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

by M. L. Hamilton

  They came to a Mini-Cooper squatting next to a parking meter. Jake stopped in mid-stride and frowned.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Abe pushed the remote button and unlocked the doors. “A real car that I didn’t have to collect box-tops to buy.”

  Jake placed his hand on the roof of the tiny car. “You make fun of the Daisy, but this is a clown car, Abe. How the hell do you fold those long legs into it?”

  Abe gave him a wicked smile and Jake wished he’d been more careful with his words. “I’ll just bet you want to know, don’t you, pumpkin?”

  Refusing to take the bait, Jake opened the door and climbed down into the seat. Placing the camera case on his lap, he wrapped his arms around it, feeling as if his knees were pressed up beneath his chin. He watched Abe contort himself to fit behind the steering wheel.

  With a laugh, he shook his head. “Oh yeah, this is so much better than my car.”

  Abe turned the ignition. “You just don’t know style when you see it.”

  “One person’s style is another person’s torture.”

  “Deep,” mocked Abe. “Now with all due sweetness, close your mouth and let me drive.”

  * * *

  Peyton and Marco stopped at the counter to be processed into the holding cells. As they waited for the officer to sign them in, Peyton noticed Smith heading toward them.

  “You’re cleared,” said the officer.

  Peyton smiled at him. “Can you get me the results of Ravensong’s drug test?”

  “On it.”

  Peyton and Marco moved into the corridor and stopped in front of Smith. “Hey, Frank.”

  “Brooks, D’Angelo.”

  “What are you doing down here?”

  “Came to see Ravensong.”

  “Why?”

  Smith shrugged. “He bothers me.”

  “Bothers you? How?”

  Glancing around, Smith shifted weight. “I know the evidence is stacked against him, but…”

  “But?”

  “Did you know I’m a recovering alcoholic?”

  Peyton glanced at Marco. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yep. Been clean for six years now.”

  “That’s amazing, Frank.”

  “Not so much. It’s a constant struggle. Six years and I still think about it, wishing I could go into a bar and have a shot, drink a beer while watching a game. Some days it isn’t so bad, but others…it’s damn hard to get out of bed in the morning.” He smoothed his mustache. “Here’s the thing. I know what he’s talking about – the black-outs. I had them too.”

  Marco gave a grunt of disagreement. “He says he has them when he’s clean. Didn’t you only have black-outs when you were drinking?”

  “Yeah, but drugs are a different animal. This is the thing, though. The black-outs never worried me. I ignored them, until this one time.”

  “What happened?” asked Peyton.

  “I woke up and I had my gun in my hand. I hadn’t shot it, but…” He released his breath. “I could have killed someone and not even remembered doing it. I joined AA the next day.”

  Peyton and Marco waited for him to continue.

  He looked down toward the holding cells, then back at them. “I know what he’s feeling. I know how scary it is to have this blank spot in your head. And I know what it feels like to think you could have done something unspeakable.”

  Peyton reached out and touched his arm. “Thank you for telling us, Frank. It helps us with a motive.”

  “I’m not sure it helps anything, Brooks. This whole thing sucks for everyone involved.”

  Peyton squeezed his arm. “I know.”

  “No, you don’t, but that’s good. I wouldn’t wish addiction on anyone. Go easy on him. You have the evidence you need. You don’t really need a confession. He might give it to you just because he doesn’t remember what happened. You’ve got enough for a conviction already. You don’t need to break him anymore than he is.”

  “I wasn’t going to go for a confession, but I’ll keep your advice in mind.”

  “Thanks,” he said, giving a nod to Marco and moving toward the exit.

  Peyton and Marco shared a look. “Wow,” she breathed.

  “Yeah, your rock star is getting to everyone. What the hell power has this guy got?”

  The officer appeared behind Marco. “Inspector Brooks, here’s your report.” He passed Peyton a piece of paper.

