The Night Watchman Page 8

“I don't expect to hear from you again,” Chance said. “I think everyone already knows what happened.”

  “We'll see.” I caned my way toward his office door; Carl blocked my exit. I wasn't about to walk around him, so I waited until he moved. After a few seconds, he stepped aside. Just as I exited the office, I stuck my head back in. “I'm sorry, I forgot something. Have either of you ever heard of something called the Lion's Den?”

  The timing of that missile was near perfect as Carl and Chance traded stunned stares; their pauses told me more than the coming lie. Chance finally sputtered, “Never heard of it.”

  “Just thought I'd check.” I couldn't hold back a smug grin. “Well, as much fun as this has been, I need to get going. Thanks for the chat, fellas. Catch you later.”

  I pushed through the crowd and out the door, pausing for a few seconds so Carl could catch up with me. I figured he'd tail me to the parking lot, to ensure my safety, of course. I was right. He trailed me about fifty feet back.

  On the way out I turned off my recorder. I got in my truck and waited there for a moment. Carl and another bouncer came around the corner and then stopped. They kept watch on me as I drove out of the parking lot.

  As I headed down I-Drive, several questions vied for equal time in my head. Why was Chance Thompson trying to buy me off this case with a job offer? And why the crazy looks when I mentioned the Lion's Den? Maybe Ashley knew her stuff. But how could I prove it, and what did it really mean to the case? Even if Jamie “entertained” at the Lion's Den, did that necessarily mean that David didn't shoot her? Both could still be true.

  My visit with Chance at Club Venus had done little to alleviate my suspicions. If anything, I was more convinced that I was missing something huge here and that everything wasn't quite as it appeared.

  13

  THEY SAY TIME FLIES when you're having fun. I can say with passion that its not true, because the past year had sailed by and I was by no means having fun.

  In my previous life, June 2 had no major significance, and I've never made a big deal about holidays or anniversaries. Those things never mattered much to me. But today as I woke up on June 2—one year later to the day that I was shot and left for dead while Trisha lay dying next to me—anniversaries suddenly had a new and quite melancholy meaning.

  I considered calling in sick for my shift and settling in with Jim for the rest of the night in a vain attempt to pickle my own brain, but that would end poorly. And I did have some questions to mull through at work—which was a good thing.

  I pulled a picture of Trisha from one of the boxes in my closet, one I hadn't opened since the shooting. Trisha and I were walking along Cocoa Beach. We got a tourist to take our picture. She was smiling and so was I. I could smell her hair and the coconut-oil lotion she was wearing that day. As soon as I laid eyes on her, I regretted getting the photo out. I returned it to its spot, buried deep underneath the refuse of my former life.

  I spent the majority of my drive to work alternating between my thoughts of Trisha and my meeting the night before with Chance.

  “Hey, Hank,” I said, as I was about fifteen minutes early to my shift, not that I was vying for employee of the month. I just needed to talk with Hank before he took off.

  Judging from the medical examiner's report and my personal observations that night, David and Jamie had been dead for about twelve hours before Pam and I discovered the bodies. Hank would have been on shift then.

  It's unlikely someone scaled the outer balconies for four floors in broad daylight to enter the apartment. The report's Crime Scene section indicated that the patio door was locked and there were no pry marks indicating forced entry. If David didn't kill Jamie, then whoever did had to have passed through the lobby at some point.

  “Ray,” Hank said. “You're a bit early.”

  “I guess I am. I was thinking the other day about the preacher guy who was killed up in 419. You were working that day, weren't you?”

  “I remember that day pretty well. We've never had a murder here before. I talked to the police officers the next day and gave them my statement.”

  “Do you remember anyone unusual coming in here that day?”

  Hank rested his weak chin in his gnarled hand and gave a fair impression of The Thinker, although a more wrinkled version. I considered it fitting since Hank was old enough to have been around when Rodin was forging the statue. Just as I was about to pass my hand over his face to see if he was still awake, Hank said, “There were lots of people in and out that day. Like any other. Nothing stands out.”

