The Night Watchman Read online

  “Take my hand,” I said to Crevis. He looked reluctant, especially after the last time he tried to help me and I nearly bit his head off. I rolled up onto my left hip and slipped my pistol back in the holster. “It's okay. Just take my hand and help me up.”

  He took my right hand and pulled hard. I stiffened my left leg and kept all the weight on it as he lifted. I was unsteady and swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane. Crevis wrapped his arm underneath mine and kept me balanced.

  This case just leapt from professional to personal.

  “You did good, Crevis.” I rubbed my forehead. Between the knock to my head and the Texas Two-Step on my hip, I fought to stay conscious. “You really put it to that guy. But you should have listened to me and run for help.”

  “I wasn't going to leave you, Ray. You're my best friend.”

  “I'm your only friend.”

  “Same thing.”

  Crevis propped me against my truck as he scurried underneath the van to get a look at the big man's gun. I had him jot down the make, model, and serial number, but told him to leave it alone. It would be some good evidence.

  I looked up at the camera just over the door to the garage. Had the day-shift guy seen anything (unlikely) or called the police? I punched in the number to Dispatch and reported the incident.

  “Officers are on their way,” I said after I hung up. I was woozy and gripped the truck bed.

  Crevis slid his arm underneath mine again. As the sirens approached Coral Bay Condos, my legs gave out, and Crevis was supporting my full body weight.

  The kid was a whole lot stronger than he looked.

  15

  AFTER EXPLAINING to the rookie officer for a third time what had happened, my patience was wearing thin. I rested on my truck bumper and declined any medical attention, thinking Sasquatch hadn't botched up any of the doctors work.

  I did, however, leave out a couple key points in my statement, mainly that my attacker knew my name, asked me to back off, and that he'd assumed a police stance while holding his firearm. Not that others don't use the same tactics as the police, but when you're on the other end of the gun, you tend to notice things in a little more detail.

  The guy seemed at ease with the weapon and wasn't holding it like a novice or gang member. Those details mattered, especially since I'd been told that a cop could be mixed up in this mess. I didn't need that kind of information on the official report for just anyone to read.

  CSI Dean Yarborough responded to the scene and took the suspect's weapon, a Colt .45 semiautomatic pistol, into evidence. They'd probably run an ATF check to see who purchased it last, at least the last legal purchase. The rest of the owners might be tracked down from there. He took some pictures of the garage and the damage to the cars, as well as collecting the shell casings, mine included.

  “We'll process the gun for fingerprints and run it through the system to see if it's stolen,” Dean said. “When I can get to it, anyway. I don't have much time for just a minor robbery attempt. We've got some major cases going right now, so this one will have to wait.”

  “Thanks for extending yourself for the cause of justice, Dean. I really appreciate that.”

  He grimaced as he grabbed his evidence bags and loaded them into his van. Everything was a fight with him.

  The rookie, who appeared young enough to be dressing for PE class in junior high, gave me his business card with a case number on it, and returned my pistol to me.

  The watch commander, Lieutenant Bernard White, had shown up at the scene to oversee the incident. A thirty-year veteran with frosted hair and a lean frame for a guy over fifty, Lieutenant White was a good cop who ran a tight patrol crew. We knew each other in passing through the years.

  He made some small talk with me, asking the usual questions of how I was doing and such. He wasn't going to put my gun in evidence because, in his opinion, it was a justifiable use of force. And since it was my old department gun, they had the ballistics already on file. He'd been around long enough to know how to take care of another cop. I appreciated that. He put out a BOLO—Be On the Look Out—for the suspects and for any vehicle matching the description.

  My cell phone rang. “Ray Quinn.”

  “Are you okay?” Oscar said.

  “I'm fine. A little sore, but I'll survive. I've been worse. How'd you find out about this so quickly?”

  “Bad news still travels fast in the city,” he said. “Any idea who did this?”

  “Probably just a couple of crackheads looking to make a fast score.”

  “I heard you got a couple of shots off” Oscar said. “Do you think you hit 'em?”

