Murder in Chinatown (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 5)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Thank you,” said Gabby, motioning Billy up the stairs. “Why don’t you go sit with your husband?”

  Andrea grabbed Gabby’s hand. “He was a good boy.”

  “I’m sure he was, ma’am.”

  “He was such a good boy until she came along.”

  “Lily?”

  Andrea nodded. “He would never have done anything except for her.”

  Gabby helped the woman to her feet. “Go sit with your husband, ma’am.”

  Andrea Sanderson wandered off, her steps labored, her shoulders rounded like the weight of the world rested on them.

  Gabby hurried up the stairs and found Billy in the third room down the hall. She stopped in the entrance, transfixed. She’d seen this before, many times. Parents who lost children made a time capsule out of their rooms as if as long as they preserved their child’s exact environment, they might be able to hold onto him or her just a bit longer, but there was something terrible about it – the grief, the agony seemed to lay over everything, trapping it inside.

  Billy pointed to a row of trophies and basketball teamshots. Gabby walked over to them and picked out the smiling blond boy with the lanky build. Reaching for the top drawer on the dresser, she found it filled with boxer shorts. Carefully searching through them, she tried to put them back exactly as she’d found them.

  Billy was searching through the drawers on Grant’s desk, so she finished the dresser, then moved to the closet. Here she hesitated. Grant had hung himself in this closet and something about it made her feel the full weight of the tragedy. A life ended too soon, a young man who felt the only answer to his problems came with ending them.

  She opened the accordion door and stared at the clothes. A spot had been cleared on the wooden dowel where she presumed he’d tied the noose. Pushing the clothes aside, she searched the bottom of the closet, then the top shelf, but she found nothing.

  “I’m not finding a damn thing, Gabs,” said Billy.

  “Keep looking,” she urged, her eyes drawn back to that cleared section of dowel.

  In order to get tension on the noose, Grant had to kneel in the closet. He’d gone inside, placed the noose over his head, and then let his legs go slack. Stepping into the closet, she stood in the exact spot he probably had, facing the back of the closet.

  But would he face the back? Would he want that to be his last sight? She turned around and looked out at the room, saw all of the familiar things he would have seen – his trophies, his team photographs, his bed and desk and dresser, the pennant from the Florida Gators. Except he wouldn’t have been standing fully. She lowered herself into a crouch, staring out at Billy as he went through the dead boy’s desk. How much despair had he felt? How much fear and hopelessness?

  The sadness of it, the loss, overwhelmed her and she closed her eyes, bracing her forehead with her hand. When she opened her eyes again, she went still. Grant had drawn something on the wall next to the door in black permanent marker. She tilted her head and squinted at it. It looked like a tree and in the tree was some structure. Reaching out her hand, she traced the crude lines.

  “Billy?”

  He came over to her. “Find something?”

  She pointed to the drawing. “Look at this.”

  He leaned in. “Holy shit!”

  “What do you make of that?”

  He looked up at her, smiling. “It’s a treasure map, Gabs.”

  Gabby rose to her feet and left the closet, going directly to the window behind Grant’s bed.

  Pulling back the navy blue curtains, she stared out at the Sandersons’ backyard. There right in front of her was a massive tree and built into the branches of the tree was a treehouse. She whirled to Billy, pointing.

  Without a word, the two of them hurried out the door and down the stairs. The Sandersons looked up as they passed them, headed for the French doors off the kitchen. They nearly ran as they made their way across the yard to the tree. A number of boards had been nailed into the trunk to make ladder rungs, but the first one shifted when Billy grabbed it.

  “I think you’re gonna have to go up,” he said, “I’m too heavy.”

  She took a deep breath and stared up at the rickety wooden boards that made the treehouse floor. No one had likely been up here in twenty years. It was probably rotten and unstable, but what choice did she have?

