She felt light headed and a cold sweat peppered over the surface of her skin. She heard Marco let the door close and then he had a hand on her shoulder, bracing her.
“You okay?”
“He has no head,” she heard herself say.
“I know.”
“He has no head, Marco!” She recognized the hysterical quality to her voice, but felt so removed from it.
“Take a deep breath, Brooks. You’re hyperventilating.”
“I’m gonna be sick,” she said, then pushed away from him. She made it only about two feet before she doubled over and heaved her dinner onto the tattered carpeting.
* * *
“You’re late, Magdalena. That’s the third time this week. You’ve left me with no choice. Detention this afternoon.” Mrs. Rosales tore off the slip of paper and handed it to Magdalena as she sank into her seat.
Magdalena took the slip and laid it on the desk, clutching her backpack against her. She’d never been given detention before, but she knew Mrs. Rosales had given her multiple opportunities before this. She’d explained to Magdalena yesterday that she had to follow the school rules. Still, Mama would be furious when she didn’t come home as expected. She would want Magdalena to watch her brothers.
“Take out your books and open to page 123.”
Magdalena unzipped the backpack and fished out the book, settling it on her desk by the pink detention slip. She flipped to the right page, but she couldn’t concentrate on the words. Her eyes strayed back to the detention. She’d never gotten in trouble before. This would go on her record. Papa would be disappointed. He always said she needed to do well in school, so she could be the first Hernandez to go to college.
But lately her grades had been slipping. She tried not to make excuses. Mr. Davis, her math teacher, told her repeatedly that there were no excuses. You either did your work or you didn’t. He was right. She wasn’t doing her work, but it was because she had to watch the twins after school and help them with their homework. Then there was dinner to make.
Her hand strayed to the cross at her neck and she clutched it. Lowering her head, she took slow, deep breaths to still the panic working up inside of her. It was just a detention. People she knew got them all the time and they didn’t panic over it. And it was only half an hour. Mama would hardly miss her in that short a time. She’d just have to race home as soon as it was done.
The edges of the gold cross pressed into her flesh and helped ground her. Running her thumb over the surface of it stilled the panic, let her concentrate. She could get her work done if she spent her lunch hour in the library. It meant forgoing food, but she had to find some way to get things done. No more excuses. Mr. Davis was right. She was in control of her life. She was the one who made it or didn’t. No one else was responsible.
“Magdalena,” came Mrs. Rosales’ voice.
Magdalena blinked in surprise and looked up. The teacher was standing over her desk with a look of disapproval. Magdalena realized she’d been daydreaming again. She clutched the cross tighter and glanced at the girl next to her, Amy Porter.
Amy slid her hand over her own book and tapped a spot on the right page. Magdalena looked down at the book, but she didn’t know what the teacher wanted. “I…uh…”
“Were you listening to me?”
Magdalena looked up. Mrs. Rosales cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. If she was fair, Magdalena had to admit this woman gave her every chance to do well, but Magdalena kept disappointing her. Her last essay was only half a page long, far shorter than the three pages Mrs. Rosales had asked for, but she simply gave Magdalena an incomplete and told her to finish it by the following Friday. Unfortunately, she’d never found the time and the grade still stood incomplete.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Rosales, I wasn’t paying attention. I promise I’ll do better. Can you tell me again what you want?”
Mrs. Rosales’ expression softened and she placed her finger on the page where Amy had pointed. “Start reading from there, please.”
Magdalena did as she asked and fought hard to keep her attention on the subject for the remainder of class. She didn’t want to disappoint Mrs. Rosales any more, and she didn’t want her fellow classmates’ attention either.
When the bell rang, she gathered her books and shoved them in the backpack, then picked up the pink slip and folded it in half, sliding it into her jeans pocket as she rose to her feet. She moved into the queue and headed for the door, but as she passed the teacher’s desk, Mrs. Rosales called her name.
