Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7)

by M. L. Hamilton

  A few seconds later, the door opened. A short, stocky woman peered out. Peyton reached for her badge. “Inspectors Brooks and Shotwell, ma’am? We were wondering if we could speak with your husband.”

  She gave them a kind smile and stepped back. “Of course, come in, Inspectors. He’s just watching TV.”

  She led Peyton and Tag through a dark hallway to a living room. A flat screened TV shouted from the wall above the fireplace and Peyton glanced over her shoulder at it. Baseball.

  Brian Douglas occupied a recliner directly in front of it, a blanket draped over his legs. He was in his late to mid-sixties with salt and pepper hair feathered away from his temples. He wasn’t overly large and his face was thin and long. He pulled his eyes away from the television and gave Peyton a blank stare.

  “Officer Douglas?” she asked.

  “What do you want?”

  “We wanted to ask you a few questions about Simon Olsen.”

  He looked back at the game. “I only worked with him for about nine months. That’s all.”

  Peyton and Tag shared a look.

  Douglas’ wife gave them a sympathetic smile.

  “Be nice, Brian,” she said. Then she touched Peyton’s arm. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

  Peyton returned her smile, then watched her walk down the dark hallway toward the back of the house. Leaning forward, she glanced at the television screen. Pittsburgh and Arizona – hm, she should know this. Uh, Pirates and Diamondbacks. Hadn’t Jake said it was the playoffs? No, the last few games to decide who gets the wild card spot.

  “So, do you think the Giants will secure a wild card spot for the National League?” God, she hoped they were in the National League.

  Douglas gave a sarcastic laugh. “Not a chance in hell this year.”

  Peyton nodded in agreement. “They sure looked good at the start of the season.” She moved toward the sofa and sat down next to the recliner.

  “Yeah, I had high hopes, but they definitely know how to dash them.”

  Peyton looked at the screen. “It’s the bull pen. They just don’t have any relief pitchers.” She held her breath, hoping that’s what she’d heard Jake say to Marco the other day.

  Douglas finally looked at her. “You can say that again.”

  Peyton let out her breath, giving Tag a wild-eyed look. Tag leaned on the doorjamb, crossing her arms over her chest, amusement showing on her face.

  “Or closers. They gotta do something about getting a closer,” Peyton continued.

  “You’re preaching to the choir, sister. We don’t need any more sluggers. We got hitters.”

  Peyton smiled at him. “Yeah, but you can’t give up ten runs a game no matter how good your batters are.”

  Douglas shifted in his chair, looking at her. After a moment, he sighed. “I didn’t know Simon Olsen too good, but let’s say I’m not surprised he wound up hanging from a chandelier.”

  Peyton leaned forward and braced her arms on her thighs. “Can I ask you why?”

  “He was always chasing skirt. Made a lot of women uncomfortable. Couple of the guys and me, we talked about how he was gonna piss the wrong woman off and she was gonna tell someone. It was only a matter of time.”

  “Anyone in particular get upset about the way he was?”

  “Naw, just complaint after complaint. They’d move him to another precinct and he’d do it all over again.” He gave Peyton a pointed look. “Rumor has it he was killed by this serial killer, this cleaner guy?”

  Peyton didn’t respond.

  “Look, I know why you’re here. You think the serial killer is a cop or an ex-cop.”

  “Someone with military training,” she offered.

  Douglas digested that, then he reached for the edge of his blanket and swept it aside. His right leg was in a brace. “Total knee replacement three months ago. Still doing physical therapy.”

  Peyton nodded and pushed herself to her feet. “It was nice talking to you, Officer Douglas.”

  “Yeah,” he said, accepting her hand. “It was nice talking to you, Inspector Brooks.”

  She walked toward the hallway and Tag fell into step behind her.

  “Good luck,” Douglas called after them.

  * * *

  Genevieve walked as casually as she could into the Fiddler’s Green. She’d been going over everything for a few days and decided she needed to talk to D’Angelo. She wasn’t sure she intended to confess anything to him, but she wanted to see if they were any closer to getting the Janitor than they’d been.

