Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Marco glared at his brothers, but they’d gone back to watching the game, their shoulders shaking with mirth.

  * * *

  “Peyton!”

  Someone shook her shoulder.

  Peyton bolted out of sleep, disoriented for a moment, but the dim light of a bedside lamp illuminated the hotel room with its cheesy scalloped wallpaper, striped furniture, and veneer cabinets in a dark oak stain.

  “Peyton!”

  Peyton blinked. She was sitting up in bed and Bambi was leaning over her. “What’s wrong?”

  “You were crying out in your sleep.”

  Peyton pushed the damp hair off her forehead. “I was? What was I saying?” Looking around the room, she tried to remember where she was. London. In a hotel room she shared with Bambi. Bambi’s unmade bed was directly across from her own.

  She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart pounded furiously. Marco’s jersey was damp against her skin. “I’m sorry. What did I say?”

  “Just no, over and over again, but it was a really scary no.” She took a seat on the bed next to Peyton. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “How often do you get nightmares like that?”

  “A lot. Maybe we should ask for separate rooms.”

  “No, I don’t mind. I hate to think of you waking up by yourself like that.”

  Peyton hated waking up by herself too. When Marco was with her, she slept so much better. He had a way of stopping the nightmares before they completely took her over.

  “Was it the abduction?” Bambi asked, smoothing a hand down Peyton’s arm.

  Peyton shivered, the sweat chilling her, and pulled the sheet up. “You know about that?”

  “We all know about that. We read the reports.”

  So, nothing was private.

  Peyton looked away.

  “Sarge felt it was important we understood exactly what we were getting in a partner. She especially wanted Radar to know, since he’d be training you and all. If Radar hadn’t taken you…” Her voice trailed off and her hand fell away.

  “If Radar hadn’t taken me? What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Emma, what did you mean?”

  “It doesn’t matter now. You’re one of us. You’re the glue in this operation, holding us all together. Without you, we’re nothing. We have the best closed case record in the department now.”

  Peyton pushed herself up on the pillows, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand and taking a sip. “Tell me what you meant, Emma. You said if Radar hadn’t taken me, implying that no one else would have. Was the Ghost Squad my last chance?”

  Bambi started to answer, but nothing came out.

  “Emma!”

  “You need to ask Radar.”

  “Well, I’m asking you. You need to answer me.”

  “The other teams were skeptical.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They feared you might be a loose cannon, but they look pretty damn stupid now, don’t they?”

  “A loose cannon?”

  “You had a reputation for being difficult, mouthy, opinionated. Then everyone worried your PTSD would make you freeze.”

  Peyton looked away, shocked by this information. She thought she was highly respected with the FBI. After all, they’d recruited her.

  “Don’t be mad, Peyton. They were wrong. You’re the best of us.”

  “You don’t have to go that far, Emma.”

  “It’s true.” She pushed a curl behind Peyton’s ear. “You’re our rock, our cement, our asphalt.”

  “Your asphalt?”

  “You hold us together.”

  “Great.”

  “How about twine, string, that white paste stuff we ate in grade school for some reason?”

  Peyton laughed. “Thank you. I needed that.”

  Bambi smiled at her. “I’m glad, but I’m so sorry about the nightmares.”

  “It is what it is.”

  “It sucks ass.”

  Peyton laughed again. “Yes, it does. It sucks ass big time.”

  “It sucks ass, then blows the ass-breath in your face.”

  Peyton held up a hand. “Okay, don’t get carried away.”

  “Too much?”

  “Just a little.”

  “See, how bad we need you?”

  Impulsively Peyton sat forward and hugged Bambi. “Thank you,” she said in her ear. “Thank you for that.”

  Bambi hugged her in return.

  CHAPTER 9

  He crouched by the metal bench, his hands wrapped around his head, his eyes screwed shut tight, shivering. The howl echoed away through the tunnels of the tube. Then silence. Not even the mechanical recording broke up the stillness.

  He held himself as still as he could, then he slowly eased aside his hands, peering out from between the arms of his green military jacket. His eyes lighted first on the body. She lay on her back, her leg twisted beneath her, her blonde hair fanned out around her head in a halo. She stared up, her eyes open, her hands resting on her breasts as if she just slept.

  He jumped when she blinked, slowly, as if it took every bit of strength she had left. A red scarf of blood flowed over her throat and crept along the concrete of the tube platform. He wanted to run, but she blinked again, then her mouth moved as if she were trying to say something.

  He rose to a half-crouch and carefully approached her, easing forward a few inches at a time, searching the empty platform for anyone else. Text scrolled over the display, announcing the imminent arrival of the train, but he ignored it, inching closer to her.

  Finally he stood above her, staring down at her strangely beautiful face, at the gore that was now her throat, at the pale pink of her lips as the blood leaked out of her. Her eyes shifted and found him, large, the pupils dilated, her breathing labored. She looked frightened, scared...young.

  “Help me,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “This is the Circle Line, Temple Station,” announced the male voice over the intercom.

  He ducked his head, closing his eyes at the sound.

