Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2)

by M. L. Hamilton

  That’s what worried Jeff most of all. The desperation in the last letter, the hurt and betrayal, the fury – it was impossible to deny. This kid needed help. He might have found a way to survive on his own, but he still needed help.

  He’d been friends with his mother. Jeff owed her that much. She would want him to find this kid. She would want him to track him down and make sure he was all right. At the very least, she would want him to let Finn know that she was dead.

  His eyes landed on the newspaper he’d bought just the day before. Ruth had clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, thinking he’d finally lost his mind, but she hadn’t said anything. He went back to his desk and scanned the letter, then looked up at the newspaper.

  The young FBI agent was featured on the front, addressing the media about the mermaid case. She was stationed in San Francisco and this time the papers had listed her phone number as well as the phone number of the local police station. The FBI would have a better chance of finding a missing person.

  He traced his finger down the letter. There are too many deformities for it to be coincidence. I read that in the medical books. I know it’s true. Something has to be done to stop him. There are too many deformities? Jeff looked back at the FBI agent’s picture. Too many? Like a mermaid?

  * * *

  Dear Aster,

  I want to die. I’m so sorry to start a letter this way, but I don’t know how else to express myself. I’ve lost Molly for good. I can’t tell you how, but I just don’t know what I’m going to do.

  I haven’t told you everything about our lives. If I told you everything, you’d be shocked. You’d think it was strange, and I’m afraid you wouldn’t want to be friends with me anymore.

  I’m almost twenty-one. Six months, Aster, and I have to leave. I don’t know where to go or what I’m going to do. Mrs. Elder said she’d help me, but what can she do? I can read and write, but I don’t really have any other skills. I can’t do physical labor because of the asthma and I’m not skilled at anything.

  We had such plans, Janice, Molly and me, but it’s all ruined now. And I don’t understand why. Thatcher says it’s the way things work here, but it doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t have to work this way.

  And it just keeps getting worse. Two more babies were born with Little Gina’s problem and there are worse ones. Babies that don’t make it like Janice’s second. The women give birth too early or when they do give birth, the babies won’t breathe.

  I know this isn’t normal. I know there shouldn’t be this many children born with problems. There are too many deformities for it to be coincidence. I read that in the medical books. I know it’s true. Something has to be done to stop him. Something has to be done.

  And I have to do it. I have to stop him, Aster. For Molly and my sister, for Little Gina, he has to be stopped.

  I’m sorry this letter is so bleak, but I have no one else to talk to.

  Your friend,

  Finn Getter

  CHAPTER 11

  Friday

  Marco woke up as Peyton threw back the covers and climbed out of bed. He reached for her, but she’d already disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. Sunlight filtered through her window, making the hammering in his head more pronounced. He rolled to his back and covered his eyes with his arm. He could hear the shower start and knew he had to get up.

  Grabbing the covers, he threw them back and sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face. He could feel stubble on his jaw and his eyes felt gritty. He swung his legs to the floor and levered himself upright. He wasn’t sure where he’d left his cane, but his leg screamed in protest when he put weight on it.

  Looking around the bedroom, he didn’t find any of his clothes. Shit. Most of last night was a blur, punctuated by distinct memories of Peyton. He wasn’t sure how she was going to feel about him this morning, but last night, she hadn’t pushed him away. Not once.

  He limped into the living room, finding clothing strewn across the floor. Pickles padded after him and sat in the entrance to the kitchen, watching him gather up his things and dress. He found his cane on the floor by the door.

  By the time Peyton emerged from the bedroom, he’d walked Pickles, fed him, and put on a pot of coffee. He was just pouring them both a cup when she appeared on the other side of the counter in a conservative black suit with her hair pulled back tight in a bun. Certainly not the wildly passionate woman he remembered from the previous night.

  He stared at her, emotion overwhelming him. It would be so easy to slip back into this with her, so easy just to take up where they left off as if nothing had happened. He wanted it more than he wanted his next breath.

  “What the hell was last night?” she said, her eyes hardening.

  He didn’t know how to answer that. He just wanted her to forget everything that had come before and let him back into her life.

  “Marco?”

  He leaned on the counter to take some pressure off his leg. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Well, figure it out because I deserve an explanation.”

  He held up a hand. “Sweetheart.”

  She flinched. That took him aback. So did her demeanor. This wasn’t his lover of last night. This woman was pissed. “That’s not going to work. I want answers.” She tossed his phone onto the counter and it slid over to him. “So does Abe, by the way.”

  He glanced at the phone. Okay, now what? If he told her why he’d shown up here last night, she’d be even angrier.

  “Peyton, please.”

  She turned away, starting for the door.

  He straightened, moving around the counter toward her. “Peyton!”

  She whipped around. “Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. Don’t take another step. You’re not getting me to back down this time.”

  “Okay.” He held out his hands. “Please, sweetheart, just listen to me.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m listening. Start talking.”

  “It isn’t like you think.”

  “You came over here last night drunk. Is that not like I think?”

  No, that was pretty much it.

  “Why were you drunk?”

