The Night Watchman Page 3

  Crevis peppered me with rapid-fire questions the entire ride down to the lobby. I'd never realized how long a four-floor elevator ride could be, nor been so thankful in my life to hear the ding of the destination floor. Crevis's gums hadn't even slowed.

  “What's it like being a cop?” He moved in front of me, arms out like he was fixing to tackle me.

  “Back off, Crevis. I'm not in the mood.”

  “C'mon, Ray. All I've ever wanted to do my whole life is be a cop. Tell me about it.”

  “You really wanna know what it's all about?” I stepped nose to nose with him. “You want all the dirty secrets?”

  Crevis nodded, unable to speak, near euphoric.

  “There's no other job like it.” I jabbed a finger into his bony chest. “You'll give everything you have to help people who don't want to be helped. You'll try to save a world that doesn't want to be saved. And by the time your career is over, your head will be so messed up that you'll have to take medication to sleep because all the crud rolls through your mind, like a morbid movie playing over and over again. And if you live long enough to make retirement, you'll be a cynical shell of a man, begging to die just for relief. Heard enough yet?”

  He wanted it, so I gave it to him—both barrels. He needed to understand what the job does to perfectly normal human beings. Well, I didn't know if Crevis was normal or if I ever was. I just knew what I was now.

  Crevis stepped back and gazed at me in a pensive manner. Then he smirked. “Did you ever shoot anyone?”

  “I'm thinking about shooting you.”

  “Do you have a gun on you right now?” He scanned me up and down as he side shuffled behind me. “Where is it? Can I hold it?”

  “I'm going home. I'm done for the night.”

  “C'mon, Ray. Let's go get a burger or something. I want to hear some stories.”

  I'd give him some stories—scary and depressing ones that would keep him up late at night.

  4

  KEEPING AN EYE OUT for my two friends from earlier, I used the time it took to get back to my car to vent some steam. I needed to head home and get some meds or hang out with my friend Jim, who I was pretty sure would be paying me a visit this morning. He'd been a regular at my place since the shooting.

  The sun just threatened to crest the horizon as I made it to my apartment complex, Hacienda del Sol, which bore no resemblance to the Coral Bay Condos. Just off John Young Parkway, Hacienda del Sol, a two-story horseshoe-shaped building much older than I am, is my little slice of heaven these days. About half of the apartments were occupied; many were being remodeled or were in various stages of decay. A pool sits smack-dab in the center of the complex with all the apartments facing it. Well, it should be called more of a pond than a pool since the pump didn't work. The water was a gummy shade of green—I swear you could walk on the patches of algae that floated on it—and the stench could make a landfill seem like a garden.

  My one-bedroom apartment was on the bottom floor, so I didn't have to climb the stairs. I used to have a pretty decent place off Semoran Boulevard with a pool that was actually usable and a small gym. That was a lifetime ago.

  I parked in the back lot just behind my apartment and hoofed it toward my door. The uneven, rusty gate to the middle of the complex groaned as I forced it open. The leg was done. I was done. When I push it too hard, I shake and wobble as I walk. My hip was gyrating so wildly I looked like a drunken Elvis impersonator.

  I unlocked my front door and sighed as I crossed the threshold. It wasn't much, but it was home. I checked my phone for messages. None. I untucked my shirt and loosened up. I slipped the holster from my waistband and laid the Glock on the kitchen table.

  I had a TV/DVD player across from the couch in the tiny living room and a small desk next to the wall with my laptop on it. A painting of John Wayne—the greatest action hero who ever lived—held a prominent place on the wall above my television. He's mounted on his steed and keeps a steady eye on the place. I own a copy of every movie John Wayne ever appeared in, all 170 of them, even the ones from the twenties when he was a bit actor.

  I took a college class on film critiques and appreciation, just so I could understand a little more about the Duke's brilliance. I scanned my collection for any possible selections. Nothing looked promising today, and I wasn't up for surfing the Internet.

