Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Simons stood behind his chair and Brighton kept trying to keep him in sight, but the shackles on his wrist and ankles prevented much mobility. Cho had taken the precaution of chaining him to the floor. Probably a good thing too, because Albie Brighton looked like he wanted to bolt.

  Cho took a seat at the table at an angle to him and settled a file on its metal surface. “Albie Brighton, you have priors. Picked up six times for vagrancy, four for drug possession, and once for assault. Now you’re in stir for assaulting an officer, our captain.” Cho leaned closer to him. “Let’s say I don’t like you much.”

  Marco leaned against the table in the viewing room, propping his cane beneath the two-way mirror. It fascinated him to watch the various ways cops went about interrogation, each one different. Tag mocked her suspects. Cho went for intimidation. He himself never knew what approach to take, which is why he’d never been very good at it. But Peyton, Peyton had been the queen. She always knew how to approach a suspect and he’d been amazed at how she usually manipulated them into a full confession. God, he missed her so damn much.

  “I want a lawyer.”

  “We called one. Public defender. He’s not much interested in you, but he’ll be here. I thought we’d talk while we wait for him.”

  “I ain’t got nothing to say. I’ll wait for my lawyer.”

  “Okay, but with this many priors, you’re looking at some serious time. Judges don’t like it when you start attacking cops. If you help me, I might be able to help you.”

  “I’ll help you, but you gotta help me first.”

  “What do you want? I’m not much interested in negotiating with a junkie before I get something first.”

  “I’m not a junkie. I have a disease.”

  “You have a disease?” Cho glanced up at Simons. “You hear that?”

  “I heard it. It’s called being a junkie,” said Simons.

  Albie contorted his head to look at him. “No, it’s called fibermitosis, chronic pain, you know?”

  “Fibermitosis? You mean fibromyalgia?”

  “Yeah, that’s it. I got fibro-algenia.”

  “Yeah? That’s why you shoot up?”

  “I don’t shoot up. I smoke weed.”

  Cho gave him a slow, cunning smile. “That you get from a headshop in the Haight run by Quentin Greer?”

  Brighton made a disparaging noise. “That mother fu—”

  “Uh uh, don’t use that language around me.”

  Brighton leaned forward as far as his shackles would allow. “He’s a prick. He cut me off.”

  “Did he now? Why?”

  “He said my prescription wasn’t active anymore. I told him I had a new doctor, to call him, but he wouldn’t do it. If I don’t get my pot, I can’t function. I can’t even get out of bed. I can’t eat. All I got is the pain. It eats at you, it makes you crazy.” He touched his temple. “It makes you nuts.”

  Marco felt a prickle of sweat at his temples. Shit. He knew what that felt like.

  “And pot lets you function?” said Cho with a scoffing tone.

  “It lets me think. When I got pain, I can’t even think straight. I can’t do nothing. I can’t even be still.”

  Cho leaned over and looked at his bouncing leg. “You aren’t still now.”

  “I ain’t had my medicine for days. Besides that, I had to get other stuff. You know?”

  “I know.”

  “And that stuff isn’t the same. It makes me jumpy. It makes me anxious. But weed, man, weed makes everything okay. I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever meet when I got my blunts.”

  Cho opened the folder and looked at it for a moment. “Is that what happened, Albie?”

  “What?”

  “Greer denied you your blunts, so you poured gasoline on him and lit a match?”

  “What?” His face contorted and he looked around at Simons. “What are you talking about?”

  “Greer’s dead. Someone killed him. Torched him.”

  “Dead? Bull shit. I just saw him last week.”

  “That’s when he died.”

  “Bull shit.”

  Cho picked up a photo out of the file and slid it in front of Brighton. “That’s Quentin Greer.”

  Brighton’s eyes went wide and his mouth hung open. “I didn’t do that. I didn’t do nothing to him.”

  “Byrony, his assistant, said you came in the headshop and pitched a fit when he wouldn’t give you your blunts. Now, here’s what I think. You came back that night when he was closing up.”

