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

by Hamilton, M. L.

  She and Marco exchanged a look, then walked toward the reception desk. A woman with crooked teeth and an enormous bust sat at a desk. She smiled at them, her eyes lighting up when they landed on Marco.

  “How can I help you?” she said, glancing at Peyton, but focusing on her partner.

  “We called earlier. We’d like to see Dr. Albert Chang. He’s the attending for Blake Harper, right?”

  “Yes,” she said, then lowered her voice. “Can I see your badges please?”

  They both pulled them out and showed them to the woman. She reached for Marco’s wrist and angled it down, so she could see it better. Then she smiled up at him. “Can’t be too careful.”

  Marco smiled back. “Dr. Chang?” he prompted.

  She gave a girlish giggle and reached for the phone. “Dr. Chang, two police officers are here to see you about Dr. Harper?” She listened for a moment. “All right. Thank you.” She beamed up at Marco again. “He’ll be out shortly.”

  “Thank you,” he answered.

  “So, how long have you been a cop?” she asked, bracing her chin on her hand.

  Peyton made a gagging motion beyond the receptionist’s line of sight; however, she knew Marco picked up on it by the slight smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “A little over six years.”

  “Are you from a family of big, strong cops?” she asked.

  Peyton moved away, looking at the photos displayed on the wall. Despite being a convalescent hospital, this place sported an impressive array of donors. She saw state senators and past mayors among the photos of contributors.

  “Nope,” said Marco behind her. “I’m the only one.”

  “How is that?” the receptionist laughed.

  “I had three older brothers who all went to college, but I didn’t want to go that route. I chose the Academy instead.”

  “Oh, are they all as handsome as you are?”

  Marco gave a masculine chuckle. “Not even a bit.”

  The receptionist peeled off into hysterical giggles.

  Peyton glared over her shoulder at them. She started back toward the counter, but the inner door opened and a short, dark haired man stepped out. He wore glasses and a white lab coat. He held out his hand first to Peyton. His fingers were cool and delicate.

  “Officer Brooks?” he said, “We talked on the phone.”

  “Right. Dr. Chang?”

  “Yes, yes.” He turned and shook hands with Marco, who had finally torn himself away from the receptionist.

  “This is my partner, Marco D’Angelo.”

  “Yes, yes. Won’t you come this way?” He motioned to the door and then led them to it. He moved at a rapid pace for all his short stature. He stopped at an office and pushed open the door. The placard on the outside bore his name. “Please, take a seat.” He indicated the two chairs before his desk, and bustled around the back, sinking into a large, leather chair that dwarfed him.

  “Thank you for seeing us, Dr. Chang. We appreciate you taking the time.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, then held out his hand. “Can I see the warrant? I can’t discuss anything with you without it.”

  Marco reached inside his leather jacket and drew it out, passing it over the desk to the doctor. Dr. Chang spent several minutes reading it, while Peyton and Marco waited. Peyton looked around the office, noting the many diplomas hung on the wall by the window, the expensive wood of his cabinets and book cases. A Newton’s cradle sat in the direct middle of the desk and impulsively Peyton started it moving.

  At the first clack, the doctor glanced up, gave Peyton a firm look, then reached over and stopped the motion. Marco covered a smile with his hand and looked away. Peyton clasped her hands in her lap and tried not to fidget as the doctor finished inspecting the warrant.

  “It seems to be in order. What can I do for you?”

  Peyton started to speak, but the doctor interrupted her.

  “I’d like to remind you discretion is expected here. I’m happy to help with your investigation, but I want the privacy of my patients maintained as much as possible.”

  Peyton wasn’t sure how to answer that. She didn’t give a rat’s ass about his wealthy patients, but she did want his cooperation. Marco saved her.

  “We’ll be extremely discreet, Dr. Chang.”

  “Yes, yes, now what can I tell you?”

