“I don’t recognize the number.”
“Respond and ask who it is.”
Peyton did as he asked, but she was fairly certain that wouldn’t get them anything. As she thought, she got no response and they waited a full five minutes.
“Can I use your phone?”
She nodded and he took it, messing with something. “What are you doing?”
“Sending it to our forensics team to see if they can trace the number.”
Peyton looked up as Caleb Abbott entered Pret, followed by Radar and Bambi. Radar detoured for coffee, but Caleb and Bambi came to the table.
“Good morning, Agents. How are you this beautiful London morning?” he said.
Peyton forced a smile. “Fine. And you?” She gave Bambi a pointed look. Her roommate hadn’t come home until 5:00 this morning.
“Wonderful.” He had the grace to blush, but Bambi didn’t. “I have good news. We may have gotten a break in the case.”
Peyton sat up straighter. “Why didn’t you say that before?”
“Well…” He gave a careless shrug. Peyton chalked it up to British manners. Americans didn’t bother with niceties when there was information to impart. “A man is coming into Scotland Yard today. He saw the news reports on our killings and feels like he might recognize the suspect in the picture Gordon Bell took.”
Peyton grabbed her phone and coffee, rising to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Radar approached them and passed Bambi a paper cup, sipping at his own. “For the love of God, Sparky, let a man get a bolus of caffeine in him before you start bouncing like a terrier with a bone.”
Peyton glared at him, but Caleb laughed. “My chariot awaits,” he said, motioning to the door.
They went out into the foggy London morning. The air was crisp, but not cold, and Peyton knew that by the end of the day, the sun would make a welcome appearance. As they walked to Caleb’s car, Peyton tugged on Tank’s sleeve. “Let’s just keep this between us until we hear back from forensics. I don’t want a lecture about not focusing on our current case right now.”
“Got it,” Tank said.
The witness was waiting for them when they arrived at Scotland Yard. Neil, Caleb’s assistant, had him sequestered in a glass room behind the cubicles. Radar surveyed him through the glass, then turned to face his team.
“Bambi and Tank, go check the perfume vendor for priors and add Trish Lyttle to the mix from St. Mungo’s. Can Neil help them?” he asked Caleb.
“He’s at your disposal.”
“Sparky, you’re with me.” He walked to the door and pushed it open. Peyton and Caleb followed him inside as Tank and Bambi went off with Neil. Radar held out his hand to the man. “I’m Special Agent Carlos Moreno on assignment here from San Francisco. You are?”
“Cyril Carlisle.” He wore a navy blue uniform with a navy blue cap that he wrung in his hands. The uniform sported the white and red Mind the Gap warning on the sleeves. He had a thinning head of light brown hair and crooked teeth. His lips struggled to contain his bite.
Radar sat down, motioning Peyton beside him.
Caleb shook hands with Carlisle. “I’m pleased to meet you. Inspector Caleb Abbott of Scotland Yard. I appreciate you coming in today.”
Carlisle twisted the cap in his hands. “I keep seeing the news reports about the murders and it’s messing with my head. I’ve worked the tube lines for seven years now.”
“I understand,” said Abbott. “I was told you might recognize our suspect.”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I thought it might help, so I came in.”
“Whatever you have for us, Mr. Carlisle, will be appreciated?”
He glanced at Peyton. She wasn’t sure why she was here, but Radar wanted her in on the questioning.
“I don’t want to get in trouble, you know? That wouldn’t be good now, would it?”
“How would you get into trouble, Mr. Carlisle?”
“I’m not sure I recognize the bloke. What if I’m wrong? What if I tell you it’s someone and it isn’t him?”
“Mistakes happen, but any information you can give us will help.”
“No.” He rose to his feet, his cap a twisted wad in his hands. “This is definitely a mistake.”
Peyton could see Caleb was trying hard not to lose his patience. Even the British had a limit where that was concerned and they just weren’t getting many breaks in this case. Radar huffed and Caleb sat back, clearly annoyed.
