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

by M. L. Hamilton

  The band members watched him move toward Joshua, then they dispersed.

  Phil took Joshua’s arm and directed him back toward the door. “It’s not a good time right now, Josh. I’m right in the middle of something.”

  “Who the hell are they?” Joshua asked, shaking off his hold.

  Phil shrugged. “Just a new band I’m looking at managing. No big deal.”

  “Does James know what you’re doing?”

  “Why would I tell James? What has he got to do with it?”

  Joshua dismissed the issue. He didn’t care what Phil did with his time as long as he kept getting gigs for Blazes. “Look, Phil. I need your help.”

  Phil stopped moving at the door and turned to face him. “What’s up?”

  Joshua leaned closer and dropped his voice. “I’m almost out of the prescription you got me.”

  “All of it? The refills too?”

  “Yeah.”

  Phil’s attention drifted back to the band. “How the hell many pills do you take a day?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just need you to get that doctor to refill it. The pharmacy says he refuses.”

  Glancing back at him, Phil shook his head. “I don’t think I can do that, Josh. You’re really asking me to go out on a limb.” His attention drifted away again.

  Joshua turned and marked where he was staring. The singer had come out and was messing with the microphone.

  Suddenly it all came clear. “Are you shitting me? You’re replacing us with this crap.”

  “Look, Josh, it’s not like that.”

  “The hell it isn’t.” His head lifted in understanding. “You’re getting a younger band.”

  “That’s what pulls in the teenage girls, Josh.”

  “I’m not even nineteen yet, you bastard.”

  “Now hold on a minute. I’ve done good by you and Blazes. You’d be nothing without me. And we still got a long run ahead of us, but let’s be realistic. This is a fickle business, Josh. Fads come and fads go. You gotta stay fresh, you gotta stay young, or you’re done.”

  “And I’m done?”

  “You’re gifted, Josh. No doubt about it. You’ve got the looks, the voice, and a butt-load of talent, but the pills are affecting you. You’ve lost about fifteen pounds, your face is gaunt, and the clothes hang off you. Teenage girls want a fantasy, kid, and…” He looked beyond Joshua to the other singer. “He’s more the fantasy right now.”

  Joshua wasn’t sure what to do with any of this. He took the pills because Phil made him work brutal hours, modeling or acting during the day, playing with Blazes at night. He’d promised him help, but when he’d been ready to get help, Phil had gotten him more pills instead. If he didn’t look the way he once did, it wasn’t intentional.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Go home, kid. Get yourself straightened out and then call me.” He patted Joshua’s cheek. “With your pretty face, middle aged women are going to be panting after you as soon as you put on a few pounds.”

  “Go home?” Where was home now? He couldn’t go home. The minute Adam saw him, he’d know what Joshua was doing. There was no hiding his addiction from a doctor. “You bastard.”

  Phil grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t do this, Josh. Don’t burn bridges with me.” His fingers tightened. “Let me tell you, that isn’t smart at all.”

  Releasing him, he walked away, headed toward the stage and his latest conquest. Joshua watched him, watched him pull the kid close and tell him something that Joshua couldn’t hear. Staring at the boy, Joshua felt like he was seeing himself before everything got out of control, when it had just been about the music, about the chance to share it with others.

  He walked toward the door and threw it open. The Southern California sun blazed down on him, forcing his pupils to contract. He leaned against the brick wall beside the auditorium door and stared out at the traffic. What the hell was he going to do? He had four pills left and then they were gone. There was no way to get any more.

  Sinking down to a sitting position, he braced his arms on his knees and stared at his hands. They shook uncontrollably. No matter how much he concentrated, he couldn’t stop the tremors. And it would only get worse. Once the last of the pills were gone, the shaking and the panic would begin to overtake him.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to think, but that was hard. Once he could reason things out, but so much of the time, he felt like he was walking around in a fog. And if he wasn’t in a fog, he was anxious, nervous, shaking.

