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

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Yes, sir.” He offered Marco a menu. “I assume you’ll have the regular, Mayor, yes?”

  “Oh, yes.” Osborn leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I always get the prime rib dip. Mrs. Osborn would scold me for it, but it’s Nando’s and my little secret. Isn’t it, Nando?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nando, smiling at him.

  “You’ll love it. And bring Captain D’Angelo a Manhattan too.”

  Marco’s gaze flashed up to the maître d’. “No, thank you, sir, I’m on duty.”

  Osborn waved him off. “One drink won’t hurt you, Captain.”

  Marco drew a deep breath and held it for a moment. “Actually, Mayor, it will. I’m an alcoholic.”

  The mayor’s face registered surprise.

  Marco shrugged. “And a vegetarian.” He glanced at the menu. “I’ll have the eggplant parmesan.”

  The mayor sat back in the booth, eyeing Marco with renewed interest. “You are a basketful of mysteries, aren’t you, Captain? Very intriguing.”

  Marco didn’t know how to respond to that, so he didn’t. Nando gave a short bow and walked away. A few other people entered the restaurant, spotted the mayor and waved. Osborn waved back at them, but his attention was fixated on Marco.

  “So, how are things with Abraham Jefferson?”

  Marco scratched the back of his neck. How was he going to steer this conversation to the task force and then to Lowell Murphy? “Abe’s good.”

  “You live with him, don’t you?”

  “Not anymore. I moved out.”

  “Oh, got your own place now?”

  “No, sir, I’m living with my past partner, Peyton Brooks. We’re in a relationship.”

  Osborn’s expression sobered and he picked up his Manhattan, taking a sip. “I see. Well, good for you, young man. Brooks? Why is that name familiar?”

  “She solved the Janitor serial killer case.”

  “Right. She’s with the FBI now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Huh. The two of you must struggle to find time to be together.”

  “We do. She’s in Mexico right now.”

  He nodded and sipped some more. “It’s difficult maintaining a relationship when your job is as demanding as ours.” His eyes drifted over Marco’s shoulder and he waved again.

  Marco glanced back, noticing another group of people moving toward a table. “It is, but it’s rewarding, especially when we solve cases, like the ones we have now.”

  Osborn’s gaze snapped back to his face. “Yes, the Jamaad Jones case. What a tragedy. Are you going ahead with the barbecue tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you contact the Smokestack for catering?”

  “No, sir. We actually thought we’d do the barbecuing ourselves. It might accomplish more than paying for it to be catered. We’re buying hamburgers and hotdogs in bulk and my CSI has promised to man the grill.”

  Osborn smiled again, his good humor returning. “That’s brilliant, Captain. Much more personal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have a fund set aside for this task force. In fact, there’s enough money to hire a few permanent employees. A secretary and you can give yourself a stipend from it. I’ll have my secretary send you all of the information about that tomorrow.”

  “I was thinking more that I’d get it started, then maybe see if I could bring on a community organizer to get it running on a permanent basis.”

  “Even better.” He sipped his drink and leaned forward again. “That’s the problem, isn’t it, Captain?”

  “What, sir?”

  “The networking, the getting out there and meeting people. Who has time for it? But if we don’t establish relationships, we don’t get information. We gotta shake hands and talk to people. Then they’ll be willing to come forward with information. Like in the Jamaad Jones case. You’ve got to establish trust with the neighborhoods, you’ve got to rub elbows with the people on the street, or they aren’t going to tell you what you want to know.” The mayor sipped his drink, his gaze moving toward the door again. He held the drink up in a salute.

  “Like Lowell Murphy,” said Marco, taking a chance.

  Osborn’s eyes slowly moved down and pinned him. “Lowell Murphy?” A muscle beneath his eye ticked. “Another tragic death.”

  “It was.”

  “I thought his roommate did it. Wasn’t it a homophobic act of rage?”

  Marco kept his gaze steady on Osborn. He marked the slight shaking of his hand as he lowered his empty drink. Nando appeared a moment later with a refill. Interesting. Clearly Osborn was used to tossing back a few at lunch.

