Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Nice to meet you, young man. What’s your name?”

  Joshua wasn’t about to answer. He rubbed his hand on his dirty jeans and looked down.

  His mother passed a slip of paper to the man. “He’s shy,” she offered.

  The man looked at the paper and smiled up at her, then reached for a clipboard on the table and clipped the paper to it. “I understand. I’m shy when I meet new people too, Joshua.”

  Joshua’s eyes snapped to his face. “How do you know my name?”

  He held up the clipboard. “It says so right here. I’m just here to give you a booster today, but…” He reached into the pocket on his coat and pulled out a card, passing it to his mother. “I’m opening a clinic here two days a week. If you need anything or you’d like a physical, you can make an appointment on the number there.”

  Physical? What was that? Joshua knew he didn’t want anything called a physical. He wasn’t sure he wanted a booster.

  “Thank you,” said his mother. “The people really need a good doctor. We really appreciate you doing this.”

  No, we don’t, Joshua wanted to say, but he didn’t. Marshall Youngblood said he had to respect adults, even white ones.

  The doctor smiled. “I’m delighted to help.” He focused his attention on Joshua. “Now, let’s give you that booster.” He reached for a glass canister with white cotton balls in it, knocking the metal top with his huge hand. It fell behind the table.

  Joshua’s mother released her grip on him as she moved to get it. At the same time, the doctor unfolded himself from the stool and rose, up, up, up, towering over the two of them. Joshua’s eyes widened. He’d never seen a man this tall before. This white man was a giant, and Joshua knew about giants. His mother read him a book sometimes that had a giant in it and the giant wanted to eat small people.

  Joshua’s mother grabbed the metal cap and handed it to the doctor. The doctor gave her a goofy smile and took it. “Thank you,” he said.

  Joshua wanted to warn his mother about the giant, but she was smiling in a funny way too.

  The man reached for something on the table and moved it to the edge. Joshua’s eyes fixed on it. It was a long cylinder with a sharp needle on the end. He knew he didn’t want this giant to give him a booster now. He still wasn’t sure what it was, but he knew it wasn’t good. When the white doctor reached for his arm, Joshua bolted.

  The doctor grabbed for him, but he missed. His mother shouted at him, but he ignored her, running for the sunlight streaming through the meeting house doors. The elder at the front of the line tried to block him, but he darted around his groping hands and pelted for the door, sliding around Alice Youngblood where she manned the entry.

  She gave a cry of surprise, but he was too quick for her and leaped down the stairs onto the sidewalk. His instinct told him to bolt across the parking lot and down the trail to the river, but he knew that was the first place his mother would look for him, so he dashed to the left and rounded the side of the meeting house.

  He kept running until he came to the end of it, then raced around the corner and into the back parking lot. A few trucks were parked back here, most of them belonging to the tribal elders. He found a battered green truck and scampered over the tailgate into the bed. Scrambling to the cab, he pressed his back to it, brought his knees to his chest, and hugged them.

  He could hear his mother calling him. He heard other people calling him as well, and he knew that this was probably going to get him in a lot of trouble, but he wasn’t going back in that building and he wasn’t getting no booster from the white doctor.

  He huddled in the bed of the truck for a long time, pressing his face to his knees, and listening as the voices got farther and farther away. He was feeling pretty proud of himself for tricking them.

  He didn’t want to worry his mother, but he felt a little angry at the way she’d betrayed him. She hadn’t bothered to ask him what he wanted, she’d just forced him into that place and then she’d smiled at the white doctor as if she wasn’t afraid of him.

  But, it was wrong to worry her. She’d be afraid he’d fallen into the river and drowned. She was always afraid he’d fall into the river and drown.

  Just as he’d decided to go find her, he heard a crunch on the gravel. He flattened himself against the cab and closed his eyes. If it was the white giant, he didn’t know how he’d escape. Best to keep quiet now and hope he passed by.

  Joshua jumped when a man cleared his throat beside the truck. His eyes flashed open and he breathed a sigh of relief to see Marshall Youngblood standing there, his hand on the bed next to Joshua’s face.

