The Night Watchman (15 page)

30

I'
D HAD GOD IN MY FACE
every day since Pam and this case shoved its way into my life. Now the Prophet Porter?

Meeting with Tim had gone well, at least from the investigative end. I got more from him than I thought I would. His last comment stuck with me, though. In no way would Pam find out about that part of our conversation. It could whip her into a religious frenzy.

The metallic buzzer signaled, and the sliding door rolled open. Prisons don't seem to have that homey feel for me. I had to give Tim Porter credit. With just a few phone calls, he got me a two-person contact visit with Dante Hill at the Lawtey Correctional Institution near Jacksonville. Crevis and I made good time on the drive up.

This contact visit would put me in the same room with Dante Hill—quite possibly Trisha's killer and the man who crippled me.

“They're bringing Hill up now.” Our minder was a burly corrections officer about my height but supersized, a good forty pounds heavier, most of it in the chest. He sported the Lex Luthor hairstyle: slick and shiny all over.

I had to wrap my head around a couple of serious facts. Dante Hill had been dating Jamie around the time Trisha and I were ambushed in his driveway. Eleven months later Jamie was murdered in David's apartment, the same condo where I work. If I were of a suspicious nature, I'd say I was a little too tangled in this mess.

Crevis was nearly unrecognizable, with his shirt tucked in and his flattop trimmed to a razor's edge. On the ride up, I filled him in about Dante. I told him he'd have to be on his best behavior when we arrived, and that under no condition could he bring any weapon into the prison—no knives, no brass knuckles, no saps, no Kubotans. If he brought any of those, he'd become a guest here, not just a visitor. I left my pistol in the truck. After carrying one for so long, I felt naked and vulnerable without it.

“This is weird.” Crevis searched the walls for any escape. “I don't like it.”

“I've never been big on doors locking behind me either.”

Lex's boots tapped out a cadence for us as we marched down a narrow green hallway toward the interview rooms. In nearly every prison I've been in, and I've visited many, I can't figure out why they always seem to be painted green. Maybe there's some deep psychological reason for the color, like it calms people and such. It drove me nuts.

Lex drew a set of keys from his duty belt and unlocked the door, which had a frame of glass in it. Not much larger than a closet, the room had a table and three chairs. It was used by the prison system's investigations division. Crude, but good enough for what we needed. I took a seat while Crevis leaned against the wall.

A shuffle of feet outside the door announced the guest of honor's arrival. Dante Hill's chest and head filled up the window. Dante was African American and had shaved his dreadlocks since I'd seen him last. He'd beefed up too. He used to cruise at about a hundred eighty pounds; he was around two twenty now. The door jiggled open. He wore the thick-rimmed prison glasses that gave him a slight intellectual, albeit felonious, look.

Dante sauntered in, dark blue jumper and all, and locked eyes with me. His confused stare told me that he didn't recognize me. It had been awhile.

“Do you want the cuffs on or off?” Lex said.

“Off will be fine,” I said.

Crevis kept his back to the wall as he stood next to me.

Lex removed the cuffs and pulled a chair up for Dante. “Sit,” he said, like commanding a dog.

Dante took his time but finally eased into the chair.

“I'll be right outside if you need me.” Lex winked. Maybe Lex was all right after all.

Dante exhaled dramatically and crossed his arms. “What can I do for you fellas?”

“You don't remember me?” I shook my head. “That hurts my feelings.”

He scanned the cane propped against the table and leaned in. “Detective Quinn. Good to see you again. You weren't lookin so hot the last time I saw you.”

“Doing better now. No thanks to you.”

“I was wondering how long it would take you to talk with me,” he said. “To tell you the truth, it took longer than I thought. I'm disappointed in you, Quinn. Maybe you're losing your touch.”

I toyed with the pen on the legal pad I had set out next to my folder. My pulse was surging so hard I thought I might pass out. Maybe the room was too small for a decent interview. I tunneled in on Dante and did everything I could to replay in my head that night. All I could come up with was a shadow running away from us. If I could have fingered this guy for anything, I would have. But I just didn't know.

