Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Marco considered for a moment. “Throw Zonov at him. Tell him we know the dead guy is the nephew of his bookie. Let’s see if we can get a rise out of him.”

  “Got it.”

  Cho and Simons headed for the door where they took up their regular positions. Greene continued to whisper in Peterson’s ear, but Peterson’s eyes shifted to Cho as he sat down.

  “Where’s Marco?”

  Cho splayed his hand on Peterson’s file. “He’s busy. You get me.”

  “I’d rather talk to Marco.”

  “Why?”

  “We have history. He knows me.”

  Cho glanced at Greene. Greene didn’t give anything away. “Let’s start with me, okay?”

  Peterson slumped back in his chair. “My lawyer says I don’t have to talk to you. You already charged me. What more is there to say?”

  “We know the identity of the John Doe you allegedly shot.”

  Peterson shrugged. “He was an intruder. My wife and me were looking at paint swatches in the guest bedroom…”

  “His name’s Demetri Zonov.”

  Peterson went still.

  “The nephew of your bookie, Eduard.” He opened the file and removed Eduard’s mug shot, placing it in front of Peterson.

  Recognition crossed Peterson’s face. “Bookie? I don’t have a bookie.”

  “Apparently you do because his black Mercedes was seen in your driveway a number of times by your neighbors.”

  Peterson’s brows lowered and he shot a confused look at Greene. “In my driveway?”

  “Your wife gave us your financial records. She’s got you on a tight leash. Is that to keep you from losing everything? What’s your game? Ponies? Craps?” He looked past Peterson to Simons. “I like blackjack. Gets my brain firing.”

  “I hate it. I get confused trying to add all those numbers,” answered Simons. “I like roulette. That way I can lose faster and get out of there for a prime rib dinner.”

  Cho laughed, lowering his eyes to Peterson again. “So, what’s your game, Brad? Maybe you bet on football?”

  Peterson’s gaze rose to his and he ran a hand over his thinning scalp. “Who’d you say I shot?”

  “Demetri Zonov, the nephew of your bookie.”

  “Demetri? I don’t know a Demetri.”

  “Was he shaking you down? Do you owe his uncle or something?”

  Brad reached for the water bottle, his hand trembling. He had a difficult time removing the cap. After he struggled with it for a bit, Greene took it from him and unscrewed it. Cho shot a look over his shoulder at the two-way glass.

  Marco understood the look. “How’d he aim a gun, Adams? How’d he have enough strength to pull the trigger?”

  “Maybe he’s nervous right now.”

  Marco jerked his head at Peterson’s tremors. “Does that look like nerves?”

  Devan sighed. “No. You think Carol shot Zonov?”

  “I don’t know. Why would she let Peterson take the fall?”

  “You gotta get her to talk, D’Angelo.”

  “You want me to question her?”

  “No, we can’t do that.” Devan made a face. “The media’s been hounding me about this case from the moment it landed on your door. If they make the connection between you and Carol…”

  Marco focused on Cho again.

  “Tell me what happened last Thursday, Mr. Peterson,” said Cho, softening his tone.

  “My wife and me were looking at paint swatches in the guest bedroom.”

  “Because you’re going to sell the house?”

  “What?”

  “That’s what she told us. She told us you’re behind on the mortgage and need to sell the house.”

  Peterson’s expression was genuinely confused. “She said what? That’s not true.” He looked at Greene. “We’re not behind. Are we?”

  “It’s been a rough couple of years, Brad.”

  “But we’re not behind on the mortgage, right?”

  “You are.”

  “Why? Why isn’t it being paid?”

  “Because money’s tight right now, Brad. Carol’s trying to free some stuff up, but it takes time.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Where’s my money?”

  “Maybe you spent it on gambling? Maybe you lost a lot and borrowed some from Eduard Zonov?” said Cho.

  “I don’t know Eduard Zonov. I don’t know anyone like that. I don’t have a bookie! I don’t gamble!”

