“Let’s start there. Give the three names to Simons and Cho, and let them track down any contacts.” Marco stared at the names. “Stan, see if any of them have a record in the system. Maybe we pulled them in on another crime, or maybe this isn’t the first thing they’ve torched.”
“Serial arsonists?”
Marco shrugged. “It’s worth a shot.” He glanced over the bulk of their work. “Keep your other lists. We may have to go back to the list of customers who stopped coming but didn’t move out of the area.”
“Done,” said Stan, bending to gather them up.
Marco pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his cane. “Good work, you two. I’m impressed.”
Stan gave him a delighted smile, but Jake simply leaned back in his chair, his eyes following Marco’s hand as he reached for his cup of coffee. “Adonis,” he said.
“Not now. I’ve got work to do.”
“Adonis?”
Marco gave him a glare. “It’s captain, Ryder. Damn it, it’s captain.”
Jake held up a hand and let it fall against the table, but he didn’t say anything else. Thank God for small favors.
* * *
Will Cook wasn’t a physically imposing man. He stood about five seven, five eight, weighing around 180 lbs. His hair had receded to a ring of brown around the crown of his head and he wore a goatee with a mustache.
Marco watched him through the two-way mirror as he sat at the table, whispering to his lawyer. The lawyer, Derek Renshaw, had represented Claire Harper in her trial. Claire had poisoned her adoptive daughter, Jake’s wife Zoë, and was now serving three consecutive life sentences at the Central California Women’s Facility in Chowchilla. Derek Renshaw was about thirty-five, knew his law, and didn’t give up. He’d never met a murderer he didn’t think he could get off.
Jake stepped into the room and stood for a moment, watching Renshaw. Marco glanced at him, then leaned against the metal table, crossing his arms over his chest. Jake pointed at the two-way glass.
“That’s Renshaw,” he said.
Marco nodded. “He’s representing Cook.”
“The father who shot the kid?”
“Same one.”
Jake made a disgusted face. “There was blood all over that room, Adonis. He shot that kid four times, then dragged his body through the window and back into the room.”
Marco glanced at the glass. “The NRA says it’s self-defense.”
“Have they called the precinct?”
“They got him a lawyer.”
Jake looked back at Renshaw. “God, I hate seeing him.”
“Yeah, well, defense attorneys are no friends of cops, so…”
Tag and Holmes entered the room, Tag carrying a file. “How do you want us to play this?”
Marco studied Renshaw and Cook. “Renshaw isn’t going to let him say much. The only thing you can do is get him to say something out of anger or frustration. Go after his manhood. Keep reminding him he shot an unarmed kid in the back.”
“Who do you want questioning him?”
Marco looked over at them – the tough-as-nails Tag Shotwell with her tattoos and leather, or the kick-ass, military look of Drew Holmes? He gave them a slow smile. “Let Drew have a go at him. Get him on your side, make him think you’re one of the boys. Men defending their women folk.”
Tag returned Marco’s smile, then handed the file to Holmes. Holmes gave them both a worried look, tapping it against his palm, then he squared his shoulders and they left the room.
“You sure about that?” asked Jake.
“He’s ready. Besides, this guy isn’t gonna respond to a woman.”
“Bet he’d respond to Peyton. She was the best damn interrogator I’ve ever seen.”
Marco glanced at him, then looked away. He didn’t want to talk about Peyton.
A moment later, Tag and Holmes appeared on the other side of the glass. Jake leaned against the table next to Marco, curling his fingers around the table’s edge.
Holmes grabbed a chair, then took a seat. The suspect leaned away from him as Tag wandered around behind him, drawing Renshaw’s attention.
“So,” said Holmes, laying the file on the table. “We were hoping we could have a little chat.”
“My lawyer says I don’t have to answer anything.”
Holmes nodded his head. “He’s right. You don’t have to talk to us at all. Besides, we already know what happened.”
Cook looked to Renshaw. Renshaw laid his hand on the man’s arm, using his other to unbutton his suit jacket.
“They’re trying to get at you. Ignore it,” Renshaw said.
