By Mark Mynheir
11 months in the past, Ray Quinn used to be a tricky, quick-witted Orlando murder detective on the most sensible of his game–until a barrage of bullets ended his career…and his partner’s life.Now medically retired with a painful handicap, Ray battles the haunting guilt for his partner’s dying. Numbing the soreness with alcohol and perspective, Ray takes a role as an evening watchman at a swanky Orlando condo.But while a pastor and an unique dancer are discovered useless in a single of the condos in an obvious murder-suicide, Ray can now not linger within the shadows. The pastor’s sister is confident her brother was once framed and begs Ray to tackle an most unlikely case–to problem the proof and transparent her brother’s identify. Ray reluctantly pulls the threads of this supposedly dead-end case in basic terms to resolve a homicide research so deep that it threatens to show the Orlando political panorama the other way up and remodel outdated acquaintances into new enemies. As Ray chases down leads and interrogates suspects, anyone is observing his each movement, an individual made up our minds to maintain him from ever checking out the truth–at any price.
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Extra info for The Night Watchman
I'm not a coffee connoisseur by any stretch, and I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those expensive java shops, forking out five bucks for a cup. Coffee is merely my caffeine delivery system, and I prefer it hot, black, and strong enough to chip a tooth. If they ever made a caffeine IV drip, I'd be the first in line for it. I downed my first cup and hiked out to get the paper—the file maybe ten feet from me as I passed. It looked thick, but since I didn't really care what the stupid thing contained, I picked up the Orlando Sentinel and would peruse the mayhem in Mickey land before I got moving for the day.
I waited for a second. Still nothing. I unlocked the door and eased it open. “Mr. Hendricks, it's the night watchman. ” Pam stepped around me as we entered the living room. No one was there. The living room was nice with an open kitchen area. Nothing opulent, but not a bad place for a single guy. Sure beat my digs. Pam walked into the kitchen and over to the phone on the counter. The message light flashed. I stayed where I was because I didn't feel comfortable milling around someone's apartment.
He chuckled; Mr. Savastio did not. I shrugged. ” Mr. Savastio said. “Will owner be able to clean the apartment and get it on the market? ” “I don't think this owner is going to be selling anything anytime soon,” I said. ” The manager pointed his little crooked finger back and forth between Crevis and me. “That's why we pay for security… to feel secure. ” He twirled in a circle with his hands in the air. “Crime scene tape. Policemen everywhere. ” “First, we were off duty when these people died,” I said.