  “But you shot the nephew of a bookie in your house, Brad. Why was he in your house?”

  “I shot an intruder. I heard a noise downstairs and I went to see what it was and I shot an intruder.”

  “That’s the rehearsed story. What really happened, Brad? Did you let Demetri into your house? Maybe he wanted to talk, work out arrangements for payment with you? He came there to negotiate on behalf of his uncle, but things went south and...what?”

  Peterson stared at Cho, his expression anxious, afraid. “My wife and me were looking at paint…”

  “No!” Cho slammed his hand down on the table. “That story’s bullshit. It’s made up. What happened to Demetri Zonov, Brad? Why did he get shot? Who shot him?”

  “I heard an intruder,” said Brad. “I heard an intruder.”

  Greene put his arm across Peterson’s shoulders. “That’s enough, Inspector. You’ve already charged him with the crime. Unless you have something more concrete to ask, we’re leaving.”

  Cho held up a hand and let it fall. “Fine.”

  Greene used his other hand to pull Peterson to his feet. “Let’s go home, Brad. That’s enough for now.”

  “I don’t have a bookie,” said Peterson. “I stopped that a long time ago.”

  “I know. You don’t have to say anything else.” He nudged Peterson toward the door.

  “I don’t have a bookie. Carol said she’d leave if I didn’t stop, so I stopped.”

  “I know. That’s enough though. Don’t say anything more.”

  “We were looking at paint swatches.”

  “That’s right,” said Greene, getting Peterson to the door and stepping out. “You were looking at paint swatches.”

  Peterson’s confused voice trailed off down the hall. Marco ran his fingers along the silver head of his cane, then he turned to Devan, waiting for some direction.

  “I don’t even know what to say,” muttered Devan. “What if you bounce it?”

  “Then the real murderer gets off.”

  “What if the real murderer’s Carol Peterson, D’Angelo?”

  Marco shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

  * * *

  “Peyton, wake up, wake up, honey. It’s okay. I’m here.”

  Peyton jerked awake and found Bambi leaning over her, stroking the hair back from her forehead. She pushed the covers off and rolled to her back, pulling the damp jersey away from her body and fanning herself.

  Bambi took a seat on the edge of her bed, watching her. A bedside lamp cast a faint light in the hotel room.

  “What time is it?” asked Peyton, pushing herself into a sitting position and bracing her back with her pillows.

  Bambi reached for the glass of water on the table and handed it to Peyton. “Just a little before 5:00. Drink this.”

  Peyton took the water and drank, brushing her hand over her forehead to wipe away the sweat. She gave Bambi a questioning look. “Did you just get in?”

  “Yeah, just in time to stop your nightmare.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I should be here at night for you.”

  Peyton shook her head. “That’s not going to do any good. I’ll still have them. The only thing that stopped them was 6’4” and male.”

  “Marco.”

  Peyton nodded.

  “The sex probably helped too.”

  Peyton’s shocked gaze snapped to Bambi’s face, then they both laughed. “Yeah, it helped,” Peyton admitted. She set the glass on the table and fluffed the pillows behind her. �
�So, is this thing with Caleb getting serious?”

  Bambi made a face. “No, we’re just having fun.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Very. He’s got a wife and kid up north, and he lives in England.”

  “He doesn’t have a wife. He’s divorced.”

  “Yeah, but they’re still baggage.”

  “You really don’t ever want to get married and have kids?”

  “No, I do not. Do you want kids?”

  Peyton considered that. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I did, but Marco mentioned having them and it kinda sounded nice with him.”

  Bambi reached out and smoothed back a curl that had escaped Peyton’s braid. “I could see you with kids. You’d be an awesome mother.”

  Peyton smiled. “I don’t know about that, but I think he’d be an awesome father.” She gave Bambi a serious look. “You’ve never met anyone you wanted a long term relationship with?”