Peyton held up a hand. “Mr. Carlisle, I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks from the FBI.”
He hesitated and met her gaze.
“Mr. Carlisle, I appreciate that you don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but actually you might be helping this man. Maybe he isn’t our suspect, but someone else might think the same thing you did.”
He leaned forward a little, twisting the cap. “I just can’t believe Charlie would do this.”
“I understand, but here’s what I mean. You’re the second person to say it might be Charlie. Now, if the wrong person makes the same connection that you and our other witness have, Charlie could be in danger.”
Carlisle pursed his lips, then took his seat again. Caleb rose and poured him a glass of water from a pitcher that sat on the credenza against the side wall. He carried it to him and slid it within his reach.
“How do you know Charlie, Mr. Carlisle?” asked Caleb.
Carlisle’s wide green eyes passed between them. Peyton noticed the smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. He had high cheekbones and a narrow chin. “Charlie worked with me at Charing Cross Station about three years ago. He worked the booth, giving information, maps and stuff, helping people work the ticket machine.”
Peyton nodded. “Does he still work there?”
“No, there was some sort of an incident and he was sacked. I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t there when it happened, but it wasn’t a big thing. Still, they can’t have employees going off on customers, now can they?”
“Right. Why do you think our suspect is the same man?” said Caleb.
Carlisle thought for a moment, sucking at his front teeth. “He looks like Charlie. I mean Charlie tried to stay clean-cut for a while, but he couldn’t go half a day without his beard coming in and his hair always looked like a rat’s nest. Still, he was a good guy. I mean, I didn’t think anything of it.”
“Of what?”
“He got the job through the DWP.”
Peyton and Radar looked to Caleb for explanation.
“The Department of Work and Pensions,” Caleb said.
“They asked me to train him, keep an eye on him, sort of like his supervisor. He was a nice guy. We talked a little. He was hoping to make his parents proud. Move out on his own.”
“So he’d had trouble before coming to work there?” pressed Peyton.
Carlisle’s eyes shifted to Caleb. “He was a patient at Broadmoor for many years.”
Caleb sat back in his chair.
“Broadmoor?” asked Radar.
Caleb never took his eyes off Carlisle. “It’s a high-security psychiatric hospital in Berkshire.”
“Do you know what he was treated for?” asked Peyton.
“He never said.”
“Can we get his records from Broadmoor?” Radar asked Caleb.
“I’ll work on it.”
“Mr. Carlisle,” said Peyton. “Do you remember Charlie’s last name?”
“Haversham or Hollersham or something, but that was three years ago, now wasn’t it?” He paused considering. “Yes, it was.”
“Did Charlie have any friends?”
“Friends? No, Charlie didn’t socialize well.”
“What about a man named Niles?” asked Radar. “Do you ever remember him talking about a man named Niles?”
“No.” Carlisle shook his head. “We talked about the trains. That’s mostly what we talked about. Charlie loved the trains.”
Caleb pulled a notebook out of his pocket and passed it a
nd a pen over to Carlisle. “Will you write down your contact information for me, mate? We might have more questions.”
Carlisle took it, but he hesitated before he wrote. “Charlie wouldn’t do those things that guy did. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. He was the sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever known.”
Caleb exchanged a look with Peyton and Radar. People weren’t always who you thought they were. Sometimes you entered a person’s house as a guest and they murdered you in your sleep. Macbeth had taught her that, if nothing else.
* * *
Marco usually heard Abe before he saw him, and seeing him was a whole different experience. He and Jake had been going through the Peterson financial records for hours, while Cho and Simons tried to run down the whereabouts of Eduard Zonov, Peterson’s bookie.
He knew they were going to have to bring the Petersons in again, but he wanted as much ammunition as he could get before he did it. Abe’s voice carried through the door, distracting both of them.
“So, you’re the new Carly?”
“The new Carly?” asked Lee.
“The assistant. Carly was the last one. She left to become the next Hostess cupcake or something.”
“I see. Yeah, I’m the new Carly.”
