Peyton reached for her cell phone and pulled up the picture again, studying it. Tank had a point. Clearly there was a hell of a lot more going on here than a depressed marine offing himself in a sleazy hotel room.
* * *
As Marco drove back to the precinct, his mind kept replaying the session with Dr. Ferguson. He usually felt frustrated with the time spent in the psychiatrist’s company, but today he just wished it was over. He wasn’t coming to any new conclusions about his situation and trying to get him to admit his feelings when he didn’t even know what they were felt voyeuristic.
“Tricia called me about the group meeting last night. She was concerned you were pushed too hard, too fast,” Dr. Ferguson had said, running his pen through his fingers. Today his rumpled suit was pinstriped, and double-breasted, circa 1970. In fact, Abe would say Ferguson’s fashions were so out, they were on the verge of being in again.
“I’m fine.”
Ferguson gave him that look. “I’m fine for you is code that you are not fine, Captain D’Angelo.”
Marco knew it didn’t do any good to dissemble when Ferguson thought he had a wedge he could force. “The kid asked some questions about the priest I killed, then wanted to know what it felt like to be shot.”
“And?”
“I had a hard time talking about it.” He paused and briefly met Ferguson’s gaze. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“He pushed you, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s struggling and for some reason he’s identified with me. He wanted to know what I remembered, but most of what I remember has to do with Peyton.”
“What specifically?”
Marco shook his head. “Why do we have to do this? Why do you have to open up the scab?”
“Because that’s exactly what it is – a scab. It needs to heal.”
Marco gave a bitter laugh. “Some things don’t heal, Dr. Ferguson. Like my memory of that day, my leg, even Peyton. She’ll always have PTSD because of that case. And Kurt Foster isn’t going to heal either.”
“Is he the young man?”
“Right.”
Ferguson spent a few seconds pondering that, watching Marco, the pen sliding between his fingers. “Did you drink last night?”
“No.”
“Did you want to drink last night?”
“Yes.”
“How did you avoid it?”
“I went to Peyton’s house and I fell asleep.”
“So, you felt that being near her would be a way to avoid your usual habit?”
“Sure.”
Now as Marco pulled the Charger into the precinct parking lot, set the brake, and turned off the ignition, he scrubbed his hands over his face as if that would banish the doctor from his head. Peyton always said Dr. Ferguson thought their minds were his playground. He was beginning to agree with her.
Grabbing his cane, he levered the door open and climbed out, grimacing as his leg took his weight. He was beginning to forget what it felt like not to calculate every single step he took from point A to point B. His days were obsessively filled with the desire to find the quickest route no matter where he went.
Limping into the precinct, he paused when he saw Lee at his desk. The huge man looked up and beamed a smile at Marco.
“Good morning, Captain. Can you believe the weather we’re having?”
Marco glanced out the door at the spring sunshine. He hadn’t even noticed it. “Yeah, it’s great.”
“I love coastal springs. You get a little cleansing morning fog and then by 10:00AM, the skies clear and it’s just beautiful.”
Just beautiful. Marco pushed open the half-door and moved toward his office.
“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No, you don’t need to do that.”
“I was going to get myself some, so I don’t mind.”
Marco hesitated. Lee definitely had Carly beat in almost every area so far. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.” He rose to his feet, surprisingly graceful for his massive size, and headed toward the break room.
Marco opened the door to his office and left it open. He’d planned an open door policy when he first took over as captain, but then Carly had happened and shutting his door was a way to escape the rare times she showed up to work; however, with Lee, Marco thought it might be okay to open his door again.
As he took a seat behind his desk, his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, glancing at the display. Rosa’s name flashed at him and he thumbed it on.
“Hey?”
“Hey? That’s what I get? Hey? Not good morning, not thank you for calling, Special Agent-in-Charge Alvarez. I get hey.”
“Good morning, Special Agent-in-Charge Alvarez, I appreciate a call from your lofty heights to my lowly depths.”
“Better.”
Marco chuckled.
“I got the CODIS on your John Doe. I’ll send it over. Who do you want it addressed to?”
“Me. Who is he?”
“His name’s Demetri Zonov, he’s the nephew of an Eduard Zonov. We’ve had our eye on Uncle Zonov for a few years now. Can’t make anything stick permanently, but he’s a nasty character. Funny thing is young Demetri isn’t supposed to be here. He came over from Chechnya on a student visa four years ago. He was supposed to return when he didn’t meet muster.”
“Meaning what? He get picked up for something?”
“Nope. Student visa sorta implies you go to school. Young Demetri didn’t think that was a necessary evil.”
“Hm. We saw that Uncle has a record.”
“Yeah, but it’s petty shit. The real stuff we’d like to nail him for is a bit more...how shall I put it...explosive.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
“So Peterson’s messed up with Zonov?”
“Looks that way. Zonov’s black Mercedes was in his driveway and Nephew wound up dead in his living room.”
“Peterson the doer?”
“I honestly don’t know. I’m thinking not, but I can’t get either of the Petersons to budge. They want me to bounce it as justifiable homicide, but I don’t like the way things are lining up.”
