“Okay, I’m gonna throw the ball at you and you have to catch it, no matter how much it hurts. Got that?”
Joshua nodded, but he really wasn’t sure he wanted any part of a scheme where the only rule was to play no matter how much it hurt, but maybe if he played the boy’s game, he would let him go look for his mother.
The boy cocked back his arm and twisted his face into a grimace, then he launched the ball at Joshua, except it didn’t go toward Joshua. It slammed into the lamp and ricochet into the window, then fell harmlessly to the ground. The lamp, however, teetered on the edge of the table. Joshua held out his arms to catch it, but he was too late and it toppled, breaking into sharp porcelain shards.
Joshua stared at it, uncertain what he should do. He looked at the boy and the girl, but they were staring at the broken lamp with expressions of shock on their faces. The boy looked like he might bolt and the girl sat with the pen poised above her paper. Behind them, Joshua heard the sound of running feet, then his mother and the white doctor skidded into the room.
“What happened?” said his mother, stopping in the middle of the room and taking in the scene.
“He broke the lamp,” said the boy.
Joshua’s mouth fell open and he stared at his betrayer in disbelief. He wanted to shout that he hadn’t done any such thing, but the huge doctor was stepping around his mother and coming for him.
Joshua reacted on instinct. He knew he couldn’t make it to the door, so he backed into the corner beside the door and curled in on himself, protecting his stomach and his face. Peeking out he could see the doctor’s huge brown shoes come to a stop in front of him and he tensed, waiting for the blow.
A blow that never came.
He cracked open an eye and saw the doctor had squatted in front of him. His big hands were open and resting loosely on his knees and the look on his face wasn’t anger, but rather concern. Lifting his eyes a little more, Joshua saw his mother and he wanted to go to her, but she looked frightened. He knew it was a look that said he shouldn’t move too fast.
“What did you think I was going to do to you, Joshua?” said the man.
Joshua knew better than to answer silly questions like that. Questions without answers were fuel for more strikes, sometimes with a closed fist instead of an open palm.
When the doctor reached for him, Joshua pressed back into the corner, but rather than slap him, the man pulled him forward. Joshua opened his eyes in shock. The hands were firm, but they weren’t hurting him.
“Look at me, Joshua.” Another dangerous command, but Joshua knew that ignoring this one was worse. He forced himself to meet the white doctor’s eyes.
“I would never hurt you,” he said, and his gaze never wavered.
Joshua glanced up at his mother. She visibly relaxed, her breath leaving in a long exhalation.
“I would never hurt you, Joshua, ever.”
Joshua realized he was shaking. The doctor turned his left arm and looked at a spot above his elbow. Joshua looked as well and saw the long scratch. He hadn’t even realized he’d been hurt. A fat drop of blood was oozing toward his elbow and he watched it in fascination. Only then did it begin to hurt.
“That’s a nasty cut. We need to clean it,” said the doctor. His gaze went to the baseball sitting on the floor. “James, come here.”
The white boy shuffled over, his hands twisting his pants at his sides. “Yes’m.”
“You said Joshua broke the lamp. Is that the truth?” The look he leveled on the boy was severe.
Joshua tensed. He was mad that the boy had betrayed him, but he didn’t want to see him get a beating either. “I did it,” Joshua stammered, amazed he had the courage to say it.
The boy’s eyes widened, but when his father continued to stare at him, he looked at the ground and cuffed the toe of his sneakers against the carpet. “No, I threw the ball and it hit the lamp. He didn’t do nothing.”
“So you lied?”
Oh, dangerous, dangerous question.
Joshua started to speak, but the boy interrupted him.
“Yeah, I lied.”
A sigh left the white doctor and he released his hold on Joshua. “I’m disappointed in you, James. How could you lie about that?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, that will cost you, son. You’ve lost a week of TV privileges and you won’t be able to go to your baseball game this weekend.”
