Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  He released her and walked past her without looking back. She stood in the middle of the room, shaking, until she heard the door slam behind him, then she collapsed to her knees, curling in on herself.

  * * *

  Marco took his seat at the group meeting, glancing around. Everyone occupied the same seats every week and he found himself between the retired school teacher, Barb Harris, and the young army private, Kurt Foster, again.

  Tricia Tran, the leader of the support group, called everyone to order and gave them all patient, kind smiles. When no one immediately raised a hand to speak, she turned to Mitch Walker, the engineer who’d recently left an abusive relationship.

  “Let’s start with you, Mitch, since you’ve made the most drastic change in your life. How’s it going?”

  “Brian called and he wanted me to come home, but I told him I couldn’t. Of course, he started swearing at me, which made me feel horrible.”

  “I’m sorry, Mitch,” said Tricia. “How did you handle it?”

  “I hung up.”

  “Good for you.”

  Barb and Linda Hill, the librarian, gave him praise. Linda reached over to pat his back before giving Marco a suspicious look, but he didn’t respond. He knew he’d made mistakes where she was concerned, but he’d already apologized twice for it.

  “How are you doing, Linda?” asked Tricia.

  Linda clasped her hands in her lap again. “I’m doing all right. The house is empty, really empty – lonely. I hate it.”

  “Get another cat,” said Rodney, the insurance salesman.

  Linda whipped around to face him. “Would you just get another wife if your wife died?”

  “No, but that’s my wife. This is a cat.”

  Marco leaned forward bracing his arms on his thighs. He couldn’t deny it was amusing seeing someone else on the hot seat.

  “I can’t believe you’d say that. You don’t just replace a loved one.”

  “Am I wrong?” Rodney asked, looking to Marco for confirmation.

  Marco looked down. He was so not touching that one.

  “No one thinks you’re wrong, Rodney…” began Tricia.

  “I do,” said Linda.

  Tricia held up a patient hand. “...but I think you’re oversimplifying the situation. For many people, animals are family.”

  “Oversimplifying? He’s being an ass,” said Barb. “You’re not an animal lover, are you, Rodney?”

  “That’s not true,” he protested. “I just don’t understand why she doesn’t get another cat if she’s feeling lonely. Why be miserable if you don’t have to be?”

  “Bob was like a child to me. No other cat will replace what we had.”

  The room erupted in argument, people shouting, Tricia calling for order. In the middle of it, a voice rose.

  “Have you ever killed someone?”

  Silence fell like a lead curtain.

  Marco glanced over his shoulder at Kurt. The young man was staring at him.

  “Have you? Have you killed someone?”

  Marco ran his tongue across his teeth. He didn’t really want to discuss this here, but the kid vibrated with a strange sort of energy and his eyes were fever bright. “Yeah, I have.”

  “Shot him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did you know the moment he died? I mean, did you see the life go out of his eyes?”

  Marco shook his head. “No, it was dark, but I saw his body afterward. He was a priest.”

  He glanced at the others. They were still as statues, watching the two of them. Marco wondered if this was the first time the young private had spoken.

  “A priest?”

  “Yeah. He shot at my partner. I had no choice, but…”

  “But it stayed with you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you dream about it?”

  “Yeah, I do. I daydream about it too, replaying it over and over in my mind, wondering if I could have done anything different.”

  The kid nodded.

  Marco sat up, shifting so he half-faced the kid. “Have you shot anyone?”

  The kid clenched his teeth, a muscle bulging in his jaw. “We were patrolling through Haditha. There weren’t supposed to be any insurgents there, but sometimes…” He gave a shrug. “...sometimes the reports are wrong. We turned onto this street and all of a sudden, this guy comes out of a house, carrying something in his hands.”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “All we saw was a black box and we freaked. I remember everyone screaming for him to drop it. He was speaking Arabic, but no one on the patrol understood him. He lifted it, motioning to the side with it. I didn’t know what the hell he was doing until I thought about it later.”

  He scratched hard at the stubble on his cheek. Marco kept his eyes fixed on him, refusing to look away. “Next thing I know, shots get fired. The guy, he jerks there, you know? Like a puppet? He doesn’t fall right away. I don’t even remember firing my gun, but the MP’s, they tell me later we all fired.” His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He lifted his eyes and fixed them on Marco’s. “He had nine bullets in him. Nine.”

  Marco looked down.

  “We thought he had an IED. We thought that’s what he carried, but it wasn’t.”

  Marco forced himself to look at him again, meeting his tortured expression.

  “It was a car battery.” He gave a strange laugh. “A God damn car battery.” He briefly closed his eyes, then stared at his hands, which lay open on his lap. “He died because of a battery. In his wallet was a picture of a little girl in a school uniform. She didn’t look any different than my sister does when she goes to school. Just a little girl who wore pigtails like my sister, and I killed her father.”

  Marco didn’t know what to say or do.

  The kid gave him an odd smile. “Such a stupid thing to die for, isn’t it?”

  “It was war,” said Marco simply.

