“So how did you pull them?”
“Stan and I have been reading records for days now. We’re finally done.” She patted the stack. “These are all the men who not only had a military background, but also worked for some stint in the jails.”
“How many?” said Peyton, eyeing the stack.
“Thirty-three.”
“And they all have some connection to Ingleside?” asked Cho.
Maria shook her head. “We took that detail out.”
“Why?”
Maria glanced at Defino.
“Councilman Simon Olsen worked at a lot of stations. Inglewood was just his final one. He...uh...was a bit of a loose cannon, so he bounced around the system.”
“Wait,” said Peyton. “What do you mean by loose cannon, Captain?”
Defino shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t want to speak ill of the dead.”
“It might pertain to our case.”
“Olsen had a tendency to make women he worked with uncomfortable.”
“Oh, so he was a pervert,” said Peyton.
“Makes him a perfect target for the Janitor,” said Cho.
“Let’s not get distracted by that. We need to catch this bastard.”
Peyton looked down, running her finger along the edge of the table. She felt Tag’s eyes on her, but she didn’t feel like acknowledging it.
“The files are in alphabetical order. It was the only way I could think to keep track of them. Jake and I will make the initial calls and arrange a meeting, then each team can go and check the suspect out in person,” said Maria.
“This is going to take forever,” complained Cho.
“Do you have a better idea?” asked Defino.
“No, but he’s gonna strike again before we get through half that list.”
“Then you better hope he’s somewhere near the top and you get to him before he does.”
Maria picked up the first file. “I contacted Richard Abrams this morning. He works the door at a strip club in North Beach. He’ll be there for the 3:00PM show.”
Cho started to reach for it, but Maria glared at him. He held up his hands and pointed at Peyton. Peyton took the file and shook her head wryly.
“You get Ron Bowen. He’s living in some old folk’s facility,” she said, slapping the file down on the table.
“So much better than a strip club,” grumbled Cho.
Defino rose to her feet, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Get back to me as soon as you check them out.”
“On it, Captain,” Peyton said as everyone dispersed.
Tag didn’t wait for her, but exited the conference room and disappeared from sight around the corner of the building. Jake loitered by Maria’s desk.
“Your new partner’s beyond charming,” he said.
“Isn’t she now? Don’t you love the skull tattoo?”
He fell into step beside her. “It’s the very one I intended to get for my next birthday.”
That made Peyton laugh.
He hesitated as Marco came up beside her, touching her arm.
“Can I talk to you?” he said, motioning toward his new cubicle.
“Sure.” She gave Jake a smile and followed Marco toward the partition. “What’s up?”
He glanced around the precinct. “How did it go with Ferguson?”
“Fine. We talked about puppies and kittens the whole time.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither did he.”
“Peyton, you should take this seriously.”
“I am.”
He looked out into the precinct again. She glanced over her shoulder and marked that Tag had taken Marco’s old desk, sitting in his chair and rummaging in his drawers. Peyton tapped the edge of the file against her palm. She hated this. Marco was her partner, her only partner. This would never work with anyone else.
“Be careful when you go to see Abrams, Peyton. I’m not going to be there anymore.”
She looked back at him and felt a wave of nausea rush through her. “I don’t think I can do this, Marco,” she said anxiously.
“You can. Just watch your back, okay?”
She nodded miserably. She wanted to creep into his arms and let him hold her, she wanted him to sooth her as only he could. “I’d better go, or I’ll never get home tonight.” She started to turn away, then hesitated. “I’m making dinner.”
He smiled. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I want to.”
“Okay.”
“We ruined the stir fry the other night.”
He shrugged. “I’d ruin it all over again.”
She licked her lips as she walked away, approaching Marco’s old desk and tapping the file on the edge of it. “We should probably head out. We can take my Mustang. It has lights and all the latest gadgets.”
Tag swiveled and glared at her. “Let’s get something straight, Fluffy…”
“Fluffy?”
“I don’t do partners.”
Peyton narrowed her eyes. “When you say do, do you mean do as in have or do as in do?”
“What?”
Peyton waved it off. “I’m not sure what that means, but we’ve been assigned to be partners, so apparently, you do do partners, or you will do them now.”
Tag leaned back in her chair. “I work better alone. Why don’t you give me the file and I’ll check it out myself?”
“No.”
Tag’s blond brows rose. Peyton noted her eyes were brown. “No?”
“We go together because that’s what partners do, so reconcile yourself with it. Look, I’m not any happier than you are with this arrangement, but it is what it is and you can just adapt.”
She glanced beyond Peyton toward Marco’s cubicle. “Was G.Q. your past partner?”
“What?”
“G.Q. The one who makes straight women piss their pants when they see him.”
“Marco?”
“Yeah.”
“He was, but he made lieutenant, so we’re not partners anymore.”
“Really? It wasn’t because you’re sleeping with him?”
“What?”
“Come on, Fluffy. I’m not stupid.”
“He’s your superior officer. I suggest you have some respect. Are you trying to get yourself fired?”
