The Night Watchman (10 page)

17

T
HAT AFTERNOON
, I
CALLED
Helga's office and rescheduled our session. If she got her mitts on me after the beating I'd taken earlier, I wouldn't be able to get out of bed for a week. I got a few hours of sleep and then reviewed more of the case notes.

At around 3:00 a.m., I rolled up to Crevis's house in Bithlo—home of the Bithlo Speedway, where they have smash-up derbies every Friday night. Crevis was doing jumping jacks on the sidewalk, like I couldn't see him standing there. Wearing camo pants and a dark Molly Hatchet concert T-shirt, he was nearly unrecognizable without his uniform on, looking even more like a goofy kid.

His navy blue house was an old Florida block home, small with a flat roof, probably built fifty or sixty years ago. The yard was unkempt; an old Buick was parked in front of the house. Grass grew up, around, and through it, as if the rusted-out jalopy had burst forth from the earth right there. A faint glow shone out the living room window. Someone pulled the curtains back as my truck idled there. I could only see the shadows.

“Let's go.” Crevis got in my truck, then slammed the door shut. He checked the window and slapped the dashboard twice. “We need to get moving. My dad's really lit tonight and being a jerk.” Crevis didn't seem like he wanted me to see his house or his father.

When I was young, I imagined that my father and mother were spies who had placed me in the foster-care system to protect me from their dastardly enemies, a selfless act of familial love. Unfortunately, at some point I had to grow up and face the probable truth—they simply didn't want me. Nothing noble or romantic about that.

As Crevis stared straight ahead, I wondered which was better—not knowing for sure what my parents' reasons were for abandoning me, or living with a father who apparently wanted nothing to do with his son. At least with my situation, I could make up stories and excuses for my folks, remaining in a purgatory of ignorance. Crevis, on the other hand, had to live in an unpleasant and unappealing reality. He didn't look back as we sped away.

“Are you sure you're up for this? As you saw yesterday, the bad guys are not playing around.”

“I'm in, Ray. Nothing you say can talk me out of it.”

It would take about twenty-five minutes to reach our destination—the Sanctuary, a gated community on the north side of Orlando. The farther from Bithlo we got, the more Crevis relaxed and took on his normal persona. Then he started chattering away, making me wish we were still somewhere near his home. He treated me to several of his cartoon impressions and strange animal voices. He did a fair Barney Rubble and a frighteningly good Elmer Fudd.

I nodded at the appropriate times in the conversation and would even add an uh-huh on occasion. But my mind was elsewhere and restless, working through all the possibilities in the case. It didn't take a brilliant deduction to figure out that my buddies from the parking garage were connected in some way to Chance Thompson and Club Venus. What exactly were they afraid I would discover? And how was it all connected to David and Jamie? I needed more information about Chance. Our little midnight run might help with that.

I glanced at Crevis, who was carrying on a one-sided conversation, not stopping to even breathe, while drumming a schizophrenic beat on my dashboard.

As we arrived at the Sanctuary, I stopped on the road just outside of Chance's neighborhood. A car pulled up to the call box in front of the gate. The driver lifted the phone and dialed some numbers. A few seconds later, the gate rolled open. I flicked my lights back on and followed the car, but not too close, so the driver couldn't get a good description of me, Crevis, or my truck.

“What's Chance's address?” Crevis said.

“Fourteen twenty-two Freeman Lane.” My GPS unit mounted on my windshield diagramed our way to the house. We were to follow the road as it curved around to the right, and Chance's house would be just on our left.

“I'm going to pass by his house. Then we'll get an idea of what we're dealing with.”

Chance's abode came into view: a two-story brick home with a three-car garage that could fit Crevis's whole house in it. Faux shutters bordered every window. The yard was manicured and magnificent; landscape lights lined the driveway at perfect intervals. An ample oak tree stood watch in the front yard.

The kid slunk down in his seat as we passed.

“Sit up, Crevis. You look like you're up to no good.”

“Well, aren't we?”

“Yeah, but you don't have to announce it to anyone who sees us. If you act like you're supposed to belong somewhere, nine times out often you won't draw any attention to yourself. Act natural.”

Crevis scooted back up, and I continued down the road, turning around well past Thompson's residence and stopping in front of another that was for sale and appeared to be abandoned. I shut off the lights and raised my binoculars. We were a good seven houses away, and I had a clear view of Chance's front door and driveway. I zoomed in on the door. A small motion sensor hung above the porch entrance. It was connected to a light and something else… a camera. Chance did like his security. The three corners of the house I could see had motion lights but no cameras. We'd have to be very careful.