  “Are you sure? You need to think back. Anyone come through those doors who didn't belong here?”

  Hank's face contorted and strained to come up with any answer other than the obvious—he couldn't remember who came in an hour ago, much less a month ago. Pushing him wouldn't help anything.

  “It's okay Hank.” I rested my hand on his shoulder. “I was just curious.”

  Since Mr. Savastio had decided to save a few bucks by not recording the security cameras, whoever came in and out of the condo that day would remain an unknown.

  Crevis had been steering clear of me since I snapped at him a couple of days ago—my good fortune. I hadn't seen much of him since I'd been at work. When he came in earlier, he was acting weird, or weirder, depending on how you looked at it. He said hello and then disappeared. No quizzing me about police stuff or droning on about his physical prowess and finely honed warrior skills.

  Most of the shift was uneventful. I answered a couple of calls early and let two people in, but it slowed down and died about ten. I attached my external hard drive to the computer at the front desk and opened up David's copied hard drive. I'd been going through his Word documents, mostly ministry stuff. I made some notes, but nothing caught my eye. I really needed to review his e-mails.

  I opened his Outlook and clicked his in-box. Nothing noteworthy jumped out at me. A couple of advertisements from a news source. One message from Mario about the ministry's budget process.

  A folder on the side was labeled Personal. I opened it and found hundreds of e-mails stored there. Many from winters 79.I opened one, and it was from Pam. They seemed to correspond a lot.

  Then there was 2hot4u, which was out of place from all the other e-mails. I opened it and struck gold. An e-mail from Jamie to David about a month before the murder.

  David

  i had fun talking with u last night. i still can't believe u waste your time with me. Things are crazy right now and feel like my head is going to explode. The things u said make sense and i want to believe them, but everything isn't always as easy as u make it sound. i feel like i'm way too deep in this ocean to swim my way out now. i'm tangled in things u couldn't possibly understand. Several people are tugging at me, pulling in all different directions. Now u have come into my life and are shaking things up. i think Club Venus is all i'm able to do in life, just trying to survive the best i can. Maybe this is all god has for me.

  Jamie

  I checked the Sent folder for his reply.

  Jamie,

  I enjoyed talking with you as well. You sell yourself so short. You're intelligent, caring, and, yes, beautiful, but not just in the way men see you. You have inner beauty that shines because that's the way God made you. He created you special, and I have no doubt He allowed our paths tocross for a reason. You've been through a lot in your life, and I know things don't seem fair or right. But I truly believe God has created you for a greater purpose than what you're doing now. I'm not trying to condemn or judge you, but I want you to know that God has so much more for you. I hope you'll consider what we've talked about. I'm here if you need anything, and I'm praying for you.

  David

  Crevis's police gear rattled down the corridor toward me, giving me enough time to close out of the program before he made it to the lobby. I picked up my Sudoku book just as he rounded the corner. His shoulders slumped forward as he dragged his feet along the carpet; he exhaled in an overly dramatic man
ner and plopped onto the chair next to me.

  I peered over my book, gave him the eye, then returned to my puzzle. I'd been working this one for some time, and I couldn't seem to get the rhythm. It wasn't especially hard, but for some reason, I was lost in this thing.

  Crevis released another deep moan and spun the chair just enough for his baton to knock against the arm of my chair, much like a puppy scratching at my leg for attention.

  I tried to focus on my puzzle. It was frustrating me, and I considered going to the back of the book for the answers, but I've never done that in my adult life on any puzzle, and I wasn't about to start now. It was like admitting full-on defeat.

  The third and loudest sigh caused me to close my book and ask the dreaded question, “What's up, Crevis?”

  “I got this in the mail today.” He handed me a letter.

  It was from the City of Orlando Human Resources Department—a well-written rejection letter for the position of police officer. He had failed his written exam and was no longer in consideration. Glad to see the city still held to some kind of standard.

  “I failed it again.”

  “Again?”