  The kid twisted his mouth and nodded. “Yeah, it was war, but…” He held out his open hands. “...but that just doesn’t seem enough.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Charlie chased after the soccer ball, kicking it in front of him. The day was foggy, a light mist falling in the park. The fountain in the middle of the square gurgled and pigeons walked around the perimeter of it, hoping for some scraps from people’s sandwiches.

  He saw the boys go after the ball, but he couldn’t get there in time. A large blonde boy with a gap-toothed smile sneered in his face. “This is mine.”

  He stumbled to a stop, wiping his hands on his trousers. “It’s mine,” he said, thrusting out his chin.

  The boy turned to his friend, a small dark haired boy with bulging eyes. “This is my ball, isn’t it, Theo?”

  “Looks like it to me.”

  The bigger boy gave him another smirk. “Two against one. Go away.”

  He stared the boy down, his hands tightening into fists.

  Smash him in the neck. Kick him in his bollocks. Drive them into his stomach.

  He shook his head. “Can’t,” he muttered.

  The smaller boy gave him a strange look, but the bigger boy held his hand to his ear. “What’d you say, wanker?”

  “Give me my ball.”

  Kick out his knee. That’ll teach him.

  Charlie curled his hand into a fist and tapped it against his temple. Niles always had such violent ideas. “No.”

  “Who you talking to, wanker?” said the big boy.

  “Leave me alone. Give me my ball or I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  Poke his eyes out with your thumbs. Shove your fist down his throat. Twist his penis off.

  “Stop it!” he said, closing his eyes.

  “He’s mental,” said the smaller boy. “Let’s go.”

  Charlie opened his eyes in time to see the smaller boy nudge the larger one in the stomach. The larger one gave a laugh, still holding the ball.

  “You mental, wanker?” He took a step forward and leaned do
wn, placing his face right in Charlie’s. “You a head case? You retarded?”

  Let him have it.

  Charlie struck, slamming the heel of his hand against the boy’s nose. He heard a crack, then blood spurted. The boy reeled away, dropping the ball and throwing both hands over his face. Blood leaked between his fingers, ran down the backs of his hands.

  That’s the way to do it.

  Charlie covered his ears with his hands and felt tears fill his eyes.

  “What’s going on?” shouted a woman, sitting on one of the benches.

  “He broke my nose!” screamed the big boy.

  Charlie curled up, wrapping his arms around his head.

  “He broke my nose!”

  That’s the way it’s done, isn’t it now? That’s the way to fight back. Now knee him in the bollocks. Kick him in the stomach.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” sobbed Charlie, banging his fists against his temples. “Please just shut up!”

  * * *

  Standing at the counter in her kitchen, Peyton sipped her coffee and stared at the display on her phone. She felt such conflict inside. Her job was important to her, but Marco was more important. If she went to London, would it ruin everything they’d started building again? But Radar and Rosa had made it pretty clear that she had to go if she wanted to keep her job. Then there was Maria. Maria had been bugging her all night about the wedding.

  She picked up the phone and pressed the display.

  Maria picked up on the second ring. “Don’t even tell me you got a case.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a case and you’re going to leave me with all this wedding planning on my own. I need you to find a florist. I want lilies, not the stupid Easter ones we get here. I want Oxalis Triangularis.”

  Peyton shook her head. “Oxa-whatsit?”

  Maria made a growl of irritation. “Honestly, Brooks, what do you think your job is?”

  “Bridesmaid?”

  “And what do you think that means?”

  “I show up in a pink dress with a huge bow and carry your train.”

  “Well, yes, but you also help me plan the wedding.”

  “I don’t remember reading that…”

  “Are you my best friend or not?”

  “Well, I…”

  “The answer is yes!”

  “Yes, but Maria, please, I can’t help it. I have to go for my job.”

  “Where?”

  “London.”

  “London?” Maria was shouting now.

  Peyton flinched. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry! Do you know what this means for me?”

  “I’m not doing it on purpose. This isn’t exactly a great time for me either.”

  “You? You aren’t getting married!”

  Peyton closed her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just as upset as you are, but I thought Abe was helping you with the wedding.”

  “He is, but I wanted to do some planning with you.”

  “I know.”

  “What about Marco?”

  Peyton didn’t immediately answer. She felt a tightness in her chest whenever she thought of Marco.

  “Brooks?”

  “I don’t know.” She reached down and scooped up Pickles, cuddling him close. “I don’t know what to do about Marco. Things were going better, but now…”

  “Have you told him?”

  “Not yet.”

  “When do you leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning at 6:00AM.”

  “Seems to me you’d better tell him sooner rather than later.”

  “I know. I thought I’d take lunch to the precinct.”

  “You’re going to tell him with everyone around?”

  “No, I was going to take lunch to the precinct, then tell him in his office. I think I should tell him in person, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, not like you told me.”

  “I’m sorry, Maria. I really am. I’ll tell Abe about the oxawhatsits, okay?”

  “Don’t bother. You can’t even pronounce it right.”

  “Like you know what it is,” she scolded in return.

  “I do. You forget, I’m marrying Nathan Cho.”

