“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”
She rolled to her back and looked up at him. He smoothed the curls away from her face where they’d caught on her dried tears. “Don’t you think we should talk about this?”
He bent his head and kissed her, lingering on her lips. Peyton wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down to her. After a moment, he drew away and searched her eyes. “No, I think we should have make-up sex and tomorrow we should stay in bed all day, eating junk food.”
“Marco…”
He kissed her again, then trailed his lips down to her throat, working the jersey upward. She knew they should discuss it, but right now, she didn’t think talking could do more healing than making love.
CHAPTER 12
Peyton slipped on her suit pants and tucked in her shirt. Marco opened his eyes and watched her for a moment, then he rolled to his back and sat up, combing his hands through his hair. Glancing at the bedside clock, he tented his knees and braced his head with his hands.
“It’s 7:00, Peyton. I thought we were spending the weekend in bed.”
“I have to meet Radar at work, then we’re headed for Sacramento to see a judge about a couple of warrants. I shouldn’t be home late.” She went to the bed and kissed him. “I’ll feed Pickles and walk him before I go. Go back to sleep.”
He sank against the pillows. She could sense his disappointment, but she didn’t have time to discuss it right now.
“Mom wants us to come over for dinner tomorrow night.”
Dinner on Sunday at the D’Angelo’s was a ritual she usually enjoyed, but they needed to work through some things between them.
“We didn’t go last week, remember?”
Peyton hesitated as she reached for her jacket. “Yeah, that’s right. Tell her we’ll be there.”
He nodded and closed his eyes. She climbed on the bed and leaned over him. “We need to talk when I come home.”
He groaned and looked up at her. “I hate those words.”
She kissed him. “I know, but it’s still happening.”
He sank his hand in her loose, damp hair and pulled her in for another kiss. “Stay with me now and you can talk all you want.”
She extricated herself, gathering her hair into a ponytail. “No, later.”
After taking care of Pickles, she drove her Prius to the FBI office. Radar met her in the parking lot by the Suburban. He clicked open the doors and slid his sunglasses in place. “We’ve got a meeting with Arielle Tran from the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Sacramento at 10:00. She’s going over the documentation I sent her and then we’re going to see the judge about the warrants. He’s playing golf until noon or so.”
“Where are Tank and Bambi?”
“They’ve got the day off.”
“Why don’t I?”
“You’re the one that wants to dig up dead people and search old lady’s farms. I also want you there when we tell Agnes her son is dead.”
Peyton slumped in her seat. She knew she was the rookie and therefore could expect some shit work, but she and Marco had a lot they needed to work out right now and she’d rather be home.
She and Radar didn’t talk much on the ride to Sacramento. She was preoccupied with how she was going to approach Marco’s drinking without having a horrible fight and Radar was preoccupied, probably, with how he was going to convince a judge to dig up a zombie.
“Radar, you married?”
“Why?”
“Just conversation. You ask me about my life all the time. Can’t I ask you about yours?”
“Yes, I’m married. I’ve been married for twenty years.”
“Wow! Any kids?”
“Nope. Two cats.”
Cats? Hm, that surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to have cats. “I have a dog. Yorkshire terrier. His name’s Pickles.”
Radar glanced at her, but she couldn’t see his expression behind his shades.
“Your cats have names?”
“Yep.” That and nothing more.
“I like cats. I’ve never had any, but I like the idea.”
“You like the idea?”
“Yeah, I mean they’re independent and all that. You can leave them overnight and not worry about them, but my dog is even better. He knows what I’m thinking.”
Radar gave a laugh. “Of course he does.”
“What does that mean?”
“If anyone would have a psychic dog, it’d be you, Sparky.”
She fell silent and looked out the windows. After a while, she asked, “Your wife have a name?”
“Yep.”
Okay, then.
They reached Sacramento at 9:45. The U.S. Attorney’s office was located on I Street in a rectangular white building with a lot of windows. It was one block from the county jail and three blocks from the county courthouse.
Arielle Tran waited for them in her office. No one else seemed to be working. She was a few inches taller than Peyton with sleek black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, a navy blue business suit, and very red lipstick. Her eyes were made up with heavy swipes of eyeliner and her eyelids were a smoky grey color. She would have been pretty, but the makeup made her intimidating.
So did her crisp mannerisms. As soon as they entered the office, she crossed the lobby, holding out her hand for Radar. “Arielle Tran,” she said, grabbing his hand and giving it a vigorous shake. In her four inch heels, she was nearly as tall as he was.
“Special Agent Carlos Moreno. This is my team member, Special Agent Peyton Brooks.”
She jabbed her hand at Peyton. “Pleased to meet you.”
Peyton offered her own hand. Arielle yanked her shoulder up and down, then abruptly released her, turning to grab her briefcase off a counter. She shoved a bunch of files into it and snapped it closed. Peyton craned her neck to see what she kept inside. Her own briefcase currently rested in an office she seldom used with a month-old copy of People inside it.
“Shall we go?”
“Go?” asked Radar. “Did you review the documents I sent you?”
