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

by M. L. Hamilton

  “But?”

  Delacruz tilted back his head and curled his hands into fists. “I shouldn’t have gone there. I was too raw from Calvin’s death still. Hurting too much.”

  “What happened, Mr. Delacruz?”

  “The day before, he told me what a nice kid Calvin was. What a shame it was that he was killed like that.” Delacruz shook his head slowly. “That he was killed like that? He was killed because of the pot he carried. He was killed because he went to that man’s store and he sold him that shit.”

  “Then what?”

  “Nothing. The argument ended. I left that night, but I was so angry. I went back to the store after it was closed and I saw the security cameras. He had security cameras there to protect his business, but where were they when Calvin was killed?”

  “You broke the camera.”

  “Yeah, then I felt bad about it. The next day I was going to tell him, offer to pay for it, but we got into another argument over the pot. He said he was doing a social good. He was helping people. Helping them get killed on the street? Helping them become addicted?” Tears filled Delacruz’s eyes. “I don’t even remember doing it.”

  “What? What don’t you remember doing?”

  Delacruz lifted his eyes to Simons. “I stabbed him.” A tear raced down his cheek. “I just hauled back my hand and I stabbed him. That was it. That was all.”

  Simons shifted in the chair and looked back at the two-way glass.

  Marco rubbed a hand along his chin. “Get him a lawyer, Cho,” he said.

  * * *

  “It was a crime of passion,” said Derek Smythe, the court-appointed defense attorney Cho had called. “Come on, Adams, you know it was. He was under duress from his son’s death and he snapped.”

  Devan glanced at Marco. They were sitting in Marco’s office, the two attorneys occupying the chairs across from Marco’s desk. “He destroyed the security camera the day before he killed him, then set the guy on fire while he was still alive, burned the entire place down. He might have killed other people.”

  “He panicked. He didn’t know how else to clean up what he’d done. Besides, he was burning up the drugs he thought got his son killed.”

  Devan gave a bark of disbelieving laughter. “Are you shitting me? If he had stabbed him, then called for help, I might be lenient, but as it is I’ve got him for Murder One.”

  Smythe gaped at him. He was young, handsome, idealistic, a blond, blue eyed, all-American boy who thought he could change the world by defending people accused of the most heinous crimes.

  “This is Second Degree and you know it, Adams. You’re just busting my chops.”

  Devan continued to stare at Marco. “What do you think?”

  Marco drummed his fingers on the desk. Group meeting was in an hour and Dr. Ferguson had been very adamant that he attend. “I think you’ll get a conviction on Second Degree,” he said.

  Devan glared at him, but Smythe smiled in triumph. “That’s playing softball,” growled Devan. “I thought you were all about going balls to wall with these cases.”

  “When it makes sense. This doesn’t make sense. You go for First and the jury listens to his story, hears how much he regrets throwing out his kid, how devastated he was at his death, well, you’re not going to be able to prove he premeditated Greer’s murder and he’ll walk. You go for Second, they may be sympathetic to him, but they won’t be able to deny that he killed a man, then set him on fire to hide the evidence.”

  Devan considered for a moment. “Fine, we go Second, but he pleads guilty. Let’s avoid a trial and a media circus.” He cast a sidelong look at Marco. “I’ve got enough of that with the other case.”

  “I’ll talk to my client,” said Smythe, rising to his feet. He shook hands with Devan, then held his hand out to Marco. “Thank you for being the voice of reason.”

  Marco shook his hand in return.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I get an answer,” he said to Devan, then let himself out.

  “What’s with you?” said Devan, turning on Marco. “You’re all fired up to take on the NRA, but this guy, you’re gonna let go with a slap on the wrist.”

  “How is it a slap on the wrist? He’s going to prison.” He pointed to the door. “He didn’t premeditate that, Adams. He lost it.”

  “He fashioned the weapon himself.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Devan sank back in the chair. “What about the other case? I hear you got men watching Cook and you’re looking for Gavin Morris’ father.”

  “He’s in the wind. We can’t locate him, but so far he hasn’t approached Cook.”

  “Cook has his guns?”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.”

  Devan shook his head, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Doesn’t make a damn bit of sense, that.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “Let me know when you locate Morris. I don’t want anything happening to Cook before we get him to trial. I gotta have at least one win this month.”

  Marco smiled. “I’ll let you know.” He pushed himself to his feet. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a group meeting to attend.”

  “Group meeting? I thought you didn’t go in for that new age psychobabble crap.”

  “I don’t, but Dr. Ferguson does. If I don’t go, he’ll pull my badge and I won’t be here to make your life a living hell.”

  “Well, that would be all bad, now wouldn’t it?”

  Marco reached for his cane. “When’s that baby of yours going to be born?”

  “No idea. Rani doesn’t seem to want to let her go. They’re gonna induce her next week if something doesn’t happen.”

  Marco chuckled. “Good luck with that.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Can you imagine me a father?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “Neither can I. Besides, I always thought…”

  Marco hesitated at the door to his office. “You thought what?”

