“The NRA.”
“Deep pockets, yes?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“How did Mr. Morris take the news of his son’s death?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
“Did he mention anything about it when he pointed his gun at you?”
Jake swallowed and glanced at Morris again. “He said he didn’t want to live without him.”
“He didn’t want to live. Those are some pretty strong emotions, wouldn’t you say?”
“I guess.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Objection!”
“If we can speculate about whether Mr. Morris intended to shoot Mr. Ryder, we can speculate about whether Mr. Ryder believed what he said, Your Honor?”
“I’ll allow it.”
“Mr. Ryder, did you believe Mr. Morris was distraught?”
“Yes.”
“So devastated by his son’s death that he wanted to die?”
“I guess.”
“Do you believe he was afraid Mr. Cook would get off? That the jury might believe Mr. Cook acted in self-defense?
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Didn’t Mr. Morris tell you he was afraid Cook was going to get off? Didn’t you just testify that he said that?”
“Yes.”
Renshaw faced Jake, pointing over his shoulder at Morris. “Does that sound like a rational man to you, Mr. Ryder, a man who’s thinking clearly and understands what he’s doing?”
“Objection, Your Honor!” said Devan, leaping to his feet.
“Withdrawn,” said Renshaw. Turning on his heel, he gave Devan a cool smirk. “No more questions.”
“Redirect, Mr. Adams?” asked Easton.
“No, Your Honor,” said Devan, slumping in his chair.
“You may step down, Mr. Ryder.”
Jake climbed off the witness stand and crossed the courtroom, slipping back into his seat. He sat staring at his shoes, his expression troubled. Marco glanced at him, but he didn’t know what to say.
“Any other witnesses, Mr. Adams?”
“No, Your Honor, but I would like the option of calling a witness after the defense presents his case.”
“Agreed. Mr. Renshaw?”
“I’d like to call Dr. Swartz to the stand. He’s waiting in the hallway.”
Easton motioned to the bailiff to fetch the witness.
Jake shot a look at Marco. “I blew it.”
“No,” said Marco, shaking his head.
A tall, thin man was brought into the courtroom and sworn in. Renshaw rose to his feet. “State your name for the record, please.”
“Dr. Robert Swartz.”
“And your occupation?”
“I am a doctor of psychiatry with the University of California, San Francisco Psychiatric Department.”
“How long have you been practicing, Dr. Swartz?”
“17 years.”
“Did you have the opportunity to examine Ryan Morris after his arrest?”
“I did.”
“And what was your diagnosis?”
“Acute post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Can you explain your findings?”
Dr. Swartz began a detailed explanation of Ryan Morris’ condition, concluding that he in no way could comprehend what he was doing when he chose to bring a gun into the precinct and place it against Jake’s head. As the testimony went on and on, Jake sank deeper into the chair. A couple of times, Devan glanced back at Marco, shaking his head, but the doctor continued to bombard them with psychobabble and thousand dollar words.
Every objection Devan made was met with skillful dissembling on Renshaw’s part and during the cross examination, Swartz turned aside any attempts Devan made to discredit him. In the end, the damage was done, and Swartz made a very convincing argument for Morris’ insanity plea. After he was released from the witness stand, Devan sat and stared at his folder, tapping the end of his pen against it.
“Mr. Adams, do you have anything further?” asked Easton.
Devan shifted in his chair and looked back at Marco. Marco met the look. He knew Devan didn’t think he was capable of coherent testimony. He’d always picked Peyton in the past. Rather than being insulted, he honestly didn’t care, except this time was personal. Morris had held a gun to Jake’s head. That couldn’t go unanswered.
With a slow nod, Marco indicated he was ready.
Devan turned around again. “I’d like to call Captain Marco D’Angelo to the stand.”
Marco rose, reaching for his cane, and limped to the witness stand, raising his hand to be sworn in.
“State your name for the record,” said Devan.
“Captain Marco D’Angelo.”
“Are you familiar with the defendant?”
“I am.”
“In what way?”
“Mr. Morris was the father of Gavin Morris, the young man shot by William Cook.”
“Did you have contact with Mr. Morris before May 12th?”
“I did.”
“Can you tell us about that experience?”
“Mr. Morris stopped me in the parking lot of the precinct about three days before the 12th.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that he’d heard the NRA was paying for Cook’s attorney and he felt that his son was becoming a political tool.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“I think he just wanted to know that we were going to continue working the case.”
“What happened on the 12th?”
“I saw Mr. Morris on the news after Cook was released on bail. I’d called him to reassure him that we were doing everything in our power to get a conviction.”
“Did you get ahold of him?”
“He called me. We agreed to meet at the precinct.”
“But when you got there?”
“He had a gun pointed at my CSI’s head.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He said Cook was out of jail, sitting at home, while his son was rotting in a grave.”
“And?”
Marco shifted weight, looking at Morris. “He said the NRA wanted guns and violence. He was willing to give it to them. He said that if he could walk into a police station and shoot it up, it would make them see what they’ve done.”
“Did he seem rational to you?”
“Objection!” shouted Renshaw.
