Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Marco watched Stan mess with the phone. They had to get her back for him. He would not be denied this.

  “What are you doing?” he snapped at Jake.

  “We’re trying to run Abe’s program and pinpoint exactly where someone had to stand in order to shoot the John Doe. Stan thinks he might be able to estimate the shooter’s height.”

  Marco felt guilty for snapping at him. “That’s good, but what are you doing about getting me a secretary?”

  “I have someone coming in tomorrow morning.”

  Marco felt worse. “Fine.” He heard the connecting sound for the video and looked over at Stan.

  “Hey, Peyton,” said Stan, beaming at her. “Captain lost the feed.”

  “Hey, Stan, thanks for getting it back.”

  Stan’s face flushed with pride. “So is that your hotel room?”

  “Yeah.”

  Stan’s face went even pinker. “Nice...um...pillows.”

  Peyton’s laugh carried through the phone. Marco held his hand out for it, but Jake grabbed Stan’s wrist and angled it down, so he could look at her. “Ah, I see why he’s all hot and bothered. You’re in bed, Mighty Mouse.”

  “It’s not like that, Jake,” she said, but amusement was in her tone. “Is my guy there?”

  “Yeah, but I’m afraid to hand the phone over to him until he promises not to break me.”

  “He won’t hurt you if you stop poking a stick in his cage,” she answered.

  “So tell me what London’s like.” Jake shot a grin at Marco. “Awesome or just magnificent.”

  “Pretty awesome and halfway to magnificent.”

  “Ryder, give me the damn phone.”

  “See,” he told Peyton, “he’s doing that intimidation thing again.”

  “Well, stop provoking him. Give him the phone, Jake. I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Bye, Mighty Mouse.”

  “Bye, Jake, bye, Stan.”

  “Bye, Peyton,” Stan called as Jake extended the phone to Marco.

  Marco snatched it out of his hand. “You’re fired.”

  “No, I’m not. You never fire anyone. You wait for them to quit and I don’t quit either. You’d never get anything done without me.”

  Marco glared at Stan, but Stan had gone back to clicking on the computer. “If you get anything, let me know right away.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” Jake said with a salute.

  Marco smoothed his features and lifted the phone. “Hey, sweetheart, sorry about that.” Then he carried the phone back into his office and slammed the door.

  CHAPTER 11

  This one fought. She kicked and she screamed and she pummeled Niles with her fists. She didn’t want to die, but he was too strong for her and eventually, she went limp in his arms, a bloom of red spreading across her chest, spilling onto the cold cement of the alley.

  Charlie waited a long time, his eyes shut tight, his arms over his ears, listening to the echo of the howl die away on the night air. When he was sure he was alone again, he chanced a look. She didn’t move. She lay on her back, looking up at the faintly visible stars, but she didn’t move.

  Charlie forced himself to ease up to her, peering into her face to see if she could be saved, but her eyes had already begun to glass over. His attention focused on her hands, particularly her right one, flung out to the side as she fell.

  A few strands of black hair were entangled in her fist. She’d yanked them from Niles’s head when she fought him. He thought to remove them and throw them away. Niles would expect him to do that, but he didn’t. He left the hair strands in the girl’s hand and he eased away, trying to avoid looking at the ruin that had once been her throat.

  The sound of the howl still echoed in his ear as he turned out of the alley and walked briskly down the street, trying to put as much distance between him and the young woman as he could.

  * * *

  Caleb pointed violently to a photo on the glass forensics board in the conference room the Ghost Squad had been given in Scotland Yard. “Tamsin Durham, 24, waiting tables at Ye Olde Mitre, killed last night in an alley after leaving work. She had a two year old son.”

  Peyton looked at the lifeless blond with her throat torn out. Her eyes stared straight up, her mouth parted as if she were sleeping. The enormity of it overwhelmed her.

  “Who found her body?”

  “Two construction workers leaving the pub for the night, going home. She fought back. There’s signs of a struggle and we’ve now got DNA. She tore some hair off the bastard’s head, but…” He held his hand out over the photo.