“No, I’m trying to make you understand where I’m coming from. I don’t do partners. Never have, never will. I work alone.”
“A regular maverick, huh?”
She shrugged.
“Well, let’s get something straight, Sarah Palin.”
Tag frowned.
“We do do partners in this precinct and so will you. I’m going out to my Mustang now and you’re coming or…”
“Or? You’ll report me to Lieutenant G.Q.?”
Peyton straightened, folding her arms around the file. “No, I won’t have to report you. Here’s what I find interesting, Tag. Marco gets a promotion, so I need a new partner. Thing is police bureaucracy doesn’t move that fast; however, within days you show up. Now as I figure it, you’re a problem. You don’t play nice with others, so they’ve bounced you around the precincts to find you an appropriate home. Since they jumped at the chance to off-load you, I’m guessing this is your final chance.”
Tag’s mouth drew into a tight line.
“Now you saw me and you thought, this is someone I can bully into submission. Maybe you’ve even heard that I’ve recently had some trauma, so you thought I was vulnerable. Well, here’s what you don’t understand. I don’t fold. So this is how it plays, Tag. I walk out the precinct doors and you go with me. We get in my Mustang, which I will drive, you will keep your mouth shut, and we will go to the strip club. I will question Richard Abrams and you will listen respectfully. When we are done, I’m going home. Tomorrow we’ll do it all over again until they tell us to stop.” Peyton leaned on the desk. “Do we have an understanding?”
Tag pursed her lips. “Yeah.”
“Good.
Let’s go.”
* * *
The strip club was like so many in North Beach, a seedy building with a blank facade and a neon light proclaiming full-nude dancers. The outer wall sported a red door without windows on either side.
Peyton pulled open the door. The interior was dark, so she paused for a moment to allow her eyes to adjust from outside. A number of small tables surrounded by red cushioned booths occupied the floor of the room, arranged in a semi-circle around the wooden stage. A woman in her late twenties swung around a pole, her breasts swaying to the beat of the music. A few men sat in the booths watching, slumped down in their chairs.
Peyton sighed and glanced away. She’d had to come to strip clubs a few times in her years on the force to question a perp, and they always felt desperate to her. Both the dancers and the patrons gave off an air of quiet misery, as if life had been boiled down to the most purulent element of blatant sex and objectification.
Tag entered behind her, taking in the scene. She gave the dancer an appreciative glance, then motioned Peyton toward the bar on the same wall as the front door. She moved up to it and placed her badge on the sticky surface.
“We need to talk to Richard Abrams,” she said.
Peyton hung back, watching the bartender. He was massive, his muscles bulging as he wiped down a glass with a towel. His head was shaved bare and he sported tattoos up and down both arms. Peyton figured he probably doubled as a bouncer.
“Over there,” he said, nodding at the end of the bar.
A man sat on a stool, nursing a cup of coffee. He had his back to the room, but she could see his profile. He was around sixty with thinning hair that he wore close-cropped, Caucasian, and built like a truck. He probably wasn’t much over five eight, but his arms were huge, his hands like paddles.
Peyton moved past Tag and reached for her badge. “Mr. Abrams?” she said over the loud music, showing it to him.
He glanced at her, his eyes sweeping up and down her body, then he watched Tag as she moved to his other side. “Yeah, I got the message. What do you want with me?”
“We’re investigating the murder of Simon Olsen,” said Peyton, taking a seat next to him. “We’re wondering if you ever worked with him when you were on the force.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head.
A man came up to the bar behind Peyton, banging his glass on it. Peyton glanced over her shoulder at him, but he ignored her.
“How long ago did you retire?” she asked.
“Been six, seven years now. Why?”
“Have you been working here ever since?”
“Yeah. Pension doesn’t really pay for an ex-wife, you know.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Why do you think I knew Olsen?” Then he frowned. “Wait. Wasn’t he that Councilman who got hisself killed?”
“That’s the one.”
The man behind Peyton banged again. “Hey, bartender, little service here.”
Peyton glanced at him again. The bartender was busy with another patron and held up a hand for patience. The guy glanced at Peyton. “See something you like, sweetheart,” he slurred.
Peyton turned away, ignoring him.
“Do you always have the same hours?” asked Tag.
“Yep. Never changes.” He lifted the coffee cup and took a sip. “Nothing changes. Seen so many boobs they don’t do a damn thing for me anymore.”
Peyton felt the guy behind her move closer. His breath fanned the back of her neck. “So, what do you say? Wanna give me a lap dance while I wait?”
Peyton tried to concentrate on Abrams, but feeling this guy so close behind her made her heart start to pound. Tag frowned at him, but the guy didn’t seem to get the message.
“Can anyone vouch for you?” asked Tag.
“Does someone need to?” asked Abrams.
“We’re just trying to close up an investigation,” said Peyton, forcing herself to concentrate.
“And I’m a suspect?”
“No, it’s just, you know how it is. We’ve got to check everything off the list.”
“Why?” He turned to face her, his expression growing menacing.