Holmes gave Renshaw a crooked smile. “That’s right. Ignore us. We got all the evidence we need here. Blood splatter, autopsy, ballistics report. You don’t need to tell us a damn thing.”
Renshaw gave Holmes a sarcastic look. “I’ve seen it all too and it’s clear that Mr. Cook was protecting his home and his daughter. We are allowed to protect our homes in this state, aren’t we?”
“Oh, yeah, I got no problem with that,” said Holmes. “Someone breaks into my house and I won’t hesitate to fire on their ass. What about you, Tag?”
Tag stood with her feet braced, her hands on her hips. “Hell yeah, I would. You don’t go messing in my house.”
Holmes nodded. “I get it. If I had a daughter, if anyone even tried to do anything to her, broke in my house and threatened her in any way, he’d be dead too.”
Cook relaxed, flattened his hands on the table.
Holmes expression shifted, his eyes narrowing. “Thing is, I wouldn’t be shooting him in the back.”
Cook visibly reacted, his shoulders tensing, his jaw clenching. Renshaw tightened his hold on his arm.
“Don’t listen to them,” he warned.
“He’s right. Don’t listen to us. Still, it was cowardly, wasn’t it? Shooting a kid. He was, what? Seventeen? Seventeen? Man, hardly past puberty.”
Cook glared at him.
Holmes chuckled. “Well, I guess he was past puberty, wasn’t he? I mean, your daughter did invite him in. I mean, your daughter was...uh, entertaining him, so to speak.”
Cook lunged for Holmes, but Tag had moved up behind him and grabbed his shoulder, slamming him back into the chair. Renshaw threw an arm across his chest to hold him back.
Holmes gave a belligerent chuckle. “Wow! A woman just checked you, bud. No wonder you had to shoot the kid in the back.”
“You sonovabitch! Don’t talk about my daughter like that!” shouted Cook, rising to his feet. Both Renshaw and Tag held on to him, keeping him from attacking Holmes.
“She invited him into her bedroom. You shot the kid because he was giving it to your daughter, not because he invaded your home.”
“You sonovabitch!” Cook strained against their hold. “He raped her! He was raping my girl!”
“No, he wasn’t. She invited him in.”
Cook reared against their hold as Holmes calmly walked to the wall and picked up a phone, calling for backup.
“For God’s sakes, Will, shut up!!” said Renshaw, throwing his body against Cook. “Don’t say another thing!”
“Yeah, don’t tell us anything else. We got it. Your daughter wanted sex and you couldn’t handle it. You shot the kid because he was giving your daughter what she wanted,” said Holmes, holding the receiver to his ear.
“You bastard, you’re damn right I shot him! You’re damn right I did! And I’d do it again too! Piss-ass kid messing with my daughter!”
“Shut up!” shouted Renshaw, struggling to control his client. “Just shut the hell up!”
Holmes faced him again and crossed his arms as officers flooded into the room, taking Cook down.
Jake gave a low laugh and shook his head. “That was brilliant, Adonis. You knew Holmes would act like the arrogant prick he is, didn’t you? He couldn’t resist goading the guy.”
Marco gave Jake a wink, then reached for his cane. “It’s Captain, Ryder, Cap-tain.”
* * *
Devan met him just beyond Carly’s desk, his jacket open, his left hand on his hip. “The NRA, D’Angelo? The freakin’ NRA?”
Marco kept walking, giving Carly a smile as he passed her desk, headed for his office. “How’s your wife feeling? She had the baby yet?”
Devan trailed after him. “Are you freakin’ kidding me?” He followed him into his office, bracing a hand on one of the armchairs. “I got a call from Charlton Heston himself.”
Marco paused before taking his seat. “Charlton Heston? Isn’t he dead?”
Devan lifted his hand and let it fall. “Does it matter? It’s the NRA.”
“I’m familiar with them.”
“They’re all over this case. They even paid for this Cook bastard’s lawyer.”
“I’m aware of that.” Marco reached for the file in his in-box and opened it on his desk, shifting through until he found a picture of a pimply faced kid in a pale blue tuxedo. He held it out to Devan.
