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

by M. L. Hamilton

  O’Shannahan laughed and held out his hands. “These are Italian hand-tooled leather gloves, made to my exact measurements and shipped here directly from Italy.” He beamed at Marco. “You’ll be interested in seeing the workmanship of your people, yes?”

  Marco scowled. “Why are Americans making gloves in Italy?”

  O’Shannahan chuckled. “Anyway, they are so exact that they need more than an hour to warm to your body temperature, but once they do, they mold directly to your skin.” He rubbed one against the other. “They’re like butter. Exquisite.”

  Exquisite and convenient, thought Peyton, but she couldn’t do anything about it without a warrant.

  “How can I help you, Inspectors?”

  “We’re here about Terry Ravensong’s murder.”

  His face made an alarming shift from genial to tragic, his mouth drawing down into a frown. “Horrible, horrible, that. I heard about it just before I left for Dallas. I was so relieved to know you had the murderer in custody, although I have to say he’s a rather unfortunate man with a terribly troubled past. It’s a shame someone couldn’t have shown him a righteous path sooner.”

  Peyton felt her face flush with anger. He wasn’t really saying anything about Ravensong that she didn’t know, but she just didn’t like him taking a superior tone. “Here’s a funny thing, Reverend. I have a tape of you in Terry Ravensong’s building. When I asked your wife about it, she said you were counseling a young man on the same floor, but I found Theresa Ravensong on the list of parishioners on your website. Can you explain that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Go on,” said Peyton, holding out a hand.

  “Theresa Ravensong was a member of my parish and I wasn’t counseling a young man on her floor, I was counseling her.”

  Peyton and Marco exchanged a look. “So you knew her?”

  “I knew her very well. We met on a regular basis for the last six month. I think you’ll see there are text messages back and forth between us and I’m on that video feed more than a few times.”

  “Your wife said…”

  “My wife is very busy with her charities and all, and she can’t keep focused on who is in the parish. As you probably know, Inspector Brooks, my congregation is quite large, impressively large, in fact.”

  Peyton wasn’t sure what to do with this admission. She reached for her notepad, then thought better of it.

  “Now, if you have no further questions, I do need to get on the road.”

  Desperation rose inside of her. She couldn’t believe he’d admitted so much with such a cavalier attitude.

  “I have a few questions,” said Marco, rescuing her. “But I don’t think they’re appropriate to ask out here.”

  “My wife and I have no secrets.”

  The look Kristin gave him was interesting. Peyton stored it away.

  “It’s about the nature of your counseling. Aren’t reverends bound by the same codes as psychologists, meaning you shouldn’t reveal things to other people, including your wife?” said Marco.

  “I see. Why yes, you are right.” He stepped back and motioned into his study. “Won’t you come in?” He glanced over his shoulder at his wife. “Kristin, you are dismissed.”

  Peyton shifted to look at her, but she refused to meet her gaze. Then she turned stiffly and walked to the stairs. Peyton watched after her as she followed Marco into the study. The same two arm chairs were arranged facing the bay windows and O’Shannahan’s desk. He grabbed a spare chair and placed it in front of the arm chairs, taking a seat. He fussed with his gloves for a moment as Peyton and Marco sorted out who wanted to sit where.

  “What were you counseling Terry Ravensong about?” asked Marco as he sank into the chair.

  O’Shannahan crossed one leg over the other and clasped his gloved hands on his knee. “Her bad choice in men and why she felt she deserved abusive relationships. She suffered from terrifically low self-esteem and only felt better about herself when she was having sexual relations with strangers.”

  So much for discretion.

  “Strangers?” asked Peyton.

  “Yes, Inspector Brooks. She frequently took strange men to her bed. Very self-destructive behavior. She specifically joined my congregation to break from that lifestyle.”

  Hm, Peyton had to wonder if she’d succeeded or simply found a new, deadlier lifestyle. “Reverend O’Shannahan, you were admittedly with Terry Ravensong just before she was killed. Isn’t that a bit coincidental?”