  “No. I went and got other stuff. I was stoned and I passed out in an alley.”

  “You and Greer get into another argument when no one was around.”

  “No.”

  “Then you tossed gasoline on him. Where’d you get the gasoline, Albie?”

  “I didn’t go back there.”

  “Then you lit your lighter. I mean you had one on you when we picked you up. I think you used the same lighter you use for your blunts to make Greer a shish kabob.”

  Brighton was shaking his head and making strange sobbing sounds. He tried to talk, but he couldn’t. Cho swiveled and looked at the two-way mirror. Marco glanced down. He didn’t think Albie had enough sense of purpose to carry out this murder. He was exactly what he said, a junkie looking for his next fix. The addiction was so all-consuming that he wouldn’t have time to worry about revenge.

  “All I wanted was my blunts, all I wanted was the medicine. I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever see when I get it. I’m the nicest guy you’ll ever know.”

  Marco tapped on the glass. Cho rose to his feet and left the room, stepping into the viewing room.

  “Cut him loose.”

  Cho sighed. “We got nothing then.”

  “I know, but he ain’t it.”

  “Yeah. Poor bastard. I almost want to go get him a blunt myself.”

  Marco nodded, his attention focused on Albie. All I got is the pain. It eats at you, it makes you crazy. It makes you nuts. Shit. Marco understood Albie Brighton better than anyone.

  * * *

  Jeff pressed the glass to the ice dispenser, then filled it with water, taking a sip. He moved out of the dimly lit kitchen and into the family room, sinking down into his armchair and settling the glass on the end table.

  Picking up his reading glasses, he perched them on his nose and picked up the stack of letters. Ruth had begun complaining about the letters, worrying about him reading them all of the time. She said they made him sad.

  They did make him sad. It made him sad to know his mother had confided things in a stranger that she’d never told her own son, but it also gave him a glimpse into her life, a way to learn things about her that she would never have shared with him.

  He didn’t want to upset Ruth, so he found himself waking in the middle of the night and sneaking downstairs to read in the quiet hours before dawn. He was rationing out these letters, allowing himself only one or at most two a night because he was trying to prolong this connection to his mother.

  Once he finished the last letter, he knew she’d be gone, and he knew he had to accept it. He had to let his mother rest in peace, but for now, for now he intended to keep this little part of her with him, treasuring it.

  * * *

  Dear Aster,

  I just turned 18. I’m legally an adult, which means I have more responsibility now in the family. Janice is pregnant again. We’re hoping for a boy this time. Little Gina is doing well. Mama has been sick though. She has this pain in her belly and nothing we give her seems to help. I’m trying to save up money to get her to the doctor. I’ve also been reading a lot at the library, trying to find medical books, but Thatcher is starting to limit how much time I can spend there.

  He says I’m needed at the ranch. I need to teach the other boys how to do the chores. That’s what happens when you turn 18 in the family. You start directing the younger ones on how to do your job because in three years I have to leave, and someone has to take my place.

  Since I�
��ve never really done the big chores like the other boys, the chopping or the clearing or the building, I’ve actually been working with the boys like me, the boys who can’t do the heavy work.

  One little guy named Ezekiel is my favorite. He’s so funny. He has the same problem as Gina did, but we don’t have the money for his surgery. Anyway he makes jokes all the time. He gets all of us laughing so hard we don’t get much work done. Thatcher gets mad, so we tell Ezekiel to stop, but pretty soon he’s making jokes again, and we’re laughing. I’ve got to work on him though. Thatcher said if I couldn’t get him to take the work seriously, he would have to go do the harder work, but he can’t do that. He gets so tired, he has to sit down a lot and he can’t stay out in the sun.

  Whenever he works with me on the garden, I always set up an umbrella for him, so he can be in the shade. I know the other boys won’t do this. They’re too busy. They have too much to do.

