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

by Hamilton, M. L.

  He’d never interviewed someone who shot a person in rage or frustration or fear who didn’t say I didn’t mean to do it. Never. But this murder…this one…someone meant for Zoë to die and that someone was the person who should have protected her, taken care of her…in sickness or in health. Good damn reason to never get married, he thought.

  “Uh,” said the rookie, knocking Marco’s shoulder with his arm. “Uh.”

  Marco frowned at him, but the boy was looking across the street. Marco whipped around and saw Ryder leave the building by the front door. He staggered a little, then grabbed the railing on the stairs and stumbled down them.

  Great. The idiot was drunk.

  Ryder positioned himself directly across from the squad car and squinted at them. The streets were dark, only a few lamps along the sidewalk, but one was right above them where they’d parked. Then he looked both ways, waiting for the traffic to thin.

  “What the hell…” said Marco, but from the corner of his eyes, he could see the rookie reaching for his gun. He turned on him as his hand reached for the door handle. “Don’t pull that thing here.”

  “He’s coming this way.”

  “I’ll take care of it. Just stay in the car.”

  “He’s crossing the street.” The rookie’s fingers closed around the butt of his gun.

  Marco filled his line of sight. “Do not pull that gun and do not get out of this car.” He yanked back on the door handle and unfolded himself from the car as Ryder jogged up to him. “What the hell are you doing, Ryder?” he said, easing the door closed.

  “Hey, Adonis. Just wanted to say hi.” He leaned down and looked into the car. “Where’s Mighty Mouse?”

  Marco really hoped the damn rookie didn’t pull that gun. He’d likely miss and shoot his partner instead. “You’re gonna get your head blown off, ya damn fool.”

  “Would be a mercy, probably.”

  Marco raised one brow and allowed his coat to gape open, revealing the butt of his gun. Ryder didn’t seem to notice. “You coming to give me a confession?”

  Ryder’s face twisted. He leaned closer. “To what?”

  Marco could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You drunk?”

  “Why the hell not? Let’s see. Today you got me fired, blocked my accounts, and took away my transportation. What’s next? Get me evicted?”

  Marco didn’t answer.

  “I haven’t done anything. I’m the victim here. I’m the one who lost my wife.” He held his arms out to his sides. “Where do you get off ruining someone’s life? Where do you get that power?”

  “You need to go home and sleep it off. You’re drunk.”

  “Go home.” He turned an unsteady circle. “Go home? How?” He slapped a hand down on the hood of the car.

  Marco flinched, catching his breath. He was afraid that if he looked inside, he’d see the rookie with his gun pointed at the windshield. “You’re gonna get yourself shot, Ryder. You don’t come up to cops on the street like this.”

  Ryder straightened and his eyes widened. “Really? But you can take away my money, my bus pass, and accuse me of things…things that I can’t even stand to think about? But I’m not supposed to approach you!”

  He was shouting and Marco looked around. A couple walking a dog was watching them. “If you want to tell me what happened, I’m all ears.”

  Ryder looked up at him. His eyes were unfocused and watery. “My wife died. I don’t know how she died, but she did. Do you think I give a damn about anything else?”

  Marco looked down at the asphalt. “Go home, Ryder. Get some sleep.”

  When he didn’t answer for a long time, Marco looked up again. Ryder was staring at some keys in his hand. “You might as well take me home,” he said.

  “What?”

  Ryder glanced at him and shoved the keys into his pocket. “You might as well drive me home. I don’t have a bus pass and I don’t want to walk that far. I can’t afford a taxi. Besides, you’re only gonna end up there anyway. You might as well take me.”

  Marco studied him. He’d planned to see if shoving Ryder in the back of a patrol car would make him break, but he hadn’t expected him to offer it himself. “You’re drunk.”

  Ryder shrugged.

  Marco looked around. The couple with the dog was finally moving away. What the hell was Ryder playing at now? God, he hated this case. Nothing fit, nothing made a damn bit of sense. “Put your hands on the car.” He grabbed his shoulder and shoved him toward the vehicle.

