Murder in the Presidio (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 6)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “I know.”

  “What’s the reason this time?”

  “Junior Walker’s dead. He was shot in the back of the head, execution style.”

  “Hm. They don’t suspect Angel’D himself, do they?”

  Peyton shrugged and took another sip of wine. “I find that hard to believe, but they took his gun and badge, and sent him home.”

  Abe frowned. “Wait. Defino wants to split the two of you up?”

  “She hinted at it with me, and I guess she told him directly.”

  “Why? Aren’t you her best team?”

  “We are, but we’ve been arguing in public lately. She thinks we can’t recover from Alcatraz.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re telling me. I can’t work with anyone else, Abe. I don’t know what I’d do.”

  Abe gave her a quizzical look. “I think you’re missing the point, sweets. The bigger problem is who could work with you.”

  Peyton glared at him, then she sighed. “You’re right.”

  “I’m still confused. Why would they think Marco had anything to do with this Junior Walker clown?”

  “Because Marco threatened to kill him when we went to get Maria’s things from his house.”

  Abe considered that.

  “It meant nothing. It was just typical cop speak. You know? To back someone down?”

  “Right,” said Abe, clearly not convinced. “Personally, I like to threaten them with an autopsy, but whatever works.”

  Peyton fought a smile.

  “Something bothers me, though.”

  “What?”

  “You said Junior Walker was shot execution style?”

  “Right.”

  “Like the first victim of this Clean-up Crew nutter?”

  Peyton’s head snapped up. “What?”

  Abe pressed his fingers to his forehead. “What was his name?”

  “The bum on the BART platform?”

  “Yeah, Kimono or Bimbo.”

  “Kimbro?”

  Abe snapped his fingers. “Right. Wayne Kimbro.”

  Peyton felt her mouth go dry. “Do you think you can get Junior Walker’s autopsy?”

  He gave her a disgruntled look. “Really? Have you so little faith in me?”

  “Sorry. Whatever was I thinking?”

  “I do wonder sometimes.”

  They both fell silent. Peyton stared at the sleeping Pickles, but her mind was frantically trying to piece it all together. Marco was right. If they could solve the serial killer case, the issue of their partnership would be moot. Defino would be an idiot to split them up after that.

  “Still,” said Abe, his expression troubled. “What are the odds that Walker’s death and Kimbro’s could be related?”

  Peyton’s eyes lifted to his face. For some reason, she had a sinking feeling she knew how that could be. Walker was a wife beater, not a pedophile, so the only connection between Kimbro and Walker was she and Maria. Therefore, if Kimbro and Walker were shot with the same gun, that meant the serial killer was someone in her own department.

  “I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, scrambling off the bed and running to the bathroom.

  CHAPTER 2

  Peyton knocked on Marco’s door the next morning. He pulled it open and gave her a critical look.

  “What’s with the cheap sunglasses, ZZ Top?” he asked, motioning her inside.

  “Too much wine and too little pizza,” she answered, walking carefully to his little bistro set and taking a seat. Bracing her head on her hand, she closed her eyes. Three aspirins and her head still hammered like a drum.

  “I’ll get some coffee going…and toast.”

  Peyton grimaced. “I don’t think I can eat anything.”

  “The toast will soak up the wine.”

  “To be honest, I think most of it’s in my toilet.”

  “Attractive,” he said with a hint of amusement. “You don’t usually tie one on with wine. What gives?”

  She adjusted the shades and lifted her other hand to brace her forehead. “I don’t know. My partner’s suspended for the second time in two months, my mother’s marrying a racist, my ex is engaged to the most understanding woman in the world, and I have an abusive receptionist living on my couch with a murder suspect in the spare bedroom…”

  He chuckled as he filled the coffee pot with water from the tap.

  “Abe wants to put beads on the end of my Yorkie’s dread locks…Abe wants to make my Yorkie have dread locks…”

  He grabbed the bread and plugged in the toaster.

  “The captain wants to split me up from my partner and my partner doesn’t think anyone else could work with me.” She opened one eye and watched him spoon grounds into the coffee filter. “Actually, there seems to be a general consensus about that one.”

  He nodded.

  “Junior Walker was shot execution style and Abe made a connection that it’s distinctly similar to how Wayne Kimbro was shot.”

  Marco went still, slowly turning to face her. “Wayne Kimbro? The bum in the BART station?”

  She held out her hand.

  He moved to the table and took a seat opposite her. “Is Abe going to do Junior Walker’s autopsy?”

  “I asked him to request it.”

  “How could Wayne Kimbro and Junior Walker be connected, Brooks?”

  She reached up and lowered the shades, so she could see him over the top of the rim. “Exactly.”

  He sat back in his chair. “The Janitor has ties to the police department?”

  “Or, he’s in the police department.”

  Marco stared at her for a minute, then he shook himself. “Okay, next time, lead with that.”

  She grimaced. “As I’m reviewing our conversation in my mind, I’m realizing that should have probably come before the stuff about Pickles.”

  “Yeah.” He stared at the table, deep in thought.

  Peyton could smell the rich aroma of brewing coffee and her mouth watered for it. “I could really use that coffee,” she said.

