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

by M. L. Hamilton

  Both Peyton and Marco groaned.

  Defino held up a hand, her huge diamond sparkling in the sunlight from the window. “I know, but he’s licking his wounds over the whole Claire Harper fiasco. It really left a stain on his reputation.”

  “A stain he deserved,” muttered Marco, slumping in the chair.

  “Granted; however, I suspect he’s trying to solidify his backing for the next election and having the deep pockets of O’Shannahan in his corner would go a long way toward smoothing things over.”

  “His political sway with the conservative vote doesn’t hurt either,” said Peyton. “Especially in San Francisco. Look, Captain, we’ve already got a case. Can’t Cho and Simons take it?”

  “The mayor specifically asked for you two.”

  Peyton sat forward in her chair. “He’s trying to punish us for making him look bad.”

  “Or he’s trying to prove he isn’t completely blinded by his campaign contributors.”

  Peyton and Marco both gave her skeptical looks.

  She acquiesced the point with a nod. “You’re right. It’s punishment. Just go check it out and hurry back here. We’ve got to put our energies on this other case.”

  Peyton grabbed the slip of paper and folded it as she rose to her feet. “We’re on it, Captain,” she said, stuffing it in her pocket.

  Marco reluctantly rose with her and they turned toward the door.

  “Listen, you two, don’t let O’Shannahan get under your skin. The little bit I’ve seen of him tells me he’s a manipulator.”

  “Maybe we should carry crosses and wear garlic,” Peyton said to Marco.

  “That’s for vampires, Brooks.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  As they exited the office, Defino braced her head with her hand. “I just know I’m going to get another call from the mayor.”

  * * *

  Magdalena crept to the door of Mama and Papa’s room, peering around the jam. Mama had the suitcase open on the bed and she was folding clothes and placing them inside. Magdalena knew she was running out of time. Her parents were supposed to meet the ambulance at the hospital, so Mama could ride with Esperanza to the Shriners.

  “Mama?”

  Mama didn’t turn, just kept folding. “What, Lena? Don’t hover about the door. Vete aquí, mi’ja.”

  Magdalena crept around the bed, then climbed onto it, so she faced her mother. She reached for a blouse and began folding it. Mama looked tired. She had her hair wound up in a bun, but wisps had escaped and were flying about her head. Her clothing was wrinkled. Since Mama was always so particular about her appearance, Magdalena wondered if Esperanza was worse than her parents let on.

  “Mama, will they be able to help Esperanza at the Shriners?”

  Mama paused and looked up. Her face grew sharp. “Of course they will. Why would you say such things, Magdalena?”

  Magdalena looked down, leaning forward to place the blouse in the suitcase. She knew better than to ask about Esperanza’s prognosis. It always brought the fear to the surface in Mama, made her sharp, cold, angry.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something else.”

  “Make it quick, mi’ja. I have a lot to do. Now remember, you need to watch your brothers for tonight. Papa will be back tomorrow to drive you to Aunt Silvia’s, but tonight you will be on your own. Don’t open the door to anyone. Don’t even go near it after dark, and make sure the boys are in bed at a reasonable time.”

  Magdalena nodded, her fingers picking at a loose thread on the suitcase. “Mama, I was thinking that maybe since I’m old enough to stay by myself tonight, that maybe…” Her voice faltered when Mama suddenly looked up, narrowing her eyes on her.

  “I don’t have time for nonsense, Lena. Don’t even finish that thought. Now, please go. I’ve got so much to do and I’m running out of time.”

  Magdalena felt a surprising rush of anger. She never got angry at Mama and Papa. “I just don’t understand, though. How come I’m old enough to stay tonight, but I’m not old enough to do it for a few weeks?”

  “Don’t bother me with this nonsense, mi’ja.”

  “It’s not nonsense, Mama.” She leaned forward, hoping to enter her mother’s sight, but she was too busy trying to arrange things in the suitcase. “Do you know that I’ve been to three different schools this year? Three different schools, Mama? Do you have any idea how hard that is?”