Peyton leaned back, but she bumped into the guy behind her.
“So, you do wanna play,” he said, then he brushed his face across her ponytail.
Peyton jabbed backward with her elbow and slammed him in the gut. He gave a grunt and stumbled away, giving her enough room to slide off the stool and whirl to face him. He straightened and took a step toward her, but suddenly Tag was between them.
“Back off,” she said, holding her hands up.
Peyton realized her fingers were curled around her gun handle.
The entire room had gone silent, except for the banging pulse of the bass. Even the dancer was standing on the stage staring at her. Peyton swept the room with her eyes, then pushed past Tag and raced for the door, throwing it open.
She made it a few steps past the door, then she slumped against the building, the blood roaring in her ears, her heart threatening to climb out of her throat. She braced her hands on her thighs and fought to regain her breath.
Tag appeared a moment later, striding toward her in her brown leather and cowboy boots. She leaned on the wall beside Peyton, crossing her arms over her chest. “You okay, Fluffy?”
Peyton nodded, deciding she wasn’t going to throw a fit about the damn nickname right now.
“Give me the keys.” She held out her hand.
“We didn’t get an alibi for him.”
“I’ll call the manager when we get back to the precinct. I don’t think he’s our serial killer.” She made an impatient motion with her hand. “Give me the keys.”
Peyton fished them out of her pocket and passed them over.
“Think you can make it to the car?”
Peyton glared at her, but she didn’t have anything to say.
* * *
Peyton let the hot water pound on her back, bracing her hands on the shower wall. She could gradually feel the tension leave her shoulders, but she wasn’t ready to get out just yet.
The bathroom door flew open and Marco loomed in the entrance.
She reached up and twisted off the knobs, then slid the glass door back. He grabbed a towel off the rack and shook it out for her. She stepped from the shower and into his arms, letting him wrap the towel around her. She clung to him a moment, just breathing in the masculine smell of him, letting him support her.
He didn’t say anything as he led her into his bedroom and helped her dress. She tugged on a pair of sweats and his 49ers jersey with a pair of thick wool socks. Then he led her into the living room and settled her on the couch, tucking a blanket around her.
He went into the kitchen and fussed with something on the stove. Peyton closed her eyes and simply listened to the sounds of him moving around, thanking her good fortune that she wasn’t alone right now.
He came back to the couch and she opened her eyes, taking the cup he placed in her hands, then he sat on the couch next to her, lifting her legs into his lap. She sipped at the drink. Hot chocolate. Bliss.
With a sigh, she cradled it in her hands and finally looked at him. “Tag tell you what happened?”
“Yeah.”
“She tell Defino?”
“No.”
“She thinks we’re sleeping together.”
“We are sleeping together.”
“But how does she know that?”
He shrugged. “I’m guessing we aren’t going to be able to keep it a secret forever. Maria’s bound to figure out you aren’t staying at your mother’s.”
Peyton laid her head on the back of the couch. “I miss my dog.”
“We can bring him here.”
“I promised Jake he can have him for the week.”
Marco reached up and smoothed back a curl from her cheek. “We’ll figure it all out later. I ordered a pizza. You hungry?”
She shook her head. “I’m going to take the sessions with Ferguson seriously from now on. I p
romise you.”
“I know.”
“This isn’t what you bargained for, is it?”
He ran a curl through his fingers again. “This is exactly what I bargained for. No matter what, Peyton, I’m here to stay.”
She curled her fingers around his hand. “I love you, D’Angelo.”
He smiled. “That’s good, ‘cause you got me so bad, I can’t even think straight anymore.”
CHAPTER 4
Marco glanced up from his computer as Abe came around the corner of his cubicle, carrying a file in his hand. He gave Marco’s new space a critical once-over, then tsked his tongue against his teeth. Marco waited for him to make his assessment.
The Medical Examiner wore an orange shirt with white jeans and what looked like loafers made out of corn husks or something. The ends of his dreads sported orange and yellow beads. Marco wondered how the hell much time it took him to get ready every morning.
“Really, Angel’D, what are you going for here? Penitentiary grey? You are a fine thoroughbred, darlin’, and your stable should reflect that.”
Marco leaned back in his desk chair. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn’t know how Abe would react to Peyton and him. Sure, he flirted shamelessly, but Marco had always figured it was a game. How would he feel if he knew his two closest friends were in a serious relationship?
“I’m sure you can bedazzle it or something.”
Abe clapped his hands and gave Marco a wicked grin. “I can bedazzle the hell out of it.”
“Did you come to talk about my cubicle or something else?”
Abe grabbed a chair and sat down, crossing one leg over the other, then he handed Marco the file. “I came to bring you Trevor Campion’s autopsy.”
Marco opened the file and scanned it. It stated pretty much what they already knew, except Campion had a large contusion on his left temple. “The Janitor smashed him into something before he cut his throat?”
“Looks that way. It would have stunned him, giving the Janitor an advantage.”
Marco closed the file and set it on his desk. “You could have emailed that to me. Why did you come down here?”
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 5