  He rose to his feet. She noticed he wore a pair of running shoes, athletic shorts, and a sleeveless compression t-shirt, which strained across his shoulders. She couldn’t help but mark how fit he was, an Adonis as Jake called him.

  “Were you going running?”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Yeah, but it’ll wait.”

  “I need to go running.” She hadn’t been since Junior Walker accosted her on her street. She needed to get back into her routine.

  “I don’t think you’ll get very far with a hangover.”

  “I barely made it up your stairs.”

  He poured her a cup of coffee and grabbed the sugar, setting both in front of her.

  “Do you have a little milk?”

  He yanked open the fridge and grabbed a milk carton and butter, placing those on the table.

  “And a spoon?”

  He frowned at her. “You’re high maintenance, Brooks.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, D’Angelo.”

  He threw the two slices of toast onto a saucer and brought it to her with a spoon and a knife. “I think I have some idea.”

  She almost burst into tears as she reached for the sugar bowl, but she fought them back. She knew how much he hated it when she cried. Not that she was the weepy sort, but lately, shit lately she’d been a freakin’ spigot.

  He watched her prepare her coffee, then when she didn’t touch the toast, he spread a thin layer of butter on it and pushed it at her. She usually loved San Francisco sour dough something fierce, but she wasn’t sure her stomach could handle anything right now.

  “Eat,” he commanded.

  She lifted the coffee to her lips and took a sip, then grabbed a slice of toast and took a bite. It actually went down easier than she thought. “Is this bread from Fisherman’s Wharf?”

  “Yep.”

  “When did you go?”

  “I didn’t.”

&
nbsp; She took another bite and chewed. “Mama D’Angelo,” she said.

  “That’s right.”

  She placed a finger on the blue flowered sugar bowl. “I didn’t think you bought this.”

  “Actually, that was a gift from Abe.”

  Peyton laughed, then moaned when her temples throbbed. “Aren’t you having anything?”

  “I like to run on an empty stomach.”

  “Really?” She scrunched up her nose. “I don’t like to do anything on an empty stomach.”

  “Except drink wine, apparently.”

  She took another sip of coffee. “Not anymore.”

  He smiled at her. God, he was so handsome when he smiled.

  “What are we going to do about the serial killer?” She’d been avoiding any talk regarding the case, but she’d come to his apartment for that very reason.

  He leaned on the table. “Don’t say anything right now. Wait until they reinstate me.”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t like this, Brooks. If it’s one of our people…”

  She exhaled in disbelief. “I can’t even get my head around that.”

  “You have to admit it makes sense.”

  “I know it makes sense, but one of ours…”

  “Did you say anything to Jake or Maria about it?”

  “No, just Abe.”

  “Call Abe and tell him to keep it under his hat, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything until I’m back.”

  “Defino’s going to put me back on the Clean-up Crew case once I finish the extradition papers for Meilin Fan.”

  “Let Cho and Simons lead. Do you know how dangerous this could be, Brooks?”

  “I do.”

  “You can’t trust anyone right now.”

  She started to protest, but he gave her a severe look.

  “I’m serious. You can’t trust anyone.”

  An unbidden thought popped into her mind, but she forcefully tamped it down. Even so, for the briefest moment, she almost said, Not even you?

  * * *

  After downing three cups of coffee and two slices of toast, Peyton made it to the precinct, but Marco’s words echoed over and over in her mind: You can’t trust anyone. She’d worked with these people for eight years. How could she not trust them? How many times had her life been in their hands? The thought of one of them being the Janitor made her feel physically ill, and it really didn’t have anything to do with the wine she’d consumed the previous night.

  She tried to concentrate on the report she needed to finish on the Meilin Fan case. Devan had texted that he’d be by before lunch for it, so he could start the extradition process. Still, she found herself distracted by the people walking past her desk.

  Jake stopped and chatted about nonsense for a few minutes. She knew he couldn’t be it. Not corn-fed, mid-western, all-American Jake with his unyielding devotion to his dead wife and his puppy dog eyes.

  Maria lounged at her desk, reading a fashion magazine. There was no way she could have offed Junior Walker. The man paralyzed her with fear whenever she thought of him. Besides that, Maria was too genuine a person to be a deviant serial killer.

  Smith stopped by, handing her his report on Meilin Fan’s arrest. “Pretty routine, baby girl,” he said, his bushy moustache lifting in a smile. Smith was like Marco – by the book, strictly controlled, emotionally contained. Besides that, he had a drinking problem. He was sober now, but if he’d been responsible for killing so many people, Peyton felt sure he’d go back to the bottle just to forget what he’d done.

  She’d like to think it was Holmes. He stopped by, tsking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “You just couldn’t let a man handle a man’s job.”

  She leaned back in her chair and stared up at him. She’d abandoned the sunglasses when she got here, figuring she didn’t need to look hung-over if Defino came by. “If you’re talking about your…” She nodded at the crotch of his pants. “You can handle that all by yourself.”

  He gave her a smug smile. “I wasn’t talking about me. You had to go bust in on D’Angelo when he was with the captain. You couldn’t let him work it out by himself, and you got the poor bastard suspended again.”

