The Night Watchman (17 page)

35

T
HE PRIOR NIGHT'S SHIFT
was productive and exhausting. I went straight home and tossed and turned until I finally managed a couple hours of rest. I was up around noon because I had an appointment with dear, sweet Helga. Since I'd missed a couple of sessions, she said she'd have to “work” with me a little longer to make up for the time. Of course “work” to her meant that she beat me like a bad dog and pulled my leg like it was taffy at a county fair. I took my punishment without too much complaining. I figured I had it coming. After therapy I hustled to the PD.

I hobbled my way down the corridor of the homicide unit on my way to see Oscar. I'd come in the front door so I didn't have to run the gauntlet of detectives in the back. I didn't have time and wasn't up for that. The trepidation of entering the building was less than it was the first time, but it still unnerved me. Too many memories here to contend with and keep my head sane at the same time. But I had to do this. I needed some answers fast.

I had committed a cardinal sin in a homicide investigation by allowing the circumstances to dictate the pace and direction of the investigation. I had been all over the chart for a while and needed to get back to basics. I tapped on Oscar's door.

“Come in, Ray.” He laid a file on the desk. He took off his glasses and hurried them into his shirt pocket.

I'd never seen him wearing glasses before. I suppose a person can age a lot in a year.

“Twice in a week,” he said. “Seems like you're getting around a little better.”

“I wanted to check on the gun from the guy who attacked me. I hoped the ATF report would be back by now.”

“I just got an e-mail back from them. I was going to check it out and then give you a call, but since you're here…” He opened his top drawer and handed me the printout. “The gun was first sold by a gun store in Clermont to a guy named Russell Morton about three years ago. I have a good address on Morton, so I planned on taking Bowden with me to pay him a visit.”

“Mind if I go with you?”

“Do you think that's a good idea?” Oscar steepled his fingers and swiveled in his chair.

I hated when he answered a question with a question, using detective tricks on another detective. If he didn't want me to go, I would prefer that he just tell me so.

“I'm assuming you don't want me to go with you.”

“Someone tried to mug you,” he said. “I'd be irresponsible to let you accompany me on that interrogation. Maybe the guy sold the gun to someone else. Maybe it was stolen and never reported.”

“Or maybe he's the guy.”

“Or maybe he's not the guy. I know you too well, Ray. I can't have you taking a swipe at someone who tried to mug you.”

“I'll behave myself. I just want to hear what he has to say.”

Oscar nodded and pursed his lips. “If you can behave and keep your mouth closed, I'll think about taking you with me.”

I checked my watch. “Great. When do you want to make that happen?”

“Can you give me thirty minutes to clean up some of this mess?”

“Sure.” I nodded. “I'm going to visit some folks while I'm here.”

I told him I would be back in time to leave. While I was interested in tracing the thug's gun, I really wanted to see what we could find out about the pistol that killed Jamie and David. I figured since the case had been closed, Pampas didn't send the gun off to be tested or to try to lift the serial number. That was about to change.

I headed down to the crime scene section. Dean Yarborough and Katie Pham's office was small and cluttered with a variety of crime scene trimmings; both were sitting at their desks. Must have been slow the night before.

“Hey,” I said.

Katie turned toward me. “Oh, hi, Ray. What brings you here?”

“Just thought I'd see how things are going.”

Dean sighed and turned back toward his desk. “What do you want?”

“Do I have to need something to say hello?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, you do,” he said.

Frodo was going to make this more difficult than it needed to be. He always protected his little kingdom. He flexed his minuscule muscles anytime I came into his territory.

“Since you're asking, I was wondering if we could send the pistol from the shooting at the Coral Bay off to the FDLE lab for a NIBIN search. The lab also has a guy who can try to lift serial numbers that have been ground down.”

I'd made a couple of strong cases in the past by submitting pistols to the National Integrated Ballistic Information Network. The techs there document shell casings collected from shootings and homicides around the state. Each pistol leaves distinct markings on a shell casing, much like a fingerprint, which can be matched to shell casings from other crimes. It's a good tool and could tell me more about the gun. If we could lift the serial number, that would be a strong lead as well, but I needed to wiggle the request past the crime scene gatekeeper.

“It's a closed case,” Dean said.

“True, but Pampas and I were curious where the suspect picked up the gun and if it had been used in any other crimes.” I stretched the truth a little again, but this time I imagined that if Pampas actually thought about the case at all, that would be one of his considerations. The request needed to sound like it came more from Pampas than me.

“I can send that off.” Katie gave me a nice smile. It was one of those smiles I'm becoming accustomed to getting since I walk with a cane, more a flash of pity than kindness. If it took pity to get the job done, I'd take it.

“We've got a lot going on to be sending guns to the lab on closed cases,” Dean said.

“Maybe it will help close other cases.”

