Peyton launched herself over the table and grabbed him by the throat. Their combined weight threw his chair over and he landed on his back, his head smacking the linoleum. She felt his flesh beneath her fingers, the ridge of his esophagus beneath her hands.
Then Marco hauled her up and stepped between her and the man on the floor. “Get a hold of yourself, Brooks!” he shouted at her.
“That’s police brutality, cochina. I’m gonna have your badge for that.”
Marco whirled on him. “Shut your mouth, Garza!” Then he turned back to Peyton. “Let me handle this one, please. This is just too hard.”
She pressed a hand against her forehead and paced in front of him.
“Brooks?”
Her chest rose rapidly in a pant and she paced some more.
“Peyton?” He curled his fingers around her shoulders and turned her to face him. “Let me handle this one, okay?”
She gave him a short nod and stalked to the door, kicking it open. It careened back and slammed into the wall. She walked into the viewing room and stared at Luis Garza as he scrambled awkwardly out of the fallen chair. Captain Defino moved close to Peyton and put her arm around her shoulders, but she didn’t say anything. Peyton was grateful for both gestures.
Marco grabbed Garza’s chair and slammed it upright, then he reached for his arm and shoved him into it.
“That’s more police brutality, vato. I want my lawyer.”
Marco leaned over him. “I suggest you shut your mouth before I cut out your tongue. You want police brutality, you’ll get it, dumb ass.”
Garza ducked his head, the whites of his eyes rolling as he tried to keep Marco in sight. Marco edged around his chair and took a seat on the table, close enough to touch him, or slam his head against the metal surface. Peyton voted for the latter.
“Let’s get something straight, El Guererro. You’re gonna tell me what I want to know because if you don’t, I’m gonna remind every single guard at San Quentin exactly why you’re here.”
Garza’s lip twitched and he stared at Marco’s fist where it rested on the table.
“Now I’m thinking that you’re bound to have pissed someone off, made some enemies. Maybe you pissed off the Black gangs…or, the Asians…” Marco leaned closer to him. “How about the skinheads? If I remind the guards exactly why you’re here, I figure you’ve got about a week before you take a shiv. A lot of the guards here like my partner, Garza, they like her a lot and you…you’re a cop killer.”
Garza briefly closed his eyes. “What you wanna know?”
“El Griego, what’s his real name and what was he into?”
“Alberto Flores. He was into coca, smack, you name it.”
“Prostitution?”
“Yeah, El Gusano, he liked them young, real young. Girls.” He gave Marco a once-over. “Pretty boys. Fourteen, fifteen, younger.”
“He have powerful connections?”
“El Gusano?” Garza gave a bark of laughter and slumped in his chair. “He was a two-bit hood. He ain’t got no connections.”
“What about El Miedo?”
Garza finally met Marco’s eyes. “El Miedo, he’s a nasty piece of work.”
“How is he connected to El Griego?”
Garza shrugged. “I’m in here, vato. What makes you think I know?”
“How is he connected, Garza?”
Garza blew out air. “El Gusano had a prime bit of turf in the Tenderloin. Maybe El Miedo wanted it.”
“How would he move on him?”
Garza motioned at the photo with his chin. “Blowing out his brains is a way.”
Marco reached for the envelope and pulled out another photo. This one had such sharp acuity, it almost looked three-dimensional. Jake’s pictures.
He placed it on the table in front of Garza and Garza reared away, his eyes widening.
“Is this El Miedo?”
Garza’s gaze flickered up to Marco’s. “That’s a head, vato!”
Marco pointed at the tattoo on the man’s neck. “Do you recognize the ink?”
Garza looked at the picture from the corner of his eyes. “Yeah. Los Hermanos Aztecas. That’s El Miedo.” He gave Marco a scowl. “But, man, that’s not right. He’s just a head.”
“Tell me about the Aztecas.”
“What I know? I’m in here, vato.”
“You ran the Aztecas.”
“Yeah, but the Aztecas ain’t like when I ran it. The Aztecas, they try to move some big shit. They ain’t no piss-ass street thugs no more. The Aztecas, they serious shit now. You don’t wanna mess with the Aztecas, vato.”
“Who runs them now?”
“I don’t know. I’m in here. You gotta talk to someone in the ranks now.”
“Who would do this? Who would chop off his head if he was Azteca? Another banger fighting over turf?”
Garza shook his head. His lip twitched. “No, vato, that…” He motioned at the photo with his chin again. “That’s cartel.”
* * *
Peyton opened the door to her house. Pickles’ nails scrabbled on the wooden floor as he raced to her and she scooped him up. Jake was standing in the middle of the living room, watching her with a worried expression on his face.
Peyton cuddled Pickles close and tossed her keys and cell phone on the sofa table, then moved toward her room. “I’m gonna take a shower,” she said and didn’t wait for him to respond. She crossed the room and shut the door at her back, leaning against it. Pickles laid his head on her shoulder as if he sensed her upset. Peyton pressed a kiss between his ears and settled him on the bed, then took off her jacket and the shoulder harness. She hung the gun on a hook behind the bathroom door and began stripping off the rest of her clothes.
