Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1)

by M. L. Hamilton

“Later, Brooks, and be careful.”

  “Always.”

  A cough by the door brought Marco around. Devan leaned in the entrance, giving him a hard stare. “You wanted to see me?”

  Marco pushed himself stiffly to his feet and held out his hand. Devan gave him a death grip in return. Marco ignored the blatant masculine display and waved Devan into the chair before his desk.

  Devan sank into it, smoothing out his suit. Devan and Peyton had dated for about six months, but he’d broken it off in a fit after she’d failed to call him a few times. He claimed to have done it to make her get serious about their relationship, but Peyton had never taken him back. Then last year, he’d gotten another woman pregnant, despite his repeated attempts to worm his way into Peyton’s life. Marco didn’t hate him, but he wasn’t one of his favorite people either.

  Devan was everything Marco was not. College educated, polished, book smart, and well spoken, he oozed a sort of elegant charm that worked particularly well in a courtroom. As Assistant District Attorney, he had political aspirations, something that baffled Marco completely.

  “How are you?” Marco asked, trying to be polite. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn how the man was.

  “I’m doing well,” answered Devan.

  “How’s your wife?”

  “Great.”

  “When’s the baby due?”

  “Next month. It’s a girl. How’s Peyton?”

  It always circled back to Peyton. “She got her first case with the FBI.”

  “Good. Still engaged?”

  “Yep. The wedding’s in October.” Marco wasn’t opposed to twisting the screws a little.

  “You living in her house?”

  “Yep.” He wasn’t going to take the bait. He didn’t give a damn that he was living in Peyton’s house as long as he got to climb into bed next to Peyton every night.

  Devan nodded, pulling his lips back against his teeth. “So what did you want to see me about?”

  Marco reached for the manila envelope near his computer. “A couple came in yesterday asking me to take on a case.”

  “A walk-in?”

  Marco shrugged. “It happens sometimes. Anyway, their daughter died. She was nineteen, a student at San Francisco State, and they want me to investigate it as a murder, but there are some complications.”

  Devan steepled his fingers. “Complications?”

  “The daughter committed suicide.”

  Devan pursed his lips. “Why am I here, D’Angelo?”

  “She was seeing a boy at the school, Ryan Addison, but when she broke it off, elicit videos of her began to surface on social media.”

  “Revenge porn.”

  “Right. A few weeks later, she killed herself. Her parents want Ryan Addison tried for murder. They believe he drove her to do it.”

  Devan didn’t speak for a moment. He sat contemplating Marco. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re asking me to prosecute someone for another person’s suicide.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you know what a hellish can of worms that would open?”

  “He put the videos up on the internet. He destroyed her life. She lost a prestigious internship, she was harassed by strangers, her friends walked away from her. Even her professors saw the video.”

  “And she committed suicide. Is there anything to suggest she didn’t?”

  “No. They have a suicide note.” Marco chewed on his inner lip. “What about SB255?”

  “The revenge porn law? That only applies if he took the pictures and distributed them himself without her consent. Anyone else who distributed them after he uploaded them wouldn’t be covered. Besides that, if convicted, it would only be a misdemeanor under disorderly conduct. Not murder, D’Angelo.”

  Marco leaned forward on the desk. “If I kill someone with my car, even unintentionally, I can be tried for manslaughter.”

  “That’s not the same. He didn’t kill her. She killed herself.”

  “He drove her to it.”

  “This isn’t gonna fly with any judge, D’Angelo.”

  “How do you know? How do you know until you try it?”

  “There’s no precedent for it. We’d have to be able to prove he told her to kill herself and even then, it’s an iffy proposition. There’s no judge that’s going to want to touch this. Do you realize what this would open up? With the bullying problem all over the country, every distraught parent whose son or daughter committed suicide would be trying the bullies for murder.”