  When I look in the medical books, it says he might have cystic fibrosis. After I told Thatcher that, he started telling me I couldn’t go to the library anymore. Janice and Mama pleaded with him for me, but now I can only go for a few hours a week and I’m not supposed to look at medical books.

  I do anyway.

  I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. I want to be a doctor so badly and I think I could be good at it. Like I found out about Ezekiel, I could find out about Mama and help our family. I think that would be a good thing, don’t you? Maybe if I go away and become a doctor, Thatcher will let me come back and be the doctor for the family. That way we wouldn’t have to pay outside doctors to take care of us.

  What do you think about that? Do you think it would work?

  Your friend,

  Finn Getter

  CHAPTER 6

  Tuesday

  Peyton read back through Lance Corporal Daws’ file, searching for something she or Mark Turner might have missed. The only thing that seemed out of place was the photograph of the coin, but Turner hadn’t ventured a guess why a marine would have such a strange item on his person, nor where such a coin had come from.

  Margaret entered her office, setting down a cup of coffee. Four packets of sugar rested on the saucer.

  Peyton smiled at her. “Thank you.”

  “Can I get you something for breakfast? Radar likes a slice of bacon on a whole wheat bagel. Maybe you’d like to try that?”

  Peyton shook her head. Her appetite had been non-existent lately. She ate only when she realized she was getting light headed. “I’m fine. Coffee’s good.”

  “Sarge called a meeting for 9:00.”

  “Thank you, Margaret.” She went back to reading the file, but Margaret didn’t leave. Peyton glanced at her. “Did you need something else?”

  She clasped her hands before her. Today she wore a soft yellow sweater buttoned to the neck with her pearls resting just below the collar. Her grey hair was swept away from her face and held in place with spray. Hair did not do unruly things with this woman.

  “I may be overstepping my boundaries, Agent Brooks, but I want you to know I’m here if you need to talk. I’ve worked for the FBI my entire career and I feel it is a fine organization, but sometimes, I worry the agents forget they’re human and suffer the same loss and heartache that normal humans do.”

  “Okay?” Peyton wasn’t sure where she was going with this.

  “I noticed you removed the picture of you and your young man.” She nodded to the empty place on Peyton’s desk.

  She’d put the picture in a drawer because it hurt her to see it, and it made her want to call Marco and beg him not to do this to them. Biting her bottom lip, she folded her hands on the file. “I see.”

  “Relationships can be difficult to maintain in this line of work and if you need anything, if there’s anything I can get you to make this easier, I’m here for you.”

  Tears burned in Peyton’s eyes, but she blinked furiously to clear them. “Thank—” Her voice caught. She cleared it. “Thank you, Margaret. I appreciate that.”

  Margaret nodded, then turned and walked out. Peyton sat for a moment, staring at the empty doorway, wondering when any mention of Marco was going to stop being like a shot in the gut.

  She tried to concentrate on the file, but by 8:55 she gave up and wandered down to the conference room. Tank and Bambi were already there. Bambi waved furiously at her and patted the open seat to her right, but Tank gave her a lift of his chin.

  She nodded at Bambi, but wandered to Tank’s side of the table. He rose as she approached. She didn’t think that was necessary, especially as it forced her to look up at him, but she wasn’t in the mood to say anything.

  “I gave my wife the copy of the photo I scanned. She’s trying to see if she can place it.”

  “Good. Let me know if she finds anything. Why would a marine have such a strange coin on him?”

  Tank shrugged. “That’s the mystery.”

  “And why didn’t Agent Turner think it merited more research when he filed his report?”

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see what the professor has to say.”

  “The professor?”

  “My wife.”

  “You call her the professor?”

  He gave Peyton a sheepish look. “She thinks it’s cute.”

  “It’s adorable.” And a little weird, but who was Peyton to judge?

  He beamed a smile at her.

  Peyton patted his rock-hard shoulder. “You should smile more, Tank, it suits you.” Then she moved to Bambi’s side and took a seat. Immediately Bambi hooked her arm through Peyton’s, hugging her and resting her head on Peyton’s shoulder.

