The Night Watchman (22 page)

47

P
AMPAS'S THREAT WAS WAY DOWN
on my list of concerns, although I couldn't write it off altogether. He was squirrelly enough to protect his own interests, like his job and position. But was there something more sinister to his threat than his fragile ego and a poor performance review? Did he remove the phone records or never put them in to begin with? And why didn't he send the gun off for testing? We did that with most firearms used in violent crimes, even if we thought it was a murder-suicide. If Pampas were stupid, I would actually cut him some slack. He wasn't, so he was on the suspect short list.

Since no respectable law enforcement officer in Orange County would talk with me anymore, I waited until 9:00 a.m. and reached out to Tim Porter again to beg for more favors—to send subpoenas to the phone company for all the cell phones registered to the Relk Corporation and their subsidiaries and to run an ATF serial number check on the pistol that had caused so much devastation.

The Lion's Den, J & M, and its plethora of side companies were inexorably entangled. If I had all the phone numbers listed to them, I could check off the ones I knew and find a way to use the others, should the opportunity present itself. I wasn't quite sure what I would do with them yet, but at some point Tim Porter would stop taking my calls too. I needed to get the information while I still could.

“You're sure about the link between your shooting and the murders at the condo?” Tim said.

“FDLE's ballistics unit made the match. It's confirmed.”

“You need to let Oscar know,” Tim said.

“The lab is going to send a copy of their findings to Pampas, so they're all going to find out soon enough.” I'd chosen not to reveal that fact during my little talk with Pampas. I didn't want to ruin the surprise when he got the report, or to tip off that I'd got a copy before he did. “I just don't know when he'll get it and what he'll do with it after that.”

“This is the last stuff I'm sending off for you. It's Wednesday, and I can hold off telling my people over the weekend, but you're gonna have to find some way to let Oscar know or else turn this over to the Orlando FDLE office.”

“I'm just trying to stay ahead of everything here. I can't believe where this case is going. They've got a bad cop close to the unit, Tim.”

“Just keep your head down. We've got to forward this information to the right folks to do this right. I'm praying for you, Ray.”

I hung up without thanking him, though I should have for kindness’ sake alone. Tim was my only friend in law enforcement now, and I couldn't afford to be impolite. But if I wanted prayers, I could call Pam and get them ad nauseam. What I needed was information.

I had no idea how I was going to make the final connection between the Lion's Den, the murders, and the police department. At least the Lion's Den made sense. It was about money, pure and simple. But where did the police connection come in? Was there an aspect of this I was missing?

About ten minutes later, my cell phone rang, and I checked the number. Tim Porter, FDLE. “You miss me already?”

“No, just thought I'd tell you what I found,” he said. “Are you sitting down?”

I didn't like the sound of that. “Go ahead.”

“I ran the serial number through NCIC/FCIC and found out some surprising things about your gun. Then I called a friend at ATF to confirm what I had.”

“Good deal,” I said.

“We'll see about that. It was last sold four years ago to a Clarence Stowe out of Orlando.”

“Excellent,” I said. “He should be easy to track down.”

“He should be real easy. Clarence committed suicide with that gun fourteen months ago.”

“Okay… now for the punch line.”

“The gun was placed into OPD's evidence for destruction. It should have been destroyed or still be in the evidence section at OPD. It shouldn't be out on the streets killing people.”

“I'm so over my head right now.”

“That's not the half of it. FDLE has already sent their report to OPD. Oscar and everyone in Orlando is gonna know the murder weapon came from the evidence room. This thing is blowing wide open.”

I hung up on Porter again.

I didn't have a lot of options left, so I might have to meet with Oscar and try a new tactic—telling him the truth.

48

S
INCE MY SHOOTING
, I've been trapped in a peculiar world of disconnect between my body and my psyche. When I want to run, no matter how much I desire, struggle, or will it with all my might, I can still only hobble. When I desperately need my balance, I sway at the will of a breeze and gravity.

This case mimicked my personal dilemmas. As a homicide cop, I had the power and resources to make things happen, get information, or turn up the pressure to get that information. Now, I was at the mercy of circumstances and limitations I felt powerless against. All my resources were cut off, just as I was so close to breaking the case wide open. The case was as hamstrung as I was.