Then I got a good eyeball on our target—Chance's trash at the curb. One man's trash is another man's treasure, so the saying goes. I prefer to say that one man's trash is another man's felony indictment. Not nearly as poetic but certainly more fun—and accurate.

I'd garnered some good info and evidence on many past cases just by garbage-picking the suspect. Personal letters, cell phone bills with call logs, drug residue, credit card and banking information—it all finds its way into the trash at one point or another. And according to the law, once it hits the curb, it's open season for the cops or whomever.

The street was well lit though. That could be a problem. I had checked Chance's address on the Orange County property appraiser's Web site. He'd built it about two years ago when development was booming. The assessed value was around three-quarters of a million dollars. Judging from Chance's posh accommodations, the adult entertainment industry certainly wasn't in a recession.

“What do we do now, Ray?”

“I want you to grab two white trash bags from someone else's garbage.” I pointed to a neighbor's can. “Then head up to Chance's house and replace his white trash bags with the two you get. I'll drive up when you're done.”

Crevis's tortured expression begged for more explanation.

“I don't want him to notice before the pickup time that some of his trash bags are missing. Otherwise, he'll know someone is investigating him. Criminals talk, and they know the techniques cops use, so we don't want to do anything to give Chance a heads-up.”

“Got it.” Crevis thrust his bony thumb in the air.

“It looks all clear right now. If I honk the horn, run or get ready for me to pick you up because something has gone wrong. Keep your cell phone on vibrate.”

Crevis nodded, then slipped out of the truck. He almost had the door closed when he opened it again. “I really think I need your gun for this.”

“Not on your life, Creighton.”

“What if something happens to me?”

“Die with dignity.”

He scowled.

“You'll be fine. Just do as I said. I'll watch your back.”

He closed the door quietly and skulked to one house away from where my truck was parked. He opened the lid on the can and reached in. He glared at me, shook his head, and frowned.

“Welcome to the wonderful world of investigations, Crevis.” He could probably see me snickering. Trash searches were a cornucopia of information, but also one of the nastiest jobs in police work.

He lifted a white trash bag out and then another. He ambled down the sidewalk toward our target, a colonnade of streetlights illuminating his path.

I zeroed in on Chance's house again. I wasn't sure if he was home or not. Lights were on inside the house, but that didn't mean much. As Crevis was nearly to the curb at Chance's house, a set of car lights turned and headed down the street—directly toward Crevis.

18

“H
IDE
, C
REVIS
,” I
SAID ALOUD
, as if he could actually hear me.

With a white trash bag in each hand, Crevis spun in a circle, looking for a place to hide. He dropped the bags next to Chances cans and sprinted to a hedge next to his garage. He slid into the bushes like he'd stolen home plate just as the car—a black Hummer with a set of running lights that would be the envy of any 747—touched down onto Chances driveway.

Crevis disappeared into the thickets shadows. Chance's poofy pelt was visible in my binos and a female accompanied him, although I couldn't get a good look at her face. The garage door opened, and Chance coasted his man-vessel in, the door closing behind it.

A few seconds later, Crevis poked his head out from behind the hedge. An upstairs light flipped on. I called Crevis's phone.

“Where is he?” Crevis answered, huffing and out of breath.

“He's in the upstairs bedroom as best I can tell. Do this quick and let's get out of here.”

Crevis hung up and replaced two of Chance's trash bags with the two from the neighbor. He jogged toward my truck, a bag in each hand.

A porch light turned on one house away from me, and a white male in his early fifties walked outside with a German shepherd on a leash. I thought I was the only person on the planet who kept these insane hours. Who walks his dog at three thirty in the morning? Didn't anyone sleep in this neighborhood? The man headed down the walkway to the sidewalk, the meaty mongrel dragging him along. I couldn't tell who was walking whom.

The dog barked at Crevis, halting him in his tracks with the trash bags at his side—busted big-time. The canine stretched its lead as the man confronted Crevis, barely able to restrain the dog. The man raised his voice, but I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying. I put my right hand on the ignition key and speed dialed Crevis with the left.

Crevis looked down at the phone on his waist as the man continued to yell at him, asking him what he was doing and saying something about the neighborhood watch.

