Mayan Gods in the Yucatan (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 5)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Cho had taken the seat next to him. He glanced at Simons, then gave Marco a grim look. “No one puts him in a gang. The new kid, Price?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He and I walked the neighborhood, knocking on doors. No one remembers seeing him even hanging out on the streets. He walked with his younger brother to school, came home on time, maybe played a little basketball at the elementary school, but that was it. The neighbors all say his mother kept a tight rein on those boys.”

  “I guess you saw Abe’s autopsy report?” Marco asked.

  Simons looked down, nodding.

  “We saw it. He didn’t have any defensive wounds, just the one shot to the head. The kid didn’t see it coming,” said Cho.

  “Do any of the businesses on the street have surveillance cameras?”

  Cho shook his head. “The Price kid and I asked around. The neighborhood is poor, Captain. A lot of the businesses shut down during the last economic downturn.”

  “Okay, what next?”

  “I think I should go back out with Price. Knock on a few more doors. Maybe we get lucky,” said Cho.

  “Sounds good. Talk to Price about his report. Make sure he knows how to write up what you guys did the other day, Cho.”

  “On it, Captain.” Cho rose to his feet.

  Simons moved to get up as well, but Marco cleared his throat. “Bill, will you wait a moment?”

  Cho glanced over on his way out the door as Bill Simons settled his bulk back in the chair. Marco met Cho’s gaze and gave him a slight nod. Cho nodded back, then left, closing Marco’s door behind him.

  Marco took another sip of his coffee. “Bill, I know this case has shaken you up.”

  “Bobby’s seventeen this year, Captain. I just saw that kid and I couldn’t help it.” He scrubbed both hands across his face, then back through his thinning brown hair. “I don’t know. It’s so stupid. I never let this stuff get to me, but lately…”

  “Lately it has?”

  Simons nodded, not making eye contact. “Maybe I’m getting old, Captain. Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “Or maybe it doesn’t make sense to have to scoop a seventeen year old kid off the sidewalk, Bill. I can set up some appointments with Dr. Ferguson.”

  Simons reared back. “The shrink? I’m not huddled in a corner or something, Captain. I’ve been here every day. I haven’t missed a shift.”

  “You don’t have to be huddled in a corner or missing shifts to need someone to talk to Bill. And you don’t have to be drinking yourself into a grave either.” He gave Simons a self-deprecating look.

  “That’s not what I meant, Captain. You had a reason. You got shot, but me…what the hell do I have? I went on a call, same as I’ve done for years, nothing more.”

  “I’m starting to think it isn’t the one call that does it, Bill. It’s the years of calls that build up, the accumulation of trauma that finally breaks us.”

  “No offense, Captain,” he said, meeting Marco’s gaze, “but I’m not broken. I’ll get over this. I just got to stop seeing Bobby every time I look at the Jones kid. That’s all. I just got to work through it, and I will. Don’t worry, Captain.”

  “Okay, Bill, but if you change your mind, let me know.”

  Simons nodded, then pushed himself to his feet. “Thanks, Captain,” he said, lifting a hand in a brief acknowledgement, then he went out the door, shutting it behind him.

  * * *

  Marco reviewed the report Danté sent him about their canvas of Jamaad Jones’ neighborhood. The kid could write, detailing everything with the right amount of information. Nothing was misspelled and everything appeared grammatically correct, or as far as Marco knew. English had never been his strong suit. When he and Peyton had been partners, he’d always made her write the reports, begging off that he had dyslexia. He didn’t, or else he didn’t think he did, but he had never been very good at putting his thoughts down into words. Peyton was and this Danté kid might be even better. He couldn’t believe how much the new kid impressed him, and made him wonder why he was here and not solving the world’s problems at a university somewhere.

  Lee buzzed his office. Marco picked up the phone. “Lee?”

  “Captain, Mrs. Jones would like to see you.”

  Marco paused, frowning. “Mrs. Jones?”

  “Jamaad Jones’ mother.”