  “Doesn't look like it. The patrol officers couldn't find any blood.”

  “We'll check the hospitals just to be certain. I'm coming down there now to see you. I'll make sure the case is taken from Robbery and I'll have some of our guys take a look at it.”

  “No need to show up, Oscar. I got jumped. No big deal. Let the Robbery guys work it. I'm fine, really.”

  Oscar paused. He didn't take well to people attacking cops—or ex-cops. Even though he agreed not to have his people look at the case, I knew he'd pull a copy of the report and follow up himself. He was that type of guy, which was why I found it necessary to leave out some of the particulars of the attack. I just didn't think he would be on top of it so soon.

  “Keep me updated if anything changes,” he said.

  “I will.”

  “Let me talk to White.”

  I handed Lieutenant White the phone. Oscar's heavy voice carried from the phone as he Q&A'd White on all the particulars.

  He hung up and handed me the phone. “I'm clearing out all my guys. We'll let you know if we find anything.”

  Mr. Savastio was talking with one of the other officers. He tossed his hands into the air and yelled at the officer in broken English. He locked eyes with me and headed my way.

  “Vay you and Crevis talk now.”

  Crevis sprinted next to me and stood at attention. I balanced myself with two hands on my cane, my rump still firmly planted on the bumper. I was too sore and too tired to stand for one of his rants.

  “You two think this is like the O. K. Collow or something?” He spun in a circle with his hands out. “Bullets everywhere. I do not understand. You are supposed not to have a gun? No shooting here!”

  “Retired cops can carry concealed firearms,” I said. “It's a federal law.”

  “I do not care whose law it is. No more guns. You not allowed to have gun on duty here. Understand?”

  I nodded. “I understand.” I didn't really and had no inclination whatsoever to follow his orders, but for argument's sake, I allowed him to vent. I didn't mention Crevis's brass knuckles and other accessories of war either. That might have pushed the man over the edge.

  “Crevis,” Mr. Savastio said. “I expected better from you.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Crevis barked with military precision, still locked at attention.

  “First, we have murder here, now this. It is bad for business. People will want to move. If I was not friends with your Sergeant Yancey you would be looking for another job right now, Vay Understand?”

  “Yes sir,” I said, without nearly the enthusiasm of Crevis. “No more guns, no more shootouts. Got it. I just hope the bad guys get it too.”

  16

  IN POLICE WORK, you never paid attention to the rookies when they first joined the squad. They're ignored, for the most part, until they get into their first conflict and prove themselves worthy of the badge—and your trust. After that, the other officers treated them with a little respect, talked with them, and showed them the ropes. Not that it's right; it's just the way it is, a rite of passage.

  This morning Crevis and I needed to have a serious talk. The crime scene photos on my living room wall caught his attention; he eased closer and inspected them. I had a time line of events underneath them in storyboard fashion. It helped keep things in order in my mind. Since Jim was my only roommat
e, I hadn't had any complaints about the décor.

  “Please stop smiling at me, Creighton. You're freaking me out.”

  “I can't help it.” Crevis's animated expression had been pasted on his face since we left the Coral Bay; the rush from the fight still surged in his system. That kind of stress affects everyone in different ways. Unfortunately for everyone on the planet, with Crevis, he smiled.

  I removed Jim from his resting place and poured myself a quick one. My hand trembled as he slipped into the glass. I was no stranger to shootings. I'd been in four as a cop.

  My first was a drug dealer who ran from me when I was a rookie on patrol. We volleyed shots at each other down the street like something out of the Old West. I finally nailed him in the leg. The emergency room doctor stitched him up, and he went to jail.

  The second guy tried to ambush me in a bar bathroom when I worked undercover in Narcotics. I shot him twice. He survived too and went to jail. The third guy murdered his girlfriends child and was on the run. Oscar and I tracked him down and cornered him at an apartment complex on the east side. It was a pretty ugly gunfight—not that there are pretty ones. He didn't survive. It was one of my first cases in Homicide.