“I did. You want a warrant to dig up Roy Harwood, Senior, and a warrant to search the Harwood Farm. Your evidence is mainly circumstantial and anecdotal, which is going to make this particularly difficult to sell. We need as much time as we can to convince Judge Tabor to grant your request. I can tell you right now, Agent Moreno, I think it’s highly unlikely, given that your main suspect has been in the hospital for nearly a year, dying.”
“Of a prion disease,” offered Peyton.
“That’s your single bit of evidence, and even then, it’s thin.”
“Thin?”
“Thin like wax paper. I got the autopsy report. The doctor, Morehouse I believe, states that they think he contracted the prion disease from beef, in other words, Mad Cow Disease.”
“Then how do you explain the three dead bodies with their brains eaten?” asked Peyton, trying to tamp down her irritation.
“I can’t, but it would be nice if you’d found the murder weapon.”
“We need to search the Harwood Farm for that.”
Radar held up a hand. “Look, where are we going if you think our evidence is thin?”
“To see Judge Tabor.”
“Why are we seeing him? No disrespect, Ms. Tran, but that’s your job.”
She slipped the strap of her briefcase on her shoulder, hesitating. “He said he wanted to meet you.”
“He wants to meet us?”
“Right.”
“Why?”
She gave a huff of impatience. “He said, and I quote, he wanted to meet the agents who think they’re zombie hunters.”
Radar gave Peyton a glare.
“I thought you said he was golfing until noon.”
“He is. We’re meeting him at the golf course. Can we please go? We’ll take your car.”
They backtracked to the Suburban and Arielle gave them directions to Judge Tabor’s golf course. T
eal Bend was located along the Sacramento River on a levee road fancifully called the Garden Highway, a pretty winding stretch of road lined in heritage oaks with the river peeking through on one side.
Rather than go onto the green, they found the judge eating lunch in the Teal Bend Grill, a nicely appointed restaurant with flat screen televisions arranged around the seating area so patrons could watch any number of sporting events as they ate.
Judge Tabor was sitting alone, a grey haired, balding man in his late sixties wearing a golf polo shirt in yellow with brightly striped golf pants in khaki and red. He was eating a hamburger and drinking a beer.
Arielle walked up to him and offered her hand. He looked at her hand, then looked at the hamburger and ignored her. She snapped her hand to her side. “Judge Tabor, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. This is Special Agents Moreno and Brooks.”
“Got it. Sit down. You’re blocking my view of the game.”
Peyton glanced over her shoulder and saw he was watching the start of the baseball game. She and Radar took seats, while Arielle perched on the edge of her chair, taking a file out of her briefcase and settling it next to the judge’s plate.
“We have all the documentation here just awaiting your signature,” she said brightly, patting the file.
The judge took another bite, chewing vigorously. “Tell me again why we’re bothering an old woman whose son just died.”
“Agents Moreno and Brooks would like a warrant to search the woman’s farm for the murder weapon believed to have been used in a triple homicide.”
“And why do we think the murder weapon’s on the farm?”
“They believe the woman’s son may have been part of an anthropophagy...um, ritual.”
“Anthropophagy ritual?” He gave Arielle a disbelieving look. “What the hell is that?”
“Zombie cult,” said Peyton.
Radar made a choking sound.
Judge Tabor’s eyes swung to Peyton. They were a watery blue. “Zombie cult?”
Peyton started to answer, but Arielle shot out a hand to stop her. “The son died of a prion disease, which is most often acquired by eating humans.”
“He died where again?”
“Stanford Hospital.”
“Do the doctors at Stanford say he ate people?”
Arielle gave a tense smile and tilted her head. “They aren’t sure where he got the disease.”
“Where do they think?”
“Cow,” said Peyton.
The judge’s gaze swung back to her again. Then he set down his hamburger. “Cow? So why are we bothering the old lady again?”
“You see, Your Honor,” began Arielle.
He shook his head. “Nope. You tell me.” He pointed at Peyton.
She swallowed hard and glanced at Radar. He gave her a warning look. “We’ve interviewed everyone involved in the case. Every person we’ve interviewed has pointed to Old Man Harwood as our zombie killer.”
“Old Man Harwood?”
“Roy Harwood, Senior,” said Arielle.
“That’s what the second warrants for? You want to dig him up too?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” began Arielle, “you see, we believe…”
“Nope. Still you.” He pointed at Peyton again. “You speak my language.”
Peyton gave him a smile. “Everyone we’ve interviewed has said Old Man Harwood was probably our zombie killer.”
“Why?”
“He exhibited symptoms of prion disease – erratic temper, inability to swallow, slurred speech. Over and over again, we’ve heard how he would go into a rage, cussing so badly that no one could understand what he said. Towards the end of his life, he became very weak and unstable on his feet, tremors.”
“What’d his autopsy say?”
“There wasn’t one. He died at home. His wife, Agnes, said it was cancer. The family doctor signed the death certificate and he was buried.”
“How long ago?”
“Three years.”
“Then his son gets sick?”
“Right. He goes for treatment, but there’s no treatment for prion disease. Only death.”