  He blew out air and looked toward his windows where lazy white clouds were floating overhead. Grieving parents had always made him squirm. It was so hard to talk to someone who’d lost the most precious thing in their life. “Are Cho and Simons in?”

  “Yes, sir. They just came back from lunch.”

  “Ask them to meet me in the conference room.”

  “On it.”

  Marco reached for his crutches and levered himself up, then he went to the door and opened it. A woman of medium height, dark skin, and dark hair stood on the other side of the counter. She was in her late thirties, early forties, wearing a striped blouse and jeans, a folder in her hands. She looked at him with weary brown eyes.

  “Mrs. Jones?” he said, crutching to the half-door. “I’m Captain Marco D’Angelo.”

  “Mavis,” she said, her eyes sliding down to the brace on his leg. “How were you hurt, Captain?”

  He looked down. “Gunshot, but this is from reconstructive surgery. I’m actually on the mend, ma’am.”

  “Good. I’m sorry to bother you. I know you’re busy, but I just wanted to talk to you.”

  “Certainly.” He pulled open the half-door. “Come into our conference room. I’ve asked the two detectives assigned to your case to meet us up here.”

  “Thank you,” she said, stepping through. She walked to the conference room and went inside. Marco was surprised at how calm her voice was, her back straight, her bearing regal.

  She took a seat at the head of the table, setting the folder down in front of her and folding her hands on the cover. He crutched in after her and took a seat on her right side, leaning the crutches against the wall. Lee appeared in the doorway.

  “Can I get you some coffee, Mrs. Jones?”

  “Mavis, please. And I’d like a cup. Just a splash of cream, please.”

  Lee nodded. “Captain?”

  “I’m good, Lee, thank you.”

  As he exited, Cho and Simons appeared. Cho with his quick, efficient mannerisms, stuck his hand out to the woman. “Inspector Nathan Cho, ma’am,” he said, then motioned to the hulking figure behind him. “This is my partner, Inspector Bill Simons.”

  Mavis shook Cho’s hand, then reached past him to shake Simons. Simons didn’t speak or make eye contact. He just took her hand briefly, then eased past Marco to take a seat on the left side of the table, directly across from his captain. Cho sat down on Simons’ right, closer to Mavis.

  “Before we begin, I just want to tell you how sorry we all are for your loss, Mavis,” said Marco.

  She tilted up her chin, swallowing hard, but she kept her regal composure. “Thank you, Captain D’Angelo. I appreciate that. It’s been a brutal couple of days for our family.”

  “I’m sure it has. We’re doing everything in our power to find the person who did this, ma’am.”

  “I appreciate that, but I thought you might want to know who Jamaad was. Maybe it would help to put a face on things.” She swallowed again, then opened her folder. It was filled with pictures.

  Simons lowered his head and stared at his clasped hands, but Cho shifted uncomfortably, meeting Marco’s gaze. She took out the top picture and set it in the middle of the table. Marco could see two women, one older than the other, two teenage boys, and a man about Mavis’ age.

  “That’s our family photo from last summer. Jamaad was sixteen. The other boy is his younger brother, Jonell. Jonell was thirteen there. The older woman is my mama, Maeve. She’ll be 68 this year. The man is Jamaad and Jonell’s father, Jonah. We been married nineteen years. I’m not saying we had a lot of money, because we didn’t, and I’m not saying we d
idn’t have our problems, because we did, but we were a family.”

  She fought back tears, pursing her lips for a moment and looking up at the lights overhead.

  “We were a family.”

  Lee appeared at that moment and set the coffee by her. She nodded at him. “Thank you,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” Lee answered and backed out of the room.

  Mavis didn’t touch the coffee.

  “Jamaad was a good boy.” She picked up a certificate and set it in the middle of the table. “He had perfect attendance. He just got his learner’s permit. He was learning how to drive, but he walked with his little brother to and from school every single day. Jonah was teaching him to drive. We couldn’t afford an extra car, but Jamaad always told me, ‘Mama, I get my license, I can go to the store for you.’”