  Marco picked up a paper that he’d printed earlier and passed it to Devan. “In 1960 Tate versus Canonica, a judge granted a trial for a wrongful death case. Three teen boys raped a girl, took pictures of her, and posted them at school. As a result, she killed herself.”

  Devan took the paper and looked it over. “Hm, I’m impressed.”

  “All I’m asking for is the warrants to investigate. Let me see what happened to this girl.”

  “You’re asking me to try a case I can’t win.”

  “Where does change ever happen if we don’t try cases we can’t win? Where does precedent begin, Adams? Someone has to have the courage to take that first step.”

  Devan stared at the paper, then he set it on the desk. “It’s too soon. Things are evolving in this area as we speak and we need to wait to see where it ends up.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sorry, D’Angelo. I know your heart’s in the right place, but I’m not risking my career for this.”

  He turned and walked to the door.

  Marco grabbed the manila folder and his cane, lurching unsteadily to his feet. He followed Devan out into the precinct, pulling the picture from the envelope.

  “Adams, wait!”

  Jake looked up from his spot at Maria’s desk.

  Devan halted and slowly turned around.

  Marco held the picture out to him.

  “What’s this?”

  “Carissa Phelps.”

  Devan took the picture and studied her pretty, young face.

  “You’re about to have a daughter, Adams. Think about that for a minute. Do you want to be facing something like this twenty years from now? Take a step in the right direction. Take a step to protect your daughter.”

  Devan looked up at him. “That’s a low blow, D’Angelo.”

  “I just want a chance to investigate this case. Just let me do that. Get me the warrants I need.”

  Devan bit his inner lip. “Fine. I’ll get you the warrants. Send me a text with what you want.”

  Marco exhaled. “Thank you.”

  Devan passed back the photo and turned to go, but he stopped and faced Marco again. “If I do this for you, I want something in return.”

  “What?”

  “A quid pro quo.”

  “Quid pro quo?”

  “A favor granted in return.”

  “I know what it means. What do you want?”

  “I’m running for state legislature. The mayor’s throwing me a fund raiser a week from Friday.”

  “You want a donation?”

  Devan gave a slow shake of his head. “No, I want you and Peyton to attend.”

  “What?”

  “You’re local celebrities now after the serial killer case. You’ll attract a lot of big wallets – the wounded warrior and his feisty little partner who took the serial killer out.”

  Marco glanced over at Jake. Jake shook his head.

  “Besides that, people eat up a love story. They’ll adore the two of you. Come on, D’Angelo. A little booze, a little schmooze, and we both get what we want.”

  “Fine. We’ll be there.”

  “I’ll have them send over an invitation with all the pertinent information.” Devan gave him a slow smile, then stepped closer. “Be sure and wear a sexy little number, okay?”

  Marco clenched his jaw.

  Turning, Devan gave Jake a disgusted look. “You’re a secretary now?”

  Jake
glared at him, but didn’t answer.

  With a laugh, Devan walked to the half-door and pushed it open, then moved to the glass front doors and let himself out.

  After the door closed behind him, Jake said, “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole now.”

  Marco gave him a lazy look. “He can’t hear you, Ryder.”

  “That’s the point. I don’t need to wind up accused of another crime.”

  Marco smirked. “Really brave of you.”

  “Yeah, well, he told you to wear something sexy, so…”

  Marco sighed. “Yeah, you have a point.” He lifted the photo of Carissa Phelps and studied it. He didn’t give a damn what Devan said as long as he got him the warrants he needed.

  * * *

  Locke, California was a Sacramento Delta town, built in 1915 by Chinese Americans when Chinatown in nearby Walnut Grove burnt to the ground. It was named after George Locke, who owned the land prior to its settlement.

  Although the population was less than 100 now, in the past it had swelled to over a thousand during peak harvesting seasons. Situated along the Sacramento River, the ramshackle buildings seemed to defy physics, listing at precarious angles, giving the entire town the appearance that it was about to collapse in on itself. In 1970, it was added to the national registry as a historical landmark.

