The Night Watchman (5 page)

8

A
S USUAL
, I
WAS
about fifteen minutes early to the Clubhouse on Pine Street downtown. In the old days whenever I was meeting an informant, I'd always set the time and place and would arrive early—to scout it out beforehand. I wanted to see if anyone wanted to see me. It's a cop thing. The marm was unlikely to ambush me, but some habits were harder to break than others. Another casualty of the job.

I sat in the outdoor pavilion and ordered iced tea. The patio didn't have the closed-in feel the inside did. The Clubhouse had a decent sports bar inside with several televisions playing various games. I gave half attention through the glass to a soccer match. I've never been a team-sports guy and much preferred individual competition: boxing, kickboxing, wrestling (Greco-Roman, not the cheesy television stuff), and mixed martial arts. You had to rely only on yourself, and you had no one else to blame if something went wrong. Now the only sport I'd be competing in was shuffleboard.

Pam Winters scurried up the sidewalk and rushed through the door without seeing me in the patio area. It seemed she liked to be early too, or was just overly curious as to why I called her. She talked with the hostess. I held up my hand when she turned in my direction. She serpentined her way through the patrons and tables and emerged into the patio area.

Her face revealed the conflicting emotions she must be experiencing—apprehension at seeing me again after our last meeting, and nagging curiosity about my phone call. After a pregnant pause long enough to give birth to triplets, I pointed to the chair next to me.

She sat with her purse clutched on her lap. Pam was an attractive woman. She wore blue jeans and a red button-up shirt; her blond hair was tied back in a ponytail. We didn't exchange pleasantries, only awkward stares until she broke the silence.

“I'm glad you called. I've wanted to talk with you since… the other day.”

“Yeah, I wanted to talk too, but I thought we should meet in a public place, just in case you were going to beat me up again.” I twisted the handle of my cane, digging the tip into a crack in the concrete.

Her shoulders lowered. “I'm so sorry. I've never hit anyone before in my life.”

“Well, you're pretty good at it.” The nicest part about religious people is you can use guilt against them like a carefully crafted blade, slicing at will with surgical precision. She'd be easier than expected. “If you kick like you punch, you could make a good bantamweight kickboxer. You'd probably rule the division, maybe even be a world champion.”

She didn't look at me, her eyes fixed on the pavement. I detest any man who would strike a woman, but I had no problem with a little psychological payback for her smacking me.

“Well, you'll be happy to know I've decided not to have you arrested. But I think you loosened a crown.” I rubbed my jaw. “We'll have to work out the dental bills later.”

“Is that the only reason you called? You could have done this on the phone.” She sighed. “I'm sorry I lost it. My emotions are a wreck right now, and I'm on edge about everything. Please forgive me, Mr. Quinn. He's my brother, my only family. If you want to poke more fun at me, that's fine, but did you review the file? That's all I care about.”

I took a protracted drink of my tea. What should I tell her? I figured she'd paid enough for the slap, so now it was time for the real reason I called her. My hesitation drew her eyes to mine as sure as a magnet would snatch up a tack. They were penetrating and vibrant, yet sad. Maybe it was time to flip my filter back on.

“You did look at it.” She scooted her chair closer to the table.

“Did your brother have any enemies?”

She shook her head. “No one would have wanted to hurt him. You saw something in the case?”

“Did he owe anyone any money? Have any outstanding debts, any gambling or other habits?”

“No. What did you
see?
” She leaned forward, as if ready to crawl across the table at me. I kept my distance.

“Who is this Jamie DeAngelo, and how does she know your brother?”

“Stop playing games with me, Ray Quinn. Is there something wrong with the case?”

I spun my glass on the tabletop, the condensation making it twirl with relative ease. “I have questions about the investigation.”

“So you believe David was murdered too?”

“I'm not going that far. But some things about the scene and the motive don't add up.”

“Praise God, someone finally believes me.” An exhausted rush of air pumped from her lungs as if it were her last breath. “I knew he didn't do it.”

I lifted a hand and pointed it at her. “You need to slow down. I said I have questions, nothing else. Maybe there are simple answers that I'm unaware of, so don't start acquitting anyone and dancing around praising God.”

She pursed her lips and nodded, but I didn't think she really listened to what I said. A gleam of something very dangerous sparked on her face—hope. Someone in her situation would hear what she wanted to hear, then block everything else out.