  “The roommate was released. He had an alibi.”

  Osborn tilted up his chin. “Then do the police think it was a home invasion gone bad?”

  “No,” said Marco, knowing that he might lose everything he’d gained if he wasn’t very careful. “They think it was an execution.”

  Osborn swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “An execution?”

  “One bullet, back of the skull.” Marco made a gun with his hand and fired it. Osborn jerked. “With a silencer, no less.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “The neighbors were home. No one heard anything.”

  Osborn rubbed a hand over his mouth. “This is grim talk for a luncheon, Captain.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Is it bothering you? I was only trying to make the case for why this task force is so important.” He held out his hands. “Our job is only as good as the intelligence we get. If witnesses don’t come forward, if people don’t tell us what they heard or saw or…know…we can’t solve these cases.”

  Osborn reached for the new drink, but his hand was shaking. He closed his fingers around it, but didn’t lift it to his lips. “I can imagine, Captain D’Angelo.”

  “So, you see, it’s imperative that we know everything we can about a case, make every connection we can. Otherwise, murderers go free and…well, Mayor, sometimes they commit other murders.”

  Nando appeared at their table, setting down their meals. The mayor stared at his for a moment as if he didn’t remember ordering it. Then he fumbled in his pocket for his phone and pulled it out, looking at the display.

  “Is there anything else I can bring you, Mayor?” Nando asked.

  Osborn’s head jerked up and he stared at the man, then blinked a few times. “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping a bead of sweat from his upper lip. “I have to go.” He met Marco’s gaze. “I have an emergency back at City Hall. Can you box this up for me, Nando?”

  “Certainly, Mayor.” He picked up the plate.

  “Put both meals on my tab, please.” Lifting his Manhattan, he downed half the glass. “I’ll square up with you tomorrow.”

  “Of course, Mayor.”

  Marco looked down. He’d hit a nerve and possibly ended the task force before it began, but one thing was clear. Mayor Harlan Osborn knew more than he let on about Lowell Murphy’s murder.

  Rising halfway, Osborn brought himself close to Marco. “Captain D’Angelo?”

  Marco looked up at him.

  “I have faith you’ll find out who committed both murders. Jamaad Jones was a boy, just starting his life. He deserved a future and it was robbed from him. As for Lowell Murphy, he served his country. He was a patriot. He deserved better than he got.”

  Marco narrowed his eyes in confusion. What the hell was this?

  “I will have my secretary send you the financial information on the task force and all the information you need to hire whoever you see fit. I trust you will pick the right people to run such an important venture. Let me know if you need anything else, Captain.”

  Marco didn’t know how to respond. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Osborn had blindsided him with a magnanimous gesture. Was it to disorient him and throw him off Osborn’s trail or was it genuine?

  “Thank you, Mayor,” he said, trying to hide his confusion.

  Osborn nodded and moved
out of the booth. He held his hand out to Marco and Marco took it. Osborn covered it with both of his own. “Find out who killed those young men, Captain D’Angelo. We can’t have such tragedies in our beautiful city, now can we?”

  Then he released Marco and walked away, stopping to exchange a few words with people as he headed to the door, any semblance of an emergency forgotten. Marco thought about the encounter for a moment. He still believed Osborn knew something about Murphy’s death, but he wasn’t sure what. And if he’d committed it himself, he was the most cold blooded murderer Marco had ever seen.

  * * *

  Stan’s apartment was a walk-up in the Outer Richmond District, one of the less expensive places to live in San Francisco. The building was cream colored, four stories tall, the bottom floor a garage and ground level entrance. Stan’s apartment was on the floor above the garage – a two bedroom flat with a small galley kitchen, a living room with three small windows overlooking the street and a roommate, who wore thicker glasses than Stan and still had acne.

  As Marco, Abe and Jake entered the apartment, they were met with the smell of pizza. An open pizza box sat on the square coffee table. A futon couch and two armchairs made up the rest of the furniture, but the most remarkable part was the floor to ceiling glass cabinets that displayed action figures of every variety in their original boxes. Between the glass cabinets were movie posters in lacquered black frames of superhero movies, and on a wall next to the kitchen entrance was a massive oak bookcase, bursting with paperback novels. Interspersed between the novels were black boxes with labels that listed various comic book series and the dates for the issues.

