Werewolves in London (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Roger Hammersley,” he said, shaking first Radar’s hand, then Peyton’s. His palm was damp and clammy. Peyton resisted the impulse to scrub it on her pants.

  To the left of the desk were a row of steel filing cabinets, some of the drawers open and the papers hanging out. On top of the filing cabinets were magazine holders with files in them. Behind Hammersley’s desk was a map of the tube lines and over the door a metal sign with a red circle and a blue band crossing through the center of it, reading UNDERGROUND. A small model of a tube train lay across the front of his desk.

  “Please have a seat,” he said, indicating two metal chairs with blue cushions across from him.

  They sat down, then Radar reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the warrant Caleb had given him. “I’m Special Agent Carlos Moreno and this is my partner, Special Agent Brooks.” He held the warrant out to him.

  Hammersley took it and smiled at Peyton. “Nice to meet you bouf,” he said, unfolding the paper and scanning it. He reached for a pair of glasses, perched them on his nose, and went back to reading. “Terrible about the murders, innit?”

  “Yes,” said Radar.

  Hammersley folded the warrant and handed it back to Radar. “Looks in order. What is it you’re wanting to know?”

  “Charlie Howsham worked here?”

  “For around six monfs.”

  “Six months, right. You fired him.”

  “We sacked him, right.”

  “Can you tell me why?”

  He rose to his feet and went to the filing cabinet, pulling open a drawer and searching for a file. He carried it back to the desk and opened it. “Jus’ refreshing me memory,” he said, smiling at Peyton again. He read through the file for a few moments, flipping pages and pooching out his full, wet lips.

  Peyton couldn’t stand watching him, so she studied the model train instead. Reaching forward, she touched the lead car, but Radar curled his hand around hers and brought it down, smiling at Hammersley.

  Peyton shot him a glare, then folded her hands in her lap to resist the temptation.

  “Not a bad worker, he was. On-time, stayed late. He’d cover ofer people’s shifts.”

  “And yet you fired...I mean, sacked him.”

  “He lost it. Chased down fis woman on fa platform, begging her to go for a pint wif him. Scared her half to def.”

  Radar exchanged a look with Peyton.

  “What did the woman look like? Do you know?”

  “‘Course I know. She came in and filed a complaint, she did. Sat right in fat chair.”

  “Can you give us a description?”

  Hammersley looked down at his file. “Don’ know what fat will prove?”

  “It helps.”

  He tilted back his head as if he was trying to pull the memory forward. “Blond, young, mid-twenties. Pretty.”

  Peyton forced a smile. “Can you give us her name?”

  “I guess fat won’t hurt.” He searched through the file again, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen.

  “Has Charlie been back here since he was sacked?”

  “I don’ know,” said Hammersley, busy searching the file for the young woman’s name. “People come and go. Not so’s I keep track of fem, mind you. I’m a busy man.”

  “I’m sure you are.”

  “Now, what was her name?” He tapped the pen against his fleshy lip. “What was it? I’m sure I wrote it down.”

  Peyton extended her left hand, the one farthest from Radar, and touched the last car on the train. It tilted on its wheels and tumbled off the desk, dragging the rest of the cars with it. Peyton tried to catch them, but they separated and a couple landed on the floor.

  Hammersley looked up from his file and frowned at her. Peyton could see Radar’s jaw square as he ground his teeth. She set the cars in her hands on the desk and gave Hammersley a sheepish grin.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said.

  He laughed. “I fink you owe me a date.” Then he winked.

  Peyton’s alarmed gaze snapped to Radar’s face, but he refused to look at her.

  “You wouldn’t survive it, Mr. Hammersley,” he said wryly, “of that you can be sure.”

  * * *

  “Hello, baby,” said Maria, opening the door of the pleasant rancher that Cho owned in South San Francisco. She rose on tiptoes and kissed Marco’s cheek. Marco held the flowers out to her. She took them and sniffed, giving him a pleased smile. “They’re lovely. You didn’t have to bring anything.”

