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

by M. L. Hamilton

  A strange desk calendar caught her eyes. She leaned on the desk and pulled it to her. On one side were the traditional pages with the year and the day of the month, but the other side were prints of shadowy figures wielding knives and machetes and evil looking swords with hooked ends.

  Peyton’s mouth fell open as she flipped through the disturbing pictures. Men with masks, men with dark robes and hoods pulled over their heads hiding their faces, men with blood dripping from their weaponry.

  “Peyton?” came a cheerful voice, causing her to jump.

  The little metal clasp holding the calendar together separated from the base and the dates spilled out onto Bambi’s desk. Peyton’s eyes widened and she frantically tried to gather everything up.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Emma,” she said, but the more she tried to arrange the pages, the more they spilled out of the clip.

  Bambi came around the desk, laughing. “It’s okay. I do that all the time. The hook on the other side broke in March, so I have to use a pair of tweezers to shift each day.”

  Peyton gave her a miserable look as Bambi gathered the loose dates in her hands and began putting them back on the clasp. “I didn’t mean to come in here and break things.”

  Bambi waved her off. “Are you kidding? I don’t care. I’m just happy you were looking for me.”

  Peyton’s gaze shifted to the photo. “Are those your parents?”

  “Yep. Ma and Pa Redford.” She gave a high, tinkling laugh. “Actually, Shannon and Bruce.”

  “They seem very nice.”

  Bambi smiled at them. “They are. Mom’s an Ob/Gyn and Dad’s a heart surgeon.”

  “Wow! Did they want you to go into medicine?”

  “Probably, but they’ve always encouraged me to do what I want.”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “An older brother, Pete. He’s a brain surgeon.”

  Peyton felt insignificant and unaccomplished next to her. “Wow,” she said again. Spectacular. Keep up the brilliant conversation, why don’t you, Peyton. “So…” She dragged it out, clasping her hands before her. “I was thinking that maybe you could set me up.”

  “Set you up?” Bambi’s eyes widened and she dropped the calendar dates on the desk. “Oh, my God, that would be perfect. You would love Pete.”

  “Pete?”

  “My brother.”

  “No, oh, no, Emma, I didn’t mean your brother, I meant…” She drew a deep breath. What the hell was she doing? She didn’t want to date someone and she didn’t want a one-night stand.

  Bambi’s eyes got even bigger. “Oh, you mean you and me go out and get a hook up?”

  Lord, that sounded even worse than she thought it would. “You know what, forget it.” She waved her off. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Bambi grabbed her hands. “No, it’s perfect. Don’t you back out on me now. We’re going tonight. I know this great dance club. It’s a total meat market.”

  Peyton felt panic move through her. This was a mistake. This wasn’t what she wanted at all. She wanted Marco and she wanted her life back. “Look, Emma, I…”

  “Agent Brooks?”

  Peyton glanced over her shoulder. Margaret leaned in the doorway. “There’s a man here to see you, a Jeff King.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name, Margaret.”

  “He says he saw you on the news conference. Security vetted him and let him up. What do you want me to tell him?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Margaret gave her a smile and then dropped her voice. “I also have a nice chocolate donut with red and gold sprinkles.”

  Now that sounded more tempting than a meat market of men. She moved toward the doorway, lured by the promise of sweet chocolate bliss.

  “I’ll pick you up at your place at 9:00PM tonight,” said Bambi at her back. “Just text me your address. That way you can drink and I’ll be the designated driver.”

  Peyton gripped the door jamb, staring back at her. Oh, shit, what had she gotten herself into now?

  * * *

  Peyton walked around the cubicle jungle with Margaret in silence, but halfway to her office, Margaret cleared her throat and reached out a hand, stopping Peyton. Peyton looked over at her.

  “I don’t mean to pry and it’s none of my business, but you should be careful going out with Agent Redford.”

  Peyton knew she should tell the woman it really wasn’t any of her business, but she kind of felt the same way. “Why do you say that, Margaret?”

  “She’s...um…” She glanced over her shoulder. “She’s different than you are.”

  “How so?”

  Margaret clasped her hands before her, giving Peyton a miserable look.

  “It’s okay. You know I won’t tell anyone anything.”

  “She devours men.”

  Peyton started to respond, then stopped herself, holding up a finger. Considering their last case was cannibalism, she couldn’t be any too careful. “When you say devours…”

  “She has sex with them and leaves them.”

  Peyton let out her breath in relief. “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “No, not good, but I thought…” She motioned back toward Bambi’s office.

  “Oh…” Margaret’s eyes widened. “Oh, I see. No, no, not like that. I mean I can see how you got there, what with all the horrifying pictures and the interest in the dead, but…”

  They both laughed.

  Peyton squeezed Margaret’s arm. “I appreciate the warning. I’m probably not going to go anyway. I just feel a little confused and lonely right now, but I’m not the one-night stand sort.”

  “You need to give yourself time, dear.” Margaret patted her arm. “You need to let your heart heal, and you need to know that you really are over your young man.”

  Peyton blew out air. Good advice that, considering that last night proved she wasn’t over her young man at all. “Well, I’ve got another man waiting for me.”

