Murder in the Tenderloin (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 2)

by M. L. Hamilton

  She slid into the first desk in the middle row, keeping her head down, and quietly opened her backpack. No other students were in the room. She pulled out her math book and set it on the desk, then reached for her binder. The teacher picked up a magazine and leaned back in his chair. He lifted the magazine so he couldn’t see her.

  Magdalena dared a look around. The white board behind the teacher’s desk had a number of rules listed in bright red pen. The first rule in capital letters was NO TALKING. Magdalena didn’t know who she was supposed to talk to, seeing as the teacher was completely blocked behind his magazine, but she had no intention of making a sound.

  The door swung open just as she got out her pencil. She looked up in surprise as a lean, lanky boy walked through. He was obviously Mexican, his skin a shade darker than her own. He wore a ball cap and his jeans hung low on his hips. Magdalena had seen him around school, hanging with a tough looking group of boys who laughed loudly and talked in Spanish.

  His eyes moved to her, ringed with thick lashes, looking lazy and smoky, like black velvet. He gave her a slow smile, his teeth slightly crooked in front, but blazingly white against his dark skin. He pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and snapped it open, holding it out to the teacher without looking at him. He kept his eyes on Magdalena.

  She felt her cheeks heat and lowered her head, reaching up to grasp her crucifix. This was the sort of boy Mama was always warning her about, the sort of boy that was always, always trouble. She knew Mama would want her to keep her distance.

  “Take a seat, Felix,” the teacher said, crumpling up the slip and tossing it in the wastebasket. “Get out your work.”

  Unexpectedly, the boy slipped into the seat next to Magdalena and shoved it close to the side of her desk. Magdalena turned her head to the side and clutched her backpack tighter, refusing to make eye contact. The teacher looked at them over the back of his magazine.

  “Move your desk, Felix. Now!”

  The boy slid the desk back into place, still not looking at the teacher. In fact, since the moment he entered the room, he’d been focused on Magdalena only. “What’s your name, chica?” he asked.

  Magdalena lifted frightened eyes to the teacher. She could hear Mama’s warning in her head.

  “No talking!” snapped the teacher.

  The boy braced his head on a hand and stared at her, but he didn’t speak.

  Magdalena fished out her pencil and tried to concentrate on her work, but she was so aware of him sitting close beside her, staring at her. She could smell the aftershave he used, similar to Papa’s, sandalwood and musk.

  Concentrate, she scolded herself. She began to work out a complicated problem and for a moment, she was only minutely aware of him. Then he pushed a piece of paper against her hand. She didn’t immediately open it, continuing to work on the problem. Actually, she was pretending. Her heart was pounding so, it was difficult to concentrate.

  Finally she reached for it and folded it open. It said, “What’s your name?”

  Magdalena cast a quick glance at the teacher, but she couldn’t even see his face behind the magazine cover. She hastily wrote, “Magdalena,” then pushed it to the edge of the desk.

  He picked it up and opened it. She saw his hand move as he scribbled something on the page. A moment later, he pushed it back at her.

  Magdalena pulled it close and opened it. “Felix. Why you here?”

  “Tardy,” she wrote and pushed it back, but before he could get it, she took it back and added, “Why are you here?”

  “Flippin’ off that cabrón Green.”

  “The PE teacher?”

  “Sí.”

  “Why?”

  “Told me to dress out.”

  Magdalena folded the paper and shoved it under her book. She would never be so disrespectful to a teacher, ever. She did what they told her to. It had never occurred to her to rebel. Felix frowned at her and motioned to the paper. Magdalena shook her head, sliding around in the desk so she couldn’t see him. Mama was right. She had no business talking to this boy.

  She felt his fingers touch the bottom of her hair, pulling the strands off her shoulder. She shook her head and reached up, pulling her hair away from his touch. He made a chuckling sound beneath his breath and then slouched down in his seat, thrusting his legs out beneath the desk.

