The Night Watchman (14 page)

27

I
F
G
OOGLING WERE A SPORT
, I'd be on my way to the Olympic Village right now. I enjoy digging through page after page or finding that one obscure fact out in cyberspace. It's been worse since I got hurt and don't get out of my apartment as much as I should.

After I dropped Pam off at her place, I went back to my apartment and logged on to my computer right away. I navigated my way to the good commissioner's Web site. Having worked in Orlando for over fifteen years, I'd have to have been blind and deaf to be ignorant of County Commissioner Michael Vitaliano. As election season was gearing up the last couple of months, his magnanimous mug had intruded on the televisions of everyone in Orange County, the flag flapping behind him. Nice. His Web site wasn't a lot better. I've never had much use for politics or politicians.

Scrolling through different areas of the site, I determined that any rational human being would have to be fairly intoxicated to enjoy this kind of stuff. I was tempted to have Jim accompany me on my tour so I could stomach the putrid political pabulum. Family values. Fair wages. Health care. Blah, blah, blah. Nothing revealing… until I clicked into his staff. Chief of Staff Gordon Kurfis, my Burger King guy, popped up. A smug-looking fellow, to be sure. Graduated from Princeton, top of his class too. A fine education wasted on being a political hack's do-boy I'd have to bring my dictionary with me when I talked with him. I printed the picture and added his name to the notes.

I stabbed his photo on the wall with a pushpin next to Michael “Family Values” Vitaliano. I wrote the phone number I contacted them with underneath and drew some hasty lines connecting the others. The prefix for Vitaliano's number was the same, and the last four digits were only a few off from Jamie's. A coincidence? Not in this case. I wrote “The Lion's Den” between the two.

I absorbed the collage that was becoming this case. I had phone links from Chance to Jamie, Jamie to the Commish, and Jamie to David, all on the day of her death. If I had time, I'd print out a larger graph showing the connections more clearly, at least better than my hasty Magic Marker on the dry wall.

I had a full-fledged crime scene section set up as well. I'd covered the gruesome photos with a piece of paper I could lift, so that when Pam was here, it wouldn't freak her out. Whatever else I was struggling with, I generally didn't like being sadistic. And the little fundamentalist marm was growing on me. She did a good job reeling in the Commish. I'd have to tell her that.

I pinned the cover paper back and studied the photos of David and Jamie at the crime scene. Since the first time I saw the photos, something's always bothered me about them. Why did David have a scrape on his knee that looked like a rug burn? Why the piece of pillow embedded in his head wound? Why would a pastor even own a pistol with the serial number filed off? Why would he kill her at all?

Then there was the gunshot residue found on David's hands, verified by the Florida Department of Law Enforcement lab. That was a tough one to explain. The locked room. No one seen coming or going. I had a lot of dots, but no great connections… yet.

I pulled a kitchen chair into the living room and checked my notes on Gordon's call to his boss. “What if Jamie did have something hidden away, an insurance policy of sorts? It could take us all down.” The “us” intrigued me. I didn't think the good public servant hung out with Jamie for her savvy political skills. The emotion in his voice was raw, palpable. He was a man in love. I'd remember that when we spoke.

With everything in this case spinning out of control, I couldn't ignore some serious facts. I'm not the sharpest tack in the box, and I was able fairly quickly to put together the phone connection between the Commish, Jamie, and David. Why weren't those phone records in the original report—even after being subpoenaed? The stunning simplicity of that answer had been hounding me since I saw Vitaliano's campaign sign.

Ashley was a truth teller about the Lion's Den. There was no doubt now that someone inside the police department had intentionally removed the records.

I made my way over to the kitchen sink and released my good friend Jim. Since I had no shift to cover, I would consult his wisdom on this case.

28

A
T ABOUT
1:30
P.M.
the next day, Pam and Crevis met me at my apartment. I made attempts at being cordial, but my head hummed and throbbed. I hustled to chase my mental fog away with a potent cup of java. I offered them both some, but no one was taking, which meant more for me.

As life flowed into my veins via my caffeine push, I briefed them on the status of the investigation. I had planned to turn the investigation back over to Oscar at some point, help Rick Pampas pack up his desk and escort his incompetent butt back to patrol for his shoddy work, and be on my happy way. But the disappearance of the one piece of evidence that could transform a murder-suicide into a full-on double murder changed those plans. This case was never going back to OPD.

Crevis raised his hand. “With all this dirty-cop stuff going on, I'm going to need a gun.”

“Not on your life,” I said. “Any more questions?”

“What about Sergeant Yancey?” Pam said. “Surely you can trust him.”