  No one said anything, bowing their heads.

  “We have two names, Charlie and Niles,” said Radar. “Let’s go out to St. Mungo’s again and ask if anyone knows Charlie or Niles besides…” He snapped his fingers at Peyton. “The name of the girl?”

  “Trish.”

  “Trish.”

  “We still need to question the vendors on the bridge,” offered Bambi. “We’ll also talk to any homeless people, show them Gordon’s picture. See if they know a Charlie.”

  “It’s not enough. I can’t look into another set of parents’ faces and tell them their daughter’s dead.” Caleb paced a circle and came back.

  “Is there any indication these murders are committed by more than one person?” asked Peyton.

  “Not according to our medical examiner, no. It’s a clusterfuck, it is,” said Caleb.

  “So we have two names, but nothing more. Trish talked about them as if they were two people.”

  “And at times, she talked about them as one. I only have the information from the autopsies. There’s nothing to say we have two suspects, Agent Brooks,” said Caleb, wearily rubbing the back of his neck. “All forensic evidence points to one. Especially the hair we got off this latest victim. We may not have a DNA match, but the examiner confirmed they were from the same man.”

  “Can we map the murders?”

  “We have. They’re all between Islington and Southwark.”

  “Can I see it?”

  Caleb grabbed the remote off the table and made a few clicks on it. The murder locations came on the board. Peyton studied the array. Six victims. Six different locations. All in a relatively circular area.

  “What does this help? We’ve looked at it again and again, but any pattern is ruined by the Cooper murder on the bridge.”

  “Is there anything in common with the murders?”

  “They’re all blond,” said Tank.

  “They’re all between 20 and 25,” said Radar.

  “But they don’t all have the same occupations,” offered Bambi.

  “Anything else linking them?”

  Caleb squared himself in front of the board. He pointed at the first picture. “Angela Evans, British, 25, sales clerk at Harrods, killed in the Farringdon Station.” He slid his finger to the second victim. “Simone Wright, British, 24, cashier at Barclays, killed before her flat on Wellington.” He moved to the third. “Fredie Ebersback, German, 25, student, killed in Leicester Square on a picnic with friends.” He pointed to their reason for being here. “Rianna Cooper, 20, American, killed on the Millennium Bridge in front of her boyfriend.” He pointed to Amelia. “Amelia MacDonnell, Scottish, 23, works in a bank, attacked in Temple station. And finally, last night, Tamsin Durham, British, 24, killed in an alley next to her place of employment, Ye Old Mitre.”

  “Okay,” said Peyton, rubbing a hand over her chin. “The only connection I see is that many of them were in the service industry. Two were students. The nationalities are different. And two were killed in tube stations.” She leaned back in her chair. “Caleb, Evans was killed in Farringdon Station. Can you put that on your map?”

  He clicked with the remote.

  “Wright was killed on Wellington Street. Where’s the closest tube station to that?”

  “Um, either Leicester or Temple.” He plugged those into the map.

  “Ebersback was in Leicester Square, so she wa
s close to the Leicester Station,” said Tank.

  Caleb put another marker on that station.

  “Cooper was on the bridge,” said Bambi, squinting at the board.

  “Blackfriar Station is closest,” said Caleb, clicking.

  “MacDonnell was in the Temple Station when she was attacked,” said Peyton. A marker went on that point.

  Caleb turned and faced them. “Durham was killed closest to Farringdon.” He overlaid the tube map on the board. “I thought they might be on the Circle line, but Leicester Square muddies that.”

  “What’s that faint number I see?” asked Peyton, pointing to a white area spread over the tube map.

  Caleb sucked in air. “Fuck off. They’re all in zone one.”

  “So he operates only in that area?” said Radar. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

  “But he stays close to the tube stations. He must use the tube to go from point A to point B. It’s a start, Radar,” said Peyton.

  Radar rose and stretched. “Okay, Tank and Abbott, let’s go back to St. Mungo’s with our picture and our names. Bambi and Sparky, go question the vendors and the homeless on the bridge. We’ll meet back here and see what we’ve got.” He looked at Caleb. “I’m guessing you don’t have enough manpower to stake out those stations, right?”

