Mayan Gods in the Yucatan (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 5)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Inspector Nathan Cho and Inspector Bill Simons. They’re my most senior detectives.”

  “Good. Do they have any leads?”

  “Not to speak of. It was a drive-by. A few witnesses saw a late model Lincoln, but that was all. No one thought to get a license plate number.”

  “Okay.” She sipped at her coffee. “Damn, this is really good coffee.”

  “Anything else you want to know?”

  “Was Jamaad Jones in a gang?”

  “He was seventeen years old. He was an average student at school. He had a perfect attendance record. At this point, we can’t place him in a gang, but that could change.”

  She nodded. “Now, was that so hard, Captain?”

  “We’ll see. Is it my turn yet?”

  “Yeah. What do you want to know about Osborn?”

  “Is he gay?”

  “As Richard Simons.”

  “Come again.”

  She waved him off and bounced her foot some more. “Yes, he’s gay.”

  “But he’s married.”

  “Right. No married man has ever turned out to be gay. Cole Porter, Rock Hudson, Oscar Wilde, Anthony Perkins.”

  “Okay, I get you.” He blew out air. This one was going to be a challenge. She was smart and quick and didn’t have a lot of respect for his position. “Has he had many affairs that you know of?”

  “I know he was involved with someone recently. They’d hook up at the Fairmont. He likes them young and handsome. He showers them with gifts.”

  “How does he keep it out of the news?”

  She shrugged, setting the coffee cup on his desk. “I don’t much care who he’s sleeping with to be honest as long as he doesn’t stonewall me. He shut down that shelter for gay teens in the Tenderloin, then refused to talk to me about it. It just might be time to out him.” She fluffed her hair. “The way I figure it, I’d be doing him a favor.”

  “His last lover wound up with a bullet in the back of his head, Ms. McLeod. You might wanna show some restraint.”

  “Lowell Murphy?”

  “You know who he was?”

  “I know you’re investigating his murder, I know you’re asking me about the mayor, so it isn’t too hard to put two and two together.”

  “Do you think Harlan Osborn is capable of murder?”

  “Isn’t that supposed to be what you figure out, Captain?”

  “I’m asking your professional opinion.”

  She bounced her foot and chewed her gum. “Well, I know he wants to be governor and he’s willing to get in bed, pardon the pun, with some sketchy characters.”

  “Victor Maziar?”

  She tapped her index finger against her nose.

  “Do you know much about Victor Maziar?”

  “I know that he’s got Russian mob connections.”

  “Can you prove that?”

  “I’m working on it.” She rustled around in her big bag, then pulled out a wrinkled photo and slapped it on the desk before Marco.

  He reached for it, seeing a spray painted word on the whitewashed perimeter wall in front of a mansion. He was pretty sure he recognized the mansion. “Is this the mayor’s home?”

  “Yep.”

  “What language is this?” He pointed to the spray paint.

  “Russian.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “I’m not sure. I tried to translate it, but it’s hard to read. I must have some letters wrong.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Lee poked his head inside. “Sorry to bother you, Captain, but Officer Price would like to see you.”

  “Tell him to come in.”

  Price stepped into the room, wearing his uniform. Harper’s gaze roved over the young man from head to foot and she gave a slow smile.

  “Nice,” she said.

  He ducked his head to her. “Ma’am,” he said, then he turned to Marco. “Sorry to bother you, Captain, but I had an idea and I wanted to run it by you.”

  “An idea?”

  “About the Jamaad Jones case.” He shot a look at Harper.

  “I’m all ears,” she said, giving him a sultry wink.

  He shifted uncomfortably, turning his uniform hat in his hands.

  “Go on, Danté,” Marco urged.

  “Danté?” purred Harper. “How exotic.”