I had re-created my murder collage as best I could. Pictures of suspects dotted the wall with lines crossing from the Fab Four of the Lion's Den to Chance Thompson to a large question mark that represented the unknown at Orlando PD. David Hendricks's driver's license picture was smack in the middle of the wall, with Jamie's and Ashley's on either side of him. David's smile appeared warm and genuine, one of the people in my life I've regretted not meeting. He was gaining my respect.

Pam passed by my living room window, and I met her at the door. I told her about the gun being used in both my shooting and David's murder, a morbid twist of fate I couldn't shake.

“Now they'll have to reopen the case,” Pam said.

“When this comes to light, OPD won't open anything. FDLE will take it over. But until then, I'm running out of ideas, contacts, and steam. I don't have a lot left.”

“You've done more than I could have ever asked for.” She rested her hand on my shoulder. “You proved David's not a murderer and that he was just trying to help Jamie. You've linked your shooting to David's case.”

“And I all but killed Ashley with my own hand. I was sloppy and stupid, just like I was with Trisha.” I was dancing in that gloomy place again and was powerless to stop myself; the veil of that awful darkness shrouded me. “You might not want to hang around me too long. I'm hard on the women in my life.”

“I'm not going anywhere until we're finished.” Pam walked into the living room and sat on the couch. “I don't know why all this has happened, but you're fighting evil, and the devil does not fight fair.”

I didn't want to argue with her about devils or evil, mainly because I was sure she was at least right about evil. Pam was earning some serious respect as well. I guess I thought she'd crumble at the first sign of trouble or violence. I felt her religion would make her weak and vulnerable to such things. Not this lady. She was tough as they came. Trisha would have liked her a lot.

“Regardless of what we've uncovered so far,” I said, “all we've really done is raise more questions. With everything we've found, we still don't know who shot Trisha and me, who killed David and Jamie, and who murdered Ashley. We know a lot about the Lion's Den and how they're somehow linked to the adult entertainment ordinance, but we still can't prove that theory. We're still missing something—the critical piece of evidence that will tie all these things together.”

Crevis emerged from the bathroom all fresh. “Ray, I'm gonna run by my house and get more of my stuff. Do we need anything while I'm out?” He punched the heavy bag with a solid right.

I stopped it with my hand as it swung toward me. I'd coached Crevis through a workout earlier. He had some sharp punches and kicks. I showed him how to lean in just a bit more to maximize his power. He caught on quickly. He had good potential.

“We don't need anything. Be back in time to pick me up for our shift.”

Beaming, Crevis looked at Pam. “Ray and I are roomies now.” He jabbed the bag again and headed out the door.

I shrugged. “I was feeling sorry for him, so I let him move in here for a while.”

“Be careful what you say to him,” she said. “He's young and impressionable, and he idolizes you. Don't abuse that.”

Pam's warning was fair. I didn't let her know that Crevis was growing on me. He made the cave seem not so dark. Besides, he was becoming more of a John Wayne junkie than me—and that was hard to do.

As I walked into the living room to sit with Pam, I caught my foot on the edge of the couch, unleashing a raging inferno up my leg. The dizzying pain stopped me as I didn't want to scream out in front of her. I held it to a growl.

I took the cane and whipped it around in a baseball swing, smacking the handle into the dry wall—knocking a hole right in the middle of the murder collage. I jerked back on my cane, but it was stuck. I yanked hard and a chunk of dry wall flew out and skipped off the coffee table and onto the floor.

“I'm so sick of this!” Leg spasms wreaked havoc on my balance. I buoyed myself on the back of the couch. “I had everything going for me—I was strong and healthy; I had a great job… and a woman I loved. My life had never been as good as it was a year ago. Then just when I had everything I'd ever wanted—
bam—
in three seconds it was all stolen from me.”

Pam was quiet, letting me finish my temper tantrum. I hadn't vented any of those emotions since the shooting. I'm not like that; the Duke's not like that. But it wasn't fair. My life was supposed to be totally different. I'd had a plan.

“But you're still alive for a reason, Ray. God has a new direction for you… if you'll listen.”

“I don't want a new direction. I want my life back. I want Trisha back!”

“Can I pray for you?” she said.

