The Night Watchman Read online

  “This isn't right,” she said, more asking than telling. “David… There's got to be some other explanation.”

  “It's pretty clear. He had stuff going on in his life—weird stuff.”

  “But even if that were true, it doesn't mean he killed anyone. He could have been struggling with this and still not murdered that girl.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But it doesn't help his case either. He's at least hanging out with strippers and looking up porn on his computer. And, Pam, haven't you asked yourself why your brother was carrying on a relationship with Jamie and neither you nor Mario, the closest people in his life, knew anything about it? Doesn't that strike you as odd, especially for a pastor?”

  She poured herself down onto the couch, her shoulders rolling forward, the incriminating writ still clutched in her hand. “Of course I've thought about that—every single day since this happened. I can't explain any of this. But the David I knew couldn't have done what we saw that night. That wasn't my brother.”

  “We don't know what other things he could have been into, so I can't take him off the table at this point.”

  “So now you think this trash proves he's a murderer?” She waved the paper in the air.

  “I don't know what to think. My interview with Ashley opened up a whole new direction to pursue. I need to find out more about the Lion's Den and what was really going on with Jamie. But I can't and won't ignore the facts. If David did do this, I won't lie to you.”

  Pam stared at my blank television screen awhile. “Are all men driven by their lusts and desires? Is that the only thing that motivates you? Just grab as much pleasure as you can and then move on?”

  Not the line of questioning I expected from her. How in the world did I answer that?

  “My husband left me,” she blurted out. “Out of the blue, he just walked out of my life.”

  I gave a sympathetic nod, not tipping my hand that I already knew this. The indentation on her ring finger was a good indicator of a failed marriage, but so was the divorce decree on the Orange County Clerk of Courts Web site. I dug up her marriage certificate, the divorce decree, and the final sale of their home.

  Some days I feel like a snoop, nosing around in everyone else's business, but after Pam showed up and made her bizarre request to clear her brother's name, I needed to know who and what I was dealing with. I don't like surprises. I may have stopped being a cop in title a year ago, but I don't know if I can ever pry the cop from my psyche—even with good therapy, strong medication, and a crowbar.

  “He left me eight months ago for another woman, a teacher I used to work with who I thought was my friend. I came home one day thinking everything was fine, and he was gone. He said they'd fallen in love and it was over between us. We'd been married barely two years. We were looking to start a family…”

  “I didn't think religious people believed in divorce.”

  “I could love God and forgive my husband, but even that wasn't enough to make him stay. He ruined our marriage just to satisfy his lust. Now this with David. I just don't understand what's happening, what God can be doing in all of this.”

  At least we agreed on that. But if we kept this gloomy conversation going, we'd both soon be drinking poisoned Kool-Aid and waiting for the mother ship to come take us away. Time for a new direction.

  “Look, there's still a lot for us to investigate. I'm going to talk with Jamie's ex-boss and see what info I can glean. I want to go through more of David's finances as well and see what's up on the ministry's side.”

  “I need to go.” She stood, oblivious to me, then ambled to the door with the printout still in her hand. “I don't feel so well.”

  I took hold of the list. She wouldn't let it go.

  “Why don't you let me keep this?” If she walked out the door with that list, she'd be on the Internet looking up Web addresses. Her tenacity reminded me a lot of my former partner Trisha, which made the conversation all the more difficult. Trisha would have done that, to be sure.

  Pam finally turned my way and surrendered the list. I walked her out to her car. She was pleasant and said good-bye, but her vacant eyes told a different story: her heart was broken… again.

  After she drove away, I caned my way back through the gate, then stopped alongside the pool, its stench repulsive in the humid night air. As the algae breathed, little air pockets snapped and popped like crispy rice cereal with milk poured on it. The polluted creature was alive and growing.

  I wished that I could take back a hundred things in my life—mostly the day I was shot and the day I ever thought about helping Pam. The only thing I've been able to accomplish so far is to inflict more pain on her and myself. Maybe I should just shut up, stop asking questions, and send Pam on her pleasantly ignorant way.

  I probed the pool with the end of my cane and swirled it around like Jell-O. The green goo clung to the tip, so I scraped it along the concrete. I took a nickel from my pocket, then flipped it out about a yard; it smacked the surface and remained for a moment before the bubbling beast drew the coin into its murky depths. I probably had ten bucks on the bottom of that pool.

  I inched precariously to the edge. What would happen if I lost my balance and plunged into the slimy mix? Or even better, if I spread my arms and belly-flopped into the noxious creature only to be sucked into the abyss? I could just slip away, probably unnoticed for months.

  Most important, I could experience the preciousness of rest again—the kind of sleep I could only fantasize about now but yearned for daily.

  I eyed the green goo again. Maybe a final sleep awaited me there, a rest beyond all imagination. Or maybe something else. Heaven? Hell? Nothing? I knew what Pam would say.

  “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread,” someone once said. Don't know if I believe in angels, but I've seen enough fools to know this statement is at least true on its face. If there is a God—and that's a very big if in my book—I believe He does punish people for their sins.

  And for mine, He let me live.