  A heavy bag hung from the ceiling between the kitchen and the hallway to my bedroom, not that I've hit it with any force since getting out of the hospital. I gave it a courtesy bump with my shoulder. Although I'd never be able to kick it again, I considered attempting some punches. My right arm had finally healed from the round that broke it just above my elbow. It might be strong enough now to take the workout, but I just didn't have the will to try. Maybe someday I'd give it a shot, but not today.

  My good friend Jim was about to show up.

  I retrieved a can of Coke from the fridge, then reached underneath the sink and removed the pint of Jim Beam. I hadn't taken a pain med since earlier last night. I'm not up for mixing meds and booze, lest I become the newest client for my old unit to investigate. Pampas would probably post a picture of my dead body on the Internet or something. Didn't want to give him that pleasure.

  I filled the glass with three fingers of whiskey then dropped in a teaspoon of Coke to add a little color. Didn't want to put in too much soda or I'd lose my girlish figure. The first swig was always the hardest. My eyes watered a bit as Jim's fierce punch made its way down my gullet. This one had a bite to it. But it would help with the pain, and maybe the leg too.

  The night's events rolled through my mind like a runaway freight train without brakes. Why did it have to be my old unit? Couldn't they have found the scene on day shift when I wouldn't have to deal with it?

  I tipped another swig down as my body started to loosen up. I hurried to chase the first drink with another, going even lighter on the Coke. If I wanted to get any sleep at all this morning, I'd have to dance a lot with Jim.

  It wasn't the crime scene that unnerved me, although it's never fun to see mangled people. Nor was it the victim's poor sister getting traumatized. It was the looks on everyone's faces and what wasn't said.

  No one mentioned the shooting—or Trisha.

  That kinda surprised me. Like she just up and vanished for no reason. Or worse, never existed at all. She hadn't vanished to me. Quite the contrary.

  Trisha is forever etched on my brain… and my heart.

  Pampas's eyes had mocked me, like everyone else's, but they showed the good sense not to speak it. Since the shooting I'd stayed away from the station to avoid this very thing. The chief gave me the same look that first day at the hospital after my surgery; and the union guys who helped with my medical retirement; and Oscar, despite his words; and every other cop I'd seen since that day They all had the same convicting stare, filled with unspoken accusations aimed right at my heart.

  I was the idiot who messed up and got himself crippled… and his partner killed.

  I slugged another jolt of Jim down, but even he couldn't numb everything.

  5

  One Month Later

  IN ANY CONFRONTATION, the first punch always hurts the worst.

  I developed this little truism during my kickboxing years when I'd leave the relative comfort of my corner and take that first juicy shot in the chops. After that, my body would be mostly numb for the rest of the fight and could take the abuse the sport required.

  This crossed my mind as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment because I was formulating a similar theory regarding my visits with precious Helga. When she first digs her tender meat hooks into my hip, the rest of the world goes fuzzy and I yearn to lose consciousness for a while. But then I loosen up and adjust to her brutality and somehow survive her sadistic sessions.

  This morning she had run me through a series of stretching exercises that any civilized nation would deem cruel and unusual. Then she had me do some pool work, which wasn't quite as bad and prov
ided some distance between my minder and me. But I often wonder, as I'm frog swimming laps and dear Helga keeps a watchful eye from the side of the pool, if I slip under the water, would she rescue me? I don't think she likes me very much. I can't imagine why.

  I eased out of my pickup, my legs in full rebellion as I planted them on terra firma. I took my time getting to the gate. Between Helga pushing me too hard and just a couple hours of tortured, fitful sleep, my mind and body were spent. Jim and I would have to wrestle later, to be sure. I didn't have to work tonight and might do a John Wayne marathon. Just John, Jim, and me. Not a bad group of guys. No one in Hollywood now was like the Duke. Clint Eastwood came close, maybe like a stepfather, but John Wayne was the man.

  As I approached my apartment, a woman was perched on the bar stool next to my front door. I can lean against it for support and still stretch my leg out when the pain is at its worst. Sometimes I like to sit out there and work a puzzle, when I'm in the mood to get a nostril full of Eau de Toxic Pool.

