“Perfect.”
Tank gave Mike a final nod. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” said Mike and Tank walked away. Mike popped a chip in his mouth. “What cold case?”
“I can’t discuss an on-going investigation, Mike. You should know that.”
“I do. I just thought you might give me the basics, seeing as we’re going to be colleagues soon.”
Peyton sputtered on her soda. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?”
Mike shrugged. “I believe in kismet. If this is meant to be, and I think it is, then I will be working here shortly.”
Peyton bit her inner lip. That was awesome. She could just imagine Marco’s reaction when he found out her latest scheme.
* * *
Marco entered the precinct, his eyes landing on Carly’s desk, which was empty as usual. He sighed and pushed open the half-door. Not bothering to go to his office, he started toward the back. He found Cho, Simons, and Jake at Cho’s desk, looking at magazines. He slowed as he came near them, frowning in confusion.
“What are you doing?”
They all three glanced up at him. “Hey, Captain,” said Cho. “We’re looking at tuxedos for the wedding. Maria gave me three choices and I’ve got to decide which one. Well, mostly we’re deciding on ties.”
Jake gave Marco a smirk. “So what are you, Adonis? Are you a bowtie man or an ascot or maybe a cravat?”
Marco glared at them, but they all three looked at him as if they were waiting for his decision. He didn’t answer, just shifted to the left and continued walking, leaving them to their catalogues, but just before he turned down the hallway to Stan Neumann’s office, he paused and looked back.
“No bowties!” he growled and continued on.
Stan Neumann was sitting in his closet, turned office, the hum of computer fans a constant drone. Along the back wall of his space, he’d erected shelves, which were choked to bursting with action figures in their original boxes. His table blocked the entrance, leaving only a small wedge to slip through. Marco and his bum leg would definitely not fit into that space.
“Hey, Stan?”
“Hey, Captain.”
“Have you seen Carly?”
“Carly, your receptionist?”
That was stretching the title a bit broad, but sure whatever. He nodded.
“Can’t say as I have.” He picked up a paper. “I got that information you asked me to find.”
Marco reached for the paper, but Stan summed it up.
“Nothing popped for me and I went through it carefully. He was in the Army, Army Rangers. He served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He’s a career military man. One marriage when he was just out of high school, but it only lasted two years. He retired from the military with honors, so…”
“So, nothing pops.”
“A few parking tickets, but nothing else.” Stan fell silent, studying him. Finally he cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”
Marco blinked at him. He’d forgotten he was there. Poor Stan with his converse sneakers and myopic glasses was so easy to dismiss unless you needed his genius – Stan would pick bowties for Cho’s wedding.
“What?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Are you concerned about this guy because you sense he’s dangerous or are you concerned because he’s hanging around Peyton?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Stan flinched at his sharp tone, but he bravely stood his ground. “I can go deeper, Captain. I can go places that...well, people would frown about if I did, but if your instinct says that Peyton’s in danger, then I’ll do it. I just want to make sure you know what your motive is.”
Marco had to acknowledge that Stan had a point. A great part of his concern was jealousy. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, ever be able to think of Peyton with anyone else. She belonged to him and him alone, but…
“No, don’t go deeper yet. I mean, I do have a funny feeling about this guy, but I need something more before we go taking his life apart.” He started to turn away, then shifted back around. “No criminal record?”
“A few parking tickets, one speeding ticket on the Bay Bridge.”
Marco shrugged that off. “Okay, look I appreciate what you did for me.”
“No problemo, Captain, and understand, I can do the other search anytime, if you feel it’s warranted.”
Marco smiled and stepped away. “Thanks again, Stan. I appreciate it.” He turned and walked off, moving past the huddle of men around Cho’s desk. Shaking his head, he decided he was going to avoid whatever they were reviewing now.
Just as he reached the front of the precinct, Carly blustered through the glass outer door. “Oh, hey, Captain D’Angelo, I’m sorry I’m late, but I made everyone cupcakes this morning. Look!” She held one up. “Sprinkles.”
Marco was going to have to fire her. That was all there was to it. He just had to grow a pair and do it, which is why he simply shook his head and walked into his office, shutting the door behind him.
CHAPTER 3
He huddled in the doorway of the office building, watching the blonde girl stumble out of the pub, giggling with her friends. She was weaving, clutching her girlfriends to stay upright. He turned his head away, pulling the coat up further on his shoulders. He’d left the tube, hoping to avoid this, but he should have picked a street where there wasn’t a pub, where women didn’t frequent.
What about her? whispered the voice in his ear. She’s perfect. Just our type.
“Please leave her alone,” he whispered in return. “Please just this once, leave her alone.”
She’s our type, mate.
“You want us to walk you home?” called one of the girls.
The lights from the pub spilled over them. Inside he could hear the cheers of the people watching the football match. Happy bunting fluttered in the breeze from the iron work surrounding the pub, marking off an outdoor sitting area.
The blonde waved them away. “No, I’m just a few blocks, now aren’t I? I can make it on my own.”