  “Next stop Blackfriars ending at Tower Hill Station.”

  He looked into the tunnel and saw the train coming. He couldn’t tell if anyone was on it, but he couldn’t take a chance. He touched the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Darting into the stairwell, he hesitated, listening as the train pulled into the station.

  “This is the Circle Line, Temple Station,” came the announcer. “Mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

  He peered around the tiled wall and watched a man and a woman exit the car. They saw the girl almost immediately. The woman threw her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear God!” she breathed, then she was hurrying toward her. “Get out your mobile, Vance. Hurry!”

  The man dug out his phone and began to dial frantically as the woman knelt by the girl. He watched, feeling torn between fleeing and staying to help.

  “Don’t talk,” said the woman, pressing a hand to the girl’s shoulder, then she looked around the station. He ducked behind the wall as her gaze passed over him. “You there!” she shouted. “Help us! You there!”

  “Who, Delores?” the man asked, holding the phone to his ear and coming to her side.

  “The man in the stairwell,” she said, pointing. “Oh hurry and help!”

  He ran, dashing up the stairs, not looking back. He couldn’t get help, not now, and he was pretty sure it was too late already. The amount of blood loss was too great and he needed to get out of here before the cops arrived.

  Reaching the top of the station, he raced through the turnstiles, ignoring the two security guards who shouted at him to slow down, then he bolted through the outer doors and made it outside, stumbling to a stop on the sidewalk and bracing his hands on his thighs.

  His heart pounded furiously, but he waited for it to calm before he looked around. He needed to find some place to hid
e. He would find him again if he didn’t do a better job of staying hidden. He was beginning to believe that the only way to do that was to leave London, but the minute he thought it, he felt like he was going to vomit. London was his life. London was all he knew.

  Leaving London would be like leaving himself behind.

  * * *

  Marco tapped Devan’s shoulder with the paper coffee cup. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

  Devan jolted away, then blinked rapidly, reaching for the paper cup. “You could warn me next time.”

  “Like what? Bang my cane on the door before I enter my own damn office?”

  “Don’t be testy.” He scrubbed a hand across his face and over his short cropped black hair. “I’m a freakin’ zombie, D’Angelo.”

  Marco walked around to his chair and pulled it out, setting his own coffee on his desk, then he eased himself down, grimacing as he dragged his leg with him. “So, I need to talk to you about a case.”

  “Peterson?”

  “Right.”

  “I hate celebrity cases. They always get out of control.”

  Marco tapped his fingers on the desk. “You’re going to hate this one even more. Ryder can’t find a point of entry for the intruder.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The guy was invited into the house.”

  “Do we know who the intruder is?”

  “Not yet. Abe’s doing the autopsy today. We’re hoping to get a hit on CODIS, but his fingerprints didn’t pop on IAFIS, so...”

  “Hm. Illegal immigrant?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did he work for the Petersons?”

  “They told Cho and Simons they’d never seen the guy in their life.”

  “So why do I feel like I’m going to hate this case more than the usual celebrity mess?”

  “Because Central caught it initially and turned it over to us to rubber stamp it as a justifiable homicide. They want it put to bed.”

  “But you’re not inclined to do that?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Because of Ryder?”

  “He’s the best I’ve ever seen and if he says there’s no point of entry, I believe him. He went to the scene on Saturday, and I went with him. I didn’t see anything either, Adams.”

  “Okay, so tell Central to back off.”

  “It’s not that easy.” Marco leaned back in his chair. “I have a bit of history with Peterson.”

  Devan had taken a sip of his coffee, but he lowered it. “What do you mean history?”

  Marco drew a breath and released it. “I played football with him in high school.”

  “Okay. Well, that’s not a big deal. You’re simply wanting to investigate the case thoroughly, tie up the loose ends. I mean, there’s no bad blood between you, is there?”

  Marco chewed on his inner lip.

  “D’Angelo?”

  “I slept with his wife. Well...she wasn’t his wife at the time, but they were seeing each other.”

  Adams lowered the coffee cup to his thigh and stared at him. “You slept with his wife?”

  “His girlfriend.”

  “Who he made his wife.”

  “Technically.”

  “God damn it, D’Angelo, is there anyone in San Francisco you haven’t tupped?”

  “Tupped?”

  “Bedded, had sex with, banged.”

  “Oh, yeah, a lot of people.”

  Devan rolled his eyes, looking out the office window. “Assemble your team. I need to have all the information you’ve got on this case, and I mean all.” He pointed the coffee cup at Marco. “No holding back. D.A.’s don’t like surprises and I’m sleep deprived, so that goes double for me.”

  Marco reached over and pressed the button for Carly’s desk. He got no answer. He pressed again, receiving the same result. Reaching for his cane, he rolled the desk chair out and pushed himself to his feet.

  “You’ve got to fire her,” scolded Devan, but Marco ignored him, limping to the door and going to her desk to press the intercom button. He called Simons, Cho, and Jake to the conference room as Devan made his way across the lobby and pushed open the door, flipping on the lights.

