The Night Watchman

by Mark Mynheir

  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

  AT 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

  FRIENDS 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. Unfortunatel
y 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.”

  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.