  Magdalena pretended to do math, but for some reason, even simple addition eluded her while the boy lounged in the chair next to her. Whenever he moved, she ducked her head, afraid he might touch her again, then afraid he wouldn’t. Such conflicting feelings. She wished she’d never gotten that detention. When he was with his gang of friends, she could ignore him, but while he was here, watching her from the corner of his eyes with the smoldering, velvety look, she couldn’t get him off her mind.

  Finally the teacher snapped the magazine closed and leaned forward. “Get out of here!” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

  Magdalena quickly began shoving her books back in her bag, glancing at the clock on the wall. Just 20 minutes later than usual. Mama probably wouldn’t know.

  The boy slid his feet under him and rose, leaning heavily on the desk, angling toward Magdalena. “Adiós, chica,” he said in a drawl. “See you tomorrow.”

  Magdalena shot him a quelling look, but he just gave her a slow smile as he straightened. Then most surprising of all, he winked at her. Magdalena caught her breath and looked away.

  “Get out of here, Felix,” snarled the teacher, reaching for his keys.

  Still smiling, Felix headed toward the door with a loose-limbed walk. He held up two fingers. “Peace, man,” he said, and shoved the door open. It banged into the wall and the boy disappeared.

  The teacher didn’t say anything as Magdalena grabbed her backpack and hurried after him. Once in the hallway, Magdalena marked where the boy had gone, his slow, loping gait disappearing around the side of the building, then she went in the opposite direction, nearly running in her haste to get away.

  CHAPTER 3

  Devan picked up the coffee pot and poured the last of the coffee into both of their travel mugs, settling it back on the burner and turning it off. He slid Peyton’s across the counter to her. Peyton adjusted the strap of her gun across her shoulder and reached for her mug.

  Devan leaned his elbows on the counter and gave her a slow, smoldering look out of his dark eyes. His full mouth lifted in a smile, showing a glimpse of white, straight teeth. With his coffee colored skin, short-cropped black hair, and finely tailored charcoal suit, he looked like a GQ model and Peyton felt a flutter in her stomach.

  “What?” she said.

  “I like my women tough.”

  She smiled at the compliment, then reached up to gather the heavy mane of black curls into one hand. His face fell.

  “Do you have to do that?” He liked it when she wore her hair loose, but it was a wild mass of spirals that drove her crazy.

  “You want something for a perp to grab?”

  He shook his head.

  Pickles, her Yorkshire terrier, pawed at her pants leg and she scooped him up, cuddling him a moment.

  “I heard you got a text earlier. They pick up your hooker?”

  Peyton shook her head. “Nope. Can’t find her. We even called in Vice to get a hit, but nothing. She must be keeping low.”

  Devan twirled the coffee cup, then gave her his best District Attorney look, no nonsense, business-only. “We’re going to have to arraign the other one in a couple of days. Has she said anything?”

  Peyton set Pickles down again and took a seat at the counter, lifting the travel mug to her lips. The warmth and smell of the coffee felt like a blessing this morning. “No, no change when I called last. We’ve got her under guard. Can’t you hold off for a bit?”

  “I’ll stall as long as I can, seeing as she can’t exactly help her own defense, but eventually, we’re going to have to get her up before a judge.”

  “Yeah, but our only eye witness has bolted.”
/>   “She was positive for powder on her hands. That’s enough to arraign her.”

  “Marco and I are going to see Abe today. Maybe he figured something out. Someone did the other banger, Devan, and I don’t think it was her.”

  “No, probably not.” He reached over and took Peyton’s hand. “Look, Captain Defino is right. Stuff like this gets out of control really easily. I can’t stand the thought of you getting caught in the middle of a gang war.”

  She squeezed his hand and let go. “I understand that better than you do. Don’t you have some poor sap you’ve got to lawyer today?”

  He straightened and reached for the cap of the travel mug, screwing it in place. “Yes, I do.” He picked up the mug and crossed around the counter, bending over her. Peyton looked up at him as he touched his lips to hers, lingering there. He smelled of soap, tooth paste, and coffee. She wanted to curl her hands in his lapels and hold him to her, but she didn’t want to wrinkle his suit.