“Sustained. Stick to the facts, Mr. Adams,” said Easton.
“Did Mr. Morris say anything to you that made you think he knew what he was doing?”
“He said he had to make a stand. He’d weighed the benefits and the consequences and determined shooting Jake Ryder was an acceptable loss to further his goals of discrediting the NRA.”
“Objection!” shouted Renshaw, standing.
“Captain D’Angelo is testifying to what he heard Mr. Morris say, Your Honor.”
“Were those his exact words?” demanded Renshaw.
“Your Honor?” said Devan, holding out his hand.
Easton pursed his lips. “Overruled. I can’t remember exactly what I said five minutes ago, but I know the gist of what I meant, Mr. Renshaw. This is an evidentiary hearing, not an actual trial, so I’ll allow it.”
Renshaw slumped in his seat.
“How did you talk him down?”
“I told him how valuable Ryder was to our precinct, how many cases he solved for us, and how many other parents would be denied justice if Ryder died. He listened and then he surrendered his gun.”
Devan smiled at him. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”
“Your witness, Mr. Renshaw.”
Renshaw rose, picking up the pen again. “Does it seem rational to you that a man would think he could defeat the NRA by killing a low-level crime scene investigator, Captain D’Angelo?”
“Objection, Your Honor!”
“I’m asking for his opinion as an expert.”
“Overrul
ed. Answer the question, Captain D’Angelo.”
“He stated that he was trying to prove anyone could be killed at any time, even in a well-armed police precinct. It seemed very rational to me. He’d clearly thought it through.”
“Really? He walked into a heavily armed precinct with trained marksmen just to make a misguided statement on gun violence by killing someone himself? Does that really seem rational to you, Captain? I mean it’s sort of like fighting against drunk driving by having a 0.16 alcohol level and driving your car into a fast food restaurant.”
Marco’s expression grew grim. “The act of premeditating a murder for a political purpose may be unsavory, but it is highly rational, Mr. Renshaw.”
Renshaw gave him a grim smile. “Do you believe he would have killed Mr. Ryder if you hadn’t intervened, Captain?”
“I do.”
“And yet, you think this is the action of a sane man?”
Devan leaned forward, but Marco’s eyes snapped to him and he gave him a small shake of the head. Devan settled back.
“I think,” Marco said, fixing his gaze on Morris, “that the very fact I was able to talk him down makes it clear he was rational.” His eyes swung back to Renshaw. “I was on the receiving end of an irrational man, Mr. Renshaw, a man who killed indiscriminately. I stood in a warehouse and I watched him point a gun at the head of the woman I love and I begged him not to shoot her.” Marco swallowed hard and a shiver raced through him. “I stood in that warehouse, Mr. Renshaw, and I watched him swing the gun toward me and pull the trigger. No warning, no amount of talking would have done a damn bit of good.” He lifted his chin, his fingers tightening on his cane. “That man, Mr. Renshaw, was insane. Ryan Morris, on the other hand, was not!”
Renshaw didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at Marco. Marco stared back at him.
“No further questions, Your Honor,” he said.
“You may step down, Captain D’Angelo.”
Marco rose and limped off the witness stand, going back to his seat.
Judge Easton sat, considering for a few moments, then he looked up at the attorneys. “I am binding this case over for trial. I find there’s sufficient evidence to proceed. Court is adjourned.”
Jake gave a gasp of relief. Morris and Renshaw immediately bowed their heads and began talking.
Devan rose and turned, staring down at Marco. “D’Angelo, I could kiss you!”
“I’ll pass, but thanks.”
“Where have you been all my life!”
Marco smiled and shrugged.
“Come on, let me buy you a drink!” He caught himself and his look grew sheepish. “Sorry, a soda?”
“I’ll take a rain check. I’ve gotta get back to the precinct.”
Jake clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Coffee’s on me for the next month,” he said.
Marco gave him a lift of his chin and pushed himself to his feet. “Coffee’s been on you for the last six months.”
“Yeah, but now I won’t be so pissed off about sharing.”
Marco laughed as they left the courtroom.
* * *
A rush of emotion swamped Peyton as she stepped into the precinct. True, her new job was exciting, but there was something about this place that would always mean the world to her. This precinct had been her life for so long. And so many memories of Marco were associated here.
A buxom blond woman sat at Maria’s old desk. She glanced up from a magazine as Peyton paused on the other side of the counter. “How can I help you?”
Peyton smiled at her. This must be the infamous Carly. “I’m here to see Captain D’Angelo. Is he in?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Will you tell him Peyton’s here to see him?”
“He’s busy.”
Peyton frowned. “What?”
“He’s busy.” She glanced at Marco’s closed office door. “Write your name on that pad and I’ll give it to him.” She went back to looking at her magazine, dismissing Peyton.
“Excuse me. Would you mind calling him on the phone and telling him Peyton’s here?”
“Write your name on the pad,” she said without looking up and flipped another page.
“Is Inspector Cho or Simons here? Inspector Shotwell?”
“The pad please.”
Screw the pad. Peyton went to the half door and pushed it open, stepping through.