  Pulling out his wallet, he opened it. A scrap of wrinkled paper poked out of the bill section and he drew it out, smoothing it on his thigh. The numbers were faded, but he could still read them. He remembered watching the two musicians huddled in the alley, trying to hide what they were doing. When you get tired of the twitches, call me. Joshua could still hear that voice, see the tattoos on the man’s body. When you get tired of the twitches...

  Closing his eyes, Joshua reached for his phone.

  * * *

  Peyton and Maria searched the rest of O’Shannahan’s website, looking for anything that might indicate where he was or what he was doing, but they found nothing. The website was an ego-maniac’s wet dream with testimonials and eye witness accounts of all the miraculous things O’Shannahan had done for his flock.

  A short while later, Peyton received a text message from Marco, saying that they’d returned and were with Stan Neumann. Peyton left Maria still searching the website and went to find them.

  Stan Neumann’s office had once been the closet that housed the computer for the precinct during the late 80’s when computers took up entire rooms. Peyton didn’t visit him very often because it made her claustrophobic, but he seemed particularly proud of it. His walls were covered with posters that Peyton frankly didn’t understand. They all displayed some type of tech device and said things like How many computer programmers does it take to change a light bulb? None, it’s a hardware problem or Hand over the calculator. Friends don’t let friends derive drunk. Not only did he have a desktop, but he had a laptop and a tablet going all at the same time. And the noise of fans made spending time in there uncomfortable.

  She peeked in the door. Stan glanced up over the top of his computer monitor and his eyes widened behind his glasses when he saw her. Marco leaned on a table to his right, looking over his shoulder at what he was doing, while Jake sat on a table behind both of them, swinging his legs back and forth like a little boy.

  “You found something?” she said, stepping into the room.

  Stan had his table turned so he could see down the hall, but there was only a little passage through to the other side. With three men occupying that area, Peyton was just as happy to remain on the outer edge.

  “Billy Miller only got a partial plate, but Stan’s going to put it into the system and see if it brings up anything,” said Marco, his gaze riveted on Stan’s screen.

  Peyton had never seen him so intent on anything before.

  “Hey, Peyton,” said Stan, beaming a smile at her. “Cool to have you come down here. You haven’t been to my office in a long time.”

  “I know.” She looked at his posters and his display of collectibles arranged wherever computers weren’t. “You’ve really done a lot with it, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah. I think about half of this stuff is new since the last time you saw it.”

  Peyton nodded.

  At his back, Jake continued to swing his legs, but a smile was hovering at the corners of his mouth. Peyton refused to look at him. He was enjoying Stan’s divided attention.

  “Stan,” said Marco, pointing at the screen.

  “Yeah, sorry.” Stan tried to concentrate.

  A strange cardboard box attracted Peyton’s attention and she picked it up, studying it. An action figure occupied the box, but the box had to be more than thirty years old.

  “You like that?” asked Stan. “I bought it on-line. It’s an authentic Storm Trooper from the original movie, never been
out of its box.”

  Peyton set it down, not sure how much a toy like that might cost. “Star Wars, right?”

  “Right.” His eyes tracked from the box to her and back again. “You’ve seen Star Wars, Peyton?”

  “Of course. A million times.”

  “Really? You like it?”

  “Who doesn’t? It’s one of my favorites.”

  Stan’s look grew besotted.

  “Stan,” said Marco, scowling at Peyton.

  He blinked. “Sorry. Let me just punch in the partial and then we’ll narrow the search to California and once again to San Francisco. Then we press this button and it’ll pull up every vehicle that begins with those letters.”

  “Who’s your favorite character?” asked Jake, a grin teasing at his lips.

  “What?”

  “Your favorite character? Star Wars? You said it was one of your favorites.”

  Peyton gave him a cutting smile. “Princess Leia because she kicks ass.”

  Stan’s eyes snapped to her.

  Jake’s grin got broader. “She also wears a metal bikini.” His gaze traveled over Peyton.