  “You think you’re pretty clever, don’t you, cub?”

  Marshall Youngblood called all his young charges cub.

  “Did you see the giant?”

  Marshall fought a smile. “Yes, but he’s not a giant.”

  “He was fifty feet tall.”

  Marshall laughed. “Not by half.”

  “Why we need a white doctor here?”

  “Because we need the white medicine or we’ll get white diseases. He’s a good man, who’s here to help the people. You shouldn’t be ungrateful.”

  Joshua gave him a scathing look. “Did you get a booster?”

  “I’ve had many and I didn’t act like a scared baby about it either.”

  “Who’s scared?”

  “You apparently. You bolted like a rabbit.”

  Joshua came up on his knees, gripping the edge of the truck next to Marshall. “Did you see the white giant? Giants eat people…and rabbits,” he added for good measure.

  Marshall gave him a stern look, but his eyes glimmered with amusement. “He’s not a giant.” He ruffled Joshua’s dark hair. “We talked about this, cub. We talked about how you’re the man of the house now and you can’t go around scaring your mother. She thinks you…”

  “…drowned in the river,” Joshua finished.

  “Right. That’s not taking care of her.”

  “I don’t want to go back in there with the white doctor. Why do they have to come here?” He knew Marshall was going to repeat what he’d said before, but he just couldn’t understand it. “Why do we need white doctors? Why can’t the people take care of themselves?”

  Marshall gave him a sad smile. “You have a point. So, I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you get the booster, so you can go to school? Then someday you can become a doctor and take care of the people.” He reached for Joshua and hooked him under the arms, swinging him from the bed of the truck. “What do you say?”

  “I guess, but when I’m a doctor, I won’t make kids get boosters.”

  Marshall directed him back toward the meeting house. “How will you keep them from getting sick then?”

  Joshua shot a look up at him. “I’ll give them medicine on chocolate chip cookies instead.”

  Marshall threw back his head and laughed, making Joshua smile.

  * * *

  Jake Ryder sat on a table at the back of the conference room. Before him were four chairs arranged in a semi-circle. A curvaceous, young Hispanic woman, Maria Sanchez, stood before the chairs, holding up a piece of paper in each hand.

  In the first chair was Big Bill Simons, a bear of a man whose hands looked like paddles. Next to him was his partner, Nathan Cho. Cho always looked dwarfed by his massive partner, but Jake avoided him. There was something quick and deadly about the man.

  To Nathan’s left lounged Marco D’Angelo, a GQ model who chose to strap on a gun rather than a thong. All six foot four of him oozed a raw sexuality that made women flock to him like a Greek god, hence Jake’s nickname, Adonis.

  To his left sat Jake’s housemate, Peyton Brooks, with her mass of black spirals and compact frame, not pretty in the classical sense, but her mixed blood made her exotic. Combined with three inch heels to compensate for her lack of height and a leather jacket, she was an enigma who had stormed into his life a year ago and redefined it in ways Jake still didn’t understand.

  �
�Okay, I got a dead woman in an upscale condo on Russian Hill or a dead bum in the BART station on Market,” said Maria.

  The four cops exchanged looks, then three of them opened their mouths to say something, but Peyton held up her hands to stop them. “Hold on a minute. Cause of death?”

  Maria looked over each piece of paper. “Russian Hill got her head smashed in, no murder weapon found. BART station got shot in the back of the head, execution style.”

  Cho leaned forward, biting his lower lip. “IDs?”

  Maria looked up from the paper. “Nope. Woman’s head burst like a pumpkin, and the other’s a bum.”

  Simons shifted his bulk in his chair and eyed his competition. Then he pointed a finger at Maria. “I got two tickets to the Giants’ game on Thursday, third base side. It’s souvenir bat day.”

  Maria considered his offer. Cho and Simons leaned forward. “Location of the seats?”

  Simons deflated. “Upper deck.”

  “Nope.” Maria shook her head.