  Taking a deep breath, she began climbing. The trapdoor stuck as she tried to open it, but putting her shoulder to it, she got it to creak open. Again, she hesitated before hoisting herself onto the floor of the treehouse. The boards moaned beneath her feet, but sunlight filtered through the branches, illuminating the narrow space. Directly in front of her was a plastic fishing box.

  She grabbed rubber gloves out of her pocket and pulled them on, then reached for the box and dragged it across the floor to her. Unhooking the buckles, she carefully lifted the lid.

  Sitting in the bottom of the box on a stack of letters was a gun – a Colt M1911.

  “What’s going on, Gabby?” called Billy.

  Gabby looked down through the trapdoor. “How much do you love me?” she said with a smile.

  * * *

  When in doubt, jog it out! That was Peyton’s usual mode of dealing with difficult things. Go jogging and sure as shooting, a solution would present itself. She tied up her curls in a band and put on her favorite running shoes, then she left the house. Usually she told Jake when she was going, but this time, she’d just gone, needing the time alone to sort through the anger and betrayal she felt toward Marco.

  He’d probably destroyed any chance they had to get a conviction on Meilin Fan now. Not that the case had been strong before. It was mostly circumstantial and if there was one thing juries hated, it was convicting people of murder without irrefutable evidence.

  Worst of all, though, was the fact that he’d gone to Meilin’s hotel room without telling her. She would never approve of the number of women he casually bedded, but he’d never dallied with a witness or a suspect before. And the doubt that he was lying to her about what really happened with Meilin made her ache inside. No matter what happened between her and Marco, she always believed him, trusted him, knew he would never lie to her. That was no longer true.

  She jogged down the steps of her house and turned up the street. She liked to jog toward Golden Gate Park and sometimes if she was really angry, she actually made it to the park and ran along the trails under the trees.

  Usually when she ran, she could clear her head or worry the problem until she found a solution. Today, however, she didn’t think that was going to happen. This wasn’t a problem she could fix and Marco was too integral to her life to clear him from her head. In fact, the emotions last night created weren’t worry or anxiety or even really, anger. It was hurt, plain and simple. Gut deep, wrenching hurt.

  He’d tried to talk to her through her bedroom door. Maria had even pleaded his case for him, but Peyton just couldn’t let this one slide. Not this time. Surprisingly, Jake stayed out of it, which was unusual because Jake rarely stayed out of anything. Peyton hadn’t budged. In the end, Marco left and Maria went to bed on the couch. Peyton had tried to sleep, but that hadn’t come easily.

  The morning fog swirled around her, dusting her hair with prismatic drops of dew. She tried concentrating on her feet, feeling the pavement beneath them, listen to the rush of the cars on the road. She modulated her breathing, forcing herself to fill her lungs and exhale completely before drawing another breath.

  Staring at her shoes, she noticed the left one was coming untied. Slowing to a stop, she braced her foot on the planter bed before one of the houses, bending over to tie it. She was barely winded, a fine sheen of perspiration beading on her forehead and the line of skin exposed by her tank top.

  “Well, if it isn’t the miniature pig out running without her back-up. Where’s your Italian thug, bitch?”

  Peyton straightened, looking toward the street. She’d been so lost in thought that she hadn’t noticed the boxy
Buick and the man sitting on top of the hood, his arms crossed on his knee. Junior Walker. She would never forget that bastard with his cruel mouth and close-set eyes.

  “You really don’t want to do this, Junior,” she said, putting as much venom into her words as she could, but she couldn’t deny the flutter of anxiety in her gut. And here she was without her gun or cell phone.

  “Oh, I think I really do. I owe you one.” He slid off the hood and stepped up on the sidewalk. “I never got to show you all of my moves.”

  Peyton wasn’t going to bother with talking to the bastard. God, Maria had been right about needing a self-defense class as long as this bastard was still breathing.

  “You really should be more careful, pig. You jog the same way every freakin’ day at the same time. You’re too easy to spot.”