“Hm. Anything I can do?”
“Besides bring my girl home?”
“Yeah, well…”
“No, but I’ll keep you in the loop.”
There was a pause on the line. “Look, Marco, Zonov’s a nasty piece of work. You better watch that fine ass of yours, you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you. By the way, I appreciate the rush job on CODIS for us lowly grunts, Special Agent-in-Charge Alvarez.”
She laughed. “Keep in touch.”
“Done.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” Marco lowered the phone.
As soon as he did, Lee poked his head in the door. “Didn’t want to interrupt.” He set a mug on Marco’s desk. “Here’s that coffee I promised.”
Marco reached for it. “Thanks.”
Lee gave a salute and headed for the door.
“Lee?”
He whipped back around.
“Can you tell Inspectors Cho and Simons I need to see them?”
“Instantly.” And he was gone.
Marco leaned back in the chair and sipped at his coffee, considering how best to approach this case. Clearly they needed to have a talk with both Petersons again, separate them, and see if they could get one of them to fold. The Zonov angle created a whole new set of issues and Marco wasn’t looking forward to tangling with someone on the FBI’s watch list. He wondered if the Petersons understood the significance of that as well.
* * *
Bea Howsham was a tall, stately woman with short, curly grey hair. She wore a cardigan and a pair of pale blue capris with loafers. She peered out at them from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Caleb flashed his badge at her, giving her his affable smile.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Howsham, I’m Inspector Caleb Abbott from Scotland Yard.”
“Yes, come in.
Please call me Bea.”
She motioned them into the long hallway of a row-house. Indicating they should follow, she led them past closed doors to a brightly lit main room that functioned as both a living room and a kitchen. A man stood by the kitchen table, his hands clasped before him.
Bea indicated the man. “This is my husband Jasper. This is Inspector Abbott from Scotland Yard and…” She gave a shrug. “I didn’t catch your names.”
“Special Agents Moreno and Brooks,” offered Radar, extending his hand.
Greetings were exchanged and Bea asked them to take a seat on the sofa that faced the window. She and her husband sat on an identical one across from them. Peyton looked out the window, but all she could see was a brick garden wall and the wall of the houses across from the Howsham’s. Fluffy white clouds floated by.
“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. and Mrs. Howsham,” said Caleb.
“Please, Inspector, just call us Bea and Jasper.”
“Great.” Caleb removed his notepad and a pen. “Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”
“Not at all,” said Bea. “You said you wanted to talk about Charlie.”
“Yes. When was the last time you saw your son?”
Bea exchanged a look with her husband. Honestly, if Peyton didn’t know better, she’d think they were brother and sister, not husband and wife. Jasper Howsham was also grey, also curly-headed, tall and spare. The exact same type of glasses perched on his nose. He wore a plaid collared shirt and jeans with sneakers.
“We haven’t seen Charlie in years,” answered Bea. “Not after he lost his job.”
“Right,” said Caleb, clicking on his pen. “He worked out of Charing Cross Station, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And he hasn’t contacted you since?”
“No.” She shifted on the couch, clasping her hands in her lap. “Is Charlie in trouble, Inspector Abbott?”
Caleb exhaled, pursing his lips. “I’ll be honest with you, Bea. I’m not sure. We’re investigating a number of murders…”
She made a small gasp, but her expression didn’t change.
Her husband looked at his hands.
“The murders in the tube stations?” she asked.
Caleb nodded. Then he removed the picture Bell had taken from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. “Is this Charlie?”
Bea and Jasper leaned forward, studying it. Jasper moved as if he might pick it up, then thought better about it and left it on the table.
“I don’t know,” said Bea. “We haven’t seen him in so long.”
“What’s this man doing?”
Caleb exchanged a look with Radar. “Attacking an American college student. We cropped it so only the suspect is visible. Does he look like Charlie to you, Jasper?”
“I don’t know.” Jasper pressed his fingers to his lips. “The beard, the hair, it’s hard to tell.”
“Charlie isn’t a violent man, Inspector Abbott,” said Bea, looking away from the picture. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
“That’s what everyone says, but we’d still like to find him, talk to him.” Caleb shifted on the couch. “Do you have a picture of him, maybe one where he’s cleaned up, presentable that we can use?”
Bea rose and went to the table behind them, pulling open a drawer. She removed a small snapshot and passed it over Caleb’s shoulder. Peyton saw a young man with brown hair combed to the side and large brown eyes that were piercing. He didn’t smile, but his face had a softness about it.
“Can you tell us about Charlie?” asked Caleb, studying the picture. “We know he was committed at Broadmoor for a long time.”
Bea’s eyes went distant. “Almost twenty years.”
“What was his diagnosis?”
“Schizophrenia.”
“Onset at puberty?”
Bea glanced at her husband. “That’s what the doctors said. We believe it happened much earlier.”
“Why?”
“He had imaginary friends,” said Jasper. “He talked to imaginary people.”
“It wasn’t really people, now was it? It was just one,” Bea corrected, patting her husband’s hand where it lay in his lap. “Just one. Charlie said he was a wolf.”
“And you took him to see a psychiatrist when he told you this?”