  Ryder stumbled into it, but braced his hands on the roof. Marco moved up behind him and kicked his legs apart.

  “You think I have a weapon? I thought you believed I poisoned people.”

  Marco leaned closer to him. “You really should be careful what you say, unless you want to confess.” He made a quick search down the sides of his body, then bent to search his legs.

  Ryder squirmed under the invasion. “Is this necessary?”

  “You asked for a ride, dumb ass. I’m not putting you in a patrol car without knowing if you’re armed.”

  Ryder shut up until Marco finished, but when Marco opened the back door and motioned him inside, he stopped in front of him. “I loved my wife.”

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Ryder stared him directly in the eye. He had to look up to do so, but his gaze never wavered. “You’re looking in the wrong spot. You should be looking at Dr. Singh. You’re letting past experience cloud your judgment.”

  Marco frowned. Ryder didn’t seem as drunk as he had a few minutes before. “Get in the car,” he snapped.

  Ryder studied him a moment longer, then he ducked into the backseat.

  * * *

  Jake locked the door, then went to the window and looked out. The Crown Victoria was across the street and D’Angelo was talking into his cell phone. Jake’s head buzzed from the beer, but he reached into his pocket and took out the keys he’d stolen from Sam.

  He couldn’t believe he was thinking of doing this. If he got caught, the police would have something to charge him with finally. But Zoë’s journal was in that credenza and he wanted it. It was the last connection he had to her, the last thing he could look at and hear her voice. He couldn’t allow the police to take that away from him.

  He went to the closet and put on a heavier coat, then changed into the hiking boots he’d bought with Zoë last winter when they went to Tahoe over Christmas. He’d hoped a vacation would let her forget about Blake for a few days, but she’d been moody and distant, snapping at him when he’d tried to bring her out of it. They’d actually left two days early.

  Tying his boots, he leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think of the bad times with Zoë. He only wanted to remember the good. Which is why he needed that journal. He needed to see those events through her eyes and know that she had been happy.

  He went back to the window and looked out. A black and white patrol car had pulled up to the Crown Victoria and a uniformed officer stepped out. D’Angelo exchanged places with him and the marked car pulled away, taking D’Angelo with it.

  Jake breathed a sigh of relief once D’Angelo was gone, then he waited while the other officer settled at his post before he reached into his pocket and ran his fingers over the keys to the bank. Finally he went to the door and let himself out. Glancing at his cell phone, he was surprised to see it was almost midnight. Where had the hours gone?

  He descended into the entry hall and glanced toward the doors. He could just see the front bumper on the Crown Victoria. Turning to the right, he hurried down the back hallway and stopped before the door leading to the back of the building. He eased it open, it squeaked horribly, then he peered around it into the courtyard beyond. Three stairs took him down into the utility yard, littered with hoses, broken furniture and a dumpster. He snuck around the edge of the building and looked down the alley to the street. He couldn’t see the Crown Victoria at all from here.

  Returning to the dumpster
, he pulled the lid closed, then shoved it against the rear wall. Dragging a plastic crate over to the side, he climbed up until he could use the ridge on the side to hoist himself to the top. The lid gave a little under his weight, but it held and he grabbed the brick wall, pulling himself along the top of it. He looked over into the yard behind the wall. It was a clear drop onto a raised planter bed. He waited a moment, listening, hoping there weren’t dogs in the yard, but he didn’t remember hearing barking whenever he took the garbage out.

  Closing his eyes, he swung his legs out over the yard, then shimmied around until he was on his stomach, his feet dangling. He let himself drop and he landed in the planter bed hard enough to lose his footing. He fell on his backside and sat for a moment, waiting for someone to sound an alarm.

  When no one did, he crawled to his hands and knees, then edged over the planter bed until his feet touched the cement of his neighbors’ patio. Rising to his full height, he tried to take stock of his surroundings. There were no lights in the backyard and the moon was covered by clouds. He felt forward with his hands stretched out before him and finally bumped and stumbled his way to the house. Plastic toys, a playhouse and the barbecue made a nearly impossible obstacle course through the darkness. Finally his hands touched the cool lines of siding and he breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God these people didn’t have a dog. He’d made enough racket to wake the laziest of canines.

