“Hey, Jeff, how you doing?”
Jeff looked up from his mother’s letters and smiled at Trevor. “I’m holding it together.”
“First day back?”
“Yeah. I needed to get back to work.”
“Did you get the paperwork all taken care of?”
“Most of it.” He lifted the letter. “This is the last.”
“What is it?”
Jeff gave a laugh. “Apparently my mother had a pen pal.”
“A pen pal?” Trevor took a seat before his desk, holding out his hand.
Jeff passed the letter over. “Yeah, go figure.”
“A pen pal? I haven’t heard about that for years.”
“I know, but she has stacks of these things. They wrote to each other every week.”
“Huh, wild.” He passed it back. “Anything interesting?”
“This kid, Finn Getter…”
“Kid? How old?”
“Fifteen when they started writing.”
“What’s a fifteen year old boy want with a pen pal?”
“Seems he was raised in a very secluded family. They didn’t have internet or television, and he didn’t go to school. He’d go to the library and the librarian would let him get on the computer. That was his only contact with the outside world, that and my mother.”
“That’s wild. Where’s he from?”
“That’s also weird. Santa Cruz, California.”
“How can that be? Isn’t Santa Cruz pretty big?”
“He lives in the mountains above the city.”
“Wow, that’s crazy stuff.” Trevor gave a laugh. “Just think, your mom might have been more technologically advanced than this kid.”
“Yeah, can you believe that? My mom, who was afraid of computers, understood how to use them more than a fifteen year old kid.”
* * *
Dear Aster,
Thank you for the birthday card. I can’t believe I’m seventeen now. I’m still going to the library as often as I can, but it’s been hard. Little Gina has to have surgery. She’s almost three now, so the doctors thought it was time. Boy, we had to save up a lot of money for that.
In fact, Thatcher let me do some work on the ranch next to us because he said it was my responsibility to get the money needed for Gina’s surgery. That’s what men do. The work was hard. I’m not much good at mowing and cutting tree branches, but I worked as hard as I could and finally, Gina can get her surgery. My sister, Janice, is really excited. It’s been so hard for Gina to eat and she’s so skinny. Janice is hoping this will fix everything.
Thatcher won’t let Janice stay in the hospital with Gina. He says she’s needed back here. He’s probably right. Janice does a lot of the cooking and caring for the other children. If she wasn’t here, it would make it a lot harder on everyone.
Janice asked if I could go in her place, so I get to stay with Gina in the hospital. That’s good. I really love Gina and I know I’d want to be there anyway. Mama says she’ll come at night after the work is done, but I told her I didn’t mind staying by myself. And I don’t. It’s nice to be away from the farm. It’s nice to be away from the family.
I know I shouldn’t say that, but lately Mrs. Elder, the librarian, has been talking to me about going to college. I don’t know how that could happen, but she said the community college would take me. All I have to do is show them my grades from home school.
I’d like to do that, but when I told Thatcher, he wasn’t happy. I mean, he didn’t say no. He just wasn’t happy. He said that when I was twenty-one I could do what I wanted, and if I wanted to go to community college then, that was my decision. I agreed. I mean, twenty-one isn’t so far away. I might as well stay here until then. Besides, what would Janice and Gina do without me? So, that’s that.
How are you? Did you change your heart medicine? I hope you’re feeling better. Does Jeff know you had to go to the hospital because your heart was beating too fast? You should tell him. I tell Janice everything.
Your Friend,
Finn Getter
CHAPTER 4
Monday
Peyton sat at her desk, staring at her left hand. This morning she’d forced herself to remove her engagement ring. It was a constant reminder of Marco and she needed to focus on her job. That was all that mattered. Some part of her knew that she wasn’t cut out for long term relationships. They’d never worked before. Why would she think it would work now?
Curling her hand into a fist, she grabbed the first burner file in her in-box and threw the cover back, scanning it. She hated this part of the job, looking over other agent’s cases, trying to find something they’d missed so the case could be solved. So far, she hadn’t found a single case that hadn’t been investigated thoroughly, but without new leads, they would never go anywhere.
Margaret, her assistant, stepped into her office. She carried a small box in one hand and a chocolate donut with sprinkles in the other. She set the donut on Peyton’s desk and held the box out to her.
“Your business cards arrived. I also got the placard for the door and your locker in the training room.”
Peyton tore her eyes from the donut and forced a smile. “Thank you, Margaret,” she said, taking the box. “I appreciate everything you do for me.”
Margaret smiled and backed from the room. Peyton pulled the donut closer to her. She loved donuts and chocolate and sprinkles, and she especially loved them all jumbled together, but the thought of taking a bite made her feel physically ill.
She pushed it away again and went back to the pile. Tossing the file into the in-box, she thumbed through the stack until she found one with an interesting name. Operation Iraqi Freedom Lance Corporal Isaac Daws. She tugged it out and flipped it open.
