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

by M. L. Hamilton

  He felt everyone’s eyes on him, but he ignored them. He was captain. He didn’t have to explain a damn thing to them. He gave Carly the glass again. “Thank you.”

  She smiled and retreated.

  Marco smoothed down his hair and adjusted his jacket. It really needed a good pressing at the drycleaner’s. Tucking his shirt into his belt, he turned toward the door. As he opened the inner one, the girl and Laura looked up at him. The girl’s eyes immediately focused on the cane and watched him as he limped to the table and sat down, stretching out his leg.

  “Hello, Amy,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and taking out his business card. He slid it across the table to her, but the lawyer picked it up, studying it. “I’m Captain D’Angelo.”

  Laura frowned as he held out his hand first to Amy and then to her. They both shook and then Amy clasped her hands in her lap again.

  “Captain?” said the lawyer. “Why do we merit such attention?”

  He smiled at her. He wished he’d had time to shave this morning. He probably still had shaving equipment at Peyton’s house, but he’d felt like he should get out of there as quick as he could once she left.

  “No special reason.”

  Amy’s eyes lowered to his cane as he shifted it to the side.

  “I know you’ve been through a lot lately, Amy. You must wish things would go back to normal.”

  She gave him a nod, her eyes wary.

  “Schools almost out for the year and then summer, right?’

  “Right. Finals are next week.”

  “I see. Must be hard to concentrate.”

  She met his gaze, then looked away.

  “What’s this about, Captain D’Angelo? Amy doesn’t have anything to say.”

  Marco nodded. “That’s okay. I get that. We’re just hoping maybe she can clear up some stuff for us.”

  “Like what?” asked the girl.

  “You don’t have to answer any of his questions,” said Laura.

  “My questions aren’t that bad, Amy. For instance, you live with your dad, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And your mom lives in Vermont?”

  “Right.”

  “That’s pretty far away. You must miss her.”

  “I do.”

  “How come you live with your dad?”

  “You don’t have to answer…” began Laura.

  “I get that,” said Amy to her lawyer. “I heard you the last fifty times.”

  Marco smiled at that. Nothing like a little teenage attitude. Laura leaned back in her chair, giving him a whatever look.

  The girl shifted back toward him. “My mom used to drink. A lot. The judge decided it was best if I live with my dad.”

  “I see.” Here was his opening, but he hated to admit this to anyone, especially the people standing on the other side of the two way mirror. Still, he wouldn’t get another chance like this. “I know what that’s like.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I have a drinking problem too.”

  Her attention focused on him. “Mom doesn’t drink anymore. She got help, but they won’t let her take me to Vermont. That’s where Grandma and Grandpa live. She lives with them.”

  “Is it hard living with your dad?”

  “He’s protective, you know?”

  “Yeah, I’d be protective of my daughter if I had one, but...is he too protective, Amy?”

  She shut down, looking away from him. He could see her shoulders hunch.

  He shifted in the chair, trying to ease the pressure on his leg. “It’s loud, isn’t it?”

  “What?”

  “A gun going off, especially in a small space.”

  She chewed on her lower lip.

  “The sounds, the smell, the flash – it stays with you, doesn’t it? You can’t get it out of your head. You can’t forget it. You close your eyes and there it is again, yanking you awake. The roar, the smell of gunpowder, the smell of blood.”

  “That’s enough, Captain D’Angelo.”

  Tears spilled over Amy’s eyes, running down her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand.

  He looked down at his leg, remembering the taste of blood in his mouth, the sound of the shot echoing back at him, the way he was suddenly on his back, staring up at the metal crossbeams overhead. Peyton screaming, NO!

  “Someone shot you?” came Amy’s voice.

  He blinked and looked up at her. For a moment, he couldn’t process where he was, then he wiped a hand across his mouth. His hand shook. “Yeah. Yeah, about seven months ago.”

  She reached up and began twisting the tie on her hood around her finger. “I begged him to stop. I tried to stop him. Gavin didn’t even know he had a gun. I didn’t tell him.”