  Marco glanced down at her. Peyton unclasped her hands and eased forward in the seat, reaching for her notebook. She flipped open the cover and glanced at the questions she’d jotted down. “How long ago was Blake Harper admitted?”

  “Six months. He was comatose, unresponsive with a grim prognosis. He didn’t respond well to treatment in the hospital, so he was moved here.”

  “What was your diagnosis? What brought about the coma?”

  “Massive stroke. His brain scans are dark.”

  Peyton shook her head. “Dark?”

  Dr. Chang steepled his fingers. “When you scan a healthy brain, it lights up like a Christmas tree. Damaged brains can show dark areas where the damage has occurred. Nearly all of Blake Harper’s brain is dark.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “For all intents and purposes, Blake Harper is dead. His brain is no longer functioning.”

  “How is he alive?”

  “He’s not, not really.”

  “I get that,” said Peyton, trying hard not to get annoyed. “What’s keeping his body alive?”

  Dr. Chang spread out his hands, palms up. “We are.”

  “You mean life support?” offered Marco.

  “Yes, yes.”

  Peyton looked at her notebook to gather her thoughts. “Did you communicate this to the family? Did they know there was no hope of recovery?”

  “I communicate it on a regular basis, but it does no good. His daughter and wife cannot accept that he is gone. Whenever I suggest we remove him from life-support, they get emotional, so I ask who does it hurt to keep him going?”

  Blake, thought Peyton, but she didn’t voice it out loud. Damn, Jake had been right again. What the hell was going on in this family?

  “Besides, it won’t be long now anyway. There is only so much modern medicine can do to keep the inevitable at bay.”

  “Wait, what? What do you mean? He’s dying?”

  “He has an infection and we just can’t get it under control. Soon his entire system will fail.”

  “Infection? Pneumonia?”

  “Ah,” said Dr. Chang in approval, “very good. Yes, a lot of patients do develop pneumonia. It is usually the cause of death on death certificates, but it isn’t the real reason people die. No, Blake Harper doesn’t have pneumonia. Well, not yet.”

  Peyton looked at Marco in confusion. He gave her a confused look in return. “Wait. You said Blake had an infection.”

  “Yes, yes. Around the shunt…well, beyond the shunt now. It happens. No matter how hard we try, no matter how clean we try to be, we can’t avoid all of the bacteria getting in.”

  Peyton scratched her forehead. For a man who claimed to want discretion, he was a fountain of information, not all of it helpful. “You know Dr. Harper’s daughter died recently, right?”

  “Yes, yes, terribly sad. She was delightful.”

  “She visit here regularly?”

  “Quite often. Not so much lately, but she still came regularly. Some of these people get no visitors at all. It’s quite sad.”

  “When you say she didn’t come much lately, what do you mean?”

  He considered her question. “I don’t know. You have to check at reception. Everyone signs in when they visit, but I don’t remember seeing her much for the last couple of months. At first, she and her mother were very active in Dr. Harper’s treatment, but lately, I’ve just dealt with her mother.”

  “Is Dr. Harper on many medications?”

  “Not so much as at first. An antibiotic for the infection, pain medication on a regular schedule, but beyond the feeding tube, IV, and respirator,
all other interventions have been stopped.”

  “With Claire Harper’s approval?”

  “She ordered the feeding tube and IV. She demanded the antibiotic, but there was no indication that any other medication would do any good.”

  Peyton closed her notebook. “What about warfarin? Is he on that?”

  “Warfarin?” Dr. Chang’s brows knit, then he opened his eyes wide. “Oh, stroke medication. Yes, yes, I see. No, he’s not on warfarin.”

  “Was he ever?”

  Dr. Chang spread his hands again. “Perhaps when he first arrived at the hospital, but by the time he was moved here, it wasn’t indicated.”

  “Because there was no brain activity?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Just to be sure I have this right, there was never any time here at your facility that Dr. Harper was given warfarin for any reason.”

  “Of course not. As I said, it wasn’t indicated. Warfarin would have only hastened his death.”

