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

by M. L. Hamilton

  Jake waggled his brows.

  Oh, shit, what did Abe have him wearing? It had better not be a loincloth. He just knew Abe was somehow going to work a loincloth into this at some point.

  While he worried over the possibilities, Peyton opened the door and stepped inside. She took in the chaos that was her house, then settled her stuff on the sofa table and hung up her gun. She didn’t seem fazed by any of it.

  He watched her walk around the end of the couch, scooping up Pickles. “Hey Abe,” she called into the kitchen.

  “Hey, sweets. I got a lot more dishes for you to try.”

  “Hey, Jake.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  “Hey, Mighty Mouse, how’s the FBIing coming along?”

  “Awesome.” Her eyes tracked to Marco. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”

  He gave her a tilt of his head. She walked over to him and leaned down. He could smell the floral scent of her soap and he breathed it in. Sliding his hand around the back of her head, he pulled her into him for a kiss. She kissed him back.

  For some reason, there was always a moment when he feared she’d pull away. She never did, but that didn’t lessen his fear. She gave him Pickles. “I’m going to change.”

  “Need help,” he asked her.

  She gave him a sultry wink. “Later.” Then she was gone.

  Jake set up a poster on the easel, but it was covered with a pink bit of cloth. Then he laid out a bunch of dishes on the coffee table.

  Peyton returned, wearing Marco’s 49er’s jersey and a pair of shorts. She climbed up on the arm of his chair. He slipped his arm around her waist and she leaned against him.

  “I’m half afraid,” she whispered to him.

  “I’m terrified,” he answered.

  Abe suddenly appeared. Marco blinked, astonished that he hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. It was a pale pink suit with pinstriped pink pants, a thin black tie, a pink fedora covering his dreadlocks, and the most astonishing pair of pink wing-tipped shoes.

  Jake retreated to the couch, letting Abe take center stage.

  Peyton’s mouth hung open.

  “Okay, the inspiration for this design came from your visit to the Ryde Hotel. I thought, why not do a 1920’s theme? What period in American history was more fun than the Roaring 20’s?”

  “The Depression that followed it,” said Jake wryly.

  Abe waved him away as he reached for the pink bit of cloth covering the easel. A drawing of women wearing frothy pink gowns covered the poster board. “For the bridesmaids, I thought this lacy little number would be perfect. Aren’t they gorgeous? Can’t you see Maria decked out in this dress?”

  Peyton’s mouth continued to hang open.

  Marco smiled and looked away.

  “Of course, the Man of Honor,” and here he ran his hands along his body, “will be resplendent in pink as well.”

  “Pink?” asked Peyton.

  “Yes.”

  “Why pink? We were talking orange the other day.”

  “Pink for the beautiful pink Ryde Hotel.”

  Marco suddenly had a sinking feeling. Oh shit, pink. A pink loincloth?

  “Now for the Groom’s Men.” He removed the first poster and a new one took its place. The men on the poster were all wearing various versions of the suit Abe himself wore – wide lapels with white shirts and fedoras. “Can’t you just see Marco’s gorgeous brothers dressed like this?’

  Peyton’s mouth hung open again.

  “And for you, my sweet darlin’.” He reached for a new poster. A woman in a short flapper dress appeared. Instead of a veil, she wore a beaded headband and the skirt of the dress came above the knee, fringed in beads that swung outward with her movement. The only allowance for tradition was the color – white.

  Marco actually thought Peyton would look good in that. The short sleeves and hem would show off her toned limbs and the white would look stunning against her brown skin-tones. Heels always made Peyton’s legs look long, despite her lack of height.

  He gave her an amused look. She looked horrified. “I actually don’t know what to say.”

  Abe beamed a smile at her. “Isn’t it adorable? Clever, really. Who else would have such a wedding?”

  “Who else,” she echoed.

  “It gets better,” said Jake, giving Marco a wink.

  Marco began a silent prayer. Please no pink loincloth, please no pink loincloth.