Magdalena hesitated, wanting to pretend she didn’t hear her and go on to her next class, but she knew she’d been an annoyance enough for one day. She eased out of the line and approached the teacher’s desk, curling her hands into the straps on her backpack.
“Yes, Mrs. Rosales?”
The teacher waited until the last student shuffled out the door, then she gave Magdalena a worried look. “Is everything okay? I mean, at home. You seem extra distracted lately and your work…” Her voice trailed off meaningfully.
“I know it hasn’t been my best.”
“If you need help, you can always come see me.”
“It isn’t that.” Magdalena hesitated. Maybe she should latch onto that angle and play it out. It was better to not understand than to admit she just didn’t have time for the class.
“I want to help you. Are things all right at home? I haven’t heard from your mom lately.” The teacher gave her a wry smile.
Magdalena looked down. She knew Mama made a nuisance of herself with the teachers, asking all of these questions, demanding answers as to why her children weren’t doing well. But not lately. Lately Mama had time for only one thing.
“She’s been working a lot.” Her hand crept up to the cross. “Four kids to feed, you know?”
Mrs. Rosales frowned, but she didn’t press it. Magdalena was glad. Her parents were fiercely private and didn’t believe in taking help from anyone. Papa always said he would rather starve than become a charity case in this country.
That’s what all the gringos think anyway, he would say. Another Mexican family taking handouts. More illegals taking their jobs. As if they wanted the stinking-ass jobs to begin with, aiya!
Most of the time Magdalena didn’t understand what he meant, but she knew he wouldn’t approve of her confiding in this teacher, no matter what color her skin or her racial background. Teachers were akin to cops in his eyes.
“I’ll do better, Mrs. Rosales, I promise.”
The teacher nodded. “Remember, I’m here to help, Magdalena.”
She forced herself to smile. “I know.” She turned to go, then glanced back, “No more tardies, I promise.” With that she hurried from the room.
CHAPTER 2
The rain slipped beneath the umbrella and ran down the back of Peyton’s neck as she pulled open the door to the precinct. She paused in the entrance and shook out the umbrella, then closed it, reaching up to press the back of her shirt to the drip of water running down her spine. Finally, she slipped the keys of her Corolla into her pocket. She’d gotten the little green car last month because she was tired of waiting for Marco to pick her up in the morning. He was worse than a woman about getting ready.
Depositing the umbrella in the bucket by the door, she crossed the lobby and pushed open the swinging half-door, headed toward her desk. Marco was already in his chair, surrounded by Officers Holmes and Bartlet. They were laughing at something.
Peyton took off her coat and slung it across the back of her chair. Holmes lounged against their desks where they pressed nose to nose against each other.
“Brooks, Brooks,” he tsked, shaking his head.
Peyton braced herself for the bullshit ribbing he was going to give her. Bartlet had sense to lower his eyes, but she could see the crooking of his lips upward in a smile.
“There are so few things I can count on seeing each day, Holmes, but two of them are you and dog shit.”
“I guess you can count on s
eeing your breakfast again too,” he said with a smirk.
Bartlet snorted out a laugh, but lifted his hand as if hiding a cough.
“And yet somehow I manage to keep my lunch down around you every day.”
“Now, don’t get a—head of yourself, Brooks. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know what you were heading into and women just aren’t equipped to handle such heady situations.”
Bartlet sounded like he was having a fit, snorting into his hand. And Marco, Marco was chuckling, staring down at his desktop. Peyton gave him a death glare, but he didn’t see it.
“Go away, Holmes. I have work to do.”
Holmes slid off the desk and stood up. “You’re right, of course. You’ll want to hurl some ideas at each other, throw up a couple of leads, spew out some theories, and toss some perps around.”
Peyton took a swipe at Bartlet, but he danced out of the way and started back toward his desk, snickering. She gave Holmes a sarcastic smile as he brushed past her, grinning like a cat in the cream, then she picked up the pen on her desk and threw it at Marco. He deflected it easily.
