Murder on Potrero Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 1)

by Hamilton, M. L.

  Peyton reached for her milkshake and placed the straw in her mouth, slurping deliberately.

  Maria offered her a smirk. “See ya later, Marco baby,” she purred.

  He gave a playful jerk of the head with just his chin.

  Peyton wrinkled her nose at him. “Really? You’re all kinds of badboy, aren’t ya, Marco baby.”

  Marco laughed. “You jealous, Brooks?”

  Peyton reached for the file. “Yeah, I was thinking of asking Maria out myself,” she said.

  Marco laughed again.

  Peyton scowled as she read the report, then pushed it across the desk to Marco’s side. “This is the shit I hate,” she commented. “Why do men always gotta off their wives?”

  Marco frowned and reached for the file.

  * * *

  Jake passed a twenty over the seat to the cab driver and opened the door, climbing out. He shut the door and looked up at the imposing façade of the Harpers’ mansion. It sported four white columns and a circular set of stairs leading up to the wide front porch, topped by a balcony overlooking the front yard. The mansion was box-shaped, constructed of brown stones trimmed in white molding.

  The cab sped off as Jake moved to the gate in the walk and pushed it open. He passed under the arbor covered by a white climbing rose and moved up the stone walkway toward the door. Jogging up the stairs, he passed between the columns and rang the doorbell.

  He could hear voices behind the double doors and then the door on the right opened. Claire peered out.

  “Jake,” she said, stepping back. “Come inside.”

  Jake moved into the marble floored entrance. To the left rose the ornate circular staircase. Coming down the stairs was Brandon Dixon. Jake stopped and waited for the man to descend.

  “You remember Brandon Dixon from next door,” said Claire, motioning to the man.

  Jake frowned. With his short cropped brown hair, khaki pants, and polo shirt, Brandon looked every bit the privileged Pacific Heights resident.

  Brandon held out his hand. Reluctantly Jake accepted it only to feel like his bones were being ground together. He hated men who shook hands like that. There were always men who felt they had to show their machismo through their grip.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Brandon, but the words lacked any real warmth.

  Jake wasn’t going to discuss Zoë with this man. He gave him a nod.

  Claire hovered in the background. “Brandon came by to bring some food. There’s so much food in the kitchen I won’t have to cook for weeks.”

  Jake studied her. The kitchen was in the back of the house on the main floor. Brandon had been coming down the stairs. What the hell was she talking about?

  He dismissed it. He didn’t really care. Although, he thought it ironic that Claire mentioned cooking. As far as Jake knew, Claire had never cooked in her life.

  “I’ll just be going. Call if you need anything, Claire,” said Brandon, touching her shoulder.

  She gave him a tired smile and he walked to the door, pulling it closed behind him. After he was gone, Claire motioned to the parlor and led the way.

  “Would you like something to drink? Tea or something?”

  “No,” said Jake, taking a seat in the wing backed chair before the front window. Claire always entertained in this room. Besides the chair where he sat, there were three other wing backed chairs in striped, white linen arranged around a cherry wood table with a tray rim. On the wall directly across from the window was a grand piano, a beautiful, glistening black instrument that Jake had never heard played. A Persian rug in muted blue and white tones covered the marble tiles, and floor to ceiling curtains in shimmering silver satin framed the large bay window.

  Usually, Claire had a maid who opened doors and served drinks, but she seemed to be the only one home at the moment. Jake tried to remember the maid’s name, but couldn’t. It was Juanita or something.

  Claire settled into a chair across from him. “How are you doing?”

  Jake shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about Zoë with her mother either. He wasn’t sure he’d ever want to talk about Zoë again, but he didn’t have much choice. They needed to finalize the funeral arrangements.

  “I was wondering if you have any news about…” Jake’s voice failed him and he cleared his throat. “…about Zoë.”

  Claire always sat on the very edge of a chair as if she was prepared to spring up at any second. She wore a tailored skirt and blouse with a string of pearls. Her blond hair was pulled up in back and clipped with a pearl comb. She had on a pair of red pumps and her wedding ring glimmered from her manicured hand.

