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

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Well?”

  “I am investigating the demise of my personal life at this time, but any information you have that might be pertinent to this situation should be relayed to my office in a timely fashion. Any assistance the public can give toward easing this difficulty will be appreciated.”

  Radar gave a wry shake of his head and started moving again. “Smart ass,” he muttered under his breath, but Peyton could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

  They pulled into the parking lot of the police station and came to a manned gate. Camera crews and news reporters blocked the front sidewalk, immediately surrounding the Suburban and shining their cameras inside. Peyton turned her head away, trying to avoid them. Radar pulled out his badge and showed it to the officer at the gatehouse.

  “We’re here to see Lieutenant Brannon.”

  The officer nodded, then stepped up into the gatehouse and pressed a button. The gate arm lifted and Radar drove the Suburban through, pulling around the back of the station and parking. As they climbed out, Peyton could hear the murmur of the media from the front of the building. There must be at least a hundred people gathered there, and a billion more that would receive the news feed into their televisions and computer screens in a few minutes. She felt a little nauseous at the thought.

  “Chin up, Sparky. You’re looking green.”

  Peyton didn’t bother to answer him, following him to the back door. Another officer opened it for them and ushered them inside. Radar showed his badge again and asked for Brannon. They were led into a wide open squad room with partitions separating the various teams from one another. The officer led them to the front of the precinct where Lieutenant Brannon and a tall, thin cop stood, watching the spectacle.

  Brannon turned as soon as they arrived, holding out her hand to Radar. “Glad you’re here.” She offered her hand to Peyton. Peyton absently took it, focused on the people outside. A podium had been set up on the top step and microphones lined the surface. “This is my partner Sergeant Henry Reynolds. Hank, these fine people are Special Agents Moreno and Brooks.”

  The tall, thin officer shook hands with both of them. He was younger than Brannon with thinning brown hair and a long face with a prominent chin. “Nice to meet you.”

  Radar gave him his ubiquitous chin lift.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Peyton.

  “Our captain’s meeting with the mayor, so he isn’t here right now, but he wanted us to address the media when you arrived,” offered Brannon.

  Radar put a hand in the middle of Peyton’s back and urged her forward. “Brooks here is your man.”

  Peyton shot a look at him and shrugged off his hand.

  “Good,” said Brannon. “We checked all the hospitals. No one entered for postpartum treatment.”

  “Our colleague is calling the principals of the high schools now, looking for any pregnant students,” offered Radar.

  Brannon and Reynolds nodded.

  “Our M.E. found natural fibers tangled in the baby’s nails. He thought it might have come from a blanket or something,” said Peyton, trying not to look out the windows. “Are there any natural clothing stores in Santa Cruz?”

  Brannon and Reynolds exchanged a look. “I think there’s four or five,” said Reynolds. He had a deep baritone voice that rumbled when he spoke. “But you’ll want one that sells children’s clothes, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The Natural Child on Soquel.”

  Radar reached for his notebook and wrote the name inside. “We’ll check it out tomorrow. Now…” He gave Peyton a wicked smile. “We deal with them.”

  “Okay. Ready?” said Brannon.

  Peyton shook her head.

  “Don’t screw this up, Sparky,” said Radar as Brannon led the way to the front door.

  Peyton muttered a curse under her breath and followed the other woman out into the late afternoon sunlight. She could hear the mechanical sound of digital cameras snapping picture after picture and the crowd surged forward, spilling onto the stairs.

  Brannon made a straight line for the podium. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said. “We’re here to give you an update on the case and answer a few questions. Please understand that when the press conference is over, we ask that you vacate the premises.” She motioned Peyton up beside her, then stepped back.

  Peyton drew a deep breath and walked to the podium. She looked over her shoulder at Radar, but he was watching the crowd, his expression hidden behind his mirrored sunglasses. Peyton could feel her heart pounding beneath her ribs and her palms were suddenly damp with sweat. She lifted on tiptoes and adjusted the microphone.

  “You might need to get her a box,” muttered Radar behind her.

  That did it. She was so not going to let this intimidate her, and damned if she wasn’t going to show Radar she was made of sterner stuff. Squaring her shoulders, she tilted back her head. “Good afternoon, I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks with the FBI,” she said into the microphone, careful not to speak too closely. She’d learned that lesson the first time she addressed the media. “Yesterday, a newborn child was found in the surf near Natural Bridges State Beach. Currently, we do not have an identity for the child and are asking for the media’s help in locating the mother. We are concerned she may need medical attention or psychological counseling. Any assistance the public can give us in locating this woman would be appreciated. Lieutenant Brannon of the Santa Cruz Police Department will give you her contact information.”

  “Why is the FBI involved?” asked a reporter in the front, a man wearing a dark business suit in the warm Santa Cruz sun.

  “Due to the delicate nature of this case, we were asked to lend our resources and assistance. Any time children are involved we may be called in to assist the local police.”

  “Was the child a mermaid?” shouted another reporter she couldn’t see. A few more shouted the same question.

  “The child displayed a number of physical anomalies, but I can’t comment further on that at this time.”

  “Was she murdered?”

