I stayed with them for about five months, and Mr. Pearlman remained in his chair in front of the television for most of the time I was there, John Wayne movies rolling along the screen. I don't remember Mr. Pearlman ever uttering a polysyllabic word. He communicated with Mrs. Pearlman through a series of grunts and hand gestures she understood without question, most of which revolved around bringing him another beer. He did, though, tolerate me in the room with him while he immersed himself into every single John Wayne movie ever made.

  Before too long, I was captivated by the Duke. It didn't matter what character he played—from Davy Crockett to Sergeant Stryker to Rooster Cogburn—the Duke was always heroic and funny and he had a sense of right and wrong, black and white, that was unequaled. After my seventeen foster and group homes in fifteen years, the Duke was the one person in my life who remained consistent. He and I were traveling partners after that.

  The bell chimed on my laptop. I clicked into my department e-mail. Jamie DeAngelo's phone records had arrived.

  I had a lot to do before I headed into work. I needed to get through more of David and Jamie's e-mails, work through the list of Tays I downloaded, and review Jamie's cell phone calls. I hoped it would be a slow night at the condos.

  I got dressed and prepared to load up the laptop to take with me. I couldn't wait any longer, so I opened the e-mail from Derek and saved Jamie's file to my hard drive: two months of her cell phone records, calls to and from, times and dates. The subscriber information—the person whom the phone was registered to—was at the top of the page. I blinked. Was I seeing things? Jamie's cell phone number was listed to a J & M Corporation.

  I went to my room and checked the receipt I'd found in Chance's trash—J & M Corporation, one in the same. What was this J & M Corporation, and why was it paying for Jamie's phone?

  24

  “CAN WE STEAL more trash tonight?” Crevis ambushed me as I entered the lobby. “We could leave when we're sure Mr. Savastio is asleep.”

  “No trash tonight,” I said. “Our last search paid off already.”

  “What did you find?”

  I explained that J & M Corporation was paying for Jamie's cell phone and was somehow connected to Chance, however tenuously Finding out how J & M was related to Jamie and Chance would now be critical. I gave Crevis his most important task to date—stay out of my hair all night so I could do some Internet research. He reluctantly agreed.

  I logged on to the Orlando PD system and ran a nationwide records check on J & M Corporation. The report compiled quickly J & M was a subsidiary of the Relk Corporation, which was a subsidiary of Dorchester Distributing, which meant absolutely nothing to me. J & M was so layered with different corporations and affiliations, the confusion had to be on purpose. The address was listed as a PO box out of Nassau in the Bahamas. No officers of the corporation were listed, and since it was an offshore deal, it would make it nearly impossible to find any.

  After typing out some notes until our shift ended, I treated Crevis to breakfast at Denny's and thanked him for letting me get some work done. I told him I might need his help later in the day. He agreed, in between the steam shovels of food to his face. The kid could pack it away. He wolfed down a breakfast special with a three-egg omelet, bacon, and a side of hash browns, and he washed that down with a stack of pancakes and maple syrup. How he stayed so lean I'll never know.

  We parted ways. As I drove home, my cop tingles were out big-time, the little voice that warns of impending danger. I kept an eye on the traffic behind and around me and pulled into two parking lots on the way home to see if anyone was following me. Nothing… that I could see, anyway.

  I finally made it home. You're only considered paranoid if people aren't really out to get you. I'd already been jumped once, so I wasn't being paranoid, just prepared. If my adversary knew where I worked, there was a good chance he knew where I lived.

  Once at the apartment, I went straight for Jim, but I had a dilemma. I had too much to do in the afternoon to get very plowed under. If I didn't drink any alcohol, I wouldn't get anything resembling sleep. And I really needed some rest. I decided on a happy medium of a single glass of Jim. I stretched it out to three.

  I had a lot to do when I got up, so I was on my feet quickly, chugging down coffee. I was scheduled to meet with the most significant woman in my life—Helga—in the afternoon. That would have to wait—again. I'd call her later and come up with some excuse.

  After printing out a copy of the last two months of Jamie's cell phone calls, I grabbed my highlighter and another cup of coffee, then settled on the living room couch. I conducted a quick review of the times and noted that Jamie, like me, worked and lived in the midnight hours. Most of her calls didn't start until around 2:00 or 3:00 p.m., going well into the early morning, stopping around 5:00 a.m., for her to sleep,
I figured. It was amazing the information about a person you could garner through their phone records.

  I highlighted David's number in red—a few calls. Then I singled out Ashley's in yellow—fewer than David's but still a noticeable amount. I checked the phone book for the number to Club Venus and matched it against the records, marking it several times. My process of elimination rainbowed most of the page.

  Two unknown numbers showed regular contact with Jamie: one appeared about once a day. The other, two or three times a day in some fashion—even more contact than with David. More significant than that, that same number called Jamie's phone no less than six times the day she was murdered. Jamie's last two calls were to David, though.

  I chose to find out about the lesser of the two. I dialed the number with my cell phone. After a couple of rings, someone picked up. “Chance,” he said.

  “Yes, may I speak with Marion Morrison please?” I disguised my voice enough for my buddy not to recognize me.

  “Wrong number.” He hung up and was a little rude, I might add.

  I laughed as I scribbled Chance's name next to that number. My little call told me a number of things about my buddy Chance, mainly that he had more contact with Jamie than he initially led me to believe. And he knew nothing about John Wayne, or he would have picked up on the fact that Marion Morrison was the Duke's real name. Another good reason not to like or trust Chance.

  Most of the records were accounted for now. Only sporadic, random numbers were left with no discernable pattern—with the exception of her most frequent caller. I yearned to press my luck with another cold call to that number, but I wasn't sure if that was the right move. I considered the pros and cons for a moment, then a better idea presented itself. And if I was right, it could reap a harvest of pertinent information.

  Instead of calling the number, I dialed Pam's and told her I had a mission for her.

  25

  AS I WAITED FOR PAM to arrive, I logged on to the OPD system again. I ran the mystery phone number through the database, but nothing came up. I checked through several of the reports with different Tays, wondering if this thug had made another appearance in Jamie's life and was calling her a lot. Nothing jumped out at me. It was invigorating to have a couple different avenues going on the case; it felt like the old days.