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

by M. L. Hamilton

  * * *

  “Jake Ryder keeps telling me I’m a good captain. Like he thinks my self-worth is tied to what he thinks.”

  “Is it?”

  Marco looked up at Dr. Ferguson. As always, he had his hands steepled before his mouth, his hair mussed, his suit rumpled, his glasses just slightly askew. “No.”

  “And yet what he says frequently bothers you. Why?”

  “He says things that are true.” Marco held up a hand. “Sometimes. Sometimes he’s just full of shit.”

  “What else has he said that’s true?”

  “What?”

  “What truths has he told you?”

  Marco shifted in the chair. “That Peyton would be better off with him than me.”

  “And you believe this?”

  “She adores him. She fought so damn hard to get him off that murder charge and then she got him a job, let him live in her house.”

  “But she chose you?”

  “Peyton doesn’t always do the most logical thing.”

  “Why would Jake Ryder be better for her than you? You said the things she did for him. What does he do for her?”

  Marco looked out the window. He hated talking about other men like this. He especially hated talking about Jake because if Jake knew, he’d love it. And that annoyed the hell out of Marco. “Jake is...Jake is good. Jake’s a good person.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I’m…” Marco met Dr. Ferguson’s gaze. “I’m a lot of things, but that’s not a word I’ve ever heard about myself.”

  “And why do you feel that way?”

  “I’m a cop. I’ve seen things. I’ve done things.” Marco drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair. “I’ve killed.”

  “So has Peyton. Is she a good person?”

  “Peyton?” Marco laughed. “Peyton’s the best person I know. I made Peyton kill.”

  “How?”

  “She killed the Janitor to save me.”

  Ferguson picked up his pen and wrote on his pad, then he settled it on the table again. “You accept responsibility for many things, Captain D’Angelo. Do you realize that?”

  “Isn’t that what a captain’s supposed to do?”

  “Yes, and it’s a rare quality when so many people, CEO’s, politicians, celebrities, refuse to take any responsibility at all. Which is why, perhaps, that Mr. Ryder feels the need to tell you you’re doing a good job. Accepting a compliment doesn’t make you vain or weak or less of a man. It’s a validation that you are a man.”

  * * *

  It’s a validation that you are a man. Marco climbed out of the Charger and pressed the lock on the door. Shit. He had to finish this therapy, so he could stop having to spend so damn much time thinking about this shit. It was messing with his head. It was making him question everything he knew and if he wasn’t careful, it was going to make him sensitive.

  That’s what annoyed him so damn much about Ryder. Ryder was so freakin’ sensitive. He always saw things, sensed things that a man shouldn’t. A man should just boldly plow through life without stopping to analyze every damn thing, but Ryder did and now, freakin’ hell, Marco found himself doing the same thing.

  “Captain D’Angelo?”

  Marco’s heart kicked against his ribs and his hand gripped the cane violently. A man had stepped out from between two parked cars in the parking lot. “Yes?”

  “Your secretary said you’d be coming back soon, so I thought I’d wait.”

  Marco tried to center his weight. He was never sure if his damn leg was going to hold him and the last assault by Albie Brighton had sent him sprawling on his ass. This man wasn’t overly large, five seven or so, 180lbs. He looked to be in his mid-forties with a bit of a paunch. “Who are you?”

  The man took a hesitant step forward. “I’m Gavin’s father. Ryan Morris.”

  Marco relaxed. “Why don’t you come in, sir?”

  “No.” He glanced at the precinct, then back to Marco, his hands tightening into fists. “I saw the news article about my son, how the NRA’s involved.” His face contorted. “How they bought that murdering bastard Cook a lawyer.”

  “I can’t talk about an on-going case, Mr. Morris, but know we are doing everything in our power to…”

  “To what? I read that they want Cook released, that they’re demanding it.” He took a step toward Marco, jabbing his fist into the air. “They’re saying it was self-defense. He shot my son in the back and it was self-defense!”

  Marco glanced toward the precinct. He didn’t want to draw his gun on a grieving father, but this man was clearly over-wrought. “Mr. Morris, let me assure you we are taking this case very seriously. I’ve spoken with the ADA twice about it. We don’t believe it was self-defense.”

  “They’re powerful. The NRA. If they drum up enough public opinion…”

  “Mr. Morris…”

  “You’ll let them have what they want. I know how it works. My son is an acceptable death. He’s collateral damage just so they can keep their guns. So they can have a false feeling of safety. My son is a sacrificial lamb!”

  “No!” said Marco, holding up a hand. “That’s not what I think at all, sir, but this isn’t helping anything. You need to go home and let my people finish their case. I’m following it closely myself and I promise you we will do everything in our power to get your son justice.”

  “And what good will that do? What the hell good will that do me or his mother or the other parents who are going to be facing the same thing a week from now, a day, the next hour!”

  The precinct door opened and Smith stepped out, followed by Bartlet. Marco held up a hand to stop them. They waited on the top of the stairs, their hands near their guns, but Morris didn’t notice them.

  “Answer me!”

  Marco took a step closer to him. Morris’ attention fixated on his leg. “You have to trust me, Mr. Morris. You have to believe me when I say that I intend to fight for your son. I can’t promise we’ll win, but I can promise you I will go down swinging.”