Carly’s eyes snapped to her face and she rose quickly to her feet. “You can’t come back here.”
“Look, just get on the intercom and call someone up here. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”
“You need to get back behind the counter now!”
Peyton pushed the button for intercom and picked up the receiver. “Does anyone with half a brain work in this damn precinct anymore?” Her voice echoed back at her.
Carly stared at her with her mouth open, then her eyes shifted beyond her. “She came behind the counter without permission and she won’t go back!” she said.
Peyton turned and found Marco leaning against the doorjamb of his office, smiling in amusement. She took in the fine cut of his charcoal grey suit, the way the linen pulled taut across his shoulders, the deep navy of his tie. Clearly Abe had been picking out clothes for him. He looked delicious.
“That’s Agent Brooks’ style, Carly.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Causing trouble again, sweetheart?”
“It would be a shame if I wasn’t,” she said, then she gave him a sultry look. “I’ve been known to bite too.”
He chuckled, but Carly gasped.
“What’s going on here?” she said.
“Holy crap, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” came Simons’ gruff voice before she was enveloped in a bear hug.
“Hey, there Brooks, you got my fiancée spending money hand over fist,” said Cho, hugging her next.
“Would you look at what the cat dragged in?” said Holmes, pulling her into his embrace.
“Hey ya, Fluffy,” said Tag, punching her in the shoulder.
Peyton gave her a hug and Tag returned it stiffly. Then Peyton opened her arms for Frank Smith. He spun her around.
“How are you, baby girl?” he said, kissing her on the cheek.
“I’m great, Frank.” She reached into her pocket and held out her Prius’ keys to Bartlett. “There’s a box filled with Lucca’s sandwiches in my trunk, Jimmy. Do you want to get them for me?”
“Whoa, now that’s a party!” said Smith. “I’ll buy the sodas.”
“I’ll get the paper plates and utensils,” said Cho, turning and moving toward the break room.
“And I’ll get more chairs for the conference room,” said Simons.
Everyone went off to make arrangements for lunch, but Peyton hesitated, holding out her hand for Marco. “You coming, D’Angelo?”
He gave her a smile. “In a minute. I’ve got something to finish.”
“Sure thing. What about you, Carly? You hungry?”
“You have a sandwich for me?”
“I got one for everyone. You wanna join us?”
“Hell yeah,” she said, bounding toward the conference room.
Peyton smiled at Marco and followed her.
* * *
Marco waited until Peyton was occupied in the conference room with the others, then he walked to the half-door and pushed it open, stepping through. Bartlet was just opening Peyton’s trunk as he limped out of the precinct and made his way down the stairs into the parking lot, heading toward the Prius.
“Would you look at this, Captain?” said Bartlett, giving him a broad smile. The scar on his neck looked raised and jagged in the filtered sunlight. “She got sandwiches for everyone.”
Marco smiled. “Yeah. You want help?”
“Naw, I got it.” He pushed the button to lock the car again.
Marco wanted to go through Peyton’s car, but he needed some reason to be out here. Mike Edwards said he got Peyton’s address from a bill she left in the car. He could never remem
ber her leaving something like that lying around. She was too careful a cop to make such a huge mistake.
“She said there were some napkins on the passenger side.”
“Oh,” said Bartlett, hoisting the box higher. “You need the keys?”
Marco reached for his own key ring. “Nope, I’ve got a set.”
“Okay. See you inside.”
“Yeah, see you inside.” Marco waited until Bartlett had reached the stairs before he pressed the automatic lock and pulled open her passenger door. He knew he didn’t have much time. She’d come looking for him herself if he didn’t hurry.
He sank into the passenger seat and glanced over, watching Bartlett enter the precinct. Looking in the holder on the door, he found it empty. Pulling open the glove compartment, he went through it, but beyond her auto manual, he found nothing of a personal nature. The floor, the back seat, and the center console were devoid of any papers, completely clean. Leaning over, he pulled down her sun visor.
A vinyl organizer held her sunglasses and her FasTrak device for the bridge toll. Reaching behind the device, he pulled out a detachable wallet that held her registration and insurance information. Someone would have to know she kept it there and had to have time to pull it out, memorize the address, and replace it before she got in the car.
There was no way this Mike character had gotten her address from something in her car. Peyton kept it immaculate, all personal information carefully stored away where no one could casually find it – a cop’s car, just the way he’d told her to keep it years before.
“Captain?”
Marco looked over at the precinct.
Bartlett stood on the stairs. “I found the napkins. They were in the box.”
Marco held up a hand. “Got it.” Climbing out of the car, he locked it, worrying over the problem of this Mike character. How had the bastard gotten her address? Something wasn’t right with any part of his story.
He limped back to the precinct and found everyone gathered in the conference room. Peyton had saved him a seat next to her. He sank into it, giving her a smile, but he wished they were alone. Laughter and raucous conversation were the last things he wanted right now.
She looked so damn good with her hair loose around her shoulders, her jeans and leather jacket, the high heeled boots she always wore when they’d worked together. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and forget about lunch, losing himself in the pleasure of her company.
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 10