  “We can certainly alert our patrols to be on the lookout for a Charlie or Niles and pass the pictures on to them.”

  “Good. We’ll report back here by 1:00.”

  Everyone moved to leave, but Radar pointed a finger at Peyton. “Do not let Bambi out of your sight, Sparky. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, Dad, I hear you.”

  He gave her a pointed glare, then turned away.

  * * *

  Marco felt he’d accomplished something by the time he pulled his car into the precinct parking lot. Dr. Ferguson had agreed to reduce his meetings to twice a week, Monday and Friday, as long as he continued to attend group meetings on Thursday. Marco had agreed because anything was better than sitting across from the psychiatrist and having him stare at him with his index fingers pressed against his lips.

  Marco just had nothing more to tell him. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t going to admit he wanted to drink. And he wasn’t going to discuss Peyton. That left his pain and since that wasn’t going away, there didn’t seem to be much point in rehashing it every other day.

  He limped across the parking lot and climbed the stairs. Bartlet was carrying a tray of coffee into the precinct and waited for him. Marco wished like hell he wouldn’t do that, but it did no good to wave the kid off.

  “Hey, Captain,” he said, pulling open the outer door. “Sure is a nice day.”

  Marco hadn’t noticed. He fought against the grimace of pain as he pulled himself up the stairs. Glancing up, he marked the blue sky. Since speaking revealed the level of pain he felt, he just nodded.

  Bartlet didn’t move until he passed him and went in the open door, fighting to compose himself. He came to a halt. Bartlet halted beside him. A 350 lb. six foot six man stood behind Carly’s desk, while Jake showed him how to work the phones.

  “Oh shit,” whispered Bartlet.

  The tray tilted and Marco reached out a hand to steady it. Bartlet corrected himself and eased around his captain, going for the half-door and pushing it open. Then he beat a hasty retreat.

  “Hey, Adonis,” said Jake, giving Marco his shit-eater grin. “This is Lemalu Faratuopolo.”

  The man straightened. He had wild black hair that hung to his shoulders, a wide face, blunt nose, and small dark eyes. His one brow cut a straight slash across his forehead. He wore a Hawaiian shirt that struggled to contain all of him and jeans. “You can call me Lee,” he said.

  “Adonis?”

  Marco blinked, forcing himself to think, to speak, to do something other than stand there and stare. “It’s Captain. Captain, damn it, Ryder.”

  The man clapped his hands once, making both Marco and Jake jump. “I knew it. I saw you come in and I said, I’ll bet that’s the captain.” He walked to the counter and held out his hand.

  Marco took it, feeling as if his fingers were being crushed.

  “D’Angelo, right?”

  “Right. And you are?”

  “Your new assistant. Jake here’s been showing me the phones.”

  Marco limped to the half-door. “Excuse me for a moment. Ryder, come with me to get...um…” He held his hand out to the massive man.

  “Lee,” said the man helpfully.

  “Lee a cup of coffee.”

  “I take it black. Good and strong the way every police precinct makes it.”

  “Right.” Marco gave him a smile, then shoved Jake in the shoulder, forcing him toward the break room. Once they got inside, Jake went to pour the coffee.

  “Are you freakin’ kidding me, Ryder?”

  “What?”

  “You hired a house to be my assistant.”

  “He’s not a house. He’s nice. I like him.”

  “He’s also a he.”

  “What are you, Adonis, sexist? Why can’t a man be your assistant?”

  Marco considered that. He didn’t think he was sexists. He’d always admitted Peyton was a better cop than he was, but still, he couldn’t see himself with an assistant that looked like a linebacker.

  “Well?”

  Marco pointed at Jake. “You did this deliberately.”

  “Not at all, he’s the best qualified of all the candidates.”

  “There’s not even a small part of you that was delighted when he walked through the door?”