  “I was going to bring wine, then…” He gave a helpless shrug.

  “Come in, baby.”

  She stepped back and welcomed him into a boxy living room with a very ornate velvet sofa, a black lacquered coffee table, and a baby grand piano. The piano was positioned before the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the front yard. To the right was a formal dining room with a black lacquered table and white upholstered chairs.

  Maria caught his speculative look. “This is the formal part of the house, Nathan’s part of the house,” she emphasized. “The rest reflects my more ethnic tastes.”

  He gave an amused nod and followed her down a short hallway toward the back of the house. She made a quick right into a large kitchen with red chili peppers hanging from the ceiling and burnt orange walls. Brilliantly colored plates and pottery ringed the room, sitting on the tops of cabinets and shelves someone had affixed over the kitchen table. The smell of onions, garlic and chilies filled Marco’s nostrils and he took a deep breath. Besides the pancakes this morning, he’d been eating most of his meals out of the freezer.

  Marta, Maria’s sister, left the stove and came over to him, giving him a saucy once-over. A chili pepper apron struggled to contain her ripe assets. “Tell me you’re single, baby,” she purred, running her long-nailed hand down his chest.

  Maria removed her hand. “He’s taken,” she told her, turning her bodily and pushing her toward the stove. “That’s the joy of having an older sister,” she told Marco.

  Marta waved over her shoulder at him and Marco couldn’t help but smile.

  “She’s divorced with two kids, and she’s horny. You stay away from that one, baby.”

  He gave a nod of agreement. Maria laid the flowers on the kitchen table and reached for a bright piece of pottery. “Go around there. The boys are working in the family room.”

  Marco wasn’t sure what that meant, but he did as Maria instructed, walking around the refrigerator. Marta made smooching noises behind him, but he ignored her. Beyond the refrigerator was an archway that led to a wood paneled living room, piled from floor to ceiling with wedding paraphernalia. Jake and Abe sat on the floor in front of a wooden plank coffee table, fussing with little bits of netting and ribbons. Cho sat on a run-down leather couch, studying some diagram, his lips twisted in frustration.

  They all looked up at the same time. Only Abe seemed to be enjoying his task. Whatever Jake had looked like he’d used it to blow his nose and Cho was alternately eyeing a pair of scissors and a roll of iridescent ribbon.

  “Hey, Captain,” he said, dropping everything and jumping to his feet. “Come in, come in.”

  Marco looked around. It was as if a wedding had crawled in here to die. There were place settings and linens, fabric swatches and fake flowers.

  “Look, Adonis, I made my first wedding favor.”

  Marco looked at the mess in Jake’s hand and grimaced. “Has Maria seen that?”

  Jake’s expression fell. “I’m just now getting the hang of it. You gotta burn some muffins before you get a dozen.”

  “You should have that inscribed on your apron and heels.”

  “Why would I inscribe something on my heels?” Jake asked, giving him a look that said he was daft.

  “He’s insulting your manhood, Jakey,” said Abe, pursing his lips and holding up a perfect favor.

  “I know he is. He’s threatened by the fact that I’m a renaissance man.”

  “You’re right, Jakey, he is.” Abe s
miled over at Marco. “So, Angel, come sit next to me and I’ll teach you how to zhuzh it up.”

  “I don’t want to zhuzh it up, I don’t even want to know what zhuzhing is.”

  Cho gave the pile of netting a wistful look. “I wish I didn’t know what zhuzhing was. Or tulle or décolletage.”

  Marco couldn’t help but laugh.

  Maria poked her head around the archway. “Nathan, darlin’...”

  “I’m zhuzhing,” he said, holding up the netting. “See, I’m zhuzhing.”

  She gave him a strange look. “Okay, I was just going to tell you that your phone’s ringing.”

  “Oh.” He hurried into the other room.

  Marco took a seat on the sofa, leaning his cane against the arm. “What are you putting in the favors?”