  “I went to the group meeting Dr. Ferguson recommended, but it wasn’t for me. It just wasn’t right, so I left.”

  “You left?”

  “Before it was over.”

  “I see, and went straight to a bar?”

  He sighed. “I didn’t plan on that.”

  “No? You didn’t? What? You just stumbled into one?”

  “Peyton.”

  “I’m sorry, but I asked for an explanation and you’re making me drag it out of you. I think I deserve more than that.”

  “Okay, here it is. I went into the bar and I drank too much.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “A woman came up to me…”

  “A woman?”

  “You wanted the truth.”

  “So, that’s what last night was? You wanted sex, so you thought you’d just pop by?”

  “I wanted you. That’s all I wanted. When she came up to me, all I could think about was you.”

  Her face shut down. He could see it happen and he didn’t know how to stop it. “If you want to work on our relationship, I’m all for that.” She pointed a finger at him. “But don’t you ever, ever come over here again looking for sex! Do you understand me, D’Angelo?”

  He didn’t know how to respond to that.

  “I’m not your whore!” Then she turned and grabbed her gun off the peg, wrenching the door open and walking out.

  Marco jumped when the door slammed shut behind her. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to go after her. She’d never looked at him with such hate, such venom before and it staggered him. He sat down hard on the barstool and stared at the floor.

  His heart was pounding so hard, he wasn’t sure if he was having a heart attack or not. Closing his eyes, he tried to calm his breathing. Shit. He’d done it now. He’d probably lost
her for good.

  * * *

  “Fix me!”

  Dr. Ferguson gave him that slow placid look, his fingers steepled before his mouth. Marco leaned on the other side of his desk, his hand curled into a fist around the head of his cane.

  “Good morning, Captain D’Angelo.”

  “No, no more of that. I want answers and I want them now. Tell me what I need to do. Tell me how to fix this and let’s get it done. I’m sick of sitting here talking about nothing. I want you to fix this!”

  Dr. Ferguson lowered his hands and reached for his pen. “Can you be more specific?”

  Marco banged his fist on the desk and paced away. He couldn’t believe how much rage he had inside. He was so close to punching someone...something. A psychiatrist, most likely.

  “Something’s happened, obviously.”

  Marco looked over his shoulder at him. Was he shitting him? “Really? Didn’t your spy report on me?”

  “My spy?”

  “The psychologist…” He waved his hand. “Tran or Trang or something.”

  “Tricia? Yes, she mentioned that you left before the meeting was over. Very disappointing.”

  Marco moved back to the desk and leaned over it. “Disappointing? A woman sobbed for fifteen minutes about a dead cat!”

  Dr. Ferguson pursed his lips. “Do you dislike cats in general or did you object to the female tears? I know you have a problem with that.”

  “What?”

  Dr. Ferguson held out a hand, indicating the chair across from him. “Please sit down, Captain D’Angelo. I find your looming presence intimidating.”

  If he knew Marco’s thoughts at the moment, he’d be more than intimidated.

  Marco slumped into the chair, gripping the cane with both hands.

  “What happened after you left the meeting?”

  “I got drunk in a bar.” He realized he felt exhausted. All morning he’d zipped around in a near panic, but now every ounce of energy he had seemed to have leached out of him.

  “Ah, that is unfortunate.”

  “It gets worse.”

  “How?”

  “I met a woman.”

  “Oh, goodness.”

  “No.” Marco shut his eyes. “I didn’t go home with her. I went to Peyton.”

  Dr. Ferguson didn’t respond. Marco glanced up at him. God, he hated that still, observing psychiatrist expression. Ferguson’s quick mind had already reached a number of conclusion and he was just waiting for him to reveal more. Marco always felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, expecting the cruel little boy to pluck off his wings.

  “Go on.”

  “She hates me. I’ve lost her for good. I don’t know what to do. How to make it better. Nothing is right without her, but I ruined it. I made her hate me.”

  “Dear God, what happened?”

  Marco blinked at him. “What?”

  “You didn’t…”

  “Didn’t what?”

  Dr. Ferguson started to respond, but stopped himself. Marco suddenly got where he was going.

  “No. No! Jesus.”

  “Okay, okay, that’s good. That’s very good.”

  “What sort of monster do you think I am?”

  “I think you’re a man on the edge and the way you were talking I was afraid she might have rejected you.”

  Marco gave a shivery exhalation. “It would have been better if she did.”

  “Okay, so you had intercourse.”

  “Right.”

  “And?”

  “And this morning, she accused me of only coming over for sex.”

  “Which is what you did?”

  “Yes, no...I don’t know. All I know is she told me never to come back again.”

  “Were those her words exactly? Never come back again.”

  “Unless I wanted to work on the relationship.” Marco braced his arms on his thighs and rubbed his hands over his face. “I screwed up. I shouldn’t have gone over there. Not that way. Now she’ll never talk to me again.”

  Dr. Ferguson didn’t answer.

  Marco looked up through his hands at him. “Tell me how to get her back.”

  “You don’t. Not like this.”

  “What?”