  “Not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m friends with all my past lovers. We never part on bad terms. In fact, I meet most of them regularly for lunch or dinner. I just don’t ever want to get tangled up in marriage. Does this shock you?”

  “No, it doesn’t. But I’m not going to lie. It’s hard for me to believe there hasn’t been someone, anyone that meant something more.”

  Bambi shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not wired like that.” She thought for a moment. “Look, sometimes I think it might be nice, you know? Like Radar and his wife, he’s crazy about her and he always has someone there when he comes home. And Tank and the professor, they’re freakin’ adorable, but it makes you vulnerable too. Look at you. I hate seeing you hurting over a man and I can’t help but think that you might have more fun if you just let it go and be more like me.”

  Peyton smiled and pulled the blankets back over her. “The thing about that is that once you’ve met that person, the person that makes you feel whole, makes you feel happy when he’s around...then letting go just isn’t an option.”

  “So are you going to wait forever for him to get his shit together?”

  Peyton shrugged. “I don’t know, but right now, right at this moment, Emma, he’s worth waiting for.”

  * * *

  Marco’s phone rang as he was getting into the Charger. Vinnie’s number flashed at him, so he pressed the speaker button and started the car.

  “Hey, little brother.”

  “Hey, Vinnie, what’s up?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just leaving the precinct.”

  “Did you remember Tonio’s graduation’s tomorrow?”

  Marco closed his eyes briefly and then put the Charger in reverse. “No, I forgot. When did you tell me?”

  “We sent you an invitation.”

  “Where did you send it, Vinnie?”

  Vinnie hesitated and Marco backed the car out of his spot. “Peyton’s house.”

  “She’s in London, Vinnie.”

  “I’m sorry, little brother. We weren’t even thinking. We were in a hurry to get everything out. Can you make it?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

  “Do you want me to send you the information?”

  “No.” He pulled into traffic. “I’m going to her house now. I left Pickles there. I’ll get it.” Besides, he’d left his wallet on the floor beneath the table where it had fallen when he went there the previous night. “So I’m guessing money would be all right for a gift?”

  “You got it. Have you seen the increase in tuition for the UC’s?”

  “Yeah, I heard something about it. He decided on UCLA then?”

  “He did. Rosa’s miserable about him being that far from home, but it has the best program for him.”

  “Great. Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye, little brother.”

  “Bye, Vinnie.” He pulled up to the light and disconnected the call. Pressing the button at the base of the phone, he waited for a beep. “Call Abe.”

  “Calling Abe,” came the mechanical voice.

  “Angel!” came Abe’s voice. In the background, Marco could hear laughter and talking. “Where are you? We’ve got a beautiful Thai feast laid out here.”

  Marco frowned. Was he missing something else he’d promised to do? “What?”

  “It’s poker night, darlin’. Come home and win some money off these fools.”

  Marco made a left turn. “Sorry, Abe. I’m gonna spend the night with Pickles at Peyton’s again. My nephew’s high school graduation is tomorrow and they mailed the invitation to Peyton’s house.”

  “Oh, pooh. Misha was really hoping you’d come. He’s got some great new jokes for you.”

  Marco smiled. “I’m sure he does.”

  “What do you call a gay drive-by?” shouted Misha.

  “What do you call a gay drive-by?” translated Abe.

  “I heard him the first time. I don’t know.”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “A fruit roll-up,” shouted Misha, then erupted into laughter. He wasn’t the only one.

  Marco chuckled. “Tell them I’m sorry. Is Ryder there?”

  “Of course he’s here.”

  Marco rolled his eyes as he pulled the Charger to a stop at the light. “Don’t drink too much.”

  “Really, Angel? Don’t drink too much. Do you know what I’m making for cocktails tonight? The Flaming Volcano.”