Turning on the hot water, she untangled her hair from its band and shook it out, scratching her nails against her scalp. Then she stepped into the hot water, wincing as it stung her naked flesh.
She grabbed the soap and scrubbed across her body over and over again, wishing she could wash away the anger and helplessness she’d felt facing down Garza across that table. She wanted him dead. She wanted to crush his esophagus and feel his life sputter out beneath her fingertips.
Bracing her hands on the shower wall, she let the water beat against her shoulders, then she forced herself to turn it off and climbed out. Grabbing a clean towel, she dried off and then walked barefoot into the bedroom, pulling out a pair of sweats and a baggy sweatshirt from her dresser.
She dressed, then ran a comb through her hair, letting the wet curls lay against her shoulders. Picking up the dog, she carried him to the door and opened it. She needed to feed him and take him for a walk.
The living room was empty, but as she turned the corner, she saw Jake standing at the kitchen counter, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s in front of him. She came to a halt and bent, setting Pickles on the ground.
“Marco called you.” It wasn’t a question.
He slid a shot glass across the counter to her. “He did. He said he had some anniversary dinner for his parents that he was going to cancel and then come over, but I talked him out of it. He told me about your ritual and I told him I thought I could handle it.”
She sighed and stared at the shot glass. “I’ve got to walk and feed Pickles.”
“Done.”
Peyton moved to the counter and climbed onto one of the barstools. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Pickles thought I did.”
Peyton gave him a ghost of a smile and fingered the shot glass.
“So how does this ritual work?”
She curled her fingers around the glass and drew it to her. “We recite the 23rd Psalm, one line at a time, and after each line, we drink a shot.”
“Sounds sacrilegious, but I’m game.” He picked up his own glass. “I’ll start.”
Peyton nodded.
“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.” He upended the glass and shuddered violently. “You sure this helps?”
Jake filled their glasses again. “He leadth me beside the still waters.” He banged his fist against the counter as he drank.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…” Her voice caught and tears filled her eyes. “I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.”
Jake closed his fingers over her free hand as she took her shot. She set the glass on the counter and motioned for him to fill their glasses again. He did so without releasing her hand. “He can’t hurt anyone again, Peyton.”
She felt a tear slip down her cheek and she wiped it away with the back of her hand, while still holding her shot glass. “He did, today. I let him get to me. I wanted to kill him.”
“Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me,” said Jake pointedly. “Go on. Finish the ritual.” He sipped at his glass as she drew a shuddering breath.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.” She tossed back the shot and shivered. Warmth was spreading through all of her limbs and she could feel her shoulders relaxing.
Jake filled their glasses halfway. “Thou annointest my head with oil.” He released her hand and leaned on the counter. “Did Adonis find out anything?”
“Garza thinks El Miedo was executed by a Mexican cartel.”
Jake’s mouth opened. “Do you think that?”
“I suspected it when I saw the body.”
“What does that mean?”
Peyton picked up her drink and pointed it at him. “Nothing good.” She closed her eyes and filled her lungs, a calming warmth spreading through her. “My cup runneth over,” she whispered and they both tossed their shots back.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the House of the Lord forever, she finished silently and reached for the bottle.
* * *
Peyton followed Pickles into the kitchen the next morning, tugging the belt on her robe tighter. Jake was moving around the stove, cooking pancakes. He glanced over and motioned to the pot of coffee. A mug had already been laid out and next to it was a bottle of aspirin.
Peyton reached for the handle and filled the mug, then began the fight with the child proof cap on the aspirin. “You keep this up and I’m never gonna let you leave.”
He chuckled and kept flipping pancakes.
She popped two pills in her mouth and downed them with a swallow of coffee. She’d never made coffee this good before. He was spoiling her and she found she enjoyed it. She picked up Pickles’ bowl and opened the pantry for his food. The little dog danced around her feet in excitement as she filled it. She settled the bowl beside his water dish and returned the dog food to the pantry. Then she climbed onto a barstool and watched Jake cook.
He finished the last of the pancakes, then grabbed two plates and handed her one. He had already fished butter and syrup from the refrigerator. He sidestepped Pickles and took a seat beside her at the counter.
“When I was in college, I always made pancakes after a bender. I think it helps absorb the alcohol.”
She reached for the butter. “Thank you.” She spread a thin film over her pancakes, then slid the dish to him. Bracing her head with her hand, she studied him as he prepared his own pancakes. “Thank you for everything last night. It meant a lot to me.”
He shrugged and nudged the syrup in her direction. “I’m glad I could be here. Nice to see you as something other than an ass-kicking cop.”
She smiled at him and poured a line of syrup around her plate. She could hear Pickles crunching his food in the background.
“So how did you come up with that ritual?” he asked.
She set the syrup down and picked up her fork. “When I was a kid, my parents took me to church every single Sunday. You know, I can’t remember ever missing a week.”
“Oh, believe me, I know. Going to church on Sunday in Nebraska is a law.”