  “There’s a small problem,” she said, clasping her hands tightly together. “Zoë’s body has been moved to the Medical Examiner’s office for the autopsy.”

  “What? I thought the autopsy was being performed at the hospital.”

  Claire wrung her hands. “I thought so too, but when I called this morning, they told me she’d been moved. Something about her age and the fact she lost the baby…”

  Jake looked down. The rug had swirls of blue in it, some of them almost forming butterflies in the weaving. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” he said quietly.

  Claire didn’t immediately answer, then she rose to her feet and walked into the entryway. Jake leaned forward and watched her as she crossed to the coat rack beside the door. Her green, leather handbag hung from one of the hooks and she reached inside, pulling out a brochure. She carried it back to the parlor and handed it to Jake.

  Jake turned it over in his hands. Cremation. He dropped the brochure on the tray table and sat back in the chair, letting his hands dangle over the sides. “That’s what you want done?”

  Claire took her seat again, smoothing out the sleek lines of her skirt. Her eyes lowered to the brochure and she nodded, vigorously. “I think it’s best. Zoë would want that. More environmentally sound.”

  Jake had to admit Claire was probably right; still it bothered him to think about it. And yet, he figured it wouldn’t matter what they did with Zoë, it was bound to bother him.

  “I’ve made all the arrangements. Everything’s ready to go as soon as they release her body.”

  “Did they give you any indication when they’d do that?”

  “No, but I’ll call over there again tomorrow and demand to talk to the Chief Medical Examiner. There’s no excuse for this. She’s Blake Harper’s daughter. She deserves more dignity than she’s getting. I don’t sit on the board of two hospitals for nothing.”

  Jake didn’t doubt that Claire would have more sway than he did. He slid forward, prepared to go. It bothered him that Zoë had been moved to the Medical Examiner’s office. He hated to think of more people cutting into her, probing her. He wanted her to have peace. He hesitated and gripped the arms of the chair. This wasn’t the only reason he’d come out to Pacific Heights.

  “Claire, have you been to see Blake since Zoë…since she died?”

  “I went yesterday.”

  Jake’s fingers tightened. “Did you tell Blake about Zoë?”

  “Tell him?” Claire gave Jake a look that said he’d lost his mind. “Jake, Blake is comatose. He doesn’t know we’re even there.”

  “What if he does? What if some part of him is aware? Don’t you think he should know about his daughter? Don’t you think he’d want to know?”

  Claire didn’t answer for a moment. Her features hardened and her eyes narrowed. When she spoke, Jake had never heard her voice so cold. “No, I don’t think he should know. I think that man has been through enough. I don’t think he should suffer anymore at all.”

  Jake released his hold on the chair. “Okay,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. “It’s your decision.”

  “It certainly is.” Claire rose as well.

  “Let me know when you hear something.”

  “I will. Do you need me to call you a cab?”

  Jake shook his head. “No, I’ll walk to the bus stop. I wouldn
’t mind the exercise.”

  Claire led him into the entry way. “Take care of yourself, Jake. You look tired.”

  Jake didn’t answer as she pulled open the door. He guessed he did look tired. He’d been sleeping on the couch since Zoë died. He couldn’t bear the thought of climbing into their bed without her, but the couch wasn’t really meant for long term slumber. And worse still, the dreams wouldn’t let him rest. He kept hearing the sirens, seeing the lights whenever he closed his eyes.

  “I will. You too. Is there anything you need?”

  Claire leaned against the door. “Just to put Zoë to rest. I can’t move beyond this until I do.”

  Jake hesitated on the porch. Move beyond this? Was there a way to move beyond it?

  “I’ll talk to you soon,” said Claire, then before he could answer, she shut and locked the door.

  * * *

  The security guards eyed Peyton and Marco as they moved toward the doors of the emergency room. Even though neither of them wore uniforms, people always knew they were cops. The doors hissed as they opened and Peyton led the way into the waiting room.