  “Thank you,” said Peyton as she took it. She read the report, then gave a short whistle, holding it out to Marco. “Take a look at this.”

  Marco read it, then stared at it hard. “He’s clean?”

  “Apparently.”

  “I know he was on something, Brooks.”

  “Well, you were wrong. We both were.” She motioned down the corridor. “Let’s go check his hands.”

  They found Ravensong sitting on his cot, his back to the wall, his feet braced on the floor, his arms crossed over his chest. Peyton motioned for the officer at the holding desk to let her into the cell. As he pressed the automatic lock and the door slid back, Peyton studied Ravensong.

  Even in prison garb, he was handsome. His hair lay over his shoulders and framed a face that was both masculine and border-line pretty. His high cheekbones and darkly lashed eyes were almost perfectly proportional. Although he wasn’t nearly as tall as Marco, he was fit, his shoulders straining the lines of his jumpsuit.

  The door clanged as it stopped and Peyton entered the cell, taking a seat on the cot next to him, while Marco loomed in the entrance. Shifting, Peyton placed the paper on her lap and faced their prisoner. “How are you holding up?”

  He gave her a disbelieving stare. “How am I holding up? Are you serious?”

  “To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how to open a conversation in here.”

  “That’s obvious.”

  She held up the paper. “We got your drug test. You’re clean.”

  “I know. Ten years, 264 days, 8 hours.”

  “Hours?”

  “When I stopped counting minutes, I considered that progress.”

  Peyton’s gaze was drawn to his hands. He had them folded against his chest, but the right one was on top and his knuckles were still raw and swollen. “Did a doctor check out your hand?”

  He flexed his fingers. “Nothing broken.”

  “Well, that’s something.”

  His eyes narrowed on her. “Something?”

  Peyton shrugged. She guessed he had a right to be contentious in his predicament. “It’s something good.”

  “How is any of this good, Inspector Brooks? Elena had to tell my daughter her mother is dead and I wasn’t there. It was my responsibility, but I wasn’t there. No, you’re wrong. Nothing’s good.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, it’s not okay. Do you know what it’s like sitting here thinking that maybe I killed someone?” He shook his head violently. “Not someone. The mother of my child. I might have killed her and I don’t even remember it. I don’t remember a damn thing.”

  He was getting worked up.

  Peyton put her hand on his arm and he focused on that to the exclusion of everything else. “Look, Joshua, we found out some information a little while ago and I’d like to follow that lead.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re sure you don’t remember anything from yesterday?”

  “Not a thing between my house and when you called my name.”

  Peyton folded the paper. “The Medical Examiner had a chance to look at Terry’s body this morning.”

  Ravensong closed his eyes.

  Peyton pushed on. “It turns out Terry was bludgeoned with a leaded-glass object, perhaps a paperweight. Do you remember seeing anything like that in her condo whenever you visited?”

  “Visited?”

  “Picked up Tiffany maybe.”

  At the mention of his daughter, he leaned forward, hugging his arms around his waist. “I never went
into the condo. We did our exchanges in the garage.”

  Which explained why he returned to the garage after the murder happened. It was familiar, safe.

  “Okay. Well, here’s the thing. This glass curio or whatever it was broke on impact.”

  Ravensong flinched when she said that. “Broke?”

  “Yes, pieces were lodged in Terry’s scalp.” She deliberately didn’t tell him they were embedded in her brain.

  “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “The killer most likely cut his hand when the curio broke, maybe many times.”

  Ravensong’s dark eyes swung up to Marco. “What are you saying?”

  “I need to see your palms, Joshua. I need to see if you have any cuts.”

  He leaned back again, considering both of them. Peyton waited as patiently as she could, which wasn’t very patient.

  When he didn’t respond, she added, “We can get your lawyer in here to observe if you’d feel better, but if necessary, I can get a search warrant.”

