“Uh, Brooks, come here a moment.”
Peyton glanced up. “What did you find?”
“I’m not sure.”
Peyton rose to her feet and crossed around to his desk. “What?”
Marco used the mouse wheel to scroll through a long list of numbers, large numbers. “See all these?”
Peyton squinted and leaned closer, putting her hand on his shoulder. “Yeah.”
“They come regular. First of the month, then the fifteenth. Over and over again.”
“A lot of money goes into that account.”
“Yeah, but it’s all regular and most of the time it’s the same amount or thereabouts.”
“You think it’s child support payments from Ravensong.”
“They all have the same account number linked to them, so I’m guessing that’s his. But look here.” He released the mouse and pointed at a spot on the screen. A deposit in the amount of $250,000 had suddenly appeared.
“What’s the date on that?”
Marco clicked on the link and a window dropped down. Peyton glanced at the date, then reached for her phone and thumbed it on, pressing the calendar. The deposit had cleared Terry’s bank almost a full week before she was murdered.
“Do you think Ravensong was paying her off to keep his daughter in the country?”
Marco shook his head, still staring at the screen. “Look at the account numbers. They’re not the same, and there’s very little information listed on this one. In fact the account numbers aren’t similar at all.” He glanced up. “Where’s Ryder?”
Peyton straightened. “Jake?” she shouted.
Jake popped up from behind his partition. “You bellowed?”
“Come here a moment.”
Jake ambled over and Peyton moved back to give him room.
“Could this be from the same bank as all the rest of these?”
Jake studied the numbers, then reached for the mouse and scrolled up and down. He passed the cursor over the quarter million amount and then stood up. “Nope. That’s an off-shore account.”
“From where?”
Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d have to look up the codes, but I’d guess the Cayman Islands, or someplace like that. Someplace where you don’t want people to know you’re stashing money.”
Marco wheeled around in his chair and looked up at Peyton. “Do you think Ravensong has an off-shore account?”
“He might. If he has a savvy accountant.”
“Maybe,” said Jake.
“What?”
“It’s just usually businessmen, CEOs, that have accounts like that. I don’t remember one single entertainer who had one the entire time I worked at the bank. They usually aren’t that savvy and their accountants are usually crooks.”
Peyton and Marco exchanged a look. “Then who is paying her such massive sums of money? Will the bank give us the name on the account?”
“That’s the problem with off-shore accounts. The countries who house them are reluctant to divulge any information. You can try subpoenaing the records, but they’ll drag their heels and unless the feds are involved, they may even go so far as to ignore you.”
“So now what?” asked Marco, shaking his head.
“Clearly we need to know more about Terry Ravensong and the only one I can think of to ask is her daughter.”
“Ravensong will never allow that.”
Peyton went around her desk and grabbed her jacket. “Well, I’ll just have to convince him to let me give it a try.”
“I guess I’m coming.”
Peyton hesitated. “Let me go. I think he’ll respond better to me.”
Marco gave her a sly smile. “You just want to be alone with him.”
Peyton rolled her eyes, but didn’t answer.
“What about the game?”
“Go on over. I’ll be home as soon as I can. It shouldn’t take too long.”
“Be good. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Peyton smiled over her shoulder. “Well, that leaves my options just wide open, dunnit?”
* * *
The psychiatric facility sat at the top of a hill, overlooking the whole of the City. Peyton could see all the way out to the ocean. Checking in at the front desk, she was directed to the common room off to the left of the lobby.
As she stepped into the room, the sound of a piano filled the space. The notes were clear, airy, rollicking, the song upbeat and joyful. Ravensong had his back to the door and in front of him were a bank of windows that overlooked the hill, framing the view of the ocean with pleasant navy blue curtains.
She glanced around the room. A fireplace occupied one wall, and overstuffed couches and arm chairs were arranged around a blue and silver rug, covering the dark hardwood of the floor. The piano was a black baby grand and a few lighter arm chairs were arranged in a semicircle around it. In the corners were tables, spread with board games, chess and checkers, and a bookshelf housed a collection of hardbound books to the right of the door.
Ravensong’s black hair fell down to mid-shoulder, spreading over his back like a blanket. He had a grey sweatshirt on and a pair of jeans. His converse sneakers worked the pedals on the piano rhythmically, but Peyton marked that the shoes had no laces.
She walked across the floor and stopped on the side of the piano, leaning against it. His fingers continued across the keys without faltering, but he looked up with no hint of surprise in his expression. She could see the bruised knuckles on his right hand and when he shifted, a glimpse of the scars on his wrists. A round hoop earring peeked out of the fall of his hair. She was surprised they hadn’t taken that from him.
“Didn’t take you long to find a musical instrument, did it?”
He continued playing. “I’m drawn to them. Funny thing is I didn’t want to take lessons when my mother suggested it. I wanted to play baseball like my older brother, but the first time I sat down and touched the keys, it was magic. There’s something soothing about it.”
