Murder in Chinatown (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 5)

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Was she domineering?”

  “With Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never. She always had the sweetest things to say about him.”

  “She was okay with him being a produce manager? She didn’t want him to strive for more?”

  “She never expressed that to me. She was always so supportive, even when he wanted to move me out here, and she never complained about the amount of money he gave me.”

  Peyton bit her bottom lip. Was this woman serious? Did she really see only good in a woman ten years older than her son or was Meilin buying this loyalty? “Mrs. Jensen, last time we were here, you were talking about moving back to New York to live with your cousin, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Are you still planning to move?”

  She glanced at the TV. “No, not now.”

  “Why not now?”

  “Meilin offered to get me an aid five days a week. It’ll let me stay here.”

  “When did she offer that?”

  Mrs. Jensen continued to study the television. “Yesterday, when she brought me the TV.”

  “Yesterday.” Peyton shifted to look at Marco.

  “Easy, Brooks.”

  Peyton nodded. “Mrs. Jensen, did Matt have a gun?”

  “A gun.” She briefly glanced over. “No, he hated guns, Inspector. What sort of gun?”

  “A .22?”

  “No, he didn’t have a gun.”

  “Did you?”

  Mrs. Jensen laughed. “Why would I have a gun?”

  Peyton shrugged. “For protection?”

  “No, I don’t like guns either. Matt always said if you had a gun you were just giving a killer a weapon when they break into your house...” Her voice trailed off and she turned to look at Peyton. “Why are you asking that?”

  “Matt was shot with a .22. We need to find that gun.”

  “Are you suggesting I have it?”

  “Not at all. I was wondering if you had a .22 that has suddenly come up missing. Maybe a gun from Matt’s father that you kept all these years?”

  Mrs. Jensen frowned and her uncontrollable nodding grew worse. “I never had a gun.”

  “Do you know that Meilin Fan is really the adopted daughter of Carol and David Witan of Miami, Florida?”

  “What?”

  “She admitted it two days ago. Her name is Lily Witan.”

  She had Mrs. Jensen’s full attention now. Reaching over, Peyton picked up the remote and turned off the television.

  “Lily Witan? I don’t understand.”

  “Twenty years ago, Lily Witan came home from her senior prom and found her parents shot to death. No suspects were ever found, the gun went missing, and shortly after their deaths, their daughter also went missing. Instead, a Meilin Fan turned up in New York, a student from China, her country of birth. I might also add that China is Lily’s country of birth. The double homicide became a cold case and was basically forgotten. Until, and here’s where it gets interesting, Meilin Fan became a contestant on Food Battles.”

  Mrs. Jensen lifted a shaking hand and covered her mouth.

  “Someone recognized her on Food Battles, not as Meilin Fan, but rather Lily Witan. New York police investigated, but took Meilin’s word that she wasn’t Lily Witan. She won the show and came to San Francisco where suddenly her boyfriend Matt Jensen wound up dead from a gunshot wound. And, surprise surprise, we can’t locate the gun or a suspect.” Peyton patted Mrs. Jensen’s free hand again. “Now, doesn’t this seem a bit coincidental? Three people dead around this woman, no gun, no real motive, and in all three murders, she’s had a rock solid alibi.”

  Tears filled Mrs. Jensen’s eyes.

  “If you know anything, Mrs. Jensen, you need to tell us.”

  A tear spilled over and raced down her paper-thin cheek. Marco passed the box of tissues to her and she took one, dabbing at it. With a shivery sigh, she met Peyton’s gaze. “I don’t know anything,” she said carefully.

  Peyton sat still for a moment. She couldn’t believe it. She was choosing Meilin and her flat-screened television over her son? “Are you sure?” Her voice came out edged.

  “Brooks,” said Marco, leaning forward and touching her knee.

  She closed her eyes briefly.

  “I need to lay down,” said Mrs. Jensen, reaching for her cane. “Can you see yourselves out?”

  Peyton didn’t know how to respond. She watched the woman lever herself up and begin the slow, torturous walk across the living room toward the door. Marco waited until she disappeared, then he pulled out his cell phone and keyed in a number.