She took a bite and closed her eyes in pleasure. The sweetness of the syrup flowed over her tongue. Blessed, blessed sweetness. If she could eat sugar for every meal, she would. “There’s something about the 23rd Psalm that resonates with me. Whenever I was upset or had to face something I feared, I recited it. I can’t tell you how many times I whispered that Psalm over the years.”
Jake shifted on the stool, so he could see her. “I get that. I think that’s why so many people cling to religion. The routine, the ritual, they are comforting.”
She placed the tines of the fork in a puddle of syrup and swirled it around. “Three years ago, Marco and I were on this horrible case – little girl, only six years old, goes missing. She was found two days later in a dumpster, strangled.”
“Oh God,” said Jake.
“It really got to both of us. We couldn’t get a break on the murderer, we didn’t have much evidence. No DNA. We were arguing and sniping at each other. Neither one of us could sleep. Nightmares like you wouldn’t believe.”
Jake stopped eating, watching her intently. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“One night we were at Marco’s apartment, trying to figure it out. I was sitting on the couch, my eyes closed, mouthing the 23rd Psalm. He recognized it and he started saying it out loud. In the middle of it, he brought out a bottle of Jack Daniels. We started drinking. Somehow we started taking a shot after every line. Now whenever one of us is really upset, we perform the ritual.”
He looked down at his plate. “I don’t know how you do this job. How can you ever look at people without wondering what they’re capable of doing?”
“I try to think about the people I know who are good. There are more people who don’t prey on others than who do. You just have to keep that in mind, but sometimes it’s hard.” She dropped the fork and leaned back on the bar stool. “I really messed up yesterday. I was so unprofessional and I let him get under my skin. He had no remorse, no regret. It’s hard to see a monster like that and not think all of mankind is the same way.”
“That was a pretty hard thing to do, Mighty Mouse, confront the man who killed your father? You shouldn’t have been put in that situation.”
“That’s my job, Jake.”
He pushed his plate away and twisted on the stool, so he could face her. “No, that isn’t your job. That’s someone else’s job. Just like doctors don’t operate on their family members, cops shouldn’t confront the criminals who commit crimes against them.”
She shook her head. “Maybe you’re right.” She lifted her coffee cup and took a sip. “What makes someone become so dead inside? What could have happened to him as a child? He enjoyed telling me how my father died. He even made a gun out of his fingers.” She showed Jake.
“He’s a sociopath, Peyton. He’s subhuman.” Pickles stood on his hind legs and pawed Jake’s pants. He bent over and picked him up, settling the little dog on his lap. Peyton reached over and scratched behind his ears. “I don’t know. Maybe humans are defective. No other animal preys on each other the way we do. It seems like humans are guided by two things: greed and revenge. We want what someone else has and we will do anything to take it from them, then when something is taken from us, we try to get revenge for what was taken.”
Peyton went still. Slowly she turned and studied him. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“We try to get revenge for what was taken. That’s what’s wrong.”
She jumped to her feet and hurried over to the sofa table, grabbing her phone. When she thumbed it on, she saw that Devan had tried to call her five times the previous night. She felt a pang of regret, then dialed Marco’s number.
He picked up on the third ring.
“You okay, Brooks?”
She paused when she heard the worry in his voice. It helped ease some of the ache inside of her. She needed to spend some time thinking about the good things in her life, not dwell on the bad,
but that would have to wait until after this case was solved.
“I’m fine. Thanks for sharing the ritual with Jake. I appreciate that.”
“I should have been there, but he said he could handle it.”
“He did. You’ve been here so many times before and I know you’ll be here again.”
“So, I know you didn’t call me for that.”
She smiled. “You know me so well. I think I’ve figured something out. Can you meet me at the precinct?”
“It’s Saturday, Brooks,” he said with a heavy sigh.
“I’ll only take up an hour or so. Please?”
“Tell me what you’ve got first.”
“El Griego wasn’t after turf, he was after something else. El Miedo must have had something that El Griego wanted, and when he didn’t produce it, he was executed.”
“What something? Not the girl?”
“No, I think she’s collateral damage. Something more important to a member of a gang.”
Marco was silent for a moment, then he gave a low growl. “All those somethings are way too confusing for me to follow. All right, I’ll meet you at the precinct.”
* * *
Peyton got to the precinct first. She powered on her desktop and pulled up the San Francisco Police Department Database. She typed in Alberto Flores and waited while the machine performed a search.
His name came up and she clicked on it. A list of priors scrolled across the screen, but on another screen she found personal information. He wasn’t married, he had no children, and he’d held a few retail jobs when he’d been in high school. Then her eyes fixed on one entry that was more recent.
“Hey,” came Marco’s voice and he loomed over her, setting down a hot fudge sundae by her elbow.
Her eyes fixed on it and she couldn’t suppress a shiver of happiness. She’d have to remember to tell Jake about hot fudge sundaes and how they made things seem less bleak. She grabbed it and pulled the plastic top off, picking up the spoon. The fudge was still warm and melted in her mouth.
She tilted her head up and looked at Marco. “I’m okay, you know? Really.”
Murder in the Tenderloin (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 2) Page 17