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
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
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