Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  She tore more bread, but he stopped her hand. “You were supposed to eat that, not shred it like a government secret document.”

  She sighed and pushed the plate away from herself. “Maybe we went too fast. We went from partners to lovers to moving in and finally to getting married. Maybe we should have taken it slower?”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “Maybe that’s why you ran away?”

  He considered that a moment. “I don’t know. I want to say that’s it, but I still feel the jealousy whenever another man is around. I’m not going to lie. Apart or together, I hate when other men look at you, talk to you.”

  “Did you feel that yesterday at the precinct?”

  “No, but that’s different. I sure as hell felt it with that Mike clown.”

  She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “Don’t you trust me?”

  He released his breath, tilting back his head and closing his eyes. “That’s not it, Peyton.”

  “It feels like that’s it. What else can it be?”

  He looked her directly in the eye. “I don’t think you’re a good judge of character.”

  Peyton leaned back. “Wow. That only insults my intelligence a little.”

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all. See, you’re getting angry and you’re pushing me away, and that makes me want to run.”

  “You want to run right now? We’re just having a conversation.”

  “No, right now I want a drink.”

  “So I cause you to drink?”

  He closed his eyes again, bowing his head.

  She played the last few minutes of the conversation over in her head. “It shouldn’t be this hard, Marco. I love you.”

  He looked up at her. “I know. I love you too. I love you more than my next breath, but you’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard.”

  “So what the hell do we do?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He turned and looked at the clock on her stove. “We’ve got to get to the airport though.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Look, sweetheart, we’re not going to work this out in the fifteen minutes before you catch a plane. We need weeks, months, maybe years, but you are the woman...the only woman I want to work this hard for. Do you understand me?”

  Tears filled her eyes and she tightened her grip on his hand. “Yes.”

  “So go to London, solve this case and come home. I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, Peyton, for as long as you want me.”

  She stood on the rungs of the barstool and kissed him. “I want you forever,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He deepened the kiss, then released her. “Come on, Brooks, the Charger’s fast, but it’s not the Batmobile.”

  Grabbing her suitcase, he carried it to the door, while she raced around, making sure she had everything. Scooping up Pickles, she hugged the little dog and kissed him a thousand times, then settled him on the couch and followed Marco out the door.

  Night still blanketed the City and fog meandered through the streets, painting a misty blush on the plants and cars parked in driveways. Marco put the suitcase in the trunk of the Charger and pressed the button to unlock the doors. She climbed into the passenger seat and shivered in the pre-dawn chill. Marco climbed behind the driver’s side, dragging his leg into the car, then he tossed the cane into the back on top of her jacket. The roar of the engine in the quiet neighborhood made Peyton wince.

  He put the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, turning into the street. Once he was headed for the airport, Peyton laid her head on his shoulder and curled her arms around his. She needed the physical contact with him for just a few more minutes. He kissed her forehead and turned up the heater.

  “So, let’s talk religion,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  “Should Wiccanism be recognized as a religion?”

  “Wiccanism?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why not? It’s just a bunch of half-naked women running around in a forest, right?”

  “It’s probably a little more than that, but naked women are good with me.”

  Peyton punched him in the shoulder. “I said half-naked.”

  “Oh, how did I get that confused?”

  Peyton laughed, hugging his arm tighter. “Tank could tell you all about Wiccanism. I met a couple of witches on the zombie case. They were very interesting. Apparently it’s all about nature and respecting the earth, peaceful and sort of life affirming. I say people should be able to have whatever religion they choose, as long as it means something to them.”

  “Really? What about Satanism?”

  “Well, that’s a little different. I have a problem with the blood sacrifices and the pentagrams. Besides, black robes are so last season.”

  He laughed. “You’ve got a point.”

  Peyton closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body next to hers. Before she knew it, they were pulling into the airport parking lot and Marco was setting the Charger’s brake.

  He kissed the top of her head again. “Come on, sweetheart, we’re here.”

  She straightened in her seat and stretched as he got out and went around the back for her suitcase.

  Reaching over the seat, she grabbed his cane and her jacket, then climbed out, meeting him behind the car. She handed him the cane and they walked to the tram that would transport them to the terminal.

  The five minute ride in the tram was made in silence. The knowledge that she was leaving him for an undetermined amount of time weighed heavily on her. They needed time without distractions to work through their differences, but both of their jobs drew them away.

  Arriving at the terminal, Peyton found her team already assembled. Just the three of them waiting for her. She wondered if Mrs. Radar had come to see him off or if the Professor had been here. Marco set her suitcase on the floor and turned her to face him, glancing over her shoulder at the others.

  “I guess I’ll say goodbye here.”

  She felt tears in her eyes again and fought them off. “Yeah.”

  He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Call me when you land.”

  She nodded.

  “I love you, Peyton,” he said, staring her right in the eyes.

  Curling her hand over his, she pulled it away and moved into his arms, burying her face against his chest. “I love you, Marco.”

