Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “I’m not talking to you. I’ll tell D’Angelo everything, but I’m not saying a damn word to you.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands on his belly.

  Cho looked at the lawyer.

  “He’s within his rights. He clearly understands the history between him and your captain. Honestly, what difference does it make to you?”

  “Come on, D’Angelo,” shouted Peterson. “I know you’re recording this. You can show the video in court, or you can have me sign something saying I know you slept with my wife.” He laughed. “Whatever, but I’m not talking to one of your flunkies.”

  Typical arrogant prick, thought Marco. “He’s sober,” he told Devan. “He’s just an ass.”

  “I’m going in with you. That way I can pull the plug if it goes south.”

  “Fine.” Marco reached for his cane and limped across to the interrogation room with Devan on his heels.

  Cho rose as he entered and Simons walked to the door, going out without a backward glance. Cho handed Marco the file. “He’s all yours, Captain,” he said with an aggravated shake of his head.

  “Thanks.” Marco moved to the table and set the file on it, studying Peterson, looking for signs that he was drunk. Devan sat down across from the lawyer.

  Peterson gave a laugh and shook his head. “You always confused the hell out of me, D’Angelo. Pretty as a girl, but mean as hell on the field.” He nudged the lawyer with his fist. “One time he knocked this poor bastard out. Everyone thought he was dead.”

  “This isn’t a good idea, Brad,” said Marco, easing into the chair and hooking his cane on the edge of the table.

  Brad’s eyes tracked over him. “You get shot?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty badass, D’Angelo.”

  “Did you hear me? This isn’t a good idea, having me interrogate you.”

  Brad’s expression sobered. “You’re the only one I want to talk to, so it’s my funeral.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “Not yet. Wish I had though. I can’t get it out of my head.” He looked at Devan. “Who’s the suit?”

  “ADA Adams,” said Peterson’s lawyer, reaching a hand across to shake Devan’s.

  “I said I’d only talk to you, D’Angelo.”

  “Well, for that to happen, you get me too,” said Devan.

  Brad shrugged. “Whatever.” He looked back at Marco. “What do you want to know?” He clasped his hands beneath the table again. Marco watched the motion. Something was bothering him about Peterson’s demeanor. He didn’t think he was drunk, but there was something in his posture, in the way he moved.

  “Tell me what happened again.”

  Peterson drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Carol and me were upstairs. She wanted to repaint the guest room, so she had all these swatches of color up on the wall. She wanted me to look at them and pick the one I liked. Like I give a shit about paint color.” He laughed, but no one else did, so he controlled his features again. “We heard something in the living room, so I grabbed a gun out of my gun collection. I keep it in the master bedroom.”

  “What sort of gun?” Marco interrupted.

  Brad caught himself, frowning. “What sort of gun?”

  “Yeah, what sort of gun?”

  “You took it. Your guys bagged it as evidence.”

  “I just need you to say it for the record.”

  Brad lifted a hand and scratched at his thinning hair. “Um, the Webley Vickers.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Yeah, what do you mean am I sure?” He glanced at his lawyer.

  The lawyer didn’t say anything, which Marco found strange.

  “Go on.”

  “Okay, so I grabbed the gun and went downstairs. The guy was in the living room and I yelled at him. He came at me, all crazy like, and I shot.”

  “Where was Carol?”

  “Upstairs in the master bedroom. I told her to stay there. She came running down when she heard the shot and called 911.”

  Marco nodded and splayed his hand on the file. “The Webley Vickers fires a big round, doesn’t it?”

  Brad shrugged. “I guess. I wouldn’t know about guns the way you would.”

  “You collect them though.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a hobby.”

  “Right. Still, the Webley Vickers, that’s got some kick. Probably knocked him on his ass, right?”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t it? Knock him backward?”

  Brad narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “Uh, it’s all kinda ‘a blur now.”

  “Yeah, that happens. Still, when I got shot, I remember clearly being knocked on my ass.”