  Marco leaned on the table. “You tried to stop your dad?”

  Amy nodded. “I screamed at him that it was Gavin, but he wouldn’t listen. Everything happened so fast. Gavin was trying to put on his clothes and I grabbed my robe, but my arms got stuck in the belt and then…”

  “Then?”

  “Amy,” said Laura, placing her arm around her shoulders.

  Amy shrugged her off and grasped Marco’s hand. “He shot. I screamed and screamed and…”

  “And?”

  “He shot again.”

  “Where were you when he shot, Amy?”

  “I was standing right next to him, I was grabbing his arm. I begged him to stop.”

  “You grabbed his arm? Which arm?”

  “Amy, don’t say anything,” said Laura.

  Amy’s grip tightened and she shook her head. “I can’t remember...it happened so fast. I can’t…”

  “Amy?” Marco moved into her line of sight. “Which arm did you grab?”

  She lifted her head, her eyes fixed on his. “I grabbed the gun. I grabbed the gun and tried to push it up. It burned me.” She held out her hand.

  Marco turned it into the light. A faint red welt ran along the top of her palm below her fingers. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he wiped a tear away. “You did good, Amy. You did real good.”

  “What’s gonna happen to my dad?”

  “I don’t know, but you did the right thing. You did right by Gavin, Amy, and that’s what matters.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes, then Laura folded her in her arms and looked at Marco over her head. “Can we go now?”

  “In a minute,” he said, reaching for his cane and levering himself to his feet.

  Tag and Holmes met him at the door to the interrogation room. Tag gave him a smile. “Good job, Captain.”

  “Get ballistics to check for fingerprints on the barrel of the gun. Match them to Amy’s.”

  “On it.”

  They both hurried away.

  Jake remained in the room, watching Amy as she was comforted by her lawyer. “That girl’s gonna need serious counseling.”

  Marco moved to stand beside him. “Yeah. The things we do to each other.”

  Jake looked over at him, eyeing him up and down. “That took a lot of courage, Adonis.”

  “What?”

  “Admitting your drinking problem.”

  Marco stared at the girl, all of seventeen, her whole life ahead of her. “Not as much as she showed. Not nearly that much.”

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Marco went back to Abe’s house, showered, shaved, put on clean clothes, and searched for one of Abe’s magical pain pills. He popped one in his mouth and downed it with another glass of water. He couldn’t believe how dehydrated he was from his binge drinking the previous night.

  Just as he was placing the glass in the kitchen sink, he heard the front door open, followed by male laughter and voices. He wandered into the living room where Abe and two other men were clearing off the dining room table and setting out a deck of cards and poker chips.

  One of the men, a short Hispanic man in an impeccable silver suit, caught sight of him and stopped moving. “Well, hello Dolly!” he said, his dark ey
es widening.

  Abe looked up. He wore a hot pink silk shirt and black slacks with hot pink cowboy boots. “If it isn’t the prodigal son returning home. Your phone must be broken, otherwise I can’t imagine why you couldn’t even send a text?”

  Okay, he deserved that. Abe gave him a dismissive look and went back to setting up the table.

  The third man, an African American of medium height with a bit of a paunch, wandered over to him, circling around behind Marco’s back. He trailed his fingers across the width of Marco’s shoulders. “How tall are you, darlin’?” he purred.

  “Six four,” said Marco, stepping away from him and moving toward the table. “Abe?”

  Abe refused to look at him. “I have a lovely crudité in the fridge and the little Japanese restaurant on the corner is sending over a platter of sashimi.”

  The Hispanic man clapped his hands. “I love sashimi. What about you, dreamboat?” he said to Marco, giving him a wink.

  “Sure.” Marco turned to Abe. “Abe?”

  Abe fussed with the poker chips, counting them out.

  “Abe?”

  “I have nothing to say to you, Angel.”

  “Lover’s spat,” stage-whispered the Hispanic man to the other one.

