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

by Hamilton, M. L.

  Abe chuckled and took another pull on his straw. His gaze swiveled back to Marco. “I see you’re getting all kinds of attention, my Angel’D.”

  Marco gave a careless shrug.

  Abe shifted back to Peyton. “The music is right awful, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “I know a great bar on Castro…”

  “Oh, no,” said Marco, leaning forward. “No bars on Castro.”

  Abe giggled and sipped at his drink some more. “So tell me. How’s the Potrero Hill case going?”

  Peyton slumped against the cracked red upholstery of the booth. “No motive, no weapon, and now no suspect.”

  Abe gave her an elegant frown. “No suspect? I thought it was the husband.”

  “It’s still the husband, but he’s on the lam now.”

  “Oh,” said Abe, his brows climbing nearly to his hairline. “That’s not good.”

  “No, not good at all.”

  “Defino know?” asked Abe, glancing between the two of them.

  “She knows,” answered Marco, tearing at his label again.

  “Has Dwight Boyd talked to you, Abe?” wondered Peyton.

  “My boss?”

  “Yep, that’s the one.”

  Abe shrugged his shoulders, making his dreads bounce. “He mentioned how he’d like to put this one away, so we can release the body.”

  “Mentioned? As in strongly?” asked Peyton.

  “As in, we need this to be over, so we can release the body before the mayor calls.”

  “That’s pretty much what Devan said too,” remarked Peyton.

  Abe leaned forward, holding his drink in both hands. “So dish about the dreamy D.A.” He cast a glance at Marco. “Don’t worry, Angel baby, D.A. Dreamy is apparently taken.”

  “I’m so relieved,” said Marco with an ironic smile.

  “There’s nothing to dish.”

  “How can there be nothing to dish? He’s one of the most eligible bachelors in San Francisco…who is straight, that is, and he’s all kinds of things we like – handsome, rich, powerful, rich.”

  Peyton laughed. “He’s a great guy.”

  Abe gave Marco a theatrical look. “A great guy? Aphrodite smite this one, she needs some serious help. You don’t lead off a dish with he’s a great guy, Peyton. Tell me how the sex was.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on!” said Marco, lifting his hands. “I do not want to hear this.”

  Peyton picked up her beer and pressed it to her lips, laughing at Marco’s reaction.

  Abe slid his Flaming Pink Flamingo over to him with one long finger. “Drink this and loosen up, Angel, our little girl has a boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” both Peyton and Marco said at the same time.

  * * *

  Jake woke the next morning disoriented and confused. The room with its 70s décor didn’t seem familiar until his thoughts came into focus. He rolled to a sitting position and braced his head in his hands. He couldn’t keep staying in flea bag motels like this. Even this one had cost him more than he could afford, although they’d accepted his cash without demanding a name. Sort of explained the kind of clientele they usually got.

  He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the bathroom, turning on the shower. While he waited for the water to heat, he leaned on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and a week of no shaving had left a sorry, patchy beard on his jaw. He scratched it and wished he’d remembered to pack a razor.

  Reaching for the toothbrush, he brushed his teeth, then climbed in the shower. The hot water felt so good, he lingered until it began to get cold. So much for cheap motels. Climbing out, he toweled off, then changed into his only other clean clothes.

  He repacked his backpack, then hesitated, staring at Zoë’s journal where it lay on his nightstand. Picking it up, he shoved it in the backpack and walked to the door. Pulling it open, he stared out at the parking lot, watching traffic buzz by on the street.

  He didn’t see a Crown Victoria waiting for him, so he shouldered the backpack and began walking down Geary toward the ocean. He found a fifties themed diner and went inside.

  “Take a seat anywhere, baby,” said the waitress, a woman in her early fifties.

  He picked a table by the window, so he could watch the street, and settled the backpack by his feet. She came over carrying a menu and a coffee pot. Reaching for the mug on the table, she turned it over and filled it.

  “Long night?” she commented, giving him a look over her glasses.

  “Yeah,” he said, reaching for the mug. The steam bathed his face as he took a sip. Motor oil might have more flavor, but it was hot and caffeinated.

  She moved away to another customer as Jake opened the menu. Last night he’d fallen asleep almost immediately, but he’d had nightmares the entire time. Not Zoë in the ambulance. This time it was his own nightmares of climbing fences and running down alleyways, constantly looking over his shoulder.

  He chose something off the menu and closed it, picking up his mug again. He sipped at the coffee until she returned.

  “What’ll it be, baby?”

  “I’ll have a Denver omelet with the country fries.”

  “Sour dough or wheat toast.”

  “Sour dough.”

  She bustled away. Jake glanced around the restaurant, but except for an older man at the counter and a middle aged couple in a booth, he was alone. He reached for the backpack and unzipped it, pulling out Zoë’s journal.

  Taking another sip of coffee to brace himself, he opened it to the point where he was last night.

  November 16th

  Received another letter from Mr. Goldman about my father’s request. He wants me to come see him, says he has important information to give me. I don’t know why this is so hard for me. Why can’t I just make a decision?