  Morris’ gaze rose to Marco’s face and the fire seemed to leach out of him. “He was my only son.”

  “I know that, sir.”

  “He was all I had.”

  “I know.”

  “They can’t win this. They can’t use him this way.”

  “They won’t. I won’t let them.”

  Morris nodded, his eyes dropping to Marco’s leg again.

  “Go home, Mr. Morris. Go home and let me work this case.”

  Morris nodded once more, half turning away. He still didn’t notice Smith and Bartlet on the stairs. “He was my only son.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “He was all I had.”

  Marco waited until the man got in the car and started it, then he release his held breath.

  * * *

  Returning from the break-room, Marco saw a large man standing on the other side of the counter, ball cap on his head, glancing around nervously. Of course, Carly was nowhere to be found.

  “Can I help you?” Marco settled his mug on the edge of Carly’s desk.

  “I’m Al Delacruz. An Inspector Simons asked me to come in today to answer some questions about my son.” He took the ball cap off and passed it through his fingers. Marco noticed his hands were large and calloused. He had a deep scar right in the middle of his chin. It looked like someone had tried to cut the man’s face in two. The scar was broad and pink and shiny.

  “Inspector Simons was supposed to call you and cancel the appointment, Mr. Delacruz. He didn’t call?”

  Delacruz shrugged massive shoulders. “If he did, I didn’t get it. I’ve lost my cell phone and I haven’t been home to check the landline. I’ve been at work all day. Man, I wish I’d got that call. I’m backed up at work and I can’t really afford the time.”

  Marco moved to the half-door and opened it. “Come in and let’s talk for a moment.” He motioned to the conference room. Delacruz forced his bulk past him. He didn’t reach Marco�
��s six four, but he was well over six and built like a truck.

  He entered the conference room and sat down. Marco looked at his coffee on Carly’s desk and decided to leave it there. His leg was hurting him too much to walk all the way back to the break-room for a second mug and Carly wasn’t around.

  Entering the conference room, he left the door open and took a seat across from the other man.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  Marco hooked the cane over the chair arm. “Gunshot.”

  Delacruz gave a nod. “In the line of duty?”

  “Yep.” He held out his hand. “I’m Captain Marco D’Angelo, Mr. Delacruz.”

  Delacruz accepted his hand in a crushing grip. “I don’t want to bother the captain,” he said. “I should probably go.”

  “It’s fine. Since you’re here, why don’t we talk about your son?”

  “Calvin?”

  “Right. See, we’re investigating the murder of Quentin Greer. He was the owner of the headshop where your son bought his medicine.”

  “Medicine?” snorted Delacruz, leaning back in the chair and folding his hands on his belly. “That medicine got him killed.”

  Marco marked the short burst of temper. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Delacruz.”

  Delacruz rubbed a hand over his face. Marco noticed the dirt under his fingernails. “Don’t listen to me, Captain D’Angelo. I’m just bitter. It’s been hard.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “He was a good kid, my son. Smart, smarter than his old man. His mom died when he was five. I raised him and his sister by myself.”

  “That must have been difficult.”

  He shrugged. “Calvin was a good kid.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Delacruz?”

  “I repair heating and air conditioning.” He gave a faint laugh. “Not much use for air conditioning here, but when I was in Sacramento, shit, I was always busy.”

  “I’ll bet. Why’d you move here?”

  “Calvin got sick. He needed help.”

  Marco nodded.

  “I couldn’t help him. He’d let his sister do things for him, but me...me he kept at arm’s length.”

  “He wanted his independence?”

  Delacruz’s dark eyes fixed on Marco. “No. When my son told me he was gay, I threw him out of the house.”

  Marco leaned back in his chair.

  “I will never live it down. I will carry that guilt with me forever. He left Sacramento and came here where he felt accepted.”

  Marco didn’t know how to respond. What did you say to comfort someone who’d turned his back on his own blood?

  “Then he got sick.”

  “He needed the medicine to help him with the treatment, didn’t he?”

  Delacruz shook his head. “Don’t call it medicine. It’s a drug and it killed my son.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “He was getting better. The AIDs drugs were working, but he kept going and getting the pot. He wouldn’t stop. He said it helped him eat, but when I went to see him, he’d just be stoned out of his head. You couldn’t talk to him, you couldn’t get him to do anything. He just wanted to sit in front of the television and...and do nothing.”

  “I see.”

  “My son was a brilliant piano teacher.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, his grief palpable. “You should have heard him play, but when he started smoking, the piano went quiet. The music stopped.” He opened his eyes and looked at Marco. “I’m starting to forget what it sounded like.”

  “Did you know Quentin Greer?”

  Delacruz just stared at Marco as if he could hear music Marco couldn’t. “No, I didn’t know him. I’m sure he thought he was helping people. I’m sure he believed in what he was doing, but his medicine made the music go away and then it got Calvin killed.”

  “Calvin was robbed for his wallet.”

  “Sure, they took his credit cards, but they also took the dope. That’s what they really wanted. That’s what the other cops told me.”

  “Other cops?”