  He held her tight for a long moment, then he eased her back, placing his hand under her chin and tilting her face up to him. He gave her a kiss. It wasn’t passionate or lustful. This was a sweet kiss, a longing kiss, filling her with the memory of only him.

  He broke the kiss and took a step back. “Be careful, Brooks,” he said.

  She nodded and reached down for her suitcase. Before she could lift it, Tank was there, taking it from her hand. He held out his free hand for Marco.

  “Tank Campbell.”

  Marco shook it. “Marco D’Angelo.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Same here.”

  Bambi came forward, offering Marco her hand too. With her other arm, she wrapped it around Peyton’s shoulders. “Emma Redford, and you’re gorgeous.”

  Marco gave a laugh and took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma.” His eyes shifted to Peyton. “Take care of my girl, please.”

  Bambi tightened her hold. “Always.”

  Marco gave her a smile and a nod, then Bambi turned Peyton away, moving her toward Radar. Tank followed them.

  Peyton looked over her shoulder at Marco. He held up a hand and gave her a wistful smile, then his gaze shifted to Radar.

  Radar offered a chin nod and Marco returned it, then he turned and limped his way out of the airport, leaving Peyton behind.

  * * *

  Marco walked into the precinct. He wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He had no work and there weren’t any cases that needed his attention, but he didn’t feel like going to Abe’s apartment and answering questions about
his night with Peyton and he didn’t feel like going back to Peyton’s house to get Pickles yet. He was too raw from their conversation this morning.

  He felt like she might be giving up on him. Her comment that it shouldn’t be this hard scared him more than he wanted to admit. No matter what happened, he hadn’t really considered that she might be ready to move on without him, but it made sense. Why the hell would a woman like Peyton wait around forever? If he wasn’t able to commit and he had no doubt she was beginning to think that, then she might as well find someone else who wasn’t afraid.

  The precinct was quiet. Of course, a couple of the uniforms should be on duty, but they could be out on patrol or down in the cells talking with the other cops. He wandered toward the break room after coffee, surprised to find Jake sitting at the table, reading from his tablet.

  “Hey.”

  Jake looked up. “Hey, Adonis. Why are you here?”

  “I could ask you the same.” He walked to the counter and poured himself a cup. Turning he leaned against it. “Why are you here?”

  “It’s the Snob Hill case.”

  “The one where we’re supposed to verify the break-in?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought we were just putting a rubber stamp on things.”

  “That’s what Central wants us to do.”

  “But something’s bothering you?”

  Jake turned the tablet around to face Marco. “These are the photos from the crime scene. I went over that place from crystal chandelier to Persian rug and I couldn’t find a point of entry for the perp.”

  Marco frowned, limping over to the table and studying the pictures. “No jimmied windows, no broken locks, no punched deadbolts on doors.”

  “No. No access through the chimney or the basement or the attic. There’s just no way that I found for the guy to get into the house.”

  “What did Cho and Simons say?”

  “They said it happens sometimes, but they did say they’d feel better if there was some sign of entry.”

  “Who’s the dead guy?”

  “No ID. We took fingerprints, but nothing pops in our system. Abe’s scheduled to do the autopsy on Monday.”

  “Cho and Simons didn’t report to me about this.”

  “They’re waiting on the autopsy, but Central wants us to shut it down.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess they don’t want to tarnish the good name of Brad Peterson.”

  Marco’s eyes snapped to Jake’s face. “Who?”

  “Brad Peterson. You know, the quarterback for the Buffalo Bills? I think he retired a few years ago.”

  “This is his house?” Marco tapped the pictures.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Is Brad the one who shot the intruder?”

  “Yeah, but his wife was the one who called it in. When we got there, Peterson was three sheets to the wind. Said he couldn’t handle what he’d been forced to do.”

  Marco stared at the pictures for a long time. “What do you need to make you feel okay with signing this off?”

  “I need to find the point of entry.”

  “So you need to go back out to the crime scene?”

  “Yeah, probably.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “Why?” Jake cocked his head. “You some kind of Peterson fan or something? I don’t think he’ll be there. He owns another house in Woodside and they were talking about going there while I worked the house on Nob Hill.”

  “Well, I guess walking through his mansion will have to be enough.”

  Jake gave him a skeptical look. “Fan worship, Adonis? That doesn’t seem like you.”

  Marco headed for the door. “You don’t know everything about me, Ryder. Now, come on.”

  Jake grabbed his tablet and jumped to his feet. “I call shotgun.”

  “Of course you do,” grumbled Marco without turning around.

  * * *

  The plane from San Francisco to New York was a small 737. Peyton followed Radar down the narrow aisle trying to find the seat printed on her boarding pass. She didn’t mind air travel, not that she’d done a lot of it, but this plane felt awfully tight and full.

  “Why are we flying coach?” she whispered to Radar.

  “Because we work for the government. Be glad they’re not making us take a boat.”

  “Why would we take a boat? That would take forever.”