  Brad scratched the side of his face. Marco’s gaze focused on his hand. “I don’t know. It’s not so clear to me.”

  “You didn’t know who the intruder was?”

  “No, never saw him before in my life.”

  “Do you know where he was shot?”

  “In the chest.”

  “You remember that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But you don’t remember whether he was knocked backward or not?”

  Brad looked at his lawyer. The lawyer shrugged.

  “No, he wasn’t knocked backward. He fell forward.”

  Marco opened the file and took out the ballistics report, setting it in front of Brad. “The Webley Vickers hasn’t been shot in years, Brad.”

  “What? Naw, that’s not right. I shot it that day.”

  “The bullet in the John Doe was a .357 magnum. The Vickers shoots a .45. Ballistics is pretty sure the gun that killed the John Doe was a Smith & Wesson. Now, I can pull records for your gun collection and find out if you have a Smith & Wesson, or you can just tell me.”

  Peterson swallowed hard.

  “How about some water?”

  “What?” He swiped a hand across his forehead.

  “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”

  Marco lifted a hand toward the two-way glass. “Now, why don’t you tell me the real story?”

  “I did.”

  “Tell me again.”

  “Carol and me were in the guest room, looking at paint swatches when we heard…”

  Marco shook his head and Peterson came to a halt.

  “What?”

  “There’s no point of entry, Brad. No way the suspect broke into the house.”

  “That’s just not possible. We heard a crash downstairs and…”

  “You never said that before.”

  Peterson looked at his lawyer. Devan leaned back in the chair. Greene held up a hand dismissively.

  “We were looking at paint swatches in the guest room,” said Peterson again.

  Cho entered the room, carrying the water and setting it on the table. Marco pushed it over toward him. “Take a drink and collect your thoughts,” he said, giving him a reassuring smile.

  Peterson reached for the water glass and Marco’s eyes focused on his hand. It was all the evidence he needed. Everything slipped into place. The body language, the slight tremor, the minute bobble of his head.

  “When were you diagnosed with Parkinson’s, Brad?”

  Devan’s eyes snapped to Marco’s face, but Marco ignored him. Greene pursed his lips. He knew. He was waiting for Peterson to give himself away. Clearly, Brad had told him not to interfere.

  Peterson set down the glass. “Last year.”

  Marco nodded. “Here’s what I think. You couldn’t have fired the gun.”

  “I could and did.”

  “Well, it doesn’t track for me. The shot came from above, say nine feet over the John Doe’s head. I’m thinking the second floor. You may have been carrying the Vickers, but that’s not the gun that killed him. Where’s the Smith & Wesson?”

  “There was no Smith & Wesson.”

  “Who’s the guy, Brad?”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Who s
hot him?”

  “I did.”

  Marco leaned forward. “It must have been hard to watch him die, wasn’t it? I mean it took thirty minutes. You had to sit there and listen to the death rattle, listen to him drown in his own blood.”

  Peterson flinched. “Carol heard the shot and called 911.”

  “That’s the rehearsed version. What really happened?”

  “I told you what happened. Carol and me were looking at paint swatches…”

  Marco slammed his hand down on the file. “Bull shit. Did she kill him? Did you invite him in and she shot him? Who was he? Was he blackmailing you? Shaking you down for something? Did you have an affair or something?”

  “I shot him. I shot him with Webley Vickers and I killed him. Carol called 911 when she heard the shot.”

  Marco leaned back, looking over at Greene. “You should talk to him. You should tell him what’s going to happen. In a second, my detectives are coming in to read him his rights.”

  “What? It was self-defense!” shouted Peterson. “He broke into my house and…”

  “Tell him the truth, Brad,” said Greene finally. “Tell him what really happened.”

  “I did. Carol and me were looking at paint swatches in the guest room.”

  Greene held up a hand, staring at Marco.