The boy hung his head, but didn’t respond. Joshua was confused. Television? That was his punishment for lying? For breaking something? Television? He gave his mother a baffled look. She forced a smile for him.
“You owe Joshua an apology.”
“Sorry,” mumbled the boy.
“As for you,” said the doctor and Joshua tensed. “You should never take the blame for something you didn’t do, but I appreciate the gesture.”
Joshua frowned at him. He didn’t know what the heck the man was saying, but one thing was obvious – no one was getting hit for this. He wasn’t sure how to process that knowledge.
Reaching up, the doctor ruffled Joshua’s hair. “Come on. Let’s get that arm cleaned up.” He rose to his feet and held out a huge hand. Joshua reluctantly placed his own in it. “Come with us, Mary,” he said to Joshua’s mother. “I’d like to talk to you, all right?”
She met Joshua’s eye, then she bent down and picked him up, pressing him against her. Joshua let her cuddle him, wrapping his arms around her neck. The rest of his fear bled away in her embrace, but he could feel how tense she was.
“No one will ever hurt you again,” she whispered in his ear. “We’re going to be all right now.”
Joshua placed his head on her shoulder and looked back at the boy. He was watching Joshua in return, but Joshua wasn’t clear on what emotion he saw on the boy’s face.
* * *
Peyton rode the elevator to the lobby with Marco and Smith. She leaned against the mirrored back wall, watching the two men standing in the center of the elevator, their backs ramrod straight. Smith had his hands clasped behind him and Marco had his tucked into his pockets.
Peyton mulled over what she would say when they got to the car where the suspect sat. She knew that Marco would make her take point on this. He usually did. There was no one else she wanted at her back; therefore, she accepted that he made her do the majority of the cross-examination.
The elevator came to a bumping halt on the bottom floor and the doors swished open. Peyton pushed away from the mirrored wall and followed the men out. In order to get to the parking structure door, they had to cross the lobby. Peyton glanced over to see one of the security guards in a brown uniform, talking into the phone. A uniformed officer stood next to him. Peyton marked that there was no way to cross from the elevators to the parking structure without being seen by the security desk.
A heavy, fire door opened onto the parking structure. The echoing chamber stretched away, segmented by pillars to hold up the great expanse of floors above them. Each pillar was marked with a colored letter and number, designating the resident’s assigned space. Cars were lined up in neat rows, many BMWs and Mercedes, but also a huge number of Priuses. This was San Francisco, after all.
As they moved away from the door, Peyton’s heels made a sharp tattoo on the cement floor. Marco and Smith trailed a step behind her as they wove through the aisles and around the pillars. Turning a corner, they came upon the crime scene.
Uniformed officers encircled a black Jeep Cherokee, their guns drawn and pointed at the car. No one moved, no one said anything. Marco and Smith both drew their guns, but Peyton waited until they got close enough to see the man sitting in the driver’s seat. She could only see his profile, but she recognized the spill of black hair over his shoulder and the sharp slant of his high cheekbones. He seemed to be looking at either the steering wheel or something in his lap, but he didn’t move as the three of them edged up behind the other cops.
One of the uniforms glanced over as Peyton stopped beside hi
m. “How long has he been sitting here?”
“’Bout five minutes. We told him to get out of the vehicle, but he didn’t respond, so we called you.”
Peyton nodded and glanced over at Marco. Marco didn’t have his gun raised, but it dangled at his side.
“That’s Ravensong, yes?” he asked, motioning toward the Jeep with his chin.
“Yes.”
“He make any threatening moves at all?” Marco asked the uniform.
“Nothing.”
Peyton squinted. The window seemed to be rolled down. “He say anything?”
“Nothing.”
“He has to hear you. The window’s down, right?”
“He doesn’t act like he knows we’re here.”
Peyton exhaled and studied their perp. He wasn’t even moving. A strange shiver raced up her spine. He did act like he didn’t know they were there, but how the hell could you miss seven cops surrounding you with guns?