“And you want to dig up...what you call him?”
“Old Man Harwood.”
“Old Man Harwood to prove he had a prion disease.”
“Yes.”
“What’s that gonna prove? Why couldn’t they have gotten it from the same mad cow?”
“Two of the bodies were found on their property, both with their brains eaten.”
Judge Tabor wrapped his hand around his chin. “I thought one of the bodies was found two weeks ago.”
“It was.”
“But Old Man Harwood’s dead and buried.”
“As far as we know.”
The judge hesitated, then gave Peyton a smile. Peyton returned it.
“And the son was dying in the hospital at Stanford?”
“Right.”
“How do you explain the last death then, Agent Brooks?”
“I can’t, which is why I need to get on that farm.”
“You think there’s a third zombie killer?”
“I do.”
Radar lowered his head.
“Is it Agnes?”
“The two bodies found on the farm had their thighs ripped out, then their skulls crushed. Someone peeled back a part of the skull to get at the brains. Both bodies were male.” Peyton shook her head. “I just can’t see how Agnes has the strength to do any of those things.”
“So who does that leave?”
“I don’t know, Your Honor, but if we find the murder weapons, the curved blade that did the damage to the thighs or the blunt instrument used on the skulls, we might be able to get Agnes to tell us something.”
He sat back in his chair and scratched his forehead. “I hate digging up dead people. I hate desecrating graves.”
Peyton waited for him to continue.
“I hate that almost as much as I hate upsetting old ladies.”
Peyton chewed on her upper lip.
Judge Tabor leaned forward on the table. “Okay. Here’s how we’re going to work this. I’ll give you the warrant to dig up Old Man Harwood. If he has a prion disease and that’s a big if, I’ll let you search the Harwood Farm, but I want to know the old man had it too. If it was just the boy, we’re gonna assume he got it from cow and you’re gonna look elsewhere for your killer, understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If he has it, I’ll give you the warrant to search the farm.” He motioned at Arielle. “Give me the exhumation order.”
She scrambled to get it.
“Who’s telling Agnes her son died?”
“We were going to do it.”
“Let the local cops do that. I don’t want you upsetting her twice unless it’s absolutely necessary. Bad enough to tell an old woman her son is dead, but it’ll be a whole lot worse if we have to tear apart her farm to prove her son was a zombie killer. I just ain’t looking forward to that no amount at all.”
* * *
Marco wasn’t sure what to do with himself once Peyton left. He took Pickles for another walk, but that was pure torture, so he drove over to the gym and tried to work out. By the time he got home, he felt like he could probably do his own amputation if he had enough Jack.
Opening the nightstand drawer, he took a swig, then closed it, hobbling to the bathroom for a shower. Pickles watched him, his head tilted.
“Don’t judge me,” he told the dog, pointing his finger at him. Pickles wagged his tail. Marco had to admit Pickles didn’t do much judging, but Peyton was another matter. He dreaded having the talk Peyton wanted to have, but he knew he owed her something for the way he acted the previous night.
Taking a shower, he puttered about the house, but the continual ache in his leg kept him thinking about the bottle in his nightstand, so he grabbed his keys and went to the Charger. He didn’t know where to go. He could go to Jake’s apartment and watch the baseball game with him, but
Jake always wanted to talk.
He could go see Abe, but then Abe would start hounding him about calling the orthopedic surgeon at Stanford. Abe could be as bad as Peyton when he got something to fuss over. And he wasn’t up to fending off Abe’s flirtation today.
That left him with his brother Vinnie.
He drove to Vinnie’s house. Vinnie’s wife, Rosa, answered the door, her face lighting up as she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. “You haven’t been over here for a long time. Come in.” She looked beyond him for Peyton. His family seemed to like Peyton more than they did him. Truth was right now, he liked Peyton a whole lot more than he liked himself too.
“She’s working.”
Her face fell. “Oh, I was hoping we could talk wedding stuff.”
“Sorry. I’m all you get.”
She hooked her arm through his and led him into the living room. Vinnie and his son, Antonio, were sitting in front of the television, watching the game. Vinnie rose when he saw him, coming forward to grab him in a bear hug. Marco raised a hand to Antonio and the boy returned the gesture.
Vinnie clapped both hands on his shoulders. “I’m glad you came over.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”
“You never have to call. Come on, sit down.”
Antonio slid to the other end of the couch, giving Marco the spot closest to Vinnie’s armchair. Rosa disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two beers, passing one to Marco and his brother.
“Can I have one?” Antonio asked.
“Not even for a moment.” She laid a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Will you stay for dinner?”
“No, Peyton said she’d be home early.”
“Okay. If you need anything just let me know, I’ll be in the garden.”
Marco nodded and squeezed her hand. She bustled from the room and he turned his attention to the television, sipping the beer. Shifting so he could stretch out his leg, he absently rubbed at his thigh.
They watched the game in silence for a while, then Vinnie cleared his throat. “So, how’s the new job?”
Marco glanced at him. “Fine.”
“Fine? Last time I talked to you, you didn’t have many cases.”
Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Page 20