  Jake rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

  Peyton elbowed Marco in the ribs. He braced his arms on his thighs. “I’ve got a lobster feed at Sacred Heart on Friday.”

  Maria gave him a sultry look, pursing her lips in a kiss. “And my date?”

  Marco hung his head. “I only have one ticket.”

  “Ooo,” said the other four.

  “Swing and a miss,” said Simons.

  Marco glared at him.

  Maria turned to Cho, who continued to bite on his lower lip.

  “I’ve got dinner at the Marriot and two tickets to Rigoletto.” He gave her a wag of his dark brows.

  The others held their breaths.

  Maria considered. “Rigoletto’s opera?”

  “Yes,” said Cho, leaning forward urgently.

  Maria shook her head. Cho and Simons slumped in defeat.

  She turned to Peyton with a world-weary sigh. “Your turn.”

  Peyton leaned back in her chair and folded her hands on her belly. Jake could see the smirk curving the lines of her mouth. “I have…”

  They all listened with interest.

  Jake found himself leaning forward. The moment he realized it, he corrected his posture, but shit, he was getting caught up in this mess.

  “I have…” repeated Peyton, “…a photo of Marco and his brother Vinnie at last year’s 4th of July barbecue in Golden Gate Park…”

  Maria’s eyes widened and Marco swung around to glare at Peyton.

  “…with their shirts off.”

  Maria held out one of the papers immediately. “Sold to the woman with the terminal case of bed-head.”

  “Ah,” said Cho and Simons together, slapping their hands against their thighs.

  Peyton leaned over and kissed Marco on the cheek, then jumped to her feet and grabbed the paper, waving it triumphantly over her head. Marco just shook his head, fighting a smile, as Cho and Simons cursed. Maria patted Marco’s shoulder as she sashayed out the door.

  Jake crossed his arms over his chest in disgust as they headed in his direction.

  “Jake, you’re with us,” said Peyton.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Simons, crumpling up his paper. “We get him first. The BART station’s on the way to Russian Hill.”

  Peyton gave a dramatic sigh. “Fine. I’ll text you the address of the condo. Hurry up with the bum and get over there pronto, Ryder.”

  Jake just looked at the four of them without moving. “What you just did is not only unprofessional, but it’s also immoral.”

  They gave him various expressions of disgust.

  Cho poked a finger at Jake. “Look here, Preacher, in a few minutes, we get to look at dead meat. Let us get our kicks however we get them.”

  “Preacher?” Peyton nudged Cho with her shoulder. They were nearly the same height. “I like that. Mind if I use it.”

  “It’s yours. You got to live with him.”

  “I know, right? You should see him at home. It’s always you didn’t say grace over the meal or you shouldn’t be sleeping with men outside of the marital bed.” They started walking together toward the door.

  “Uptight shit,” commiserated Cho, “Sleeping outside the marital bed is one of my favorite things.”

  Jake realized his mouth hung opened. Simons punched him in the shoulder, chuckling. Jake looked back and found Marco fighting another smile. “I never say anything about who she sleeps with. Besides that, she hasn’t had anyone over in months.”

  Simons and Marco exchanged a look. “So you are keeping a tally,” Marco said, turning toward the door.

  “I’m not keeping a tally,” answered Jake, climbing off the table, and hurrying after them. “Freakin’-ass cops,” he muttered under his breath.

  * * *

  Jake slipped under the yellow crime scene tape and surveyed the area. He liked to have a visual before he walked into anything. The body lay on the ground, face down. The BART tunnel platform stretched away behind them, smelling of urine and cold, damp concrete. One of the vic’s hands rested in the yellow warning track before the trains, but the trains had been moved out of this tunnel for the police. Jake glanced over the edge and studied the track for as far as his eyes could see, which wasn’t far. Light wasn’t a priority on a BART platform.

  He settled the camera bag and his evidence case on the ground, then pulled out the camera. For the past six months, he’d taken night classes at City College in Administration of Justice. The precinct offered their own rudimentary crime scene classes, but he figured if he was really going to do this, he needed an AA degree. Captain Defino was happy with his decision and even offered to pay for it, a perk he readily accepted because he now had a relic of a car to maintain.