  He found the side yard and using the house to guide himself, moved toward the gate. He prayed it wasn’t locked. He didn’t know if he could climb over another obstacle. Already the cold bay air and the exercise were clearing the buzzing from his head and he was beginning to rethink his plan.

  The gate was closed by a simple latch and he opened it. Light from the street lamp fell over him and he blinked until his vision cleared. He didn’t bother to look around, just walked out to the sidewalk and turned north.

  It was a good hike uphill until he got to the branch on Market. Traffic still flowed up and down the thoroughfare and there was no way to keep out of sight now. He stopped a short distance down from the bank and studied it. A couple of homeless people huddled in doorways, nothing more than a pile of blankets and bags. Other than that, the foot traffic was light.

  He thought through his plan again. Get in, get out. It wouldn’t take more than a couple of minutes. No one had to know he was even here. They wouldn’t go through the tapes unless something happened and they had to. Once he was done, he could put Sam’s keys in an envelope and mail them to him. Andrews would never even know.

  Drawing a deep breath, he walked briskly toward the bank and pulled the keys out. He didn’t look down the street or glance behind him, trying to appear as natural as he could. He fumbled to get the key into the outer lock, realizing his hand was shaking again. He turned the lock and pushed open the door, then locked it again once he was inside. He could hear the alarm pulsing in the wall to his right.

  That gave him a moment’s pause and he stared at the display, wondering if they’d changed the codes since they took the keys away from him this morning. Oh God. If they had, he was screwed. He would set off all of the alarms and they already had him on the tape from the ATM machine. He knew he had only about a minute to decide. He should go back out the door and run, but it was already too late. He was caught.

  Swallowing the rush of bile in his mouth, he reached out a hand and punched in the old code, wincing as he did so. The alarm made three loud beeps, then the screen flashed to DISARMED. Jake pressed his forehead to the brick wall and let his breath escape in a rush.

  Lifting a hand, he ran it over the back of his neck, feeling cold sweat run beneath the collar of his shirt. What the hell was he doing? Sneaking around in the middle of the night. Breaking into banks. He reminded himself that the police now had a reason to hold him, a reason to charge him with a crime.

  He pushed away from the wall and walked to the inner door. He found that key more easily and unlocked it. He still wouldn’t allow himself to look back, afraid he’d see D’Angelo’s bulk looming behind him.

  Once inside the bank, he took a last look around the shadowed interior, then hurried over to the credenza and slid back the door. His briefcase lay on the lower shelf and he snatched it out, hugging it to his chest. For some reason, tears stung his eyes. God, he must still be drunk.

  Curling his fingers around the handle, he rose and left the cabinet open, crossing back to the inner door and pulling it open. He locked it, then raced across the foyer and shoved the outer door open. He also paused to lock that too.

  Blood was pounding furiously in his head and against his rib cage. His hand felt sweaty around the handle, but he was almost clear. Slipping the keys into his pocket, he turned back the way he’d come and tried to appear nonchalant.

  “Mr. Ryder?”

  Jake came to an abrupt stop and his heart slammed forcefully against his ribs. Slowly he turned on his heel. A short, bald man in a brown uniform stood at the foot of the bank stairs, holding a flashlight in his hand. The beam was directed at Jake.

  Jake shivered in terror. Oh, shit. This was it. Think, damn it.

  “Mr. Ryder, is that you?”

  Jake nodded, but he feared the motion was jerky and strange.

  The little man sidled up to him and lowered the flashlight, letting out a bark of strained laughter. “Damn, I’m glad it was you.”

  Jake gripped the briefcase tighter. In the street lamps, he could see the man wore a bank security guard uniform. He was in his late sixties, early seventies. His bulbous nose and close set eyes seemed familiar. “Charlie?” he said as recognition dawned in him.

  A smile bloomed across Charlie’s face. A strange buzzing noise issued from inside his uniform, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Mr. Ryder, how are you?”