  “This was my second turn,” Crevis said. “At this rate, I'm never gonna be a cop.”

  “How could you fail this test… twice? A baboon with a Magic Marker could pass that thing.”

  “You're not helping, Ray.”

  I wasn't trying to. No need to tell him that.

  “I have a hard time writin'. My teachers said I'm learning disabled, dyslexic. My dad says I'm an idiot. He doesn't want me to be some stinkin cop anyway. Some Orange County deputies beat him up a couple of years ago, so he hates the idea of me being a cop. But I don't care what he thinks. I'm gonna do it anyway.”

  His dad sounded like a sweet guy. “Why do you want to be a cop? Be a fireman. Everybody loves firemen. People are happy to see them show up at a scene. Nobody likes the police. Do anything else but law enforcement, Crevis. I'm telling you that for your own good.”

  “Don't want to be a fireman. That's no fun. I wanna catch bad guys. I wanna be there when people need help… and make a difference. I just don't want to sit back and do nothin. I've seen what that looks like.”

  Maybe Crevis had some free thought pinging around in that ugly melon of his after all. I took out my wallet and lifted my badge to eye level. “It's just a piece of tin. After fifteen years and my mental and physical health spent, I have a piece of tin and a ton of bad memories. That's all that's left. TV glamorizes it, but it's the kind of life I wouldn't wish on an enemy.”

  Maybe the kid would make the decision on his own and try something else. Because if he couldn't even pass the written test, he had no business being on the streets in the first place. He'd be eaten alive.

  Crevis stared in hypnotic fascination at the badge. “Can I hold it?”

  I slid the tin out of my wallet; it was my flat investigator badge I used to clip to my belt when I was in Homicide.

  He snatched it from my hand and rubbed it between his long bony fingers, as if memorizing every detail by Braille.

  What kind of life must he have had? Maybe he wasn't the sharpest kid around, but at least he wasn't smoking crack and knocking off convenience stores. I guess he had a sense of decency to him.

  “You can keep that one. I've got a couple more like it at home.”

  Crevis's mouth dropped. “Really? You're not messing with me, are you?”

  I considered answering yes and taking it back. But I couldn't. My third incident of niceness lately—I seemed to be on a run.

  “No. It's yours, if you want it.” My moment of pity might come back to haunt me at some point, but I'd been known to do some not-so-smart things.

  “Thanks!” He jumped to his feet and held the badge up to his shirt. “I'll be back.” He sprinted down the hallway, to the bathroom, I presumed.

  Less than a minute later, on his way back, his hoofs trampled the carpet like a bison stampede—his snaggle-toothed grin wide like I'd never seen it before. My old badge was pinned to his chest. I hoped it would forgive me for the indignities it would suffer in that position. Crevis slapped his hands on his hips.

  The world would never be the same: Crevis Creighton had been deputized.

  14

  HAVING DONE MY OBLIGATORY good deed for the year, I took the elevator down to the parking garage. I'd finally convinced Mr. Savastio to let me park there. He wasn't going to go for it until I mentioned something about the Americans with Disabilities Act and a potential lawsuit. He seemed to get my point then.

  The echo from the brass tip of my cane's stabbing the concrete reverberated throughout the garage. I made it to my pickup and jiggled my key ring as I searched for my door key. Something moved to my left.

  A large man in a ski mask stepped from behind a van, pistol at the ready. “Don't move, Quinn,” the guy said in a deep, graveled voice.

  I could see the skin on his neck and around his eyes; he was African American and big. He stood in a Weaver stance, the one most cops use to shoot, and I could see right down the barrel. He had the drop on me, and if I went for the Glock in my waistband, I would be dead before I touched it. I raised my right hand, keys still in it.

  Feet shuffled behind me as I turned just in time to catch an elbow to the side of my head. The second guy slammed my body against the side of my truck and tossed me to the ground on my back; the pistol in my waistband stabbed into my spine.

  I shook my head to clear the cobwebs and drew my fists to the sides of my head, instinctively covering up like I used to in the ring.