  “Touché,” said Peyton with a half-smile. “I’ll call you while I’m away, okay?”

  “Yeah.” Maria went quiet, then she sighed. “Have a safe trip, okay, Brooks? I’m gonna need you as we get closer to this thing.”

  “I know. And Maria?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You might drop in on Marco once in a while? Make sure he’s all right?”

  “You got it. Talk to you soon.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  * * *

  Marco sank into the seat next to Jake, directly behind Devan. Jake wouldn’t look at him, his gaze focused on the witness stand. Devan glanced back and gave him a lift of his chin. Marco returned it, then cast a sidelong look at Derek Renshaw and Ryan Morris. Morris’ ex-wife sat in the seat behind her ex-husband, wiping her nose with a tissue.

  Derek Renshaw was a short man, maybe five six at the outside, slight of build with rounded shoulders. He had thin reddish brown hair and almost no eyebrows. His blue eyes always looked watery and red, but he was a bulldog in the courtroom. There were few defense attorneys as successful as he was.

  The judge sat at the bench. Harold Easton was in his early seventies with a full head of iron-grey hair and a paunch. He had a gruff demeanor, but he was always willing to hear a case to its culmination. Marco knew Easton wouldn’t be swayed by Renshaw’s glib demeanor.

  “Call your first witness, Mr. Adams,” said Easton.

  Devan rose to his feet, smoothing his jacket. “I call Jacob Ryder to the stand.”

  Jake gave Marco a panicked look, then rose and squeezed past him, going to the witness stand and holding up his hand to be sworn in.

  “You may take a seat, Mr. Ryder,” said Easton.

  Jake sat, his back ramrod straight, his hands clasped in his lap.

  “State your name for the record, please,” said Devan.

  “Jacob John Ryder.”

  “And your occupation?”

  “I’m a CSI for the San Francisco Police Department.”

  “On the date of May 12th, were you at work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I was covering for our receptionist. She’d left early and I was answering the phones.”

  “What happened?”

  Jake swallowed hard, looking at some spot beyond Devan’s right shoulder. “Mr. Morris came into the precinct.”

  “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Before I could ask, he pulled out a gun.”

  “What did you do?”

  Jake’s eyes shifted and met Devan’s. “What did I do?”

  “Yes, when Mr. Morris pulled out a gun?”

  “I froze. I didn’t do anything.”

  “And what did he do?”

  Jake glanced at the man, then focused on his spot behind Devan. “He came around the counter and…” Jake’s voice faltered.

  “And? Mr. Ryder, you need to be very specific about what happened.”

  “He pointed the gun at my head.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “Yes. He said he was sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?”

  “He told me his son had been killed and the man who killed him was going to get off. That he had to make a statement and I was the statement.”

  “What do you think he meant by that?”

  “Objection!” said Renshaw. “Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.”

  “Withdrawn.”

  Easton gave Devan a short nod.

  “Did he tell you what he meant by that?”

  “No, not me, but he told Captain D’Angelo when he arrived.”

  “Okay, so Captain D’Angelo arrived and what happened?”

  “Captain D’Angelo talked him down. He told him that other parents wouldn’t have
their children’s killers brought to justice if he killed me.”

  Devan moved closer to Jake, placing his hand on the witness stand. “What did Mr. Morris do then?”

  “He gave up.”

  “He surrendered his gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why do you think he surrendered his gun?”

  “Objection!” said Renshaw.

  “Your Honor, this is just an evidentiary hearing. I’m just trying to establish that Mr. Morris acted in a sane, rational manner during the incident in question,” said Devan.

  “He’s asking the witness to speculate about Mr. Morris’ behavior, but he can’t know what the man was thinking at that moment any more than I can.”

  “Sustained.”

  Devan focused back on Jake. “Did you believe that Mr. Morris intended to shoot you when he had the gun pointed at your head?”

  Jake glanced at Morris again. He drew a deep breath and released it. “I did,” he said.

  “No more questions, Your Honor.”

  “Your witness, Mr. Renshaw.”

  Renshaw rose to his feet, picking up a pen. He ran it through his fingers. “Did you process Gavin Morris’ murder scene, Mr. Ryder?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you discover about the boy’s murder?”

  Jake shook his head. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Let me be specific then. Where was Gavin Morris when he died?”

  “In Amy Cook’s bedroom.”

  “Where specifically?”

  “On the floor.”

  “But was there evidence that Gavin tried to get away?”

  Jake’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. He tried to get out the window.”

  “Where was he shot?”

  “What?”

  “What part of his body took a bullet, Mr. Ryder?”

  “His back.”

  “He was shot in the back while trying to run away?”

  “Yes.”

  Renshaw passed the pen through his fingers. “Was it a pretty horrific crime scene?”

  “Most are.”

  “But this one? It was worse?”

  “Objection, Your Honor! Are we rating crime scene horror now?”

  “Sustained.”

  “Will Cook had powerful allies, didn’t he, Mr. Ryder?”

  “He had you.” Jake gave him a grim smile.

  “And who funded his defense, to your knowledge?”