  Abe grabbed another square of the netting and laid it out. “A couple of Jordan almonds.” He dropped some pink colored almond into the middle of the square. “A few sprinkles of this delightful metal confetti.” He showered the almonds with sparkly bits of paper. “A heart-shaped bottle opener with Cho and Maria’s names on it. And then you tie it all up with this delightful pink shimmer ribbon.” He gathered the ends together, expertly tied it with a bow, and then fluffed out the top. “Finally a quick zhuzh and wa-la, you’re done.”

  Marco gave a chin nod.

  “Now for your wedding, I had something much grander planned. I found these delightful little bottles of…”

  “Captain.”

  Marco looked over to see Cho standing in the archway.

  “That was Simons. He got a call from dispatch. There’s been an explosion at Petersons’ house.”

  “What?”

  “Fire crews are on the way over and the local police are on scene.”

  “Petersons’ house in San Francisco or Woodside?”

  “Woodside.”

  “Were the Petersons in the house?” He rose to his feet, grabbing his cane.

  “I don’t know yet. Simons is in route and he’s been trying to get ahold of the Woodside police, but he doesn’t know much.”

  “Do you want me to come, Adonis?”

  “No, stay here. This’ll likely be taken over by ATF, but keep your phone close in case I do need you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Be careful, Angel,” called Abe.

  They both rose and followed Marco and Cho into the kitchen. Marco grabbed his keys and gave Maria a quick hug. “Sorry about dinner.”

  “Don’t you worry about it, baby,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Just take care of yourself and my man.”

  Cho stopped to kiss her goodbye, then they were heading for the door.

  “I’ll drive,” said Marco, “Get me directions.”

  “On it,” said Cho, pulling out his phone.

  They were silent for the ride to Woodside. Cho spent a lot of the time trying to get information from dispatch, but except for a verification that the Petersons were indeed in the house during the explosion, he got nothing else.

  Marco could see the black smoke rising through the redwood trees before he got to the house. Flashing lights played through the gathering darkness and as they turned on Peterson’s street, they were stopped by a uniform.

  Marco rolled down the Charger’s window and showed him his badge. “Captain Marco D’Angelo from the SFPD.”

  The young man tipped the hat back on his head. He was about Bartlet’s age with wavy blond hair. “We got word you were on your way. Go through. It’s the last house at the end of the street.”

  “Has anyone located the Petersons?”

  “From what I’ve heard they’re fine. They were in the back of the house, but Peterson’s cherry F-150 is toast.”

  Marco felt something ease in his chest. “It was the car that exploded, not the house.”

  “Yeah. I haven’t gotten much, but based on radio chatter, it sounds like someone planted a bomb under the axle. As far as I can tell, it was on a timer.”

  “Was anyone hurt?” asked Cho.

  “No. Did some damage to the front of the house, scared the piss out of a few neighbors, but mostly it was just property loss.”

  “Thanks,” said Marco, then he drove up the street. “Rosa warned me about this.”

  “What?” asked Cho.

  Marco glanced at him. “She told me Eduard Zonov gets revenge in explosive ways.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah, I’m done playing softball with Brad.”

  They had to park a block away from the massive rustic mansion, hidden in a grove of towering redwood trees. The long front drive was filled with fire trucks, police cars, and ATF SUVs. Marco eyed the distance, then clenched his jaw and got out. He and Cho walked to the house and stood, staring at the twisted metal remains of Peterson’s pick-up.

  A sheriff’s deputy detached himself from a huddle of firemen and made his way over to them. Marco held up his badge.

  The deputy inclined his head. “Captain, SFPD, huh?”

  “Yeah, D’Angelo and Cho.” Marco motioned between them. “We’ve been investigating a shooting on Peterson’s property on Nob Hill.”

  He nodded. “I heard about it. Let me introduce you to Special Agent Donaldson from the ATF.”

  “Thank you.”

  They followed the deputy to the house. A man in a black suit had just stepped out, giving instructions to a couple of uniforms.

  “Special Agent Donaldson, this is Captain D’Angelo from the SFPD.”