  Marco and Peyton exchanged a look. “Why?” she asked. “You said yourself it’s a stroke medication.”

  “Do you know what a shunt is, Officer?”

  “I think I do. It’s too remove excess fluid, right?”

  “Yes, yes. A stroke is caused by a blocked artery, but when the blockage is so great, the artery fails, you now have bleeding where there should never be blood. Blake Harper has a shunt because his brain is bleeding into his cranial cavity.”

  Peyton didn’t move. She stared at Dr. Chang, trying to process what she’d heard. The doctor waited a moment, then reached for the warrant and folded it, passing it across the desk to Marco. Marco took it, but he didn’t put it back in his coat pocket.

  Dr. Chang pointedly looked at his watch. “Is there anything else, Officers? I have patients I need to see.”

  Peyton shook her head and pushed herself to her feet. “No, thank you, Dr. Chang.” She held out her hand and he shook it. “If we think of something else, can we call you?”

  “Yes, yes, please do.” He reached for a business card in a metal holder beside the Newton’s cradle. “Take this.”

  Peyton accepted it and put it in her notebook, then she put the notebook in her pocket and followed the doctor to the door.

  “You can show yourselves out, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Peyton, resisting the urge to add another yes. The doctor disappeared down the hall and through a different door. Peyton followed Marco into the lobby again.

  “Hold on,” said Marco and he strode up to the desk, flashing his million dollar smile. “Dr. Chang said you have a record of all people who visit. Could you look up someone for me on a specific date?”

  “Sure,” she said, reaching for a large book sitting on the counter next to her. “What date?”

  Marco gave the day of Zoë’s death and waited while the receptionist searched through the pages. She located the date, then smiled up at him. “Who are you looking for specifically?”

  “Zoë Ryder.”

  Peyton wandered over to the counter as the receptionist dragged her finger down the page. “No, no Zoë Ryder,” she said, looking up. Peyton leaned over and looked herself. She didn’t see a Z anywhere on the page.

  “Try Claire Harper,” she said.

  The receptionist made another swipe with her finger. “No, no Claire Harper either.”

  Peyton looked up at Marco and shook her head. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Someone is telling us lies. I think it’s time we paid a visit to the Queen Bee.”

  Peyton’s phone rang. She dragged it out of her pocket and pressed it to her ear. “Brooks?”

  “Hey, Brooks, this is Smith. Just got a call from dispatch that Ryder is at Claire Harper’s house making a scene. You know how these uptight Pacific Heights people are. Captain wants you and D’Angelo to check it out.”

  “How did Ryder get to the Harper place?”

  “He went into an Italian restaurant for food and never came out. We’ve been looking all over for the bastard when we got the call. Want us to meet you at the Harper place?”

  “No, you find Ryder. By the time we get over there, I’ll bet he’s gone.”

  “Got it.”

  “And Smith?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t lose him this time. He’s got you twice now.”

  “That wasn’t me. The last time it was Holmes he burned.”

  “Whatever. Just find him, okay?”

  “You got it.”

  Peyton disconnected the call and replaced the phone in her jacket pocket.

  “Well, that was convenient.”

  “Oh, yeah, Jake is just being all kinds of cooperative now.”

  Marco passed the receptionist his business card. “Thank you for your help. Call if you remember anything.”

  She clutched the card to her massive bosom. “I will,” she called after him as he headed toward the door.

  Peyton followed behind him. “I’ll bet she’ll remember your pretty blue eyes, Marco Baby,” she said as they exited the building.

  “Don’t they all, Brooks, don’t they all.”

  * * *

  Jake rode the bus to Outer Richmond and got off on Geary. He found a little deli and went inside. It wasn’t as crowded this late in the evening and he was grateful for that. He was becoming a little afraid that the police would put out a bulletin about him. He waited in line and ordered a turkey sandwich and a glass of iced tea.