  Jake stared, open-mouthed, turning a complete circle in the middle of the room. Abe hung back with Marco in the doorway, a hand on Marco’s shoulder as if he wasn’t quite sure it was safe to enter.

  Marco gave Stan a tight smile. “Hey, Stan.”

  “Hey, Captain,” said Stan, then he motioned to the man sitting in one of the armchairs. “This is my roommate, Douglas Archer Brown.”

  Douglas Archer Brown unfolded himself from the chair and held out his hand. His palm was damp, but Marco resisted the impulse to scrub his hand on his pants leg. He stood about six one or six two, thin with rounded shoulders and a concave chest. His jeans were hiked high around his waist and he wore a button-down shirt tucked into his trousers. A pair of white athletic socks covered his long, narrow feet. His brown hair was shaggy and hung in his eyes, and his black rimmed glasses made his dark eyes seem enormous. He had a lean face, a narrow chin, and a faint dusting of hair above his upper lip. Acne scars marred his cheeks and chin and forehead.

  “This is Captain D’Angelo, Jake Ryder, and Abe Jefferson. Abe’s the M.E.”

  Douglas shook hands with Jake and Abe. Abe smiled politely, but Marco noticed he rubbed his hand on Marco’s shirt sleeve after he released Douglas’ hand.

  “Come in. I ordered a pizza for us,” said Stan, motioning to the table. “Take the chair, Captain. It’s easier to get out of than the futon.”

  Marco started to move toward the chair, but Abe clutched his arm. Shaking him off, he crutched over to the seat by the window and sank into it.

  “I got vegetarian,” offered Stan.

  “Thanks,” said Marco.

  Stan looked at Abe and Jake. “I have soda or I think there might be beer in the fridge. What can I get you?”

  “Beer,” said Jake, plopping onto the couch and helping himself to a slice of pizza.

  “Just water,” said Abe, perching on the edge of the futon next to Jake. He gave the Southwestern pattern a dubious look.

  “Captain?” Stan asked.

  “Water. Thanks, Stan.”

  Douglas went back to his seat. “So, Stan says you got shot.”

  Marco glanced over at him, distracted by Abe’s shifting back and forth on the futon. “Yeah.”

  “Cool,” said Douglas.

  Jake stopped eating, the pizza nearly in his mouth. Marco quirked an eyebrow at the young man. “What do you do for a living, Douglas?” he asked, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice. Why the hell was he here again, damn it!

  “I’m a computer engineer for Google.”

  “I see.”

  Douglas nodded, then grabbed a piece of pizza, shoving the end in his mouth without worrying about a plate. Abe made a little gasping sound. Stan returned and gave them their drinks. “Help yourself,” he said, reaching for a paper plate and piling it with slices.

  Abe bit his bottom lip, then he grabbed two plates and put a slice on each of them, carrying one to Marco in his chair. Then to Marco’s surprise, he took a seat on the arm of the chair, crossing his long legs.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Jake cleared his throat, reaching to gather the used plates. “So about the Wizards of Shadynotch Convention…”

  “The WOS?” said Douglas. “You’re going to the WOS?”

  Abe blinked rapidly. “Wuss?”

  “No,” said Stan with a laugh. “Not wuss, WOS.”

  Abe placed a hand at his throat. “Forgive me. The distinction is obvious.”

  Marco hid his smile.

  “Yeah, we’re going tomorrow night.”

  “You didn’t tell me? Am I not invited?” complained Douglas.

  “Of course you’re invited.” Stan looked over at Marco. “We always go to the WOS together.”

  “Sure.”

  “Jake’s interested this year and I thought it might be fun to get a larger group together,” Stan explained to Douglas.

  “You’re going as Wizard Straycloud, right?”

  “Of course.” Stan turned to Marco. “I always go as Wizard Straycloud. Douglas is Wizard Stormharbinger.”

  “Sure,” he said again.

