“I did it for him.”
“Him?”
“Handsome.”
D’Angelo.
“Why?”
“He’s what we used to call a man’s man. Do you know the term?”
“I think so.”
“I wanted to give him the potential to be what he should be, a hero. That’s why this country is so screwed up now. Men aren’t men anymore. They don’t protect their women, they aren’t the bread winners. They’ve become spineless, but he had potential.”
“So you want to go back to the 50s? Is that it?”
“Don’t be smug. It was a good time.”
“Not if you were black,” she said icily.
“Are you going to tell me you wouldn’t like a man like D’Angelo to take care of you?”
“I don’t need a man to take care of me.”
“Well, he’s not it anyway. He screwed up. He had his chance, but he missed it.”
“He saved her life. She would have died if he hadn’t been there.” She couldn’t believe she was doing this. Having a conversation with a serial killer. She wondered again if she should call D’Angelo. “If she reminds you of your wife, how could you do that to her? How could you almost let her die?”
“Collateral damage. Besides, dying from carbon monoxide is a gentle death. You just go to sleep. I’d be doing her a favor. What is there in this life, but pain and torment and she’s picked the very job that will forever make her face what sickness there is in humans. It would have been a mercy if she died. He didn’t do her any favors by saving her.”
Genevieve set the phone on the nightstand, pushing it away from her. He was justifying taking someone’s life. She didn’t know why that surprised her. You didn’t become a serial killer unless you were psychotic, but she sure as hell had no business listening to it.
“I thought you wanted your Pulitzer,” he said loudly enough for her to hear. “Prove to me women are as courageous as men. Pick up the phone.”
She closed her eyes and shivered. Oh God, what was she doing? How the hell could this be right? He killed people remorselessly. He killed them because he felt he had the right. Her eyes snapped open and she grabbed the phone.
“I want something in return.”
“I’m basically writing your Pulitzer for you. What the hell more do you want?”
“No one else dies.”
“What?”
“While we talk, no one else dies. You don’t kill anyone. Agree to that, or I go to the police.”
“It would be a bad idea to go to the police.”
She shook violently, but she gripped the phone with both hands. “Those are my terms. No one else dies while we talk.” If she could stall him, maybe the police would be able to catch him before he killed again. Maybe this was how she could help. If she went to the police now, he would go silent again and when he was silent, he killed.
“You have backbone. I like that.”
She shivered in revulsion and almost gagged.
“I have to think about it.”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t show any weakness.
“If you go to D’Angelo, this ends.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know what that means,” he said and hung up.
CHAPTER 3
“We’ve been at this for two hours, Preacher,” complained Cho, leaning a foot on the back bumper of the cargo van. “We’ve never found anything at any crime scene before. Why do you think we’ll find anything now?”
“You need to give it up, Ryder,” said Simons.
Jake whirled to face the two of them. “She almost died in this van.” He looked into the cargo bed. “He almost killed her.”
Cho dropped his foot and gripped Jake’s shoulder. “I know, but there’s nothing here. He’s too careful.”
Jake looked down with a sigh. Cho was right. So far the Janitor hadn’t made a single damn mistake. He was meticulous. He never slipped up, he never left evidence. He always subdued his victims before attacking, so there was no chance for transference of evidence.
Still, this time the victim had been Peyton. He couldn’t get that out of his mind. Peyton had been in the back of this van, fighting for her life. She had fought to get out, she had been terrified of what he was going to do to her, and she had finally lain down on the floor of the van, resigning herself to die. He felt a suffocating anger whenever he thought of it.
His eyes caught on a bolt, holding the back bumper in place. A piece of rubber had snagged on the top of the bolt, catching between it and the bumper. Jake hunkered down before it, squinting.
He reached for his evidence bag and pulled out the magnifying glass, holding it before the bolt. Cho leaned over him.
“What’s that?”
“I’m not sure.” He settled the magnifying glass on the bumper, then reached for his camera and snapped off a number of pictures, then grabbed his tweezers and carefully pried the piece of rubber away, holding it up and looking at it with the magnifier.
Cho looked over his shoulder. “It looks like latex.”
“Like from a glove.”
Cho straightened. “You’ve always thought he wears gloves.”
“Yeah.” Jake grabbed an evidence bag and shoved it inside. “Maybe we can even figure out the brand.”
“Okay, so we know he had Peyton in the back of the van and he parked it inside the storage building.”
Jake pushed himself to his feet, sealing the bag. “Yeah.”
“The ranger...what was his name?” He snapped his fingers at Simons.
“Trevor Campion.”
“Right, Trevor Campion, he confronts him.”
“Right?”
“The guy’s throat is slit.”
Jake nodded.
“And he dumps him beside the van.”
“Yeah?”
“In order to slit someone’s throat and not have them fight you, you have to come up behind them, right?”
“Right,” said Simons.
“Why would Campion let him get behind him?”
Jake looked at the van. “He was trying to get Peyton out.”
Cho nodded. “So he goes to the door and reaches for the handle.”
“The Janitor comes up behind him.” Simons moved behind Cho and encircled his upper chest with one arm.