  My last was with Trisha. I didn't even get a shot off.

  Even though I'd seen a lot in my career, it was still rough coming down from the extremes of the fights and shootings. I was on my refill of Jim before I spoke to Crevis.

  “You want a drink?” I held up my glass like a peace offering.

  He shook his head. “I don't drink.”

  “Are you even old enough? I'd hate to contribute to the delinquency of a minor.”

  “It's not that.” He touched every picture on the wall and ran his hands along the length of my mural. I didn't think he was capable of sitting still or not touching things. He must have been a treat for his teachers in school. “My dad's a big drinker. I'll never drink.”

  After our little wrestling match with the thugs-of-the-month club, I was tempted to finish the bottle, but I had a therapy session later this afternoon. So I'd drink enough to help me sleep and take the edge off the pain. When the adrenaline and Jim wore off, I'd be in some serious hurt later.

  “Where'd you learn to fight like that?” I said. “It was pretty impressive.”

  “You don't grow up looking like me without gettin in a few fights,” he said, still examining the murder wall. “I told you I could throw down, but you didn't believe me.”

  I shrugged. The kid had me there. He'd had some pretty solid moves with better-than-average tenacity, and he showed that he wasn't above devious tactics with the brass knuckles and baton. Cheating in most life situations is unacceptable, except when it comes to a good street fight. Even the Duke would've agreed. Then, it's not only acceptable, it's necessary.

  But most important, when Crevis had a chance to run and leave me, he didn't. Whatever else could be said about the kid, he had guts. And that was enough for me.

  I owed my own martial-arts skills, or former skills, to Tommy Mason, another foster kid at the sixth house I lived in—the Stricklands'. One day for no reason, Tommy held me down and pummeled me bloody. He was a little older and a lot larger than me; I was defenseless against his assault. I took my licks and walked away when he was done… or so he thought. Two hours later, I nailed him with a two-by-four to the face when he walked out the back door. Tommy got twenty stitches; I was moved to my seventh house.

  As soon as I got settled, I found a karate studio and started my training. I'd clean the dojo and do what I had to do to pay for my training. Even though I was nine years old, I promised myself that no one would ever hurt me again.

  “Who do you think those guys were?” Crevis said.

  “I'm not sure.” I really wasn't, but I had my ideas.

  “It didn't seem like those guys were trying to rob you. It looked like they were just out to get you. Maybe it was some mafia guy you put in jail years ago who's out now and wants revenge.”

  “You watch a lot of TV, don't you?” I said.

  He gave me his best bobblehead-doll impression. While he'd gone a little overboard, his observations weren't terrible for a kid not privy to the conversation before he arrived. And he certainly didn't know I had lately been pushing buttons on some very irritable people.

  “I think you're right. Robbery wasn't the motive. They were definitely out to get me.”

  “I was right?” He raised his eyebrows.

  I didn't just invite Crevis to my house to thank him for saving my behind. He needed to know what was going on. Because by helping me, he'd just put himself in the line of fire. While in the past I'd had a tremendous amount of fun at his expense, I wasn't so callous that I'd let him be in danger and not tell him. He deserved to know the truth. He'd earned the truth. And, as this incident proved, I wasn't sure if I could continue this investigation without help.

  “What happened this morning was no accident, Crevis. I've been looking into the murder at the condo and asking questions that are making some people nervous.”

  “I knew you were getting into that the night I caught you in David Hendricks's apartment. So who's the killer? Is that who jumped you?”

  “I'm not quite sure yet. If I share my observations with you, you can't talk about this with anyone.”

  “I can keep a secret.” He rubbed his hands together, as if warming them over a fire.

  I didn't believe him, but then again, my opinion of him from three hours before had altered a bit, so I was willing to take a chance.

  “The pastor's not completely off the suspect list yet. He's a strange fellow for sure, and I have my doubts about him, but I'd be a fool to ignore the fact that somebody is willing to attack me to stop me from asking questions about this case. I don't take kindly to threats and intimidation. So this is my business now.”

