“Wow, that’s bad.”
“Yeah, so you got any interesting cases right now?”
Jake smiled. “Yeah, but none that I can talk about.”
“On-going investigations, eh?”
“Yep.”
“So how you like the job?”
“Funny thing,” said Jake, running the strap of the camera through his fingers. “I was just thinking that I’m getting used to it. I didn’t think I would, but I kinda like feeling like I make a difference.”
Chuck narrowed his eyes, then he pushed himself to his feet with a grunt. Sliding the glasses over his eyes, he dropped a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “And that’s the problem. Don’t start thinking you’re making a difference, boy, ‘cause you ain’t. You keep cleaning up the shit out there and there’s more right behind it. It never ends. You solve one case and there’s another. It’s like holding back the tide with a bucket.”
Jake wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It seemed so cynical. “Did you come to see anyone in particular?”
“Naw. Most of the cops I knew are retired or dead. That’s another thing that gets old, going to cop funerals. Depressing shit, that.” He lowered his hand. “Just came by to flirt with Maria. She’s a looker, isn’t she?”
“I guess.”
Chuck laughed. “Take some time and look at her. In the end, that’s the only thing that matters. A pretty girl. Everything else is bull shit.”
He punched Jake in the shoulder and headed toward the front. Jake turned and watched him walk away. Once he reached the front, Jake could hear Maria giggle. Shaking his head, he reached for his camera and dropped into his chair, swiveling it toward the computer. Whatever Chuck said, Jake was just happy he wasn’t clocking hours messing with other people’s money.
* * *
Peyton and Marco returned to the precinct. Taking off her leather jacket, she slung it across her chair and sank into it. For some reason, meeting with Ravensong’s daughter upset her more than she thought it would. She wished they’d gotten something more, but a vague reference to some suspicious Bible study hardly qualified as significant.
Marco slung his jacket over his chair as well. “Want a soda?”
“Yeah,” she nodded distractedly.
“And a candy bar?”
She gave him a half-smile. “Did you have to ask?”
“It’s one of those things men do to make women know we’re thinking of them without having to say we’re thinking of them. Just accept it, Brooks, and don’t make me explain.”
“No one’s making you explain. You’re choosing to explain. And it’s not like women don’t already know what you’re explaining. You men aren’t that complicated.”
Marco gave a chuckle. “Even when we try to do something nice, we gotta get shit,” he grumbled as he walked away.
“Hey, how’d it go?” Jake came up beside her and took a seat in the extra chair Abe had drug over when he was there.
Peyton braced her head on her fist. “Not great.”
“She didn’t know anything or she wouldn’t talk to you?”
“She talked, she just didn’t know anything. She hasn’t spent much time with her mother since her grandmother died.”
“Now what?”
Peyton shook her head.
“You could subpoena the bank for the strange deposit.”
“How long will that take?”
“Couple weeks, probably.”
“And then no guarantees that they’d cooperate, right?”
“Right.”
“Ravensong doesn’t have that long.” She took out her notes and thumbed the cover open. “I just wonder if we missed something when we inspected the condo.”
“Like what?”
“Like the murder weapon. Where the hell is it?”
“Maybe in the garbage.”
Peyton picked up a pen and tapped it on the pad. “Yeah, I need to check on that and see if they’ve processed it all.” She closed the pad. “So what have you been doing?”
“Processing the pics I took with Abe two days ago.” He leaned back in the chair and braced his ankle on the opposite thigh. “I did get a strange visit though.”
“Visit?”
“Some retired cop named Chuck Wilson. He was sitting in my seat when I came back to my desk.”
“Chuck Wilson? Hasn’t he been retired for a while?”
“He said five years. Do you remember him?”
“Remember who?” asked Marco, reaching over Jake’s shoulder to give Peyton her soda and candy bar.
“Chuck Wilson.”
“The crime scene investigator?”
“Yeah.”
Jake pointed at Peyton’s snack. “Where’s mine, Adonis?”
“In the machine. What about Chuck Wilson?” He took a seat and popped open his own can.
“He paid Jake a visit.”
“What for?”
Jake shrugged. “I think he’s lonely. His wife died the year after he retired. He said he just wanted to see how things were running now. Oh, and flirt with Maria.”
“Man has good taste,” said Marco.
Peyton threw her wadded up wrapper at him.
He deflected it and it landed in the trash by his desk. Looking up, he gave her a wicked smile, but the smile dried. “In coming,” he said cryptically.
Peyton looked over her shoulder, then wished she hadn’t. Devan was coming toward her with that long-legged lawyer gait of his. Even when he was headed to the bathroom, he moved with a purpose.
Jake dropped his leg and moved his chair closer to Marco as Devan loomed over Peyton. She faced forward again, fighting to pull her composure around her. This was so not what she needed after their disappointing morning.
“Marco,” Devan said.
“Adams,” Marco answered, lifting his soda can and taking a swig.
“Peyton.”
Peyton forced herself to look up at him. She couldn’t deny some part of her still felt a flutter when she saw him. His clean-cut, sleek style, his dark eyes and coffee-colored skin, his neatly cropped hair – he was handsome in a pressed and polished way that was universally appealing.