  Donaldson held out his hand and Marco shook it. “Nice to meet you. Both Petersons have been asking for you.”

  Marco exchanged a look with Cho. “Neither one of them are hurt?”

  “No. They weren’t even the ones to call it in. A neighbor did.”

  “Do they have security cameras on the front of the house?” Marco nodded to the ornately carved rafters and posts of the wide front porch.

  “They didn’t have them on. They turn them on when they go to bed, but one of the neighbors reported seeing a black Mercedes in front of the house a few hours ago.”

  “Did they get a license plate number on the Mercedes?” asked Cho.

  “‘Fraid not.” He motioned between them. “You both looked like you recognized something when I mentioned the car.”

  “We think Peterson’s mixed up with Eduard Zonov.”

  Now Donaldson’s face lit with recognition. “Really?”

  “You know him?”

  “I know of him. I’ve seen his work, although we’ve never been able to pin a damn thing on him. He likes a lot of flash. Enough to do serious damage, even kill, but it leaves no trace evidence. How’s Peterson mixed up with him?”

  “We’ve identified his nephew as the man shot in Peterson’s house on Nob Hill.”

  Donaldson filed that away. “Zonov’s a nasty piece of work.”

  “Yeah, we’re getting that.”

  “He and all-American Peterson don’t exactly run in the same circles. How would a guy like Peterson come across his nephew?”

  Cho looked out at the motion behind them. News trucks were beginning to arrive.

  “We think Zonov was Peterson’s bookie.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense.” He motioned to the massive carved oak front door. “Come on. Peterson won’t talk to me. He’s a hot mess, I can tell you.”

  “I’ll go look at the truck,” said Cho, “and meet you inside.”

  Marco nodded agreement, then followed the ATF agent into the cavernous entrance of the house. Although the furnishings were rustic looking, he knew they had to be worth thousands. Strange antler shaped chandeliers, horse-hair sofas, wagon wheels with gilded edges filled the interior.

  “It’s like western hell,” muttered Donaldson.

  Marco chuckled as they wended their way to the back. When they came to salon doors blocking off the family room, Donaldson looked over at Marco and rolled his eyes. Marco followed him into a massive room with an entire wall dedicated to a flat screen television, over-stuffed leather couches,
and floor lamps with green glass shades.

  “Marco,” said Carol. She was sitting on one of the couches, while a paramedic took her blood pressure. She held out her hand. He took it and glanced up to where Brad was pacing before a western style bar, a highball glass in his hand. He stopped pacing and turned to face them, his expression stark.

  “Did you see what they did to my truck?” He jabbed a finger toward the front of the house.

  “I did. Look, Brad, why don’t you put the drink down and come sit next to your wife?” He released Carol.

  “It’s just twisted metal. That was my favorite truck. That was the truck I had when I signed with the Bills.”

  “No, it wasn’t, Brad. We bought that truck last year.”

  He frowned at her, then lifted the drink and drained the rest. Turning his back on them, he faced the bar, setting the glass on its surface. He stood there, his hands resting on either side of the glass. Donaldson gave Marco a telling look.

  Marco took a seat on the coffee table in front of Carol. The paramedic was finishing up, packing up his medical bag. “Carol, I need to know what happened.”

  “I don’t know. We were just getting ready to watch a movie, when we heard this loud explosion.”

  Marco was distracted as Peterson filled his glass again and sipped at it, his back still to the room.

  “We ran outside, but the truck was already gone.”

  “Did you call 911?”

  “I did, but someone had beat me to it.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual, hear anything before this happened?”

  “Nothing, Marco. Who would do something like this?”

  Marco scratched at his forehead. “Do you know Eduard Zonov, Carol?” He kept his eyes focused on Peterson. He could see his shoulders stiffen at the name.

  “I’ve never heard that name before,” Carol said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. What’s this about?”

  Peterson lowered his head.

  Marco rose and walked over to him. He was staring into the glass, swirling the liquid around.