  12

  THE BLINDING PURPLE NEON of Club Venus pulsed in the night like some beacon to the lonely and depraved. It had to be clearly visible from the space station.

  The gaudy sign hung out practically across International Drive. And to add to the odd décor, the place had valet parking. I decided to park myself in the back. This wasn't going to be an all-nighter.

  I had headed out to Club Venus to scope out the place and get some face time with Chance Thompson, get a feel for him. The revelations about David weren't sitting well with me, and I couldn't dismiss what I'd uncovered so far. I couldn't think of any reason why Ashley would lie to me about Chance, the Lion's Den, and Jamie, but you never know with people. I had to check it out. Besides, after my conversation with Pam, I needed to get out of the cave for a while.

  Ashley's advice to watch myself with Chance seemed wise. I checked my accoutrements before I got going, especially my Glock and the backup Kel-Tec .380 in my pocket. I used to carry my backup on my ankle, but if I needed it in a hurry now, I'd have rigor mortis before I could ever bend down and get it out of that holster. The pocket gun worked fine for what I needed.

  I adjusted the recorder in my other pocket, then grabbed a smaller envelope I could carry in with me.

  I paid the cover: ten bucks. Prices had gone up since I used to club hop. I walked past two bouncers dressed in black long-sleeve dress shirts with red bowties—in a vain attempt to add some respectability to the bar. One guy was a solid six-six with a moon head that could eclipse the sun. The second guy was a little shorter, but what he didn't have in height, he made up for in girth. His shirt sleeves stretched tight over swollen arms. He could give my dear Helga a difficult rumble. My money would still be on Helga, though, for sheer meanness, if nothing else. Club Venus took its security seriously.

  Strip bars were never my thing, a waste of time and money, and I couldn't in my wildest dreams imagine John Wayne standing at the edge of a stage, jumping up and dow
n like an idiot with a wad of cash in his hands. He had more class than that, and whatever else was going on in my life, I'd like to think that I did too.

  As I entered the main bar area, a large disco ball splashed light around the room like a cluster bomb, and the music thumped with enough force to make my ears hemorrhage. The inside was much larger than I thought, with dozens of circular tables covering the open floor area and a stage that was more a runway platform in the middle of the room. A long bar was set off along the far wall. More than a dozen dancers worked the floor, moving from one group to another. The men ranged from Crevis's age to old enough to know better.

  For a Thursday night, the crowd was thick and energetic. Ashley was at a table in the corner, dancing for a guy old enough to be her father. She glanced my way but quickly returned her attention to her “client.” I scanned the rest of the club for the manager. I didn't want anyone to even suspect that Ashley and I knew each other.

  “Can I get you something to drink,” a lady said as she tugged on my shirt. A bit older than the dancer onstage, the woman was quite tan, or at least looked that way in the chaotic lighting of the club. She carried a tray with a couple of beers already on it.

  “No.” I noticed she had something reflecting off her face—glitter. I checked the room, and glitter was everywhere: on the floor, on the stage, on the walls, and on the dancers. The entire room sparkled like a giant, lascivious snow globe. I pulled out my wallet, then waved my badge and ID at her. “I need to speak with Chance.”

  She checked out the ID, then gave my leg a casual glance. “He's in back. Can I tell him what this is about?”

  “Jamie DeAngelo.”

  “I'll let him know you're here.” She stepped through the maze of mesmerized men, then hurried behind the bar. She spoke with the bartender, and they both gawked at me for a moment before she disappeared through a doorway at the far end of the room.

  The bartender eyed me as he filled another customer's drink. I kept my distance from the bar and the doorway she went into and remained in the middle of the crowded club on purpose. I wanted Chance to come to me. Less than thirty seconds later, I wasn't disappointed.

  A black goliath and an older white male emerged from the doorway's shadow, and they both locked in on me. The older white guy must be Chance; he carried himself like he was in charge. His hulking physique drew his shirt taut, and he looked like someone had cut and pasted an old guy's head on a herculean body. The twin titans pushed through the crowd toward me as the pulse of the music quickened. I smiled but didn't budge.

  Chance stopped just in front of me. He and I were about eye to eye; I was eye to sternum with his partner.

  “Who's asking questions about Jamie?” Chance said.

  “Detective Ray Quinn.”

  “Former detective Ray Quinn,” he said, smiling. “I know who you are.”

  “Great, now that we're all chummy, what do you know about Jamie DeAngelo?” I yelled it loud enough that most everyone standing around us heard, even over the music.

  Chance scowled. “Let's talk in my office, Mr. Quinn.”

  Chance and his massive minion led the way to the edge of the bar and then into an office. He held the door for me, then closed it behind us. Chance lumbered over to his chair. Pictures of him in bodybuilding competitions lined the office—one showed him in a power pose as Mr. Florida 1981. I'd have to check that out.

  Chance's chair groaned as he leaned back. His mane was peroxide blond and meticulously primped with a mullet two decades out of style. He probably had enough steroids in him that he could whinny at any moment and pull a salt lick from his desk drawer.

  “Glad to see you're back on your feet, so to speak, Quinn,” Chance said, not very enthusiastically. “I heard they never caught the person who shot you and your partner. What was her name?”