  Because my father isn’t dead yet and I can’t stand the thought of hearing his final wishes when I know he’s still alive. I asked Mom if she’d heard from Mr. Goldman, but she said she hadn’t. She acted so surprised that he would contact me instead of her.

  Jake and I are to the point where we don’t discuss my father at all. I’m dreading this time of year more than I can tell you. Thanksgiving is a week away, then Christmas, but my father won’t be here to celebrate with us.

  December 20th

  Jake wants to go away for Christmas. He says he wants to get my thoughts off my father, but I can’t stand the thought of leaving. What if he dies while I’m gone? I would never forgive myself, except what if this is the only way to preserve my marriage?

  I feel like I’m growing away from Jake. There’s so much I want to say to him, but I can’t. He doesn’t understand why I’m so upset. I know he thinks I’m insensitive. He lost both of his parents and he dealt with it.

  I don’t know why, but I’ve always been closer to my father. And now Mom is acting strange. It’s not like she and I have ever been able to talk, but whenever I try to broach certain topics, she flies into a rage. It’s like all of the most important relationships around me are disintegrating and I can’t stop it.

  The waitress appeared and set Jake’s plate in front of him.

  “Thank you,” he said, distracted.

  She filled his coffee again. “I’ll be back to check on you in a few.”

  He nodded, reaching for his napkin and a fork. He began shoveling the food in as he continued reading Zoë’s journal. He’d had no idea how isolated she’d felt and he couldn’t help the guilt that washed over him whenever he read about it. What an ass he’d been.

  January 3rd

  I received a call from Mr. Goldman today. He said he had a horrible time finding my number, but he’d finally tracked me down. I apologized for not responding sooner and tried to explain to him why I hadn’t answered his letters. He said it was important I come in and see the information my father left me.

  He mentioned that Dad had changed his will about a week before he had his stroke
and I needed to know what was in it. He said he couldn’t talk about it over the phone, it was too important. Why would Dad change his will?

  Mr. Goldman wouldn’t give me any more information, just urged me to come down. When I told him I really couldn’t stand the thought of seeing my father’s will before he was dead, he said something really strange. He said I needed to look at my birth certificate and then I might be willing to come see him.

  My birth certificate? I’ve gone through all of my papers and I realize I don’t have a copy of it. I have a passport, which I’ve used from the time I can remember, but I don’t remember if I’ve ever seen a copy of my birth certificate.

  Jake flipped the page, but it was blank. He flipped a few more and still nothing. She had just stopped writing. He lowered the journal and sat staring at its red cover. Why hadn’t she written anymore? Why hadn’t she continued to chronicle the most important part of this experience?

  He pushed the rest of his breakfast away and ran a hand over the beard on his chin. What could be wrong with her birth certificate?

  “All done?” said the waitress, reaching for his plate.

  He nodded without looking at her.

  She set the check in front of him. “More coffee?”

  He glanced up. “Yes, please.” He needed a little more time to think.

  She filled his mug. “I’ll take that when you’re ready.”

  “Thank you,” he muttered as she walked away.

  He looked out the window and watched the traffic for a few minutes. The fog was breaking up and sunlight was shining down. A few people meandered down the sidewalk and a young man turned into the diner.

  Jake could view her birth certificate himself because he had her social security number and her birthdate, but it would mean going on-line. The minute he turned on his tablet, the police would know where he was. He had no doubt they could track him by it.

  He had to know. He had to find out what Mr. Goldman meant. He reached into his backpack and pulled out his tablet. He set it on the table before him, then searched through his backpack for a pen and paper. He didn’t have one.

  Pushing back his chair, he went to the counter where the waitress was taking the young man’s order. “Can I borrow a pen and some paper?”

  She reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a pen, handing it to him. Then she tore off one of her order sheets and passed that to him as well. He went back to his table, then sat staring at the tablet a moment longer. How long did he have before they could dispatch someone here?

  He didn’t have any choice. He’d get on, hopefully find what he needed quickly, then log off again. Turning on the tablet, he pulled up a search engine, located the proper government agency and found the birth certificates. He opened another window on the tablet and looked up Zoë’s personal information, punching it into the form. While he waited for the tablet to think, he stared out the window, expecting to see a bunch of police cars screech to a halt outside the restaurant like in the movies.

  When he looked back, he saw Zoë’s name. Using his index finger, he tapped it. A form opened up across the screen with the official seal of California across the top. He glanced down the form, then stopped.

  His heart slammed against his ribs and he scanned it again, coming to a stop at the same place. What the hell! He read it a third time, but nothing changed. It just didn’t make sense. This couldn’t be right.

  “Can I get you anything else?” asked the waitress.

  Jake jumped and looked up at her. She was giving him a frank stare, then looked down at the check. He reached for his wallet and pulled out a twenty. She took it and the check, walking away. Jake glanced back at the form, reading it a fourth time.

  He grabbed the paper and jotted a name on it, then closed the file, but before he turned off the tablet he hesitated. Pulling up the search engine again, he typed in Neal Goldman, Esq. He located his office on Scott Street and wrote it next to the name on his paper. Then he folded the paper and put it in his pocket, leaving the pen on the table.