  “I hate hospitals,” muttered Marco under his breath.

  The waiting room was full. All eyes shifted to them as if they’d made an announcement upon their arrival. Peyton knew they looked silly together. She was five foot three, five six in her three inch boots, Marco six four. She glanced over the people sitting in the hard, plastic chairs, then focused on the nurse behind the counter.

  The woman wasn’t looking at them. Peyton reached for her badge as they came up to the counter, but the nurse slapped a clip board on the counter and reached for a pen.

  “Fill this out and have a seat. We’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Peyton held the badge under the nurse’s nose. The woman’s head shot up and she gave them a scowl. “We’re here to talk to Dr. Singh. Is he available?”

  The nurse rose immediately to her feet. “Go through the door over there,” she said, leaning forward and pointing. “I’ll meet you on the other side.”

  Marco walked to the door and pushed it open. Peyton followed. They entered a large box with smaller rooms around the perimeter. The nurse motioned them into one of the smaller rooms. Reaching for a curtain, she pulled it half closed as she backed out of the room.

  “Dr. Singh will be here momentarily.”

  “Thank you,” answered Peyton.

  The nurse pulled the curtain closed the rest of the way and they heard the glass door slide shut. Marco wandered around the small space, staring at the instruments. Peyton took a seat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He seemed to fill the room with his bulk.

  “I hate hospitals,” repeated Marco.

  “No one likes them.”

  “Doctors and nurses love them. I hate them.”

  “Reported and noted,” said Peyton, shaking her head in amusement. “Hopefully we won’t be here long.”

  “You heard from the M.E. yet?”

  “No, I put in a call before we came down.”

  “Who got the case?”

  “Abe.”

  Marco sighed. “Great. Now I get to put up with more sexual harassment.”

  Peyton smiled. She knew Marco was mostly kidding. Abe did flirt shamelessly with him, but he meant it all in good fun. He was also the best M.E. in the City, so they were lucky to have scored him for this case. Marco knew that. “You shouldn’t be so damn irresistible then.”

  “Can’t help it. It’s in the genes.”

  Peyton started to respond, but the glass door slid open, then closed again. A moment later, a tall, thin man with brown skin walked around the curtain. He wore blue scrubs and a paper cap over his hair. Peyton rose to her feet and showed him her badge.

  “Dr. Jashmit Singh?”

  He nodded. He didn’t look happy about being there.

  Peyton gave him her most disarming smile. “I’m Inspector Brooks and this is my partner, Inspector D’Angelo. We understand you were the attending when Zoë Ryder was brought in three days ago.”

  “Yes.” He clasped his hands before him. Peyton marked the slump of his shoulders and the way he tried to keep Marco in his sight without making it obvious. “I didn’t expect anyone to come out.”

  “You are the one who signed her body over to the M.E., right?”

  “Yes, but I thought that would be it. I don’t want to testify or anything.”

  Peyton deliberately took her seat on the bed again. Best to make him feel more comfortable. Even innocent people acted guilty when confronted by police. Her father had always said you got more traction playing good cop than bad. Peyton tended to agree with him.

  “We just want to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.” She motioned to a stool. “Please sit down. You must be tired. That emergency room is jammed tonight.”

  Dr. Singh sank onto the stool. “It’s always like that. The later it gets the busier.”

  “Was it busy the night Zoë came in?”

  “I can’t remember. She took priority. Her vitals were so unstable.”

  “What exactly does that mean? I’m not very good with medical jargon.”

  “Her blood pressure had bottomed out. We could hardly find a pulse. She was unresponsive, even to painful stimuli.”

  “I see.” Peyton reached for the small notebook she kept in her jacket pocket and pulled it out, flipping open the cover. “She was young, right? 26?”

  “Yes.”

  “That must have been unusual, wasn’t it?”

  “It was. I was baffled by her presentation, but I knew she had to be hemorrhaging.”

  “Hemorrhaging? Losing blood, right?”