  Marco glanced at him, then reached across the table and caught Abe’s elbow, stopping him. “Abe, I’m trying to apologize.”

  Abe went still, lifting his eyes to his face.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Oh,” said the African American man, “forgive him already!”

  Abe’s smile lit up his face and he laid his hand against Marco’s cheek. “You are always forgiven, Angel.” He pointed at the two men. “These are my friends, Misha and Serge.”

  Serge, the shorter man, held out his hand. When Marco offered his own, Serge clapped his free hand over the top. “I would forgive you anything, darlin’.”

  “Thanks.” He turned to Misha.

  Misha gave him another wink. “That goes double for me.”

  “Awesome.” Just as he tried to take his hand back, the door opened and Jake appeared in the opening with his German shepherd Tater in tow.

  “Okay, I thought we’d try raspberry pomegranate vodka tonight.” He held up a clear bottle with a pink label, then focused on Marco. “Oh, sorry, Adonis. I didn’t know you’d be here.” He gave Abe a worried look. “Should I throw it away?”

  “Nope,” said Marco, easing around the table. “I’ll just be in my room.” He gave Jake a confused look, but before he could make his escape, Serge clamped a hand on his shoulder and shoved him toward a chair.

  “Oh no you don’t. You’re staying!”

  His leg gave and he found himself sitting down hard.

  “Easy on the goods, man,” said Abe, coming over to him and helping him right himself. “You okay, Angel?”

  Marco nodded.

  “I’m sorry, Abe. It’s just we don’t often have so much eye candy at our monthly poker games.”

  Everything coalesced in his head, except Jake. Why the hell was Jake here?

  “So, break out the glasses and the crudité, and let’s get our gambling on,” said Misha, rubbing his hands together.

  Before Marco could escape, Serge and Misha took seats on either side of him and Jake dealt the first hand, while Abe distributed drinks and set out his crudité, or whatever the hell it was. Abe made a point of giving him a large glass of water, glaring at Serge when he protested that Marco should share his vodka.

  Marco knew about male poker nights. After all, he had three brothers, so the drinking and the card playing weren’t unusual, but the company was. After nearly every hand, Serge suggested they play strip poker. Every time he said it, he gave Marco a lurid look. Since Marco was the only one sober, and therefore, the only one actually winning, he wasn’t sure what Serge hoped to accomplish.

  On his left, Misha kept him entertained with off-color jokes. “What do you call a gay cowboy?’

  “No idea.”

  “A jolly rancher.”

  “What do you call a gay boxer?”

  Marco shook his head, giving Abe a pained look.

  “A fruit punch.”

  Abe chuckled and dealt another hand.

  A little after midnight, Abe called his friends a cab and they tumbled out of the door, giggling and trying to hold each other up. Abe set about gathering the plates and glasses, waving Marco off when he moved to help. Jake gathered up the poker chips and tried to put them back in the container, his aim hampered by vodka. Tater snored softly under the table, his head on Jake’s foot.

  “Did you see the way Misha cheats?” said Abe, rolling his eyes. “A full house, my ass. He had that second ace in his lap.”

  Jake laughed. “He always cheats, but it doesn’t get him anything. He’s the worst poker player I’ve ever seen.”

  Abe nodded, then he gave Marco a beaming smile. “You upped my reputation tonight, Angel. They both think you’re my new boy toy. Hell, Serge didn’t think I could get a younger man.”

  Marco gave him an uncomfortable smile. “Glad I could help.”

  “You and Tater are gonna have to take the couch tonight, Jakey,” said Abe, lifting an arm-load of dishes. “I have an Angel in my guest room.”

  “Not a problem,” said Jake, giving him a drunken wave of his hand.

  Abe smiled at Marco again and headed toward the kitchen, whistling some show tune. Marco watched Jake as he tried to match up the colors on the chips.

  “You play poker with them every month?” he asked, reaching for the cards and knocking them into a stack.

  “Yep.”

  “Hm.”