  She stood and clasped her hands over a large manila folder. I recognized her from the murders at the condos a month or so before. She feigned a smile as I got closer, but the grief was still evident. Maybe it was my years as a cop, but after a while you can just read the emotions on people's faces, even when they're trying to fake it.

  “Mr. Quinn.” She extended her hand. “I don't know if you remember me. I'm Pam Winters. My brother was killed at Coral Bay Condos last month.”

  “I remember.” I didn't tell her that I read the newspaper accounts. Her brother wasn't “killed,” he'd murdered his exotic-dancer lover and then turned the gun on himself. Over several days, the Orlando Sentinel had plastered the story about David Hendricks, his ministry, and his fall—the salacious details that sell lots of papers—on the front page. I shook her hand, then placed both of mine on the cane. What in the world was she doing at my place?

  “Can we talk for a minute?” She glanced at my front door.

  I should have been ecstatic to have a pretty young woman show up at my door and invite herself in, but this didn't have a warm, cuddly feel to it. And I have a tendency to suspect the worst in people. I'd feel like something was wrong with me except for the fact that I'm right most of the time.

  I nodded and unlocked my door. I keep a pretty clean place, all things considered. I've always been that way, not much for clutter or dirt, a minimalist at heart. A room should have a sense of order. But it's still not the slickest abode around; the management hadn't given me much to work with. I hadn't had any visitors since I moved here, and after just having Helga belt me around a little, I wasn't in the greatest mood.

  I grabbed last month's copy of Black Belt magazine off the coffee table and stashed it on the television, like that would soften the man-appeal of my living room. She studied my portrait of the Duke, as if it were a precious work of art in the Louvre (it was to me), and my DVD shrine below it.

  “You have a nice place here.” She moved around the room in the roach motel. She lied well. I made a mental note of that.

  “I'm sorry about your brother.” I figured that was why she was here. No use dancing around it, or we might be here all afternoon making pleasantries.

  “You were very nice to me that night.” She flashed a genuine smile. “I wanted to thank you for that.”

  I shrugged. If I were ever on trial for being a nice guy, I didn't think there'd be enough evidence to convict me. But under the circumstances, it seemed right. So her brother was a dirt-bag murderer. She couldn't be held responsible for his life of lies, and he wasn't the first preacher to be caught in some tawdry tryst. Like the Shadow used to say, “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”

  “So you came by to thank me?” I sensed there was more and wanted to get to it. I wasn't psychic or anything. I just happened to read the label on the file she was carrying: Hendricks Murder-Suicide. I opened the door under the sink and reached in, locating Jim by Braille. “Would you like a drink?”

  She shook her head. Maybe she was a teetotaler and religious zealot like her brother.

  I retrieved a can of soda from the fridge and poured more in my glass than I normally would. Didn't want to give a poor impression of myself. Jim was an unrecognizable dark black, and it was a bit unnerving to see him emasculated like that. I would make it up to him as soon as she left, and return him to his light brown color and more potent sting.

  “I need your help,” she said, as if it hurt her to speak the words.

  My eyebrows rose along with my glass.

  “My brother didn't kill anyone.” She held out the file like a piece of rotting meat. “And he certainly didn't do what this report says he did.”

  “It's a closed case,” I said and then coughed, nearly spewing Jim and Coke out my nostrils like a soda fountain. I wiped my lip with a paper towel from the counter. “According to the paper, Pampas closed it out as a murder-suicide. Seems pretty clear cut. Besides, what's that have to do with me?”

  “There's nothing clear cut about it.” She stepped forward, her eyes gleaming, her voice strong, confident. She aimed a finger at me. “My brother was murdered. They were both murdered, him and that girl. Someone set him up, and I'm going to find out who.”

  I hissed; my filter was working overtime with her. I'd lost count of how many suicides I'd investigated where the family refused to believe their loved ones could have done such a thing. Add murder, religion, and exotic lovers to that equation, and her reaction wasn't surprising. I couldn't blame her, but she was diving headfirst into denial big-time. “Back to my question: what does any of that have to do with me?”