“Devan.” She tried to keep the bite out of her voice. So he’d dumped her? So he hadn’t given her a chance? That was water under the bridge and they had to work together still. And yet, she rankled at the way he looked at her, so detached, so professional. Trying to divert the sting, she held out a hand toward Jake. “You remember Jake Ryder.”
Devan shot a look at Jake and away. “Yes.”
Not exactly polite, but then he was a lawyer. Economy of energy seemed to be a hallmark.
“I want to talk to you about this Ravensong case.”
Peyton bit her lip, shifting her gaze to her partner. Marco picked up the soda can again and took a deliberate gulp. She knew there wouldn’t be any help from that quarter. “It’s a bit premature to talk about it. We’re still in the first stages of investigation.”
“It’s Thursday.”
Clenching her jaw, she resisted the impulse to say, Look at you, reading a calendar. “I know.”
“The murder happened on Sunday.”
“Right.”
“That’s four days.”
“Five if you count Sunday.”
His face grew even more serious, if that was possible. Marco turned the can up and started reading the ingredients on the side. Jake suddenly found a piece of loose rubber to pull on his shoe.
Opening his mouth to retort, he stopped himself and made a visible shift. “I understand there are no other suspects?”
“You understand no such thing. I don’t believe we’ve discussed the case with you.”
“So there are other suspects?”
Peyton wasn’t going to answer that. She also didn’t like the way he loomed over her. He was already a good six inches taller than her in her heels, so this really put her at a disadvantage. She pushed her chair out and stood up.
“Oh shit,” mutter
ed Marco, putting down the can.
Jake looked like he might bolt.
“I said the case was still being investigated. That should be enough.”
“It isn’t.” He was clearly not intimidated.
“Care to elaborate.”
“I understand you have one suspect, who not only had a motive, but the evidence all points to him, possessing no alibi and has, in fact, committed himself to a psych facility to prevent another such murder from occurring, so I guess I question what more there could be to investigate.”
“Right now, I’m trying to investigate why you’re such an assh—”
“Okay!” interrupted Marco, coming to his feet. “Look, Devan, not all of the evidence matches up. The vic was killed with a leaded glass curio that broke in the murderer’s hand, but Ravensong doesn’t have any cuts. Not to mention that a week before she died, a large sum of money was deposited into her account from an off-shore bank, so although four…or five days may have passed, we need more time.”
Devan took it all in, then he turned toward Peyton and held out a hand. “See, that wasn’t so hard…”
Peyton took a step toward him, but Marco came around Jake’s chair and grabbed him by the shoulders, propelling him backward and stepping between them.
“Now that, that was just mule-ass stupid,” he said.
“I was stating a fact.”
“Yeah, some facts do not need to be stated,” commented Marco, turning Devan toward the door and marching him forward.
Peyton glared after them until they disappeared around the corner, then she backed up and sat down. Jake reached over and pushed the half-eaten part of her candy bar at her.
“It’ll help.”
“Smug sonuvabitch.”
Jake nodded vigorously. “He is.”
Peyton shifted her gaze to him and they both burst into laughter. “That was very unprofessional of me.”
“Well, he deserved it. He’s a prick.”
“He is, isn’t he?” She picked up the candy bar and took a bite. “Problem is he’s right. We’ve got nothing.”
Jake leaned toward her. “You’ve got your instinct and that’s saved one sorry sonuvabitch already now, hasn’t it?”
Peyton smiled at him and took another bite.
CHAPTER 8
The pizza parlor had a main room where the booths were located, a counter where the pizzas were delivered, and a back room filled with arcade games, a small wooden dance floor, and a dart board. A number of pub tables were arranged around the edges and neon signs for various beers cast everything in an electrified, phosphorescent glow.
Joshua sat on one of the barstools, watching James and the band run through their usual collection of songs. The music producer, Phil Rowlands, sat next to him, his fingers curled through a mug of beer.
The crowd was small, maybe twenty people and most of those were guys busy playing a game of darts in the corner. Blazes’ music drifted out into the main part of the restaurant and Joshua could see people nodding their heads and shifting around to watch them through the wooden spindles separating the two rooms, but it just wasn’t enough to draw them in.
Joshua didn’t really know why. They all had good voices, Evan in particular, and James played a mean guitar, still Joshua knew instinctively that this wasn’t the reaction the music producer wanted. He didn’t want pubs, he wanted stadiums, and Blazes wasn’t going to deliver that.
As the heavy bass of the song died away, James turned to Evan and the two of them began a whispered conversation. Phil took the opportunity to lean toward Joshua and nudge his elbow with his beer mug.
“I told him to let you sing. You know the lyrics, right?”
Joshua gave a bark of laughter. “You told him what?”
Leaning closer, Phil dropped his voice. “This is all they’ll be, kid. They need something different, something captivating. They need you.”
Joshua looked at him skeptically. “They just need exposure.”
“Get an earring, a couple of tattoos, grow out that hair, and you could be a rock star.”
Joshua smiled wryly. Oh, his mother would love that.
“Here.” Phil pushed the beer over to him.
