Marco laughed again and disconnected the call.
* * *
Peyton slid onto the bench between Tank and Radar, watching the people file into the theatre. She was surprised when so many took up positions around the stage, sitting on the hard asphalt floor.
Bambi and Caleb Abbott halted below them and leaned on the wooden railing. “We’re going to be groundlings,” Bambi told Peyton, her eyes shining. “Wanna join us?”
Peyton gave her a bewildered look. “What are groundlings?”
“During the early 17th century, people who were too poor to afford a theatre ticket were allowed to view the production from the yard for a penny,” said Tank, pointing to the area filling before the stage. “They were usually packed in and smelled rather aromatically.”
“Stinkards they were called,” said Abbott with a laugh. “Lucky for us, the same doesn’t hold true today.” He winked at Bambi.
“The name groundling was first referenced in Hamlet, but scholars believe it comes from a small, gaped mouth fish. As you can imagine, the audience staring up at the performers with open mouths might appear to look like gaping fish,” continued Tank.
“You’re going to sit on the hard ground for the whole play?” asked Peyton.
“No, silly, we’re going to stand. Otherwise they can’t fit all the people in,” said Bambi. “Besides, standing is probably more comfortable than sitting on those hard benches without backs.”
Peyton eyed the growing crowd. She knew she’d never be able to stand the press of that many people around her.
“She’s gonna keep me company,” said Radar, giving Bambi a smile. “She said she’d translate for me.”
Peyton shot him a grateful look. They both knew why Peyton couldn’t accept Bambi’s invitation, but he clearly wasn’t going to announce it to everyone. Giving her a shrug, she watched Bambi and Caleb shove their way through the press of people to the very edge of the stage.
Nudging Tank with her shoulder, she whispered, “Help me out here. I never read Macbeth in school.”
“You’re going to be amazed. For me, this is probably his finest work. It has everything: intrigue, politics, supernatural elements, and the most complicated female character he ever devised. The basic premise is this, Macbeth and his wife, Lady Macbeth, want the crown of Scotland and they’ll do anything to get it, even kill.”
“Really?” She found herself mildly interested. Especially as dry ice began to leak out onto the stage from beneath the curtains. “Tell me more.”
Radar leaned in on her right side, listening as well.
“As the play opens, we see three witches conjuring a prophesy for Macbeth, and here’s where we get the famous lines, Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air.”
As Peyton listened to him, she realized she was already hooked.
CHAPTER 12
“The job is beyond simple,” said Cyril. “Most of it’s automated in the machines over there. All you have to do is hand out maps and point. Once in a while you might have to answer a remotely intelligent question.”
Charlie picked at his cuticles and nodded. He adjusted the cap on his head.
“If someone comes up to the window, say welcome to Charing Cross Station, where would you be going? They tell you and Bob’s your uncle, they’re off and running. It’s so easy, it’s mental, it is.” He patted Charlie hard on the back. “You’ll do fine.”
Charlie sank down on the stool and stared out at the station. He’d do fine. He’d do just fine. All he had to do was answer a few questions about the tube lines and no one knew those better than he did, and pass out maps. He could pass out maps.
“I’ll just be over there by the turnstiles if you need me, but you won’t. You’ll do fine.”
Charlie nodded. “By the turnstiles.”
“By the turnstiles.” Cyril backed from the booth and shut the door behind him.
Charlie picked at his cuticles some more and they began to bleed. Sticking his finger in his mouth, he looked up. Two older women were looking at the map posted on the wall next to his booth. He wondered if he should offer to help them, but Cyril had made it clear. Help when help was needed.
One of them glanced over and saw him watching. She pointed at him. He felt a flutter of panic as they came to the booth and gave him a smile. He smiled back.
“We’re headed to Wimbledon. Which line do we want?”
“Northern line,” he said, but she frowned at him. She couldn’t hear him through the bulletproof glass.
“What?”
He looked at the display, then remembered Cyril had told him to press the button when people wanted to talk. “You want the Northern line.” He grabbed a map and folded it open, sliding it into the opening beneath the glass. “Here,” he said, pointing with the edge of a pen.
“Oh, thank you, young man, we appreciate your help.”
He beamed a smile at her. It felt good to help someone, felt good to do something other than rattle around in hospital, going to group meetings, eating when told, being forced to take medication, although he was taking his medication. As long as he took his medication, Niles didn’t bother him, didn’t make suggestions. As long as he took the medication, Niles stayed away.
Sure, the medicine made his thoughts come slow and sometimes it made him shake, but not having Niles whisper in his ear was really something. And he could work. He liked working the tube lines. He liked feeling useful and no one knew the tube better than he did. No one understood it half as well.
Yes, things were finally beginning to change for him and maybe, if he was lucky, he’d eventually be able to move out on his own. He knew his mother and father would like that. He knew they would like to see him able to function the way they wanted. The way they’d always wanted. Maybe soon he’d show them.