  Mama’s hands stilled and slowly she lifted her head. “Are you really going to complain about this right now?”

  “When will be better? In a few hours, you’re going to run out of here and leave us, and I won’t have a chance to talk to you. I’m tired of moving all over. I’m tired of moving schools. I can’t make any friends because I’m probably going to move again as soon as you find a new hospital.”

  “I can’t believe how selfish you’re being. Your sister is sick.”

  “I know that, Mama, but you have other children. Esperanza isn’t the only one. We’re hurting too, and yet, you don’t seem to care.”

  “I’m doing the best I can for this family, Lena. Do you have any idea what we’re going through? How hard it is? Your papa is working so hard to put food on the table and I can’t get a job. I’m sorry you had to move schools a few times, but think about what everyone else is going through for once. This isn’t just about you, Lena.”

  “Me?” Magdalena touched the center of her chest. “When have I ever complained about anything? I cook, I clean, I take care of the twins, for nothing. You don’t even tell me thank you.”

  “And I should? Isn’t that your job as part of this family?”

  “I’m sixteen, Mama. They aren’t my children. Why should I take care of them?”

  Mama waved her hands in the air. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. I can’t believe you’re doing this to me now. I’ve got to get to the hospital, so she doesn’t have to ride alone.”

  “But we can be alone, right, Mama? That’s okay. We can get along without our parents, just so you can spend every second with Esperanza.”

  “What do you want from me?” cried Mama.

  “I want a mother. I want you to care about us too, Mama. I want you to remember you didn’t just have one child.”

  Mama threw the sweater she was folding into the suitcase. “Your sister is sick. That’s all I can handle right now. I’ve got to be there for her. I can’t believe you’re this selfish. Surely to God, you know how bad she is. You’ve got to understand how serious her illness is. You must know that she could die.”

  Magdalena felt such rage and hurt inside of her. Mama hadn’t heard a word she’d said. All she kept saying was how selfish Magdalena was for wanting a home, a mother, and a stable school. She wouldn’t even acknowledge that it was hard for her daughter.

  “I wish she would die. I’m sick of this.” The moment the words left her mouth, Magdalena gasped and tried to draw them back, but it was too late.

  Mama’s face grew terrible, the color draining from it. Before Magdalena could get out of the way, Mama slapped her, hard on the cheek. Mama had never slapped her before and Magdalena couldn’t believe she’d done so now. She stared at her mother, both of them in shock, and tears welled in her eyes. Then without a word, she jumped to her feet and dashed from the room.

  “Lena!” called her mother at her back, but Magdalena didn’t respond. She raced for the front door and tore it open, then bolted down the walk, turning the corner and running , running as far as she could.

  CHAPTER 7

  Marco rang the doorbell, then looked around the neighborhood. “These houses have to be worth millions.”

  The Painted Ladies were Victorian mansions all throughout the City. They stood shoulder to shoulder in bright paint and gingerbread shingles, sporting their famous beauty with an unabashed charm. On Nob Hill, they also came with a million dollar view. Many of the Nob Hill mansions had been destroyed during the 1906 earthquake, but this area had been restored and the Painted Ladies ret
urned to their original glory.

  Peyton rocked on her heels, watching through the leaded glass panel on the door. She could see someone coming down the stairs. “So much for the lifestyle of a humble preacher, eh?”

  The door opened and a woman in a button up sweater, a pencil skirt, and mousy brown hair looked out. She had a string of pearls around her neck and her hair was held back with a chocolate colored headband. “Yes?”

  Peyton showed her badge. “Inspectors D’Angelo and Brooks.”

  She took a step back and opened the door. A brown pair of penny loafers and brown tights completed her outfit. “Come in.”

  They stepped into the foyer. The dark wood floor disappeared down the hallway to the right and an ornate carved balustrade curved around the stairs, rising to the upper levels. Overhead hung a crystal chandelier with teardrop bobs glimmering in the sunlight pouring through the open doorway.