  “Who are you calling?”

  He held up a hand, listening to the line. “Hey, Stan, it’s D’Angelo.”

  Peyton frowned.

  “Right. Can you do me a favor? Can you put a B.O.L.O. out on a...what’s her first name?” He motioned toward the other room.

  “Pamela.”

  “Pamela Jensen.” He listened. “Yeah, actually what I’m most interested in is plane or bus tickets...any sort of mass transportation.”

  Peyton smiled. “You are brilliant.”

  He winked at her. “Sometimes. I’ll just bet New York Cousin is getting a visitor.”

  Peyton chuckled and reached for the remote, clicking it on.

  * * *

  Peyton and Marco entered her house an hour later, both of them feeling frustrated and annoyed by the Fan case. Without something tying Meilin to the murders, a confession, a weapon, they didn’t even have enough to bring her in for questioning.

  Marco stopped dead in the entryway, taking in the scene. Maria sat on a bar stool in the middle of the living room with Abe behind her, twisting her hair into some elaborate mess. Jake was in the kitchen, leaning on the counter, drinking a beer and reading his newspaper.

  Marco almost bolted. He’d actually just wanted to spend a quiet night with Peyton, grabbing take-out and watching television, the way it had been before she invited the world into her home, but before he could duck out, she sensed his mood and reached back, grabbing his arm and dragging him the rest of the way through the door.

  “No you don’t,” she scolded.

  Pickles raced over to him and began pawing his leg. He reached down and scooped up the little dog, letting the door close behind him. Pickles was about the only one in this room he wanted to see besides his partner.

  Once she was sure he wasn’t leaving, Peyton approached Abe and Maria. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m doing her hair. She couldn’t exactly do it herself, now could she?”

  “And there’s no way I’d let you touch it,” said Maria, giving her a pointed look.

  Peyton walked around Maria’s barstool. “What is that?”

  “It’s called a French twist,” said Abe, picking up a can of hairspray. “The French aren’t just known for their kiss, now are they, Angel?” He glanced over at Marco and gave him a wink.

  Marco’s eyes involuntarily tracked to Jake. He glanced up from his newspaper, then without comment, he held a beer out to Marco over the counter. Marco took a seat on a barstool and accepted the beer, lifting it to his mouth.

  “It’s pretty,” said Peyton, stopping in front of her. “Did you do her makeup too?”

  “Of course. Smoky eyes are all the rage right now. Don’t you love it?”

  “Yeah.” She glanced up at Abe. “You’ve never done my hair and makeup before.”

  Maria made a choking sound. “Can you blame him? He’s not a miracle worker, Brooks.”

  “Don’t be bitchy,” said Abe, pulling her hair.

  “Ow!” cried Maria.

  Abe ignored her. “I’ll do your hair anytime, little bits. You are all sorts of adorable when you get dressed up.”

  Peyton smiled.

  Marco felt Jake’s eyes on him and looked over. “What?”

  Jake gave him a weird smile and went back to reading his paper. “Nothing.”

  Abe blasted Maria with hairs
pray, then touched her shoulder. “There, all done.”

  She took the mirror he handed her, inspecting the job, then jumped off the barstool, hugging him with her good arm. “Thank you.”

  He hugged her back. “Anytime, Princess.”

  “Help me get dressed,” she said to Peyton, grabbing her hand and dragging her into the hallway where they disappeared from sight.

  Setting down the hairspray, Abe wandered into the kitchen and went to the refrigerator, removing a cocktail shaker and a wooden cutting board with slices of cucumber on it. He set both on the counter, then went to the cabinet over the sink and pulled down a number of martini glasses, setting them beside the mixer. Jake and Marco watched him, but neither of them asked him what he was doing.

  Reaching for the shaker, he began shaking it, making eye contact with Marco and giving him an air kiss. Marco took another drink of his beer.

  “This is called the Jezebel. It’s made with gin, green tea, lime juice and velvet falernum...”

  “Velvet fawhatnum?” asked Jake.