I didn't know what to think of this woman. Not just her smacking me; I could live with that. I wasn't sure if I trusted her and her motivations. But even worse, I didn't trust myself. My instincts had failed me once before—with catastrophic results. Could I trust them again with something so serious?

“What questions do you have?” she said.

I struggled for the right words. I needed to move cautiously to keep her from getting the wrong impression. “I looked at the crime scene photos, and I noticed a couple of things. But before we go any further, you need to decide how much you want to hear. This is ugly business, and we're talking about your brother. Some of these things can be brutal. So tell me how much you can tolerate.”

“I want to know everything. Let me worry about the consequences.”

A spunky woman for sure. I'd give her that. “Okay, it looks like whoever did this used a pillow over the muzzle of the barrel to silence the shots. There are several holes in David's pillow, and it was found on the floor next to him.”

She nodded. “Sergeant Yancey said the condos are so close together that he… David… didn't want anyone to hear the shots.”

“True. But if he's distraught about their relationship, as the report concluded, why does he try to muffle the sounds? If he's going to take his own life, would he really care? That bothers me.”

“Sergeant Yancey also said they found gunshot residue on David's hands, proving that he fired the shots. How can that be?”

“They test the skin and hairs of the hand for barium and antimony, gunpowder components that embed in your hand when you fire a gun. There could be a number of reasons why there's residue on David's hands, but that's a tough one to overcome. Between that and the fact that the door was locked and there were no signs of forced entry, I'm not sure what to make of all this yet.”

“What else?” she said.

“The phone records. Your brother was the last person to call her cell phone. That's significant, but I didn't see a list of the other calls she received that day.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means Pampas is lazy.” I tried not to let my disdain for him show in my voice. Okay, I didn't try that hard.

“If he's not smart or competent, why do they keep him as a homicide detective? Shouldn't he be fired or something?”

“I didn't say he wasn't smart. He's very intelligent. That's what aggravates me to no end. He's capable of good, solid investigation, but he's notorious for cutting corners. And he's smart enough to cover his rear end and look good while doing it.”

Not so surprisingly, Pampas was investigating Trisha's and my shooting, which was still unsolved.

She fell back against her chair and sighed. “So where does that leave us? What can we do?”

“I'm not sure if there is a we' in this conversation. I just gave you my observations. I don't think all the questions of this case were answered. It's like a puzzle without all the pieces. It might be exactly what the report says it is, but without those pieces, you can't know for sure.”

“But you think it's possible my brother didn't do this?”

“There's more that could be done.”

“Will they reopen the case with what you told me? I mean, it makes sense. Sergeant Yancey is your friend; can't you get him to assign another detective to run with this?”

I shook my head. “Oscar's a good cop, but he's sitting on a stack of fresh homicides right now. He can't afford to put them on hold to revisit this. We don't have enough to reopen anything. Only questions.”

“You said
we,”
she said with a small smile. “Maybe you could just investigate a few things. If you find irrefutable proof, the sergeant might consider it.”

Pam was minimizing things to draw me in. Shrewd little woman as well, especially since it was working. But could I really get involved, then turn the investigation over to Oscar? My psyche was at war with itself. Reviewing the file and talking about the case with Pam teased from me emotions I thought were long dead—like the thrill of delving back into a world that had chewed me up and spit me out a year ago. But the thrill would only get me so far, because my fear and apprehension were just as intense and palpable.

I tapped my finger on the folder. What really happened at Coral Bay Condos a month ago? Did Hendricks shoot that woman in cold blood and then take his own life? Or did someone go to elaborate means to make it look that way?

“I need to see your brother's office.” I succumbed to the thrill, for however long it might last. What could a little inquiry hurt? It wasn't like I had a busy social schedule or anything.

Pam nodded with a silly grin on her face.

“But before you start celebrating, you need to be sure you're ready for the answers we uncover. They might not be the ones you hope for.”

“The truth will come out.” She rested her elbows on the table. “And I won't be surprised by it. David didn't do this.”

“I wish I shared your certainty.”

9

T
HIS AREA OF ORLANDO
had been wounded and all but left for dead. Outreach Orlando Ministries was remarkably ordinary and easy to pass without a second thought. It was tucked away in a warehouse at the corner of Concord Street and North Orange Avenue, which was set for a revitalization program in the near future. I hadn't been to many churches in my life, but I expected something a little different: a cathedral-type building, large arches, or something ornate.