“What’s this?” asked Devan, taking the photo.
“Gavin Morris.”
“Gavin Morris?”
“The kid your buddy Cook shot in the back as he was fleeing out the window.”
Devan stared at the picture.
“That’s a picture from his high school prom, a prom he went to with Amy Cook, Will Cook’s daughter.”
“They were dating?”
“A little more than dating. They were having sex. Near as we can figure, Daddy Cook caught them in the act.”
Devan sighed and handed the photo back. “You’re gonna ask me to go before a Grand Jury, aren’t you?”
“As soon as we gather all the evidence. We still need to interview the girl.” Marco placed the photo in the file and closed it, then he took his seat.
Devan slumped into the chair across from him. “You know I have political aspirations, right, D’Angelo?”
“You’ve made that clear.”
“And you don’t give a damn about that?’
“Not even half-a-damn.”
Devan studied him, then shook his head. “I thought you’d be different.”
“What does that mean?”
“I thought you’d be more like Defino. She knew what cases she could win and which ones weren’t worth the trouble.” He pointed out into the precinct. “This guy isn’t a threat to society. He’s a threat to his daughter’s boyfriends. Odds are he never kills anyone else again.”
Marco leaned back in his chair. “I’m certain Gavin Morris’ parents aren’t comforted by that.”
Devan shook his head, staring at the file. “I really thought you’d be different.”
“Different how? You thought I wouldn’t do my job?”
“I thought you’d be malleable, pliable. I didn’t think you’d view every damn case as a crusade. That was the shit that Peyton pulled. That was her method, not yours.”
“Maybe she rubbed off on me. For the better.”
Devan met his look. “I have political aspirations, D’Angelo.”
“You have a daughter about to make her debut in the world. What sort of world do you want to give her, Adams?”
Devan pushed himself to his feet. “You’re not Gotham City’s superhero, D’Angelo, and I’m not your Goddamn sidekick.”
Marco shrugged. “I don’t know. You wouldn’t look bad in tights.”
Devan choked out a laugh. “You have no idea how good I’d look in tights.”
Marco smiled.
“Fine. Put together your evidence and get it to me. I’ll take it to the Grand Jury.”
“Appreciate it.”
Devan walked to the door and pulled it open.
“Give Rani my regards.”
Devan made a wry face. “Thanks. That’s gonna comfort her tons when I tell her we’re never gonna see the inside of the governor’s mansion.” Then he was gone.
* * *
The group meeting was held in a boxy shaped office on the first floor of Dr. Ferguson’s building. Marco entered the room apprehensively. There were six people gathered around a table, placing cookies on paper plates and filling paper cups with different fruit juices – three were male and three female, their ages ranging from late twenties to mid-fifties.
One of the women, an Asian woman with her dark hair pulled back in a bun, detached herself from the group and approached him, holding out her hand. “Welcome, I’m Tricia Tran. I run the group here, and you must be Captain D’Angelo.” She was dressed in a smart jacket and skirt, her expression warm and welcoming.
He shook hands with her. “Marco, please.”
“Welcome, Marco. Dr. Ferguson said you’d be joining us tonight.” She motioned over her shoulder at the table. “Please feel free to help yourself. We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
Marco glanced around at the circle of chairs in the middle of the room and shifted weight. God, he’d give anything to be anywhere else. “Look, Ms. Tran, Dr. Ferguson insisted on this, but I have to be honest with you. I’m not sure it’s gonna work.”
She gave him a patient smile. “Call me Tricia, please, and I understand. A lot of people are skeptical their first time at meeting, but I’m glad you’re here. Why don’t we get started, so we can put your fears to rest?”
He started to tell her he wasn’t afraid, but decided against it.
“Please sit anywhere,” she instructed and moved toward the circle. As soon as she did, the other people meandered away from the table and began taking seats.
A middle aged woman in jeans and a blue t-shirt grabbed the seat next to Marco, offering him her hand. “I’m Barb Harris.”