“What if he’s taller than I am?” said Cho, moving out of Simons’ hold. He grabbed Jake by the shoulders and directed him into place at the back of the van. “Go on,” he said to Simons.
Simons grabbed him around the upper body.
“What’s your first instinct?”
Jake grabbed his arm with both hands, trying to dislodge him.
“The Janitor swipes with the knife, deep because he’s got to subdue him quick. What does the body do when it receives such a wound?”
Jake shook his head. “I guess I’d probably try to duck out of the way.”
Cho nodded. “But you’re losing so much blood, your legs go weak. You’re dead weight. Go limp.”
Jake tried to let himself go limp. The sudden weight of his body dragged Simons forward and down. His hand nearly touched the bolt.
“In order to rip the glove, he had to hit it with some force.”
Jake eased out of Simons’ grip and reached into his evidence case for his luminol. He sprayed it on the bolt, then looked over his shoulder at Simons. “Hit the lights.”
Simons walked over to the lights and pressed the button to turn them off. Jake picked up his UV light and turned it on, then shined it over the bumper. The luminol lit up like a Christmas tree. Cho sucked in a breath.
“Don’t get excited,” said Jake. “It could just be blood splatter from Campion.”
“Yeah, but that…” Cho pointed to the top of the bolt. “That might be the Janitor’s.”
* * *
Peyton took a seat across from Defino. The captain gave her a smile, but her eyes studied her speculatively. Peyton looked down at the desk. A paperclip had fallen
out of Defino’s crystal holder, so Peyton reached for it, running her fingers over it.
“How are you doing?” asked Defino.
Peyton pressed the end of the paperclip into her finger. “I’m good, Captain.”
“Are you now? Did you go see Dr. Ferguson?”
“I did.”
Defino nodded, pursing her lips.
Peyton tugged on the end of the paperclip, pulling it away from the fold.
“How did your session go?”
“Good.”
“Good?”
Peyton’s fingers tightened on the bit of metal. “Okay. Look, I went to the session and we talked, then I got upset and I left…”
Defino’s brows rose.
Peyton held up her hand. “But I went back.” She thought for a moment, playing with the paperclip. “He called you, didn’t he?”
“He did.”
“He told you I left?”
“He did.”
“He told you I went back?”
“He did.” Defino folded her hands on her desk. “What he didn’t tell me is why?”
“Why I left?”
“Or why you went back. I’m more interested in why you went back.”
Peyton exhaled in relief. That was easier to explain. Or was it? She twisted the paperclip straight. No, maybe not easier, but Defino probably had a right to know what happened. “I almost pulled my gun on a civilian.” She glanced up at Defino.
“You almost pulled your gun?”
“He came up behind me and touched my shoulder. I panicked and I almost pulled my gun, but he was just returning something to me that I’d dropped.”
“He came up behind you?”
“Yeah. I felt horrible about it, so I went right back to Ferguson.” She chewed on her lower lip.
“You almost pulled your gun?”
“Yes, Captain. I know how it looks…”
“You almost pulled it?”
Peyton met her eye. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No.”
“That showed remarkable restraint, Brooks. If I’d been through what you have recently, I’d have drawn on that sucker the second he touched me.”
Peyton slumped in the chair. “You’re not pulling my badge?”
“No, you went back. You recognized you have a problem and you went back on your own. That shows remarkable self-awareness. I’m impressed.”
Peyton gave a half-laugh. Defino’s praise meant the world to her. And she wasn’t asking why Peyton left in the first place. Ferguson hadn’t ratted her out either. What the hell!
Her smile dried. It was wrong to keep this from Defino, wrong to pretend she wasn’t having an illicit affair with her partner…ex-partner. Defino had the right to know, even if it meant she sent Marco away. They didn’t have the right to lie to her. She’d always treated them well, protected them, supported them and they were lying to her. She dropped the paperclip in her agitation.
“Captain…” she started to say, but a knock at the door interrupted her.
“That’ll be your new partner,” said Defino. “Enter,” she shouted.
Peyton glanced over her shoulder as the door opened and Marco stepped into the room. She frowned in confusion, but a moment later a woman followed him. She was at least 5’10” with boxy shoulders, wearing a brown leather jacket and brown leather pants. She wore a pair of brown cowboy boots and her dirty blond hair was combed back from her face in a short man’s cut. She wore absolutely no make-up and had a bolt going through her upper right ear. A tattoo of a skull covered the right side of her neck, dipping into the collar of her jacket.
“Captain, this is Inspector Tag Shotwell,” said Marco, motioning her to a chair.
She gave Peyton a passing look, then held out her hand to Defino. Defino rose to clasp it and as she did so, Peyton marked letters on the woman’s fingers, just beneath the knuckles. They read a--p--p--y. Peyton frowned. What the hell did appy mean?
“Welcome, Inspector,” said Defino, releasing her. She motioned to Peyton. “This is your new partner, Inspector Peyton Brooks.”
The woman snapped the hand under Peyton’s nose. Now she could see the h on her thumb. “Oh, happy,” she said aloud.
The woman glared at her, Defino frowned at her, but Marco just looked down in amusement. Peyton sheepishly took her hand. The other woman squeezed it so hard, Peyton let out an involuntary yelp.