  Peyton shook her head. “She was not.”

  “What was the cause of death?”

  “The Medical Examiner believes she was stillborn. Our job at this point is locating the child’s mother and offering her any assistance we can. Again, I stress that the mother may need medical attention.”

  “She tossed her child into the ocean. Surely you’re going to arrest her for that?” shouted another.

  “At this point in our investigation, we are concentrating on finding the mother.”

  “Tell us if she was a mermaid!”

  “Can you provide us with pictures?”

  “Did she have fins?”

  Peyton glanced at Lieutenant Brannon. She returned a disgusted look. “Lieutenant Brannon will give the hotline number for the public to call if they’ve seen anything or know of any information pertinent to this case.”

  “Agent Brooks?” shouted a number of voices. “Agent Brooks!”

  Peyton ignored them and stepped away from the podium. Lieutenant Brannon read the hotline number into the microphone and Peyton watched a number of reporters scribble it down, but many others kept calling Peyton’s name.

  As Lieutenant Brannon finished, the four of them turned and walked back to the glass doors, pulling them open. The reporters continued to shout questions at Peyton’s back until she was safely inside the precinct again.

  Peyton’s heart still pounded and she ran a shaking hand over her hair to smooth it. Radar gave her a half-smile. “Well?” she asked him.

  He shrugged. “Well, you didn’t suck.”

  Peyton lifted her hands and let them fall. Damn Radar and his backhanded praise.

  * * *

  “Good afternoon, I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks with the FBI.”

  Ruth gave a snort. “You’d think they’d at least give her a stepstool or something. She barely reaches the microphone.”

  Jeff glanced up. A young Africa
n American woman stood in front of the Santa Cruz police department, addressing a crowd of reporters. The microphone came somewhere in the middle of her nose.

  “Yesterday, a newborn child was found in the surf near Natural Bridges State Beach. Currently, we do not have an identity for the child and we’re asking for the media’s help in locating the mother. We’re concerned she may need medical attention or psychological counseling. Any assistance the public can give us in locating this woman would be appreciated.”

  “Is this about the mermaid?” he asked.

  Ruth nodded without taking her eyes from the television. “Such a sad thing. I can’t understand how any mother could just dispose of her child that way.”

  “Maybe she didn’t know what else to do.”

  The reporters were shouting questions at the FBI agent and she was deftly deflecting them without really giving away any important information.

  Ruth clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I just can’t figure it out. How in the world would anyone be pregnant, give birth, dispose of the body and just disappear? I’ve given birth twice and let me tell you, you don’t just get up and walk away. And somebody had to see her throw the body in the ocean.” She glanced over at him. “Why does this crazy stuff always happen in California? You never hear of someone in Reno throwing a baby into the ocean.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Maybe because we don’t have an ocean.”

  She frowned at him, but she went back to watching the television.

  Jeff shifted in the chair. The FBI agent backed away from the podium and another woman in a police uniform took her place, rattling off a number for people to call. Jeff’s thoughts turned to Finn Getter and his mother. He supposed Finn wouldn’t know anything about the excitement in his hometown, not as isolated as he was. Poor kid, he probably would have been fascinated by it.

  * * *

  Dear Aster,

  Mama went to sit with our Lord in Heaven last week. We finally got her to the doctor, but it was too late. All they could do for her was give her medicine so she wasn’t in so much pain. We didn’t have enough left over to bury her, so we had to ask the state for help. They agreed to cremate her.

  Thatcher really hated to do that. He said it interfered with our independence, but there was nothing else we could do. Still it makes me sad. Mama doesn’t have a headstone or a marker, nothing to indicate she was ever in the world. I wish I could have done more for her, but it’s difficult when I can’t work like the others. Janice tried to put a little aside. She hopes to save enough to get Mama a marker someday, but I’ll be long gone before that happens.

  Janice is doing better. She misses Mama same as I do, but she looks stronger than she did. After she lost the baby, I was worried about her. She looked pale and weak. Little Gina didn’t understand why her mama wouldn’t get out of bed. Once Mama was gone, though, it’s like Janice knew how much we both needed her to get better.

  There’s another good thing that happened, but I’m embarrassed to tell you about it. I met someone. Actually, she’s been here for years, but recently we’ve started talking. She helped me take care of the little ones when Janice wasn’t well. Her name is Molly. She’s so pretty, Aster, like sunlight on rose petals. She’s my age, nineteen, and she wants to be a doctor too.

  Thatcher won’t let the girls go to town, unless they have a chaperone. Mama used to chaperone for Janice. It’s usually one of the older women. Molly talked her chaperone, Susan, into taking her to town the other day. She asked to go to the library so she could get some books to read to the little ones.

  I snuck off the farm and met her there. I know we shouldn’t have done it, but it was a lot of fun to hide in the big aisles of books and spend some time together surrounded by them. We sat on the floor and held hands. I’ve never held hands with a girl before, but it was everything I dreamed it would be.

  Susan came back too soon, but at least we got a few minutes to ourselves and I got to show her all of the books on medicine. She wanted to stay longer, but we couldn’t risk it.