  He still didn’t move as if he was contemplating the situation, then without warning, he unfolded his arms and held out his hands, palms up. Peyton was struck first by the horrible scars that ran down from the base of his palms to his forearms. He’d sliced through both veins in his wrists. She wondered how he hadn’t done nerve damage. Then she focused on his palms and his fingers.

  Reaching out, she took his hands and pulled them into the light shining through the cell door. He grimaced when she brushed his raw knuckles, but he didn’t pull away. Peyton turned his hands every direction she could to shine light on them.

  “D’Angelo?”

  He stepped into the cell and also inspected the rock star’s open palms. “Shit,” he muttered and met Peyton’s gaze.

  “What?” said Ravensong.

  Peyton released him. “You have no cuts, Joshua. Not one single blemish. How the hell is that possible?”

  CHAPTER 5

  The sunlight streaming through the bay windows created a nimbus around him. He looked almost insubstantial in the glow, as if I could blink and he’d disappear. He was facing the window, but he was looking at his hands, reading the papers I’d printed for him. He said he needed it in print, he couldn’t really get a feel for it on the cold, impersonal screen of the laptop. I understood that. I needed to print things out myself, I needed the solidity of paper in my grip. Technology was wonderful for so much, but it definitely distanced you from everything…including people.

  Today he wore a printed shirt, but the tails hung down around his hips. The boots had been traded for converse sneakers, but the bands of leather still swathed his wrists. I knew about the scars they hid, even though we hadn’t gotten to that part of the story yet. Still, I’d done my research. This was a man who’d tried to kill himself. A man who’d nearly succeeded. It made the strange glow of sunlight around him all the more surreal.

  We’d spent hours together over the last week. I was becoming comfortable with the quiet side of him, the side that talked in that low, smoky voice, but I had also seen the side that looked at his own life with a wry sense of humor. Then there were the times when he tensed and shut down. Those moments scared me for him as if there were secrets too dark to share. I had to admit what had started as a crush was morphing into something more – that age-old obsession all sensible women had for the bad boy and the desire we all harbored to save them.

  He turned and I caught my breath. Would he like what I wrote or had I gone too far, put too much of him into it?

  Coming forward, he laid the papers on the desk and stared down at me with those dark eyes. Oh yes, I thought, I definitely wouldn’t mind trying to save you.

  “It’s good.”

  I let out my breath and felt myself relax. His praise, simple as it was, fell over me like a blanket. I really shouldn’t want his approval. It was inappropriate. As I’d said before, I considered myself a professional, but he made the lines blur. Yep, I was falling in love with him.

  “So, are you ready to continue?”

  He sank into the chair and folded his hands in his lap. “How do you make it seem so rational? Everything I’ve told you, none of it seems rational.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “That’s probably not the word. I’m not sure what I mean, but I tell you a bunch of memories and you pull it together.” He twisted the band on his wrist. I was coming to recognize that as a defensive mechanism when he was agitated, but whatever he needed to do, I figured, if it kept him from doing something far more destructive. “You make those memories fit together like a puzzle. When I read it, I can’t help but wonder…” He trailed off and sank back against the chair.

  “Wonder what?”

  “How I didn’t see it, how I didn’t know where things would go. And if I had seen it, why couldn’t I prevent it, stop it from happening?”

  “You were too close to it. You know that saying, hindsight is 20/20. I don’t think anyone really sees the pattern of their own lives or the warnings.”

  He studied me, sitting silent and still. These moments, and there were a lot, unnerved me, as if I was the one we were psychoanalyzing. Then he shook himself and a faint smile lit up his face. “You’re right.”

  I felt myself relax again. He brought out strong emotions in me, but I was smart enough to realize he was exhausting. Being with him on a more intimate level would be emotionally draining.

  I focused on my notes and picked up a pen. “When you were here last, we were talking about high school. You were a freshman and James was a senior.” I tapped the pen against my lower lip. “You and James became very close over the years, didn’t you?”