  “Right. After we made our initial examination, we discovered she was pregnant and was actively miscarrying.”

  “Did you think that was the cause of the hemorrhaging?”

  Dr. Singh glanced at Marco, but Marco had his back turned, pretending to study a chart on the wall. Peyton knew he was completely focused on their conversation though. “No, I knew the miscarriage was a secondary issue. One of her pupils was dilated, the other was not. That’s a sign of a brain injury.”

  Peyton looked at her notes. “Initially you thought it was a ruptured aneurysm. What made you think that?”

  “The pregnancy. It’s not uncommon for pregnancy to bring out a genetic weakness, especially in blood vessels. So much more blood is flowing through a woman’s system during pregnancy that it can cause a traumatic failure if a vessel is weak or damaged.”

  “Later, though, you changed that diagnosis. What made you suspicious?”

  “The initial tox panel. It came the next day.”

  “Do you always run tox panels?”

  “The minute you enter the hospital. Especially on someone so young. Our first protocol is to suspect some sort of drug overdose.”

  “What was unusual in her tox panel?”

  “I sent everything over to the M.E. for his review, but it was the presence of warfarin that alerted me.”

  “Warfarin?”

  “A stroke medication.”

  Marco turned around and stared at him. “Stroke medication? Why would a twenty-six year old be on stroke medication? Could she have taken it by mistake?”

  “Not at the levels she had in her system.” Dr. Singh looked down at his hands. “I just don’t get it. Who do you think could have done this?”

  “Most likely it’s the husband, Dr. Singh.”

  Dr. Singh looked up again. “Her husband? I can’t believe he would hurt her. Do you really think it could be him?”

  Peyton gave him a sad, weary smile. “It usually is,” she said.

  * * *

  Peyton pulled the Charger into a parking space at the rear of the M.E.’s office and applied the emergency brake. They exited and walked toward the back door. Marco showed his badge to the guard and the man circled around his podium and pulled open the door for them. They walked down the stairs into the belly of the building, the bright fluorescen
t lights in the stairwell reflecting off the white walls. The temperature dropped as they descended and Peyton stuffed her hands into the pockets on her leather jacket.

  Marco pulled open the door at the bottom of the stairwell and they entered a sterile white hallway. At the very end was a double door with a keypad. Peyton punched in the code and the doors swung inward on air-compression pistons.

  Abraham Jefferson’s lab was the third one on the right, according to the placard on the wall. They pushed open the swinging door and found him seated at a bench, his eye pressed to the lens on a microscope. His dreadlocks lay about his shoulders and his long fingered hands reached for the slide and removed it, grabbing another one from the table and replacing it.

  “Be with you in a moment,” he said without looking up.

  Peyton glanced around the large, austere room. A metal table took up the middle of the floor and directly below it was a drain in the floor. She was surprisingly grateful there was no body on it. Behind the metal table were rows of shelves encased in glass. Any number of bottles, flasks and test tubes crowded the shelves. Below the glass shelves were drawers that Peyton knew housed saws and blades and instruments worthy of a medieval torture chamber. For a homicide detective, she realized her squeamish nature was at odds with her job description.

  “Hey, my soul sista,” came Abe’s voice.

  Peyton turned and found him beaming a huge smile at her. Abe always looked like his mouth sported too many teeth. He shook back his dreads and rose to his full six feet. His dark eyes shifted to Marco and his smile grew wider.

  “And the Italian Stallion,” he said, giving him a saucy wink.

  Marco shot him one of his quelling stares, but Abe wasn’t afraid of him. “What can I do you for?”

  Peyton glanced at Marco, knowing he would catch the double entendre. A smile tugged at the corners of Marco’s mouth and he walked away, looking at the bottles in the shelving unit.

  “We’re here about the Zoë Ryder case, Abe,” said Peyton.

  Abe’s playful demeanor fell away and he turned toward his desk, reaching for the file on top. He placed it on his bench next to the microscope and opened it. “Nasty bit of business, that,” he said, reading.