  He pulled away, staring into her eyes. “Be careful out there, Peyton.”

  She smiled. “I will. I promise.”

  He kissed the tip of her nose, then headed toward the door.

  As Peyton reached for her own cap, she knocked the manila envelope off onto the floor. Climbing off the stool, she bent and picked it up, holding it as she watched Devan shut the door behind him.

  They needed a new photographer. Devan would never be able to use these pictures as evidence in any case he argued. And she knew the photographer she wanted, but he wasn’t likely to talk to her. Well, nothing said she couldn’t ask, and then she could also assure herself that he was doing all right.

  Decided, she replaced the envelope on the counter and grabbed the cap, screwing it in place. After she and Marco talked to Abe, she was going to take an early lunch and see about getting the department a new crime scene photographer. No one could fault her for that. He was the best photographer she’d ever seen.

  * * *

  “So he spent the night again? Sounds like it’s getting serious, Brooks,” said Marco, pulling open the backdoor of the Medical Examiner’s office.

  Peyton gave the guard beside the door a nod, then followed Marco through. “It’s not getting serious.”

  “How do you figure?” They turned left toward Abe’s office. “He spends the night how many times a week?”

  “Two or three at tops.”

  They paused before Abe’s hydraulic door and Peyton peered through the window. The tall, lanky medical examiner with the dreadlocks and elegant hands wasn’t inside.

  “He’s probably taking a break.”

  They continued down the hall toward open double doors marked Staff Lounge.

  “Two, three times a week is serious.”

  “No, it isn’t. I haven’t even stayed at his place yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pickles.”

  “I can take care of the fluff ball for a few nights if you want.”

  Peyton shook her head and stepped through the doors of the staff room. “No way, bucko, Pickles and I are a package deal. Love me, love my dog.”

  “Oh, so now it’s love.”

  Peyton gave an exasperated sigh, but before she could answer, she spotted Abe, lounging in a chair by the window, sipping at a soda. He lowered the can as they stopped at his table.

  “If it isn’t the Angel of my life and his spunky little partner.” He waggled his black brows at Marco.

  Marco gave a short nod, fighting a smile, and slid into the chair across from him. Peyton had to wait for Abe to drop his feet to the floor before she could pull out the other one.

  “How are you, Gorgeous?” He leaned forward and gave Marco a sultry look. Marco was wearing his usual leather jacket that stretched across his shoulders with his long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Even Peyton had to admit he was stunning.

  “In the pink. You?”

  Abe gave a broad smile. His mouth always seemed to be fighting to constrain his teeth. “I am fabulous.”

  Peyton sank into the chair and gave Abe a withering look. “Enough of the flirting, okay?”

  Abe folded his beautiful, brown hands together and rested his chin on them. “Enough flirting is an oxymoron. There can never be enough.”

  “Abe, did you get our two bangers?”

  The only thing that could distract Abe was work. “I did. Nice mess you left me.”

  Peyton fought to hide her expression of disgust. “I know. Headless and Faceless.”

  “And nameless. You have a hit on that.”

  “We know Faceless is Alberto Something, but we don’t have a last name yet. No one has exactly put in a missing person’s report on him. Headless is a mystery and now we’ve misplaced our only eye witness.”

  “Did you at least find his head?”

  “Nope.” She gave a shiver at the thought.

  Abe laughed. “Ever see a cop so squeamish before?” he remarked to Marco.

  Marco shrugged. “I could do without the headless ones myself.”

  “What did you find out during the autopsy?”

  “Dug around Faceless’ skull almost all morning.”

  “You get the bullet?” asked Marco.

  Abe reached into his left pocket and pulled out a plastic bag labeled John Doe 1 on the outside. Inside was a piece of cylindrical metal.

  Marco reached for it and held it up. “This didn’t come from no Saturday Night Special. This baby came from a Sig-Sauer.”