Joshua didn’t even have time to react. James loomed at the table, catching the beer before it crossed mid-point. “He’s sixteen.”
Phil laughed, but he took the beer back. “So you gonna let him sing?”
Joshua frowned. The crazy bastard was serious. Still there was no way James would agree…
“You wanna?” He gave Joshua a pointed look.
“This is your thing, James.”
“Do you wanna sing the next song or not? You know the lyrics, you wrote the damn thing.”
Joshua looked around the parlor. Did he want to sing? He wasn’t sure. He’d never sung in front of this many people before. Playing the piano was one thing, he could disappear behind the instrument, but singing meant he’d be out in front, exposed to everyone.
“You did it before.”
“That was just a stupid birthday party.”
“So?”
So?
Drawing a deep breath, he held it, then he exhaled, rubbing his hands against his thighs. He couldn’t look at Phil. He could feel the man’s anticipation and it almost made him sick. Finally he nodded, that and nothing more.
James clapped a hand on his shoulder and drew him forward. Later Joshua wasn’t sure how he walked across the floor or stepped up on the silly, wooden dance floor. Evan gave him a tight smile as he took his place behind the microphone. His heart was pounding so loudly in his head, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear the music. The neon lights created prisms of color in his peripheral vision, dancing just beyond his sight.
Then James counted off the beat and the band launched into the song, a heavy pounding rhythm with a slow melody. Joshua almost panicked. He preferred the faster, harder songs. The bass drum could hide a less than stable voice, but not this song. This song he’d penned himself, a ballad he’d named The River. It was his silent tribute to his own people, to the Patwin people, and deeply personal. Not even James knew what it really meant.
He gripped the microphone, hoping the cold of the metal against his palm would ground him, and he studiously ignored the men playing darts. Picking a poster on the wall of a mountain stream, he focused on it and let the rest of the parlor fade from his mind.
When the melody started, he sang. He’d known his voice was pleasant, but the voice that drifted through the microphone was haunting, smoky, low and smooth like the heavy flow of water over rocks. Closing his eyes, he drifted with the music, let the notes fill him up, merge with him.
James didn’t know how much he missed the reservation, the quiet, the shelter, the familiar. He missed the flow of time on the reservation, the community, the connection. He’d learned to adapt in the bigger world, the world of television and fast moving cars, but a part of him always felt that he didn’t really belong either place. No matter how much Adam and the kids made him a part of their family, he was different, he was separate.
The song slowed to an end and he held the final note, let it drift away naturally, let it slide into a memory. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to see people standing in the entrance to the back room, peering through the spindles. In the corner, the men had stopped playing darts, and Phil…Phil was smiling.
* * *
Peyton opened the break-room refrigerator and peeked inside. She was hoping to find some left over cake or pie for breakfast. She’d gotten up late and hadn’t had time to grab anything before heading to work. Marco had the day off for his birthday, so she planned to spend her time reading through the articles Maria had found for her about Ravensong. A piece of cake was just the thing to make her reading complete.
“Hey, Brooks,” came a voice behind her.
She glanced over her shoulder. Nathan Cho had come in the room and was headed for the coffee pot. “Hey, Cho.”
“What ya looking for?”
“Something for breakfast, but there’s nothing here. Maria’s off her game.”
Cho laughed and poured a cup of coffee. “Want some?” He held up the pot.
“I already had a cup on my way in.” She closed the refrigerator and wandered over to him. “How’s your case?”
Cho shook his head. “We’ve got nothing. The Preacher and Abe figured out the guy had a record, but that’s about all we’ve got. No family to speak of. Parents both dead, never married, no kids. He has a sister, but she wants nothing to do with him. Won’t even arrange a burial.”
“What’s he got a record for?”
“Child molestation.”
Peyton tilted back her head. “I guess that’s why the sister is avoiding him, eh?”
“Probably.” He brought the mug to his lips and took a sip. “Can’t even find a witness.”
“Weird. You’d think someone would have heard something in a BART station at night. He can’t be the only bum sleeping down there.”
Cho started to answer, but he was distracted by loud shouting coming from the lobby. Peyton looked over her shoulder, but she couldn’t see anything from where she stood. Stepping out of the break-room, she moved toward the front of the building with Cho on her heels.
A crowd was gathered in the lobby.
Smith and Holmes were trying to restore order, while Maria stood behind her desk, looking anxious. Jake had wandered over from his cubby, but he didn’t seem inclined to get involved. At first Peyton thought it was paparazzi that had found a way into the building, but then she caught sight of Elena hovering in the background.
A tall, stocky blond man was shouting at Smith and pointing his finger toward the back of the precinct. “I’m not messing around anymore. You tell me what the hell is going on!”
Peyton glanced at Defino’s door, wondering why she hadn’t come out, but the door remained closed. Drawing a deep breath, she knew this was her problem to sort. She missed Marco at her back because people typically calmed down when they saw him looming behind her, but this blond dude didn’t seem like he gave ground easily.
She came up behind Smith with her most intimidating cop stance. “What the hell is going on?”
Murder on Russian Hill (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 3) Page 13