Dante folded his hands on the table and scooted his chair forward. He smiled. “When are you going to ask me the question you came all this way for?”

“I'll get to that.” I was so shaken that Dante had to see it. Maybe this wasn't such a great idea. The room was hot. Really hot, like a sauna. Perspiration beaded on my forehead. I swallowed hard and pulled Jamie's picture from the folder. “Tell me about her.”

“Jamie DeAngelo.” He smiled. “Hot little girl. We hung out for awhile.”

One confirmation down. Many more to go. “Tell me about him.” I flicked out David's driver's license photo.

He studied it for a moment. “Never seen him.”

“Ever?”

“Nope. Got anything else, Quinn?”

“How long did you and Jamie ‘hang out’?”

“A few months maybe,” he said. “What are you looking for? You're dancing around it. Just ask the question.”

“I'll get to it when I get to it.” I still needed him to think I was running the interview, although at that point, I wasn't so sure myself. “Where was Jamie working then?”

He shrugged. “She did lots of things.”

“Did she work at Club Venus?”

A Cheshire grin creased his face. “Been doing some homework, Quinn. I like that. Yeah, she started with Club Venus around the time we broke up. She was hard working and hot.”

“A lot of people thought so.” I took my photos back and placed them in the file. “Did you know Jamie was murdered?”

Dante raised an eyebrow. “I've been locked up, so I hope you didn't come here to pin that on me too.”

“Did you know she was dead?”

“No. And I didn't have anything to do with it. So if that's why you're here, you are wasting your time.”

Jamie and Dante must have had a beautiful relationship, evidenced by the fact that when I told him his ex-girlfriend was dead, the only thing he could think about was himself. What a guy. Not surprising, though. Dante's criminal history was long and distinguished—everything from trafficking cocaine to armed robbery. And he liked to beat his women too. I searched for some redeemable characteristic in him to share with Pam later. (She'd want to know, I was sure.) He was making me work to find any.

“I know you didn't have anything to do with her death.”

“That's never stopped OPD from making up charges anyway,” he said.

I haven't met a con yet who ever took responsibility for his crimes, so I let him stew for a few seconds.

“What did she do at the club?”

“Danced,” he hissed. “What do you think?”

“That didn't bother you? Her dancing around half naked with other men?”

“What do I care?” His brow furrowed. “She brought home up to two stacks a week. I didn't care what she had to do to get it. We had a good thing going for a while.”

“What happened?”

“She started gettin uppity, like she was better than me and all. I got sick of her and kicked her butt to the curb.”

“There were a couple of reports that you knocked her around a bit,” I said.

He waved a hand at me. “No chick is gonna get in my face about nothin', Quinn. You can bet on that. Maybe you put up with that from your women, but I don't. She knew better than that too.”

“Two grand a week is a lot of money. Even for an attractive dancer. Was she doing anything on the side other than dancing?”

He shrugged. “She wasn't stupid. She knew what she was doing. Like I said, we had a good arrangement. She made good money and made some good connections.”

“What kind of connections?”

Dante sat straight up and rubbed his chin. “Why haven't you read me my rights? You should have done that by now.”

“Because I'm only here to talk. I'm just gathering intel for something I'm working. So even if you confessed anything to me now, I couldn't use it against you. I just need to know some things about Jamie.”

Dante nodded. He was uneducated but not stupid. He'd been in and out of the system enough that he understood the workings better than most cops. I was shooting straight with him on that and he knew it.

“Jamie had an 'in to help me out,” he said.

“What kind of ‘in’?”

Dante smirked. “She was seeing someone with OPD.”

“You have a name?”

“Nope, and I really didn't care. She said she'd know if the cops were looking at me for anything… if I needed that kinda information, of course.”

“Did Jamie tell you that Detective Willis and I were going to your house that night?”