  A blush painted Danté’s dark cheeks and he averted his gaze from her. Marco knew he should send her from the room, but he wanted to get back to their discussion. “Captain, I was wondering if I could change into plainclothes and go knock on the neighbor’s doors for information about Jamaad Jones. A lot of the people in that neighborhood distrust cops and I thought maybe if I didn’t look so much like a cop, maybe they’d talk to me.”

  Marco considered that. He didn’t like the young man going out there by himself, but it wasn’t a bad idea. Hunters Point was primarily African American and Danté was right. A lot of the people had good reason to be distrustful of the police. “I don’t want you going alone.” He set the picture down on his desk. Danté’s eyes strayed to it. “I guess it wouldn’t help if Bartlet went with you in plainclothes?”

  Danté’s pale brown eyes snapped to Marco’s face. “Um, Captain, Bartlet’s a little conspicuous.”

  “Oh, he’s super white, is he?” said Harper.

  Danté shot a look at her, then focused on Marco again. “I’m sorry, Captain, but…”

  “No, you’re right. Okay, I agree, but I want you to take Cho with you. I don’t want you going alone.”

  A flash of a smile touched the young man’s mouth. “Thank you, Captain. I appreciate it.”

  “Just be careful,” Marco warned.

  “Yes, sir.” He turned to go, then stopped and turned back around. “I’m sorry, Captain. I don’t mean to butt in, but that graffiti…”

  Marco’s brows rose. “Yeah, we don’t know what it says.”

  “I do.”

  Harper let out a noise of disbelief.

  Marco’s eyes snapped to Danté’s face. “You know Russian?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How?”

  “Well, sir, I haven’t told you yet, but I have an eidetic memory.”

  “A what now?” asked Marco.

  “Photographic memory,” said Harper, sitting forward. “Holy shit! Are you serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “Ma’am,” she scoffed. “We’re about the same age, dude.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he repeated.

  “What do you mean you have a photographic memory?” asked Marco.

  “I do, sir. I just do.”

  “Why are you a cop?” asked Marco in bewilderment.

  “Word!” said Harper.

  Danté shot another look at her, then focused on Marco. “My family believes the greatest role for a person is to serve his fellow man. This is how I felt I could best serve, sir.”

  Harper snorted and slumped back in her chair. “Seriously?”

  “Enough!” Marco told her, focusing on the kid. “You know Russian?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else?”

  “Spanish and French. I’m better at writing than speaking, but I can speak it if necessary. I’m trying to learn Cantonese now, but I’m wondering if I should learn Mandarin first.”

  Marco stared, his mouth hanging open. This kid was amazing. He picked up the photo. “What does this say, Danté?”

  “нет предателей means no traitors.”

  “Get out!” said Harper, shoving him in the side.

  He staggered, but his gaze never left Marco.

  “No traitors,” Marco repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well, as I said, getting into bed with someone like Victor Maziar might not be good for one’s health,” offered Harper.

  “What does this have to do with Lowell Murphy’s murder though?”

  “No clue.”

  “If the mayor is taking money from the Russian mob, did
he do something to brand himself a traitor in their eyes?”

  “Or is it a warning?” said Harper.

  Marco rubbed the back of his neck. “Damned if I know.” His gaze rose to Danté. “Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

  “Anytime, Captain,” said the kid.

  Marco studied him a moment. Having a kid like this, with people like Stan and Jake behind him, could make a crime fighting team unlike any the other precincts had, but what if this kid got bored? Marco didn’t like the idea of him being in danger, but he knew he needed to keep him occupied if he wanted to keep him.

  “Good luck with the neighbors. Do you want me to talk to Cho about your idea or do you want to handle it?”

  “I’ll talk with him, Captain.”

  “Good. Brief me when you get back.”

  “Yes, sir,” he said, then he nodded at Harper. “Ma’am.”

  Harper shook her head in amusement. “Mr. Spock,” she answered.

  He gave her a bewildered look, then left the room.

  Harper turned back to Marco. “He’s adorable. A little stiff, but damn, did you see him translate that Russian like it was Pig Latin?”

