“FBI!” came a familiar voice. Peyton looked up to see Radar leaning over the seat, shoving his badge in both of their faces. “Now, shut the hell up or I will haul both of your asses out of those seats and hogtie you in the aisle until the plane lands and you’re taken into custody!”
Cheers rose in the plane.
Radar shifted his dark, menacing gaze to angry guy. “Curl up in the corner, put your headphones on, and go the hell to sleep! If I hear another thing out of you, I’m gonna make sure you never get on a plane again!”
Angry guy shifted toward the window, slumping in his seat.
Radar turned to aisle guy. “No more beer, no more chips. Just sit there and think about how embarrassing it’ll be if I have to drag your ass off this plane!”
“Yes, sir,” said aisle guy.
Radar’s gaze shifted to Peyton and he forced a fake smile. “Hiya there, Sparky.”
“Hiya, Radar,” she said.
“Did you forget you have a badge too?”
She thought about that for a moment. “Sort of.”
“I see. Well, next time try to remember you’re a federal agent and whoop some ass!”
“Yes, sir.”
He gave them each another glare, then turned and went back to his seat, collecting more applause from the rest of the passengers.
Quiet descended in the cabin.
Peyton leaned her head back and tried to relax again.
“You’re a federal agent?” whispered aisle guy.
“Yeah, and don’t you forget it,” she said.
“Huh,” said angry guy, “guess they don’t give a damn about size.”
Peyton glared over at him. “That’s what the last asshole said...just before I castrated him.”
The two men exchanged a look, then they shifted away from her, drawing their legs together.
Peyton smiled.
* * *
Brad Peterson’s house was a three story white mansion with rounded bay windows on the front and a rounded wooden front door leading into a formal entrance hall. The staircase rose to the left of the door. Just before the staircase on the right was the formal living room with two white couches facing each other flanked by a pink marble fireplace. A glass trophy case occupied a wall behind one of the couches and an armchair sat behind the other, looking out the windows at the view of the City.
Jake settled his bag on the wooden floor, while Marco wandered around the room. A strange porcupine ball sat on the white marble coffee table and the only lamp was a rectangular brass fixture with a rectangular black linen shade. A rust colored stain covered the steel grey carpet, spreading out onto the wooden floor and turning it a dark red.
Jake knelt by the blood stain, then stared around the room. “The body was found here.”
Marco moved to his side.
Jake opened his tablet and pulled up his pictures of the crime scene. “See how the head is pointing toward the hallway.”
Marco nodded. “Where was he shot?”
“Chest area. He landed on his knees first, then pitched forward where he died.”
“So Peterson could have surprised him in this room or he could have entered through the windows here.”
“But there’s no sign of forced entry.” Jake rose and went over to the windows, inspecting the window sill and the lock, spraying luminol on each surface.
Marco wandered over to the trophy case and studied the many trophies and plaques Peterson had on display. Brad Peterson had been a good quarterback. He had an arm. His completion rate wasn’t the highest, but he had a knack for pulling out a win in the final seconds of the game. He’d played for the Bills about eight seasons before he retired. Marco vaguely remembered Franco saying something about him suffering one too many concussions over the years.
“You played football, didn’t you, Adonis?”
Marco turned and looked at him. “Yeah, high school.”
“You any good?”
“Pretty good, yeah.”
“You ever have scouts looking at you?”
“Some. Might’ve gotten a scholarship too, but…”
“But?”
Marco chewed on his inner lip. “I don’t know. I mean I liked playing on the team and all, but I didn’t love it. You know? I didn’t love playing the way the other guys did and then...I don’t know. I was a defensive end and I was good at it, but this one game, I went after the quarterback and I sacked him. It was a legal hit and all. Good solid hit, but I knocked him unconscious. They carted him off the field on a stretcher.”
“Shit.”