  “Good,” said Jake with a laugh that bordered on hysterical. “Well, actually, I’m okay. What the hell are you doing here this time of night?”

  Charlie looked back at the bank. “They moved me to night patrol, Mr. Ryder, about a month ago. I sit out here all night, watching the damn bank.”

  Jake frowned. “Why? Weren’t you on days?”

  “Yeah.” Charlie leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I think they’re trying to force me to quit. I don’t even get to sit inside the bank.” He motioned to the alleyway on the left side of the bank. “I park my pickup down there and that’s where I keep patrol.”

  Jake exhaled, feeling some of the tension snake out of him. Another buzz vibrated from Charlie’s jacket and he placed his hand against his pocket as if that would stop it.

  “I’m sorry. That sucks,” Jake offered.

  Charlie shook his head. “I gave this bank thirty years. No retirement, hardly enough to pay for the mortgage, but I show up every single day. Now they’re trying to force me out.” He suddenly gave Jake a sharp stare. “What are you doing here this time of night, Mr. Ryder?”

  Jake held up the briefcase, hoping his shaking wasn’t visible. “I wanted to pick up a few loan docs, make some calls from home.” When Charlie’s frown deepened, he added, “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d come down and get them when no one else was here. Really don’t want to talk to people.”

  “I heard about your wife, Mr. Ryder. I’m real sorry.”

  Jake tensed. What else had they told him? Surely they’d told him Jake had been escorted off the premises.

  The buzz sounded again. Charlie reached into his pocket and dug out his cell phone. “Stupid thing,” he said, hitting it with the heel of his hand. “It keeps doing that.”

  “I think it means you’ve got messages,” Jake told him before realizing he shouldn’t have.

  Charlie gave a sad chuckle. “Lot of good it does them to send me messages. I don’t know how to check them. They send those text thingies and I never know how to get them. This damn thing vibrates all day long, driving me crazy. I want to throw it away. Whenever I ask my grandson, he mutters something I can’t hear, punches a bunch of buttons and ha
nds it back. What the hell good does that do me? The bank could fire me through this thing and I wouldn’t even know.”

  Jake stared at the phone despite himself. “Well, I better get going. It was good to see you, Charlie.”

  “Yeah, you too, Mr. Ryder. You take care of yourself, you hear?”

  Jake paused. Such a simple thing to say, but it meant a lot after the week he’d been having. “Same to you, Charlie,” he answered, then walked away.

  When he got back to Potrero Hill, he wasn’t sure what to do. It was nearly three in the morning and he didn’t want to climb over the back fence again.

  In for a penny, in for a pound, or something like that.

  He gripped the briefcase tighter and walked boldly up to his apartment, dashing up the stairs and into the front entrance hall. He raced up the inner stairs and hurriedly unlocked the door, slamming it shut behind him. Then he leaned against it for a long time, panting, letting the sweat dry on his body. Finally he pushed himself away and settled the briefcase on the coffee table as he went to the window and looked out.

  The Crown Victoria was in place, but based on the slumped forms in the front seat, he suspected the two cops were asleep. Breathing a sigh of relief, he went to the couch and dropped onto it, then he reached for the briefcase, snapping it open. His fingers touched on his tablet first, so he turned it on and typed in his password. Then he pulled up a search engine and entered warfarin. It was a pharmaceutical given to stroke patients to thin blood. As he read further, he came across the dangers and side effects. Massive hemorrhaging. He quickly closed the browser window and sat holding the tablet. How the hell would something so dangerous be in Zoë’s system? The only answer had to lie with the hospital. They had to have given it to her by mistake.

  Laying the tablet on the briefcase, he covered his face with his hands and realized he was sober. A headache hammered in his temples. He forced himself into the bathroom and pulled open the medicine cabinet, reaching for the aspirin, but it wasn’t there. He found it on the floor where he’d thrown it in his rage. He picked it up and opened it, shaking two pills into his hand. He put them in his mouth and bent over the sink, taking a drink from the faucet. Turning off the water, he wandered back into the living room and sank onto the couch again. Reaching for his briefcase, he pulled Zoë’s journal out.