  Radar drove down the Main Street and parked the Suburban behind a Sacramento sheriff’s patrol car. Bambi had let Peyton ride shotgun. Peyton wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t arguing. Driving the twisting roads with their precarious drops into the river made her stomach roil, although she had to admit it was a pretty ride. White boats dotted the waterways, soaking up the beautiful spring sunlight. Orchards and fields spread out beyond the levees and the water sparkled a crystalline blue.

  As soon as Radar turned off the engine, a door on the patrol car opened and a man stepped out, wearing a brown sheriff’s department uniform. Tank pulled open Peyton’s door and held it for her as she climbed out. She gave him a smile, but he simply nodded in return.

  Radar approached the sheriff’s officer, showing him his badge. “Special Agent Carlos Moreno.”

  The deputy stood with feet braced, his hat pushed to the back of his head, his hands hooked into his belt. He glanced over the badge and then back into Radar’s face. “Deputy Bob Sharpe.”

  Radar snapped his badge closed. “We’ll need your files on the case, the autopsy reports on the other two victims, and any crime scene evidence you’ve taken. All other communications on this case will run through our office. Finally, we’ll need you to show us all three crime scenes.”

  Peyton hesitated by the front of the Suburban, rolling her eyes. She could see by the deputy’s body language that any cooperation they might have gotten was over. He rocked on his heels and stared Radar down without blinking.

  Bambi and Tank moved up behind their leader, presenting a wall of federal intimidation.

  Peyton strode past them and held out her hand. “Peyton Brooks.”

  Deputy Sharpe accepted her hand. “Nice to meet you, Agent Brooks.”

  “Deputy Sharpe, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I just started with the FBI this week. I worked homicide in San Francisco for eight years.”

  Deputy Sharpe nodded.

  “Still trying to find my footing.” She gave a shrug, then leaned closer to him. “We always hated it when the feds came in.”

  Deputy Sharpe gave a lift of his chin, his jaw working a piece of gum.

  “Seriously though, nasty case you’ve got here.”

  Deputy Sharpe barked a laugh. “You can say that again.”

  “Three bodies, right?”

  “Right.”

  “All eaten?”

  Deputy Sharpe’s shoulders lowered a little. “Just the faces and...brains.”

  Peyton shivered. “That’s what gets me. Our M.E. found a fingernail on the last guy, said the assailant pried the skull open with his bare hands.”

  Sharpe made a face. “Maybe we’ll get some DNA.”

  “Yeah. Is the community getting anxious?”

  Sharpe gave a snort. “You could say that. They ran a report in the local paper about zombies.”

  “Sure don’t want that. People get hysterical about things they don’t understand.”

  “Yep. Folks are gonna start packing heat and shooting things in the dark. You definitely don’t want panic setting in.”

  Peyton felt Radar’s glare on her back, but she ignored it. “Can you show us the crime scene for this latest attack?”

  “Yeah. This way.” He pointed over his shoulder. Then he turned and started walking.

  “Our M.E. thought the last victim might be Asian?” she said, falling into step beside him.

  “That’s what we thought too.”

  “What about the other two bodies?”

  “Asian. We have a large Hmong population out here.”

  “Did anyone report missing family members?”

  The deputy glanced at Peyton. “Many of our Hmong residents don’t trust the government and with good reason, especially based on where they came from. They don’t usually seek help from the police.”

  “That makes it difficult.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  He led them to an alley. The buildings on either side leaned toward each other, shadowing the street and creating a very narrow wooden boardwalk between them. “Found him down here.” He eased past a dumpster and pointed to a section designated by yellow crime scene tape.

  Radar motioned Tank and Bambi to canvass the area, but when Peyton moved to follow, he caught her elbow. “Excuse us for a moment, Deputy Sharpe,” he said and pulled Peyton out of the alleyway onto the street.