* * *
“Before you say anything,” said Devan, holding up a hand as Marco entered his office, “look at the presents I brought you.”
Marco eyed him, then reached across the desk and lifted the two folded slips of paper. “Is this the subpoena for Peterson’s financial records?”
“And for his medical records. I already faxed it to Abe, so I expect you to go out there and get me some precinct tar to wake me up.”
“Hold on. Why the medical records and how did you get this so fast?”
“Jefferson Greene contacted me last night after you called. He thought both of those things might help you in your investigation.”
“What gives, Adams? I’ve never had a lawyer be so cooperative.”
“Apparently, you’re more likely to bounce this case if you see those records.”
Marco gave Devan a disbelieving look.
Devan shrugged. “I’m so sleep deprived, D’Angelo, that I’m not looking anything in the mouth.”
“Gift horse.”
“What?”
“That’s the saying.”
“Gift horse, gift ass, gift...shit!” He sat up straighter, his eyes going past Marco out of the office door.
Marco whipped around, his leg protesting. Lee stood in the doorway.
“Good morning, Captain D’Angelo. Sure is a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”
Marco was fighting the throbbing in his leg, so he didn’t immediately answer.
“I was just wondering if you and your guest would like a cup of coffee. I found a very nice blend in the break room and a grinder in the cupboard. I thought I’d make a fresh pot.”
Marco pulled his phone out of his suit pocket and glanced at the display. 8:00AM. Carly had never once made 8:00AM in her life. “Yeah, that’d be great.”
Devan still stared, so Marco knocked him in the shin with his cane. He snapped his mouth shut and bent over to rub it. Lee smiled so broadly, his eyes disappeared, then he turned to go.
“Lee?”
“Yes, sir.”
Marco motioned to Devan. “This is ADA Adams. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him. He likes to sleep in that chai
r.”
Lee frowned, but he accepted Devan’s hand when he rose and extended it. “I see. Good to know.”
“New baby,” Devan offered by way of explanation.
“Ah, got ya. I’ve been there three times.”
“So you have kids?” asked Devan.
“Three sons – four, six and eight. We like even years.”
Marco and Devan laughed uncomfortably. Marco couldn’t even imagine the sort of woman who’d be able to birth sons for this man.
“I’ll just get that coffee. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Could you ask Jake to meet me in the conference room with his tablet when he gets in?”
“Done.” Lee disappeared out the door.
Marco and Devan exchanged a look, then Devan smoothed his hands down his jacket.
“So, that’s…”
“My new assistant.”
“Right. From Betty Crocker to a mountain, why the hell not?”
“He’s already a thousand times better than Carly.”
“I agree. Besides, someone as pretty as you, D’Angelo, probably needs a bodyguard.” He slapped Marco roughly on the shoulder. “Let me know what you find in the files.”
Not bothering to get comfortable, Marco walked across to the conference room, turning on the light. Lee appeared a moment later with a fresh cup of coffee and not long after him came Jake, carrying his tablet.
“I heard we got Peterson’s financial records already,” said Jake.
“Yeah. His lawyer’s being a bit too cooperative. There’s definitely something in there. Yesterday, Carol told me they were behind in their mortgage.”
“Wait. When did you see her?”
“She was waiting for me in the parking lot.”
Jake gave him a questioning look as he began working through the process of pulling up Peterson’s records. Marco sipped at his coffee and watched him as Jake talked on the phone to the bank. In the middle of it, Cho and Simons entered.
“We just went to talk to Peterson’s neighbors.”
“And? Why didn’t we do this before?”
“They weren’t home at the time, so we left our card, but they both just recently called to check in,” said Cho, leaning on the table. “No one heard the shots or saw the ambulance come. They didn’t know anything had happened until they saw it on the news.”
“Wonderful.”
“Well, one of them remembered a strange car parked in the driveway a number of times recently.”
“A black Mercedes with tinted windows,” said Simons, leaning against the wall.
“Go on.”
“Once the car blocked in the neighbor to the left, so he took down the license plate number.” Cho pulled it out of his pocket. “We’ll run it to see if we get any hits.”
“Great work,” said Marco. “We’re running Peterson’s financials. Check back with us as soon as you run the plates.”
“Done.” They left the room as Jake disconnected his call.
“We’re in,” he told Marco.
Marco leaned forward, watching Jake mess with the tablet.
“So Carol met you in the parking lot?”
“She wanted me to bounce the case.”
“Is that all she wanted?” Jake continued to click, shooting a sideways look at Marco.
Marco fought his annoyance. Jake Ryder knew every way in the world to get under his skin and he enjoyed doing it. “I didn’t ask.”
“Hm.”
“What? What’s the hm for?”
“Nothing, just she’s an attractive woman and you have history.”