“All right. I’m going in. You cover me,” she said, reaching for her own weapon.
“You need a flak jacket,” said the uniform.
“I don’t think he’s armed. He bludgeoned her with something, he didn’t shoot her or stab her. I’ll back away if he makes a move and you can take him out.”
The uniform started to argue. He looked to Marco and Smith for assistance.
Marco ignored him. “Approach real slow, got it?”
“Got it.” She thumbed the safety off her gun, but kept it pointed at the ground. Taking a step forward, she moved beyond the uniforms and eased toward the Jeep. She could see herself reflected in the rearview mirror on the driver’s side, so Ravensong had to know she was approaching, but he gave no indication that he saw anything.
“Joshua Ravensong,” she called loudly. “I’m Inspector Peyton Brooks from the San Francisco Police Department. I am approaching your vehicle. Do not make any sudden movements, please.”
Stepping out away from the Jeep, she angled toward the open window. When she got close enough to where she could reach out and touch the door, she stopped and gripped the gun with both hands. Gazing in at him, she rose on her tiptoes to see if he held a weapon in his lap. She wanted to know what he was looking at with such intensity.
His hands were visible, resting palms up on the lower circle of the steering wheel. From her position by the door, she could see they were covered in blood.
“Joshua Ravensong, I am Inspector Brooks of the San Francisco Police Department…”
She hesitated as he slowly lifted his head. His eyes met hers, but there was no awareness in his dark gaze. Peyton opened her mouth to say something, but she faltered. She’d never seen eyes so blank or dead before. Then he blinked, dark lashes sweeping down to hide his stare.
When he looked at her again, his expression shifted to an expression of panic. His chest rose in a rapid pant and his head turned quickly, taking in the cops and the guns, then swinging back to her.
Peyton knew fear when she saw it, fear and confusion. She grabbed the badge out of her belt and held it up with her left hand. “SFPD, Mr. Ravensong. I’m Inspector Brooks.”
His gaze swept over the badge, then focused on her again. “Inspector Brooks,” he said in a voice she knew intimately, “I think I need help.”
* * *
Peyton watched as Jake swabbed down Ravensong’s hands. The knuckles on his right hand were swollen, the skin broken. Jake glanced up at her and made a pointed gesture for her to mark the damage. She nodded. She saw it. Unfortunately the evidence was mounting against the troubled rock star.
Ravensong was sitting outside the Jeep on the concrete, his back pressed to the passenger side door. Other uniforms were going over the car, searching for a weapon. Peyton didn’t think it likely they’d find one. The weapon was probably back in the condominium or stashed somewhere in the hallway on the eighth floor. This was obviously a crime of passion and he would have gotten rid of the weapon the first chance he got.
After he’d told her he needed help, he hadn’t said anything else. He’d allowed her to open the driver’s side door, then he’d turned around and allowed her to search him. She confirmed his identity with his wallet, but it was only a formality. She knew this man on sight.
Her teen years had been spent listening to his smoky voice in her head phones, pretending he was singing directly to her. She knew every nuance of his songs with Avalanche, of the way he moved on stage, swaying, seducing his audience with his raw sexuality. And she knew the lines of his face, the sharp features, the velvet black eyes, the heavy lashes. Her hands had shaken as she searched him, fully aware she was touching the fantasy of her youth.
“Do you want to question the security guard who found the vic?” said Marco in her ear.
She blinked up at him, then reworked what he said in her head. “Yeah. Yeah, we should talk to him.”
Marco frowned at her. “You okay, Brooks?”
“Fine.” She stepped up behind Jake. “I’m gonna question the security guard while you finish up.”
“Got it,” said Jake, distracted by his work.
Ravensong lifted his head. He’d been watching Jake work on his hands obsessively. She could only describe his expression as confused, shocked. He hadn’t asked her anything. In fact, he’d been oddly subdued, submissive even.