“I get that.”
“You play?”
Peyton smiled. “Not a whit. I am the most unmusically inclined person you’ve ever met.”
He stopped playing and shifted on the bench. “I have to say, Inspector Brooks, I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“Peyton.”
“Peyton?”
“My name is Peyton.” She ran her hand over the piano.
“Peyton,” he repeated. “Interesting name.”
“My father was a fan of Walter Payton, hence the rather unfeminine choice.”
He shrugged. “I like it. Different, unique. Suits you.”
Peyton didn’t want to go down that route. She wasn’t immune to his charm and this felt a little too much like flirting. And if she were honest, she suspected she’d started it. “Look, Elena came to see me.”
“Ah. She wanted you to stop me from checking in here?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not changing my mind.”
“I agree with you. I think this was a wise decision.”
He considered her a moment, giving her time to study his features. He might be a murderer, she still felt there was little doubt of that, but he was also exceptionally charismatic. “You’re here for a reason though.”
She nodded. “I’m here for a reason.”
He turned his hand over and showed her his unmarked palms. “The glass thing?”
“That and we subpoenaed Terry’s bank records.”
“So?”
“So, she received a large deposit one week before she died. Did you give her money?”
“I give her money every month on the first and fifteenth. How large a deposit are we talking?”
“Quarter of a million.”
Ravensong whistled. “That’s large, all right.”
“Did she work?”
“Work?”
“Did she have a job?”
“Yeah, her job was milking me.”
“I meant a more legitim
ate form of employment.”
“No.”
“Did she have a boyfriend?”
He rubbed the scar on his left wrist with his right hand. “She and I rarely talked, we did our exchanges in a garage, and generally we stayed out of each other’s lives. She probably had a lot of boyfriends.”
Peyton shifted weight. “Look, I’m about to ask something of you and I want you to hear me out before you say no.”
He frowned at her.
Peyton continued. “I want to talk to Tiffany.”
“No.”
Peyton gave a grim laugh. “That’s not exactly hearing me out.”
“I don’t want you talking to my daughter.”
Peyton leaned on the piano, bringing herself closer to him. “Listen, Joshua, the D.A. is going to demand we turn the case over to him for a Grand Jury hearing. Once that happens, I can’t help you. I have to have some reason to continue working this case.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “You have doubts, don’t you?”
“I didn’t say that. I still think the evidence stacks up pretty strongly against you, but there are a few loose ends I don’t like.”
“You have doubts, not loose ends. Doubts.”
“I haven’t given you any reason to believe that.”
“But you have. You told me to call you by your first name. You wouldn’t do that if you’d written me off as a murderer.” He leaned forward, touching a hand in the center of his chest. “I can’t remember what happened. It’s like there’s a gaping hole where my memory is, but I can’t see myself striking her either. Now that could be because I can’t accept I’d do something like that, but shouldn’t I have some memory, some fragment of something if I had done something so horrible.”
“I’m not sure that’s true, Joshua. You may have blacked the memory simply because you couldn’t accept you’re capable of doing something like that. The evidence still all points back to you.”
His expression fell, shifted inward. He stared down at the piano keys.
Peyton took a seat next to him. “Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea, but here’s the thing. I can’t explain why you don’t have cuts on your hand and I can’t figure out who gave Terry that money. I want to investigate this further. Please let me talk to Tiffany.”
“I can’t put her through that.”
Peyton played her final card. “In the last year, she’s lost her grandmother and her mother. I don’t want her to lose her father too. I’ll be careful with her, I won’t push. I’ll just ask general questions and if she gets upset, I’ll stop. Elena can be with us the whole time.”
He lifted his right hand and put it on the keys, compressing them.
“I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it was important.”
He gave a distracted nod. “Okay, but you have to promise me you won’t upset her or speak badly about her mother.”
“I won’t do that. I promise you.”
He exhaled. “All right, you have my permission.”
Peyton suppressed her smile. “So, show me how to play this thing.” She settled her fingers over the keys. Ravensong reached around her and covered her hands with his own. She could feel the muscles in his chest shift against her back, and he smelled like soap with a faint hint of saddlewood aftershave.
Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath, trying to still the instant rage of hormones through her body. His touch was warm as he compressed her fingers on the keys, playing a simple melody.
Peyton resisted the impulse to lean back into him, reminding herself he was a murder suspect and a taken-man, but it was hard to concentrate with his arms wrapped around her and the warmth of his breath brushing her cheek.
* * *
Peyton opened the door and tossed her keys onto the sofa table. Pickles scrambled over to her as she shrugged out of her jacket and hung it on the rack by the door. Unhooking her gun, she hung that over the coat, then bent to untie her boots.
Marco and Jake were sitting on the bar stools at the counter, the basketball game was on the television, and Abe was in the kitchen, messing with something. It felt homey and comforting. She was happy they were there.
“Hey, Mighty Mouse,” said Jake.
“Hey,” she answered.