“We can walk you, then come back for another drink,” said another, then they all dissolved into giggling.
“Stop it. I’m going. I’ve got to go to the loo.” She pushed away from them and started up the street toward him. He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders, burying his face against his knees.
See, it’s fate. She’s meant to be ours.
“Please, please, please,” he whispered over and over again, hugging his knees tighter.
He heard her heels on the sidewalk as she came toward him. He forced himself not to look up. It was always worse when you looked in their eyes. Always worse.
“Text when you get home, Simone,” called one of her girlfriends.
He peeked up as she waved airily and kept walking. He noticed she was weaving the slightest amount as she walked. She wore a professional skirt and blouse, and a stylish raincoat. Clearly she’d stopped in the pub after work, stopped to have a quick drink with her friends. She probably had family waiting for her. A mum and dad who would be devastated when they couldn’t reach her tomorrow.
Pressing his head back against his arms, he whispered to himself, rocking back and forth. “Not this one, please, not this one.”
She passed him and he released his held breath. At least he didn’t have to see it. At least he could try to forget her.
But he couldn’t. He knew what was going to happen. He knew it and he had to stop it. He couldn’t let this continue. It just couldn’t continue. If he followed her, she’d sense him at her back and she’d quicken her pace. It would sober her if she suddenly felt him behind her. People always felt threatened when they saw him. He could see it in their eyes. Even in the daylight, they felt threatened. If she felt threatened, she’d walk faster and walking faster would get her home faster.
With a groan of misery, he pushed himself out of the doorway and turned toward he
r, keeping pace a few feet behind her. As he knew would happen, she sensed him and glanced back over her shoulder, then she pulled her handbag around in front of her and started walking faster.
He prayed as he walked. He prayed for her to be spared. She was aware of him, anxious by his presence, and therefore, more alert. Alert was good. It gave her a chance. It gave her an advantage.
He closed the distance a little more, forcing her to speed up. They made a left turn and when she saw he made the turn with her, she decided to cross the street, running a little to get to the other side. Also good.
He stepped off the sidewalk and followed her.
Taking a quick right, she started fumbling in her handbag after something. He hoped it was pepper spray, but maybe it was her keys. Keys could be used as a weapon. That was good. She was starting to think, starting to plan a defense.
This one might make it. She might just have enough instinct to save herself. At least, she understood the danger. She understood what might happen to her.
But she kept fumbling in the handbag, glancing down to see inside of it in the dim light from the street lamps. Stopping in front of a building, she glanced over at him. He stopped walking, standing in the middle of the street.
“Find your key,” he whispered.
He could see the glass door to the building, the safety door, and once behind it, she’d be fine. She’d be safe. He never went after them a second time if he missed the first attempt. He always said it wasn’t sporting. If she got inside, she would live.
“Find your key!” he shouted at her.
His shout startled her and she dropped her handbag. The contents spilled out over the cobblestones and she made a panicked sob. Closing his eyes, he wanted to turn around and run away.
She’s going to die, came the whisper in his ear.
“No, please no. Not this one,” he begged.
Too late.
Squatting over the mess on the cobblestones, she frantically tried to shove everything in the handbag, but she went still as the shadow fell over her. Slowly she lifted her head and he could see the blue of her eyes. Then she screamed.
* * *
Peyton turned into her office and came to an abrupt halt. She’d forgotten the bouquets on every surface. Sighing, she walked to her desk and set down her briefcase. Margaret appeared in the doorway a moment later.
“Good morning, Peyton.”
“Good morning, Margaret.”
The assistant settled a cup of coffee and the sugar packets on her desk. “Tank called to say he’ll meet you in the parking lot at 8:15.”
“Great.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her ring of keys, unlocking the cabinet above her head. Lance Corporal Daws’ file lay on top. Pulling it down, she stuffed it into her briefcase and reached for the sugar packets, shaking them, then tearing the tops off. She poured all four into the mug and reached for the wooden stir. “Margaret, I’ve never asked you. Are you married?”
Margaret folded her hands before her, leaning on the door jamb. “For twenty-nine years.”
“That’s amazing. Do you have kids?”
“Two boys. Jonah works for the FBI in Quantico. The other, Joseph, is in law school.”
“Goodness, they did well for themselves.”
She smiled. “They mostly did it on their own. I just supervised.”
Peyton returned her smile. “What does your husband do?”
“Jim’s a painter.”
“Painter? As in houses?”
“As in paintings.”
“Oh. Wow. Does he have art shows?”
“Not as many as he used to, but he tries to schedule three or four a year.”
“Marco loves art.” She looked down, dropping the stir into her wastebasket. “We bought a piece together. It’s hanging in my living room. Every time I see it…” She gave a shrug.
“I’m sorry, Peyton.”
“What you gonna do? Twenty-nine years is impressive. How did you do it?”
Margaret came into the room and took a seat before Peyton’s desk. “I don’t know. We have this method we’ve always used. Jim’s parents used it and it worked for them. If we get angry about something, we tell the other person, then we roll-play what the other person might be feeling.”