“Well, let me tell you she had better legs and dude, you wouldn’t think I’d know something like that because I’m gay.” His laughter floated into the room.
Beside Marco, Jake chuckled. Marco glared at him, but he knew it did no good.
“I wouldn’t know, I never met her.”
“Well, brother, the girl also had some bazongas on her, but she didn’t know how to answer the phone.” His voice lowered so only half of San Francisco could hear. “I think she did it on purpose, you know? Pretend she couldn’t work the phones. So what are you anyway? Samoan, Hawaiian?”
Jake gave Marco a frank look. “How long are you going to let Lee hang out there before you rescue him?”
“I want to see how he handles Abe. If he can handle Abe, he can handle damn near anything.”
Jake’s expression remained disapproving.
“So are you straight? I mean I’d love it if someone as big as you was gay, ‘cause let me tell you, brother, it wouldn’t hurt us to have some butch on our side and…”
“Damn it,” Marco muttered and pushed himself to his feet, but before he could rescue Lee, Lee rescued himself.
“Was there something I could help you with?”
“I’m here to drop some information on your hunky captain. Is he in his office?”
“Conference room,” said Lee. “Can I see some ID?”
Marco couldn’t hide his smile. He was sure Carly had never asked for it even once.
“Oh, I like that. That’s good. My angel needs someone watching his back. You know he got slammed into the counter by a perp one time and the next time someone held a gun to Jakey’s head.”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Dr. Jefferson. You can go in,” said Lee interrupting him.
“Dr. Jefferson, that’s so nice. I’m going to have to demand more people call me that. I like it. Dr. Jefferson.” He appeared in the conference room door, still talking to Lee. Marco frowned to see Pickles in his arms. Turning into the room, he beamed a smile at both of them. “Good morning, darlin’s.” In his other hand, he carried a small cooler.
Marco’s frowned deepened. Abe was wearing a long-sleeved button-up shirt awash in colors. Squinting, he felt sure the colors created a familiar pattern, but he couldn’t place it.
“Nice threads,” said Jake. “Parrots, huh?”
“It’s delightful, isn’t it? It’s from my animal collection. Thank you for noticing, Jakey.” He gave Marco an arch look.
Marco saw it now. Hundreds of parrots created a geometric pattern, overlaying each other like puzzle pieces. He could almost imagine the crazy-ass store where Abe bought his clothes.
“By the way, where’s my coffee?”
“Coming right up.” Jake jumped to his feet and hurried out of the room.
“What’s Pickles doing here?”
“He’s depressed,” said Abe, setting down the cooler and removing a folder from under the arm that held Pickles.
“He’s a dog.”
“And your point?”
“Dogs don’t get depressed.”
“I disagree. Dogs have every emotion that humans do and this dog is depressed. He misses Peyton.”
He wasn’t the only one, thought Marco. “Why is he here?”
“Because I can’t keep him in a morgue. That would give the little guy nightmares. You’re going to have to keep him here.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Abe, this is my place of work.”
“Did you think I’d forgotten that, Angel? I think he needs to go home for a bit, smell Peyton’s clothes. You know, get back into his element. I was hoping you’d take him by there tonight after you’re done.”
“Fine. I’ll just stay at her place tonight. It’s closer to the precinct anyway.”
“Aw,” said Abe, getting a stupid look on his face. “You’re missing her too.”
Marco wasn’t touching that. “Go put him in my office while we meet.”
Abe hugged him closer. “I will not. The poor thing’s depressed and you want to banish him. He stays with us.” He held the dog out to Marco. “What would Peyton want you to do?”
Marco fought his annoyance and took the dog, settling him on the chair next to him. Pickles gave him a sad look from his big brown eyes. While Abe messed with his file, Marco reached over and stroked the dog’s head.
Of course, Jake returned at that moment and caught him. He gave Marco a grin as he passed Abe his coffee.
“Thank you so much, Jakey. Is this the French blend or the Moroccan?”
“I can’t find the Moroccan anymore. This is a Brazilian dark roast.”
