Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Devan grabbed the paper and glanced over it. “Ballistics says the gun was probably a Smith & Wesson. Where’s that?”

  “No idea. Jake’s going back to the murder scene to search for it.”

  “Murder scene?”

  Marco nodded. “Look at Abe’s autopsy report. The John Doe was shot from a nine foot height. The bullet went through his lung, causing it to collapse. Abe estimates it took him 30 minutes or so to die.”

  Devan looked up from the papers. “And?”

  “From the time of the 911 call to the first patrol car on the scene, seven minutes passed. The first patrol officer, Durbin, pronounced the John Doe dead upon his arrival. The paramedics tried CPR and intubation, but he was already gone.”

  “So what the hell did the Petersons do for 23 minutes? Sit there and watch the guy bleed to death?”

  “Drown, according to Abe, in his own blood.”

  Devan rubbed his forehead. “Central’s going to be pissed that you’re keeping this open.”

  “Don’t much care. I’ll take care of Central.”

  “Do you think Ryder’s going to find the gun?”

  “If anyone can, it’s Ryder. That is, if the gun’s still on site.”

  “Can we get an ID on the John Doe?”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Don’t you have someone over at the FBI that you’ve slept with that you can call?”

  “Cute. Peyton’s out of the country.”

  Devan made a face. “Yeah, great. Thanks for reminding me of that, but I meant someone else.”

  Rosa.

  “Yeah, I’ll place a call. See if she can light a fire under her people for a CODIS identification.”

  “What’s your next move beyond that?”

  “Cho and Simons are bringing Peterson in for questioning. His lawyer’s been notified.”

  “I want to be here when he’s questioned. We better play this one straight as a redneck in a gay bar.”

  Marco frowned. “Really?”

  “I was trying it out. Rani said I was stuffy and I thought I might adopt a few colloquialisms to lighten things up.”

  “And that felt right to you?”

  “Not one bit.”

  “Then stop.”

  “Maybe.” He leaned on Marco’s desk. “What if I said straight like a tightrope walker through a river of crocodiles?”

  “No.”

  “The pope in a strip joint?”

  “Worse.”

  “A lawyer in a liar’s convention?”

  “They always say to stick with what you know.”

  Devan touched his nose. “Wise advice. I’ll take it. Call me when Peterson’s here.” He paused at the door and looked back at Marco. “What about Carly?”

  “Gone.”

  “You fired her?”

  Marco didn’t correct him.

  Devan gave him a thumbs up. “Glad to see those man parts aren’t going to waste.”

  * * *

  The Globe theatre was a three-story theatre in the round, open to the elements with a large wooden stage jutting into the center of it. Benches ran along the walls, but it couldn’t have been more than 100 feet in diameter, making even the top tier of seating seem close and intimate.

  Bambi hooked her arm through Peyton’s. “Oh, I so love Shakespeare. Can you believe we’re standing here, seeing his vision in person?”

  “Not hardly at all,” Peyton said, giving her a wry look. Shakespeare had baffled a teenaged Peyton, although adult Peyton had to admit the very fit men working at sword play on the wooden stage met with her approval. She hadn’t expected Shakespearean actors to be so handsome or well built.

  A young woman with a clipboard approached them from around the side of the stage. Bambi immediately produced her badge and held it up. “I’m Special Agent Redford and this is my colleague Special Agent Brooks. We’re here to speak with Gordon Bell.”

  “I’m Anwen Lewis. I’ve been instructed to give you any assistance I can. Gordon is over at the Sackler right now, but I’ll have him come here, if you’d prefer.”

  “That would be fine.”

  Anwen pulled a radio out of her belt and spoke into it, asking for Gordon to be sent to the theatre. She had brown hair as wild and curly as Peyton’s, large brown eyes, pale skin, and freckles. She wore a peasant’s skirt, sandals, and a loose button-up blouse cinched at the waist with a pink scarf.

  “What play are you rehearsing?”