  Oh, she would love it if it were Holmes…except she wouldn’t. “I’m not the one who took his gun and badge from him.”

  His expression clouded over. “That’s the part of the job I hate. He’s a good cop.”

  “One of the best. He’ll be back before you know it, Drew.”

  He nodded, then walked away. She watched him over her shoulder. Holmes might like to bust her chops, but she couldn’t see him as a serial killer. He’d come to her rescue enough times that she’d grudgingly grown to respect him.

  Bill Simons trundled out of the break-room, munching on a donut. He ambled like a bear she’d seen walking along the edge of some rocks in Tahoe one time, heavy tread, shoulders swaying. He carried a second donut in his other hand. She sort of hated that they’d become clichés, but when he dumped the second donut – chocolate with rainbow sprinkles – on her desk and roughly patted her shoulder before he went on, she pounced on it. Nope, she couldn’t believe Bill Simons was a serial killer.

  “Hey, Brooks, Defino says I need to help you with your report,” came Bartlet’s voice at her back.

  She placed a piece of donut in her mouth and shook her curls. “I’m almost done.”

  “She wants a copy of it.”

  “I’ll send it to her email.”

  He played with the handle of his baton and adjusted the pepper spray in his belt. “Anything else you need? She wants me to help you since…” His eyes tracked to Marco’s desk and back. “Until D’Angelo gets back.”

  She took another bite of donut. “I’m fine, Jimmy.”

  He nodded and wandered away.

  She dismissed him as well. Too green. If he was going around killing people, he had to be the best damn actor in the freakin’ world.

  She forced herself to return to the report, adding in Smith’s account of the arrest. She heard Devan’s dress shoes before she saw him. He came up on her side, grabbing a chair from another desk and sliding it over to her.

  “So we’re extraditing Ms. Fan to Florida, I hear.”

  Peyton pushed her mouse away and swiveled in her chair. “They have the stronger case. Detective Acosta has the actual gun that was used in the killing of her parents.”

  He nodded, folding his hands in his lap. As always, he wore the most stylish of suits, a charcoal grey that fit his slim frame perfectly. “I heard about D’Angelo.”

  “Yep.” She wasn’t going to share anything more with Devan. He and Marco didn’t necessarily get along.

  “He’s been suspended a lot lately.”

  She turned back to the computer and pressed save on the document. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Fine. I have something else I want to talk to you about anyway.”

  She didn’t look at him. “Your fiancée’s pregnant?”

  “My fiancée’s pregnant? What?”

  She glanced at him. “What?”

  “Why did you say my fiancée’s pregnant?”

  Peyton shrugged. “The last time you said we had to talk you told me you were getting married, so I figured this was the next shoe to drop.”

  He let out his breath in a relieved pant. “You scared the hell out of me.”

  Interesting. “What do you think will happen once you marry her?”

  “Not right away. Besides, we pushed the wedding back to the first of next year.”

  “Right.” She grabbed another piece of donut and plopped it in her mouth.

  “Why do you have to make this so hard?”

  She clicked on the screen with her mouse. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m a perfect delight.” She shot him an appraising look. “You want this printed or by email?”

  “Email,” he answered, smoothing his pants leg. “
You have never been a perfect delight and you know it.”

  “Agree to disagree,” she said.

  He pointed a finger at her. “That, right there?”

  “What?”

  “So much snark.” But he was smiling. “You keep men off balance.”

  “Then men shouldn’t be so wobbly.” She clicked to attach the email, then leaned on her desk, bracing her chin on her hand. “Do you remember those toys we had as kids? The round things that wobbled?”

  “The what?”

  “The toys? They had faces and houses and cars, and they wobbled. Weeble Wobbles!” She punctuated it with her finger.

  “Weeble Wobbles?”

  “Yeah, they were shaped like an egg. My mom had some from when she was a kid and I used to play with them all the time.”

  “Weeble Wobbles.” He shook his head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “That’s what men are. They’re Weeble Wobbles.”

  He just blinked at her without speaking for a moment.

  She turned back to the computer and sent the document.

  Rubbing a hand across his forehead, he exhaled. “Look, Peyton, Jedediah O’Shannahan is coming up for trial.”

  Peyton went still. Jedediah O’Shannahan, the immensely popular televangelist who had been arrested as an accessory to his wife in the murder of Teresa Ravensong – Jedediah O’Shannahan, the bane of Peyton’s last year.

  “I’m going to need you to testify.”

  She nodded, not sure she could speak. She hated Jedediah O’Shannahan. Whenever she met with him, he made her skin crawl in all sorts of unpleasant ways.

  “This isn’t like the Claire Harper case. I’m not sure I can win this.”

  “That isn’t a very good attitude,” she scolded.

  He held out his hands. “It’s the truth.”

  “Who’s representing him?”

  “Elizabeth Brown.”

  “Isn’t she…”

  “The lawyer for the mayor.”

  “Great. She’s a regular ball buster.”

  “Tell me about it.” He tapped a finger on her desk. “I’m gonna have to prep you for this one. We’ll need to meet a couple of times.”

  “Fine. When does the trial start?”