  He squared off in front of her. “Let’s get something clear, Sparky. I run point on this squad.”

  Peyton gave him a nod. “Sure. I got no problem with that.”

  “Really? Then what was that back there?”

  “How much cooperation did you want?”

  “Complete cooperation.”

  “And you thought you’d get it by making demands? I was a street cop, Radar. I hated it when the feds came in, barking orders, acting superior. Certainly didn’t make me want to play nice with them.”

  “I run point on this squad!”

  “I get that.” She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice. “But here’s the thing. I’m part of this team. You all have your specialties. Well, this is mine. Let me do what I do well.”

  “What? Charm local uniforms?”

  “Yes.”

  Radar rocked back on his heels, studying her. “I run point.”

  “You run point.”

  “Get him to take us to the next location.”

  “Aye, aye captain,” she said with a smile.

  Radar sighed. “Sarge warned me you were going to be trouble.”

  Peyton hesitated and glanced back at him. What the hell? But he was sort of smiling, so she let it go. Deputy Sharpe was standing by the dumpster, watching Bambi and Tank search the crime scene. Peyton stopped beside him.

  “Get your ass chewed off?” he asked, glancing down at her. He had laugh lines radiating out from his eyes and he was in his late forties, early fifties. A swoop of brown hair angled across his forehead and disappeared under his hat. He topped six feet, lean muscle without an ounce of fat.

  “He runs point.”

  Sharpe made a snort of derision. “Why did you want to go fed?”

  “Better pay. Interesting cases.” She shrugged. “How often do you get to investigate zombies?” Her eyes fixed on the dark brown blood stain painting the wooden boardwalk and she shivered. “Although I will say I particularly hate it when people get their faces eaten off.”

  He laughed. “You and me both. I could do without the brain munching too.”

  “Yeah, nasty.” She shifted to face him. “Were the other bodies found in Locke?”

  “Nope. Farm up the road. Sweet old lady runs it with he
r son. Son’s got cancer, so he’s been going to the Bay Area for treatment. Some migrant workers found the body – first one six months ago, second one just a month later.” He sighed. “We ain’t got no leads on those two either.”

  “What’d the old lady say when you told her you found bodies on her property?”

  “She nearly fainted. Had to call an ambulance. Took her to the hospital to monitor her. She felt so damn bad that something like that happened on her husband’s land. He did a lot for the community around here. Had barbecues and whatnots after the harvest and he always donated to different charities in town.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Ah, he’s dead. He died a number of years back.”

  “And her son has cancer?”

  “Yep. I don’t know what she’s gonna do if he dies. Now with this happening on her property. She won’t consider selling the rest of it, but…” Sharpe shook his head.

  “Do you think we could see those crime scenes?”

  Sharpe considered that a moment. “Can you give me until tomorrow? I wanna pay her a visit and prepare her. I just can’t spring something like this on her.”

  Peyton nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow’s good. You can text us the time.”

  He smiled at her. “Look at you, being all reasonable-like. Bet the feds knock that out of you but quick.”

  Peyton laughed. “They can try. They can sure damn try,” she said.

  CHAPTER 5

  Marco stepped into the precinct and pushed open the half-door. Someone was rummaging around under Maria’s desk. He approached, peeking over the top. A woman’s backside in a tight mini-skirt stuck out, her feet encased in black pumps.

  He cleared his throat, but she continued to mess around under the desk. “Hello?”

  She jerked upright, smacking her head on the underside, then eased out, rubbing the back of her skull. “Hi!”

  “You okay?”

  She climbed to her feet. She was blond and pretty with curves in all the places Marco usually liked them. Her skirt rode high on a pair of shapely thighs and her white sweater strained to contain her bust. She had wound her hair into a bun, but long wisps escaped her clips and trailed along her face. Her lashes were unnaturally long and thick with mascara, and her plump lips were a brilliant red. Peyton was gonna hate her.