  The woman crossed around behind them and shut the door. As she did so, a tall, blond man appeared from the hallway in the back of the house. He wore a business suit, obviously cut just for him. He wasn’t as muscular as Marco, but he was well built and had a handsome face with a straight nose and heavily lashed brown eyes. His hair was parted on the side and feathered back with a carelessness that looked just a little too static. Peyton recognized him from the few times she’d happened across his Sunday Prayer Meeting on television.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “They’re police officers,” said the woman at their back.

  Peyton glanced over her shoulder at her. She didn’t like people hovering out of sight. “Actually detectives. I’m Inspector Brooks and this is Inspector D’Angelo. You issued a complaint with our department about your neighbor?”

  “Yes,” he said, giving them a smile. His teeth gleamed in the light from the doorway. “Kristen, will you get the inspectors something to drink? Coffee, tea?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  He gave a nod. “Right. To business, then. Thank you, Kristin.”

  The woman stepped around Peyton and headed for the stairs. The reverend pointed to a carved wooden door at the right of the entry. “Please, let’s talk in my office.”

  Peyton watched the woman climb the stairs. “Maybe your housekeeper should stay. She might be able to add something that she saw or heard.”

  The woman hesitated and looked down. The reverend glanced up at her, then chuckled. “She’s not my housekeeper, Inspector Brooks. Kristin is my wife.”

  Peyton and Marco exchanged a look. “Maybe your wife should stay.”

  “She hasn’t had any interaction with our neighbors. She spends most of her time helping the less fortunate. She runs a charity organization with women from the church.” He gave Peyton a practiced smile. “You might be interested in this. They donate clothing and vaccinations to children in Africa. It’s a wonderful organization.”

  Peyton realized her mouth had fallen open. She might be interested? She blinked a few times, telling herself to let it go, but it was one of the hardest things she’d ever done. The reverend continued to smile at her.

  “We really don’t have much time, Mr. O’Shannahan,” she said, “so if we could get to your complaint.”

  “Of course,” he answered, turning toward the door, then he hesitated and smiled back at her. “Please do call me Reverend though. I’d appreciate it.”

  Peyton bit her lip as he opened the door and led the way. Kristin remained on the stairs as they followed him inside.

  The Reverend’s office was covered in bookshelves with a large mahogany desk dominating the area before the floor to ceiling bay windows. Peyton could see over the City from this angle. Two leather armchairs and a small reading table rounded out the furnishings.

  The reverend reached the center of the room and turned. He gave them both a once over, the smile never leaving his face. “Two of our City’s finest.” He curled his fingers around his sculpted chin. Peyton noted he was clean shaven and had a cleft. “What an interesting pair you make? An African American woman as a detective – equal opportunity at its absolute best. Isn’t this a wonderful country?” His attention focused then on Marco. “D’Angelo? Must be Italian. I’ll wager you were raised Catholic.”

  Marco gave him the practiced Marco scowl, but didn’t answer, so he shifted his focus to Peyton again. “And you, you must have been raised Baptist.”

  “Wow,” said Peyton, “how did you manage to make that sound so offensive?”

  “Offensive? Oh I certainly didn’t mean that. I like to guess people’s religious affiliations. It allows me to connect with them on a spiritual level.”

  Peyton could feel her teeth grind together. If she made it through this interview, she deserved a medal of honor.

  He wandered to the right side of the office and retrieved a ladder-backed chair that had been sitting against the wall. He moved it in front of the arm chairs and motioned them to sit. He took the ladder-back chair, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he sat, and crossed one leg over the other. He clasped his hands on his knee. As she and Marco moved to the chairs, she noted that his shoes had to be Italian leather and by the lining of the suit, it was obviously custom-made.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out her notepad, flipping open a page. “You issued a complaint against a neighbor. Which one?”

  He pointed to the right. “Just moved in two months ago. Nob Hill is a beautiful neighborhood, but it’s hard to escape your neighbors, living pressed against one another the way we do. Our balconies in back almost touch. I can reach over and place my hand on his railing. If I wanted, I could jump between the two.”