The woman released her and stepped back. “Pleasure to meet you,” she said, although Peyton got the impression it wasn’t a pleasure at all.
She realized she didn’t remember the name Marco had said. “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?”
“Tag. Tag Shotwell.”
Peyton squinted. “Come again?”
She drew a deep breath and shifted weight, her leather creaking. “The name is Tag Shotwell.” She said it slowly as if she were talking to an imbecile.
Peyton just stared at her. Really? Come on. She shifted and looked at Defino.
Defino fought a smile. “If we’re done here, Inspector Brooks, there’s a few things I’d like to talk to Inspector Shotwell about.”
Peyton pushed herself to her feet, feeling a rush of anxiety. Tag Shotwell? She was supposed to work with a woman named Tag Shotwell who had the word happy tattooed on her fingers? Really? She gave Marco an anxious look. He took her arm and helped her between the tight chairs.
“Have a seat, Inspector Shotwell,” said Defino. She glanced up at Marco. “Once we’re done here, make sure our new detective is debriefed on our current case, Lieutenant D’Angelo.”
“I will,” he said, moving Peyton toward the door.
Peyton let him direct her out into the precinct. Maria was standing by her desk, giving Peyton a distressed look. Peyton halted before her as Marco closed Defino’s door.
“Brown leather, Brooks. She was wearing brown leather!”
Peyton nodded in complete confusion. She saw the leather.
“Brown lea--ther,” Maria emphasized. “I just made progress with you and now she’s going to have you backsliding.”
Peyton tilted her head.
“It’ll be okay,” said Marco.
Peyton whirled on him. “In what world will it be okay? She had a skull tattooed on her neck, Marco!”
“And cowboy boots? Cowboy boots!” shrieked Maria, stepping up behind Peyton.
Marco held up his hands. “She can also hear you.”
“Did you see the tattoo on her fingers?” continued Peyton.
“It said appy, Marco, appy?”
Peyton turned toward Maria. “Actually it’s happy. There was an h on her thumb.”
“Oh, I didn’t see that when she was breaking all the bones in my hand,” said Maria.
“Tell me about it.”
Marco stepped closer to them. “Look, I’ll admit she’s a little rough.”
Peyton crossed her arms over her chest. “A little rough? Her names is Tag Shotwell. Are you freakin’ kidding me? That’s made up, right? That can’t be a real name.”
Marco scratched the back of his neck.
“Tag? Tag Shotwell? A cop named Shotwell, Marco?”
“It’s a disaster,” said Maria, shaking her head and staring at a far off place. “An absolute disaster.”
“You don’t have to go out in public with her.”
“I just don’t have it in me anymore, Brooks. You were bad enough, but this…” She held her hand out toward the door. “Brown leather, Brooks. Brown leather.”
“I think you’re both being a bit dramatic.”
Peyton and Maria went still.
Peyton put her hands on her hips. “Are we, D’Angelo?” she said in a low voice.
“Dramatic?” said Maria behind her.
Marco opened his mouth but nothing came out.
“You want drama, D’Angelo,” said Peyton dangerously.
He shook his head.
“You’ll get drama.” Without waiting for a response, she
turned on her heel and walked away, moving toward the break room.
She threw open the refrigerator and searched inside for something sweet, but the refrigerator was bare. She straightened and slammed it shut, glancing over her shoulder at Marco where he leaned against the door.
“I’m never getting sex again, am I?” he said in a sad voice.
She walked over to him and glanced into the precinct to make sure no one was around, then she grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down to her, kissing him wildly. He responded immediately, bringing his arms around her, but she broke the kiss and pushed him back.
“I don’t know. Can you handle the drama?”
Then she walked away from him and went to her desk, throwing herself in her chair. She could see him leaning against the doorjamb and she couldn’t help but smile. Poor damn fool had no idea what he’d gotten himself into.
* * *
Defino called for a meeting in the conference room at 1:00. Peyton got the text as she was climbing out of the Mustang after her session with Dr. Ferguson. The session had been uneventful. Ferguson made her play some stupid association game to see how she would respond. She guessed he probably thought all of her responses would be violent – dismembered bodies, gutted corpses, but she’d turned it around on him and talked about how much she loved puppies and kittens for an hour.
He was probably going to call Defino and demand her badge. She didn’t care. She needed help getting over this anxiety she felt whenever she went into public. She didn’t need to play words games with him.
Everyone was gathered in the conference room when she arrived – Cho, Simons, Jake, Marco, Defino, and Maria. Tag Shotwell was also there, sitting at the other end of the table by herself, her leather jacket thrown over her chair. She wore a black, crewneck t-shirt.
The rest of the precinct seemed to be regarding her warily as if they weren’t sure she was part of their species. Peyton rolled her eyes and deliberately walked to the seat next to her, sinking into it. No use making her feel even more like an outsider.
“Good,” said Defino, “Let’s get started. Maria?”
Maria rose to her feet, resting her hands on a large stack of files. “I’ve gone through the police employment records for the last twenty-five years. Problem is they haven’t gotten around to digitizing everything. The last ten years are done, but you get much further back and they haven’t been completed.”
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 4