  “Falernum. It’s a wonderfully complex liqueur, made from sugar cane and cloves.”

  A knock sounded at the door.

  Marco set Pickles down and climbed off the barstool, going to answer it.

  “It’s called the Jezebel because it’s wickedly delightful. I thought it was the perfect drink for tonight. Every first date should be filled with wicked delights, no?” Abe said, nudging Jake in the shoulder.

  Opening the door, Marco found a nervous Cho standing on the doorstep in a charcoal pinstriped suit. He held a yellow rose in his hand and seemed surprised to see Marco. “D’Angelo.”

  “Cho. Welcome to Peyton’s three-ring circus.”

  As if on cue, Pickles began jumping up and down in front of him. Marco scooped the little dog up again as Cho stepped into the house.

  “Is Maria here?”

  Marco placed Pickles on the couch. “She’s getting dressed.”

  Cho nodded, then noticed Abe and Jake in the kitchen. Jake held up a hand in greeting and Abe beamed a smile, the cocktail shaker in hand.

  “Come have a drink with us,” he said, motioning to the bar stools.

  Both Jake and Marco shook their heads at him, but the stupid fool walked over to the counter and sat down.

  Abe poured his concoction into a martini glass and added a slice of cucumber, passing it over the counter. Cho held it up, looking at it in the light.

  “Cucumber?” he said to Marco.

  “Don’t ask,” Marco answered, lifting his beer.

  “Just be glad it’s not a pink umbrella,” said Jake.

  “Ooh, that would be perfect,” said Abe, hurrying to the drawer by the stove. “I picked up these adorable little feathery things the other day.” He whirled around, showing them a plastic toothpick, topped with feathery strips of something. Reaching across the counter again, he speared Cho’s cucumber and let go.

  Cho’s mouth hung open.

  “Taste it,” Abe urged.

  Jake and Marco both shook their heads again, but Cho lifted the drink to his lips. The feathers tickled his nose and he jerked back, closing one eye. However, he was more game than Marco would have been and tried again, this time moving the embellishment aside and taking a sip.

  Abe lifted his own drink, clanking it against Cho’s glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Cho repeated.

  Marco couldn’t help but laugh.

  The bedroom door opened and the two women appeared. Maria was wearing a beaded black dress that hit her mid-thigh. She really did look pretty, especially with her bedazzled sling covered in rhinestones.

  She hesitated the minute she saw Cho, but Peyton urged her forward.

  Cho set down his drink and climbed off the stool, holding out the flower to her. “You look beautiful,” he said in just the right reverent tone.

  She took the flower and smelled it. “Thank you, Nathan.”

  “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yes.” She handed the flower to Peyton. “Will you put this in water for me?”

  Peyton took it, bringing it to her nose to smell. Marco found his eyes riveted on his partner, rather than the other two. She looked genuinely happy for Maria, but he couldn’t help but notice a wistfulness in her demeanor. She wanted the romance as much as Maria, the hope of something special with another person. It made his gut knot and he swallowed hard.

  Walking to the couch, Maria picked up her purse and a little black wrap. Cho helped her put it on, then smiled at her as he guided her to the door and out. Peyton watched after them until the door closed, then she looked over at Marco.

  Blinking, she visibly shook herself and walked into the kitchen, going to a cabinet after a vase. For once, Jake and Abe were quiet, staring at the counter. Marco grabbed his beer and finished it off, his fingers tightening on the neck.

  “Want another one?” asked Jake.

  “Yeah.”

  He went to the refrigerator and opened it.

  Peyton filled the vase with water and carried the flower to the counter, setting it where Maria would see it when she came in, then she leaned on the counter where Jake had his paper spread. Abe handed her a drink and she absently took it, taking a sip without even looking at it.

  Marco didn’t know what to do or say. Jake passed him the beer and moved around the counter to take a seat beside him, while Abe played with his feather monstrosity. Marco hated this. He wasn’t good at handling people’s emotions, and he’d never felt on safe ground where his partner was concerned. In fact, he’d come to rely on Abe and Jake to deal with this sort of thing, he realized.