  I know nothing can come of this because I’m leaving in less than two years, but having Molly around makes the loss of Mama just a little bit less painful. Thatcher says we can have sweethearts when we go into the world at twenty-one, but I see a lot of the kids at the library and they hold hands all the time. Most of them are younger than I am, and they do more than hold hands, Aster. They kiss in public.

  Thatcher says that’s why the rest of the world is such a mess and he’s probably right, but I can help but wonder what it would be like to kiss Molly. I hope that doesn’t make you think bad thoughts about me.

  Your friend,

  Finn Getter

  CHAPTER 9

  Thursday

  Marco’s hand shook as he poured himself a cup of coffee. He’d been almost a week without a drink, but in some ways the mornings were worse than the nights. Of course, at night the physical pain was worse, but in the mornings, everything seemed so bleak and hopeless, and he missed Peyton then most of all.

  Waking up in a strange bed, waking up without her, was beginning to make him wonder what the point of waking up was anymore. He’d never really thought himself the relationship sort, but since he and Peyton had started living together, he’d changed his mind. He even missed her silly little dog.

  “Captain?”

  Marco quickly replaced the coffee pot with the mug only half full. He didn’t want everyone else knowing how bad he was, how much he wasn’t sure if he could keep this up. “Yeah?” He picked up the mug, taking a sip.

  Stan and Jake stood just inside the break-room doorway. Stan peered at him from behind his coke-bottle glasses, giving him that same half-preoccupied look. Marco wondered if Stan’s mind wasn’t always divided between the present and some distant future no one could fathom except for those of superior intelligence.

  Marco knew exactly what was on Jake’s mind. Jake’s expressive face could never hide any of his emotions. He zeroed in on Marco’s hand, forcing Marco to put down the coffee cup and shove his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket.

  Stan carried a sheaf of papers. He moved over to the table and began spreading them out. “We wanted to show you what we’ve got.”

  Marco grabbed the cane from where it leaned against the counter and moved over to him, leaving the coffee behind. Jake eyed him as they passed each other, but Marco refused to make eye contact. He didn’t need a lecture from Jake Ryder right now.

  “Great. Show me.” He grabbed a chair and sank into it, letting Stan loom over him.

  “These are all the clients Quentin Greer’s had over the last six years.”

  “Why six?”

  “He’s only been in business that long.”

  “Okay, go on.”

  “As you can see, it’s a massive list.”

  Marco nodded.

  “Jake had the idea to cull it.”

  “How?”

  Jake came back to the table, carrying two coffee cups, the one Marco had attempted to fill and another. He placed the cup in front of Marco. “You want something, Stan?”

  “No, I’m trying to cut back.”

  Marco and Jake looked at him. Marco had ever seen Stan drink coffee. “How did you cull the list?” he said, reaching for the mug and taking another sip.

  Jake sat down across from him. “I figured we could eliminate people who were dead.”

  “Dead?”

  Jake lifted his own mug and took a sip, giving Marco a nod over the lip. “Think about it. People who are prescribed marijuana are usually prescribed it for very specific illnesses.”

  “Cancer, AIDs,” offered Stan.

  “Terminal,” said Marco. “What’d that bring the list down to?”

  “Still a lot, so we broke the living list down to those who were still customers and those who were not, meaning they hadn’t purchased anything from Greer in the last two months.”

  “Okay, and that number?”

  Stan held up a couple o
f sheets stapled together. “A fair number, but a reasonable amount for Cho and Simons to track down. Still, I did one better. I eliminated people that moved out of the area, I mean far enough away that they couldn’t make it back for a casual visit.”

  “Good.”

  “That’s not all,” said Jake. “I got to thinking that it probably wasn’t the current customers who wanted to torch Greer, since that would disrupt their supplier. Or the customers that moved out of the area.”

  “Or the dead, because...well…they’re dead,” said Stan with a shrug.

  Marco frowned at him.

  He shrugged again. For the first time, Marco noticed his t-shirt. It had a number of blue and red balls squished together in the middle with a line arcing around and around it. The caption read Never trust an atom. They make up everything. “You know, dead men tell no tales.”

  “Stan,” he said to focus him.

  Jake gave that stupid grin of his.

  “I was wrong,” said Stan.

  “Wrong?”

  “Jake pointed out there might be a connection with someone who died.”

  Marco shifted his attention to Jake. “Can we just cut to the chase?”

  “I broke the dead into two categories – those that died from a terminal disease, and those that didn’t.” He reached over and picked up a single sheet of paper. “The names on this paper all died from other causes.”

  Marco accepted it and scanned the list of seven names. “Do we know how they died?”

  “Two died in car accidents. One died in a murder/suicide situation. One overdosed on meth, but the other three all died in violent shootouts, either gang related or in a skirmish with police.”

  “So you think that their violent deaths connect to Greer somehow?”

  “No, they all died before Greer, so they didn’t have anything to do with his death, but maybe someone connected to them did. Maybe it was a gang that planned to break into the headshop and he stopped them. Maybe they wanted the drugs to sell on the streets and he refused, but all three of these customers were killed during the commission of some crime. Crime breeds crime,” said Jake.