  “And now for the only groom who will be more stunning than the bride.” Abe reached for the next poster.

  A man in a hot pink zoot suit stared back at them. The jacket came down to mid-thigh, the pale pink of the shirt was set off by a black tie, but the suit itself was shocking – a pink so vibrant it seemed to glow. To top it off, the poor fool wore a hot pink fedora tilted at a rakish angle.

  Peyton made a strangled sound and Jake ducked his head, fighting his smile.

  “Now to go with this ensemble, I chose these plates. They are authentic 1920’s stemware and china.” He held a plate out to Peyton. “And I found them in pink.”

  Marco hardly heard Abe, he was transfixed by the zoot suit. Jake leaned close to him. “Bet you’re wishing for the loincloth now.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The city of Sacramento rose up off the valley floor, a sudden metropolis where there had once been agricultural fields and twisting rivers. The rivers remained. Peyton craned her neck back as Radar drove down the narrow city streets, staring up at the high rises. People hustled back and forth, wearing business suits and heels, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they worked in the government offices that seemed to be on nearly every corner.

  Maneuvering the huge Suburban into the tight parking structure beneath one of the buildings, Radar pulled the SUV to a stop and they got out. He removed his sunglasses and slipped the ear into the neck of his shirt, then they headed for the elevator.

  “Are Tank and Bambi going to call all of the people on that séance list?” she asked, stepping into the elevator behind him.

  “That’s how we do an investigation, Sparky. Easier to work with the living, then dig up the dead.”

  Peyton wasn’t taking the bait. “The witches aren’t the zombie killer.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “They’d have killed Old Man Harwood, not the field workers.”

  “Is that why you want to dig him up?”

  “Nope. I want to dig him up because I’ll bet you dollars to donuts he has a prion disease.”

  “I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, he’s dead.”

  She looked up at the floor numbers and ignored him. He shook his head beside her.

  “I can see why now.”

  “You can see what?”

  “Why she wanted you?”

  “Who?”

  “Sarge. She was all hot and intent on getting you for our squad.”

  “Why?”

  The elevator doors opened and Radar stepped out. “You’re nuts.”

  Peyton glared at him, but followed. The elevator let them out in a marble tiled foyer with a reception desk directly across from them. A young man dressed in a suit smiled from behind the counter. Radar grabbed his badge and slapped it on the counter.

  The young man reared back, giving them a wide-eyed stare. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Sullivan Ballor. We have an appointment.”

  “Of course.” The young man fumbled for his computer and began clicking on things.

  Peyton leaned on the counter. “He runs point,” she told the young man.

  The young man glanced up at her, then looked at Radar. “Okay?” He went back to clicking some more.

  Radar gave Peyton a scowl.

  She shrugged. “Thought it might hurry him along.”

  Finally the young man stopped clicking and reached for a phone. “Just a moment.”

  Peyton rocked on her heels and looked around. A list of businesses covered the wall to the right of the reception desk and beyond it were
a number of portraits of stylish dressed men trailing off into a hallway.

  “I have an FBI agent here with an appointment for Mr. Ballor.”

  Peyton wandered toward the portraits.

  “Okay, I’ll send them in.”

  The first one was of a heavy-set man with thinning brown hair and deep set brown eyes. His round cheeks were red with broken blood vessels. The name on a gold plate beneath the portrait read Sullivan Ballor.

  “Go down this hallway,” said the young man, pointing to the hallway where Peyton stood. “First door on your right. He’s expecting you.”

  Radar gave a nod and headed toward the hallway. Peyton smiled at the young man. “Thank you,” she said and followed on Radar’s heels.

  The glass door listed the business as Ballor Properties, Ltd. Radar shoved the door open and strolled through. A middle aged woman in a business suit and skirt met them on the other side. She had short cropped blond hair and a large wedding ring.

  She offered Radar her hand. “I’m Nancy Pennel, Mr. Ballor’s assistant.”

