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

by M. L. Hamilton

  “I did. I understand he was quite talented at it.”

  “He was,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Mavis put a hand on her shoulder. “How about I get you a burger, Mama?” she said to stop the conversation. Marco looked up at her and could see the toll the last few days had taken on her.

  “I’d rather have a hotdog,” she said.

  “I’ll get it for you, ma’am,” said Bartlet. “Would you like something?” he asked Mavis.

  “No, I’m good. I’ll get something later.”

  “Captain, you want anything?”

  Marco shook his head.

  Bartlet nudged Danté. “Come on.”

  “I’ll stay here,” said Danté, shooting a look at Mavis. “But bring me back a soda, okay?’

  “Sure enough.”

  A young couple approached Danté at the table. The boy, around sixteen or seventeen, had close cropped black hair with a zig-zagging line cut into it by a razor and dark skin. He wore low slung jeans and a t-shirt of some rapper Marco didn’t know and he had on immaculate white sneakers. The girl was lighter-skinned with large dark eyes, her hair in natural curls to the middle of her back. Something about her reminded him of a younger Peyton. Taking a closer look at her, Marco realized she had eyes like Peyton – dark, heavily lashed, exotic.

  The boy fist bumped Danté, then he shot a look at Jamaad’s picture, one arm thrown over the girl’s shoulders. The girl crossed her arms and cocked a hip, staring up at the canopy of the shade cover.

  “I went to school with Jamaad,” the boy said.

  Mavis perked up, her eyes whipping to the boy’s face.

  Danté shot a look at Marco. Marco nodded for him to talk to the boy.

  “What’s your name?” asked Danté

  “She-et, don’t tell no cops your name,” said the girl, looking over her shoulder dismissively.

  “Dwane,” said the boy, ignoring her.

  “I’m Danté.”

  “How long you been a cop?”

  “This is my first year. Actually, this is my first case.”

  Dwane nodded. “Jamaad was…” He shot a look at Mavis, who’d moved closer to the table. “He was cool, man. He helped me out in our health class.”

  “Were you friends?” asked Mavis. “Did you hang out together?”

  Dwane looked like he might bolt and the girl gave Mavis a cold look. “Naw, we didn’t hang together, but we had the class together, you know?” He studied the picture. “Sucks, you know, what happened.” He looked up at Danté.

  “Yeah, it does.” Danté motioned to Mavis and Maeve. “This is his mother and grandmother. His father and little brother are out there talking to people.” He extended his motion to include the entire park. “We’re all here trying to get information about Jamaad’s death.”

  Marco kept silent, watching the boy and girl, watching Danté handle them.

  “Do you know who Jamaad hung out with at school?”

  “I know a couple a guys, but they ain’t got nothing to do with this.”

  The girl pulled out from under his arm and gave him a furious look. “What you doing talkin’ to no cops for?”

  “Cool it, Cashea. That’s Jamaad’s mama.”

  “I don’t care if it’s Oprah Winfrey. You don’t need to be givin’ them nothin’.” She gave Danté an arch look. “They’s still cops. They don’t care. It’s all publicity.”

  “I care!” said Mavis sharply. “I planned a funeral for my son this week.” She turned to the boy. “If you know anything at all, son, please tell us.”

  “He don’t know nothing!” said Cashea, leaning forward and enunciating her words.

  Dwane pulled her back. “Don’t go talkin’ for me.”

  She shook off his hold. “Fine. Get your fool head blowed off. See if I give a shit.” And she walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

  An awkward silence fell as Dwane looked down, kicking the asphalt with the toe of his sneakers. Finally, he looked up at Mavis. “I’m sorry, ma’am. She just gets bent around cops.” He looked back at Danté. “I hope you figure out who killed Jamaad.”

  Danté picked up a brochure with their anonymous tip line on it. “If you or someone you know has information, they can call this line. It’s anonymous, so no one will know who you are.”

  “You got a card or something. I mean, not this anonymous thing. Your card.”

  Danté glanced at Marco. Marco reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a card, handing it to the young cop. Danté passed it to Dwane. Dwane looked at it.