  Taking both to an armchair by the window, he settled the backpack in the chair next to him and sat down. He watched the traffic go by as he wolfed down the sandwich. Nothing had ever tasted as good to him. Funny how much better food was when you were really, painfully hungry.

  He sipped at the iced tea as he reached for Zoë’s journal again. So far it hadn’t told him much. It was a pleasant chronicle of their first three years together, but nothing led him to answers he desperately needed. He skimmed through the pages until he came to a date he recognized – the date her father had his stroke.

  September 23rd

  I have no words to express the sadness I feel tonight or actually, it’s more like tomorrow. It’s 2:00AM and I can’t sleep. Jake is out cold. I can hear him snoring in the bedroom, but every time I close my eyes, I see my father lying in that bed with tubes and wires attached to him.

  The doctors don’t have much hope. They’re going to run a brain scan tomorrow, but they’re already talking to Mom and me about removing him from life support. Can’t they just let us adjust to the devastation? Do they have to push us to make decisions we can’t even fathom right now?

  I can hardly write this down. It just doesn’t seem real. I keep hoping I’ll wake up and it’ll all be a bad dream.

  September 29th

  No change in Dad’s condition. It’s been more than a week. The doctors are saying the brain scans show little to no activity. Still, Mom and I won’t allow them to unhook him. I’ve read many stories of people who were thought brain dead, who miraculous recovered. I’m not giving up hope.

  We got them to insert a feeding tube, so he’s getting nourishment, and they agreed to begin pain medication on a regular basis. He doesn’t indicate he’s in pain, but I can’t stand the thought that he might be.

  What scares me most is they want to move him from the hospital to a convalescent home. I can’t stand the thought of that. I want Mom to take him home, but she says she can’t take care of him. I know they have enough money for her to hire help, but she panics whenever I suggest it. I don’t know what I’ll do if they move him.

  October 4th

  They moved Dad to the convalescent hospital. It’s the nicest one I’ve seen, but it’s still a horrible place to be. I can’t stand seeing him in that place. I can’t stand seeing him lying in that bed. He’s lost so much weight already. It’s like he’s shrinking before my eyes. My powerful father reduced to a shell of what he once was.

  His latest doctor, Dr. Chang, began pestering Mom and me about removing
him from life support. He did his own brain scan and says there is very little activity. He said it would be a mercy to let him go.

  Oh, God help me, I wonder if he’s right. Are we doing the wrong thing by keeping him alive? How do you make that decision?

  When I approached it with Mom, she flew into a rage and began sobbing. I dropped it immediately. I guess there isn’t a choice as long as she is so vehemently opposed to it.

  Jake lowered the journal and sat looking out the window. The lights on the cars washed over his face as they raced down the street. So, Zoë had considered letting Blake go? She’d never mentioned it to him, but that was probably because of Claire’s reaction.

  He wished that she had confided in him. He could have helped her, at least he could have comforted her and supported her in her decision not to fight Claire. As it was, he’d made things worse. He’d commented often enough that he thought it was cruel to keep Blake alive. He thought he was doing the right thing, but obviously, he’d just been rubbing salt into the wound.

  He covered his eyes and allowed the wave of sadness to sweep over him. What kind of a husband gives his wife a hard time when she’s going through something like this? No wonder she’d turned to someone else.

  Reaching for the iced tea, he gulped it down. The chill of it drove some of the panic away and he felt calmer. Picking up the journal again, he continued reading.

  October 10th

  Received a letter today from Dad’s attorney. Honestly, I didn’t know Dad had a lawyer. It was addressed to me, which I thought was odd, since Mom must be Dad’s beneficiary. I also don’t understand why I received it now. Dad has stabilized and although there is no progress, he doesn’t seem to be declining either.

  The letter asked me to contact the lawyer, a Mr. Neal Goldman, Esq. He said he has some information that my father wanted me to have in the event of his demise. My father isn’t dead. Why is this man contacting me now and what information could he have that my father gave him?