  “Special Agents Carlos Moreno and Peyton Brooks,” he said, taking her hand. “Is Mr. Ballor in?”

  “Yes, right this way.” She led them down a short hall and to another door. Knocking, she reached for the handle. “The agents are here to see you, Mr. Ballor.”

  A deep voice boomed from inside. “Send them in.”

  Nancy smiled at them, then shoved the door wide. Peyton and Radar walked into a lavishly appointed office with brown leather sofas, Oriental rugs, and dark wood paneling. Light shown through the plate glass windows behind Ballor’s desk.

  Sullivan Ballor didn’t top five six at the outside, but he must weigh about 250 lbs. His face was rounder than the portrait in the lobby and the red veining on his cheeks was more pronounced. His hair had thinned to a few wisps across the crown. He held out a beefy hand and shook first Radar’s hand, then reached for Peyton. His palm was damp and he was breathing hard. He definitely wasn’t their zombie killer.

  She gave Radar a look as Ballor pumped her arm vigorously.

  “Nice to meet you, Agents. Always happy to help out the FBI.” He motioned to the brown leather arm chairs before his desk. “Please sit down.”

  Peyton sank into the seat, watching him huff his way back to his own overstuffed desk chair. Radar sat down beside her, reaching for his notepad.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Ballor. We won’t keep you long.”

  “No problem. I cleared my morning for you.”

  “Let me get right to the point. We’re investigating three homicides that occurred over a six month period, starting last fall.”

  “Right. I know about the deaths. So unfortunate. Have you identified the bodies?”

  “We’re working on it. We believe they’re all of Hmong descent.”

  “That is unfortunate.” He tried to lean his bulk forward. “Is it true the brains were devoured?”

  Peyton studied Sullivan Ballor, looking for tremors, strange speech patterns, anything to indicate he might be suffering from prion disease, but according to Abe, he probably wouldn’t be showing signs yet anyway.

  “Let’s stick to the case, Mr. Ballor,” said Radar. “You own 35 acres of property adjacent to the one where two of the bodies were found, yes?”

  “Yes. I’m trying to acquire the other 65, but I’m running into some difficulties.”

  “We understand you’re having difficulties with the land you do own, right?”

  “Oh, the environmental reports. Yes, that’s a problem.” He huffed a little. “I don’t suppose you can help a man out, could you, Special Agent Moreno?”

  “Not my jurisdiction, sir.”

  “Right.” Ballor wheezed a laugh.

  Peyton rolled her eyes and shifted her attention to the man’s desk. Clearly he wasn’t the zombie killer. He wasn’t even a zombie wannabe. He was barely living himself, and a far cry from being undead. When Sullivan Ballor went to the great beyond, his poor body was so worn out, it wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

  A gold clock caught her attention. It was suspended on a spindle and could be spun to face different directions, depending on where it was placed on the desk. Peyton spun it until the face of the clock stared at her.

  “Where were you a week ago Wednesday, Mr. Ballor?”

  “I’d gone to Los Angeles to check on some business there. I didn’t get back until Thursday morning. Nancy can give you my plane tickets.”

  Peyton spun the clock around, then began to count off seconds in her head. When she spun it back, she checked to see if she’d been even close with her Mississippis.

  Radar glanced at her and away. “I assume you have men working the 35 acres you bought, right?”

  “We’ve had surveyors and environmentalist. Appraisers and contractors. Electricians and sewer technicians. You name it, I’ve probably had it out there.”

  “Has anyone reported anything odd? Any strange people lurking on the land? Any threats? Any complaints?”

  “Where do you want me to start, Agent Moreno? A lot of people don’t want me developing that land, even though I’m going to bring a lot of revenue into the area. Everything you do out there someone is protesting. They like their solitude and they want to keep it that way.”

  “Do you hire Hmong to work for you?”

  “I’m an equal opportunity employer. I hire many different ethnicities.”

  Peyton spun the clock again.

  “Can you think of any threat in particular that seemed most credible to you? Maybe ones of a racial nature?”