  “Well, maybe a small part, but that’s your fault. If you weren’t such an uptight ass…”

  “Don’t you dare finish that!” Marco took a step closer to him and Jake stumbled back into the counter. “I will fire you! And when this goes south, you get to tell him he’s fired!”

  Jake didn’t respond and Marco turned, walking out of the room without looking back. He found Lee sitting in the chair, which sank under his weight, studying the buttons on the phone and making notes on a pad he’d found in Carly’s desk. As soon as Marco appeared, he rose to his feet and stood at attention.

  Marco eased around the desk, headed for his office, giving Lee a forced smile.

  “Captain?” Cho and Simons appeared around the corner of the conference room. Cho stumbled to a halt, his eyes taking in all six foot six of Marco’s assistant. “Hey,” he said, looking at him from the corner of his eyes.

  “Hey, I’m Lee Faratuopolo.”

  Cho hesitantly extended his hand. “Nathan Cho.” He pointed over his shoulder at Simons. “My partner, Bill Simons.”

  Simons shook Lee’s hand. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” said Lee. “I’m the new assistant.”

  “Awesome,” said Cho, then gave Marco a wild eyed look.

  Marco shrugged. “What’s up?”

  “Smith’s bringing Carol Peterson in for questioning. Ryder and Stan figured out the shooter had to be shorter than six feet.”

  “Brad’s six two.”

  “Yep.”

  “Huh. Call Adams and get him down here. Who’s Carol’s lawyer?”

  “Same one as Peterson’s.”

  Marco nodded, then looked at Lee. The man was reading over his notes, pretending not to hear. Jake appeared with the coffee and passed it to him.

  “I want the report you ran on the size of the shooter,” Marco told him.

  “It’s already on your desk.”

  “Good.” Marco turned toward his office, but looked over his shoulder at Cho. “Let me know when they get here.”

  “Done.”

  Marco took a seat at his desk and picked up the report Jake had left him. He read over the findings. The program couldn’t give an exact size on the shooter, but by the angle of trajectory, the person had to be under six feet. Which meant it had to be Carol.

  Something churned in Marco’s belly. He hated the idea that Carol could kill anyone. It was much easier to believe
Brad, with his gun collection and his prick personality, had done it. Not Carol, not the Carol he remembered – the popular cheerleader who agreed to accompany nerdy Weasel Williams to Homecoming.

  Pressing the intercom button, Marco waited to see if Lee would prove more adept than Carly. If not, he was so getting rid of him. The guy had about a day to impress him.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Marco stared at the phone, feeling a bit of annoyance that the man had mastered it that fast, although truth be told, it really only required one to press a flashing button. “Can you send Ryder in?”

  “He’s on his way.”

  Jake opened the door a moment later and stepped inside. “Is this for round 2 of the ass-chewing?”

  “Shut the door and sit your chewed ass down.”

  “He knows how to work the intercom and he remembered my name after only being told once.”

  “That’s not what I called you in here for.” He picked up the report. “How accurate does Stan think this new program is?”

  “Fairly accurate, why?”

  “The shooter had to be less than six feet tall, but it doesn’t say how tall?”

  “Right.”

  “Does it take into account a shooter who might be squatting?”

  Jake frowned. “Why would the shooter squat?”

  Marco set down the paper and grabbed a pad sitting on his blotter. Reaching for a pen, he drew a sloppy staircase, then a stick figure standing a short distance from the bottom of the staircase and another at the very top.

  “What if I don’t want the guy here…” He circled the stick figure at the bottom. “...to see me. I might crouch down to peek over the side of the banister. In fact, I might even brace the gun on the banister before I shot.”

  Jake picked up the report, then looked at Marco’s drawing. “If so, there should be powder marks on the banister.”

  Marco held up a hand. Beside him, his intercom buzzed and he pressed the button. “Yeah?”

  “Captain, Nate says to tell you Carol Peterson’s in interrogation.”

  Marco reached for his cane and rose.

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, go down to Stan’s office and run the program again with that scenario. I noticed Brad’s hand shook from Parkinson’s when he was here. Maybe he steadied himself on the banister before he took the shot.”