“When he was very young, we did. The psychiatrist felt it was normal, that many children had imaginary friends, but Charlie talked to him so often, it made things difficult for him in school, with other children.” She looked above their heads as if it hurt too much to look them in the eyes. “We finally brought him home and got tutors for him.”
Caleb consulted his notebook.
Peyton shifted impatiently. She’d never been good at just observing.
Bea’s eyes found hers. “Can I get you any refreshments?”
“We’re fine,” said Radar.
Peyton smiled at her, trying to show her sympathy and warmth.
“How did he end up at Broadmoor?” asked Caleb.
“He wanted to go back to school. He was doing well. We’d finally found a doctor that seemed to be helping. We thought it was all right.”
“It was never all right,” said Jasper.
“We thought it was, now didn’t we?” continued Bea. “So we let him go to school. He got into a fight and injured a boy.”
“He got into a fight?” pressed Caleb.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, Bea, but you said Charlie wasn’t a violent man, didn’t you now?”
“He isn’t. He was provoked. He was defending a young woman and then the boy who was bothering her made fun of Charlie for talking to himself. He had no choice.”
Jasper eyed his wife as if he didn’t agree, but he kept his mouth shut.
“So you committed Charlie to Broadmoor?”
“The magistrates in youth court recommended it. We didn’t know what else to do. Besides, they promised to treat him at Broadmoor and he did well there. He took his medication and he got better. He even finished his schooling.”
“Why did they release him?”
“Laws change. Funding gets difficult,” said Jasper.
“Funding gets difficult?” asked Caleb.
“The government didn’t want to pay for Charlie to stay there anymore, did they?” said Radar.
“Exactly,” answered Bea.
“So Charlie got the job at Charing Cross Station?”
“Yes.” She gave a faint smile. “Charlie loved the trains. When he was younger, we’d take a holiday in London just so he could ride the trains. It made him happy. Working at Charing Cross was a dream of his.”
“What happened at Charing Cross?” asked Radar. “Why was he fired?”
“We don’t know. We went for a visit and we were told he’d been sacked,” said Jasper.
“We haven’t heard from him since.”
Peyton got the impression that Jasper, at least, was relieved. “It must have been difficult raising Charlie,” she said.
Bea’s expression hardened, but Jasper gave a slight nod.
“He was a good boy,” said Bea. “He couldn’t help the voices, now could he? He tried. He tried so very hard. Maybe if they’d helped us when we first asked, when he was so very young, things might have been different.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “I wish things had been different, his life was so hard, but I tell you this, I don’t believe he’s involved in these murders. Charlie is just not a violent man.”
Caleb tried to get more information out of them, but unfortunately, a large block of Charlie’s life, more than 20 years was a mystery to his parents. From the time he went into Broadmoor, they’d only tangentially been involved with him.
When Caleb realized this wasn’t getting them anything, he thanked them and they rose to leave. Peyton felt like they weren’t any closer to solving these murders than they’d been when they arrived.
“We’ll see ourselves out, Bea,” said Caleb, waving her down when she started to rise. �
�Thank you for your time.” He laid his card on the kitchen table and turned for the hallway, Radar on his heels.
Peyton paused as she moved to follow them. “You said Charlie had only one imaginary friend, Bea.”
“That’s correct.”
“A wolf?”
“Yes, Charlie always said he was a wolf. I think that’s why the doctor wasn’t concerned at first. Many children have favorite stuffed toys, now don’t they?”
“So it was a toy he talked to?”
Bea looked down. “No. No, there was no toy.”
“Did he tell you a name for the wolf? Did he have a name for who he talked to?”
Bea’s eyes rose and her mouth moved, but nothing came out. Peyton waited, but Bea didn’t seem able or willing to speak.
“Niles,” said Jasper. “The wolf’s name was Niles.”
* * *
Marco stood in the viewing room, watching Brad Peterson sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He didn’t seem concerned, he didn’t seem to fully comprehend he was being questioned for murder.
Devan appeared in the doorway, his gaze shifting to Peterson behind the glass. He came over and leaned on the table next to Marco. “So, Carol’s in the other interrogation room?”
“Yep.”
“And Greene’s with her?”
“Yep.”
“But you’re here, not with them?”
“She’s not talking. Cho and Simons have been at her for an hour and she isn’t budging. She keeps insisting on talking to me. I came down here to see what he’s doing.”
Devan jerked his chin toward Smith. “He say anything to Frank.”
“Asked for water. That’s all.”
Cho and Simons pulled open the door and entered the viewing room. “She ain’t budging,” said Simons.
“Is she still asking for D’Angelo?” asked Devan.
“She’s not saying a damn thing. Greene ended it. He ordered us to charge her with something or let her go. He’s on his way down here now.”
“Who’s with Carol?” asked Marco.
“Bartlet’s got his eye on her, but Greene’s paralegal is here to walk her out.”
Cho watched Peterson. “He acts like he’s waiting in a doctor’s office or something.” On the other side of the glass, Smith walked to the door and opened it, admitting Greene. Cho turned to face Marco. “How do you want us to play this?”
Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3) Page 25