“Pray to whom? If your God exists,
He
did this to me. Or He sat back and just let Trisha die. Either way, He's responsible. Doesn't your God know what's going on down here? Doesn't He know that people are suffering and dying? Or doesn't He care?”

“His own Son was tortured, nailed to a cross, and stabbed with a spear. And Jesus died there… for us,” she said, her voice soft. “God knows all about suffering. He's experienced all that and more. He cares more than you can imagine.”

“I don't see it.” I squeezed the top of the couch as the agony ricocheted throughout my body. “I don't see it at all. I only see pain and misery.”

Pam got up and walked around the couch to where I was standing. “Please let me pray for you.”

I wanted to scream out but didn't. I wanted to tell her, “No way!” But I couldn't. I was physically, emotionally, and spiritually at my end. I had nothing left to resist with. A feeble nod was all I was capable of.

She rested her hand on my shoulder. Her touch was gentle. “Heavenly Father, Ray needs You now. Please heal him and be with him. Let him see You in this. In Jesus' name, amen.”

I didn't say anything when she finished. I needed to get ready for my shift.

49

A
FTER
P
AM
'
S IMPROMPTU PRAYER MEETING
, she reluctantly headed home, and I got ready for work. I left early so I could drive out toward Ashley's apartment on my way I couldn't believe I had a meltdown in front of Pam. The good part was, I knew Pam wouldn't bring it up again or use it against me—like I'd probably do if it were someone else.

After swallowing four aspirins on the ride there to ease the ache in my leg, I chased them with a soda. The pain meds make me too sleepy to take before a shift, so I'd have to grunt through it with over-the-counter stuff. I scrolled through my options in my head, and I knew just how desperate my situation had become when I broke down and called Dean Yarborough for help.

“Yarborough,” he answered.

“Dean, Ray Quinn. Don't hang up.”

“What do
you
want?”

“I need your help,” I said.

“So what? I could get in trouble for even talking to you. As usual, you've really stirred things up.”

“I need you to look up a suicide report from fourteen months ago,” I said. “Clarence Stowe.”

“What makes you think I'd do anything to assist you? You've always treated me like garbage. You'd bark orders at me, poke fun at me. Why should I do anything for you now?”

I might have been a bit terse with Dean at times and maybe had some fun at his expense, but I didn't have time for all that now.

“Don't do it for me,” I said. “Do it for Trisha.”

Dean hesitated, but I could hear him breathing. “You think this is related to her murder?”

“Yes. If you'll burn me a copy of the report, I'll meet you at Ashley Vargas's apartment and explain everything. I'll be there in an hour.”

“I'll think about it.” He hung up.

I was exhausted from doing double time at Coral Bay and working this case and extremely late mornings with Jim. Not that I slept much before, but I was stretching it now. As I turned into Ashley's apartment complex, I recalled the last visit I'd made here, only to discover her lifeless body.

How would things have been different if I hadn't agreed to help Pam? Ashley would still be alive. I'd be better rested in my world as the night watchman.

What Pam had said was true, though. Evil didn't fight fair. I didn't need a teacher to tell me that. I'd seen enough evil in my career to clearly identify it out of a lineup. Even though I knew the wickedness people were capable of, the last few swipes stung like nothing I'd ever felt in my life.

Lying on warm pavement watching Trisha die, powerless to even crawl toward her.

Now, because I tried to help and actually do something right, Ashley Vargas died, and I might not be any closer to finding the person responsible for both. The more I dug in, the more questions popped up and suspects came on the radar.

I parked in front of her building and took my time getting to the third floor. My leg wasn't letting me forget the stumble at my apartment. I didn't know what I would accomplish by coming here. Maybe relieve some guilt, if nothing else.

The blinds of her apartment windows were cracked enough for me to cup my hands on the glass to see in. The furnishings were still there. The door and frame had been replaced from Crevis's kick. I rested my elbows on the metal railing of the walkway embracing the breeze on my face. Surprises never ceased as Dean's crime scene van negotiated the speed bumps in the parking lot. I would have bet he wouldn't show.

He skipped up the steps with an ease I envied and had a manila envelope in his hand. He was wearing his usual blue CSI jumpsuit.