“Sort of. But a bad cop in the department or the unit somewhere could cause a lot of trouble. It wouldn't be wise to risk it by revealing anything to Oscar now. I need to find out who removed those records. And, even more important, we have to find all the players in the Lion's Den. Once we do that, most of these questions will fall into line.” I needed to call Oscar and find out what was going on with the gun they took off the goon who attacked me.

Crevis jabbed my heavy bag twice, then followed up with a stinging right. The bag swung high into the kitchen then back toward him. He stopped it with a solid knee strike. He had good power for his size, but if I worked with him, it could be even better. When I got some time, I might run him through some drills and tighten up his skills.

I dialed Oscar; he picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Ray. What's going on?”

“Same, same. I was just curious if they'd tracked the .45 from the thug who attacked me.”

“I made sure they sent off an ATF track on it,” he said. “We should have the last legal owner by next week sometime. Maybe when it comes in, we could meet for lunch or something?”

“I'd like that.”

“You're starting to sound like your old self again,” Oscar said.

“Starting to feel like it too.” In more ways than I could explain. “By the way, do you know anyone with the street name of Tay? Anything like that crossed your desk?”

Oscar paused. “I know a few. Are you messing with me about the Pampas thing again?”

“No. Just curious about a Tay.”

“You need to get off that, Ray.”

“I don't think we're talking about the same thing.”

“I think we are. The last Tay I came in contact with is Dante Hill. He sometimes went by Tay, as well as Dantevious.”

“That's… not what I meant.” My body locked up, and so did my mind. “I… I'll call you next week.”

“Take care,” he said, not nearly as jolly as when he answered the phone.

I slid the phone back in the pouch on my belt and staggered back to the chair in front of my laptop.

“You okay, Ray?” Crevis said. “Looks like you're gonna hurl.”

Pam called my name twice and then said, “What did he say?”

“Oscar knows a Tay And so do I; although I didn't know that was his street name. I never got the chance to interview him.”

My head swirled. I logged on to my computer and the OPD system, then ran a check on Dante Hill. Two dozen reports rolled past, which didn't surprise me, given his record. I clicked into each, hoping I'd turn up nothing.

“Ray, are you all right?” Pam rested her hand on my shoulder. I shook it off.

“I'm fine. Let me finish this.”

She backed off and crossed her arms.

I found a domestic violence report about a year and a half old. I opened the file and read. Dante's neighbor called in a domestic battery in progress where Dante was beating his girlfriend in the front yard of his house. The girlfriend was gone when the police arrived. They interrogated Dante, who was less than cooperative. They were only able to ascertain Dante's girlfriend's first name—Jamie. A neighbor said he thought she was a dancer at a strip club.

I hissed and flopped back against the chair. What grievous offense had I committed to be placed in this position? “This can't be.”

“Ray,” Pam said. “What's going on?”

“I believe Dante Hill is the Tay who used to date Jamie.”

“Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?” she said. “You found him and now you can talk with him.”

“I can talk with him all right. I know exactly where he is right now I also know he had nothing to do with David's and Jamie's murders.”

“How can you be so sure?” Pam said.

“Because he's been in jail since June second of last year. The night Trish and I were ambushed.”

29

F
RIENDS ARE TRULY
a rare commodity—rarer still for some than others.

I found that out when I was flat on my back in ICU for three weeks, staring at the ceiling tiles as the respirator breathed for me. The rhythmic beat of that machine—methodical, sterile, and relentless—haunts me still and invades my dreams at times. Each ceiling tile in that unit contained between 114 and 172 pinholes. No more, no less. Three weeks is an eternity in ICU.

About three days after my first surgery, I had been in and out of a haze as the respirator awakened me. Oscar stood next to my bed in full dress uniform, his hat tucked under his arm, his face solemn. I wondered why he was so decked out.

I tried to turn my head toward him, but the intubation tube down my throat wouldn't let me move. A black band covered his badge. He informed me—between the beats of that awful machine—that they had just buried Trisha.

Florida Department of Law Enforcement agent Tim Porter was one of the few others who came to my bedside. I don't remember anything he said that day; the medication was particularly powerful. I just remember him standing there, looking down at me.

He'd worked in our unit some years before and was shot in the stomach while busting up a bank robbery in progress. He recovered, retired, and went to work for the FDLE. I always wondered why he came to see me. Maybe he remembered what it felt to be laid up like that.

After Oscar's revelation about Dante Hill, I knew I needed law enforcement help, but I didn't know who I could trust. I called Tim out of the blue, and he agreed to meet me. Tim caught my eye as he entered the Perkins restaurant on 192 and Dwyer in Kissimmee.

Tim and I had to meet somewhere out of Orange County; he worked out of the FDLE Melbourne office, south of Kennedy Space Center. I figured this would be about halfway for us both.

“Great to see you, Ray. Still ugly as ever.”