Marco swiveled on the barstool. “How’d it go?”
“He agreed,” she said, kicking off her boots. Bending over, she picked up Pickles and cuddled him. He covered her face in delighted doggy kisses.
“He’s had dinner and been out already,” said Jake.
“Thank you.” She checked the score on the game. The Warriors were up by ten, start of the second quarter. She carried Pickles to the bar and climbed onto the stool. “Did you order the pizza? I’m starved.”
“It should be here in fifteen minutes,” answered Jake.
“Did you set up the meeting with the little girl?” asked Marco, taking a sip of his beer.
“Yeah, Elena agreed to let us come out at 11:00AM tomorrow.”
Abe gave her a smile. “You look tired.”
She shrugged.
“He got to you, didn’t he?” said Marco.
Peyton didn’t want to answer that. He got to her in more ways than one. It was so hard to keep her objectivity. Well, to be honest, objectivity had always been a difficult part of her job, but Ravensong was especially hard. He tripped so many of her buttons. He was tied to her adolescence. He was handsome, and charming, and talented, and worst of all, tormented. Peyton couldn’t deny she had a weakness for tortured people, which is why Jake Ryder was still living in her house.
Abe watched her as he quartered slices of lemon on a wooden cutting board. “You should let me go with you next time. I want to lust after a hot rock star.”
Jake made a choking sound, but Peyton ignored him. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Sure. Let’s talk about my latest creation,” said Abe.
The three of them watched as he bustled over to the refrigerator and pulled it open. He took out a tray and carried it to the kitchen counter. It was filled with tall glasses and inside was an orange liquid with a swirl of red rising through the center. Crowning the ridge of each was a cherry pierced by a toothpick and topped with a crepe paper raspberry. Peyton studied them in appreciation. She usually avoided Abe’s drinks like the devil, but this one was pretty.
“What’s it called?” she asked.
Marco and Jake shot her quelling looks, but Abe smiled like a cat in the cream. “I call it Sex at Sunrise.”
Peyton’s brows rose and she gave him a slow nod.
“It’s a Tequila Sunrise with a twist,” he finished.
Before she thought better of it, she asked, “What’s the twist?”
“Peyton!” Marco and Jake shouted in unison.
She shot a smile at them as Abe rolled his eyes.
“The twist is a twist of lemon,” he said innocently, then he leaned toward the two men, placing his chin on his hand. His eyes gleamed with wicked delight. “All sex should come with a twist.”
Marco’s gaze narrowed on him in a glare, but Jake blushed and looked down. Peyton couldn’t help but laugh. They were too funny.
“Give me one,” she said bravely.
Marco’s stunned gaze shot to her.
She shrugged as Abe pushed the drink across the counter. “Hey, you gotta take some risks sometimes. Man up, D’Angelo,” she said as she lifted the glass to her lips.
CHAPTER 7
James tried to hide his excitement as they finished the song for Phil Rowlands, the music producer who’d taken an interest in Blazes. Since they didn’t have the recording equipment necessary to lay down a good track, Phil had agreed to hear them live in a small studio in East L.A. This had to be the best they’d played this song, especially with Joshua’s improvements.
Evan Brown, the bassist, gave him a thumb’s up. He beamed a smile at him and watched as Phil rose to his feet and went to the glass door between
the control room and the vocal booth, pulling it open.
“Sounds good, guys,” he said.
James tried to tamp down on his excitement. “So what do you think, Phil?”
“You’re good. You’re real good.”
James face fell. He could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his tone. “What?”
“Do you have a gig tonight?”
“Yeah, we’re playing a pizza parlor tonight.”
“Give me the address. I’d like to come out and see the crowd’s reaction.”
James glanced at his band mates. Evan was staring at the ground and Ben was fiddling with his drumsticks. “I thought we had a deal.”
Phil shifted weight. “Look, I like you guys. I think you have something. It’s just you don’t have that…I don’t know. That one thing that would make you unique. This is a bitch of a business, kid. Playing good music isn’t enough. You need that one thing that will bring people out in droves, that one thing that sets you apart from the other good bands.”
James sighed. “Okay. I’ll get you the address.”
Phil patted his shoulder. “Good. I like your spirit.” He turned to go.
“Tell Josh to come in and help us pack up,” James told Ben.
Ben climbed off the stool and went to the door, pulling it open. “Hey, we’re ready to go.”
Joshua came into the room, glancing around. James shoved a guitar into his hands and grabbed the amplifier cord, winding it around his arm.
“How’d it go?” Joshua asked as he knelt and settled the guitar into the case.
James shrugged. “Not great.” Glancing up, James noted that Phil had stopped with his hand on the handle of the door. He turned around and gave Joshua a close once-over.
“James, come here a minute.”
Everyone stopped and looked up at him. James laid the cord down and rose to his feet, stepping around the rest of the equipment and crossing toward him. Phil opened the door and stepped into the control room, holding it open for James.
Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Page 11