Crevis eased the bag onto the sidewalk.

“I'm calling the police!” the man said.

Crevis slipped the phone off his belt. “Help me here, Ray.”

“Run back toward Chance's house now, and I'll drive up to you.”

Crevis hung up, slipped his phone into its pouch, smiled at the man, grabbed the second bag from the ground, then sprinted up the street away from the man.

I turned the ignition over and floored it, the tires spinning until they caught on the pavement. I kept my lights off as I sped toward Crevis. His lanky legs churned up grass as he fled, his arms flapping with the trash bags like an ostrich trying to take flight.

The man unclipped the dog's leash, and the mutt was in full sprint toward Crevis. I pulled up alongside him, and he tossed the first bag into the back, then the second. The hound from hell was gaining on him. I slowed up enough for Crevis to grab the side and jump, straddling the side of the truck bed. The dog leapt, seized his pant leg, and jerked, yanking him back.

“Drive, Ray, drive!” Crevis clung to the side of the truck—one leg in the bed, the other being shaken by the beast.

I floored it, and Crevis's camos ripped. The dog gained a souvenir of Crevis's tattered pants as it veered off to the sidewalk.

Crevis rolled into the bed with the trash. I took a corner fast, and he thumped around with the bottles and refuse. I drove to the gate to leave the Sanctuary, and it creaked open.

“Get in,” I said.

Crevis hopped out of the bed and joined me in the front seat.

“Wahoo!” Crevis punched the roof twice. “That was great.”

I hung a right on North Mills. An OPD unit passed us and turned into the Sanctuary. We got out of there just in time; I don't think the guy got my tag number.

I smacked the steering wheel. “That was easily the worst trash pull I've ever seen.”

“Yeah, but it was fun. Can we steal someone else's garbage?”

I parked behind my complex near the Dumpster and opened the truck bed. I dragged one of the plastic bags onto the tailgate and ripped it open. I didn't think Hacienda del Sol could smell any worse, and I could toss the stuff in the Dumpster when we were done.

Crevis fiddled with the torn bottom of his pant leg. I tossed him a pair of rubber gloves. “Dig in.”

I located three envelopes and sifted through them—junk mail. But if Chance responded quickly, Ed McMahon could visit him. I tossed them aside. I found his Bright House telephone bill, which included his Internet information as well. I set that in the pile we'd keep.

“What exactly are we looking for?” Crevis pinched a soiled piece of paper between his fingers and held it as far away from himself as possible.

“Papers, letters, credit card and banking information, personal items—anything that can tell us more about our good buddy Chance. Read every piece of paper. You never know what could be in here. Look for notes and phone numbers too.”

Crevis hoisted up some multicolored mystery meat in a clear plastic bag that didn't even begin to contain the rancid stench. His body convulsed and his carroty complexion turned pale, but with a great deal of strength he didn't puke on my truck. With a dull thud, Crevis dropped the bag into the trash pile.

“It would be just like this on TV,” I said, “if only they had smell-o-vision, of course.”

“This is disgusting.” Crevis braced himself on the side of the truck.

I picked up a crushed McDonald's cup and felt something rattle inside it. I ripped it open and emptied two glass cylinders into my hand. I held up the small vials.

“Testosterone enanthate.' Steroids.” Chance must have tried to hide them in the cup—like he was the first person to ever think of that. I placed them to the side. What a surprise, Chance was hitting the juice. I think his Cro-Magnon forehead and not-so-cheery disposition had already given that away.

“What's this?” Crevis held a piece of paper as he shone his flashlight on it.

“A receipt for the J & M Corporation.” The wrinkled and stained paper was for a title search for property in east Orlando. I laid it to the side to be dealt with later.

I found a one-inch-by-one-inch plastic bag containing white powder residue. “Chance has a few more drug habits than he'd like to admit.”

“What is it?”

“Probably cocaine. Looks like Chance's drug-free-workplace speech was a crock. But I don't have a test kit to confirm it.”

“Can't you just lick it or something and see if it's cocaine?” Crevis said.

“Do
you
want to lick it?” I held the bag close to his face.

“No way.” He stepped back.

“Well, neither do I. From this point forward, you are no longer allowed to watch any TV police dramas or comedies. They're ruining you for police work. Understand?”

Crevis nodded but looked sad.

“Law enforcement is a lot like kindergarten,” I said. “To start with, you never, ever put anything in your mouth.”