  “Wow! I can’t even imagine.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, it’s vodka, simple syrup, a beautiful mix of liqueurs, until you have an orange flavor, and the piece de resistance is an apricot. Now here’s what you do with the apricot…”

  Marco found himself distracted by a car passing by on his left down 19th. It was a blue Volkswagen Jetta with a blond man behind the wheel.

  “You take this apricot and you soak the tip in 150 proof rum, then you light it and the entire top of the drink is engulfed in flames.”

  Marco shifted in the seat, watching the car drive past him. The driver had his hand braced on the window, so Marco couldn’t completely see his face. He turned back and looked in the rearview mirror, trying to memorize the license plate number, but the car disappeared around the corner before he could catch it. Still it seemed familiar.

  “Are you listening to me, Angel?”

  “Yeah, flaming apricots.” He pulled into the suicide lane and the first chance he could, he flipped a U-turn.

  “What’s going on, Angel? You sound distracted.”

  Marco weaved in and out of the traffic, trying to catch up to the Jetta, but after a few blocks, he realized he’d lost him again. He pulled over to the curb and slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

  “Angel?”

  “Abe, do you remember when Peyton called you to look at that clown that fell off his bicycle?”

  “Yeah, I remember. Mike Somethingorother.”

  “Edwards.”

  “Right. What about him?”

  “Do you remember where his apartment was?”

  “Not far from Peyton’s house.”

  “Do you remember exactly where it was?”

  Abe went quiet for a moment. “Why are you asking me that, Angel?”

  “I just want to know.”

  “I don’t remember precisely, no. I might be able to pull up the address on my texting history, but that was a few weeks ago and I’m not sure it’s still there.”

  Marco hit his blinker and pulled back into traffic, easing toward the left lane so he could flip another U-turn. “Don’t worry about it. I can find it myself if I need it.”

  “Why, Angel? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. If he lives by Peyton, it’s probably nothing.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “I think I just saw the idiot driving away from her house, that’s all.”

  “Well, she lives on 19th, Angel. A lot of people drive 19th.”

  “I know. Look, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Enjoy your game.”

 
“I’d enjoy it better if you were here. You know how jealous it makes Misha and Serge to know you’re my sweetie.”

  Marco gave a good natured laugh. “Knock it off.”

  “You aren’t here to defend yourself, sweets. No harm, no foul.”

  “Fine. Talk to you later.”

  “Night, Angel.”

  “Night.” He disconnected the call and drove the rest of the way to Peyton’s house.

  Parking the Charger in the driveway, he climbed out, reaching for his cane and finding the key. Walking up the ramp, he thought everything looked fine. As he fitted the key in the lock, he could hear Pickles barking.

  He pushed open the door and reached in to turn on the lights. Pickles danced around his feet and he bent, picking him up.

  “Hey, little one,” he said, letting Pickles bathe his face with kisses. Moving to the sofa table, he started to drop his keys on it, but his hand stilled. His wallet lay in the middle of the table, not on the floor where he’d left it. Reaching for his gun, he yanked it out and settled Pickles on the couch. “Stay!” he told him.

  Pickles immediately sat down, his ears cocked, while Marco made a pass through the house, checking the rooms, the closets and forcing himself to get on his hands and knees to look under the beds. Coming back into the main room, he holstered his gun and shut the door, picking Pickles up again, then he reached for his phone.

  “What’s up?” came Jake’s voice.

  “I need you to come to Peyton’s house with your CSI kit.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “I just need you to dust for fingerprints.”

  “Is everything all right, Adonis?”

  “Fine. Just come, okay?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in a bit.”

  Marco moved to the barstools and leaned against one, holding the dog and surveying the scene. About fifteen minutes later, Jake arrived with Abe. Marco didn’t know why Jake had brought the medical examiner, but he didn’t have time to question him.

  “What’s up?” asked Jake.

  Marco filled him in on what happened, how he’d dropped the wallet beneath the sofa table the previous night, how he’d thought he saw Mike Edwards driving away from Peyton’s house, how he’d come in to find his wallet on the table, not the floor.