“Marco D’Angelo.”
She gave him a smile and sat down. Transferring the cane to his right hand, he wedged his bulk into the unforgiving folding chair and stretched out his leg, absently rubbing his thigh. A younger man with a crew cut sat down next to him. He wore a jeans jacket and Doc Marten boots like Marco used to wear when he was a street cop. He gave Marco a lift of his chin, but nothing more. Marco returned the gesture.
“Okay, since we have a new member, I thought we could go around the group and introduce ourselves today,” said Tricia. “State your name and your occupation.” She touched the hand of a woman in her mid-thirties sitting next to her. “Would you go first, Linda?”
The woman had brown hair that came to her shoulders, large, droopy brown eyes, and a mouth that turned down at the corners. She wore a light skirt and a pink sweater with brown penny loafers.
“I’m Linda Hill,” she said, looking right at Marco, “and I’m a librarian.”
Marco wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so he just gave her a nod. Linda looked to her right at an African American man in his mid-fifties. He leaned forward in his chair, his arms braced on his thigh, his hands clasped before him. He wore a button-up shirt and jeans with sneakers. His head was completely bald and he had deep sunk dark eyes.
“I’m Rodney Hughes.” He scrubbed a hand under his nose, his leg bouncing. “I sell insurance.”
Next to him was a white guy about the same age. He also wore a button-up shirt, but it was buttoned to the top with a pair of black slacks and dress shoes. His pale blond hair was cut close to his scalp and his blue eyes were watery.
“Hey,” he said to Marco, giving him a tight smile.
“Hey,” Marco answered.
“I’m...uh...Mitch Walker. I’m an engineer for the city of San Francisco.” He gave another tight smile and scratched at his hair. He reached over and clapped the young guy next to Marco on the shoulder. “You’re turn, pal.”
The kid gave him a nod. “I’m Kurt Foster. I’m on leave from the army.” He looked up at Marco with haunted brown eyes, then glanced away.
Marco looked over at Barb, then at Tricia. Tricia gave him an understanding smile, indicating it was his turn.
“Uh…” Marco glanced around the group. Shit, he didn’t even want to tell these people his name. “I’m...uh, Marco D’Angelo.” He glanced
at Barb again.
“What’s your occupation, Marco?” asked Barb.
“Cop,” he said, but when Tricia raised her brows, he added, “um, Captain.”
“We’re glad you’re here, Marco,” said Tricia.
Marco dropped his eyes to his cane. He was so not glad he was there.
“I’m Barb Harris, retired teacher,” said the woman next to him, crossing one leg over the other.
“And I’m Tricia Tran, psychologist. I’m very glad to see everyone tonight and very honored to have a new member to share with us.”
Marco glanced up at her.
“The way this works, Marco, is we meet every Thursday night for as long as necessary. Participation is voluntary.” Not for him. “So whenever you’d like to join in, simply raise your hand. If you want to observe until you feel more comfortable, that’s okay too. We try to be low pressure, although I do have to ask that anything that’s revealed in this room never leave it. We want to create an atmosphere of trust and kinship, and we can’t maintain that if we fear our confidences will be violated.”
Marco chewed on his inner lip. Sure, he wasn’t going to tell anyone a damn thing about this. He sure as hell didn’t need anyone knowing he was here.
“Marco?”
“Hm?”
“Can I get your verbal agreement to keep our meetings secret?”
“Yeah, of course.” Like they had any secrets he wanted to divulge anyway. “I won’t say a word.”
“Good.” Tricia clasped her hands. “Does anyone want to share?”
Marco immediately dropped his eyes again, running his thumb over the silver head of his cane. He could see everyone else avoiding eye contact in his peripheral vision, or shifting uncomfortably in their chairs.
Finally the engineer raised his hand.
“Mitch?” said Tricia.
“I moved. I finally did it. I got a place of my own in the Sunset.”
“Good for you,” said Tricia and many of the others also praised him.
“It was hard. I’ve been with Brian for ten years, but I just couldn’t take the abuse any longer.”
Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2) Page 11