  “I’ll just bring you that donut as soon as he’s gone.”

  “Thank you, Margaret, I appreciate it.” She moved away, walking briskly to her office.

  Jeff King was a middle aged Caucasian man with a stocky build. He rose as she entered and Peyton marked that he wasn’t more than five six or five seven, brown hair shot through with grey, and hazel eyes. He wore a button up checked shirt that was tucked into his jeans and black sneakers of a non-descript brand.

  “Mr. King?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, nodding.

  She offered him her hand. “I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, his shake firm without trying to break her fingers. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Of course. I’m not sure how I can help, but I’ll do my best. Please have a seat.” She motioned to the chair he’d been sitting in and he sank into it as she went around her desk and sat down in her own chair. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  He gave a wry shake of his head. “Probably nothing, but I had to try. I saw you on the news conference the other day in Santa Cruz.”

  Peyton made a face. “Yeah, they kinda threw me out there unprepared.”

  “No, it was good.”

  Peyton laughed. “You’re too kind, Mr. King, but I don’t have a lot of experience talking in front of so many people.”

  “No, really, it was good.” He gave a careless shrug. “My wife did mention that they might have given you a box or something to stand on.” He held up a hand. “Meaning no offense.”

  Peyton laughed again. “None taken. She’s right. They always place the microphone so far above me I look like a little girl trying to sneak cookies out of the cookie jar.”

  He smiled and relaxed a little.

  Peyton rested her arms on her desk. “How can I help you, sir?”

  He gave her a sheepish look and reached for a leather briefcase sitting by his chair. Setting it on his lap, he opened the top flap and reached in, pull
ing out a stack of letters. “My mother died a few weeks ago, Agent Brooks.”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it.” He set the stack of letters on Peyton’s desk. “After she died, I was cleaning out her study when I found these.”

  Peyton picked up the first one, looking at the neat script. “Your mother was Aster King.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I see.”

  “I was missing my mother, so I started reading the letters. They’re all from a young man. They were pen pals.”

  “Really? I didn’t know people did that anymore.”

  “Well, my mother would be one to keep such traditions alive, Agent Brooks.”

  Peyton glanced at the letter again. “You found something in these letters that concerns you?”

  “Yes, the boy, Finn Getter, lives in the Santa Cruz mountains on something he calls a farm.”

  “A farm?”

  “I think it’s a commune of sorts. There seems to be a lot of people living there. It’s run by a man that Finn only calls Thatcher, but he definitely seems to be the head of things.”

  “The Santa Cruz mountains have a lot of people living off the grid, so to speak, Mr. King. Vietnam veterans, others who find modern society difficult, but that’s not illegal, per se.”

  Jeff nodded, clasping his hands before him. “I know that, ma’am, but something’s not right at this farm place. When the young men turn twenty-one, they’re forced to leave, go out into the world. The only education they get is homeschooling, some reading and writing, simple arithmetic. Then they’re shoved out with no skills, no work experience, no true education.”

  “Again, not illegal.”

  “The women stay. They’re never allowed to leave. They get very little health care. Finn’s mother died of stomach cancer and no one did anything to help her until it was too late.”

  That made Peyton stop for a moment. “What do you mean they can’t leave?”

  “I mean they can’t leave. Finn had plans to leave with another girl and his sister, but something happened in his final letter. He tells my mother that their plans were ruined and he wanted to…” Jeff stopped, staring at the stack in front of him.

  “To what, Mr. King?”

  “Kill Thatcher.”

  Peyton took her notepad out of her jacket pocket and began jotting some notes. “Do you know where this commune is located exactly, Mr. King?”

  “No, but there’s more.”

  Peyton stopped writing. “Go on.”

  “I know this sounds coincidental and weird.”

  She was investigating the disposal of a mermaid. Did he think she didn’t know weird? “Tell me anyway.” She forced a smile for him.

  “There’s something genetically wrong on that farm.”

  “Genetically wrong?” The way he said it made the hairs on the back of Peyton’s neck rise. “What do you mean genetically wrong?”

  “The children born there have birth defects, a lot of them. Finn doesn’t say what it is, but his sister gave birth to a little girl that needed surgery to eat and there were five or six others that had the same birth defect if I counted right. Then Janice, Finn’s sister, lost a baby. In the final letter, Finn realizes that so many birth anomalies just aren’t right. He spends as much time as he can at the local library with a Mrs. Elder.”

  Peyton frowned. Mrs. Elder. That name was familiar. Where had she heard it before?

  “He had an interest in medicine, so she’d get him medical journals to research. He realized that something wasn’t right. Then I heard the report on the mermaid in Santa Cruz. That seemed more than coincidental.”

  Peyton stared down at the letter. “We’ll look into it, Mr. King.” She reached for the stack. “May I keep these until we have a chance to do more research?”

  “Of course, but you don’t have much time, Agent Brooks.”

  “Why not?”

  “In the last letter, Finn Getter was almost twenty-one. He had six months left on the farm.” He paused, then leaned forward and tapped the date on the stamp. “Last week that six months was up.”