“'Bout time, Quinn.” He leapt to his feet and pounded his knuckles into the table. Crevis pushed himself off the wall and was at my side in a second, fists clenched. “I was wondering when we'd get to this. I didn't shoot you, her, or anyone else. And who's this retard with you?”

“He's Crevis, and I wouldn't push him too far. He bites.”

Crevis clacked his teeth together and growled. Nice touch. I'd reward him for that later.

“Tell him to back off.” Dante eased back into his chair. “Dude makes me uncomfortable standing over there all quiet like he's Rain Man or something.”

I nodded to Crevis, who stepped back to hold up the wall again. The kid was doing exactly what I told him to do—stand there and look crazy but don't ever speak. Evidently, he had unnerved Dante a bit.

“We were walking up to your front door when we were ambushed,” I said. “You're telling me you had nothing to do with it?”

“I heard the shots and looked out my window. As far as I could see, I had two dead cops on my front lawn. I'm the one who called 911. Why would I do that if I was responsible for shootin you? It doesn't make any sense.”

“Did you come outside to help me?”

“No way,” he said. “I stayed in the house and on the line with the dispatcher. I wasn't going out there.”

“So you must have seen the person who showed up to help me.”

“No one helped you until the first officer came screeching up. You can ask the dispatcher. I thought you were both dead. I didn't want two dead cops in my front yard. It's bad for business.”

“You didn't see
anyone
bend down next to me?”

“Are you deaf? I said no. After the first cops arrived, there was more police in my yard than I've ever seen in my life—like it was a doughnut convention or somethin. And because of my record, they yanked me outta my own house and got a search warrant. They said they found cocaine and guns in my house, but I think they planted them there. Either way, everybody thinks I shot you two. They gave me thirty years for the guns and the drugs. Thirty years! I didn't shoot you, man. I told them that night I had nothing to do with it.”

He said it with such conviction I didn't know what to think. I know someone came to me when I was down, but why would Dante lie about that? “If you didn't shoot me, who did?”

“Don't know. I woulda given them up that night if I did. I'm not doing someone else's time. You've got to believe me, Quinn.”

“You gave a statement to the investigators?”

“Yeah, after they beat me like an animal.” Dante aimed a finger at me. “And when you get back, tell Sergeant Yancey I owe him one. He grabbed me by the throat and shook me like a child. He had no call to do that. I was cooperating. Then they started knocking me around and charged me with resisting arrest. How can I be resisting arrest when I'm the one taking the beating? My lawyer told all this to Internal Affairs, but they just threw me away and moved on.”

I could see Oscar fired up with two of his people down. With Oscar, you didn't mess with his family or his people.

“Were you and Jamie still together when I was shot?”

“No,” he said. “She'd just moved out a couple of days before you showed up. What were you coming to talk to me about, anyway?”

“The shooting on Broadview Street, Gerald Pitts. I was told you knew something about that.”

Dante grinned and crossed his arms. “Well, I don't know anything about that shooting and won't talk about it without my lawyer here. But everything else I've told you is the truth. I've been straight with you. Now, get me out, Quinn, and I can work the streets for you. I'll find out who shot you and the lady cop. But I can't do nothin from in here.”

“I don't know what I can do, Dante,” I said as I stood. Crevis handed me my cane. “I'll talk with the state and see what they might consider.” I said this knowing full well the state would do nothing for him. He was a violent career criminal, and they had him locked up on weapons and drug charges.

Crevis opened the door, and Lex came in to take Dante back.

“Your people put me here, Quinn. Just promise me you won't forget about me.”

I couldn't promise him. He probably didn't shoot me, but he needed prison like a mole needs dirt: it's where he belongs.

I was already forgetting him before Crevis and I made it to the parking lot.

31

C
REVIS AND
I
ARRIVED
back in Orlando late that afternoon, and I dropped him off at his house. The confirmations from Dante were encouraging, but like everything in this case, they only led to more questions. Since I had time, I'd seek more confirmation from another man in Jamie's life.