  “Who first had the case. They found the gangbangers who killed Calvin and they still had the dope on them. They were buying stuff to have a party and smoke it.”

  “You must be angry about Calvin’s death, Mr. Delacruz.”

  “I am angry.”

  “At a lot of people.”

  Delacruz’s gaze lowered to the table and he wrung the hat in his hands. “No, Captain D’Angelo, I’m angry at me.”

  Marco waited.

  “I threw my son out for being gay. Now all I can think of is I lost three years of his life. If I had known it’d be so short...if I’d had any idea, I would have spent every moment with him. I would have sat with him and just listened to him play. I would have done anything to keep him with me.”

  Marco gave a nod. “Again, I’m sorry for your loss, sir.”

  Delacruz just stared at things unseen. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “I won’t detain you further. I know you have work to do.” He rose to his feet.

  Delacruz rose as well. “Sure.” They shook hands. “Take care of that leg.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Walking into the precinct, Delacruz let himself beyond the half-door. Marco watched him as he wended his way into the parking lot, his head bowed, the ball cap back in place, hiding a devastating grief that would never go away.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” came Carly’s voice. “I made chocolate chip cookies. Do you want me to get you some?”

  Marco glanced over at her. Was she freakin’ serious? Chocolate chip cookies? She beamed happiness at him. He turned away and went to his office, shutting the door behind him. God, he needed a drink.

  * * *

  Abe opened the door to his condo as Marco placed his plate on the dining room table. Abe’s face lit into a smile. “You made me dinner, Angel?”

  “Nope. Mama D’Angelo did. She sent me a care package when I left last night.”

  Abe slung his leather bag onto the couch and moved toward the table. He wore a violet silk shirt with pinstripes running through it and pale lavender pants. Matching violet wingtip shoes covered his feet. Marco hid a wry smile as Abe sank into the chair across from him.

  “This looks amazing.”

  “Yep. Tastes even better.”

  “What is it?”

  “Polenta pasticciata.”

  “Vegetarian?”

  “Yep.”

  Abe lifted his fork and cut into the dish, carrying a bite to his mouth. Closing his eyes as he chewed, he made a moaning sound. “This would be so good with a glass of pinot noir.”

  Marco hesitated with the fork almost to his mouth.

  Abe’s eyes popped open. “Sorry, Angel.”

  Marco waved him off. “No worries.”

  “How’s the leg today?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  Abe gave him a searching look. Marco dished up another bite. Finally Abe relented, “Okey dokey. Let’s talk dead bodies then.”

  Marco swallowed and reached for his water glass. “So much better. Did you look at Quentin Greer again?”

  “I did. Ran a new set of x-rays and tomorrow, I’m gonna take that sucker apart ligament by ligament.”

  “Awesome.” Marco set down his fork. He was so often grateful that he was a vegetarian now.

  “I found a hole in the xiphoid process.”

  “Xiphoid process?”

  “Lower part of the sternum.” He leaned back and pressed his finger to the spot. It was very near where Quentin Greer had placed his own hands when he died. “The body was so desiccated from the fire when I did the last autopsy, but still I shouldn’t have missed it. I’ve been pissed at myself all day over it.”

  “You’ve been a little distracted.”

  “That’s no excuse. I’m always distracted. Brilliant people are. It’s a curse of having too much of the mind at work all the tim
e.”

  “Right. What do you think caused it?”

  “Something was shoved in there with a lot of force. I won’t know completely until I take him apart, but on x-ray it looks round.”

  “So not a knife?”

  “No.” He began eating again. “I hope that whatever the weapon is left something behind in the wound.”

  “Call with the results as soon as you get them.”

  “What are you thinking, Angel D’?”

  “I think Quentin Greer was stabbed, then torched. Otherwise, I can’t see how he would let anyone douse him in gas and set him on fire.”

  “Maybe it was a lover.”

  “A lover? Why would he let a lover do that?”

  “I’m just trying to be helpful. That’s a pretty passionate crime, don’t you think? I mean think about it, Angel. A jilted lover comes into the headshop, confronts Greer about his indiscretions, then in a fit of passion, pours a gallon of gasoline over his head. Greer, realizing what he’s lost, holds out his arms and accepts his own demise because he realizes he can’t live without him.”

  “Him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why him?”

  “In case you’ve forgotten, Angel, I’m gay.”

  “I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Besides, violent passion like that could only come from a man.”

  “I don’t think you’re right.”

  “I think I am. I’ve been in some passionate relationships in my time, Angel.”

  “I’m sure you have, but you don’t need to relive them right now.”

  Abe pealed off into laughter. “You’re such a prude.”

  “Sure.”

  “If you knew about some of my affairs…”

  “Abe.”

  “Well, it just seems like everyone in our little group thinks I’m this asexual being and that I haven’t had my share of romance.”

  “No one thinks that.”

  “Thinks what?”

  “Either thing.”

  “I’m not following you, Angel.”

  Marco exhaled in frustration. This is why it was dangerous to get into a discussion with Abe. “No one thinks you’re asexual or haven’t had...um, romances.”

  “You should have heard Maria the other night.”

  “She said you were asexual?”