  Searching the tavern, she didn’t find him. He wasn’t hard to spot. His size and his looks drew everyone’s eyes like a beacon. Thinking he might still come in, she took a seat at the bar and swiveled so she could watch the doors.

  A few minutes later, the door opened and Bartlet, the young uniformed officer, came in. He also swept the bar with his eyes, coming to rest on her. She gave him a brilliant smile. She was actually glad to see a friendly face. San Francisco could be so lonely when you didn’t know anyone.

  He weaved through the tables and came to her side. “Ms. Lake, fancy seeing you here.”

  “I know. It’s shocking. How are you, Officer Bartlet?”

  “Good.” He pointed to the stool. “Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “It’s all yours.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder.

  “What are you having?”

  “Nothing at the moment.” The bartender was at the other end of the bar, taking an order.

  “Pinot, right?”

  “Pinot, right.”

  He waved at the bartender. The man walked over. “Draft and a glass of Pinot for the lady.”

  The bartender nodded and wandered away.

  “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this. I thought Inspector D’Angelo told you to stay away from me,” said Genevieve.

  Bartlet gave a sarcastic chuckle. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “I see.”

  He swiveled to face her, giving her a frank look. “Are you looking for him?”

  She didn’t want Bartlet leaving if she told the truth. She really didn’t feel like being alone. “No, I have his number if I wanted to contact him. It’s just…” She shook her head. “I love San Francisco, but it’s so…”

  “Big and lonely.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I know.”

  “Come on, you must have a half dozen girlfriends, Officer Bartlet.”

  “It’s Jimmy, by the way.”

  “Jimmy, I’m Genevieve.”

  “I know.”

  “So about the girlfriends?”

  He laughed. “My closest friend, and he isn’t a girl, is my partner, but even he doesn’t like me very much.”

  She laughed with him.

  The bartender settled the drinks on the bar before them and Bartlet reached for his wallet.

  “I can pay for my wine,” she offered.

  He waved her off and gave the bartender a twenty, then he picked up his beer mug and touched her wine glass with it. “Here’s to making new friends.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  They spent a pleasant hour talking about their families, their dating history, and their interest, but she deliberately avoided talking about his job. Not that she wasn’t curious, but she didn’t want to spook him. It was nice to have another person to share a few moments with and she didn’t want to ruin it.

  He walked her to her car, and even that was nice. She didn’t remember the last time a man had been so kind to her, so gentlemanly. Once at the car, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and dropped his eyes, swaying back and forth. She guessed what he was going to say next, and she actually hoped he would get the courage to ask her.

  Sure, she would have preferred a man like D’Angelo. What straight woman wouldn’t? But there was something sweet and easy about Bartlet, something that was very attractive to her with her complicated life.

  “I don’t suppose…” he be
gan.

  “Yes!” she said, too quickly. She felt heat rise into her cheeks. She hadn’t given him time to ask her anything.

  He looked up at her and smiled. It was the sweetest smile she’d ever received. “I didn’t finish.”

  “I’m sorry. I jumped the gun. I just had a nice time tonight.” She pressed her hands to her burning cheeks.

  He nodded. “So did I. Can I take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

  “I have a meeting at the newspaper tomorrow night, but what about the following night?”

  “Yeah, it’s a date.”

  She laughed happily. “Do you want to meet somewhere?”

  He pulled out his phone. “Give me your number and I’ll call you.”

  She rattled it off and he typed it into his contacts list.

  “Is 7:00 good?”

  “Perfect,” she said.

  He gave her another sweet smile. “See you then.”

  “See you then,” she said.

  As she drove back to her apartment, she felt a little glow inside of her. What a normal thing to do. What a healthy step. She had a date, a date with a man who was interested in her, not just her looks. He’d made that clear on so many other occasions.

  She pulled into the garage beneath her apartment and turned off the car, then she walked to the elevator. She didn’t regret leaving L.A. for San Francisco. She just wished she had a job that helped her meet people.