  “Not at all. We were having a counseling session, when she received a text message from her ex-husband. I didn’t want to leave, but she told me I had to. She said he had a temper and it would make it worse if another man was there.”

  Peyton narrowed her eyes. “She told you he had a temper and you left her?”

  “A temper is one thing. You can imagine my surprise when I heard he’d killed her. Terrible. Terrible. I’ll have to live with that the rest of my life. Ah, but as Romans tells us, ‘Therefore, since we have been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.’ I did my best by that poor soul and I take comfort in that.”

  “I wonder if she’d feel the same,” said Marco. He shifted and gave Peyton a pointed look. She knew what he wanted her to do. It was time to take the figurative gloves off with O’Shannahan.

  “Look, Inspectors. I’m very sorry for what happened to that poor girl, but I’m not surprised. You go slumming with a drug addict and bad things are bound to happen to you. I did my best, but there was no saving her. Now if you don’t mind, I do have a tee time I need to make.” He started to push himself out of his chair.

  “Just one more thing, Reverend, if you don’t mind.”

  His polished façade cracked a bit, but he visibly smoothed over his features. “Of course.”

  “A large sum of money was deposited into Terry Ravensong’s account about a week before she died. Unfortunately, we can’t trace it because it was made through an off-shore account. Do you know anything about this?”

  His smile faded. “Why would I know? She was in negotiations with her ex-husband for custody of their daughter. Maybe he paid her off.”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  “Well, I can’t imagine who it was. Now if you don’t mind…”

  “I’m not done, so why don’t you just make a call and reschedule your tee time? You can take your Italian hand-tooled gloves off, while you’re at it.”

  His brows drew down over his eyes and Peyton could see this wasn’t a man used to being challenged. “I’m being very accommodating here, Inspector Brooks, but I’m afraid I don’t like your tone. I would hate to call the mayor and complain about the treatment I’ve received from your precinct.”

  “Once I’m done with my questions, we can call the mayor together, Reverend O’Shannahan.”

  “What exactly are you insinuating?”

  Peyton leaned forward, bracing her arms on her thighs. “I talked with Ravensong’s daughter. She remembers an interesting incident, which oddly enough squares with what you were telling us about your counseling sessions with her mother.”

  He forced a smile, but it was strange and tense. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never met the child.”

  “No, you didn’t. Her mother told her to stay in her room. You probably didn’t even know she was there.”

  “The point, Inspector Brooks.”

  “Sometime in the night, she went out to use the bathroom and she noticed her mother’s bedroom door was closed.”

  He shrugged. “So?”

  “She heard a man’s voice behind the door. She says he was quoting the Bible.”

  O’Shannahan uncrossed his legs. “Again, the point, Inspector Brooks.”

  “Well, to a nine year old girl, she might have thought she heard Bible quotations, since her mother told her she was going to be studying the Bible, but to a grown woman, I have to wonder if the Bible verses she heard were a man in the throes of passion.”<
br />
  “The Bible can be very inspiring.”

  “So can sex.”

  O’Shannahan launched himself to his feet. Marco and Peyton were up instantly. “You have no evidence to prove I was the man in that condo.”

  “You’re right, except when the little girl questioned her mother about who was coming over, her mother told her the preacher man. Seems a bit specific to me.”

  O’Shannahan’s smile was no longer affable, it was predacious, cunning, chilling. He moved beyond them and went to the door, pulling it open. “I want you to leave, both of you. I will be calling the mayor and reporting this abuse the moment you are gone.”

  Peyton and Marco strode toward him, but they didn’t leave. He stood with his back against the door, pointing out into the foyer.

  “Leave, Inspector Brooks. I command it.”

  “You command it? Fine, but know this, we’ll be back, O’Shannahan, and when we return, you won’t be commanding a damn thing.”

  “Just what are you saying, Inspector Brooks?” He moved so that he loomed over her.