  She moved to the center of the sidewalk, balancing herself with her feet shoulder distance apart. It wouldn’t do her any good to run. Not with a bastard like Junior Walker. He’d be on her before she made a block. And screaming was out of the question. She was not going to give him that satisfaction.

  She judged the difference in their sizes, his greater weight, and the length of his reach. She might be quicker, but that was about all she had. She figured she had one chance to take him out and if she didn’t take it the moment he struck, she wouldn’t get another.

  He feinted at her, dancing forward and back. She didn’t take the bait. One chance, one hope of disabling him. He came at her again, aiming a kick at her head. She deflected it with both hands, smacking his leg away. Pivoting he came back at her with his other foot, but she stepped into this, letting his blow slam her on the shoulder and upper back. At the same time, she kicked out with her own foot, but she aimed it at the knee that held him, slamming her entire weight into it. His knee gave and he landed on his hip with a shocked gasp.

  She didn’t wait, but struck with the heel of her palm, slamming it into his throat just below his chin. He toppled over backward, grabbing his throat with both hands and gagging for air. For good measure, she aimed her next kick between his legs, then she pressed her foot into the center of his chest as he writhed on the sidewalk.

  A door opened on the house with planter beds and she looked up to see a teenager peering out at her with wide, frightened eyes.

  “Call 911!” she shouted at him, waiting until he disappeared from view, then she leaned over Junior just enough to deliver another blow if he tried anything. “Hey, asshole, you have the right to remain silent,” she said.

  * * *

  Marco saw her the moment he entered the precinct. She wore a running tank top and shorts, her curls pulled up in a ponytail, hanging down her back. She was leaning on Maria’s desk with Smith, Holmes and Bartlet around her, holding a bag of ice to her right hand. Defino was standing in front of her, listening as she told them what happened.

  He took a deep breath, trying to still the panic inside of him. The entire ride over he’d gripped the wheel so hard, he had red streaks on his palms. Jake’s call had been vague. Peyton had been attacked on her morning run. She was at the precinct, but she didn’t have her cell phone, so he hadn’t been able to get a hold of her. At her request, one of the responding officers had called to tell Jake what happened and he was himself on the way down to the precinct.

  Peyton glanced over at him, but looked away, focusing on the captain again.

  “You should have seen him, Captain,” said Bartlet with a laugh. “Poor bastard couldn’t walk.”

  “Or hardly breathe,” said Holmes, patting her back.

  She smiled at him, then shot a look at Marco.

  Marco pushed open the half-door and crossed to her, taking her hand and pulling the ice away. Her palm was swollen and red. “Is anything broken?”

  “No,” she said, tugging away from him and putting the ice back on.

  “It was Junior Walker?” he demanded.

  “Yeah.”

  “How did he know where to find you?” asked Defino.

  “He said he’s been watching the house and he knew when and where I jog every day.”

  “He’s been watching you?” Marco couldn’t help the edge in his voice.

  She gave him a glare. “Yeah. Actually, he’s probably been watching Maria.”

  “That’s just frickin’ great.”

  “She took care of him,” said Smith, drawing laughter from Holmes and Bartlet.

  Marco ignored them. “And you didn’t have your gun, did you?”

  “No, I don’t take my gun to go jogging.”

  “Where is Walker now?” asked Defino.

  “Uniforms took him to lock-up. Hopefully, the judge will raise the bail and he won’t be able to get out.”

  “And if he does? Seems like you need someone watching your house until he’s finally convicted,” said Marco.

  “I’m not having anyone sitting outside of my house for the likes of Junior Walker,” she answered, dumping the ice on Maria’s desk.

  “What if it turns out differently next time, Brooks? What if he’s ready for you? What if he has a gun?”

  “What the hell do you want me to say, D’Angelo?” She pushed past him and stopped beside Defino.

  “Maybe you should stop taking in every stray that comes along.”

  Holmes whistled and Smith looked away, scratching the back of his neck.

  “Be careful, D’Angelo,” said Defino in warning. “Maria isn’t any stray.”