  Marco motioned to the two-way mirror. A moment later, Cho and Simons entered the room. “Bradley Peterson, you have the right to remain silent,” said Cho, moving toward the quarterback. “You have the right to an attorney.”

  Marco rose to his feet, picking up the file.

  Brad’s eyes followed him as Cho continued to read him his rights. “I told you the truth. I shot him in self-defense.”

  Marco leaned on the table, close to him. “Bull shit,” he said, then left the room.

  * * *

  St. Mungo’s Hostel was housed in an imposing brown brick building with tall chimney spires jutting from the roof. A brick wall enclosed it and planting pots hung from the wall, sporting red geraniums.

  Tank met Peyton and Bambi at the gate and opened it for them. “We might have a lead, but Radar wants you to talk to the woman, Peyton. We’re not getting too far.”

  Peyton stepped up the brick stairs and passed into a narrow entrance hall. The smell of garlic and onions struck her and she realized she was hungry. She and Bambi hadn’t eaten anything since the scones Bambi brought in with her this morning.

  “This way,” said Tank, turning down a tight hallway. It lead to a bright dining room with heavy wooden furniture and hanging lamps. A bank of windows allowed natural light to fill the space. Tank angled to the right and pushed open a swinging door.

  They stepped into a gleaming stainless steel kitchen. A number of people were rushing about, preparing food, while Radar and Caleb stood to the side, watching them. Tank led them over to Radar and the older man took Peyton’s elbow, pulling her close.

  He pointed to a young woman peeling potatoes in a small alcove by the stove. She sat on a three-legged stool, the peels falling into a pot, a second pot at her elbow, holding already peeled potatoes.

  “That’s Trish. Everyone here claims she was friends with someone looking a lot like our suspect, but she won’t talk to cops.”

  “Well, I’m a cop.”

  Caleb smiled at Peyton. “But you’re cute as a button, so she might make an exception.”

  Peyton frowned at him, but Bambi giggled.

  “She is cute as a button, isn’t she?”

  “Like a wee bonny rabbit.”

  Peyton glared at both of them. “Are you done?”

  “Sorry,” said Bambi, lowering her eyes. She held up the tickets. “We have tickets to see Macbeth tomorrow night at the Globe.”

  “Oh, Macbeth is such an exceptional study of how ambition corrupts the hearts of men and makes them do things they wouldn’t normally do,” said Tank.

  “I know. I find it so fascinating the way both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth deteriorate into madness throughout the play,” said Bambi.

  Radar cleared his throat. “We have a number of murders we’re trying to solve that border on madness. Could we focus on that?”

  “Sorry,” said Bambi again, while Tank lowered his head and clamped his mouth shut.

  Caleb Abbott seemed amused.

  “Sparky?”

  “What do you want me to do, Radar? You said she won’t talk to cops.”

  “Charm her.” He shoved her toward the young woman.

  Peyton shot him a venomous look, then smoothed out her t-shirt and leather jacket, walking across the kitchen to the young woman. Grabbing a second stool, she set it in front of Trish and sat down.

  “Hi, I’m Peyton.”

  Trish looked at her through her lashes, her peeling knife slicing along another potato.

  “Trish, I need your help. I know you don’t like talking to cops. Trust me, I get it. I don’t like talking to myself.” She laughed.

  Trish’s eyes rose and pinned her.

  “But we have four dead women and another fighting for her life in the hospital. They aren’t much older than you are and they weren’t doing anything wrong. All they were doing was trying to get home.” Peyton braced her arms on her thighs. “I need to stop this guy before anyone else dies, Trish, and I need your help.”

  The knife slowed on the potato, but Trish didn’t speak.

  Peyton glanced around the kitchen. Many of the people were still pretending to work, but it was clear they were watching the exchange.

  “Trish, I can imagine it’s hard to trust a cop after what you’ve been through. I’m sure they haven’t shown you much kindness or patience. I get that. I get why you don’t want to talk, but know this, if the suspect is your friend, a lot of cops are out looking for him now. Eventually they’re going to bring him in. Help us bring him in safely, Trish. Help us stop him from doing what you know he shouldn’t be doing.”