  “Cool dog,” he said, pointing with the card at the picture of Jamaad and the pitbull again. He shifted weight.

  “Jamaad wanted to train dogs for a living. He wanted to teach people how to handle them. That was his life goal,” said Mavis.

  Dwane looked at her and nodded. “Yeah, I remember him talkin’ about that. He worked at the shelter or something, right?”

  “Right.”

  The kid rubbed the back of his neck. “Sucks, man. You just walkin’ home and tha’s it. It’s not right, you know?”

  Mavis’ eyes filled with tears. Maeve took her hand. “No, it’s not right.”

  Bartlet returned with three hotdogs on paper plates and Danté’s soda under his arm. He hesitated, sensing the mood. The kid stared at him a moment, then he motioned to the scar on Bartlet’s throat where the Janitor had shot him.

  “Dude, what’s that?”

  Bartlet handed Maeve one of the hotdogs, then set the others on the table. He handed the soda to Danté. “Got shot.” He motioned to Marco’s leg. “Captain too.”

  “Damn,” said the kid, looking horrified. “How you survive that?”

  “Almost didn’t,” said Bartlet.

  “Damn,” the kid said again. “Respect, dude. Respect.”

  Bartlet gave him a shy nod.

  “Anything you remember, anything you can tell us about Jamaad might help,” said Danté. “It takes all of us to make the neighborhoods safer.”

  “Well said,” came a voice.

  Marco shifted and looked over his shoulder. Harlan Osborn and an entourage of supporters had come up behind them. He came to the table and shook hands with Mavis and Maeve as Marco struggled to his feet. He noticed a number of cameras among the group and in the back was Harper McLeod, her notebook open.

  “Captain D’Angelo!” said Osborn, grasping his hand with both of his own. “This is a wonderful turnout for our first neighborhood event. I’m impressed.”

  “Mayor Osborn, I didn’t expect you here.”

  “I wanted to come show my support.” He pulled a man up beside him. Like Osborn, the man was tall and lean. He had salt and pepper hair and a strong, square jaw. “I want to introduce you to my son, Paul.”

  Marco shook hands with the man. “Pleasure to meet you.”

  “Same to you. I’ve heard a lot about you from my father. He’s very impressed with your career, Captain.”

  “Thank you.”

  Osborn’s eyes went to Danté and Bartlet, both wearing their uniforms. “So good to see some of our handsome young men in blue at this event.” He looked down at the two hotdogs Bartlet had set on the table. “I’m just going to have to get me one of those.” He nudged Paul. “Just don’t tell your mother.”

  His entourage chuckled obligatorily and Paul smiled.

  Marco put a hand on Mavis’ back. “This is Jamaad Jones’ mother, Mavis, and his grandmother, Maeve.” Maeve didn’t bother to get out of her chair – just lifted a hand in greeting and went back to eating her hotdog. Mavis, however, accepted his hand.

  “I appreciate you taking crime in our neighborhood seriously, Mayor,” she said.

  Osborn patted her hand with both of his own and gave her a sad look. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Every death in our city diminishes all of us. I’m glad I can be but a small part to put things to rights.”

  Marco caught Harper’s roll of her eyes, then she sh
oved her way forward through the crowd. “Mayor Osborn, I have a question. Just how much money have you set aside for this neighborhood outreach program of yours, and is Captain D’Angelo your man to spearhead it?”

  “Captain D’Angelo is my director at this point. We are discussing the organizational structure. We just had lunch the other day,” he said, his smile poised, but just a little tense.

  “How much money have you set aside for this program, Mayor? I’m sure the community would like to know.” She glanced around the park. “While it’s nice to give people hamburgers and hotdogs, that doesn’t really get to the heart of the issue. People are dying in our neighborhoods. Kids can’t walk to school without being shot. We need more cops, more police presence, not…” She cast a disparaging look at the stickers on their table. “Stickers.”