  “I report everything to the sheriff’s department. They’ll have those records, Agent Moreno.”

  Radar nodded.

  Peyton spun.

  The clock broke and landed in her lap.

  She lifted panicked eyes to Ballor. He chuckled, then held out his hand. “Happens all the time, Agent Brooks.”

  She placed the clock on his palm.

  He grabbed the spindles and snapped the clock back in place. “See. No harm. No foul.”

  Radar gave her a furious look. “Thank you, Mr. Ballor. We won’t keep you any longer or break any more of your possessions.”

  Ballor laughed and pushed his bulk upright. “Don’t worry about it, Agent Moreno. It happens.”

  Radar offered him a tense smile, then backed out of the chairs, laying a card on his desk. “If you think of anything…”

  “Give you a call. I know the routine. Good luck with the case, Agents.”

  Peyton accepted his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Agent Brooks.”

  Ducking her head against Radar’s scowl, she retreated to the door.

  Once they were in the hallway beyond Ballor’s office, Radar rounded on her. “What the hell was that about?”

  Peyton didn’t know how to answer.

  “I’ve never gone into a man’s place of business and broken things.”

  He’d never been with her, then, she thought, but wisely kept it to herself.

  “Are you gonna tell Rosa?”

  “Sarge?”

  “Sarge,” Peyton allowed.

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “No, I’m not gonna tell Sarge. I’m not going to tell anyone and you aren’t either.”

  Peyton nodded.

  “What got into you?”

  “Come on, Radar. He’s clearly not the zombie killer. He can hardly walk across the room, let alone rip open someone’s thigh from beneath them.” She leaned close to him and lowered her voice. “How the hell would he get on the ground to be in position to stab them, then crack open their skulls?”

  Radar considered that for a moment. “Now what?” When she started to speak, he held up a hand. “Don’t suggest we dig up Old Man Harwood.”

  “Okay.” She pressed her palms together. “At least agree to interview his son. At least give me that.”

  “I’m not bothering a man with cancer, Sparky.”

  “Then let’s
go back out to the Harwood Farm and talk to Agnes. Maybe we missed something.”

  Radar let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, but you call your boyfriend Sharpe and arrange the meeting. Tell him we’re getting lunch, then we’ll head over.”

  “All right,” said Peyton, reaching for her phone. She’d take anything at this point.

  * * *

  Marco scrubbed a hand across his face and closed his eyes. He’d been reading Carissa’s blogs and he felt the despair and desperation she felt. She’d thought she could make something good out of having her life destroyed by sharing her experience with other women, but it had been too painful.

  You think you trust someone. You give them the most intimate part of you, and what? You become a sick joke, a way to earn points, a number. How do you live with the humiliation? How do you face people who have seen you at your most vulnerable and mocked you for it? How do you look people in the eye knowing they’ve seen you do things that should be kept secret? How do you get up and keep moving forward when all you want to do is die? Some mornings it feels like you can’t.

  Some mornings it feels like you can’t.

  On some level, Marco understood what she felt, what she meant. And if she had published this blog, other people would have understood too. She would have humanized what happened to her. She would have made people see her as something more, but the hurt was too great. The humiliation too insurmountable.

  Carly poked her head inside Marco’s door. “Captain D’Angelo?”

  “Yes.”

  “A Stan Neumann is here to see you, but I told him you were busy.”

  Marco stared at her. What the hell? “Stan works here, Carly. I’m never too busy for people who work here. He’s helping me on a case.”

  “Oh, well, I told him I’d talk to you and then schedule an appointment for later.”

  “He went away?”

  “Well…”

  “Get him back!”

  Carly flinched and immediately he wished he hadn’t yelled at her. Before she could retreat, Stan poked his head inside the door.

  “I know you’re busy, Captain, but I found something I think you should see.”

  “Come in, come in.” Stan slid around Carly because Carly wouldn’t budge. Her shoulders had started shaking and tears filled her eyes.