  Devan met his gaze, then gave a violent shake to his head. “Definitely not going there with you, D’Angelo. Definitely not.” He walked in front of him into the precinct.

  Marco frowned. Had he really thought he’d have children with Peyton? They’d only dated for a short time. What the hell! Stepping out after him, he marked that Carly happened to be at her desk.

  “I’ll be on cell,” he told her.

  She looked at the clock. “All righty then.”

  He didn’t bother to suggest that she might make up the hours she’d missed the previous day. He figured she’d be bolting out the door about five minutes after he got in the Charger. He and Devan walked to the precinct door.

  “Later, D’Angelo,” Devan said, giving him a wave as he hurried to his sporty Mercedes in the distance.

  Marco lifted a hand to him and unlocked the car, then climbed behind the steering wheel. As he drove to the meeting, he fought with himself the whole way. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to sit in that room with other people who were so depressed they thought the answer was talking with an entire group.

  When he arrived, he climbed out, feeling irritable and out of sorts. What he really wanted was to go home to Peyton, pretend none of this had happened, and go back to the life he had. Still, he entered the building and limped his way down the hall.

  The same group of people were gathered around the refreshment table, talking when he stepped inside. They paused and looked at him. Tricia, the group leader, detached herself and came over to him.

  “Captain D’Angelo, I’m so glad you came back.”

  He gave a tight nod.

  “Well, let’s get started,” she said, sensing he might bolt again. “Please, everyone, take your seats.”

  He moved to the same chair he’d had before between the kid who’d been in the military and the middle aged teacher. He was trying to remember her name, when she turned toward him.

  “Barb Harris,” she told him. Then she picked up a chocolate chip c
ookie off her plate and held it out to him. “Cookie?”

  He took it because he couldn’t think of a reason not to. “Thank you.”

  She smiled and passed him a napkin. He held the cookie and looked around the group. Everyone stared back at him, including the lady with the dead cat. Tricia looked at her. “Linda, how are you feeling this week?”

  She gave Marco a severe glower, then studied her clasped hands. She wore a long, plaid skirt with a light pink sweater. “I don’t think I should mention it, since it upsets some people.”

  Marco drew a breath and released it. “Look, I’m sorry about last week. I wasn’t being very sensitive to other people.”

  He felt everyone’s eyes on him, judging him.

  “I really am sorry about your cat.”

  Her look softened. “Thank you.” Her eyes went liquid. “Some people don’t understand, but Bob meant the world to me.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Especially after Buster died.”

  “Buster? Another cat?”

  She reared back.

  Tricia winced and Barb made a sympathetic groan. Marco looked over at her. Slowly Barb shook her head.

  “Buster was my husband!” said Linda angrily. “He was killed in a car accident a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Ease up, Linda,” said the African American man in his mid-fifties, a man whose name Marco couldn’t remember.

  “Ease up? This is supposed to be a safe group. We come here to feel secure in sharing our problems.” She turned to Tricia. “We don’t need someone judging us.”

  “I don’t think Captain D’Angelo is judging anyone.”

  “Really?” She glared over at him. “What’s your story anyway? You come in here acting superior and looking down at us. I heard what you said last week. You’re here because you have to be here. Not because you want to be. So, tell us why.”

  “That’s not how this works, Linda,” said Tricia. “We don’t force people to talk if they don’t want to.”

  “Well, then I’m not talking anymore either.” She crossed her arms and her legs, giving him a death stare.

  Marco glanced around the group. No one else would meet his gaze. His eyes lowered to the stupid cookie he still held in his hand. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Not only did he not want to be here, but he’d ruined it for everyone else. He didn’t need this shit. He didn’t need more guilt. “My fiancée loves sweets,” he said because he didn’t know what else to say. “She’d eat them for every meal.” He smiled over at Barb. She smiled back, encouraging him. He drew a breath and held it. God, he didn’t want to do this. He’d been taught that men didn’t go around sharing their feelings with anyone, but especially not with strangers. Slowly, he exhaled. “Funny thing is I still think of her as my fiancée. I can’t stop.”

  He looked up at Linda. She had her arms crossed, but her expression had softened a bit.

  “I walked out on her. I left in a fit of anger and confusion and...and I can’t go back. It was the biggest mistake of my life, but I can’t fix it.” He looked at the cookie again. “I just can’t fix it.”

  “Why not?” asked the light haired man. Marco remembered he’d left an abusive relationship with his boyfriend. “Can’t you talk about it with her?”

  “I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.”

  “Try again. Anything worth having is worth fighting for,” he said, looking to Tricia for encouragement.

  She nodded at him.

  “It’s not that simple. It’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?” asked Linda. “What’s stopping you?”

  Marco considered that. What was stopping him? What was making everything so damn hard?

  “I got shot seven months ago. Shattered my leg. I always thought I was this...I don’t know. Tough guy, I don’t know, that sounds so stupid, but I got by with my size, my strength.” He glanced at the kid next to him. Kurt. That was his name. “You know?”

  The kid nodded.

  “And there I was, suddenly. Broken.” He scratched at his jaw, then held out his hand in a gesture of futility. “I’m not good with this stuff.”