Marco leaned forward. “Let me ask you something, Ryder. Do you think I’d risk what I have with Peyton for any other woman, any other woman in the world?” He held up a finger when Jake started to answer. “And before you spout off more of your bull shit, I want your honest answer to that.”
Jake lowered the tablet. “No, Adonis, I don’t think you’d do anything to risk what you have with Peyton. In fact, I think you’d do anything to undo the damage you’ve done and that’s my honest opinion.”
Marco leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee, taking a sip. He wasn’t going to deny or confirm Jake’s thoughts, but they both knew Jake had nailed it. Jake went back to looking at the tablet.
“Only one of their joint accounts is in Peterson’s name.”
“What? What accounts are you looking at then?”
“No, I mean they’re all in Carol’s name. They were transferred into her name about seven months ago.”
“Is he on the accounts?”
“No.”
“How much money’s in them?”
“Not as much as you’d think.”
“Then they’re hiding accounts off-shore or something?”
“I don’t know about that, but everything they have at this bank is here and it’s all in her name with the exception of one. He has a checking account and twice a month she automatically transfers $5,000 into it.”
“Wait. What?”
Jake thought for a moment, then he frowned at Marco. “It’s like he’s on an allowance.”
“How much is in his account?”
“Couple hundred. He takes cash withdrawals almost immediately once the money gets in there.”
“Cash. He carries $5,000 around with him on a regular basis?”
“Looks like it.”
Marco ran his thumb over the writing on his mug. It read there’s no such thing as too much chocolate. He immediately thought of Peyton, then forced himself to focus. “Drugs?”
“Could be.”
Simons and Cho stepped into the conference room. “The Mercedes belongs to Eduard Zonov.”
“Priors?” Marco asked.
“Assault and battery, one count of racketeering, and illegal gambling.”
“I’ll bet he’s a bookie,” said Simons.
“Bingo.” Marco snapped his fingers. “Don’t care how many millions you have, you can go through them but quick if you’re gambling.”
“What did you find?” Simons asked Jake.
As Jake filled them in, Marco’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a text message from Abe.
A set of interesting medical records suddenly landed on my doorstep. Cho and Simons want to come out here or should I leave my dungeon and come to you?
Marco texted back. Can you come to us? We’re working another angle right now.
Does Jakey have any of that wonderful coffee brewing?
Yeah, we’ve got a full pot. We’re set up in the conference room.
I want lunch, Angel. Just you and me at Tekka on Balboa after we’re done.
Marco sighed.
“Something wrong?” asked Jake.
“Abe found something in Peterson’s medical records and he’s on his way over.”
Jake grinned. “What do you have to give him?”
“Lunch. Just the two of us.”
“I’d say that’s an even trade,” said Cho.
“Agreed,” answered Simons.
Marco picked up the phone. Fine, he texted and shoved the phone in his pocket again.
* * *
Peyton sipped at her coffee and watched the Londoners moving about Pret, buying lunch, getting tea, or just sitting around talking. The variety of British accents was astonishing. She didn’t have them all down, but she was beginning to recognize distinct ones.
Tank came over and took a seat on the butcher block stool across from her. “How’d you like the play last night?”
Peyton smiled. “So much better than I thought I would. I actually understood it. I mean not every word, but I got the basic premise pretty clearly. And some of the humor. That surprised me.”
“Pretty neat, right? Macbeth was written in 1606, that’s over 400 years ago, and yet it still holds true. We’ve seen some of the human condition he writes about ourselves in this business. Ambition drives people to do horrible things.”
“The woman who pla
yed Lady Macbeth gave me chills, especially during that out, damned spot scene. She really seemed mad. And Macbeth’s solilo…solilowhatever.”
“Soliloquy.”
“Yeah, after she dies. That got to me.”
Tank tilted up his head and struck a dignified pose.
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
Peyton felt a chill shiver over her and the two women at the next table gave Tank polite applause, smiling.
“How do you know that by heart?”
“It’s my favorite soliloquy.”
“Mine too.”
Her phone buzzed and she fished it out. She didn’t recognize the number, but the message was clear. Dig deeper. She opened the text and a picture loaded of a man she vaguely recognized, sitting with a soldier in a uniform. She was fairly sure she recognized the soldier too. Sucking in a breath, she set her coffee down and enlarged the image on her screen.
“Tank?”
He looked up at her.
“Is this Senator Lange?” She held the phone out to him and he took it.
“Um, hold on.” Reaching for his own phone, he punched something into it, then pressed the screen and held it out to her. “Looks like the same man, doesn’t it?”
She studied the official senate portrait from his website, then looked at the picture on her display. Same widow’s peak, same artificial black hair, same hooked nose. “And the man with him? Do you recognize him?”
Tank studied the picture a few seconds, then his eyes rose to hers. “That’s Lance-Corporal Daws.”
Peyton clenched her jaw. “His assistant, Paul Richmond, told me he had no record of the senator ever meeting Daws.”
“Do you know who sent the picture?”
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 22