  “Macbeth.”

  “Oh, one of my favorites,” said Bambi.

  “It’s a fan favorite here too.”

  “So is that the final battle between Macbeth and Macduff?”

  Anwen smiled brightly. “It is. Very good, Agent Redford.”

  Two men slammed at each other with swords, dancing around and around the stage, while a number of other actors watched them. Finally the taller one disarmed the other, the sword clattering to the stage. Peyton caught her breath as the shorter man shoved the taller one in the shoulders.

  “Fuck off, you daft prick!” he said, then they both burst into laughter.

  Peyton exchanged an alarmed look with Bambi, but Anwen was smiling. “They’re always trying to draw blood.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just a nick, nothing more. Quite brilliant, wouldn’t you say?” She considered for a moment. “Yes, I think it really is.”

  Peyton closed her mouth and looked at her feet. For the last two days, she’d had moments where London felt as familiar as San Francisco, and then there were times like this when it felt very foreign indeed.

  A young man appeared behind Anwen. He gave them worried looks as he approached. Anwen placed her hand on his shoulder. “Gordon, this is Special Agents Redford and Brooks. They’d like to ask you some questions about Rianna, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Bambi pointed behind them at the first tier of seating. “Let’s go sit back here.”

  Anwen watched them go, then looked back at her clipboard, moving toward the stage to call out orders. Bambi and Peyton sat in the second level of benches, while Gordon sat in the first, shifting around to make eye contact.

  “How are you doing, Gordon?” asked Bambi.

  He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the stage. “I’d go home if I could. It’s hard to pretend make-believe’s important right now, but the police asked that I stay until you guys arrived.”

  “We understand. We’ll try to make this easy on you and get the hard stuff out of the way. Can you tell us what you saw when Rianna was attacked?”

  “Mostly what you got from my camera.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I still can’t believe it happened. I keep seeing her standing there, laughing, looking down at me. She was laughing and then she was dead.”

  Bambi chewed her lip. “I’m sorry, Gordon.” She looked to Peyton for help. She clearly wasn’t comfortable with this level of raw pain.

  “Can you set the scene for us?” Peyton asked. “Where were you and where was Rianna?”

  “I was on the Thames Walk below the bridge. She ran up there so I could take her picture.”

  “Did you notice anyone behind her?”

  “A lot of people passed behind her. I mean there weren’t as many people as there usually is because it was dinner time, but there were tourists and vendors...and homeless people, I guess.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “What?”

  “Homeless people, you guess.”

  Gordon looked over his shoulder, his hands clasped between his knee. “I’m not trying to be insensitive, but homeless people are everywhere in a big city, aren’t they? Except you don’t see as many here as other cities I’ve been to.”

  “Right.”

  “I mean there was a guy sleeping under the trees near where Rianna and I were. There’s always a few of them sitting at the end of the bridge every day when we come to class.”

/>   “And you think it was a homeless person who attacked Rianna?”

  “I’m pretty sure he was one of the ones at the end of the bridge.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He got to her too quickly. No one else was near.”

  “But you didn’t recognize him as one of the homeless you saw?”

  Gordon closed his eyes again. “I’m sorry, but I just didn’t pay attention to them. I was focused on Rianna all day.”

  Peyton touched his knee. “It’s all right, Gordon. I’m just trying to jog your memory. Do you think you could talk about the attack?”

  He swallowed hard. “I’ll try.”

  “Rianna was standing at the edge of the bridge, looking down at you, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “She was laughing. She was having a good time. I lifted the camera to snap the picture and he was suddenly there in the frame. He grabbed her around the upper chest and then…” Gordon shivered.

  “It’s okay, Gordon,” said Peyton, covering his wrists with her hands. The swords clattered to the stage again and the young man jumped, hunching his shoulders.

  “She dropped and he ran. I snapped the picture purely on reflex.”

  Peyton forced him to look her in the eyes. “You’re doing good, Gordon. What did you do then?”