  Peyton refused to give ground. “I’m saying that I think you killed her.”

  His eyes narrowed and a muscle in his jaw bulged. “Titus 2:2, ‘Teach the women to be ‘self-controlled and pure, to be busy at home, to be kind, and to be the subject to their husbands, so that no one will malign the word of God.’ You have strayed from the path of God, Inspector Brooks, you have ignored the proper place of women in our world.”

  “Funny how you have that quote memorized perfectly.”

  “Do not mock me, woman. Go back to your precinct and tell the D.A. to begin prosecution of that drug addict. You have no evidence against me, and you never will, so stop harassing me or I will see that you are stopped.”

  Peyton squared up to him, toe to toe, staring into his face. “Is that a threat, Reverend O’Shannahan?”

  “Threat? Let me just say that I am a man who believes in the Old Testament and the justice it metes out. Do not overstep your place or I promise you, you will be sorry.”

  Before Peyton could respond, Marco grabbed the reverend and shoved him back against the door, his arm over his throat. “Go ahead. Take a swing at me. Give me a reason to put a bullet in your head!”

  O’Shannahan made a gagging sound and grabbed for Marco’s arm, trying to dislodge it.

  Peyton wedged herself between the reverend and her partner, pushing on Marco’s chest. “Let him go.”

  Marco slammed him back into the wall, then released him.

  O’Shannahan made a dramatic coughing sound and rubbed his throat. “That’s police brutality.”

  Peyton turned to face him, keeping a hand in the center of Marco’s chest. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Do you have witnesses, Reverend? Do you have any marks?”

  He glared at her, but he didn’t respond.

  “In fact, the way I remember it, you came at me, but trust me, that will be the last time you ever do. And the next time I come for you, it will be to haul your ass to jail.”

  “The only one going to jail is that heroin junkie, Inspector Brooks. Let’s look at this logically. You found him at the crime scene with her blood on his hands. Even he believes he might have done it. And then there’s me. What have you got on me? Nothing. Where’s the murder weapon, Inspector Brooks? Without it, we both know you have no case. Now get the hell out of my house.”

  Peyton clenched her jaw, but he was right. Without a murder weapon, there was nothing but circumstantial evidence tying him to Terry Ravensong. She pushed Marco toward the door, backing up herself.

  “I’ll be back, O’Shannahan.”

  He gave her a slow, predatory smile. “You can certainly try, Inspector Brooks. You can certainly try.”

  * * *

  They made it out to the Charger. Peyton stood staring at the handle, unable to open the door. Marco halted in crossing around the front of the car and walked back to her, but just as he reached her side, the garage door on O’Shannahan’s house rose and a white Corvette convertible sped up the driveway. O’Shannahan sat in the driver’s seat and he whipped the little car onto the street, then threw it in gear. As he drove past them, he lifted a hand and waved. He still wore the leather gloves.

  Peyton and Marco watched him speed out of sight. Marco placed a hand in the middle of her back to comfort her.

  “We’ll get him.”

  “How? He’s right. We don’t have a murder weapon, we can’t trace the money, and our eye witness is nine years old and didn’t even see him.” She looked up at Marco. “He’s going to get away with it and Ravensong’s going to prison.”

  “Peyton?”

  She turned and faced Marco. “You know I’m right. He’s going to prison and you know what’s gonna happen to him. You know what they’ll do to a man like Joshua Ravensong and he’s not strong enough to take it. He’ll commit suicide and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

  “Peyton.” Marco’s voice was sharp. “We will find something. Besides that, all we need is to plant doubt in one juror’s mind. One juror, that’s all.”

  “And if we don’t. If they convict him, O’Shannahan goes free and Ravensong gets brutalized. I don’t think I can stand that, Marco.”

  Marco exhaled, dropping his hand. “I don’t know what to say.”