  Stan’s mouth dropped open, but Marco whirled on Jake, giving him the death stare.

  Jake had the grace to duck his head, but he was still grinning. “Just saying.”

  Turning back to Stan, Marco exhaled loudly. “Stan.” When Stan continued to stare at Peyton, Marco pushed him in the shoulder. “Stan!”

  He visibly shook himself and looked down at his screen. “There it is. 300th Block of Fern. Registered to a Bryce Everton. I’ll send the address to your phone.”

  “I’m going with you,” she told him.

  “Fine.” Marco rose to his full height. “I’ll drive. You call dispatch and get some uniforms out there, so he can’t get away.”

  Peyton nodded, but her attention shifted to Jake. He was looking at his cell phone, then he glanced up at her and pushed himself off the table. “I’ve gotta go too. See you at home, roomie.”

  “See ya,” she called after him as he squeezed his way out the door.

  * * *

  Jake pulled the Daisy to a stop before the hostel on Isadora Duncan Lane. A sign read rooms for the night, $13.00. The very definition of a flop house.

  Patrol cars blanketed the entrance and cops had roped off the stairs with yellow crime scene tape. Jake grabbed his evidence case and camera, and climbed out. Even though the place was crawling with police officers, he locked the Daisy’s doors. She might be the ugliest car on the road, but she was his.

  Ducking under the crime scene tape, he jogged up the stairs and into the lobby of the hostel. Officer Holmes was talking to the clerk behind the counter, but Bartlet, the young cop with the boyish face, spotted him and came over.

  “They’re back here,” he said, leading the way into a hallway to the left of the lobby. Dark wood paneling ran from floor to ceiling and the carpet was a print so threadbare, the pad showed through. It reminded Jake of the apartment he’d rented in the Tenderloin before Peyton rescued him.

  “Here it is.” Bartlet paused in front of an open door to the right of the hallway and motioned inside.

  Jake stepped into a one-room box with bunk beds on either side. Directly in front of him was the single window, covered in metal bars and ragged orange and brown curtains, allowing sunlight to seep through the dirty glass panes. Swinging from the ceiling fan between the two bunk beds was a man, a noose around his neck, his face purple and swollen, his eyes bulging.

  Jake stumbled to a halt and sucked in a wild breath. Nathan Cho peered around the man’s dangling legs and gave Jake a displeased scowl. Without a word, Jake ducked back into the hallway, pressing his back to the wall where he came face to face with the bearish figure of Bill Simons.

  “Nice of you to show up, Ryder.”

  Jake forced himself to breathe, in and out, in and out.

  “Bit of a shock, eh?”

  Jake could only nod.

  “Well, pull yourself together. You gotta take pictures.”

  “What? Why? That’s clearly a suicide.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Yeah, I think.”

  Simon’s gaze narrowed. “Then I’m guessing you didn’t notice his hands were tied behind his back?”

  Jake blinked in surprise, then he leaned around the door jamb and peeked into the room. Sure enough, the victim’s hands were tied behind his back with a belt.

  “That’s not the only thing,” said Simons, stepping into the room. “You need to see this.”

  Jake forced himself to follow the large man across the room. Simons angled around behind the victim, staring at his bound hands. Jake edged up beside him to take a look. A white card was just visible, cupped in the victim’s hands. Jake felt sure he recognized it.

  He looked up at Simons. “Is that…”

  “You tell me. That’s your job, not mine.”

  Jake set the evidence case on the ground beneath the man’s dangling feet and hunkered over it, unhooking the buckles that held the top in place. He pushed it open and searched around for a pair of latex gloves and the tweezers, trying to gain control over his raging emotions. His hands shook as he pulled on the gloves, but he forced himself to pick up the tweezers.

  Angling around behind the man, he used the tweezers to pry the card loose. Turing it over, he studied the red lettering. Clean-up Crew. A shudder raced down his spine and he held it out for Cho and Simons to see.

