“Can Charlie describe Niles?”
Charlie chewed on his inner lip. “Niles is a wolf.”
“A wolf?” said the doctor. “Well, that’s something now, isn’t it? A wolf.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Niles is a wolf.”
His mother and father looked at the doctor as if she’d said something really daft. Charlie looked at her too. What difference did it make if Niles was a wolf or not?
“What if you found him an activity?”
“An activity?” asked his father.
“What about sports? Football? Cricket? Something to take his mind off Niles.”
His mother sighed and looked over at him. Charlie shrugged.
“Niles likes football,” he said.
* * *
Peyton knocked on the door. The house was a single story rancher with a struggling rose garden in front. The weather in Daly City was miserable today. The fog had rolled in this morning and refused to burn off.
The house sported a tidy front porch with a rattan bistro set positioned beneath the front windows. A Ford Focus sat in the driveway and an American flag flew from the rafters over the garage.
The door opened and a middle aged woman looked out. She had dirty blond hair, cut short, and she wore jeans and a pink polo shirt. Her feet were bare.
Peyton flashed her badge. “Mrs. Daws, I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks and this is my colleague, Special Agent Thomas Campbell.” She motioned to Tank, who stood beside her.
“Yes, Agent Brooks, please come in.”
Peyton and Tank stepped into the entrance of the house. Mrs. Daws shut the door, then pointed toward the back of the house. They followed her down a short hallway to a living room with a floral couch arranged before a flat screen television. A young woman sat in an armchair perpendicular to the couch and a middle aged man occupied a spot on the couch.
“This is Special Agents Brooks and Campbell,” said Mrs. Daws. She indicated the man. “This is my husband, Walter.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Walter, rising to his feet and shaking their hands.
“And this is Heather. She was Isaac’s fiancée before he died,” Mrs. Daws continued, motioning to the young woman. “We thought you might like to ask her some questions as well, so she agreed to be here for us.”
She rose and greeted them as well.
“Please sit down,” offered Walter. His blond hair was cut in a crew-cut and he wore a nylon track suit.
Heather was also blond, pretty, with elfin features, wearing slacks and an orange and black jersey.
Settling her briefcase on the floor, Peyton took a seat on an ottoman that sat opposite a glass coffee table, while Tank lowered his bulk into a dusty rose armchair across from the couch. Mrs. Daws sat on the couch next to her husband. He reached over and took her hand.
“I was surprised to get your call, Agent Brooks,” she said. “I thought Isaac’s case was closed.”
Peyton shook her head. “No, Mrs. Daws, it’s actually a cold case, which means we’re able to work it when we don’t have another active one.”
“Call me Caroline,” she said.
“Thank you. Agent Campbell and I would first of all like to offer our condolences. I appreciate you agreeing to see us.”
Caroline nodded. “If you can find out what happened to our son, we’ll be forever in your debt.”
“We’ll try our best.” Peyton clasped her hands before her. “Unfortunately, we have to ask you some questions and some of them might bring up unpleasant topics. Are you okay with that?”
Caroline shared a look with her husband. “I want to know what happened to my son, Agent Brooks. Ask whatever you think is necessary.”
“Thank you.” Opening her briefcase, she removed Daws’ file and opened it on her lap, flipping to the coroner’s report. “The initial autopsy was conducted by the Las Vegas Medical Examiner, Dr. Everett Paulson, who concluded Isaac died of a massive drug overdose.”
“Right. That’s what he said.”
Peyton glanced up at them. “You didn’t believe him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Isaac never did drugs in his life. The marines meant everything to him. He would never have tarnished his service that way.”
Peyton drew a breath. This was always such a delicate dance, dealing with a grieving family. “Isaac was diagnosed with PTSD, he had a traumatic brain injury. A lot of people self-medicate for various reasons.”
“Not Isaac,” said Heather in a tight voice. “He wouldn’t have done that.”
“I think you’ll see, Agent Brooks, that we got a lawyer to take our case and a judge ordered a second autopsy by a medical examiner here in California.”
“Yes, Cecelia Gaston.”
“Right.”
“She works out of…”
“Burlingame,” offered Walter.
“She thought the levels of narcotics in his system were unusually high, that he would have lost consciousness before he could have administered that level of opiates to himself,” finished Peyton.
“She said he would have gone into cardiac arrest with half the levels that were found in his system.”
“However, Special Agent Turner didn’t find any evidence in the hotel room to suggest anyone else was there with Isaac the night he died.”
Caroline dragged her teeth over her upper lip. “I read his report, Agent Brooks, but obviously you’re here for a reason.”
Peyton nodded. She flipped to the back and pulled out the photo of the coin, laying it on the coffee table and pushing it across to Isaac’s parents. “I’m here because I don’t understand this. We’ve identified this coin as Iraqi.” She looked to Tank to fill in.
“From the Sassanid Era, nearly 1,400 years old. We showed the photo to an anthropology professor and a professor of Middle Eastern studies at Cal. After some research, they both feel the coin is part of a cache that was found in 2013 near the town of Aziziyah, 40 miles southeast of Baghdad. Only 66 coins were recovered, but it’s believed many more may have been buried there.”