“I’ll be right back,” she told him.
He just stared at her without responding.
She backed away from him and turned, hurrying to Marco’s side.
“When do you plan to ask him what happened?”
“I want to get him back to the precinct first.”
“He acts like he’s stoned.”
“I know. Jake will do a breathalyzer next.”
“He’s not drunk, Brooks.”
She ignored that and started across the garage.
“Brooks?”
“We’ll get a urine and blood test when we get back to the precinct.” She quickened her steps. For some reason, she didn’t want to discuss Ravensong with Marco. He matched her with his long stride.
Pulling open the door, they crossed the lobby and stopped before the security desk. Both the security guard and the uniform were going over a list. The uniform looked up and Peyton read the nametag on his chest. Bryce Williamson.
“Officer Williamson, I guess we got the safe open, yes?”
“We did.” He took the list from the security guard. “The resident in the apartment on the eighth floor is listed as Terry Ravensong.”
Peyton couldn’t deny a twinge of disappointment. She turned her attention to the security guard. “I’m Inspector Brooks, this is my partner, Inspector D’Angelo.” She thumbed a card out of her pocket and laid it on the counter. “We understand you found her body?”
The security guard briefly closed his eyes, then nodded. “The bastard smashed in half her head.”
“We know.”
“Did you get him?”
“A suspect is in custody at this time,” she answered. “Can you tell me your name?” She pulled her notebook out of her pocket and opened it.
“Carl. Carl Stein.”
Peyton wrote his name. “Carl, what made you go up to the eighth floor?”
“The alarm sounded on the security door.”
“I’m sorry. The security door?”
“Yes. Everyone uses the elevators. The doors to the stairwells are alarmed to prevent people from going in and out that way. We want to monitor all traffic through the lobby. The stairwells are just in case of fire.”
“I see. What time did the alarm sound?”
Carl slid over to his computer and clicked with his mouse. “The first time was at 9:12AM.”
Peyton frowned. “I thought you didn’t find her body until about 10:00.”
“That’s right. I cleared the first alarm. It happens. Kids throw open the doors to make them sound. Or visitors open the doors by mistake.”
“Got it.”
“You always know what floor the alarm sounds on?
” asked Marco, leaning on the counter next to her.
“Yeah, it indicates here on the screen.”
“Was the first alarm on the eighth floor?” Marco continued.
“Yes.”
“And what time was the second?”
“It registered at 9:56.”
“Why did you go up the second time?” asked Peyton.
“Protocol. If an alarm sounds on the same floor twice, we have to investigate.”
“Did you take the stairs or the elevator?”
“I took the elevator. Quicker.”
Peyton made a note in her book. “After you exited the elevator, how long did it take before you found the open door?”
“Not thirty seconds.”
“Okay, so you went into the apartment and you saw the body. What did you do then?”
“I got the hell out. I damn near threw up. Why the hell did he do that to her?”
Peyton shook her head. “Did you go back down the stairs or did you use the elevator?”
“Elevator. I got down here, called you guys, then tried to get my boss. He’s out at church or something.”
“Did you touch anything in the apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone in the hallway?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t search the stairwell at all?”
“No, I called the cops and I stayed here. I don’t have a gun or anything and I wasn’t sure where the killer went.”
He wasn’t much worried about the safety of his tenants either.
Peyton shifted toward Marco. “We need to search the stairwell for the murder weapon and stop any garbage collection so we can go through it.”
Marco motioned at the uniform for his radio and stepped away from the security desk to give the orders.
Peyton turned back to Carl. “Is it true there are no security cameras in the lobby or the hallways?”
“That’s right, but there’s a camera in the garage.”
“We’ll need a copy of what it recorded. Anything else you can tell us?”
“I don’t know. I’m still shaken up. Dude, he bashed in her head.”
“Yeah, I know.” She pushed the card closer to him. “If you remember anything else, call me, all right?”
Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Page 4