Peyton sat down in her chair, taking a sip of her coffee. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s say I get upset when he leaves wet towels on the floor behind the bathroom door.”
Peyton smiled. “Mine was putting empty cartons back in the fridge.”
“With two sons, I’ve been through that.”
“So how does this work?”
“So, when I find the towels, I go to him and tell him right away. I don’t let it fester. Then I put myself in his place, meaning why do I want to put towels behind the door.”
“And why do you? My guess is laziness?”
Margaret laughed. “That was my guess too, but when I tried to figure it out, I realized we had nowhere to put the towels, so I got a rack that he could hang them over. That stopped it.”
“Does he do the same thing?”
“Yes.”
“Does it work?”
“Well, one thing he complained about is how many shoes I buy.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
“Could he put himself in your place?”
“That one was harder for him. He just couldn’t think of a reason that I would need more shoes than I have feet.”
“Because...shoes.”
“I told him that. So we compromised. I get to buy new shoes if I get rid of the same number.”
Peyton considered that. “Okay. I guess that’s fair.” She leaned back in her chair and took another sip of coffee. “What do you do if the person keeps running away from the problem?”
Margaret gave her a kind smile. “That’s harder, but I think it’ll still work. You need to tell him how that frustrates and hurts you, then try to put yourself in his place. Why does he do it?”
Peyton settled her coffee on her desk. “That’s pretty good advice, Mrs. Jones. And you know what, I’m gonna try it.” Glancing at the time on her phone, she pushed herself to her feet. “Now, I’ve got to go meet Tank. Thank you for the talk.”
“Anytime, Peyton.”
Peyton grabbed her briefcase and went to the door, pausing before she exited. “By the way, take one of these flower arrangements back to your desk and move one to Bambi’s office. Might as well spread the beauty.”
Margaret smiled back at her. “Will do.”
Peyton returned the smile and hurried toward the elevators.
* * *
Marco wasn’t even surprised anymore when he walked into the precinct and Carly’s desk was empty. Carly spent less time at her desk than a politician. Turning into his own office, he was surprised to find Devan Adams, the Assistant District Attorney, sitting in the chair before his desk, his head braced on his hand, sleeping.
Marco cleared his throat and Devan straightened, blinking sleepily.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
“Any reason you’re sleeping in my office?”
“It’s quiet. You have no idea how much I miss the quiet.”
Marco chuckled. “Rani had the baby.”
“Oh, yeah, and I get the 2:00 and 4:00AM feedings.”
Marco moved around the desk. “Well, she did incubate your progeny for nine months. Seems only fair.”
Devan gave him an arch look, then rubbed a hand over his face. “You got any of that precinct tar? It’s probably got enough caffeine in it to kill a rhino.”
“We don’t have tar anymore. Ryder took over buying the coffee for the precinct. You have to drink this shit with your pinkie out.”
Devan chuckled. “I’ll take it.”
Marco motioned into the precinct and Devan rose, leading the way to the break room. Once there, Marco grabbed two mugs and poured them each a cup. “You take yours with anything?”
<
br /> “Black, man. I don’t need it diluted,” Devan said, taking a seat at the table.
Marco carried the coffee over to him, then went back for his own. Since the stability of his leg was iffy, he didn’t try to do too many things at once. “So, what did you name her?”
“Destroyer of Tranquility.”
Marco sank into the chair across from him. “That’s going to be hard to put on a job application.”
Devan cupped the mug in both hands and brought it to his mouth, gulping it. “Shit. That’s good. Ryder knows how to pick coffee.”
Marco gave a nod.
Devan set down the mug. “We named her Amira. It means princess in Arabic.”
“Pretty. Amira Adams.”
“What could be more American.”
Marco smiled. “You aren’t here to give me a birth announcement, are you?”
“Oh, shit. As a matter of fact.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope, passing it to Marco. It had his and Peyton’s name on it.
Marco ran his finger over Peyton’s name.
“Sorry. I told her not to do that, but she was insistent. I think she feels if she can get you and Peyton back together, she’ll solidify her hold on me.”
“Even after having your baby?”
Devan gave Marco a tired sigh. “Our relationship’s complicated.” Then he caught himself when he saw Marco’s look. “Sorry again. Of course, you know complicated.”
Marco didn’t want to open the birth announcement. Not with Peyton’s name on it. It was something they should open together. And they needed to get a present. Maybe they could do that together as well.
Devan shifted in his chair. “I need Ryder to testify at an evidentiary hearing for Ryan Morris.”
Grief-stricken Ryan Morris had held a gun to Jake’s head in a misguided attempt to discredit the NRA by killing an innocent in the middle of a police station. Marco had been forced into the unfamiliar role of talking him down.
“Wait. Evidentiary hearing? Is the defense suggesting we don’t have enough to try Morris for attempted murder?”
“Not exactly. They’re saying Morris was under acute duress and should be sent to a psychiatric facility, instead of tried.”
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 4