Dean and I have history. He'd never do anything for me unless I filled out one of his stupid request forms, and even then, I suspected he placed my requests at the bottom of his stack. Anytime I needed something fast, I'd send Trisha back to talk with him. Dean would puff his chest out and fall all over himself to help her. Everyone liked Trisha. She just had that special quality—one I couldn't seem to imitate.

“It's a waste of time and resources.” Dean pushed his glasses up on his nose and crossed his arms. “That gun's going in for destruction. If you're not happy with that, take it up with Sergeant Yancey He approved the order.”

“Why don't we get him down here right now so we can settle this?” I drew my cell phone and simulated punching in some numbers. “Then you can explain to him face to face why you don't want to send a vital piece of evidence off to the lab that could potentially solve other violent crimes. I'm sure he'll be sympathetic to your precious time constraints, seeing as this request will take you less than five minutes to complete.”

Dean grimaced. “All right, I'll send the thing off if it's such a big deal to you.”

I closed my phone and reholstered it, quite pleased that Dean didn't call my bluff.

“I'll take care of it, Dean,” Katie said.

“No. I'll do it.” He slapped the fingerprint card on his desk and prepared to stand.

Katie was on her feet and already at the door. “I'm on my way down to Property and Evidence anyway. I'll have them ship it today.”

Dean regarded me and then Katie. “Fine.”

She slipped past me and winked.

“You need to fill out the paperwork anyway, Quinn… on your way out.” Dean didn't have the decency to look me in the face. Some things never changed.

I signed his request form and left his office. As I hiked back to Homicide, I caught Oscar in the hallway.

“Ray, I've changed my mind. I don't think it would be a good idea for you to talk with Russell Morton about the gun.”

“I promised to behave. What more do you want from me?”

“It's just that if we do come up with something and have to go to court later, it'll look bad that we had the victim in the case doing the investigation. And if I have to show you a lineup, it can't be tainted because you saw this guy ahead of time. I gotta think how this will look if we take this to court. I want the people who jumped you arrested, and I won't risk messing that up.”

Oscar had me in a difficult situation. I'd told him it was a mugging, nothing more. If I pushed this too hard, he'd be pushing back for answers. He knew me well enough to suspect something could be up. I'd let Oscar take care of this gun issue while Katie took care of the other.

“Okay,” I said, coaxing a little disappointment from my tone. Just enough to be convincing, but not over the top. “Just let me know when you get a chance. I'm curious what's up with this guy.”

“No problem, Ray. I'll take care of this personally.”

36

L
ETTING
O
SCAR TAKE CARE
of running down the gun turned out to be a good thing. It gave me more time to deal with some of the fresh questions arising in the Hendricks case. I was stalled in trying to find out any information on the officers of J & M Corporation, but now I knew that Ben Scott and the Commish were working together to draft the new county adult entertainment ordinance. At least I was getting somewhere with the Lion's Den. I doubted their dalliances with Jamie and Brigitte and the ties to Club Venus were an accident. Maybe it was just research? Again, unlikely.

Scouring some archived articles from the
Orlando Sentinel on
the topic, I found four related stories. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the ordinance drafting committee was created a little over a year ago, just about the same time as my shooting. And retired judge Raphael “Ralph” Garcia and Orlando business giant Mort Connelly were also on the committee with Scott and Vitaliano.

Orlando's biggest and brightest stars gathered together for this task. One thing I found rather interesting is that they all volunteered to sit on the committee. Most of the article was puffery about using the ordinance to limit the places these establishments could operate under and such. The Florida Supreme Court had ruled that cities and counties couldn't all-out ban adult entertainment, but they could place strong restrictions on the methods of operations and where those businesses could be located, which was the alleged mission of this committee. The establishments already in place would be grandfathered in, but if they ever moved, they'd be subject to the ordinance.

“We intend on drafting the strongest ordinance in the state, maybe even the nation, to keep Orange County's image one of family-friendly entertainment,” Commissioner Vitaliano was quoted.

The emphasis on
image
struck me because that was what the man seemed to be all about. Didn't seem to matter about the substance of what they were doing. I felt I'd discovered the charter members of the Lion's Den. I added Judge Garcia and Mort Connelly to my list. Just because they were on the committee didn't necessarily mean they were part of the Lion's Den, but it certainly didn't exclude them either.

I decided to take a little field trip and map out the properties in Orange County listed to J & M Corp. With my handy little GPS unit, I plotted out my course and ended up at the corner of West Gore Street and South Division, where a closed-down restaurant was located. I hit the second property, which was about twenty-five minutes away on International Drive. An abandoned Army Navy store. The third was downtown, not terribly far from Outreach Orlando Ministries. I took photos of all three.

None of the properties had For Sale signs posted or any construction work in progress. They were just sitting… waiting.