“Can we please get back to the case?” snapped Marco.
Abe and Jake exchanged knowing looks. Marco refused to take the bait. He didn’t care what silent communication passed between them. He wasn’t biting.
Abe feigned a businesslike demeanor, except with Abe, it was usually real. “So I received Bradley Peterson’s medical records this morning. Very interesting reading. Did you know he’s suffering from Parkinson’s?”
“Yes.”
“You did? Well, sometimes brain trauma can bring on Parkinson’s in people who’re predisposed to get it.” He sat down at the head of the table. “Brad Peterson’s brain is hamburger.”
“What does that mean?”
“He has significant damage to the temporal lobe. This part of the brain controls memories and emotion, so damage to this part of the brain, in particular the amygdala, could cause an excessive fear response that might make him view a stranger in his home as an intruder.”
“So he could have invited the John Doe into the house, then forgotten he did and gotten scared when he saw him?”
“It’s a reasonable scenario.”
“But Carol was there. Surely she would have told him he invited the man into their house.”
“Are we sure she was there when the shooting happened?” asked Jake. “That might account for the discrepancy between when the 911 call went out and Abe’s time of death.”
“Why wouldn’t she just tell us that?”
Jake shrugged.
“There’s more,” said Abe. “He also has damage to the frontal lobe.”
“Which does what?”
“Frontal lobe damage increases impulsivity. This is the part of the brain we use to decide whether we should do something or not. It’s responsible for addictive behaviors. Alcoholism…” He paused and shifted uncomfortably. “Drug addiction, sex, risk taking behaviors.”
“Gambling?”
“Exactly.”
“How does this point to self-defense? None of this suggest he was defending himself when he shot the John Doe.”
“If he thought he was threatened? If he forgot who the Joh
n Doe was and panicked?” Abe drew a breath and released it. “If I was asked to testify on his behalf based on these medical records, I’d have to say I have probable cause to doubt his intent, or his ability to reason the situation as a normal person might.”
“And that’s all a good attorney like Greene would need – reasonable doubt,” said Jake.
Marco considered it for a moment.
“What should we do, Adonis? Bounce the case?”
“No.” Marco studied Abe’s face. “No, we’re not going to bounce it. We don’t even have an identity on the John Doe yet. And I still can’t work out Carol’s involvement. If she wasn’t there when the shooting happened, why didn’t she just say she wasn’t there? There’s still a 30 minute discrepancy between the shooting and the 911 call we can’t explain. I need more.”
“Well.” Abe clapped his hands. “Since my work is done, it’s time for my lunch date.”
Marco realized he had an out. “We can’t go to Tekka with Pickles. Guess we’ll have to put it off until Peyton comes home.”
Abe shook his finger at him. “Nice try, Angel, but I thought of that already. I brought lunch to us.” He patted the cooler.
Jake lowered his head, but not before Marco caught his damn grin.
“I’ll go get us some plates and napkins then.” He reached for his cane, smacking it against Jake’s shin as he rose.
“Ow!” Jake protested, rubbing his leg.
“Sorry,” said Marco, giving him a grin of his own.
* * *
Caleb set a massive pint in front of Peyton and took a seat on the barstool next to Bambi. “I put in for a subpoena for Broadmoor’s records on anyone with the first name Charles or Charlie and a last name with the initial H. We should hear by morning.”
Radar reached for his pint and held it up. “Here’s to getting some traction on this case.”
Everyone touched their glasses to his.
“If we find Charlie, what then?” asked Peyton.
“We’ll know his diagnosis and any other pertinent information, perhaps his friends and family,” answered Caleb, “but enough about that. You Americans focus on work too much.”
Peyton knew Caleb wasn’t criticizing them. He was just as focused as they were. He’d expressed a number of times that he couldn’t stand the thought of telling another father his daughter was dead. He’d revealed that he had a daughter of his own, seven years old, living in the north with her mother. He told them he couldn’t see any of these dead girls without thinking of her, but when the day ended, Caleb knew how to put it aside and enjoy life.
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 23