  “I ran up there. I started screaming her name and ran up there.”

  “Did you get there first?”

  “No, there was a couple of vendors who were closer. One sold candied peanuts in the middle of the bridge, another did the paintings.”

  “The paintings?”

  “They paint pictures for people between the metal slats on the bridge. Haven’t you seen them?”

  Peyton remembered seeing something between the raised metal parts on the bridge, but she’d thought it was gum ground into it by the many feet that traversed it daily. “Right.”

  He shook his head. “She was already dead, or that’s what they said.”

  “Who called for an ambulance?”

  “Another one of the vendors. He had a cell.”

  “Would you remember who these men were if you saw them again?”

  “Probably, but I don’t want to go on that bridge again. I can’t go on that bridge. I take a taxi back to Islington every night now.”

  “That’s okay. Can you tell me anything about the vendors who helped you? What they looked like?”

  “I can tell you where they stood. They were there every day when Rianna and I crossed.”

  “Good.”

  “The peanut guy stands in the very middle of the bridge. He wears a red baseball cap.”

  Peyton removed her notepad and wrote it down.

  “The painter is there every other day or so and he ranges all over the bridge. He has dreadlocks.”

  Peyton nodded.

  “The guy who called on his cell phone is on the north side of the bridge. He sells perfume. He’s got a black beard and black hair.”

  Peyton finished writing and closed the notebook, replacing it. They had his name in the file at Scotland Yard, but she couldn’t remember it off hand. “Thank you, Gordon.”

  “Can I go home now, back to America?”

  “I’ll have Inspector Abbott contact you about that. He has your contact information?”

  “Yes.” He shook his head again. “I keep thinking about her. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

  Peyton clasped a hand around his upper arm in comfort. “When you get home, see someone about it, Gordon. It helps.”

  He nodded and rose to his feet. “If you need anything else, just call me.”

  “Thank you,” said Peyton.

  “Thank you,” said Bambi with a sad smile.

  As the young man made his way out of the theatre, Anwen approached them. “I hope he was able to help?”

  “He did fine,” said Peyton.

  Anwen held up an envelope. Tickets poked out of the top of it. “The Globe would like to extend complementary tickets to you for tomorrow night’s performance of Macbeth. How many are in your party?”

  Bambi looked at Peyton. “Would it be okay to bring Caleb?”

  Peyton felt certain Caleb could have her ticket, but she didn’t want to hurt Anwen’s feelings. Besides Abe would tell her she needed more culture. “I think it’ll be all right.”

  “Five tickets then,” said Bambi, clapping her hands. She hugged Peyton as Anwen counted out the tickets. “I’m so excited. We’re going to see Macbeth at the Globe. Can you believe it?”

  Peyton gave them both a forced smile. “Not even one little bit.”

  Bambi clapped her hands again. “This is going to be awesome.”

  Peyton felt sure awesome was stretching the issue... A LOT. Just as Anwen offered Bambi the tickets, Peyton’s cell phone rang. She fished it out and put it to her ear.

  “Get over to St. Mungo’s,” came Radar’s voice. “We might have a lead.”

  “We were about to question the vendors who responded to Rianna’s attack.”

  “Do that tomorrow. Right now I want all eyes and ears here. Plus we need your charming personality.”

  “I’m certain you do. We’re on our way.” Peyton pushed herself to her feet and looked down at Bambi, who was cradling the tickets as if they were a child. “Radar’s ordered us over to St. Mungo’s.”

  Bambi jumped to her feet. “Thank you again, Anwen.”

  “You’re welcome, Agent Redford. See you tomorrow night.”

  “Yes, you will.” She hooked her arm through Peyton’s and pulled her toward the stairs. “I can’t wait.”

  “See you too, Agent Brooks.”

  “Yes, you will,” said Peyton, fighting a grimace.