  “That must be so difficult for you,” Peyton said.

  If he picked up her tone, he didn’t notice. The smile was back in place as if pasted on. “Well, it makes it impossible not to get involved in their lives.”

  Peyton didn’t think the reverend would be able to resist that impulse if there were acres separating them.

  Marco shifted his bulk in the unforgiving chair. “Your complaint said he threatened your life?” She could hear the impatience in Marco’s voice.

  “Yes, I’ll get to that in a moment.”

  Marco leaned forward, bracing his arms on his thighs. “You do understand we’re homicide detectives? We investigate murders, not threats of murder.”

  The reverend sat for a moment, simply smiling. Then he lifted his chin. “Perhaps if you investigated the threats, you’d have more success at preventing the murders. As the Bible says, ‘An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.’”

  Peyton opened her mouth to tell him she suspected Benjamin Franklin said that quote, not God, but she decided it probably wasn’t worth it. “I think what my partner is trying to say is that we have another case we are currently working and we really need to get back to it. That one has dead bodies and all.”

  “The mayor assured me you two were the best the City had to offer, but I don’t want to take you away from something that is more important.”

  Peyton exhaled. The mention of the mayor was calculated and damned if it didn’t work. “Okay, Reverend O’Shannahan, why don’t you tell us about this murder threat?”

  “As I was saying, three months ago the house next door goes up for sale. It gets bought in the first week. Trucks start pulling up, contractors, gardeners, you name it. They begin work on the house. A month later, this guy moves in, but he brings with him a couple of women and a number of young men in their late teens, early twenties.”

  “And someone over there threatened you?” prompted Peyton.

  The reverend sat still for a moment, just smiling. Peyton and Marco exchanged a look, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue. Peyton pretended to write something in her notebook. Finally, his foot began swinging again.

  “I am the most open minded person you will ever meet. I allow anyone at all into my congregation, but I have to admit I was a little skeptical when I saw who bought the house next door. I mean, it’s a two to thr
ee million dollar mansion.”

  “Who bought the house next door?”

  The reverend leaned forward. Peyton and Marco leaned forward with him. “Mexicans,” he said in a whisper that might carry to half the neighborhood.

  Peyton snapped her notebook shut and leaned back. “Do I have this right? You called us out here to investigate your neighbors because they happen to be Mexican?”

  “In a million dollar house, Inspector, and according to the real estate agent, they came directly from Mexico.”

  “Where does the death threat come in?” demanded Marco.

  “I was getting to that, but I can already see what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you can’t, Reverend,” said Peyton.

  “You think I’m some bigot who doesn’t want his neighborhood integrated.”

  Perhaps he did know what they were thinking.

  “The Bible says, ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’ Matthew.”

  “Leviticus,” corrected Marco.

  The reverend smiled and touched his nose with his index finger. “I knew you were a practicing Catholic. I can smell the holy water on you.” His eyes crinkled up, he smiled so wide. “At any rate, I try very hard to practice what I preach.”

  “The death threat?” prompted Peyton.

  “Yes, well, yesterday I was having breakfast on the balcony when I heard arguing coming from next door. Of course, I was concerned. It sounded loud and violent.”

  “What were they saying?”

  He gave her a condescending smile. “I have no idea, Inspector Brooks, I don’t know Spanish. Good old American English for me.”

  Peyton’s fingers curled around her notebook. “Please continue.”

  “I got up and wandered over to where our balconies nearly touch. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, mind you?”

  “Of course not,” said Marco with a hint of snarl.

  The reverend didn’t miss a beat. “As I said, I was concerned. I could see the man of the house, a handsome chap in his early thirties, through the kitchen windows. He was yelling at a younger chap, pointing his finger at him.” The reverend made poking motions with his index finger. “All of a sudden, he saw me. He stopped yelling and walked over to the doors, opening them. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I just smiled.”