Since I was out and about, I took a swing past Ben Scott's place. It was Saturday, and his wife wasn't due back until Monday. According to the tracking unit on Brigitte's car, she hadn't left Ben's house since she arrived Friday night. Nice digs—a two-story brick palace with towers on each front corner, like a castle.

His driveway was gated, and you had to call to be let in. So much for the lifestyles of Orlando's rich and naughty. The driveway circled around behind the house. A wall of well-maintained palm trees covered the entire front of the house, and I couldn't see it well from the street. I couldn't see Brigitte's car, but I knew it was still there. It didn't matter; I'd already downloaded a satellite photo to get a better view of his property. I was really turning into a geek with all my gadgets. I was feeling pretty slick.

37

H
AD
I
REALLY HEARD SOMETHING
, or was I just dreaming? My window-mounted air conditioner hummed on full throttle as I blinked and then scanned the room.

My bedroom door was open a crack; sunlight from the living room and kitchen windows broached the darkness and illuminated the hallway I checked the clock: 11:43 a.m. I wasn't supposed to be up yet, but something wasn't right.

I heard it again: the rustling of papers in my living room. A shadow passed outside my door, and soft footsteps shuffled along the carpet at the end of the hallway. I reached to the nightstand and removed my Glock from its holster. My heart pounded. I was two-pots-of-coffee awake now.

Flat on my back in bed was not the fighting position I desired. I didn't want to make too much noise getting up, because whoever was in my living room was trying to be quiet. They must believe I was still asleep. I inched to the side of my bed, keeping a watchful eye on the door.

My leg throbbed as I used my left hand to drop it off the side of the bed. I sat up quickly, maybe a little too quickly, and my hip warned me not to do it again. I needed to get to my feet. Leaning over, I snatched my cane and used it to push myself up. Cane in my left hand, pistol in my right, I crept toward the door. Someone was close; I could hear him breathing.

I eased open the door a few more inches and scooted to the side to peek down the hall.

Crack
. A flash of light and an explosion of wood blew me back as a round stuck the door frame by my head. I staggered backward but caught myself before I fell. Two more reports thundered down the hall, striking the door frame on the other side of me. Wood splinters peppered my chest.

“Ahhh!” I charged through the door, pistol raised. Charred gunpowder and a gray haze permeated the hallway. My front door slammed open and feet smacked the pavement as my attacker was in full sprint out of the apartment.

I hobbled as fast as I could out the door and into the pool area. The complex's gate clanked shut, and I limped toward it, my sights trained on the corner. I rounded the corner slowly with my pistol at the ready. I didn't want to rush into an ambush.

“Mr. Ray, Mr. Ray,” Hector called from behind me. “Are you okay?”

“Call 911.” I pushed through the metal gate and into the parking lot. I used my gun hand to screen the bright sun from my eyes. The parking lot was awash with brilliant sunlight; my eyes hadn't adjusted enough to see anything. The constant drone of cars rolled along John Young Parkway. No one in sight.

I eased next to a row of cars, the glimmering reflections off the windows playing havoc on my vision. I came to the edge of the first car and shuffled around it, pistol at the ready. Nothing. I moved to my truck, which was parked next to it. Again nothing. I scanned the entire parking lot. The dirt bag was long gone. Hector was on the phone behind me.

“The police are coming, Mr. Ray.” He stared at my pistol and stepped back. “Did you shoot someone?”

“No,” I said, realizing for the first time that I was standing in the parking lot in only underwear and a T-shirt. “But someone nearly nailed me. Did you see him?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Ray. I was in my apartment when I heard shots. I ran out and saw you out here. I did not see who it was.”

Stabbing my cane into the asphalt, I knocked a chunk out of the crumbling, pitted parking lot. It could have been a kindergartner for all I knew, and he would have still outrun me.

I gimped back to my apartment, the door still wide open. Pebbles from the parking lot stuck to my feet. I wiped them off with the tip of the cane before I entered the apartment. A sick feeling hit my gut as I absorbed the scene. Papers littered my living room floor. My case notes had been ripped from the wall, and many of them appeared to be missing. My pictures, my camera, and my laptop—all gone.

I checked the Duke's portrait. He was still there, but he didn't look happy either. The only things not rummaged through or missing were the evidence items from the trash search—the steroid containers, Ziploc bags, and the J & M property receipt I'd secured in a lockbox in my room—and my external hard drive.

The call of distant sirens announced OPD's approach. I laid my pistol on the kitchen counter. I didn't want some overzealous rookie whacking me in my own apartment in my underwear—a very undignified way to die.

“Hector, can you go out and tell them it's all clear and lead them back to my apartment?”

“I can do that. Are you sure—?”

“I'm fine. I just need to get some clothes on. I think it's going to be a long day.”