  Peyton and Marco kept riding him about getting his own car. Jake had never owned a car the entire time he’d lived in the City, but it was one thing to take transit when he worked at the bank. It was another to take it when he had to lug all of the crime scene equipment.

  Still, he didn’t have much money, so Marco suggested he go to a police auction where they auctioned off the impounded cars that had been used in a crime. He told Jake he could get a good deal there. Well, Jake supposed most people could, but he could only afford a 1982 Dodge Omni, painted bright purple with a yellow daisy on the side doors. He wasn’t sure what crime had been committed inside of her, but the paint job sure as hell qualified as a crime. To top it off, she was a stick shift and in San Francisco, a standard transmission was its own version of hell. He was always stalling her out on the hills, terrified he was going to roll back into someone.

  Which brought him back to the color. He worked with cops. They just couldn’t leave him alone about the freakin’ color. Peyton called it the Purple People Eater, which was the kindest thing anyone said about it. Marco called it the Lazy-ass Daisy, but the worst had been when Abe Jefferson, the Medical Examiner, proudly declared he could now enter it into the Gay Pride Parade. Marco hadn’t laughed outright, but he got that shit-eater grin on his face that Jake absolutely hated. Smug bastard.

  “Ryder!”

  Jake blinked at Bill Simons and realized he was daydreaming, stalling before he had to face the body. He began taking wide pictures of the entire scene, working his way toward the plastic markers the first cops on the scene had set out. Then he worked his way over to the body. Lying on his belly, the bum’s head was turned to the right, his eyes staring straight ahead down the train tunnel, which meant the shot had come from behind him. His hands were on either side of his head, as if he’d been forced to his hands and knees before being shot. A large hole opened the back of his skull, the hair matted and compressed with blood. Someone had put the muzzle right up against his head. Leaning over, Jake could see the exit wound in his forehead.

  The bum wore a bulky outer coat and multiple layers beneath it as most homeless people did. It was easier to keep all of your possession on you at once than try to lug them around. It also helped stave off the chill of foggy c
oastal nights on the street. His sneakers both had holes in the front of the sole, just behind the toes, and the back was cut down the seam, another trick people used when they couldn’t afford the proper sized shoe. When he’d fallen forward on the concrete, the back of his coat had ridden up, exposing his torn and filthy jeans. The left pocket was gone, but in the right, Jake saw a white piece of cardstock sticking out. It was so white compared to the rest of the man that it couldn’t be missed.

  “Simons?” called Jake.

  Simons turned.

  “Grab my case, please.”

  Simons made a grunt of annoyance and picked up the case, hauling it over to Jake.

  Cho followed him. “What you got?”

  “Something’s in his pocket.” He settled the camera down and opened the case, reaching for his tweezers. He used them to pull the card from the man’s pocket, then turned it over. Printed in bold red font were the words Clean-up Crew.

  “Clean-up Crew?” said Cho. “What the hell does that mean?”

  Jake shook his head, reaching for an evidence bag. “Never heard of it.” He placed the card carefully inside.

  “I’ll go look it up on the computer,” offered Simons and walked away toward the stairs.

  “Anything else?” asked Cho, nodding at the body.

  “You want me to search him?”

  Cho gave him a smug look. “Have fun, Preacher.” He moved back toward the uniforms, asking them more questions.

  Jake grabbed latex gloves and began tugging them on. Freakin’ ass cops think they’re so superior. As he reached for the body, he wondered for the hundredth time what he was doing. A year ago, he’d been taking loan applications on million dollar homes, now he was searching a dead bum’s pockets. And yet, when he thought of going back to the bank, he shuddered.

  * * *

  The condo was small, but luxurious. It had two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a walled off kitchen, and a dining room/living room combination. Brazilian cherry wood floors gleamed in the late morning sun shining through the floor to ceiling windows along the back wall.