  Marco nodded, his attention on the door. How the hell was he going to keep someone with Danté Price’s intellect challenged here in homicide?

  * * *

  “He has an eidetic memory,” said Marco, reaching across the counter and taking the salad bowl and tongs from Peyton. He tossed the salad.

  “An eidetic memory?” she asked, grabbing a pot holder and removing the bread from the oven.

  “Photographic memory.”

  “And so he speaks Russian?”

  “He says he reads it better than speaks it.”

  Peyton set the cookie tray on the counter by the sink and gave him a puzzled look. “Why would the Russian mob paint that on the mayor’s fence?”

  “The reporter thinks it might be a warning to keep the mayor in line. If they’ve donated to his campaign, they might be insisting he deliver on his promises.”

  “Hm. So he’s courting some bad money and they’re making him pay up? Why am I not surprised with that guy?”

  “Did you ever think he was gay?”

  She shrugged, then picked up the knife and transferred the bread to the cutting board. “He made a big deal out of being the family values guy, which always seemed a little weird for San Francisco. It isn’t like that’s a big flag waving moment for us.”

  “But his ambitions have always been beyond San Francisco.”

  She pointed the knife at him. “They have, so I guess it makes sense he wouldn’t want that part of his life out in the open.”

  Marco chewed on his lip, his eyes going distant. “I will never understand politicians. You have this job that’s in the public eye like no other, but you think you can hide things. They always get outed. No matter what. Why do they do it?”

  Peyton started cutting the bread, placing it in a basket. “I’m not sure, but it must be hard to live such a big lie. You said the reporter said he gave his lovers a lot of expensive gifts. What did he give Lowell Murphy?”

  “Kurt Foster said it was a watch. When I talked with him tonight at the group meeting, he said it was engraved.”

  “What did it say?”

  “ from Sugar Bear. We can’t find it.”

  “That’s pretty distinctive. I mean if someone wanted to get rid of it. Have you checked pawn shops?”

  Marco smiled. “You’re brilliant. We’ll get on that tomorrow.”

  She finished with the bread and tossed Pickles a bit of the crust. He caught it in midair. She passed Marco the plates and the silverware, then set the basket on the counter next to the salad.

  Coming around the counter, she laid her hand on his arm, then took the seat next to him. “So, what are you going to do to keep the Price kid interested in being a police officer?”

  “Right,” he said, dishing salad onto his plate and passing it to her. “I don’t know.”

  “He said he wants to be a detective, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but he’s green, Peyton, and so damn young.”

  “If he takes the detective test, he’ll pass it, won’t he?”

  Marco nodded. “But I have to approve him taking it.”

  “How are you going to stop him?” She dished salad onto her plate. “You’ll lose him if you try to stop him from advancing.”

  He accepted the basket from her and took a piece of garlic bread, setting it on his plate. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. I keep wondering if Bill Simons might not have too many more years in him.”

  She hesitated, her eyes meeting his. “Are you serious?”

  “This last case, the seventeen year old kid, really seemed to hit him hard. His youngest is seventeen. As far as we can figure, Jamaad Jones wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was just going home after playing some street ball with his friends. Bill said they blew the kid’s brains out. For what?”

  She covered his hand with her own. “I don’t know, Marco. I’ve never understood that.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Let’s drop this for now. Not good dinner conversation. Did Radar get anything off the videos?”

  “Not yet. He and I looked at a couple weeks of them, but nothing.”

  “I had Stan print those pictures you sent to my phone. They’re in the bedroom if you want them.”

  “Good. Did you delete them off your phone?”

  “Yeah, Stan said he moved them to a secure server. He looked up the license plate number on the car, but it was a rental from an outfit at the airport. Renter paid in cash.”

  “I figured it might be.” She sighed. “Rosa was pretty freaked out. It was like some spy movie thing.”

  “Or FBI drama,” he quipped, nudging her with his shoulder.