  The man with the pistol loomed over me, aiming it at my head. “You need to mind your own business, Quinn, if you want to stay alive.” He mashed his foot on my hip and pressed down, jamming it into the concrete.

  I was going to puke. A guttural cry, not much louder than a whimper, escaped me.

  He smirked through his little mouth hole; he was enjoying himself. His partner was a white guy, shorter than him but well muscled too.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” a voice echoed through the garage. “Let him go.” Crevis marched toward us.

  “He's not armed,” Bigfoot said to his crony. “Take him out.”

  “Crevis, run!” I managed. “Get outta here!”

  He ignored me and picked up speed. The second hulk hurried to intercept Crevis, who had my big, shiny investigator badge dangling boldly on his chest.

  “Leave him alone,” I bellowed, helpless. “He doesn't have anything to do with this. He's just a stupid kid.” I couldn't bear to watch someone else get killed for me.

  With his right hand tucked in his pocket and his left at his side, Crevis sprinted toward the assailant.

  The huge guy took a swipe at Crevis, who ducked at the last second. The guy's arm sailed over Crevis's head, leaving him off balance.

  Crevis sidestepped and raised his left hand, pepper spraying the guy.

  “Aaah!” The goon's gloved hands covered his eyes.

  Crevis pulled his hand from his pocket and fired a punch to his face so hard I heard it connect. The guy's legs wobbled, and he staggered back.

  Crevis crashed two more rights to his opponent's face and then followed up with a beauty front kick to the man-spot. The thug released a primal scream as he collapsed to his knees.

  Bigfoot crushed down harder on me. “What are you doing? Take him out!”

  His focus shifted off me for a second as he watched Crevis draw his baton and whack his buddy about the face and neck like he was beating a piñata. My cane lay just underneath my truck. I reached out with my right hand, caught the tip, and held it tight.

  As Bigfoot's accomplice fell sideways on the floor, clutching his groin and moaning, Crevis stepped over his writhing body and pointed to my attacker. “You're next!”

  He raised his pistol at Crevis. I whipped my cane from underneath the truck and caught his thick wrist hard. He yelped and dropped the gun, which discharged when it hit the ground. Crevis scurried
behind a couple of cars.

  I loaded the cane over my head and thumped the brass handle down hard on Bigfoot's chest, knocking him back into the truck. I squared up again and gave him two more whacks for good measure.

  He slid down the quarter panel of the truck, catching himself before he fell to the ground. He crawled behind the van next to me.

  I rolled to my left and snatched my pistol out of my waistband, pumping out three rounds his way. Plastic exploded from the taillight. I searched underneath the van, and he sprinted between the vehicles.

  I fired a couple more times at his feet, sparks flaring up from the concrete. I didn't know if he was going to get another weapon. I wasn't taking any chances.

  “Ray, are you okay?”

  “Stay down, Crevis!” I pushed with my left leg and scooted forward like an inchworm to see more of the garage.

  The big man crossed between two cars toward his cohort. Another salvo of rounds thundered from my Glock, and glass shattered as I tracked his movement. A car alarm erupted, echoing through the garage. His battered buddy managed to make it to his feet and stumbled toward the cars, still crumpled over and limping.

  A door slammed shut and tires squealed. I pumped a few shots at them as they sped out of the garage in a blue Lincoln Town Car. I didn't know if I hit either of them or the car. I needed to get over and look for a blood trail.

  Crevis ran to me. He removed a set of bloody brass knuckles from his right hand, then jammed it back in his pocket as he knelt beside me. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Give me a second,” I said, catching my breath. I fell back against the deck, my pistol still in my hand, smoke pouring from the barrel. The acrid smell of scorched gunpowder permeated the air around me, and my ears rang from the concussions of the shots. A car alarm warbled around us.

  Bigfoot had stomped me good, and I think I finally found a decent date for Helga. My right leg twitched uncontrollably, and I hoped I wouldn't need another surgery. I needed to try to stand up.