  “What can I be, Stan?” asked Jake.

  “Let me get out our costumes.” Stan rose to his feet and disappeared into the hallway.

  “I’m always Wizard Stormharbinger,” Douglas told Jake.

  Jake nodded. “He’s cool. He controls the weather, right?”

  “No, he controls lightning. Wizard Straycloud controls the clouds.” Douglas gave Marco a seriously look.

  “Sure,” Marco said once more.

  Abe nudged him with his foot. “He means that’s fascinating.”

  Stan came back into the room, pulling a rolling clothing rack with him. Abe reached out and grabbed Marco’s arm, squeezing it, and Jake leaned forward, his eyes going wide. Marco wasn’t sure what the hell he was looking at. He recognized some uniforms that might be Star Trek and some that might come from Star Wars, but that was about it. He saw wizard’s robes, leather pants, leather vests, hats, and fake beards. On the bottom of the rack was a black case that Stan removed and placed on the coffee table next to the empty pizza box.

  “What about Tanner Darkarrow?” suggested Stan, pulling out some leather pants and a leather vest. “We’re about the same height, Jake.”

  Jake rose to his feet and took the leather gear. “He’s a hero, right? He has a sword?”

  Stan rifled through the garments on the rack and came up with a sheath. The hilt of a sword stuck out of the top. Jake quickly dropped the leather stuff and drew the sword, exclaiming over the scrollwork on the blade.

  “Wow, this is amazing.”

  “It’s just a cheap replica,” said Douglas. “I have a real replica of the Darkarrow sword hanging over my bed.” He gave Marco a knowing nod. “I can show it to you later. It’s worth a thousand any day.”

  “Sure,” Marco heard himself say again, wondering why Douglas seemed intent on commiserating with him.

  “What about me, Stan?” said Abe, watching Jake handle the sword. “I think I’d make a great wizard, don’t you?”

  “Oh, definitely.” Stan pulled out a robe in royal blue with glimmering silver and gold stars and half-moons all over it. It was definitely something Abe would treasure. “You remind me most of High Wizard Sunchaser. He’s the leader of all the wizards.”

 
Abe nudged Marco with his hand. “Hear that? High Wizard? That’s me.”

  “Sure,” Marco said and sighed.

  As Abe rose and tried on his robe, Stan gave Marco a once-over. “You’re just so much taller than the rest of us,” he said, “it’s gonna be hard to find anything to fit.”

  “What are you thinking of having him go as?” asked Douglas.

  “All of our wizard robes will be too short.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And there’s no way he’ll fit into the leather pants.”

  “Nope.”

  Marco’s gaze volleyed back and forth between them in alarm.

  “Does he have black jeans?”

  “Do you, Captain?”

  “Sure?”

  “He could wear black jeans and a vest. I can probably adjust one of my leather vests for his shoulders. Then he could go as an ogre.”

  Abe made a mewl of protest, but no one paid him any attention.

  Stan nodded, then turned to the rack, rifling through it again until he pulled out a large rough cotton shirt with ties at the throat. “This is huge on me. It might fit him.”

  “He can’t be an ogre,” complained Abe. “He’s too pretty.”

  “Ogre is good,” said Marco, immensely relieved he wouldn’t have to wear the leather vest without a shirt. He didn’t give a damn what he went as.

  “I have a prosthetic nose and brows that will make over his looks,” said Stan, handing Jake the cotton shirt. He opened his case and lifted out a bulbous nose and heavy brow ridge.

  “No!” protested Abe.

  “Fine,” said Marco, realizing no one would recognize him in that get-up.

  “Hell yes!” said Jake.

  Stan made a face. “Although, the rubber from the prosthetics always gives me a terrible rash.”

  Marco sighed.

  Abe reached over and cupped Marco’s chin. “You can’t give this face a rash, Stan.”

  “You’re right. It actually makes me blister, and pus comes out.”

  Marco’s eyes widened, but Jake gave him a gleeful grin. “So? It might not affect him that way.”

  “I can’t get blisters and pus, Stan,” Marco said as reasonably as he could.

  “I know you can’t, Captain.”