  As he reached for the tablet, he hesitated. He knew the cops had to have mapped his location by now. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. Pulling up the memo function on the tablet, he typed a note to them and then looked up as the waitress brought him his change.

  “Here you are, baby,” she said.

  He pulled out a bigger than normal tip and held it out to her. “I have a favor to ask you.”

  She took the tip, her brows lowering in a frown. “Yeah?”

  He held the tablet out to her as well. “When the cops show up here in a few minutes, give this to them, please.”

  “Cops?”

  “Yeah. Please, it’s important.”

  She took the tablet and gave him a scowl. “What’s this about?”

  He grabbed Zoë’s journal and picked up the backpack, slinging it over his shoulder. “Please. Just give it to them. It’s more important than you can imagine.”

  “I don’t want to get involved in no crime,” she said.

  “You aren’t. I just need them to have some information and I can’t give it to them myself. Please?”

  Her frown deepened and she took a step back from the table. “Okay, but I don’t want to get involved.”

  “Thank you,” he said, easing around her. “I am forever in your debt.”

  She made a grunt, but didn’t respond. Jake hurried to the door and slipped outside. He didn’t know if she would do what he asked, but it didn’t matter. He had very little time to get out of the Richmond District before they arrived.

  CHAPTER 11

  “What did I tell you about Claire Harper, Brooks?” came the voice on the other end of the line.

  Peyton closed her eyes briefly and then looked out at the traffic on 19th Avenue. She glanced at Marco in the driver’s seat. “Hey, Captain. How are you this lovely, sunshiny San Francisco morning?”

  “Cut the shit, Brooks. This morning I’ve talked with Claire Harper for forty-five minutes about your interview last night. And then…and then I received a call from Dwight Boyd. You remember who he is, Brooks?”

  “The Chief M.E.”

  “The Chief M.E.,” repeated the captain. “You think we might need his cooperation in the future, Brooks, do you?”

  “Yes, but Captain…”

  “Did you ask Claire Harper why she hasn’t pulled the plug on her husband? Just tell me that, Brooks. Tell me you didn’t ask a grieving mother why she doesn’t pull the plug on her comatose husband!”

  Marco glanced over and gave her a concerned look.

  Peyton shrugged. “It was relevant, Captain.”

  “Relevant? How?”

  “We’re working on that.”

  We’re? mouthed Marco.

  Peyton ignored him.

  “You’d better be working on it, Brooks. You’d better damn well be working on it. And before you approach Claire Harper again, you’d better clue me in. You hear me? You’d better damn well clue me in.”

  “You got it, Captain. You’ll be clued the minute we get something.”

  “I’m not joking, Brooks.”

  “I know that, Captain.”

  Defino hung up before Peyton could say goodbye. She lowered the phone.

  “You got any ass left?” said Marco.

  “Funny. You’re a regular comedian. I didn’t see you backing me up.”

  “You’re a big girl, you can take it. So, Captain heard from the Queen Bee, eh?”

  “And Boyd. You know, I’ve been thinking…” She was interrupted by the ringing of her phone. “Hold on.” She thumbed it on and lifted it to her ear. “Brooks?”

  “Hey, we got a ping on Ryder.” She recognized Stan Neumann’s voice.

  “Sorry. A ping?”

  “He turned on his tablet and he was on long enough for us to pick up a location.”

  Peyton reached for her notebook and pen. “Give it to me.”

  Stan read her the address.

  “What is it?�
�

  “Some diner or something.”

  “Got it. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Peyton dropped the phone into her pocket. “You’re gonna need to turn around. Stan picked up a location for Ryder through his tablet.” She held the address out to him.

  Marco slipped the Charger into the left lane and hit the lights. “Let’s hope we get there before the bastard leaves.”

  Peyton nodded and braced herself against the center console and the door as Marco flipped a U-turn.

  “You were saying something about you thinking?” prompted Marco.

  “Yeah, I’ll tell you later. Let’s just see if we can catch Ryder.”

  They fell silent as Marco whipped through the traffic. Peyton squinted, hating this part of it. She liked driving herself when they had to hit the lights. With every swerve and brake, she was sure Marco was going to plow them into the other cars. And people did such stupid things when they heard a siren. Instead of just stopping where they were, they would swerve out of traffic no matter how dangerous it was. She was amazed more people weren’t hurt when police responded to a call.

  After a heart stopping few minutes of white-knuckle driving, they pulled up in front of the diner. Peyton climbed out of the Charger and reached the door before Marco had finished putting the car in park. He met her at the entrance, but Peyton could see they were already too late.

  A few construction guys were sitting at the counter. Two women were in a booth, talking and sipping coffee, and a kid with a backpack sat in the far corner. A waitress with glasses looked up as they entered, but there was no sign of Ryder.

  Peyton reached for her badge and approached the counter, showing it to the waitress. She looked at it, then bent down and retrieved something from under the counter, passing it over the cash register to her.

  “I don’t want no trouble,” she said.

  Peyton held the tablet up for Marco to see, then she looked at the waitress. “Can you describe the man who gave this to you?”