Lance Corporal Isaac Daws had served three tours of duty in Iraq during the summer of 2004. Upon returning stateside, Daws was diagnosed with PTSD and two years later, he was found dead in a sleazy hotel room in Las Vegas. The coroner ruled it an overdose, but the level of drugs in his system had been far beyond the normal range anyone would inject into himself. His parents hadn’t accepted the official report. They put up enough stink to attract the attention of an attorney who got a judge to order another autopsy. This medical examiner, Cecilia Gaston, had ruled his death suspicious.
Peyton flipped through the file. FBI Agent Mark Turner had conducted the initial investigation, but he’d run into a dead end. He couldn’t find any sign that anyone else was in the hotel room with the Lance Corporal, there were no phone records indicating he had contact with anyone before he died, and he was found the next morning by the cleaning crew. The only suspicious items Turner had uncovered were a few cryptic notes written on napkins and a single gold coin.
Peyton flipped to the back of the file and located a number of photographs Turner had taken. Three of them showed scraps of napkins with random numbers listed on them. There were four clusters of numbers. The first set consisted of the numbers 42, 45, 50 and 43, 51, 70 on one napkin, then 34, 25, 34 and 34, 05, 13 on another, followed by a cluster of one: 19, 27, 43. The last photo was of a gold coin – on one side, it depicted a pedestal holding a flame and the other, either a king or a god, or so Turner had speculated.
Peyton set down the photos of the napkins, but sat studying the one of the gold coin. The edges were rough, not the perfect circle of a modern coin and the gold had an odd, burnished look to it.
Turning back to the file, she read the rest of Turner’s report. Daws had grown up in Daly City, which is why his file ended up in their office. He’d been an average student in high school, enlisted when he graduated, and had been an exemplary soldier. On his second tour of duty in Iraq, he and his convoy had tripped an IED. Two of his fellow marines had died at the scene, another on the way to the field hospital. Daws had suffered a brain injury, been sent home, but three months later, he was returned to Iraq.
Peyton sighed. Shit. The poor guy didn’t stand a chance. There had been one arrest for public drunkenness six months befor
e his death, but he’d gotten off with probation. He’d held four different jobs, but he’d been let go from each one. He was too slow or he mouthed off to his supervisor. Once he threatened to beat a customer with a lawn chair. Clearly this was a man struggling to readjust to modern society. Then he’d gone to Vegas. One of the casinos had thrown him out when he got drunk and belligerent at a blackjack table, and the next night he was dead of a drug overdose.
It filled Peyton with sadness. Serve your country, die in a sleazy hotel, broke and alone.
She looked at the coin again. What the hell was a soldier doing with something like this? And what was it? Even Turner hadn’t been sure what he was looking at when he saw it. Since there had been no real evidence of foul play, Turner had finished off his report, bagged up the evidence, and passed it along.
Lance Corporal Isaac Daws had become a cold case and wound up on Peyton’s desk.
Grabbing the photo, Peyton pushed her chair back and went to the door, turning left to circle around the cubicle jungle. She found Margaret at her own desk, typing on the computer. She looked up and gave Peyton a smile, her short brown hair a perfect halo of hairspray around her head.
“Yes, Agent Brooks?”
“I just realized I don’t know where Agent Campbell’s office is?” Thomas (Tank) Campbell was the third member of the Ghost Squad, built like a truck with a head full to bursting with random knowledge. He’d impressed Peyton on their last case with the wealth of information his crew-cut noggin contained. If anyone might recognize the coin, Tank would be the one.
Margaret rose to her feet and pointed around the arc of the cubicle jungle. “Third door past the conference room.”
“Thank you.”
“Anytime, Agent Brooks.”
Peyton moved briskly toward the indicated door. The gold placard beside it read Special Agent Thomas Campbell. Peyton lifted her hand and knocked.
“Enter.”
She turned the doorknob and pushed it open. “Hey, Tank,” she began, then stopped short. Tank’s office was a veritable library. Every wall was lined with bookshelves and those bookshelves were all filled to bursting with hardbound books. “Oh, my,” she breathed.
Tank rose to his feet, crossing around his desk. “Agent Brooks, how nice to see you,” he said. “Come in, come in.”
Peyton left the door open and stepped forward. As he handed her into a leather armchair before his massive wooden desk, Peyton noticed his office didn’t have the requisite grey on grey color scheme that everything else in the building did.
“This is something,” she said, looking around. “It’s like your own personal library.”
He gave a chuckle. “You should see my wife’s office. She’s an anthropology professor at Cal. She has more books than I do. One of her bookcases slides over the front of another one. Her books are two layers deep.”
Peyton smiled. “I didn’t know you were married.”
He reached for a picture on his desk and showed it to her. Tank and a smiling woman stared back at her, the woman in a white veil and dress, Tank in a tuxedo. The woman was obviously a number of years older than him.
Peyton felt a stab of pain, but forced it down. Tank and his wife looked very happy together. “She’s pretty. How long have you been married?”
“Three years.” He took his seat again. “I’ll tell you a secret. I was her student at Cal.”
That explained the age difference.
“Not that we acted on our feelings while I was in her class. It was all very proper. I waited to ask her out until after the final grades were in.”
Peyton couldn’t help but share his laugh. “That’s a great story, Tank. I’m glad someone can make it work.” Shit. Don’t go there. She felt tears prickle in her eyes and bit her bottom lip to stop it.