  * * *

  Peyton punched the button on Igor’s lab door and Radar walked through. He gave her an arch look.

  “Sparky, you better have something good because you interrupted lunch with my wife.”

  Peyton released the button. “How is Mrs. Radar? Gosh, I can’t remember her first name.”

  “Because I never told you.”

  “Oh, right. But the cats again? Fluffy? Mittens?”

  He glared at her. “Why did you bother me at lunch?”

  Igor leaned on his autopsy table, the letters spread around him. Tank sat on his right side with a computer tablet. He was making notes on the tablet with a stylus.

  “Hello, Radar. I think our lovely Agent Brooks has found something very interesting here,” said Igor.

  Peyton gave Radar a smug grin.

  Radar ignored it and moved to the autopsy table. “What is it?”

  “These, Radar, are letters from a young man living in the Santa Cruz mountains on what I believe to be a commune.”

  “A commune? Like in the sixties?”

  “Precisely. They’re not uncommon. Well, they may be uncommon, but they’re not unheard of now.”

  “Actually,” said Tank, “since the 1990’s the number of people living in communes has increased. The attraction is easy to see, a group of like-minded people working and living together toward one goal. Recently, the move has been toward clean living, attempting to impact the environment as little as possible. They believe in clean energy, government independence and…”

  “And the point?” demanded Radar.

  “I’ll let Agent Brooks fill you in,” said Igor, pointing at her.

  Peyton launched into a brief explanation of her meeting with Jeff King, the last letter in the batch, and the strange, possible connection with their Baby Jane Doe. Radar listened with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “And you think these two very random occurrences are somehow connected, Sparky?”

  Peyton started to answer, but Igor held up a hand. “Actually, I do too.” He picked up a letter and held it out to Radar. “This young man, Finn Getter, describes a birth anomaly in his young niece that I feel must be cleft palate.”

  “Cleft palate? That’s a common thing, right?” said Radar.

  “Actually, cleft palate is rarer than cleft lip. Cleft palate happens about 1 in 1,500 births,” said Tank.

  Radar gave him a disbelieving look. “You have that number just swimming around in your brain?”

  “No.” He held up the tablet. “CDC website.”

  Peyton smiled at him. She liked Tank.

  “According to a quick scan of the letters, Finn describes at least four children on this commune with cleft palate.”

  “Well, it’s a long way from cleft palate to a mermaid,” said Radar.

  “Sirenomelia,” said Tank.

  “Whatever,” snapped Radar. “How are the two related?”

  “I can’t tell you that until we get some tissue samples, DNA.”

  “On the basis of what?” said Radar. “I can’t just march onto a commune and tell those people, hey, you got some birth defects, so we’re gonna start taking DNA.”

  “Of course not,” said Igor. “That would be a violation of their civil rights.”

  “Of course it would, so why am I here?”

  Peyton took the last letter from Igor. “It sounds like these women are being held against their will. We’re trying to find the mother of the baby and this is the only lead we have.”

  “No, we have the hemp fibers. That’s solid evidence I have in my hands. If you find any real evidence in those letters, any actual claim of a crime being done, I’m all over it, but right now we have to pursue what’s in front of us, and that’s the fibers found on the body.” He shook his head. “If we start poking fingers in a commune, you know what the me
dia is going to do with that? I don’t need a Ruby Ridge or Waco on my hands, Sparky. We stick to what we have.”

  “What about the letters?” she asked.

  “They’re just letters. Get someone to read through them that doesn’t have a case, but you, you have a case to work. Tomorrow we go to the farmer’s market and look for your Horizon van, and that’s all.”

  Peyton sighed and glanced over at Igor and Tank. Tank dropped the letters on the autopsy table and gave her a helpless shrug.

  * * *

  Peyton hurried to catch up to Bambi as they left the parking garage and headed for the nightclub. She wasn’t as used to walking in high heels as Bambi and she wasn’t sure her enthusiasm level for tonight came anywhere close to the other woman’s.

  Bambi stopped and hooked her arm through Peyton’s. “Come on, this is the hottest new club in North Beach and we look smokin’.”

  Peyton gave her a forced smile and tried to quicken her shorter stride. The red sequins dress rode high on her thighs. Coupled with the red stiletto pumps and her curls loose around her shoulders, she felt completely out of place. Standing next to Bambi, who looked like sex walking in a virginal white mini-dress with spaghetti strap and black five inch heels, she was afraid they might need the guns they’d stashed in the trunk of the Prius before the night was over.

  “I wish you’d let me drive,” Bambi complained. “Then you could get drunk.”

  “I don’t mind being the designated driver.”

  A line stretched across the front of the club, circling around the side of the building. Raucous laughter escaped whenever the door was opened by a bouncer clad in a black t-shirt and black jeans. Peyton could feel the bass of the music pulsing through the brick walls of the building and onto the sidewalk.

  She pulled back as Bambi led them to the front of the line. She could tell the inside was crowded by the glimpse she got through the open door – bodies bumping and grinding into one another, surging with every pulse of the strobe lights and the heavy bass of the DJ.

  “Emma, I don’t think I can do this.”