  Cho’s lips pulled back against his teeth, while Simons blew out air.

  “What does this mean?” asked Jake.

  Simons and Cho both met his gaze, but Simons was the one to answer. “It means we have a serial killer.”

  Jake’s expression fell. “Oh shit,” he answered.

  * * *

  Marco pulled the Charger to a stop and looked up at the house. It squatted over a two car garage, boxy and nondescript. He pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out without a word. Peyton followed him.

  Smith met them on the sidewalk. “Over here,” he said, guiding them down to the driveway. Pressing the button on his shoulder radio, he spoke into it. “Open’er up.”

  Peyton and Marco watched as the garage door creaked into motion, revealing a set of tires, a bumper, and the white bed of a pickup truck. As soon as the door came to a stop, Marco walked into the garage and around the front of the vehicle to the right side. The front bumper was smashed into the wheel well, tenting the metal outward.

  Peyton sidled through between a shelving unit and the pickup on the right side. Squatting down, she ran her fingers along the dent, coming away with a dusting of blue-tinted powder. “Frank, can you have the CSI take a sample of this paint?”

  “They already did.”

  She levered herself to her feet and looked up at Marco. He was staring at the damage, his expression difficult to read. She squeezed through to his side. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The driver’s inside. They’ve already read him his rights,” said Smith.

  Marco walked to the inner door and Smith opened it for him. Peyton followed on his heels, worried he might not be able to resist punching the ass who’d hurt his nephew. They climbed a flight of stairs and found themselves in a living room with an orange, shag carpet and a tweed patterned couch.

  Bryce Everton sat in a recliner before the windows, his hands clasped on the chair arms. He was a slight man with a receding hairline and watery brown eyes. He was arguing with a cop Peyton didn’t immediately recognize. “That ain’t my car.”

  “Why’s it in your garage?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then why’s it registered in your name?”

  “That ain’t my name.”

  “Show me some I.D.”

  “I lost it.”

  The cop threw up a hand and turned, finding Marco standing behind him. Peyton recognized him as Drew Logan, a sergeant from the Civic Center precinct. He gave Marco a sympathetic look.

/>   “Do you mind if I try?” Marco asked, surprising both Logan and Peyton. Marco hated interrogation.

  “Sure.”

  Marco moved closer to Everton until he leaned over him. Everton was clearly intimidated by Marco’s size and proximity. “Let’s start again. Okay?”

  Everton started to speak, but Marco held up a hand. “Don’t give me any shit. We both know that’s your pickup in the garage. Don’t make me prove it with the registration.”

  Everton eyed him, taking in his size. “Okay, it’s my pickup.”

  “And it’s been in an accident.”

  “Not with me. It was stolen from my garage.”

  Marco drew a deep breath and slowly released it. “That’s another lie.” The low, deadly quality of his tone was more terrifying than if he’d been screaming. “There’s a kid in the hospital who’ll never walk again and another one with a crushed leg and a head injury.”

  Everton squirmed in the chair. “I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”

  “But you did.”

  “I just wanted to scare them.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re punks. They think they own the world, going around intimidating people, taking things. They cut me off on O’Farrell, and they didn’t even care. Damn near crashed into me. I just wanted to scare them, make them think, but they didn’t care. They think they own the road, they think nothing can touch them. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of being afraid.”

  “They’re sixteen years old.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Gang bangers and hoods. They take everything from us. Make us afraid to leave our houses at night.”

  Marco loomed over him and Everton pressed back in the chair. “The driver was my nephew. The other boy had a scholarship to run track in college. They weren’t gang bangers.”

  Everton’s expression grew alarmed. “I just wanted to scare them. That’s all, just scare them the way they scared me. You should have seen the way they cut me off. Then I lost it. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but they acted like they owned the damn road, as if they could do anything they pleased.”

  Marco bowed his head. “They were scared. They’d gone cruising on Market and were trying to get back to where they belonged before their fathers found out. They cut you off because they were scared.”