  She laughed. “Right. Or FBI drama.” Picking up her fork, she dug into her salad. “Eat, D’Angelo, I made this dressing from scratch, then Mama D sent over some homemade chocolate ice cream. We almost had that instead of salad for dinner, let me tell you.”

  He smiled at her, then leaned over and kissed her temple. “Never change, sweetheart,” he said in her ear. “Never change.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Stan Neumann, Marco’s tech guy, said the license number on the Lincoln was from a rental company at the airport. The guy paid for the rental in cash,” said Peyton.

  “But they must have papers on him? He had to sign something to get the car. Insurance waivers, rental agreements?”

  Peyton held up an empty hand. “We probably need a warrant to get that information.”

  Rosa nodded. “I’ll do that. What’s going on with the video feed outside your office? Any news on the break-in?”

  “Radar and I have looked at a lot of weeks of film. We’re still plowing through it, but we don’t have anything yet.”

  “The file went back to Las Vegas?”

  “Yeah, and so did the evidence box.”

  “Radar wanted to look inside and see if the napkins were still there with the numbers on them.”

  “He checked with Myron. Myron opened the box and the napkins were still there.”

  Rosa tapped her pen on her blotter. “But he still says the coin wasn’t in there?”

  Peyton shook her head. “And it wasn’t on the manifest.”

  “Does Sarah Campbell, Tank’s wife, have any more information about the coin?”

  “Professor Bishara, her associate, had the most information, but without being able to test the coin itself he can’t authenticate anything. However, he did tell Tank and me that some coins were found in 2013 by Iraqi archaeologists and he suspected our coin might be from that same cache.”

  “But he can’t prove it unless he has the coin?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Radar said you got a picture when you were in London, a text message,” pressed Rosa.

  “Of Senator Lange and Isaac Daws together, but when I questioned Lange’s assistant about it, he assured me Lan
ge had never met with Daws before.”

  “Could it have just been a photo op with the troops sort of thing?”

  “Sure.”

  Rosa considered that. “But then why did Mark Turner want to come out here and talk to you in person?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And why did he die?”

  Peyton nodded in agreement.

  Rosa blew out air. “Okay, well, let’s get through the rest of the video feed today, if we can. I wanna know who broke into your office. Then we’ll decide our next move.”

  “On it.” Peyton rose to her feet.

  “I hear you have a session with Stryker today?”

  Peyton’s dark eyes lifted and pinned Rosa, searching her. Rosa forced herself not to shift uncomfortably. “Yeah, I wanna make sure I still have the edge.”

  “Good,” Rosa said. “He’s the best.”

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “Well, um, go get ‘em.”

  Peyton gave her an amused look. “Sure. I’ll do that.” Then she strode from the room.

  Rosa rubbed her hand over her forehead. Go get ‘em? What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t want anyone to know about her and Adrian, so why did she go around acting weird about it?

  Time to concentrate on something else. Joe Miller popped into her mind instantly. Grabbing the mouse, she clicked on her contacts and pulled up Ellie Koster’s number. Reaching for the receiver, she dialed it. Ellie answered on the first ring.

  “Agent Koster,” she said, her voice low with just a hint of a southern accent.

  “Ellie, it’s Rosa Alvarez. How are you?”

  “Rosa?” repeated Ellie. “I’ll be damned. How are you, girl? What’s going on in Frisco?”

  “San Francisco,” Rosa corrected. “Everything’s fine. How are things there in D.C.?”

  “Good, real good. I just came back to work this week in fact.”

  “Really? Where were you?”

  “I’ve been on maternity leave. I had a baby girl. We named her Mary Todd, for Mary Todd Lincoln.”

  “Oh, wow, how…clever,” Rosa managed to get out. “A baby girl. Congratulations. How long were you out?”

  “Three months. It was a wonderful bonding time for us. It’s was real hard coming back, I can tell you, but the mortgage don’t pay itself, now does it?”