  “Lunch was so much fun yesterday.”

  “Sure.”

  “Especially target practice. Who knew you were such a deadly shot?”

  Who knew? She hadn’t been that good a week ago, but then she hadn’t had so much rage bottled up inside of her.

  Radar entered the room, his dark eyes sweeping over all of them. He gave a chin nod to Tank. Bambi waved at him, but she got the same chin nod. Peyton didn’t even get that much recognition.

  He took his seat closest to the head of the table and tucked his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt, leaning back and flattening his hand on the table. Silence settled heavy and awkward over the room. Peyton fidgeted, wishing Bambi would give back her arm.

  “So, anyone see the game last night?” she said.

  Radar gave her a cool look.

  “Which one?” asked Bambi.

  Peyton shrugged. She had no freakin’ idea. She just knew there had to have been a game on somewhere.

  Thankfully, Rosa Alvarez appeared. She gave Bambi a severe frown, causing Bambi to release Peyton. Peyton breathed a sigh of relief. She needed to learn how to deliver one of those looks herself.

  Dropping a file on the table, Rosa placed her hands on her hips. “We have a case.”

  “What is it?” asked Bambi, clasping her hands.

  “Mermaids...or mermaid. One mer-uh-person.”

  She tossed a picture into the middle of the table. Peyton wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but it sure as hell didn’t look like any mermaid she’d ever seen. In fact, it looked like a…

  “Baby?” she said.

  Rosa gave an uncomfortable nod.

  Radar picked up the photo and took a closer look, passing it to Tank.

  Peyton didn’t know what to say or do. She hated cases where children were involved, especially babies. Except this didn’t look like a normal baby. The lower half of the child’s body was fused into a single appendage, tapering to a point like a mermaid’s tail. The facial features didn’t seem completely formed either.

  “Sirenomelia,” said Tank, studying the picture.

  “What?” asked Bambi, straining to see it.

  “Sirenomelia or mermaid syndrome. It’s a genetic disorder where the legs are completely fused together. Most cases are fatal, in fact, most babies born with sirenomelia are still born. There are usually a
bnormalities with kidneys and urinary tract development, which makes it almost impossible for the fetus to survive.”

  “Where was the child found?” asked Radar.

  “Some surfers found her tangled in seaweed at Natural Bridges.”

  “Santa Cruz?”

  “Yes.”

  “She drowned?” asked Peyton.

  “Igor’s waiting for the body, but the local M.E. thought she was stillborn, just like Tank said. However, someone dumped her in the surf and we need to find out who.”

  Tank passed the picture to Bambi. Peyton glanced at it and away. Sometimes the depravity of this job was more than she could handle. Someone threw this baby away, someone hadn’t even thought she deserved a proper burial. The poor little thing never had a chance at life, but even in death, no one had wanted to lay claim to her. It was an act of such callousness, such inhumanity, that Peyton felt like someone had draped a lead blanket over her.

  “There’s a bigger problem, though,” continued Rosa.

  “Bigger than finding out who dumped a child in the ocean?” asked Radar.

  “Oh yeah. We were called in because this is about to blow up all over the airwaves. We need to get out there and get this tamped down because when 6:00PM rolls around, the media’s going live with this story and everyone in the nation’s gonna know about it.”

  Peyton exchanged a look with her team members. Yep, finding a baby mermaid floating in the ocean was probably bigger than zombies had been.

  * * *

  Natural Bridges State Beach had once been home to three bridges of stone formed over a million years by the deposit of silt and clay, then eroded away by the Pacific Ocean. Only one bridge remained and it was in danger of collapsing under the constant barrage of the waves. Directly in the path of the monarch butterfly migration, Natural Bridges offered the monarch butterflies a home in the eucalyptus trees along the shore, sheltering them from the wind and cold. Every February the city of Santa Cruz held a migration celebration festival.