Marco shrugged. “He was okay. I mean he had a concussion and all, but he went back and played again. Still I just couldn’t get it out of my head – that I’d hurt someone for a game. I was pretty much finished after that.” He gave Jake a wry smile. “Pretty wussy, huh? Go ahead, Ryder, take your best shot.”
“Pretty wussy? ‘Cause you didn’t like hurting people? No, Adonis, that’s not wussy.” Then Jake grinned. “Besides, you’ll do something else that’ll give me my shot.”
“Well, if it isn’t the sweetest ass in all of the City,” came a feminine voice from the doorway.
“And there it is,” muttered Jake.
Marco glanced over as Carol Talone, actually Carol Peterson, entered the room. She’d always been a bottle blond and buxom. Even in her mid-thirties, she maintained a figure that would give men dishonorable thoughts. She had heavily lashed blue eyes and full, lush lips that she pursed as she took him in.
“Hey, Carol.” He limped over to her and she tilted her face up for him to kiss her cheek. He could feel Jake’s eyes riveted on them, but he ignored him.
Carol placed a hand on his shoulder, stepping back and studying his cane. “What happened to you?”
“Hazards of the job.”
“I heard you’d become a cop.”
“Captain.”
“Wow. Sweet Cheeks made good, eh?” She gave him another slow perusal. “You married?”
Marco gave a short laugh. “It’s complicated.”
“Divorced?”
“No.”
Her eyes shifted to the blood stain and she swallowed hard. “I almost forgot what happened here. Almost.”
He took her arm and directed her back into the foyer. “What are you doing here?”
“One of the officers escorted me in, so I could pick up some clothes. Brad and I are staying at our cabin in Woodside.”
Cabin probably meant rustic mansion.
Marco glanced around her at the front door. A uniformed officer stood there, waiting for her. He gave Marco a cool look, but Marco didn’t recognize him. He must be from Central.
“I heard your voice and I had to say hi.” She ran her hand down his arm. A massive diamond ring winked from her ring finger.
“We’re working an active scene here, Carol, so…”
“It was self-defense. The guy broke in, Marco. If Brad hadn’t shot him, God knows what he might have done to us.”
“We probably shouldn’t talk about the case right now. If I have questions, I’ll have you come down to the station where you can have your lawyer present.”
She took a step away from him. “Do you think I need a lawyer?”
Marco shot a look at the uniform. “I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea, especially for Brad.”
Her expression grew alarmed. He couldn’t deny she was a beautiful woman and he had nothing but fond memories of her. “Thank you for the warning,” she said. “I guess I better go.”
He nodded.
She turned and walked toward the front door. “It was good to see you, Sweet Cheeks.”
“It was good to see you, Carol.”
“I’ll tell Brad you said hello.”
He didn’t give a damn about saying hello to Brad, but whatever.
“Take care of that leg.”
Marco nodded.
A moment later, she disappeared out the door, followed by the Central officer, but not before the cop gave
Marco a hard stare. Returning to the living room, Marco found Jake spraying the wooden floor with luminol, but nothing was showing up.
“He was definitely killed on that spot,” Jake said, kneeling by the blood stain again, “but I just can’t figure out how the hell he got in. I’m going to go through the rest of the rooms down here and on the next two floors, but I’d bet my last dollar this guy came through the front door, Adonis.”
Marco rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s just freakin’ wonderful, Ryder. Are you saying this wasn’t self-defense?”
“I’m saying that if I can’t find a point of entry, this guy was invited into this house before he was shot. I don’t know exactly what happened, but as you can see, there’s no struggle in this room. Nothing’s misplaced and the only sign of violence is in this one spot. There’s not even much splatter. The guy stood here and died here and didn’t even try to get away.”
Marco stared at the blood stain. Jake was right.
“So all-American hero Brad Peterson gunned down this guy in cold blood?”
Jake held out his gloved hands. “That’s what it looks like to me, Sweet Cheeks,” he said, then gave Marco one of his shit-eater grins.
CHAPTER 8
“Can I sit here?”