  “She has an ex-murder suspect living in her house, Captain, and a few months ago she brought home a hooker. Remember how that one ended, Brooks?”

  “And yet I somehow manage to keep my objectivity and have never once compromised one of my cases, have I, D’Angelo?”

  “Okay, both of you,” began Defino.

  “That’s because I stop you from doing as many stupid things as I can.”

  “Whoa!” said Holmes, holding up his hands.

  Peyton glanced at them. “Really? Seems to me you have an entire repertoire of stupid things you do.”

  “Brooks, D’Angelo, my office now!” Defino shouted, heading toward her door.

  Marco didn’t move. Neither did Peyton. It was the first time either of them had ever disobeyed such a command.

  He stared into her eyes and realized he couldn’t keep doing this, pretending these close calls were acceptable. “I want you to quit.”

  Silence fell like a blanket over the room.

  No one moved.

  Then Peyton blinked rapidly a few times. “Come again?”

  “I want you to quit this job. You’re going to get yourself killed and I can’t stand watching it.”

  “You hypocritical bastard...”

  “Okay, that’s enough,” said Smith, stepping forward and putting an arm around her shoulders. “Neither one of you better say anything else.”

  “Exactly,” said Defino, moving toward them. She gave Marco a serious glare. “D’Angelo, I want you to go home.”

  “What?” He whirled on her.

  “I want you to take a few days off.”

  “I don’t need time off.”

  “Yes, you do and you will take it. I’m not kidding right now. I want you to go home.”

  “Captain?”

  “Marco, go. Take a few days, get out of the City. You and I will meet with each other on Thursday first thing in the morning.”

  He gaped at her, unable to believe what she was saying. He turned to Peyton, but she lowered her eyes, refusing to look at him. God damn it, what the hell was happening? Why was everyone behaving like he was doing something wrong?

  He blindly turned for the half-door and threw it open, but when he got to the outer door, he came up short. Jake had arrived and pulled the door open. He took in the scene, then gave Marco a questioning look.

  Marco didn’t know what the hell he wanted him to say. He’d taken Jake’s freakin’ advice and told her what he wanted, now he was the one being punished. Shoving Jake out of the way, he went out the door and w
alked to the Charger without even knowing where he intended to go.

  * * *

  Peyton didn’t move as she watched Marco stalk to the Charger and climb inside, slamming the door behind him. The tires squealed as he pulled out of the parking lot and disappeared from sight. His loss of control scared her. So did the words he’d said just before everything went to hell. I want you to quit.

  It was one thing to ignore Jake or her mother when they demanded it. She hadn’t even really given it much thought when Vinnie, Marco’s brother, asked her to quit, but Marco...Marco was another matter entirely.

  “Brooks, my office,” said Defino, “and you had better not make me ask again.”

  Peyton turned and walked into the dark space, ignoring the looks from the men. She slumped into the chair before Defino’s desk and sat staring at the glass top, unable to process what she’d just heard.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  Peyton shook her head, forcing herself to look her captain in the eye. “I don’t know. Things were starting to smooth out between us, then...” She caught herself. She just couldn’t betray Marco by telling Defino what happened with Meilin. No matter what, she would never betray him.

  As if she read her mind, Defino crossed her arms on her desk. “What did you mean about compromising a case? Has Marco compromised this case?”

  “No,” she said, but she said it too quickly.

  Defino glared at her. “Brooks.” The warning was implicit. “Don’t shit me. Before I had this job, do you know what I did?”

  Peyton hadn’t ever given it much thought. “I’m guessing it wasn’t telemarketing.”

  “Telemarketing?”

  “I was gonna say pole dancing, but I figured I was already in enough trouble.”

  Defino drew a deep breath. “Brooks, you are a pain in the ass, you know that?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No wonder Marco gets so pissed at you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I was a detective before I became captain.”

  Peyton nodded. “That makes more sense than pole dancing.”

  “Brooks!”