  Radar glared over his shoulder at her. “It was meant to be a joke.”

  “Not a funny one.”

  “Let it go, Sparky. You’ve got an aisle seat, be grateful for small favors.” He found his seat, stuck his carry-on in the overhead compartment, and slumped into the chair. Peyton looked down at him.

  “We’re not sitting together?” She glanced back toward the front of the plane and saw Tank and Bambi on different sides of the plane, both with aisle seats.

  “Margaret couldn’t get us seats together on such short notice. Go sit down and stop whining.”

  Peyton moved back two rows and found her seat, except a man in his early thirties was occupying the aisle and when she stopped beside him, he glared at her. She tucked her carry-on into the overhead compartment, hoping he might get the hint and move, but he didn’t.

  “Um, that’s my seat,” she told him.

  “So?”

  “Well, uh, I need to sit there.”

  He held up his ticket. “I got A.”

  Peyton sighed. If he didn’t know the alphabet at least up to C, they were in trouble. “Right. A is the window, C is the aisle. It says it right on the edge of the armrest.”

  He leaned over and looked, then glared back at her. “I like this one.”

  Peyton didn’t want to argue, not over a plane seat. “Fine, I’ll take the window.”

  “Great.”

  He stood up, but he didn’t move into the aisle. She was forced to brush her entire body against his as she tried to get to her spot. Just as she reached the middle seat, she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

  A man filled the aisle. He didn’t top five seven, but for all his lack of height, he made up for it in girth. “This is my row and I’m seat B.” He gave the middle seat a skeptical look, tilting his head. “But I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

  Angry guy started shaking his head at Peyton. “Get out. I want the window!”

  Peyton opened her mouth to protest, then studied the man in the aisle again. “Fine.”

  She climbed over angry guy and waited while he threw himself into the window, turning his back on the both of them. Peyton sank into the middle seat, pulling down the armrest, but aisle guy shook his head.

  “That’s gonna have to come up.”

  Peyton’s mouth opened in disbelief, but with a resigned sigh, she lifted the armrest. Aisle guy forced himself into the tight space, oozing over into her seat. She started to move toward angry guy, but he shot her a venomous look. Hugging her arms against her sides, she tried not to make contact with either of them.

  Breathing through her nose, she fought the rise of panic being packed between two men caused. It was probably a good thing they’d made her check her gun with her luggage because this flight was going to play hell with her PTSD.

  As soon as everyone settled, the flight attendant, a middle aged woman with a 1950’s hairdo, told them to fasten their seatbelts. Of course, that meant that aisle guy had to wriggle around and shove his hand between their seats, trying to attach his belt. Peyton bowed her head and hugged as close to angry guy as she could without touching him.

  Finally they were taxiing down the runway, lifting into the air. Peyton clenched her teeth, digging her nails into her sides until they leveled off. The minute the seatbelt light went off, aisle guy ordered a beer and a bag of potato chips.

  Peyton glanced at him in surprise, but she didn’t say anything. Angry guy leaned forward and gave him a disbelieving glare.

  “Do you want anything?” the flight attendant asked Peyton.r />
  Except for a shredded piece of toast and some coffee, she hadn’t eaten anything, but eating something would make her thirsty and she’d want something to drink, but drinking anything would make her need to use the bathroom and there was no way she was asking aisle guy to get up.

  “No,” she said.

  “What about you?” the flight attendant asked angry guy.

  “I want you to leave me alone!” he snarled and turned to the window again.

  Peyton shrugged for the flight attendant and faced straight ahead. She tried to watch a movie, but turbulence made her feel nauseous, so she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but every time she drifted toward dreams, she jerked awake again, feeling panic edge up inside of her.

  Tilting her head back against the rest, she tried to practice the meditation techniques Dr. Ferguson had taught her. She was just beginning to relax when the flight attendant was back, asking if they wanted anything else.

  Aisle guy ordered another beer and potato chips. Peyton felt her composure shatter as he crunched vigorously and slurped at his drink. Suddenly angry guy spun around in his seat, leaning forward so he could look at aisle guy.

  “Jesus H. Christ, no wonder you’re big as a damn house. Do you ever stop eating!”

  “Hey!” said aisle guy, “I’ve got low blood sugar.”

  “The hell you do. You’ve been stuffing your face since the damn plane left the runway! I can’t stand listening to you, lard ass!”

  “Hold on a minute,” began Peyton, holding up her hand.

  “Don’t start, missy!” he growled at her. “And don’t put your hand in my face!”

  “Just a damn minute!” Peyton began.

  “Who you calling a lard ass, you bastard!” shouted aisle guy, trying to shift in the seat and shoving Peyton toward angry guy. “I can eat whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want! This is America, you sonuvabitch, so go back to wherever you came from!”

  “That’s just like all you lard asses! You think you own the freakin’ universe just because you’re too damn fat to live!”

  Peyton ducked her head and closed her eyes, certain they were going to throw punches next.