Pam paced along the sidewalk in the front of the ministry. It was sort of refreshing to have a young lady smile at my approach. But the acid churning in my stomach made me think her joy could be short lived. I hoped I was wrong, but optimism is a luxury most cops can't afford.

“Thanks for coming.” She stepped forward like she was going to hug me but stopped and shook my hand. “I'll take you in and show you around, then we can get started.”

Two men were talking on the front step; the unkempt clothing and poor grooming indicated they were probably homeless and seeking refuge. The front double doors had suffered abuse from years of use and squeaked as we pushed through. A reception window with a sign-in board was to my left, and straight ahead down the hallway, a larger room opened up with a row of beds.

“Mario, it's good to see you,” Pam said to the man in the office.

Well tanned and slightly taller than Pam, Mario rose from his desk and walked around it to the window. He wore blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and black work boots. Deep lines creased a face with a crooked nose that appeared to have seen its fair share of punches. With a shaved head and bulging biceps, the guy bore a tapestry of tattoos that would be the envy of any Hell's Angel. I'd seen the artwork before. Mario had done time.

He hugged Pam. “How are you holding up?”

“Better. This is a friend of mine, Ray Quinn.”

“Ray.” Mario extended his hand. His accent was from the Northeast, possibly Boston. He sized me up, scanning up and down like a fighter. He was checking for weaknesses, which explained why he focused on my cane and legs. Cops, fighters, and ex-cons greet people this way. I did the same thing to him.

Any chance of subtlety or a cold read on Mario was destroyed when Pam broadcast, “Ray used to work as a homicide detective and is helping me with David's case.”

I'd have to talk to her about that. Sometimes it's best for people not to know the whole story. People talk to you differently when they know you're a cop—or, in my case, used to be.

“Ah, good.” Mario stepped back. His mouth said “good,” but his eyes didn't seem so sure. “We can use all the help we can get. Where did you work?”

“OPD,” I said, not offering any more. “Can we see David's office?”

“Sure. Follow me.” Mario ushered us behind the reception window into the office area. David's office split off to the right and displayed the same prosaic décor as the rest of the building. It contained a simple wooden desk with a computer; a bookshelf was behind the desk, mostly theology stuff with a few novels slipped in.

“We've left everything as it was,” Mario said. “Figured the cops would want to go through his things. We don't know if anyone will replace David yet or not.”

“Thank you, Mario.” She squeezed his shoulder. “David would be proud of what you've done. You've had a lot thrown at you all at once.”

Mario's head lowered. “Pam, I gotta be honest. I feel like I'm failing him. Since…since this happened, our donations have dropped to almost nothing. We have a little in savings. David managed the money well, but I don't know how long we can hold out. We're still housing about eighty clients a night, more when it's colder, and no one wants to support us with something like this hanging over our head. David built this ministry from nothing, and now it's dying. I just don't know what to do.”

“I don't understand it either.” She took his hand. “But we either believe God is in control or we go crazy. We'll find a way to make this work. We can't let David's dream die.”

He nodded but didn't make eye contact with her. “I know. But it's still hard.”

“Mario,” a voice called from the window. “There's a delivery in the back.”

“On my way.” Mario wiped his eyes and headed out of the room. “I've got to clear this, then I'll be back.”

Pam gazed my way. “Mario's been broken up about all of this. He was one of David's best friends and a real blessing to the ministry.”

“I'd bet he's done a bit of prison time.”

Pam cocked her head. “You think you're telling me something I don't know? He served five years for armed robbery He'd been involved in crime since he was young, in and out of juvenile hall, then finally prison.”

“And you have him here working with the money and everything? Not the best idea I've ever heard.”

“He gave his life to Jesus Christ in prison and has been faithful to that call ever since. Mario has done amazing things here, and can relate to a lot of the people who walk through these doors in ways few people can.”

“I gave you an observation, that's all. I don't trust ex-cons, and I'm not sure it's the wisest move to put them in charge of anything. But that's the ministry's business, not mine. I'm just looking around.”

“You don't believe people can change?”