  Osborn opened his mouth to speak, but Marco touched his arm. “Let me, Mayor,” he said, then he focused on Harper. “Ms. McLeod, you’re right. We need more cops, more police presence, but we also need things like this. We need to establish relationships with the citizens in the City, we need to make connections in the neighborhoods where kids are dying, so people know it’s okay to come to us for help. More police presence means nothing if people aren’t comfortable coming forward and asking us for help, giving us information about what they’ve seen. We have to be seen as members of the community – all of us working together to make San Francisco a safer place to raise our families, all of us working together to stop violence, to make our streets safe for kids to walk to and from schools. We aren’t a military state, we’re a community and we have to know that all of us have a vested interest in that community. If we don’t, we all lose.”

  Mavis smiled at him. “I know your intentions are good, Ms. McLeod, and I appreciate you taking an interest in what’s happening here, but while you see hotdogs and stickers, I see a chance to show my neighbors that my son was a valuable human being, that he deserved a life, that he had dreams and hopes and aspirations. I see a chance to make people understand that when they stay silent, the violence wins, the perpetrators win. I know we have problems, but if we don’t join forces with the police instead of fight against them, we won’t find any solutions. What I see here is a chance for us to have conversations, to air our differences, and for me personally, I see a chance to make Captain D’Angelo and his officers know who my boy was and that he mattered. That’s all I got left.”

  Harper looked down.

  Osborn put an arm around Mavis’ shoulder. “And that is the reason I suggested this task force. I’m so proud to be part of the solution, not part of the problem.” He reached over and patted Marco’s shoulder. “Carry on, Captain D’Angelo.” He released Mavis and turned toward the barbecue. “Now, Paul, let’s get me a hotdog.”

  Harper glanced up at Marco as the mayor and his entourage moved away.

  “Why didn’t you warn me he was coming out here?” Marco asked her.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about your meeting with him? If we’re gonna have a quid pro quo, Captain, you gotta throw me a bone too.”

  Marco glanced over his shoulder and marked that Dwane had disappeared when the mayor approached. “He left?”

  Danté nodded, giving Harper an accusatory glare. “Yeah, I think that circus spooked him.”

  “Hey, don’t blame me. I didn’t bring the Mayor here, Mr. Spock.”

  “Mr. Spock?” sputtered Bartlet, nudging Danté with his shoulder. “She called you Mr. Spock.”

  “I heard her,” he said, offering a polite closed-mouth smile to his partner.

  A couple of people approached the table. Mavis moved to greet them, so Marco took the opportunity to crutch away from the table, motioning Harper to follow him. She stepped back a few paces and then started digging in her purse.

  “How did you know Osborn was coming out here?” he demanded.

  She continued digging in her purse. “He has an intern working for him who has the hots for me. He gives me the scoop. Why didn’t you tell me about your meeting with him?”

  “We just talked about the neighborhood task force, that’s all. I didn’t think it was important to you.”

  “You didn’t ask him about Lowell Murphy?”

  “We talked about him a bit. He got nervous and took his food to go, then he beat a hasty retreat.”

  She glanced up from the interior of her purse. “What did you ask him? Did you ask him if he killed him?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “Then what spooked him?”

  “The mention of Murphy’s name. You know this doesn’t go beyond us, right? This is off the record.”

  She waved that away. “Sure. Hey, you got gum? I just…”

  “Quit smoking, I know. No, I don’t.”

  “Hey, Mr. Spock, you got gum?” she called to Danté.

  He exhaled in exasperation, but Bartlet handed him a pack and he walked over, offering it to her. She took a piece and handed the pack back, unwrapping it and popping it in her mouth, then she handed the wrapper to him. “Be a boy scout and throw this away for me.”

  Danté clenched his jaw, but he took the wrapper. “You’re welcome,” he said in aggravation.

  “Right. Thank you.” She looked back at Marco as Danté went back to the table. “He’s cute, but man, is he square.”

  “Square?”

  “Uptight. Boy needs to get him some.”

  Marco fought his amusement. “Do you have any news about the Russian graffiti?”

  “I did some snooping into Victor Maziar. Three of his past clients have had unfortunate ends.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One died of a heart attack at a Giants’ game. Grabbed his chest and keeled over, damn near fell on the Dugout and took out Lou Seal.”

  Marco shrugged. “Why’s that suspicious?”

  “Victor Maziar was sitting right next to him.” She smacked her gum. “The next drove his car into the guardrail on the Golden Gate, caused a ten car pile-up.”