  She blinked a few times, then picked up another photo and set it on top of the certificate. In it, a lanky teenager was smiling at the camera, squatting beside a huge pitbull, his arms around the animal’s neck.

  Marco shared a look with Cho. Simons sat with his head bowed, his hands clasped before him. He hadn’t moved since he took his seat.

  “Jamaad volunteered at the local animal shelter. Did you know that?”

  Marco’s eyes rose to hers. “No, ma’am, we didn’t.”

  “He got into training the dogs. He thought if he could teach people how to train them properly, they might not bring them back to the shelter when things got hard.” She swallowed again and tapped the picture. “That’s what he wanted to do with his life. Train dogs and teach people how to do it. The shelter was considering letting him start a program. They were even looking into getting some state funding for it.”

  Marco found himself distracted. Harlan Osborn had suggested that Marco start a neighborhood task force in the community. He hadn’t followed up on it because he’d been preoccupied with Murphy’s murder, but it wasn’t a bad idea. If he could make inroads in the community, it might make things easier on his officers. If they had a relationship with people in the neighborhoods, the people might feel comfortable coming to them, telling them what they saw. The biggest problem for police, any police department, while investigating a crime, was getting people to admit they saw something. They instinctively didn’t want to get involved.

  “Is something wrong, Inspector Simons?” said Mavis in a firm voice.

  Marco’s eyes shot up and for a moment, he felt guilty for letting his attention slip. Simons also looked stricken, staring at her, his hands tightening until his knuckles turned white.

  “This is the first time you’ve looked at me since I walked into this room,” she challenged.

  “Mavis,” Marco began, but Simons interrupted him.

  “I have a son. He’s seventeen. Same age as Jamaad,” said Simons, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat as Cho lowered his gaze.

  Simons shook his head. “I can’t look at your boy without seeing my own.” He forced himself to look her in the eyes. “I swear to you, Mrs. Jones, I will do everything in my power to find out who did this. I won’t stop until I do. I don’t know how to make you believe me, except…” He fought for composure, then pointed a big, beefy finger at the picture of Jamaad with the dog. “…I see my boy when I look at Jamaad.”

  A sob choked in Mavis’ throat. Cho retrieved a box of tissues from the counter behind them, setting it before the grieving mother. Mavis pulled out a number of tissues and covered her face with them. Marco didn’t know what more to do. He wished Peyton were here. She always knew how to handle these situations.

  Finally, Mavis looked up, tears running down her dark cheeks, dropping off her chin. She dabbed at them with her tissue, then she tilted up her head, firmed her jaw, and nodded a few times. “That’s all I ask, Inspector Simons,” she said. Her eyes shifted and pinned Marco. “Now, Captain D’Angelo, tell me how I can help you solve my son’s murder.”

  * * *

  “Wait. The mother wants to help you,” said Peyton, passing Marco a dish over the counter. He sat on the barstool, a dish towel in hand, and accepted the plate, drying it.

  “That’s what she said.”

  “Well, you told her not to get involved, right?”

  Marco set the plate on the other one he’d dried, then accepted silverware from her. “Actually, I told her we’d take her help.”

  “Marco.”

  “Hear me out,” he said, placing the dried silverware on the plates. “Harlan Osborn asked me to head a neighborhood task force.”

  “Harlan Osborn, the mayor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Asked you to head a task force?”

  “Yes.”

  “Harlan Osborn, the suspect in Lowell Murphy’s murder?”

  “Yep. I talked to him at the benefit Devan and I attended where he announced his plans to run for governor of California. We were supposed to meet to hash out the details and he said he’d call me, but he didn’t. I didn’t call him either because I got busy, but after listening to Mavis, it occurred to me that this was my opportunity. People in the neighborhoods don’t always want to talk to us. Maybe if they saw us in their communities more, they’d be more inclined to trust us, tell us what they see.”

  Peyton listened to him, turning off the water. “You clever bastard.”

  He gave her a smile.

  “First, you’re sincere about this task force idea, aren’t you? You really do think it might help with the communication between the police department and the neighborhoods.”