“Did Isaac ever show you this coin?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention it?”
“No.”
Peyton glanced over at Heather. “Did he ever say anything to you about it?”
“He talked about the artifacts that soldiers found in Baghdad, especially when the National Museum was ransacked.”
“But he never mentioned the coin?”
“Not that I recall.”
“Why is this important, Agent Brooks?” asked Caroline. “What does this have to do with my son’s death?”
“This coin…” Peyton touched the edge of the picture. “...was found on your son’s body. Photos were taken of it, put in the file, and according to the record, the coin became part of the evidence for this case.”
“And?”
“I ordered the evidence box. Both Agent Campbell and I went through it. The coin’s missing. It wasn’t anywhere in the box and more troubling than that, it wasn’t on the manifest either.”
Caroline looked at her husband. Their eyes locked. Finally he nodded. She turned back to Peyton. “I don’t know anything about the coin, but I do have something to show you.” She got up and walked over to a desk in the corner, picking up a piece of paper. She carried it back to the couch and passed it over to Peyton. “We received this after Isaac died.”
Peyton quickly scanned the letter. The letterhead came directly from the office of Senator Theodore Lange from Nevada and it looked like his real signature. Peyton passed it over to Tank.
“It’s a letter of condolence?”
“Yes.”
“And you find that odd?”
Caroline drew a deep breath, then released it. “My son died of a drug overdose in a sleazy Las Vegas hotel room, Agent Brooks. After his death, we received no letter of condolence from the marines, the president, or his commanding officer. He was not given a mi
litary burial and except for his closest friends and family, not a single marine attended his funeral. For all intents and purposes, Isaac died in disgrace.”
Peyton nodded for her to continue.
“Why then would a senator, not even from the state where he lived, write his parents a condolence letter?”
“Maybe because Isaac died in his state?”
“Maybe.”
Peyton took the letter back and read it again. It was a bit strange considering no one else had acknowledged him. “Can I take this?”
“Yes, but that’s not all.”
Peyton and Tank exchanged a look. “Go on,” said Peyton.
“Heather?”
“Are you sure, Caroline?”
“I want to know what happened to my son. These agents are the first to look into the case in a long time.”
“All right.” Heather stood and removed a piece of paper from her pocket. She unfolded it and held it out to Peyton. “I received these text messages just before Isaac died.”
Peyton studied the paper.
Luv u.
U hear things, trust me.
Watch 4 Lang.
B careful.
Peyton drew a deep breath. Watch 4 Lang. What did that mean? What connection did a California marine have with a Nevada senator? “Agent Turner said there were no messages on Isaac’s phone?”
“I know. We read the report.”
Peyton considered that a moment. Isaac’s phone hadn’t been in the evidence box. Where the hell had it gone? Turner mentioned it in his report, but why hadn’t it been included? “Did you get Isaac’s phone after the case went cold?”
“No, we assumed it was with the rest of the evidence.”
Peyton passed the text messages to Tank. “Isaac also had four napkins on him, all with a strange series of numbers on them. Do you know what those could have been?”
Caroline shared a look with her husband. “No, we’ve never heard about the napkins before. What were the numbers for?”
“We don’t know.”
“I have no idea then.” She turned to Heather. “Did he mention anything to you?”
Heather looked confused. “No, nothing.”
“I’m sorry we can’t help,” said Caroline.
Peyton took the text messages back from Tank and put it and the letter from Senator Lange into the file, then collected the photograph. “If you think of anything else, here’s my card.” She set her card on the coffee table and replaced the file in her briefcase. “Anything at all, no matter how small it seems.” She held a second card out to Heather, then she and Tank rose to their feet.
“What’s your next move?”
“I’m going to place a call to Senator Lange’s office.”
Caroline moved around the coffee table and took Peyton’s hands. “Agent Brooks, Isaac was my only son. I knew there was the possibility of him dying in the line of duty, but not this way. Not dying in a hotel room of an overdose. I just can’t accept that. Ever.”
“I understand that, Caroline, and I promise you, Agent Campbell and I will do everything we can to figure out what happened. I won’t forget Isaac, trust me.”
* * *
Marco entered his office and found Devan sleeping in the chair again, his head braced on his hand. “You can’t turn my office into your crash pad, Adams,” he scolded, hitting the side of the chair with his cane.
Devan’s eyes sprang open and he straightened in the chair. He yawned hugely, then said, “Why not? You weren’t using it.” He pulled out his phone and looked at the display. “Jesus, D’Angelo, you don’t believe in getting here early, do you? It’s almost 11:00AM.”
“I had a session with Dr. Ferguson,” he said, moving to his chair and pulling it out. “Why can’t you sleep in your own office?”
“Because if people know I’m there, they won’t leave me alone. Your office is best. No one bothers you here. You’ve got no secretary…”
“Administrative Assistant.”
“Right.”
“I do have one.”
“You’re right. I should have said you pay for an Administrative Assistant who doesn’t work, your officers leave you alone, and I like the chair. It’s so much better than those horrible recycled soda bottles Defino had.”