“This is the report.” He pushed his glasses up on his nose; the hair from his comb-over flapped in the wind like it was waving at me. “You could have gotten a copy from Records. It's a closed case.”

“I know, but I didn't want to wait. I need to review it tonight. Besides, I don't think showing my face at the police department to pick up a copy of a police report would be a good idea right now. Oscar would probably have me arrested for loitering or something.”

“So you think this has something to do with Trisha's death?” Dean said.

“Yeah. This was the same gun used to shoot both Trisha and me and kill David Hendricks and Jamie DeAngelo.”

“So that's what this is all about. There have been a bunch of closed-door meetings today. Everything has been real hush-hush. Sergeant Yancey had Internal Affairs in his office. That's never good.”

“I can imagine it's getting pretty hot there,” I said. “It's not my problem now. The only thing I have to do is to find out who got this gun out of Property and Evidence and used it for the murders. After that, it should be a walk in the park.”

“I'm sorry I gave you grief on the phone, Ray. I didn't realize everything that was going on. If I knew this would help find Trisha's killer, I would've jumped right to it.”

“Well, I'm sorry… for a lot of things. Do you remember this case, Clarence Stowe's suicide?”

Dean nodded. “Katie and I were on call, and we picked up the case. We thought it was a homicide at first. The guy was facedown on his living room floor with a gunshot to the head. We couldn't find the gun until we rolled him over; it was lying underneath him. Pampas cleared it as a suicide.”

“Do you remember who was there? It should be on the crime scene log.”

He flipped through the report. “Me, Katie, Pampas, Steve Stockton, and Oscar, who showed up late. Patrol officers S. Whitman and D. Ruiz were there as well.”

“Who logged the gun into evidence?”

He paused. “Katie and I. I don't remember the order of collection, but we were both responsible. I know that gun made it to the property and evidence section. After that, I can't say.”

Property and Evidence was locked down pretty well. You had to sign in and out. But people were in and out of there all the time. Given the right opportunity, someone could have passed it on the shelf and picked it up. Unlikely in this case. The ties seemed to be pretty secure—someone in this group was the suspect. Katie Pham jumped out at me.

“How well do you know Katie?” I said.

Dean shrugged. “We spend a lot of time together at scenes and such. But to be honest, I don't know her that well. She keeps to herself a lot. Doesn't talk about what she does off-duty. She wouldn't steal a gun or anything like that.”

I didn't tell Dean about my knowledge of her prior nocturnal activities. There was a huge difference between a CSI and a detective: The CSI works in the logical world of techniques and rules of evidence collection. They don't deal with the vagaries of the human condition. Katie wasn't off the list.

“I'm gonna ask you straight up, Dean. Did you have anything to do with this?”

“Would I be here if I did? I don't like where Pampas is taking this investigation. Trisha deserves better. I've never much liked you… but I did respect you. If you can make this thing happen, I'm in.”

“I want to look around Ashley's place. I might need to get with the management.”

“I can get us in.” Dean looked around, then pulled a lock-picking set from his pocket. He worked the lock a minute or so and then opened the door.

Ashley's apartment looked and smelled the same as I remembered, except the bird was gone. We moved to the back bedroom. The sheets on the bed were missing.

“Did you take the sheets into evidence?”

“Of course.” Dean squatted down and examined the edge of the mattress.

“Can you get me a copy of Oscar's report?”

“You're kidding, right?” Dean swallowed hard. “Between Sergeant Yancey and Internal Affairs, they're monitoring everything we do on the computers and everywhere else. He'd skin me alive if I did that. I'm risking my job doing this.”

So much for jumping right in. I was glad he brought me the report and got us into the apartment, but Dean lacked any real chutzpa to help with the case. As far as gallantry went, I think I'd seen Dean's limit.

I tried to imagine what the killer must have seen and did while he—or she—was at the scene. How did he get Ashley in the back bedroom? She was fully clothed, so she wasn't asleep. Did he ambush her in the parking lot and force her to her apartment? Maybe if he was armed. She might have been too afraid to cry out. Hard to tell.

Nothing jumped out at me in Ashley's place but bad memories. I still needed to view it, though. I snapped more photos of the layout. I didn't know how helpful they'd be, but since I had the chance, I took it.

As I stood in Ashley's room, haunted by her memory, I developed a plan.