After they disappeared from view, she looked down. Maria was also watching after them.
“Did you find that article about Ravensong’s father for me?”
“Yep, I sent it to your email.”
“What about the CPS reports?”
“Nothing for his daughter, and only one for him.” She shook her head. “Almost makes you want to cry. I sent you the link for that as well.”
“Thank you.” She glanced out the doors again. “Do you think you can find anything on his car accident? The one where he apparently drove into a tree.”
“I remember that. Yeah, I can find it.”
“You remember him driving into a tree?”
Maria kept her eyes fixed on the parking lot. “While you had a crush, I was obsessed. I devoured everything about that man.”
“What’s bothering you, Brooks?” came Defino’s voice. She was leaning on the doorjamb to her office.
“A lot. I hate this case. It makes me feel sick inside.”
Defino stepped back. “Come in and debrief me.”
Peyton followed the captain into the office and took a seat on the other side of the glass desk. Defino sat down opposite her.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Marco’s right and I’m caught up in Ravensong’s charisma, but the case just seems too neat and tidy.”
“We always second-guess those cases, but we should be grateful for them. They are few and far between. We have a motive, he was at the scene with her blood on him. It’s enough for a Grand Jury.” She leaned her elbows on the desk. “And let me tell you, Devan is going to be calling either today or tomorrow, expecting it to be released.”
“I think we need more time.”
Defino shook her head sadly. “For what?”
Peyton scooted forward in her chair. “Abe believes the murder weapon was a heavy-leaded crystal something, maybe a curio or paperweight.”
“Okay?”
“The weapon broke in the murderer’s hand. Abe believes there’s no way the killer would have escaped deep cuts on his palm or fingers.”
“And let me guess? You checked Ravensong’s hands.”
“Yep, there’s nothing there.”
“Hm. Where is the murder weapon then?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t find anything. We held the dumpster at the condo and her own garbage. The evidence department is going through it today. Maybe something will turn up.”
“Ravensong was at the scene. He was covered in her blood. His right hand is a mess. What other explanation could there be?”
“There isn’t one, but Abe is sure about the murder weapon.”
“Maybe he’s wrong about the suspect’s injuries though?”
“That’s what Marco thought.”
“But?”
“But, Abe’s never wrong.”
“If you could give me another theory…anything. I might be able to hold Devan off, but he’s going to want something compelling, Brooks.”
“This is a man whose life is at stake here, Captain. More than that, his daughter only has one parent left. Both her grandmother and mother are dead now. She needs her father. Don’t you think we owe it to her to spend a little more time on this case?”
Defino considered Peyton’s request for a moment. Peyton stayed stock still, waiting. Finally, the captain sighed. “Okay, what do we know?”
“We know that Terry had promised Ravensong custody of his daughter. Terry’s possessions were packed and Tiffany’s were not. At some point on the day of her death, she changed her mind and sent Ravensong a text telling him she was taking their daughter with her. He was upset and went to her condo to confront her.”
“Where did she plan to move?”
“Somewhere in Europe. I’m not sure which country.”
“Europe’s expensive. How did she plan to afford such a move?”
“I’m not sure about that either.”
“Then start where we always do once we have a suspect.”
Peyton smiled.
“Follow the money,” they both said together.
“Get a warrant for her bank records. Maybe something will show up there. That should give me enough to hold off Devan for a few days.”
Peyton rose to her feet. “On it.” She turned toward the door and stopped. “Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re thanking me because you’re doing your job?”
“No, thank you for not questioning why I want to investigate further.”
Defino leaned back in her chair. “I know you, Brooks. There was no way you couldn’t get personally involved with this one.”
Peyton hesitated. She wasn’t sure what the captain meant, but she figured it was probably best not to question it. “Right,” she said and pulled open the door.
CHAPTER 6
James heard the vibration of the keyboard, the electronic hum of the notes. He eased down the stairs, peering between the spindles on the banister. The band equipment was set up just as he’d left it, the drum set tucked back under the stairs, the bass guitar on its stand, the amplifiers and microphones each where they had been. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he turned, then hesitated.
Joshua was sitting on a bar stool beneath the half-window, his fingers a blur of motion over the keys. Sunlight filtered through the dusty window and landed on him. Before him was the score that James and the others had penned just yesterday, and Joshua seemed to be playing it.
James felt a rush of annoyance. He’d been given the basement as his sanctuary away from the other kids, especially now that his father and Mary had a freakin’ litter. The twins and Susan weren’t allowed down here because of the stairs and Jennifer had been forbidden by James himself. Joshua had his piano upstairs and James never touched that, so why the hell was he down here on the keyboard?
He stepped over the tangle of cords and around the amplifiers. Once he’d graduated from high school, his father had made him take classes at the local J.C., but he was simply playing at it. He took Art History and Musical Theory, but really he was waiting for his music career to take off. A year ago, he’d permanently traded the baseball bat for a microphone and never looked back. After playing together all through high school, his band, Blazes, finally had a record label interested in them and as soon as they got that one perfect song, they were out of here.
He started to shout at Joshua, then stopped. Joshua was playing their song, but not really. He’d done something to it, something different.