“I know, right? What the hell was the deal with those chairs?”
“I think she kept them so no one would stay in her office for long.”
Marco went quiet, his brows lifting.
Devan pointed a finger at him. “Don’t get any ideas. It takes a village to raise a child, D’Angelo, and this is your contribution.”
Marco shook his head. “You’re really here only to catch a few minutes of sleep?”
“Minutes? I’ve been here since 7:00.”
Marco scratched his forehead. “Why are you here, Adams?”
Devan shifted in the chair, stretching. “Derek Renshaw took the case for Ryan Morris.”
“Derek Renshaw? Claire Harper’s lawyer?”
“Same.”
“Will Cooks’ lawyer?”
“Same.”
“Paid for by the NRA?”
Devan nodded.
“Bull shit.”
“‘Fraid not.”
“Are they bankrolling this defense too?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Marco rubbed his temples. “Why?”
“They want Morris committed to a psych facility.”
“Wait. Ryan Morris pointed a gun at Jake’s head and threatened to kill him because he wanted to discredit the NRA, but they turn around and pay for his attorney?”
“Confusing, I know.”
Marco fought to contain his fury. “It’s bull shit!”
“I’m sorry, D’Angelo.”
“I’m not getting this, Adams. Why would Morris take their help? He blamed them for his son’s death.”
“They’re paying for a very effective, high-priced lawyer.”
“Why would the NRA defend him?”
“Think about it, D’Angelo. If they can get him committed to a psych facility, rather than prison, it strengthens their position that the problem is the person, not the gun. Ryan Morris was a distraught father who didn’t know what he was doing. The gun had nothing to do with it.”
Marco thought about it for a moment. “It’s actually brilliant.”
“Yep.”
“Jake isn’t going to be able to testify with Derek Renshaw grilling him on cross.”
“I’ll prep him, but he has to testify, D’Angelo. If he doesn’t, Morris goes to psych. Ryder’s the only thing preventing that.” He leaned forward, giving Marco a pointed stare. “And you’re going to have to testify.”
Marco looked out his window. He hated testifying. Peyton had always done that part of the job. And she was good at it. Very good. He couldn’t count the number of cases she’d turned by her testimony. “I’m not Peyton.”
“I know. I wouldn’t do it if I had any other choice, but knowing that Renshaw’s the attorney is gonna make Ryder a loose cannon. We can’t chance that. I’ve got to have you in my back pocket.”
Marco looked at him. “You look like shit.”
“Yeah, well, the only sleep I get lately is in this chair.”
“You look like Dr. Ferguson. Your suit’s wrinkled, and you need a haircut.”
“Does this make you feel better about testifying?”
“No, but it helps.”
Devan held out his hands. “Whatever works, D’Angelo. Take your best swing.”
* * *
Peyton moved through the lobby, searching the people milling about. A tall figure rose from a stone bench and turned toward her, holding out a single rose. Peyton stopped and smiled at him, feeling a flush of pleasure rise inside of her. He wore a business suit and leaned on his cane, but he always took her breath away.
“How long have you been waiting?” she asked, stopping in front of him and taking the rose.
“I got here earlier, bu
t your assistant Margaret said you’d be back in a few minutes. She told me to go out and get a rose.” He gave Peyton a confused look.
Peyton rubbed the petals against her cheek. “I love it.”
Reaching out, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “I thought maybe we could go to dinner.”
“I’d like that.”
“Do you have to go back up?”
“No, I’m free, but my car’s here. I’ll follow you?”
“Sounds good. I thought we’d go to Ernesto’s on Clement.”
“Italian sounds great.”
Ernesto’s occupied a business front beneath a Victorian. Next door was a Japanese restaurant and across the street was a beauty supply shop. They were both able to find parking spaces at meters on 24th Avenue, Peyton waiting while Marco limped down to her. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed the back of it.
Inside, the small dining area was choked with white tablecloth covered tables. A young maître d’ smiled at them and grabbed two menus, motioning to a table near the window. Marco gave her the cop’s position, back to the wall, facing out into the restaurant, while he took the seat facing the window. It was a testament to his trust in her.
The maître d’ settled a basket of sourdough bread in the middle of the table and filled their water glasses. “Can I get you anything else to drink?”
Marco looked at Peyton. “Wine?”
“Probably not a good idea.”
“I meant for you, Peyton. I’m fine.”
Peyton glanced at the maître d’. “Just a glass of Merlot. The house wine’s fine.”
The young man nodded and backed away from the table. Peyton picked up her menu and opened it, scanning the offerings, but she was more aware of the man across from her. “This is a nice surprise.”
He shrugged, his shoulders straining the lines of his jacket. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”
Peyton closed the menu. “I’m sorry about that too.”
Marco took a piece of bread and broke it, then set both halves on his bread plate without tasting it.
The maître d’ returned with the wine and set it in front of Peyton. “Your waiter will be here shortly.”
Marco nodded. “Thanks.”
Peyton picked up the wine glass and took a sip.
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 6