I arrived at Michael Vitaliano's campaign office and staked out the parking lot for about half an hour to get a feel for the place before I hobbled my way to the door. The office was in a ten-story commercial building with a credit union, several attorneys' offices, and a large CPA firm. Vitaliano took up most of the office space on the second floor.

My voter registration card was grossly expired; the brittle paper crumbled in my hand. I hoped that wouldn't impact my visit. I was still a potential voter in the county, so maybe that would count for something. I hiked my way to the lobby and rode the elevator to the second floor.

A man leaving the suite held the thick glass door open for me as I caned up to Vitaliano's office. I snarled at him. The belittling gesture took me off task for a moment. I could still open my own doors. I needed to stay focused.

“I'm Ray Quinn,” I said to a kind-looking, middle-aged woman at the front desk. “I called ahead for an appointment.”

“Yes. You're with the police union?”

“Yes ma'am.” Which was technically true. I was still part of the union, although that wasn't what I wanted to see him about.

“He'll be with you in a moment. Can I get you something to drink?”

“I'm fine.” I parked myself in a comfortable chair my county tax dollars had purchased. The secretary's desk was directly in front of the Commish's office. The lobby area was small but professional. Various magazines covered the table in front of me, but I ignored them, keeping both hands on the handle of my cane.

After several minutes, the office door opened, and my buddy Gordon Kurfis hurried over to meet me. Gordon sported the physique of a first-class pencil pusher—soft in the middle with a butt that was conforming to the shape of his cushy chair. But his eyes were deep blue and penetrating. They had a spark that spoke of his Ivy League training as much as his résumé did. Gordon might be a political hack, but he was no dummy.

“Detective Quinn.” He shook my hand with a feigned enthusiasm. “Nice to meet you. The commissioner will see you now.”

I swayed a little as I caned my way into the office, exaggerating my limp and hunching over a bit. I wanted them to underestimate me. When I used to fight, the first few punches and kicks I'd throw were always much slower than I was capable of. My opponents would misjudge my speed and strength. I'd lull them into a set of expectations—and then
boom
. I'd explode full strength, and the knockout punch would come from nowhere. Fighting smart, not hard, was my philosophy.

“Detective Quinn,” the Commish said. “Good to finally meet you. I'm glad to see you're up and around now. I'm so sorry what you went through to protect our community.”

“Thank you, sir.” I rested my posterior in another posh piece of publicly funded furniture in front of the Commish's dark mahogany desk.

Gordon sat off to his side. A picture of Vitaliano with the flag as a backdrop hung on the wall behind him. The picture next to it was of him, his attractive blond wife about his age, and two sons and a daughter, all adults. One big happy family.

“So, I guess you're working for the police union now,” Vitaliano said. “I've always been a strong supporter of law enforcement. One of my platforms has been to increase the police presence in the downtown area as well as several of the high-crime areas of Orange County.”

I let him grease me a bit. I nodded when necessary and listened to him prattle on about his vision for the security of Orange County and the nonessential blather he thought would ingratiate himself with the Orlando police union. Gordon didn't say much, just sat there with a silly expression on his face as his boss continued to speak.

“Now, how are things going with the union this year?” he said.

“Couldn't tell ya. There must have been some mistake with your secretary. I am part of the union still, but I don't work
for
the union.” It's fun to watch people's expressions when they think you're going one direction and then you hit them with a 180. Both the Commish and Gordon shared plastic smiles they must teach in politician school.

“What business, then, do you have with the commissioner, Detective?” Gordon said. “His time is quite valuable.”

“I'm sure it is, so I'll get to the point. A friend asked me to investigate the murders of David Hendricks and Jamie DeAngelo.”

I paused. So did they. And we all shared a moment of silent, awkward stares. But it was Commissioner Vitaliano's eyes that told the story. His pseudo smile didn't change, but he squinted and the hint of a tear formed. After listening to his phone call, I knew he was weak at heart. And I had my dagger ready.