Slumping down in her chair, she braced her chin on her hand. “You’re a crappy ass partner, you know that?”
He let his chair drop down and leaned forward. “I know. And you’d just love it if I came to your defense, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d gut you like a fish.”
“Exactly.”
Maria Sanchez, Captain Defino’s buxom assistant, approached their desks, beaming a smile at Marco. “Hey, Marco baby.”
“Hey, Maria,” he said, smiling up at her.
Maria gave him an air kiss, then dropped a brown envelope on Peyton’s desk.
Peyton reached for it as she looked up at Maria. “You never greet me like that anymore. It’s like we’re growing apart or something.”
Maria wrinkled her nose at Peyton and tossed her hair. “That’s from Bob Anderson. Photos from last night.”
Peyton’s fingers stopped on the metal clasp and she chewed her inner lip. She didn’t want to see that image again. It had haunted her all night.
“Wouldn’t want you to get vomit on my new shoes,” teased Maria, scuttling back a few steps.
Peyton pushed the two halves of the metal clasp together and reached for the flap. She wasn’t going to let Maria of all people rub her nose in her humiliation. In fact, she was sure Maria had never seen pictures like these.
Neither had she, she thought as she pulled them from the envelope. “What the hell is this?”
Maria tilted her head back to look at them. “Blurry pictures.”
Peyton passed one over to Marco. “We can’t use these. They’re horrible. I can’t even make out that’s a body.”
“It was raining,” said Marco with a shrug.
“Not indoors.” Peyton slammed the photos down. “This is ridiculous. He gets worse every time.”
“Who gets worse?” came Captain Defino’s voice.
Peyton held out the prints. Maria faded into the background as the captain reached for them.
She turned them every which way she could, but finally she handed them back. “I think it’s a tattoo of some kind.”
Peyton arched a single black brow. “Think?”
“Where are we with this?” the captain asked.
“The two women involved are in the hospital. We need to question them more because the shooter wouldn’t speak to us and we got sidetracked by the search for the other banger.” Peyton tapped the pictures on the desk. “I was hoping to use these to see if either of the women can identify the tattoo. Other than that, we have no leads”
“I don’t want this breaking out into turf warfare, Brooks. We need to figure out who the headless man is and stop whatever is going down before it gets out of control.”
“Got it. We’ll go talk to the hookers today and try to get an ID.”
“What’s your take on the shooter?”
“She’s a kid, probably a runaway. Maybe fifteen at the outside?” Peyton looked to Marco for confirmation and he nodded. “She has bruises on her neck, consistent with strangulation, and the other hooker, Venus, says it was self-defense, but the girl herself ain’t talking, or she wasn’t last night. Maybe she’s come out of her shock today.”
“Okay, let’s keep her in the hospital as long as we can. I hate to stick a kid in lock-up, especially without any evidence to suggest it was anything but self-defense. Still, let’s make sure we don’t lose her.”
Peyton nodded, her eyes straying to the blurry photos again. “Captain, this is getting ridiculous.”
“Stop by and talk to Bob. See what happened. You’re right. These are a disgrace to the department and no one would accept them into evidence.” Defino sighed. “I think he’s lost his nerve. Happens to the best of us in this job.” She gave Marco and Peyton a firm stare. “I’m not kidding. I don’t want this one getting out of control. Anything to do with bangers makes me nervous as hell.”
Peyton reached for the envelope as the captain walked away. As she was shoving the pictures back into it, she paused with them halfway, remembering other photos she’d seen not six months before, photos with clarity and definition.
“You know who’d be good at this?” she said, holding up the envelope.
“No, you don’t, Brooks,” said Marco, pushing himself to his feet, “Just forget that right now.”