Tim was a burly African American with a chest like a bulldog and eyes to match. He was always hungry for a fight and feasted regularly. Not a bad thing for a cop. Time had tinted his hair some on the sides, but he looked like he'd been taking care of himself The former marine had a strong rep with the department.

“Not much I can do about that. I only have so much to work with.”

He shook my hand, slid into the booth, and picked up the menu. The waitress showed up with a couple glasses of water.

“You buying?” he said.

“I suppose that depends.”

“I don't like the sound of that. Sounds more like business than pleasure.”

“Glad to see that FDLE hasn't sucked out all your investigative skills,” I said.

“I have to admit I was a little surprised to hear from you. Glad, but surprised.”

“I need some help.” The words didn't come out easily, because I'm not used to speaking them. Unfortunately I'd been speaking them with more frequency of late.

“What can I help you with?” He crossed his brawny arms and gave me his full attention.

I explained about the murder, the marm, and the mess I'd gotten myself entangled in. Tim nodded a lot but didn't say much. I respected his opinion, but I didn't know where his loyalties would lie. Would he tell Oscar what I was divulging to him? Would he open up an FDLE investigation? I didn't want either, not right now, anyway.

“You have a knack for the difficult,” he said. “Even when you were a young detective, you could find trouble like fleas find a dog.”

I couldn't hold back a smile. “Maybe, but I'm neck deep in it now and could use some help.”

“Go to Oscar.” He slapped the table like he was telling me something I hadn't thought of. “He's been through everything you can imagine. He'll work with you on this.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why? I talked to Oscar when you were in the hospital. The man respects you, and that's not easy with him.”

“I think we have a problem at the department,” I said. “Potentially, a big problem.”

“What kind of trouble are we talking about?”

“Someone in the department is on the take. He's wrapped up with the Lion's Den.”

“You know this for sure?” Tim said.

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure. And I think this relates back to my shooting.”

“Oh boy. What do you need from me?”

“A couple of favors would be good,” I said. “First, I need a prison visit for two. Second, I need some subpoenas, for phone records, to be exact.”

“The prison visit is easy.” He rubbed his chin. “The subpoenas are a little tougher. I'm gonna need to open a case of my own for the numbers. The state attorneys office won't even look at a subpoena without a case number. And even if I
can
do this, I can only keep it quiet for so long, especially if what you're telling me is true about the dirty cop. My bosses will want to know about that right away.” Tim's expression was conflicted. “This puts me in a tight spot, Ray. I've got to do something.”

“All I'm asking for is a little time. If we're not careful, this thing could get out of control. I don't want this person to get away with it. If he's responsible for Trisha's murder and my shooting, I want him to pay. We can't do that until we smoke out whoever it is.”

I'd heaped a pretty large request on the guy, someone who owed me nothing. Most cops in his situation would wash their hands of it and walk away. It was his move now; I'd stay quiet until he answered.

After about thirty agonizing seconds and three discernible sighs, he returned his attention to me. “I can give you one week. No more.”

“Thanks, Tim. We're gonna link these cases, I promise you that.”

“I hope so. Or the only link you and I will share is at the Job Link.” Tim drained his water.

The waitress returned and took our orders. I got a big fat burger with fries. Tim ordered a steak, a baked potato, a side salad, and an extra order of fries, and topped it all off with lemon meringue pie for dessert. He knew I was paying now.

“I have one more thing,” I said as the waitress left us.

“I figured once you got your way, you'd push for more.” Tim folded his hands on the table. “Some things never change.”

“This is different. It's… personal.”

Tim nodded. “Go ahead.”

“Why did you come to see me at the hospital? I mean, I didn't know you that well before you left. That's been bugging me for a while.”

“I'm glad you asked.” Tim smiled like he'd been waiting for me to bring it up. “When I heard the news about you and Trisha, I was sick. Been there, done that. I got down on my knees and started praying for you.”

“Don't tell me you're one of those God types.” I rubbed the back of my neck to work out a kink. “I didn't know that about you.”

“I wasn't when I worked in Orlando. Gave my life to the Lord about six months before your shootin'. I went through a rough time with my daughter, but God blessed me through it, and He can do it for you too.”

I didn't realize Tim had been drinking the God Kool-Aid. But since he was doing me several serious favors, I was compelled to at least appear like I was listening to him. I think he knew that too, because he had the same silly expression on his face that Pam gets when she's going God on me.

I tipped him the courtesy nod. He appeared disappointed that I didn't engage him. But since I'd already bought him some pie, I wasn't sure how much further I was ready to go with him on this.

“Anyway, I prayed hard that God would spare you and bless you. I felt in my spirit that He was telling me to visit you. I came to your bedside to pray and hear God's voice.”

“And what did He say?”

“That you were going to be all right,” Tim said. “God's not finished with you yet, Ray Quinn.”