  * * *

  Brad Peterson had been broad shouldered, foul mouthed, and an arrogant prick when Marco knew him. Of course, that had been a fourteen year old being in awe of a seventeen year old who held the position of quarterback. Brad Peterson at 34 didn’t seem so intimidating. In fact, as he took his seat behind the interrogation table, in his khaki chinos, royal blue polo shirt with the Buffalo Bills logo on the left breast, and his leather loafers, he looked like anyone of a million wealthy men out for a day of golf. Plus he was losing his hair.

  Marco tried not to take enjoyment in that fact, but he couldn’t help it. Brad Peterson had smacked his naked ass with the end of his towel just one to many times for him to feel anything approaching warmth toward the man.

  Devan stepped into the viewing room, his eyes going to the two-way mirror. “So that’s the superstar, eh?”

  Marco shrugged. Peterson’s career hadn’t been particularly stellar. He was an average quarterback at the best of times, although he did have that uncanny ability to pull out a win at the last minute, which had guaranteed him at least eight seasons.

  Peterson’s lawyer was a middle aged man with a full head of blond hair and watery blue eyes. He lounged in his chair next to Peterson, not talking to the man, one arm across the back of Peterson’s chair in a posture that said he didn’t really give a shit. Marco thought his demeanor was a bit off.

  “Do you know the lawyer?” he asked Devan.

  “Yeah, Jefferson Greene. Good lawyer, usually takes high profile cases. Angling for a judge’s position, I’ve always thought.”

  “Doesn’t seem like he gives a damn about his client. Usually you sharks are always giving last minute advice, telling the suspect not to answer our questions.”

  Devan frowned. “Interesting. I wonder what gives.”

  Marco didn’t much care. He’d just as soon get this over with than waste manpower on it. Except they still didn’t have an ID on the John Doe. Rosa Alvarez at the FBI had promised to light a fire and get them something from CODIS, but she hadn’t gotten back to him yet.

  “Who’s questioning him?”

  “Cho.”

  As if summoned by his words, Cho, Jake and Simons entered the viewing room, Cho carrying the file
. They studied Peterson for a moment. He sat at the table, looking around the room, his foot tapping beneath the table. He had his hands clasped in his lap.

  “Are we ready to rock and roll?” asked Cho.

  “Yeah. Focus on the things in his story that don’t match the autopsy,” said Marco, nodding at the mirror.

  “Got it.” Turning, Cho and Simons left the room, walking across the small hallway and entering the interrogation room. Peterson and his lawyer looked up at their approach.

  As was their habit, Simons walked behind Peterson and took up a position of intimidation, while Cho took a seat at the table, perpendicular to him.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Peterson,” said Cho, setting down the file.

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  Cho’s head lifted. “I’m sorry.”

  Peterson glanced at his lawyer, then back to Cho. “I’m not talking to you. Carol told me your captain’s Marco D’Angelo. I’m only talking to him.”

  Cho drummed his fingers on the file. “I don’t recommend that, Mr. Peterson. As your lawyer can tell you, Captain D’Angelo can’t interrogate you because it would be a conflict of interest. He had prior knowledge of you and your wife.”

  “If I okay it, what difference does it make? My lawyer’s here. That’s what I’m asking for. I know my prior experience with him. We played high school football together. That was a lot of years ago. Shit, we didn’t even play on the same team. He was a defensive end and I was a quarterback.”

  “Still, it’s not a good idea…”

  “And I know about Carol. She told me years ago.” Peterson’s voice rose and he looked at the two-way glass. “I don’t care that you slept with her. Shit, everyone wanted to sleep with her back then. If I’d been you, I’d have gone for it too.” He looked at Cho and laughed. “Besides, I got her to marry me, didn’t I?”

  Marco frowned.

  “Is he drunk?” asked Devan.

  “We didn’t do a breathalyzer. Maybe we should have.”

  “He acts drunk,” said Jake. “You want me to run a test on him?”

  Devan considered.

  “Mr. Peterson,” said Cho, trying to draw his attention. “If I could just ask you…”