  They arrived within minutes, moving into seats without asking why. Jake carried his computer tablet and settled it on the table before him.

  Marco sank into a seat at the head of the table, but Devan stood behind a chair, his hands resting on the top of it.

  “So, your captain tells me he has history with the Petersons,” said Devan.

  Jake’s brows rose, but he didn’t say anything. Cho and Simons nodded. “He told us,” said Cho.

  “I want everything you’ve got on this case and I want to know why I shouldn’t just kick it back to Central to close.”

  Cho glanced at Jake. “Ryder?”

  Jake thumbed on the tablet and pressed his finger to the screen a couple of times. A number of photos spread across the screen and he slid it over to Devan. Marco saw a body face down in a pool of blood, taken from multiple angles, pictures of doors, locks, window sills, windows. More pictures of blood stains on the floor after the body was removed.

  “I went over every inch of that house at least four times and I couldn’t find a point of entry,” said Jake. “There’s no blood trail, no paint chippings, no dirt or plant debris at any door or window.”

  Devan studied the pictures carefully. “Do you agree?” he asked Simons and Cho.

  “Completely,” said Cho.

  “What do the Petersons say happened?”

  “Bradley Peterson says he and his wife heard a noise in the living room,” said Simons. “He got a gun out of his gun collection and carried it downstairs. He startled the intruder and when the man made a move toward him, he fired.”

  “Just one shot?”

  “As far as we know. We’re waiting on the autopsy report from Abe,” added Cho.

  Devan looked at Jake. “Do you have the initial report on here?”

  Jake took the tablet and pulled up the report Devan wanted, sliding it back to him.

  “Did we find the bullet?”

  “No,” said Cho.

  “What type of gun?” He frowned as he scanned the report.

  “Vintage Webley Vickers.”

  “Huh? Why would that be his first choice?”

  “Can’t tell you.”

  “But you got the gun?”

  “Yep. And as soon as Abe digs the bullet out of the intruder, we’ll send it to ballistics to make sure it’s the right weapon.”

  “Who called 911?”

  “Carol Peterson, Peterson’s wife. She ran downstairs when she heard the gunshot.”

  “Do we have the 911 recording?”

  “Yeah, it’s standard. Nothing obvious. She says the same thing on the call as she did in person. The same thing that her husband said.”

  Devan lowered the tablet. “That’s weird.”

  “Yep,” said Cho.

  “No deviation?”

  “None.”

  “Hm, seems a little rehearsed.”

  “That’s what we thought,” said Simons, folding his hands on his belly.

  “Well, here’s the problem. Apparently your captain here has known the defendant’s wife.”

  “Known?” asked Cho.

  “Biblically,” offered Jake with a smirk.

  Marco glared at him.

  Devan turned to him. “I need to know exactly when this happened.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “How long?”

  “About fifteen years.”

  “When you were in high school?”

  “Right.”

  Devan frowned, then picked up the tablet again, re-reading the report. Throwing back his head, he gave a huff of exasperation. “Carol Peterson’s 34, D’Angelo.”

  “So?”

  “You’re 31.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “If you had relations with her in high school, you had to be a freshman when she was a s
enior.”

  “So?”

  Devan set the tablet down hard and turned on him. “She took advantage of you.”

  “What?”

  “This whole thing’s hinky. You can’t work this case. You’re compromised, D’Angelo.”

  Marco glanced at Cho and Simons. Simons looked away, but Cho sighed.

  “Hold on,” said Jake. “Are you saying we’re just going to let it go?”

  Devan slapped a hand against his thigh. “Yeah, let it go. I’m saying the whole thing’s a mess and I’m never going to be able to prosecute it with what you’ve got. Any more digging and a good lawyer’s going to love shoving your captain’s past connection to the Petersons right in your faces. Turn it over to Central and let them say abracadabra and make it all disappear.”

  Marco rubbed his eyes with his hand.

  “Do you hear me, D’Angelo? Let this one go. It’s not worth it.”

  Marco looked over at his people and saw the aggravation on their faces. He hated to let Brad Peterson off, but Devan was probably right. There just wasn’t any way to spin this in their favor.

  “Fine. As soon as we get Abe’s autopsy report, we’ll turn it back over to Central,” he said.

  * * *

  Banging on the door brought Peyton out of the bathroom. She’d just gotten in about five minutes ago. Bambi did not believe in conserving water, or rushing her morning beauty ritual. It was like sharing a house with Maria again.

  Scrunching her damp curls with one hand, she crossed the room and pulled open the door. Radar eyed her black tank top and bare feet.

  “Get your stuff. Abbott’s meeting us downstairs. He wants us to go with him to the hospital.” He glanced into the room at the disarray. Half of Bambi’s suitcase was dumped on her bed. “Where’s Bambi?”

  “She went downstairs to try to find coffee.”

  “Don’t bother. They only drink instant here.”

  Peyton made a face. “That’s going to be a problem. I need coffee.”

  “You need sugar,” said Radar contemptuously.

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  “Come on, we’ll figure that out when Abbott gets here.”