Joshua stopped playing and glanced around, sensing someone at his back. The moment he saw James, he scrambled off the stool and backed up. It pained James to see the momentary fear that crossed his features, so he reached for his own guitar and plugged it into the amplifier.
“I’m sorry, James,” Joshua stammered.
James nodded at the keyboard. “Play that again.” He adjusted the guitar strap on his shoulders and strummed his fingers across the strings. Then he stopped, frowning down at the guitar. Strumming again, he tilted his head and listened, then went through a run of chords. Lifting his head, he speared Joshua with a look. “What did you do to it?” He’d never heard it sound like this before.
Joshua still hadn’t taken his seat again. In fact, he had the stool in front of him as if he thought it offered him protection. “It was out of tune.”
“Out of tune?”
“Bad.”
“You tuned it?”
“Yeah. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched it, but it was so bad. So bad.”
James smiled and ran through his chords again. “Wow, it sounds…I don’t know what.”
“In tune.”
“I guess, but more.”
“That’s because you’ve never heard it in tune before.”
James glanced up at him, then they both broke into laughter. “Okay, okay.” He nodded at the keyboard again. “Play what you were playing before I came down.”
Joshua’s smile dried and he didn’t move to
ward the instrument.
“What’s wrong with you? Play it.”
Joshua dropped his eyes and chewed at his lower lip.
“Josh? What the hell? You’ve already been caught. Just play the damn song.”
“I changed it.”
“I know.”
“I shouldn’t have. It was your song.”
“Just play it for me, okay? Shit. Don’t make me beg. And stop looking at the ground. I hate it when you do that.”
Joshua raised his eyes. “You sure? You’re not mad?”
“You’re pissing me off somethin’ awful right now, but no, I’m not mad. That song is gonna get me out of this circus. I need it to be the best we’ve got or the producer won’t even listen to it.”
Joshua gave him a ghost of a smile and edged back to the keyboard. James tried to be patient with him, but sometimes his quirky ways annoyed the hell out of him. He’d never struck his brother, never even in play, so why did he act skittish as a cat all the time? His annoyance dissipated in the next moment, however.
Joshua started to play, a haunting, melodious ballad that captivated James where he stood.
“Holy shit,” he breathed and forgot to play himself.
* * *
Marco pulled the Charger into the parking lot of the M.E.’s office and turned off the ignition. As he set the brake, he looked over at Peyton. She was staring at the back of the building.
The podium where the guard once sat had been dismantled and moved inside. They needed an ID card to get through the door now.
Marco reached over and covered her hand. “You okay?”
Peyton forced a smile for him, but she suspected it looked strange. “Yeah.”
He squeezed her fingers. “You don’t have to go inside. I can do it.”
She squeezed him back. “I can do inside. It’s getting to the door that’s a bitch.”
He opened the Charger’s door. “Come on. Best not to think about it over much.”
“That your philosophy of life?”
He ducked his head back in the car. “Gotten me to thirty, ain’t it?”
She smiled at him and opened her own door. Climbing out was okay. She could do that. Shutting the Charger door, got it. Turning toward the building is where it got a little complicated. Marco came around the back of the car and put his arm around her shoulders, propelling her forward.
“Come on. It’s like sex the first time. No one enjoys it, but it’s gotta be done.”
Laughter bubbled out of her and she leaned into him, letting him support her as they walked to the door. Without letting go of her, he pulled his ID card out of his pocket and swiped it across the sensor. The lights on the sensor blinked, then the lock clicked open.
They entered the white, austere hallway and halted by the podium. Six months ago, during their gangbanger case, the guard, who had been stationed outside, had been shot when Peyton had left the building. After he recovered, he’d decided it was time for retirement. This new guard was middle aged, built like a marine and had a nearly shaved head. He slapped a clipboard on the edge of the podium without speaking and pointed to the spot they should sign.
Marco released Peyton and signed them in, then motioned down the hall for her to precede him. Peyton felt a little calmer as she navigated the familiar hallway toward Abe’s lab. Peering through the glass window in the door, she could see him fussing with a microscope. She pressed the button for the automatic door and waited as it slid open.
As she and Marco stepped through, Abe looked up and beamed a smile at them. “If it isn’t the prettiest cop in San Francisco, and his adorable little sprite of a partner. How are you this wonderful spring morning?”
Marco gave a sarcastic nod, but he didn’t respond. He’d learned a long time ago that response only encouraged more flirtation.
Abe’s dark chocolate eyes fixed on Peyton. “You okay, soul sista?”
“I am now.”
He patted the table and she moved to the stool across from him, taking a seat. “The first time is always the worst.”
“What the hell kind of sex did you two have the first time?”
Abe gave her a puzzled look. “I wasn’t talking about sex, but if you want to talk about sex, I’m game.” He leaned forward, his dreads swinging around his jawline. “I’ll tell you about mine, if you tell me yours.” He winked up at Marco.
“We won’t be doing that!” said Marco. “No, we won’t be doing that.”
Peyton and Abe laughed.