  Jake gave him a lazy look. “I’m not gay, Adonis.”

  Marco held out a hand. “Doesn’t matter to me if you are.”

  Jake shook his head with a wry laugh. “See, here’s your problem.”

  Marco set down the cards and leaned back. “Enlighten me.”

  Jake shifted in the chair, leaning an arm on the table. “You can’t allow yourself to enjoy anything.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Isn’t it?” Jake tapped a finger on the table. “Listen, when my wife died, I had two paths in front of me. I could curl up in the fetal position and give up. That’s what I wanted to do. Or I could live the way she did, not worrying about what everyone else thought about me, just having fun and experiencing new things. Like this. Like the poker game tonight. Those guys are really good guys.”

  “I didn’t say they weren’t.”

  “And they’re fun. I like spending time with them. So what if we’re not from the same background or the same sexual orientation. They’re fun and that’s all that matters.” Jake pointed a finger at him. “Peyton gets this. Peyton knows that you gotta be open to new experiences, new adventures, not worry about what’s…” He made quotation marks with his fingers. “...right all the time.”

  He slapped at Marco’s arm and missed. “That’s why she’d be better off with me than you.”

  Marco’s expression sobered. She’d be better off with me than you. He pushed himself to his feet and started toward his room. Abe came out of the kitchen and Jake struggled to stand up.

  “I didn’t mean it, Adonis.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Abe.

  Marco didn’t answer, just brushed by Abe and went to his room, slamming the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 12

  Friday

  Peyton slammed the door behind her and stormed down the ramp, using her remote to unlock the Prius. She tossed her gun in its holster onto the passenger seat and threw herself behind the wheel. The silent start of the Prius just wasn’t satisfying this morning. She wanted the roar of the Charger to match her furious mood.

  Slamming her open palm on the steering wheel, she let fall a string of curses. Damn him! Damn him again and again and again! She should never have let him in the house last night. She should never have let him touch her.

  She had no restraint where he
was concerned. He touched her and that was it. She was putty in his hands, wanting nothing more than to completely give herself to him. Every time. Every damn time!

  Well, no more! She wasn’t kidding. She wasn’t going to be used by him or any other man. Never again. Never, ever again!

  Especially not by him.

  Tears burned in her eyes, but she fought them back. No more crying. No more wallowing in misery over him. It was over and that was best. He made her weak. He made her forget who she was and what she intended to do with her life.

  She didn’t need this. She didn’t need any man making her into a sniveling fool for him. Not Marco, not anyone. She was done with men. She was done with Marco. She would stay celibate and single and alone for the rest of her life and she would be happy with that. Damn it, she would be happy with it!

  She forced herself to pull out of the driveway and turn down the street. A part of her wanted to run back into the house, but she buried that part as deep inside as she could. She’d faced her father’s death. She could face this. She could learn to accept a life of self-fulfillment, of self-actualization, of self-realization, of...of...nothing.

  Tilting back her head, she drew deep, deliberate breaths until the desire to cry left her. Women didn’t need men anymore. They could take care of themselves. And if they wanted sex, well, they could find a way to have that too without attachments. If Marco could go to a bar and find a one night stand, so could she. She could use men the way they usually used women. Marco had contented himself with such encounters for most of his adult life. So could she. And she was going to start this weekend.

  She was going to take Bambi up on her offer of a double date and she was going to get on with her life. And she was going to do it tonight.

  Arriving at the FBI office, she parked the Prius and punched the button for the elevator. Once she got to her floor, she wandered around until she found Bambi’s office, located a few doors down from Tank.

  Peyton poked her head inside, but Bambi wasn’t there. Her office wasn’t much better than Peyton’s. On the wall opposite her desk, she’d hung her degrees. She had an impressive education, bachelor’s degree from Stanford and a master’s degree from USC, plus her FBI certification. Peyton moved to her desk and picked up a photo. Bambi, wearing a cap and gown, smiled for the camera, and behind her were a man and a woman, the woman looking like an older version of Bambi.