  “Our business,” Crevis said. “The guy was gonna shoot me too.”

  A knock on the door interrupted us.

  “Who is it?” I said.

  “Pam. Open up, Ray.”

  Crevis opened the door. I'd called her right after our little donnybrook in the parking garage. She needed to be in on this conversation.

  Pam gave him a casual glance, then blew past him and met me in the kitchen.

  “Are you all right?” She reached out to touch my forehead, which I was sure had a bruise from a well-placed elbow shot.

  “I'm fine.” I pulled away. “I'm like a roach—easy to hit but hard to kill.”

  She frowned. “That's not funny.”

  “It's a little funny.” I pointed to the kid. “This is my… friend Crevis. He's the only reason I'm able to stand here right now.”

  Pam shook his hand. “Thank you, Crevis. You did a brave thing.”

  “It's nothin.” He blushed and puffed out his chest with my old badge still dangling there. “Ray and I whooped 'em pretty good.”

  “I was telling Crevis about how I think the attack was linked to my investigation.”

  Pam looked worried. “Are you sure, Ray?”

  “Yeah. The big guy called me by name and told me to mind my own business.”

  “You didn't tell the cops that,” Crevis said.

  I had to inform poor Crevis of what Ashley had told me about the Lion's Den and the possible police connection. Then with trepidation I told them of my attacker's firearm skills. I'm not big on sharing my suspicions with other cops, much less a woman scorned and a… Crevis. But my options were limited at this point.

  “If some police officers are involved, how can we do anything against that?” Pam said.

  “They're not likely to do anything to draw attention to themselves,” I said. “So first, we need to take a deeper look at Club Venus and the Lion's Den. I'll get to know Chance Thompson a little better too. He's a snake if I've ever met one.”

  “How do we do that?” Pam said.

  “I'll make some nocturnal visits to his neighborhood.” I struggled to get the next words out, but I was desperate. �
��I could really use your help, Crevis, chasing down some of these leads. I can't pay you, but I can teach you about police work.” I shuffled into the living room and sat on the arm of the couch. “But this isn't a game. This is real life… and death, if we're not careful. Can you help us?”

  “I was born for this, Ray.”

  His ecstatic grin made me question my sanity… again.

  17

  THAT AFTERNOON, I CALLED Helga's office and rescheduled our session. If she got her mitts on me after the beating I'd taken earlier, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. I got a few hours of sleep and then reviewed more of the case notes.

  At around 3:00 a.m., I rolled up to Crevis's house in Bithlo—home of the Bithlo Speedway, where they have smash-up derbies every Friday night. Crevis was doing jumping jacks on the sidewalk, like I couldn't see him standing there. Wearing camo pants and a dark Molly Hatchet concert T-shirt, he was nearly unrecognizable without his uniform on, looking even more like a goofy kid.

  His navy blue house was an old Florida block home, small with a flat roof, probably built fifty or sixty years ago. The yard was unkempt; an old Buick was parked in front of the house. Grass grew up, around, and through it, as if the rusted-out jalopy had burst forth from the earth right there. A faint glow shone out the living room window. Someone pulled the curtains back as my truck idled there. I could only see the shadows.

  “Let's go.” Crevis got in my truck, then slammed the door shut. He checked the window and slapped the dashboard twice. “We need to get moving. My dad's really lit tonight and being a jerk.” Crevis didn't seem like he wanted me to see his house or his father.

  When I was young, I imagined that my father and mother were spies who had placed me in the foster-care system to protect me from their dastardly enemies, a selfless act of familial love. Unfortunately, at some point I had to grow up and face the probable truth—they simply didn't want me. Nothing noble or romantic about that.

  As Crevis stared straight ahead, I wondered which was better—not knowing for sure what my parents' reasons were for abandoning me, or living with a father who apparently wanted nothing to do with his son. At least with my situation, I could make up stories and excuses for my folks, remaining in a purgatory of ignorance. Crevis, on the other hand, had to live in an unpleasant and unappealing reality. He didn't look back as we sped away.