  “I want you to look at the case. Sergeant Yancey told me you were a great homicide detective.”

  “Whoa, lady. If you think I'm going to have anything to do with this, you must be drunker than I'm going to be.” I tossed one back for dramatic effect. The next one would be straight alcohol. I hate when I'm wrong about people, and I regretted letting this lady into my apartment.

  “Nobody else will talk with me about this. I've contacted the governor's office, the FBI, the Florida Department of Law Enforcement. They all say it's a closed case, and they won't do anything.”

  “Look… Pam, is it?” I rested my glass on the counter. “I'm sure you don't want to hear this, but maybe no one will reopen it for a reason—like it's an obvious, no-questions-asked murder-suicide. End of story.”

  “That's impossible.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Because David didn't do it.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because he could never… do something like that. He loved the Lord and served Him with all his heart. It was his passion.”

  “And… what else?” I rolled my hand like a director stretching out a scene. “This is the part where you fill in that you found some evidence or something to clear his name. Something to back up your suspicions.”

  Her eyes pierced mine. “I know my brother, Mr. Quinn, and he didn't do it.”

  “You know your brother? With such compelling evidence as that, I'm surprised the governor didn't fly down here and settle this thing himself.”

  “Make fun of me if you want, but it's true.”

  “There are a hundred private investigators in this city,” I said. “I suggest you find one.”

  “I've tried, but they all wanted lots of money for a case like this. Besides, none of them were right to take this on.”

  “So not only do you want me, a rent-a-cop night watchman, to take your case, but you want me to do it for free?”

  “I can pay you at some point. I'm a teacher and am off for the summer. I'll get another job or something. I have a little money saved and credit cards I can use. I'll do whatever it takes to get to the truth.”

  “Wow. You drive a pretty hard bargain, lady.” I emptied my glass. I'd need a good buzz to keep this conversation going. The filter was slipping with each word. “I don't think you seem to grasp a very simple truth: I'm not a detec
tive anymore.”

  I stepped from behind my kitchen counter. I lifted my cane and held both arms out, teetering in front of her, my broken body on full display. “I can barely take myself to the toilet, and you want me to chase down leads in a non case? Look at me! Those days are long behind me, and the last thing I need is some grieving schoolmarm to come in here and stir my world back up.”

  She tapped her hand on the folder and glared at me. “Sergeant Yancey said you once believed in the truth. You were driven by right and wrong, and you'd stop at nothing to solve a case.”

  “Nothing… but three nine-millimeter rounds.” Two for me, one for Trisha, but Pam didn't need to know the details. “That's all it took to stop me for good. So unless you're gonna have a few drinks with me and maybe take in a flick, I suggest you show yourself out.”

  “I know you're the right one to bring out the truth and restore my brother's honor and ministry. I've been praying about this every day.”

  Okay, we just went into loony land. “Time for you to go.”

  “Just look at the case file,” she said as she backed toward the door. “See if you can find anything wrong. I'll do the rest myself if I have to.”

  I hobbled toward her, sensing she needed some assistance opening the door and scooting her fanny out of here. “I don't need to read a file about a preacher who was living a lie and murdered his mistress.”

  My first-punch theory proved correct again as the schoolmarm's right hand careened off my cheek with a smack so hard it made my teeth chatter and my leg feel good for a moment.

  “Don't you ever say that again,” she said, jaw clenched and tears moistening her now scarlet cheeks. “The only lie is in this report.” She tossed it on my coffee table. “Read it and see for yourself.”

  “You have a real strange way of asking people for help.” I rubbed my face. “Now get out of my apartment before I have you arrested.”

  She stormed out of the room, then slammed the door, but I opened it right back up. She power walked along the pool deck toward the gate. “Take this thing with you”—I pointed back to the report with my cane—“or I'm gonna toss it in the trash where it belongs.”