  “You’re doing fine,” said Tricia.

  He gave a frustrated laugh. “We don’t talk about feelings in my family. I mean, the men don’t. Actually that’s not true. My dad and I don’t. I’ve never been comfortable with this stuff.” He shook his head, unable to continue.

  “Have you told your fiancée this?” asked Barb.

  He glanced at her. “All we do is shout at each other. Every time I try to talk to her, I say the wrong thing. It was always so easy between us. We were partners for years and it was always so easy. She’s my best friend. She’s everything to me, but I can’t explain this. It’s easier for me to talk to strangers than her.”

  “Why?” asked Tricia. “Why is that, Marco?”

  He scraped his teeth across his bottom lip. Why? It always came back to why. “She knew what I was before. That’s the man she loved, but now…” He gave a pained laugh. “If you knew her, you’d know what I mean. She takes in strays – people, animals. I’m afraid I’m just another stray and I can’t be that with her. I can’t.”

  His voice trailed away, the weight of his admission laying heavy in the room. Now that he’d said it, he didn’t know what to do with it. And now that he’d said it, he realized how silly it sounded. How self-absorbed it was. Peyton had told him over and over again that she didn’t feel that way, but he didn’t hear her. He heard only himself, heard only his own self-doubt. All this time, he’d been thinking of his pain, his loss, his depression.

  He lifted his head, meeting Linda’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Linda,” he said, touching the center of his chest. “You’re right about me. I came here for the wrong reasons and I’m sorry. You deserved better than that.”

  Her eyes went liquid and she covered her mouth with her hand. Tricia placed an arm around her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, burying her head on Tricia’s shoulder.

  Barb reached over and laid her hand on his arm. It was a simple gesture, from a stranger, but it grounded Marco like nothing had in a long time.

  * * *

  Marco walked to the Charger feeling a mixture of things – humiliation warred with a strange sense of relief. He still wasn’t sure he believed in this group shit, but something about it had taken a weight off him. He sure as hell didn’t want anyone else knowing he’d opened up like that, told them things he’d told no one else, but still, he felt lighter, more at peace. It didn’t hurt that Dr. Chamberlain’s TENS device let him have a few hours where the pain in his leg wasn’t front and center in his mind.

  Staring at the traffic on the street, he realized he hadn’t thought about taking a drink all day. Now that was something.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, not recognizing the number. The time flashed at him. 7:00PM. He thumbed it on and held it to his ear.

  “I heard you’re looking for me.”

  Morris.

  “Yes, Mr. Morris, your ex-wife’s been trying to find you since yesterday.”

  “Cook’s out on bail.”

  “I know.”

  “The NRA got him out.”

  “Just temporarily. Look, Mr. Morris, I’m concerned about you. I think we should talk. I can meet you at your ex-wife’s house.”

  “No. I’ll meet you at the precinct.”

  “Okay, that’s good. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

  Without saying another word, Morris disconnected the call. Marco stared at the display. What the hell was he going to say to this father to make him understand how the law worked? As he walked to the Charger, he put in a call to Tag.

  “Hey, Captain,” came her voice.

  “Morris called.”

  “Bartlet thought he saw him outside Cook’s place. We came over here to check it out. Cook’s holed up in that house, sitting on his couch with th
e damn rifle in his lap.”

  “Wonderful. Look, Morris is coming to the precinct. I’ll talk him down.” He pulled open the Charger door and slid behind the steering wheel, dragging his bad leg into the car. He tossed the cane on the passenger’s seat.

  “You want us to meet you back there.”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m gonna talk to Cook again. Remind him that he doesn’t need another felony on his record, then we’ll be on our way.”

  “See you soon.”

  Night had fallen by the time Marco pulled the Charger into the precinct parking lot. He was tired, but today had been a relatively productive day. They’d caught Quentin Greer’s murderer, got Devan on board for a guilty plea of Second Degree murder, and now Morris was coming in of his own volition. If things kept working out this way, Marco might start believing he’d turned a corner of some kind.

  He climbed out of the Charger, grabbing his cane, and locked the car. Then he moved toward the precinct. Cho and Simons’ cars were gone, so was Carly’s little sporty Scion, but Jake’s Daisy still occupied its space in the closest spot to the precinct stairs. A dark blue Toyota pickup sat next to it.

  He frowned at the sight of Jake’s car. Jake only stayed late when absolutely necessary. Usually, as soon as five o’clock hit Jake fought Carly to be the first one out the door. What the hell could be keeping him tonight? Marco was afraid it had something to do with him, some damn request that Abe had made, some social something that he and Jake wanted him to do. Abe had warned him that morning not to go to a bar after the group meeting. This was probably some damn scheme the two of them had concocted to keep him sober.

  Marco grimaced as he climbed the stairs. It had been a long day and the longer the day, the greater the ache. He tapped a finger against the TENS device, glancing down at it as he pulled open the door of the precinct.

  Then he looked up.

  Ryan Morris stood beside Carly’s desk with a gun pointed at Jake’s head.

  Jake closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry, Adonis,” he murmured.

  CHAPTER 22

  Thursday