By Mark Mynheir
11 months in the past, Ray Quinn used to be a difficult, quick-witted Orlando murder detective on the best 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 demise. Numbing the discomfort with alcohol and perspective, Ray takes a role as an evening watchman at a swanky Orlando condo.But whilst a pastor and an unique dancer are came across 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 very unlikely case–to problem the facts and transparent her brother’s identify. Ray reluctantly pulls the threads of this supposedly dead-end case in simple terms to solve a homicide research so deep that it threatens to show the Orlando political panorama the wrong way up and rework previous buddies into new enemies. As Ray chases down leads and interrogates suspects, a person is observing his each stream, a person made up our minds to maintain him from ever checking out the truth–at any price.
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11 months in the past, Ray Quinn was once a difficult, quick-witted Orlando murder detective on the most sensible of his game–until a barrage of bullets ended his career…and his partner’s existence. Now medically retired with a painful handicap, Ray battles the haunting guilt for his partner’s loss of life. Numbing the ache with alcohol and angle, Ray takes a role as an evening watchman at a swanky Orlando house.
Extra info for The Night Watchman
The horror on Pam's face wasn't a pleasant memory. My chair groaned as I worked it back and forth. I glanced at the monitors to make sure the ever-vigilant ghost chaser was waging his war against midnight monotony. Crevis passed by the rear camera for the umpteenth time. He was still good for a while longer. If Hendricks killed Jamie and himself, why did he use the pillow to silence the shot? Maybe there was a good reason, but only David, or someone else, would know. Why was the round impact so low on the wall?
As much as sleep was possible. My mouth was dry and nasty. I checked out my frame in the full-length mirror on my closet door. My right leg—wrinkled and emaciated—looked like someone crept in during the night and switched it with an old man's. I grabbed my pants off the hook on my closet door and laid them on the floor. I slipped both feet in and sat back on the bed. I used my left foot to hook the waistband and lift up about eight inches so I didn't have to bend more at the hip. My left hand cinched them up and just over my knees.
About half of the apartments were occupied; many were being remodeled or were in various stages of decay. A pool sits smack-dab in the center of the complex with all the apartments facing it. Well, it should be called more of a pond than a pool since the pump didn't work. The water was a gummy shade of green—I swear you could walk on the patches of algae that floated on it—and the stench could make a landfill seem like a garden. My one-bedroom apartment was on the bottom floor, so I didn't have to climb the stairs.