  “Detective Trisha Willis.” I knew full well he was trying to rattle my chain, like I was his. Chance had a little more on the ball than I first thought.

  “Very tragic when someone guns down two public servants in cold blood like that.” He rested his chin on his hand. “And now this with Jamie. What's the world coming to?”

  “Insanity, I guess.”

  “After you were shot, we sent a donation to the police fund, to help out with your recovery and all. I see our money was well spent. We've always had a great relationship with the city and appreciate the work of the police department to keep everyone safe.”

  “My Tupperware hip thanks you.” Did he really believe I was buying his line of garbage? I wasn't about to let him direct me off course. “So, how long did Jamie DeAngelo work here?”

  “What business is that of yours, Quinn? You've been off the force for several months now.”

  Chance's aide was so close to my left side that if he flexed his chest, he'd smack me in the ear with one of his pecs. He was breathing deep and hard in a childish attempt to intimidate me. He needed a reason to back off a bit. I lifted my cane and stabbed the brass end onto his toe and ground my weight on it.

  “Ouch!” He slipped his foot out and hopped back two steps as he growled. He leaned forward like he was ready to rip my head off.

  I flashed him a glare that dared him to try. My body was broken and he'd tear me to pieces, but I was still not inclined to take a large amount of crap from anyone, especially him. Besides, my right hand was tickling the .380 in my pocket, should he be so dumb.

  “Carl.” Chance pacified him with a look. “Let me handle this.”

  The big man gave me my space but wasn't happy about it.

  “Why are you here about Jamie?” Chance said. “I thought that was a police matter and it was closed. The guy who murdered her is dead, and we can all move on now from this terrible tragedy.”

  “I'm looking into the case for a friend. Just to make sure everything is how it should be, if you know what I mean.”

  “Must be a good friend.”

  “The best,” I said, not giving him an inch. “So, how long did she work here?”

  He tapped a meaty digit on his desk while giving me the onceover. “Fine, I'll play. She worked here a little over a year. She was a good employee. Never had any problems with her. We were all very saddened by what happened. Several of the girls even put up her picture in the dressing room. Made a shrine of sorts.”

  “Do you know if she had any drug problems or major debt?”

  “I terminate any of the girls who are caught doing drugs, no questions asked,” he said. “I make too much legitimate money here to put this club in jeopardy for someone else's bad habits. All the girls know this, so there are no surprises if they violate that rule. I can't control them when they're not here. So, no, I never knew of any drug problems with Jamie. Never heard anything bad about her from the other girls either.”

  I pulled David's picture from the file. “You ever see this guy at the club?” I shook the paper for Carl to come and fetch it.

  He paused before finally walking back over and snatching it from my hand. He didn't seem to appreciate my putting him to work. He gave it to his boss anyway.

  “No. I did see his picture in the Sentinel when all this happened, but he's not been in here,” Chance said.

  “You sure?”

  “I know my club, Quinn. I'm very sure.”

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt Jamie?”

  “Nobody would want to hurt her,” he said. “She was a nice kid.”

  “At least one person did.”

  “And that person is burning in hell right now for what he's done.” Chance dropped his heavy arms on his desk. “You're asking questions that have already been answered. You're a smart guy. All this seems like a waste of your time.”

  “Maybe it is, maybe it isn't.” I was pleased to hear that Chance the Flesh Peddler drew his moral line somewhere, with all his talk of hell and such. Somehow I doubted that he and Pam attended the same church though.

  “We've come across some new information that makes me question the
earlier findings.” I like casting out bait at times to see what gets hooked and reeled in.

  “Like what?”

  “Just things,” I said. “Ever heard of a guy named Tay? He used to date Jamie.”

  Chance shook his head. “Doesn't ring any bells. Are you doing this PI thing full-time now?”

  “I've got a couple things going.” I wondered when he would tire of my double-talk, but when I conduct an interview, I want to be the one gaining the information, not giving it.

  “I might be opening a new club in a few months. I could use a good manager to run the place. You interested in the job? You'd make more in one year working for me than in five with just your police pension. It could certainly be a lot more lucrative than a PI job. You have no idea what a new club like that in the right location could pull down between the entertainment and liquor sales. It would be a good gig for a guy like you. The pretty ladies and the perks alone would be reason enough to take the job.”

  “Why me?” I glanced at Carl, whose jaw dropped as he gawked at Chance. “Looks like you've got plenty of staff here that could fill that spot.”

  “I like cops,” Chance said. “They know how to weed through the garbage and get a job done. I bet a guy like you could run a tight ship over there. And that's what I need. Besides, you take me up on my offer, and you won't have to be poking around in other peoples business all the time.”

  “Wow, I didn't expect a job offer tonight, but I'm afraid I'll have to turn you down. I kinda enjoy poking around in other people's business. And I haven't had all my shots this year, and who knows what a guy could catch in a place like this.” I wiped my palm on my pants.

  He grimaced, and I figured our conversation had just ended. “Have it your way, Quinn.”

  “I always do. I'll let you know if I come up with anything on Jamie.”