Charlie looked up at the girl in the navy blue school uniform. “Sure.” He lowered his eyes to his lunch, picking at the noodles with his fork.
She took a seat. “I’m Liza.”
“Charlie.” He glanced up at her, catching her smile.
“You’re in my literature class, aren’t you?”
“Right.”
“Did you finish reading the book?”
“Tale of Two Cities?”
“That’s the one.”
“No.” He looked down again, playing with the handle on his fork.
“I haven’t either.” She leaned close to him, pushing her books to the side. “It’s so boring.”
He smiled at that and she returned it.
“Liza!” came a male voice.
Charlie glanced up to see Lance standing behind her. Her smile faded and she lowered her head.
“Why are you sitting with this wanker?”
“Leave me alone, Lance.”
He’s a todger. Tell him to bugger off.
Charlie closed his eyes. Niles’s suggestions weren’t always helpful, especially as Lance was a rugby player who stood six two and weighed 14 stone at least. There was no way he was going to tell him to bugger off.
“Come sit with us, Liza.”
She flipped around in the seat. “I said leave me alone.”
He grabbed her arm. “You’re not sitting with him. He talks to himself.”
“At least he can carry on a conversation, which is more than I can say for you.”
“Come on!” He tugged her arm.
She tried to pry his hand loose. “Let go.”
“No, now, Liza. He’s mental.”
Don’t sit here and take that. Tell him to bugger off.
Charlie lowered his head, muttering for Niles to shut it, but Niles kept whispering in his ear.
“See. I told you.”
Liza hit Lance with her free hand. “Leave me alone. You’re hurting me.”
“Now, Liza. Come on.”
“Leave her alone,” said Charlie without looking up.
“What did you say, wanker?” Lance put a hand behind his ear, leaning toward Charlie. With his other hand, he still held Liza’s arm.
Let him have it. Rip his bollocks off.
Charlie lifted his eyes and met Lance’s mocking stare. “Let her go.”
“Or what? What’re you going to do? Nothing. Now shut your gob!” He yanked at Liza’s arm. She gave a squeal and almost fell off the seat.
Charlie’s hand closed over the fork handle and he lunged upward, jamming the tines under Lance’s jaw into the soft flesh beneath his chin. Blood sprayed over his hand and Liza screamed. Stumbling back, Lance clawed at his jaw, trying to dislodge the fork.
Charlie shivered in revulsion, watching him careen around the room, blood flowing over the front of his rugby jersey. Around Lance, the rest of the students bolted, trying to get away, scrambling over each other, searching for the exits.
That’s the way to handle them, whispered Niles in his ear. That’s the way.
* * *
They landed at Heathrow Airport at 6:00AM on Sunday. The flight from JFK to Heathrow had been better than the flight from SFO to New York – the plane was larger and Peyton got the aisle seat Radar had promised her. Plus she got to sit next to an older couple traveling to Germany for a family reunion.
Still, she hadn’t slept much, her feet felt swollen and her legs cramped, not to mention her head felt stuffy. She wanted a shower and to go to bed, but Radar had admonished that they couldn’t sleep until nightfall or they’d suffer jet lag.
She pulled out her phone and checked the time in San Francisco as they waited to be processed through customs. 6:00AM meant it was 10:00PM the previous day in the City. She sent a text message to her mother and Marco both, promising to call the next day.
Before she’d even made it to the front of the custom’s line, they texted back telling her how glad they were to hear from her. She felt a measure of tension ease. She’d never been this far away from either of them before.
Radar took care of customs for the four of them, producing a letter from the American government, signed by Rosa Alvarez with the FBI seal. Peyton was just as glad to let him handle it. She could barely think straight enough to find her passport in her carry-on bag.
Then they were through and moving toward the luggage carousel to pick up their bags. The terminal where they landed was a newer one and still not completely operational, so they had no problem locating their luggage, then they exited into the sterile white pick-up area, looking for their contact from Scotland Yard.
