The Night Watchman Read Online Free PDF Page A

a small desk next to the wall with my laptop on it. A painting of John Wayne—the greatest action hero who ever lived—held a prominent place on the wall above my television. He's mounted on his steed and keeps a steady eye on the place. I own a copy of every movie John Wayne ever appeared in, all 170 of them, even the ones from the twenties when he was a bit actor.
    I took a college class on film critiques and appreciation, just so I could understand a little more about the Duke's brilliance. I scanned my collection for any possible selections. Nothing looked promising today, and I wasn't up for surfing the Internet.
    A heavy bag hung from the ceiling between the kitchen and the hallway to my bedroom, not that I've hit it with any force since getting out of the hospital. I gave it a courtesy bump with my shoulder. Although I'd never be able to kick it again, I considered attempting some punches. My right arm had finally healed from the round that broke it just above my elbow. It might be strong enough now to take the workout, but I just didn't have the will to try. Maybe someday I'd give it a shot, but not today.
    My good friend Jim was about to show up.
    I retrieved a can of Coke from the fridge, then reached underneath the sink and removed the pint of Jim Beam. I hadn't taken a pain med since earlier last night. I'm not up for mixing meds and booze, lest I become the newest client for my old unit to investigate. Pampas would probably post a picture of my dead body on the Internet or something. Didn't want to give him that pleasure.
    I filled the glass with three fingers of whiskey then dropped in a teaspoon of Coke to add a little color. Didn't want to put in too much soda or I'd lose my girlish figure. The first swig was always the hardest. My eyes watered a bit as Jim's fierce punch made its way down my gullet. This one had a bite to it. But it would help with the pain, and maybe the leg too.
    The night's events rolled through my mind like a runaway freight train without brakes. Why did it have to be my old unit? Couldn't they have found the scene on day shift when I wouldn't have to deal with it?
    I tipped another swig down as my body started to loosen up. I hurried to chase the first drink with another, going even lighter on the Coke. If I wanted to get any sleep at all this morning, I'd have to dance a lot with Jim.
    It wasn't the crime scene that unnerved me, although it's never fun to see mangled people. Nor was it the victim's poor sister getting traumatized. It was the looks on everyone's faces and what wasn't said.
    No one mentioned the shooting—or Trisha.
    That kinda surprised me. Like she just up and vanished for no reason. Or worse, never existed at all. She hadn't vanished to me. Quite the contrary.
    Trisha is forever etched on my brain… and my heart.
    Pampas's eyes had mocked me, like everyone else's, but they showed the good sense not to speak it. Since the shooting I'd stayed away from the station to avoid this very thing. The chief gave me the same look that first day at the hospital after my surgery; and the union guys who helped with my medical retirement; and Oscar, despite his words; and every other cop I'd seen since that day They all had the same convicting stare, filled with unspoken accusations aimed right at my heart.
    I was the idiot who messed up and got himself crippled… and his partner killed.
    I slugged another jolt of Jim down, but even he couldn't numb everything.

5
    One Month Later
    I N ANY CONFRONTATION , the first punch always hurts the worst.
    I developed this little truism during my kickboxing years when I'd leave the relative comfort of my corner and take that first juicy shot in the chops. After that, my body would be mostly numb for the rest of the fight and could take the abuse the sport required.
    This crossed my mind as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment because I was formulating a similar theory regarding my visits with precious Helga. When she first digs her