  The peels fell faster and Peyton could no longer see Trish’s face behind her long, stringy hair. Glancing back at Radar, Peyton shrugged. She wasn’t getting anywhere either.

  “Charlie wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Peyton’s gaze snapped back to her bowed head. “Charlie? Is Charlie your friend? The same one that looks like the man in the photo?”

  She gave a brief nod. “Charlie’s gentle and kind. Niles is the one who’s violent. That’s what Charlie always says. Niles does the bad things.”

  Peyton smiled gently. “Does Charlie have a last name, Trish? Did he ever tell you?”

  “No. I just knew him as Charlie. I met Niles once too.”

  “You did? Is Niles Charlie’s friend?”

  “Niles follows Charlie around. He talks to him.”

  Peyton frowned at that. “Do you know Niles’s last name?”

  “Burlington.”

  “Niles Burlington?”

  “Or something like that. It started with a B.”

  Peyton leaned closer to Trish. “Thank you, you’ve been a big help. I really appreciate it.”

  Trish lifted her head, her hair partially covering her face, but Peyton could see her hazel eyes behind the strands. “Charlie wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Peyton nodded. “I believe you, Trish. Thank you for your help.” Peyton started to rise, then sat down again. “Do you know where I might be able to find Charlie?”

  “He hangs around the Circle Line. He feels most comfortable there.”

  “Great. And Niles?”

  Trish’s fingers stilled on the potatoes. She didn’t respond for a long time and Peyton wondered if she was going to. Finally Trish began peeling again. “Find Charlie and you’ll find Niles. They’re always together.”

  Peyton nodded. “Again, thank you,” she said, rising to her feet.

  Trish didn’t answer, just went back to peeling potatoes.

  * * *

  Marco’s cell phone rang, showing an incoming video. He snatched it off his desk and accepted the call, waiting for the video to connect. He couldn�
��t believe his heart was pounding with excitement. God, he wanted her home.

  Her face appeared on the screen. She was lying in bed like last time, leaning back against the pillows, his jersey on. He smiled. “Hey, sweetheart, I like where we have these nightly talks. Wish I could be there with you.”

  She laughed. She looked tired, but relaxed. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Is Bambi out again?”

  “Yeah, with our Scotland Yard contact, Caleb Abbott.” She tried for a British accent and failed.

  He laughed. “Does she stay out all night?”

  “She probably will tonight. Yesterday she got in about 1:00 or so.”

  “She’s moving fast with this guy.”

  “I think that’s Bambi’s M.O. So, you’re still at work. I recognize the office.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got this case. Brad Peterson. I played football with him in high school, then he went on to the pros and played for the Bills about eight years. He shot someone in his house or he didn’t shoot someone, but he’s taking the fall for it.”

  “Huh, wife?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. The whole thing’s hinky. I wish you were here to look it over. We can’t get an ID on the dead guy. I called Rosa and asked her if she could put some pressure on her people for a CODIS ID.”

  “What’d she say?”

  “She’ll try, but DNA doesn’t come back as quick in real life as the movies. Why do I feel annoyed whenever I talk to her?”

  Peyton laughed. “Remember that, especially while I’m gone.”

  “You’re all I think about, baby.”

  She smiled, then the video froze. A moment later, it disappeared from the screen. Marco tried to dial her back, but it didn’t work. Disappointment slammed into him. This was their only time together and they were going to be robbed of it by technology?

  Grabbing his cane, he hurried around the desk and out to Carly’s space where Jake was working. Stan happened to be with him, messing with something on Jake’s computer screen.

  “Get her back!” he ordered, shoving the phone at Jake.

  “What?”

  “Peyton! Get her back!”

  Jake and Stan exchanged a look, then Stan took the phone.

  “What’s got your panties all in a bunch, Adonis?”