“What does that have to do with the commissioner?” Gordon said.

Vitaliano dummied up quick and seemed quite content to have his high-paid puppet do his talking from this point out.

“It's kinda strange,” I said. “Yesterday I got a call from some crazy lady. She said that Commissioner Vitaliano knew something about the murders and that I should talk with him. She had some off-the-wall notion that he and Jamie DeAngelo were involved in an unseemly relationship, and that I should come here and check it out.”

A little disinformation in the case couldn't hurt. Since Pam had contacted him for the nonmeeting, my story about a female calling me would have a ring of truth with them.

“I'm not sure what kind of game you're playing, Detective”—Gordon stood and straightened his coat—“but it's time for you to go… before we call security.”

The commissioner's smile carried on long past its usefulness. Shaking off his stupor, he finally spoke. “No, no, Gordon. It's okay. I think we need to hear what the detective has to say.”

“
Ex
-detective,” Gordon said, not taking his eyes from mine.

“Once a detective, always a detective.” I rested both hands on my cane and grinned at Gordon, who didn't seem to share the joy I was having at that moment.

“I hate to waste your time.” Vitaliano stood and waited for me to do the same. I didn't. “But it seems that someone is playing a cruel game with us both. I do have enemies in Orange County. People who don't want to see the kind of progressive change I'll bring to this community I love so much. It won't work, though. I'm used to these kinds of attacks, Detective, as you should be. I won't let hatemongers ruin what we're working for here.”

“Well, then I only have two questions, and I'll be on my way,” I said, still seated. He'd recovered well. He was a trial lawyer by trade, so thinking on his feet was a learned skill. “Did you know Jamie DeAngelo? And do you know anything about her murder?”

“No to both.” He tipped his head to me. “Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“I'm real happy to hear you have no connection to Ms. DeAngelo. That puts my mind at ease.” The next best thing to a confession is a known lie you can blow out of the water. I'd thrown some soft punches his way, enough that he thought he had my timing down. Time to pick up my pace and knock him out.

I slipped my hand in my pocket and pushed the Send button. I had preset the number to the cell phone he used to call Jamie, the one I suspected he still used to communicate with Chance. “Because if you did, that could pretty much destroy a good political career. You know, being involved with an exotic dancer and all that messy stuff. I think voters would be a little fickle about those kinds of things.”

The buzz from the silent mode of Michael's cell thundered in the office like Big Ben through the streets of London. But the buzz wasn't coming from the expensive phone on his belt. It was emanating from the top pocket of his coat, near his heart. How sweet. He wouldn't be so foolish as to call Jamie on any phone that could be traced to him. His secret little phone vibrated away. A pathetic pall washed over the Commish, and he looked as if he'd be sick.

“Please, don't let me stop you. I'll wait.” I pulled my hand from my pocket and posted it on my cane. “I'm sure any call to you must be
very
important.”

“I'll let it go to voice mail.” He swallowed hard. “I still think someone is pulling your leg, Detective. As politicians, we're used to people playing games with us, and we play back… hard.”

“I guess so. But I always saw politics as kinda like a pride of lions. Strong and brave out in the open and on the hunt, but back in the darkness of their homes where their deeds can't be seen—in the lion's den—they can become quite cowardly, depraved, and stupid.”

“That's a mighty odd assessment.” The commissioner's complexion altered from ashen to crimson. He seized my hand and squeezed extra tight. “Sorry I couldn't have been more help. I hope your case works out for you.”

“You've been a great help, Commissioner. More than you know.” I gimped out the door and back to the elevators. I was quite pleased with my lion-pride analogy, because it allowed me to call him stupid and mention the Lion's Den in the same sentence. Not too bad, if I do say so myself.

I probably should have informed the stalwart public servant that while I'm no politician, I don't just fight smart—I fight to win. He hadn't even begun to see “hard” yet.