  “The one the hooker used, right?”

  Marco nodded.

  “Well-heeled gangsters you got there,” Abe said to Peyton, nodding at the bag. “I was just sending it over to Ballistics.”

  “Well-heeled and well-armed.”

  “Or lucky,” said Marco, setting the bag on the table. “Most bangers get their weapons from robberies.”

  “What about Headless? Could you get anything from him?” Peyton asked.

  “He was dead before the beheading.”

  Peyton was surprisingly relieved by this news. Dead was dead, but some ways were worse than others. “How?”

  Abe reached into his right pocket and pulled out another plastic bag. This one was labeled John Doe 2 in bold black letters. He set it on the table. Both Marco and Peyton leaned forward to look at the bit of metal.

  Peyton’s eyes rose to Abe’s smiling face. “He was shot?”

  “Through the heart.”

  Peyton fingered John Doe 2’s bullet. “This is also a 9mm.”

  Abe gave her a lift of his brows and leaned forward, reaching for both bags. He shook the bullets to the side, where they would have touched except for the plastic. Then he turned each with his fingertips until he was satisfied. “Look at the striations here and here.”

  Peyton and Marco leaned over, looking where Abe pointed. “They’re the same.”

  “Well, Ballistics will confirm it once they get your Sig, but yeah, I’m fairly certain they are.”

  Marco leaned back. “That means the same gun killed both of them.”

  Abe touched his fingertip to his nose and winked at Marco.

  “Wait. You’re saying Faceless offed Headless, beheaded him, then chased after our two hookers, only to have his brains blown out by the same gun that killed his comrade?”

  “Probably.”

  Peyton looked toward the windows. The clouds were rolling in again, looming dark and menacing over the city. At school, she’d hated when her English teachers shoved foreshadowing and symbolism down her throat, but she had to admit that sometimes nature did seem premeditated.

  “This is the frickin’ mess Defino’s afraid of, isn’t it?” she said to Marco.

  “That’s not a mess, Brooks, that’s a war.”

  Peyton shook her head and watched Abe pocket the bullets again. “Well, shit,” she said.

  * * *

  “Anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Barnes,” said Jake, forcing a smile for the small, stoop-shouldered woman.

  She put her money in
her wallet, fussily arranging the bills, then tapped a broad-knuckled finger on her bank card. “Now move $300 from the savings to the checking, please.”

  Jake didn’t bother to tell her she could do it herself on-line. He reached for the card and swiped it across the top of his keypad.

  “You can go ahead of me,” came a voice from the line.

  Jake stopped in mid-motion and his head lifted, staring at the queue of waiting customers. There, second back behind the red velvet rope, was a woman he’d hoped never to see again. The leather jacket, the kick-ass boots, the rope of black curls bound up in a ponytail, a few wisps escaping to curl around her dark face.

  “Is something wrong?” asked Mrs. Barnes.

  Jake realized he was staring at the line, holding the card in his hand. He looked down into Mrs. Barnes’ face and tried to slow his breathing. When had he started breathing so fast? He pushed the card across the counter to her and reached for the mouse, forcing himself to focus on the screen.

  “I’ll help whoever’s next,” offered Pauline beside him.

  The lean, tall young man with the beany moved up to the window, leaving her at the front of the line. Jake scanned the other tellers and marked they all had customers. He turned back to the screen and slowed his movements, taking his time as he clicked on the various windows to move Mrs. Barnes’ money.

  “Next,” called Drew, the last teller in line.

  Jake watched out of the corner of his eyes as she motioned the person behind her forward and continued waiting, her gaze fixed on Jake. Damn it, she was here for him. And he knew her well enough to know she would keep letting people go in front of her until he was finally open. He couldn’t keep Mrs. Barnes standing here for hours.

  As he made the final click to move the money, he realized he was gritting his teeth. He brushed the cold sweat off his upper lip and tore the receipt out of the machine, holding it out to Mrs. Barnes. His hand was shaking.