  Peyton suddenly frowned and put her finger on the newspaper, straightening up. She tracked over a very small article on a side column, setting her drink down. “Damn, Hui Bai is dead.”

  “Who?” asked Jake.

  “Hui Bai.” Peyton picked up the paper, her attention riveted on it.

  “Who is Hui Bai?”

  Abe set down his own drink and straightened.

  Peyton glanced up. “Hui Bai is the artist who designed Meilin Fan’s menus. The lotus paintings?”

  “Peyton,” said Abe in a strange voice.

  She looked over at him.

  “I did Hui Bai’s autopsy.”

  “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t think it mattered. It was a medical autopsy and I usually don’t do those. They got backed up and asked me to take it.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Anaphylactic shock. He had a severe peanut allergy.”

  “Don’t people have those epi pens or whatever for that?” asked Jake.

  “The report said the police found expired pens in his apartment,” answered Abe. “They speculated he was an undocumented immigrant and was afraid to get a new prescription.”

  “Say that again?” urged Peyton.

  “He was an undocumented immigrant…”

  Peyton slammed down the newspaper. “I’ll be damned,” she said, looking up at Marco. Shifting her gaze to Jake, she said, “Have Hui Bai’s fingerprints run against the undocumented fingerprints we got from Meilin’s flat?”

  “On it,” said Jake.

  CHAPTER 12

  Gabby got out of her police issue Dodge Magnum and hesitated. Billy had jumped out before her, but he was standing on the sidewalk of the Sanderson place, staring at the front porch.

  “I think we got problems, Gabby,” he said over his shoulder.

  Mr. Sanderson had come out of the house and was sitting on the stairs, blocking them with his body. His wife was peeking out the windows in the dining room again. Gabby firmed her face and adjusted her gun, then walked around the car.

  “Let me handle this,” she told Billy.

  “It’s all yours,” he said, holding out his hands. “I thought I’d just go piss on his tree over there.”

  Gabby glanced at him in surprise, but he was grinning from ear to ear. “Really?”

  He step
ped closer to her. “This Sanderson prick is an old southern bull, Gabs. Right or wrong, he isn’t gonna listen to a woman and especially not a...”

  “A what?” she said, an edge in her voice.

  “A vibrant female goddess from the beautiful island of Puerto Rico who knows her partner loves her somethin’ fierce.”

  She wanted to sock him in the face, but he knew how to make her smile.

  “We can fight for equal rights another time. Right now we need to get into that house and talk to Mrs. Sanderson.” He glanced over his shoulder at the older man. “This is young dog versus old, nasty smelly dog, and you’re gonna love this, I know all about male dog pissin’ matches.”

  Gabby shot a look at Sanderson herself. He sure did seem like an old dog guarding a bitch in heat. “Okay, Rover, you take point on this one.”

  He almost did a jig of excitement. “Can we get ice cream afterwards?”

  A laugh escaped her and she shoved him in the shoulder, pushing him toward the house. He adjusted his gun and she could swear, puffed up his chest.

  “Mr. Sanderson, how are you this gorgeous August day?” He paused at the bottom step and put his foot on it, crossing his arms on his thigh.

  “What do you want, Detectives?”

  “We wanted to share a few developments in the case with you, sir, and ask you a few questions.”

  “We have nothing more to say.”

  Billy shot a look at the late morning sun. “It’s getting humid already, isn’t it, sir? Radio said it was gonna push 90 today.”

  Sanderson leveled a look at him. “I’m certain your police cruiser has air conditioning, Detective. Why don’t you try it out?”

  Billy smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “Lily Witan is living in San Francisco, Mr. Sanderson. Did you know that?”

  Sanderson went still, then he looked toward his right shoulder. Directly behind him was his wife, hovering in the window. “That has nothing to do with us, Detective.”

  “I thought you might be interested to know where your son’s girlfriend wound up. Know what else we found out?”

  “I can’t begin to imagine or care.”

  “She’s connected with another homicide, sir. A young guy she was dating named Matt Jensen. He was shot in the chest just like her parents were.”