  “Victor Maziar was in the car?”

  “No, but they’d had lunch just prior to him heading back to Marin.”

  “And the third?”

  “His car exploded on him. Boom!” She made exploding motions with her hands, drawing a look from everyone at the table. “ATF said it was a faulty gas tank, but the night before, three people said he had dinner with Maziar at L’Ardoise and they got into a heated argument.”

  Marco frowned. It did seem suspicious. Three people dying around the same man. His mind went to Brad Peterson, whose truck had exploded in his driveway, but then he’d run afoul of the Russian mob over a gambling debt. “I need the names of the three men who died.”

  Harper smacked her gum. “What do I get in return?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want the name of the guy who shot Jamaad Jones before any other reporter.”

  “Why does this case interest you so much?”

  She transferred her gum to the other side of her mouth. “I have a sixteen year old brother.” She looked at Mavis. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost him. Besides, I like dogs and he wanted to do something to help dogs, so…”

  Marco sighed. It was as good a reason as any other. “Fine. We have a deal,” he said.

  * * *

  The Cow Palace had originally been built to house a livestock exhibition, but over the years, it had become an event location as well. In fact, during the late sixties and seventies, it hosted the Golden State Warriors as their primary stadium. Hockey, roller derby, rodeos and even the Republican National Convention of 1956 had been held within its rounded steel form. Of course, when Marco had been a teenager, he’d attended rock concerts with his brothers in this location. That was the only history he knew until Jake and Stan made him aware of the rest of it on their drive to the WOS convention.

  The Charger was filled with people. Abe rode shotgun because his long legs wouldn’t fit in the back with so many people in the car. Jake, Stan, and Dougl
as rode in the back seat, stuffed in so tight Jake complained he couldn’t breathe. Marco was hoping he’d eventually pass out, so he didn’t have to hear anymore whining, but Jake managed to get enough oxygen for that. He always managed to have enough oxygen for that.

  To complicate matters, the three wizards, Abe, Stan and Douglas, had staffs which didn’t really fit in the Charger. In fact, the three staffs were bisecting the entire car from front to back, lying on Marco’s dashboard and ending against the rear window, resting along Stan’s shoulder.

  Marco had suggested taking two cars, but Douglas had informed him they all intended to drink mead, so they needed a designated driver. Abe had clapped in delight at the mention of mead, but Marco suspected he was apt to be disappointed. He was fairly sure mead might actually be Bud out of tin cans.

  And then there were the costumes. Abe wore the sparkly royal blue robe with stars and half-moons on it. He also had a wizard’s hat, which he insisted on wearing, and the ends of his dreads had sparkly silver beads. Douglas wore a black robe with yellow lightning bolts all over it and Stan had on a pale blue robe with silver clouds embroidered on it. Jake wore a leather vest, no undershirt, his pale white arms glowing, and tight leather pants. He had his sword strapped around his waist and he kept complaining that it was poking him in the thigh, but when Marco had suggested putting the sword in the trunk, he’d protested.

  After much prodding by Abe, Marco had agreed to wear the forest green rough cotton shirt which was open damn near to the middle of his chest, the laces conveniently missing to tie it up, and he even let Abe put some eyeliner on his eyes – that was in exchange for not wearing the damn white wig that went nearly to his ass. Because the eyeliner wasn’t enough of a compromise, they’d forced him to wear brown suede boots that came up to his knees. Of course, they were tight and too small and the left one had to go under his brace, which ruined the whole fantasy, Abe declared, but in the end, he’d gotten away with a lot less nonsense than he’d feared.

  He was surprised at how many people were in the parking lot as he pulled up to the kiosk where a kid dressed in battle armor asked him for $40 for parking. Marco paid it, grumbling under his breath, and they parked the car. As he eyed the long walk to the Cow Palace, he wondered if they’d agree to let him just sit in the car for the night, but watching them strap on their various weapons and other paraphernalia, he figured he’d gotten his way for the last time. Stan and Douglas almost vibrated with excitement and Jake kept saying, “This is so much fun. Why haven’t I done this before?”