“What? You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
He towered over her. “Yes, I do. I know you too well. You can’t ever leave anything alone. You’ve got a Christ complex a mile long and feel like you have to save everyone. Well, not this time. Stick to this case and leave it alone.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, following him. “What does Christ have to do with photography? It wasn’t even invented when He was around.”
* * *
Peyton tossed the envelope on the desk. “What the hell is this?”
Bob Anderson was of average height, blond with a prominent widow’s peak, a long, hooked nose, and close-set brown eyes. His clothing always looked like he slept in them and a five-o’clock shadow permanently feathered his jaw. He ran both hands through his hair, making the center stand up and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t reach for the photos.
“Always the lady, eh, Brooks,” he said.
Peyton motioned to the envelope with her chin. “Did you actually look at those or do you stuff them in the envelope the way you take them – with your eyes closed?”
“Lay off, Brooks,” he said, bracing his elbows on his desk and placing his head in his hands.
Peyton leaned on the desk, tapping the envelope with her fingers. “Lay off?” Her voice was deceptively quiet and Bob looked up. Behind them, Marco let out a sigh. “This is your job, Anderson. You take photos of crime scenes, which are used as evidence to prosecute criminals. Lay off? We had two dead bodies last night, one with his brains splattered in an alley and another without a head, and you tell me to lay off. We can’t use these pictures, Bob. We can’t even make out what you took. What the hell is wrong with you? You lost your nerve or something?”
Bob slammed his hands down on the desk and rose to his feet so quickly his chair slid back and hit the edge of his cubby. Marco moved forward, but Peyton held him off with a hand in the center of his chest.
“Lay off!” Bob shouted, shooting a quick glance at Marco. “You wake me up in the middle of the night and make me drive into the Tenderloin to take pictures of dead meat! Then you want to bitch about what I take? I’m sick of it. Lost my nerve, hell yeah! This job sucks and I quit.”
He grabbed his chair and threw it into the desk, then tore his coat off the back and stormed away, never once looking back. Peyton and Marco didn’t move for a moment, then Peyton lowered her hand and swiveled to gaze up at her partner.
“Smooth, Brooks, real smooth.”
“What did you want me to do? Ask him how he’s feeling, offer him warm milk and cookies?”
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“No, that would be silly. Better to tell him how badly he sucks and question his manhood.” Marco held up a hand, indicating the empty chair. “Your way was clearly the better choice. Now instead of a crappy ass criminal photographer, we have none.”
Peyton sighed and reached for the envelope. “I already hate this case.”
Marco slung an arm across her shoulders and steered her toward the front of the building. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. Now we get to interview an underage hooker and when we’re done, we’re gonna search for a banger’s decapitated head. Then you get to explain to the captain why we no longer have a crime scene photographer. This, Brooks, this is the life.”
* * *
The hospital was crowded when they arrived. They waited for the elevators with a half dozen other people. When they opened, Marco and Peyton were pushed to the back as people forced their way in. Two teenage girls huddled together in a corner of the box and stole looks at Marco, giggling and whispering. One took out her phone and held it up, snapping a quick picture.
Peyton rolled her eyes toward the mirrored ceiling. “You ever get tired of that?” she said to him.
He gave her an innocent look. “What?”
Peyton nodded at the giggling girls. “That?”
Marco glanced at them, then down at her, nudging her with his shoulder. “You jealous, Brooks?”
“Yeah, I wish they’d snap pictures of me with their cell phones.”
Marco chuckled. “It’s harmless.”
“You should have gone to Hollywood instead of become a cop. You’d be a millionaire.”
“And miss out on being your partner, not for the world. Your sunny disposition keeps me grounded.”
She stifled a laugh and punched him in the stomach with her elbow. The elevator came to a halt at the fourth floor and the doors opened. “This is us,” she said and threaded her way through the people. No one in an elevator ever wanted to let people in the back out. They gave her disgruntled looks and edged away only marginally. Peyton had a mental picture of drawing her gun and waving it around. She figured she’d get them to move then.
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