  “You need to leave it alone for a while. You were right to begin with. You need to work on you. You need to stop the drinking, you need to attend group and not leave in the middle of it, and you need to figure out how to be happy with who you are before you can ever be any good for Peyton.”

  This was so not what Marco wanted to hear. “What about last night?”

  Dr. Ferguson shrugged. “Stop beating yourself up over it. It happened. It’s over and now you move on.”

  “She hates me.”

  “That’s ridiculous. She’s angry with herself.”

  “What?”

  “If she hated you, she wouldn’t have slept with you, Captain D’Angelo. She’s a grown woman who can make her own decisions and last night, she made the decision to have sex with you. This morning, she’s pissed at herself about it, but she’ll get over that.”

  “How do we ever get back to where we were?”

  “You may not be able to, but right now, you’ve got to figure out how to fix you. Then and only then, when you’re in a better place, can you think about working on the relationship with Peyton.”

  “But you do think we’ll get there again?”

  “I’m not saying that at all. I’m not sure it can be salvaged, but hopping into bed with each other is not the way to build a sustainable relationship. If and when you go back to Agent Brooks, you’re going to have to woo her.”

  “Woo her?” What the hell!

  “Yes, woo her.”

  “Woo her? What are you, Shakespeare?”

  Dr. Ferguson smiled. “Not at all. All I mean is that rather than jumping right for the intimacy of sex, maybe you need to date her. Take it slowly. Show her she can trust you again.”

  Trust him again? Shit. With Peyton, that was going to take a miracle.

  * * *

  Jake, Tag and Holmes were standing by Carly’s desk when he arrived at the precinct. He damn near turned around and walked out again. Immediately Jake’s eyes swept over his suit and Marco knew the moment he opened his mouth what he was going to say.

  “Hold on. I went and got you suits yesterday.”

  Marco pointed a finger at him as he shoved open the half-door. “Don’t say a word.”

  Jake frowned. “But I took the suits over to Abe’s.”

  “Ryder!” The half-door swung back violently and hit the counter. Jake and Carly jumped.

  They all shared a look, then Tag cleared her throat. “I’ve got Amy Cook and her lawyer in interrogation.”

  “Okay?” Did he have to supervise everything that went on here?

  “Ryder had an idea.”

  Freakin’ wonderful. Jake with an idea was all bad. “Yeah?”

  Tag slapped Jake on the shoulder.

  Jake continued to frown at Marco’s clothes, but he shook himself. “You should question the girl.”

  “Me?” He never did interrogation as a street cop. Why would he do it now as a captain? “Why?”

  “You’ve been shot.”

  “Thanks for reminding me. I almost forgot for thirty seconds.”

  “Even more charming than usual,” said Jake.

  “Just tell him,” demanded Tag, slapping his shoulder again.

  Jake gave her hand an arch look. “Your finger tattoos might say happy, but that doesn’t mean it’s a freakin’ celebration whenever you hit me.” He rubbed his upper arm.

  Marco made a growling noise in his throat.

  “Okay. Tag said the girl’s traumatized by what happened. She won’t talk with anyone, not even her lawyer. I thought maybe you could be sympathetic and get her to open up.”

  It wasn’t a bad idea. He scratched at his stubble. “Okay. Who’s the lawyer? Renshaw?”

  “It was,” said Holmes, “but the mother came out f
rom Vermont with the grandparents and they got her a different lawyer.” Holmes lifted a piece of paper and looked at it. “The girl’s lawyer is Laura Crawford.”

  “Not familiar with her.”

  “She’s from Redwood City,” offered Tag.

  “Are the mother and grandparents here?”

  “Waiting across the street at the coffee shop.”

  “Well, let’s get this done then.”

  Tag and Holmes, followed by Jake, wandered toward the interrogation room. Marco paused by Carly’s desk. “In my top drawer is a bottle of aspirin. Can you get it and some water, and bring it to me?”

  “Of course.” She scrambled to do what he asked.

  Marco entered the interrogation room behind the others and looked at the young girl sitting at the table. She was about seventeen with long, straight brown hair, brown eyes, and a fresh, cleanly scrubbed face. She wore a hoodie over a floral print t-shirt and jeans. Laura Crawford sat next to her in a navy skirt and pale blue blouse, her blond hair cascading in loose curls down her back, her features pretty and youthful, although she had to be older than she looked to have this sort of job.

  Holmes handed him the file and he opened it, glancing over the report, grimacing as he saw the photos from the crime scene. Blood blanketed the room, splattered on the window and the walls on either side and pooled on the carpet. The bed, a pink pile of blankets and sheets, lay directly to the right of the window.

  “Did they do a rape kit on her?”

  Tag reached over his arm and flipped a few pages, pointing. “Evidence of intercourse, no sign of trauma.”

  “They weren’t using protection?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Could she be pregnant?’

  “Too soon to tell.”

  Marco sighed. This is what happened when teenagers tried to grow up too quick. Carly stepped into the room, holding a glass and the aspirin bottle. He handed the file back to Tag and took the bottle, shaking four pills into his palm, then reached for the water. He tossed the pills into his mouth and chased them with the water, draining the entire glass.