  She looked up the street. The sun was breaking through the clouds, but she felt so lost and cold inside. “There’s nothing to say. I’ve got to go see Ravensong. I’ve got to prepare him for this.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  She reached for his hand and squeezed it. “No, you go to the hospital. Tell Vinnie and Billy Miller’s father that we got the guy who hit them. They deserve to know. I need to go see Ravensong by myself, anyway. I owe him that.”

  “Call me when you’re done, all right?”

  “Yeah. Just drop me at the precinct, so I can get the Corolla.”

  “Done,” he said, squeezing her hand in return. He released her and went around the front of the car.

  Peyton turned and looked up at O’Shannahan’s house. Kristin was watching them from the upstairs window, but the minute Peyton saw her, she let the curtain close, blocking her from sight.

  * * *

  Peyton’s favorite receptionist was manning the desk at the psych facility. She smiled brightly as Peyton approached her desk.

  “How are you, honey?”

  Peyton gave her a tired smile. “I’ve been better. How’s our rock star?”

  “He’s doing real good. You should have heard him on the piano this morning. Like listening to angels singing.”

  Peyton swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. There would be no pianos where Ravensong was going. She signed the book, trying hard not to let despair take her over, but it was hard. She wasn’t sure how she was going to look into his dark eyes and tell him there was nothing more she could do to save him.

  “Is he in his room now?”

  “No, I think he’s in the garden. There’s a door at the end of the hall that will take you directly to it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Anytime, honey.”

  Peyton walked down the hall toward Ravensong’s room. There was no one else in the hallway today and all of the doors were closed. She found the door labeled Yard and pushed it open. She entered a small brick paved patio with potted plants and a few bistro tables and chairs. No one was sitting on the patio, but she could hear voices around the corner of the building. She remembered he had his own private space right outside his room with ferns and redwood trees. He’d told her he liked to sit on a bench beneath the trees during the day.

  She hesitated as she neared the end of the building. The receptionist hadn’t said anyone was with him, but she could distinctly hear a female voice. Peering around the corner, she could see him sitting on his bench. Elena stood between his legs, her hands resting on his shoulders. Her hair was down, a blanket of brown curls cascading far down her back and as Peyton watched, Jos
hua reached up and brushed the strands off her shoulder.

  “We need you to come home,” said Elena. The pleading quality of her voice stopped Peyton from interrupting them.

  “I know, but it’s not safe, sweetheart.”

  “How can you say that? You would never hurt anyone.”

  He placed his hands on her hips. “You don’t know that, Elena. You can’t be sure. I’ve tried and tried to remember what happened, but I can’t. Would you really risk Tiffany’s safety?”

  “I love you, I can’t stand this anymore.” She pressed her forehead to his.

  “I know, baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry this happened. This is not what you asked for and I know it.”

  She curled her hand in his sweatshirt. “I don’t care about that. I just want you home.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop saying that,” she said, then she kissed him.

  His fingers tightened on her hips and he angled his head to deepen the kiss, drawing her forward, so that she climbed onto his lap, straddling him. Peyton pulled back and leaned against the building. She felt guilty for spying on them in so intimate a moment.

  Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath. Damn it, she hated this job sometimes. He was completely under her skin and she couldn’t stand the thought of what would happen to him if they did convict him of murder. He would be easy prey for the men in prison. And she knew he wouldn’t fight back. Elena was right. Peyton was convinced of it. Joshua Ravensong had never hurt anybody in his life, except himself.

  CHAPTER 17

  Joshua was brought violently awake as the cold water struck him. He sputtered and sat up, rubbing a hand across his face and blinking his eyes. “Why the hell did you do that?”

  Terry stood beside the bed, an empty water glass in her hands. “You stopped breathing, dumb ass.”

  He raked the wet hair away from his forehead, trying to sort his thoughts. Had he really stopped breathing? Lowering his arm, he rubbed the track marks that lined his inner elbow. He couldn’t remember how much he’d taken the previous night.

  His eyes lighted on her duffle bag, sitting in front of the hotel room door. “What’s that?”