“Very rarely. And even then, I'm not inclined to trust them. Human beings are predictable—past behavior is the best indicator of future behavior.” I sat in David's chair. “Since we're on the subject of trust, could you please not announce to everyone who I am and what I'm doing? I need to be a little more subtle, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm sorry I'm not very good at this.” She picked up a picture from the bookshelf of her, David, and an older couple I assumed were their parents.

Pam and David appeared to be in their midteens; she favored her mother, with the same high cheekbones and fair skin.

“Nice picture.” I still wasn't sure what I could share with Pam—and what I couldn't. She had jumped to Mario's defense awfully quick. “You and David seemed close.”

“We were. We grew up on the mission field. Our parents served in Papua New Guinea, so we had to rely on each other. We spent a lot of time boarding at the mission school. Sometimes I felt more like David's mother than his sister.”

“Sounds interesting,” was about all I could muster. I didn't understand the whole traveling to other countries and living in squalor just to tell a few Bible stories. Didn't seem like much of a life.

“Don't you have any brothers or sisters?”

“I'm an only child.” Which was technically true, as far as I knew. Having been raised in the Florida foster care system, I never knew my parents or siblings if I had any.

I pulled my digital camera from my pocket and snapped a few photos of the bookshelf and the rest of the office. You never knew what you might miss while looking around. Once the scene was gone or tampered with, you could never re-create it.

She brushed some dust from the frame. “Seems like a lifetime ago. David was so excited. He was ready to tackle the world.” She sighed and set the photo on the shelf.

“I need to take a look at his computer.” I turned on the power. The background popped up, a picture of Jesus holding some guy who had a mallet and nail in his hand. Nice. I half expected a comment from Pam, but none came.

David's computer wasn't password protected. Trusting guy—or foolish. I attached my external hard drive to the USB port and started copying his hard drive. When I had time, I'd go through his last e-mails and contacts. He had QuickBooks loaded as well as Excel, so I'd review his financial records too.

There are a few reasons why people kill other people—most of the time it revolves around money or sex. Sometimes there's a deranged killer who does things beyond explanation. Or there's revenge. But if you dig deeper into the revenge motive, you'll almost always find money or sex at the root. If cops follow those angles, they'll almost always find their suspects.
So much for just asking a few questions
. My old instincts were kicking in, albeit a little slowly.

Mario walked back in. “Hey, what do you think you're doing?”

“Looking,” I said, not inclined to explain myself to the ex-con.

“What exactly are you looking for?” Mario said. “And don't you need a warrant for that?”

“Information.” I swiveled the chair around and faced him as the hard-drive copying continued. “Any problem with that?”

He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Pam flashed him a stand-down stare. “There's just a lot of ministry business on there, so you should've at least asked.”

“David's business is on there as well, which means it's my business now.” I pushed back in the chair and steepled my fingers. It was his move next, and that would tell me volumes about him. “But you decide if I can take this or not. If there's something on here you don't want me to see, just let me know. Your call.”

“Pam?” He opened his arms, palms up. “I don't like this. I want to help, but we can't have someone digging through our stuff. There's sensitive financial records and donor information we have a responsibility to protect.”

“Ray knows what he's doing. It could help find David's killer.”

Mario's demeanor softened, with Pam anyway. He glared at me with his fiery felon eyes. “Fine. Take what you need.”

I checked the screen. Two more minutes before the copying was complete. Mario made a good decision, but regardless of what he would have said, I was leaving with that hard drive. I just wanted to hear his objections before I took it. That could point me in a valuable direction.

“Do you know the girl, Jamie DeAngelo, who was found dead with David?” I said.

“Never heard the name,” Mario said.

“Did David ever mention that he was dating anyone?”

“He would have told me if he was.” Pam glanced at me. I preached to her with my eyes. Mario needed to answer his own questions.

“No. And I think I would've known if he was,” Mario said. “Most people tend to keep their lives private. Not David. He was a pretty open book.”

“Did David seem worried about anything?” I said. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm him?”

“Look, we run a street ministry.” Mario tossed his inked arms in the air. “We give meals to those in need. We help people get jobs, give 'em a place to stay for a while if they need it, and help get them into rehab. We preach the gospel. The streets can be tough at times, but no one wanted to kill David for helping people.”

“What do you think happened to him?” I said.

Mario paused and glanced sideways at Pam. “I don't know. I just don't know.”

“Well, there are only two possible explanations.” I stood and faced them. “David either did what the detectives claim, or someone murdered him and Jamie DeAngelo.”