A tall, well-built man with sandy brown hair and laughing brown eyes held a sign that read Moreno Party. Radar walked over to him and they shook hands. Peyton followed, feeling as if every muscle in her body now weighed twice what it had when she left San Francisco. She watched Radar remove his badge and show it to the man, and wondered if she could remember where she’d last put hers.
The man turned his laughing brown eyes on Tank and they shook hands, then he gave Bambi a polite nod, said something Peyton didn’t hear and clasped Bambi’s hand a bit longer than the men. Finally Peyton eased up beside Radar, dragging her suitcase behind her.
“Peyton Brooks,” she said, not even bothering to fish out her badge. She didn’t have an available hand, so she just gave him a chin jerk.
“Inspector Caleb Abbott, nice to meet you.” His British accent was refined, almost arrogant, but Peyton forced a smile. “Welcome to London.” He motioned to the doors, leading out of the terminal. “My car’s parked just outside. May I help you with your bags?” He reached for Peyton and Bambi’s suitcase handles.
Peyton frowned at him and shook her head no, but Bambi flashed him a bright smile. Peyton hated her at that moment. She felt rumpled and swollen and dirty. How the hell could Bambi look so pressed and polished and awake?
He took Bambi’s suitcase and moved toward the glass doors, his dress shoes tapping on the tile flooring. Peyton took in his tweed sports coat, his royal blue collared shirt, and his solid black tie, down to the slacks with the perfect crease on each leg.
“I’m certain you’re exhausted and would like nothing more than to bathe and relax, but your hotel rooms won’t be ready until 3:00PM today. I’ve been instructed to accommodate you at headquarters until then,” he said, smiling at Bambi again as they left the terminal.
“That’s fine. We’d like to get to work,” said Radar.
Peyton didn’t necessarily agree. She was tired and hungry and didn’t really care about much of anything at the moment.
The sky was overcast, the temperature around 65 degrees, very much like San Francisco, Peyton thought. He led them to a black s
edan parked at the curb before the terminal, pressing a button on his remote to open the trunk.
He and Tank arranged everything in the trunk, while Peyton tried to stretch the kinks out of her back.
Bambi smiled at her. “Long flight, huh?” she said.
Peyton frowned. “Really? You look like you just came out of a beauty salon.”
Bambi waved her off. “Silly, no I don’t. I look horrible. I need a shower and an iron.” She leaned close to Peyton. “But you do look a little tired.”
“Because I haven’t slept in more than 24 hours.”
“Oh, see now, I can sleep anywhere, at any time. You would not believe some of the places I’ve slept.”
Peyton could probably guess a few. Radar rolled his eyes and yanked open the car door, peering inside.
“Tank, you take shotgun,” he said, eyeing the legroom. “Sparky, you’ve got the hump.”
Of course she did. She glared at him as she climbed into the back seat, sliding into the middle. Everyone else piled in, struggling to find seatbelts, while Caleb Abbott climbed behind the driver’s side. Peyton didn’t know how the hell it would possibly work with him driving on the wrong side of the car, but it wasn’t her problem at the moment.
The Brit turned and smiled back at them. “All set?”
Radar gave a brief nod.
Peyton would have loved to watch the skyline of London rise around them as they drove away from the airport, but her position in the middle of the seat restricted her view, then there was the way Londoners drove. Caleb wove in and out of traffic, driving full speed until the very last second when he vigorously applied the brakes and stopped the car just before it plowed into the car in front of him. Gripping the headrest on Tank’s seat, she tried to keep from being thrown against Radar and Bambi, but it was no use. After the third close call, Peyton clamped her eyes shut and refused to watch.
“Don’t go to sleep!” growled Radar beside her.
“I’m not!” she snapped back. “I’m trying not to throw up.”
Caleb laughed. “I’m sorry, Agent Brooks, I tend to forget how disconcerting it is to drive on the opposite side of the road for you Americans. You’ll have to take especial caution crossing the road. It can confuse people their first time here.”
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 13