“So, what’s up?” Abe asked, moving the microscope aside.
“Joshua Ravensong doesn’t have any cuts on his hand.”
Abe braced his chin on his fist. “Ah, interesting.”
“Yeah. Here’s the thing. Could you have been wrong?”
Abe arched one brow. “Wrong? Me?”
“I know. Ridiculous, huh? But is there any way he could have struck her with the glass curio and not gotten cut? Maybe it wasn’t as sharp as you thought?”
Abe swiveled in his chair and picked up an evidence bag. Peyton could see shards of leaded glass in the bottom of it. He carefully opened it, then grabbed a set of latex gloves and pulled them on. Picking up a pair of tweezers, he reached into the bag and snagged a shard of glass. It was larger than Peyton had expected, easily seen with the naked eye.
“Grab me a piece of printer paper, Angel D’,” he asked, motioning to the printer with his chin.
Marco retrieved it and handed it to him. Holding the paper in the air between them, Abe used the tweezers and scored down the center of it. It parted, allowing Peyton to see a pink bead on the end of Abe’s hair through the gap.
He lowered his hands. “Still think I’m wrong?”
Peyton let out her air. “No. Shit.”
“Now what?”
“Yesterday afternoon we subpoenaed her bank records. Hopefully, we’ll have them by tomorrow.”
He placed the glass shard in the evidence bag and sealed it. Then he pulled off his gloves. “Come on. I’ll treat you both to lunch at the Cliff House. The sea air will do you some good.”
Peyton glanced at her watch. “Okay, but no drinks.”
“Of course not,” said Abe, tossing the gloves into the trash. “It’s not even noon yet.”
* * *
“Morning, Brooks,” said Marco, glancing up from his computer.
“Morning, D’Angelo,” she answered, settling her coffee on the desk and pulling out her chair. “Pizza and beer tonight at my place?”
“As long as you’ve got the game on, I’ll be there.”
“You know it’ll be on.” Her father, when he was alive, had been an ardent Warriors’ fan. She’d never missed a game if she could help it. “Abe wants to come over.”
Marco made a face. “He’s gonna wanna talk all through the game.”
“He can talk to Jake.”
“Ryder too? How come we can’t just watch the game the two of us anymore?”
“We could have watched it at Vinnie’s if you weren’t fighting with him over your birthday party.”
“I’m not fighting with him.”
Peyton gave him an arch look and sat down.
“Ravensong made bail.”
“I know, and promptly checked himself into a psych facility.”
“Probably for the best.”
“Elena didn’t see it that way.”
Marco leaned on the desk. “Explain it to me. Why do women go for guys like that?”
“How should I know?”
“‘Cause you’re no better. You were drooling over him the other day too.”
“He’s gorgeous.”
“And an addict and a murderer.”
“Suspect.”
“Whatever. Face it, Brooks, you’re no better.”
She acquiesced. “If we knew why we liked his type, we’d be able to avoid his type. That’s just the way it is.”
“It’s stupid.”
“So is chasing after every bimbo in a mini-skirt,
but men still do it.”
Marco ducked back behind his monitor. “Not the same thing at all. I can tell you why I like a bimbo in a mini-skirt, but you can’t tell me why you like a drug-addicted murderer.”
“Suspect.”
“Whatever.”
Smiling, Peyton opened her email and clicked on the message Maria had sent her the previous day. The first link led to an interview Ravensong had given where he talked about his father and the abuse he suffered as a child.
The elder Ravensong had a serious drinking problem and battled with bouts of rage. Knowing that didn’t make Peyton feel any better about their current case. Maybe Marco was right and the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. The predilection for substance abuse had certainly not skipped a generation.
She closed that window and clicked on the CPS report. It had been scanned into the computer, so parts of it were smudged, but she was still able to make out the majority of it. She let out a whistle and picked up her coffee, taking a sip.
“What?” came Marco’s disembodied voice.
“I’m reading Ravensong’s CPS report from when he was a kid. His father really did a number on him. Concussion, broken pelvis. Why the hell wasn’t the bastard arrested?”
“Probably was. Got a few months, some parenting classes and presto, he’s fixed.”
“Not by half. What a brutal son-of-a-bitch. No wonder his son is a mess.” She read through the entire report and kept it open.
“Hm,” mumbled Marco.
“What?”
“We just got the warrant to access Terry Ravensong’s accounts.”
“Great, take a look while I finish this,” she said, distractedly.
She went to the final link Maria had sent her. Maria had found the actual police report with photos of Ravensong’s car accident. The car had been totaled and by looking at the angle of the shot, it had plowed head-long into the massive tree, folding the front end around the trunk. The photographer had even backed up and taken a picture of the street, the car, the tree and the yard. There were no skid marks to indicate the brakes had ever been applied.
Scrolling up to the report, she scanned it. The responding officer had even remarked that Ravensong hadn’t appeared to brake. He chalked it up to the high level of narcotics in the rock star’s system, but Peyton didn’t think that was the cause. Jennifer had been right. Ravensong had clearly been trying to commit suicide. Based on the look of the car, he’d damn near been successful.
Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Page 10