“You okay, Agent Brooks?” he asked, his expression sobering.
Peyton nodded vigorously. “How ‘bout you call me Peyton?”
“Sure. Was there something you wanted or is this just a pleasant visit?”
Peyton passed the wedding picture back to him. “I was going through files and I came across an interesting one.” She told him about Lance Corporal Daws, the first autopsy, and the second. Then she looked at the photo in her hand again. “Have you ever seen a coin like this before?”
He took it and gave it a speculative look. “Huh, interesting. The rough edges suggest an ancient coin, and the lack of patina makes me think it’s almost pure gold. Gold doesn’t really pick up a patina with age the way other metals do. I’m unfamiliar with the markings.”
“He had the coin on him when he was found, and three scraps of napkin with numbers written on them.”
“Interesting. Do you have the numbers?”
“They’re in the file still.”
He turned to his computer and lifted the cover on his scanner. “Do you mind if I scan this photo? I’ll do some research and see what I can find out.”
“Sure. I appreciate the help because I’m drawing a blank.”
He placed the photo down on the scanning bed and began clicking on his computer. Peyton watched him for a moment, then shifted in her chair restlessly.
“Tank?”
He glanced over at her as the scanner began to make noise.
“You and your wife, did you ever have doubts before you got married? Cold feet?”
He studied her a moment, then faced forward, clasping his hands on his desk. “No, we didn’t.”
Peyton nodded. “Thanks.”
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t normal. Every couple’s different, Peyton. Everyone goes through different things, but I truly believe if two people are better together than apart, they will make it work somehow, even if it doesn’t seem like it at first.”
She took in his words. If two people are better together than apart? She’d believed she and Marco were better together, but maybe he didn’t. Maybe he felt like he couldn’t trust her to stay with him through the bad times. If so, how did she convince him? How did she make him understand she would do anything to keep what they had?
Tank turned back to his computer and clicked some more, then he lifted the lid and gave her back the photo. “Are you sure everything’s all right?”
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
“Brooks?”
Rosa Alvarez, her boss, poked her head inside Tank’s office.
“Yes?”
“A word when you have the time.”
“Sure.”
Rosa disappeared.
Peyton smiled at Tank. “Thank you for looking at this.” She held up the photo. “And for the talk. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime. If you want to talk again, I’m here.”
“I appreciate that too.” With a nod, she stood and headed for the door, trying to figure out what she’d done wrong to make Rosa want a word.
* * *
Completely the opposite of Tank’s office, Rosa Alvarez didn’t believe in anything that would muddy up her image of the consummate professional. There were no personal pictures on her walls and the window coverings had been removed, allowing stark white light to filter into the room. Commendations in heavy wooden frames stood in perfectly spaced rows, interspersed with maps of San Francisco, Washington, D.C. and the FBI compound in Quantico.
She’d not traded up on the standard issue grey desk, but her computer monitor was larger than Peyton’s and now showed a GPS map of the City. She motioned Peyton to a seat across from her and slid back her chair, crossing her legs and placing her clasped hands on her knee.
Peyton took the seat, feeling as uncomfortable as she always did. There was something about this woman that intimidated her, made her feel inferior, and she hated that weakness in herself. She hated any weakness in herself.
“Radar informed me you took a few personal days off.”
Peyton forced herself to look Rosa in the eyes. “It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
One of the things that intimidated Peyton was
the way Rosa probed with her gaze before speaking. Not that she minced words, but she didn’t immediately give up what she was thinking. In fact, Peyton had no idea what she thought about her. When Peyton had been a detective with the SFPD, they’d worked a case together. Peyton had surrendered her gun to save Marco’s life, something that was apparently a cardinal sin. She still felt like Rosa judged her for that decision.
“Everyone needs personal time, Agent Brooks. You don’t have to apologize for it.”
“Except I know we were in the middle of a case and I should have stayed to finish it.”
“We solved a triple homicide and uncovered the murders of thirty-three other people. We can now give closure to families who never knew what happened to their loved ones. It was a job well done.”
Peyton inclined her head. “Thank you, Sarge.”
“Radar said you handled yourself well, seeing as this was your first case. You persisted in a line of questioning that eventually led to discovering the actual killer.”
Peyton hid her smirk. Go figure. She thought Radar was mostly annoyed by her.
“I appreciate his kind words and confidence in my abilities.”
Rosa scrutinized her again. “If you need more time, Agent Brooks, I will grant it to you.”
“No, ma’am. I don’t need more time.”
“I want the best agents in the field. I don’t want them distracted by personal problems. If you need more time to work on a personal problem, I would prefer you take it.”
“I don’t need more time.”
“It’s important that you understand, your team depends on you having your head in the game. Your teams deserves your complete focus.”
“I know…”
“And if you’re compromised in anyway, if you have personal issues that you need to confront, I want you to make that priority number one.”
“I’m fine…”
“We aren’t robots, Agent Brooks. We’re still human with the foibles of humanity. We can be compromised by our emotions and…”
Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2) Page 4