  “I do.”

  “Second, this lets you get out into the community to canvas it and talk to people.”

  “It will.”

  “And finally, it might get you access to Harlan Osborn without his entourage.”

  “It might.”

  She smiled and shook her head in amusement. “And people think you’re just another pretty face, D’Angelo.”

  He shrugged, picking up the dishes and passing them to her. She took them and moved back, dodging Pickles who was hoping for an after-dinner treat, and placed them in the cabinet. “How will you use Mavis Jones?”

  “I’ve already been thinking of that. If we have a community barbecue in the neighborhood, get some of the other precincts to pitch in, we can set up a booth to pass out pens and stickers and other paraphernalia that we have. We can put up the pictures of Jamaad that Mavis has and she can even man the booth for a while, helping us pass out literature and swag. A few officers can man it with her and answer questions.”

  “Or talk to potential witnesses?”

  “Exactly.”

  She closed the cabinet and grabbed a treat for Pickles, giving it to the little dog. He ran and jumped on the couch, placing the biscuit between his paws to chew on it. Peyton moved around the counter, trailing her fingers over it. He’d been distracted by watching her go through the routine of finishing off the dishes for the night. It seemed so normal and domestic.

  She turned the barstool and moved between his legs, placing her arms on his shoulders and sinking her hands in his hair at the back of his head. Still distracted, he put his hands on her hips and stared into her exotic dark eyes. God, she fascinated him.

  Her brow furrowed. “What’s all this deep thought about all of a sudden?”

  “Deep thought?”

  “Right now. You seem distracted.”

  He nodded toward the kitchen. “Do you realize how domestic we were just being?”

  “Domestic?”

  “Doing dishes, feeding the dog, talking about our day.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “Does that freak you out?” He didn’t sense any judgment in her tone, just curiosity.

  He pulled her closer, studying her face. How could you know someone for so many years and still find so much fascinating about her? Everyday he spent with her, every night he lay down beside her, he found something new that intrigued him – simple things – her sigh when she relaxed into the bed, the way her shoulder curved down to her collarbone
, the slope of her hip, the way she said certain words, the tilt of her head, the lilt of her laugh…the smell of her shampoo.

  “No, sweetheart, it doesn’t freak me out. It makes me feel safe. It makes me feel like I’m home.”

  She pulled him toward her, sliding her face along his until her mouth was near his ear. “You know when you’re sexiest, D’Angelo?” she whispered.

  He breathed in the smell of her shampoo, closed his eyes against the pleasure of her warmth, the feel of her skin beneath his hands. “When?”

  “When you talk like that,” she said, then slid out of his hold, tugging on his hand. “Let’s go to bed, D’Angelo,” she said in a sultry purr and Marco scrambled for his crutches.

  CHAPTER 11

  Rosa settled her cup of coffee on her desk and glanced up as Darren entered her office. She’d just been about to take a seat, but she stopped and gave him a smile. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Sarge,” he answered, carrying a square Express Shipping box in his hands, the iconic red, white, and blue colors instantly identifying the company. “You got a package.”

  “A package? Where’s it from?”

  He set the box in the middle of her desk. “Miami?”

  “What?”

  He shrugged.

  “What happened with the warrant on the rental car company at SFO?”

  “The judge is dragging his heels, says he doesn’t think we have enough to force the company to give up their client information yet. If we could prove that the bearded guy threatened Celeste Miller, maybe, but since we can’t, it’s not looking good.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this yesterday?”

  Darren shifted weight. Since she ran the entire office, he tried to take some of the small things off her plate. She knew that about him and usually she appreciated it, but this was too important to her. “I was trying to get something more on the guy. I called the manager at the Nob Hill Motor Inn to see if he remembered seeing the guy hanging around the parking lot. He didn’t, but he was gonna ask some of the people staying there. I was hoping maybe someone talked to the bearded guy, or he confronted somebody, anything threatening that would give the judge enough probable cause to issue a warrant.”