  He considered that. “Close, yeah. At some point it didn’t matter that we had different parents, we were brothers, family. Still are. It’s the same way with Jennifer. I don’t know how it happened. Maybe it was everything we went through together, everything I put them through, but they’ve always been there for me.”

  “That’s important, isn’t it? Having people at your back?”

  He stared at the paper on my desk. “Important? Yeah, it’s important, but it’s hard too. If there’s no one at your back, then you have no one to disappoint. No one to betray.” His voice dropped, but I still heard him. “No one to hurt.”

  * * *

  Mark Edwards threw out his arm, stopping James, and pointed toward the quad. James could make out a group of seniors standing around in a circle. One was Luke Ames and some of his teammates, and across from him was Sarah Jameson and her closest girlfriends. Standing between them was Joshua. James couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he could tell from the postures that it wasn’t anything good.

  He dropped his baseball bag on the ground, reaching for the handle on his bat and tugging it out. Mark did the same, grabbing his own bat. Together they advance on the group as quickly as they could.

  Before James could close the distance, Luke shouted something at Joshua and shoved him. Joshua staggered back, but he didn’t swing, didn’t shove him back. He made no move to retaliate.

  “Leave him alone, Luke!” said Sarah.

  Luke spat a string of cuss words and started for Joshua again, but James managed to close with them, holding his bat against his side. Luke pulled up short and took in the two ball players spoiling to enter the fight.

  “Stay out of this, Connor.” His eyes tracked down to the bat and back again. His teammates moved close behind him.

  James didn’t really want to fight Luke and his two friends, and he figured if he had to use the bat, he’d probably be expelled. But he only had a few months left anyway and he didn’t plan on going to college, so what the hell. “Leave him alone.”

  “Tell the little prick to stop sniffing around my girl.”

  “I don’t think he’s been the one sniffing around, Ames.”

  Luke lunged forward, but one of his friends held him back. He puffed up his chest, trying to make himself bigger. James’ fingers tightened on
the bat, but he didn’t bring it up. He really didn’t want to use it.

  Luke pointed over James’ shoulder at Joshua. “He comes around her again and he dies.”

  “Then tell the bitch to stay away.”

  “I’m serious, Connor. Keep him away.” He feinted at James, but James held his ground. When he saw he couldn’t intimidate James with his size, he made a motion with his chin at the girl. “Let’s go!”

  She hesitated. James could see her out of the corner of his eyes.

  “Sarah!”

  She hurried to his side and he slung his arm around her shoulders, possessively. Then he backed away with her, finally turning and striding out of the quad with his friends. Sarah’s girlfriends trailed after them, looking back at James and Mark as they went.

  James eased his hold on the bat.

  “Dick,” muttered Mark.

  James nodded. “Thanks.”

  Mark shrugged. “Hate those football pricks.”

  “Yep.”

  “Later,” said Mark, turning the way they’d come and catching up his bag as he jogged toward the parking lot.

  “Later,” called James. “Let’s go, Josh.” He retraced his steps to his bag and shoved the bat inside, then he swung it over his shoulder. When he straightened again, he realized Joshua hadn’t followed him.

  He turned around. Joshua had moved deeper into the quad and had taken a seat at one of the picnic tables that littered the area. James went after him, dropping the bag on the table.

  Joshua had his back turned, facing a planter bed. Jasmine vines trailed over the sides of the raised bed and the smell was cloying as it hung in the late autumn air.

  Joshua’s arms were braced on his thighs and his hands were clasped before him.

  “I told you Luke Ames was a prick. Why didn’t you listen?”

  Joshua didn’t answer, didn’t even turn. James crossed around the table and sat down next to him. “I don’t think he’ll mess with you again, but you’ve got to stay away from that bitch Sarah.”

  Joshua still didn’t answer.

  James socked him in the shoulder. “We’ve also got to teach you how to fight. Especially if you’re gonna mess around with girls like that.”