  The elevator doors opened and she swiped her card across the display to run it, then she leaned back on the rail as it climbed to her floor. It was hard to meet anyone as a reporter. People were instantly on edge, never sure what her motive was when she talked to them. It made establishing relationships all the harder.

  The elevator opened again and she stepped out, heading for her apartment. The hallways were empty, but they usually were and if not, whenever she saw anyone at the garbage shoot or in the elevator, they didn’t acknowledge her.

  She pulled out her key and opened her door, then closed it and locked it behind her. She kicked off her heels and threw her purse down on the sofa, reaching behind her to unzip her dress. Letting the dress fall on the floor, she walked into the bedroom and pulled open a drawer, fishing out a pair of shorts and a tank top. She tugged them on, then wandered back into the living room.

  Surveying the trail of clothes and shoes, she figured she had two days to clean this mess up before her date. Stretching her arms over her head, she did a little spin around the living room. God, she hadn’t felt this excited in months.

  Suddenly her phone rang in her purse. She came to a halt, staring at it. Her heart had climbed into her throat and she caught her breath.

  It rang again.

  Maybe it was Jimmy. Maybe he was calling to make sure she got home all right, or to make the arrangements for their date.

  She forced herself to walk over to it and reached down, opening the flap and pulling it out. She didn’t recognize the number, but she wouldn’t recognize Jimmy’s number either if he called. She thumbed it on and brought it to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s funny, isn’t it? My wife was tall. 5’8, 5’9, but Inspector Brooks is a tiny little thing. I usually like tall women.”

  Genevieve almost dropped the phone. Her knees felt weak and she sank down on the sofa, curling her arm around her waist. “I don’t think you should call here anymore.”

  “I thought we had a deal.”

  Their deal. Oh, God, what the hell had she gotten herself into?

  “Are you saying the deal’s off?”

  “No!” She said it so quickly, she knew she’d regret it, but she couldn’t be responsible for more people dying. As long as she talked to him, he wouldn’t kill again.

  “So why do you think I’m attracted to Inspector Brooks?”

  “I have no idea.” A thought struck her. “Is your wife still with you?”

  He went quiet for a moment, then he spoke with an edge in his voice. “No, she left me.”

  Genevieve rubbed a hand across her mouth. She was trembling, but the reporter in her wanted to know. “Did you kill her?”

  “What a thing to ask.”

  “Answer me!”

  He chuckled. “I like your spirit. You’re so much better when you fight back, you know that?”

  “Did you kill your wife?”

  “I’d rather talk about Inspector Brooks.”

  “I wouldn’t. I want to talk about your wife.”

  He didn’t respond for a moment.

  Genevieve pulled a blanket off the back of the sofa and tried to pull it around her to stop the shaking. All of the blood seemed to have drained out of her body, leaving her chilled.

  “You’re boring me.”

  She almost dropped the phone. “Fine. Talk about Inspector Brooks.”

  “No. You had your chance.”

  Genevieve felt physically sick. If he was planning something else for Brooks, she’d screwed up her chance to learn what it was. She had to get him talking again. “How do you keep eluding the cops?”

  “Good question.” His voice was less clipped. “How do you think I do it?”

  She shook her head. “You anticipate what they’re going to do. You know how they’re going to react. You…” She caught herself as a thought struck her. “Are you a cop yourself?”

  “Ah, you really do have a reporter’s spirit.”

  “You said you were in the Marines.”

  “Right.”

  “How long did you serve?”

  “Four years.”

  “Honorable discharge?”

  He laughed again. “Very good, Ms. Lake. You ask the right questions.”

  “Answer me.”

  “They gave me an honorable discharge, yes.”

  “Did you deserve one?”

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I did my service for my country. I’ve always done my service for my country. Even now, I’m serving my country.”

  “You’re serving yourself!” She fell silent, sure this would anger him.

  He was quiet for so long, she thought he might have hung up. Then he gave a low laugh. “There is so much to commend to youth. As Aristotle once said, youth is easily deceived because it is quick to hope.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When you’re young, you see things so two-dimensionally. It’s much easier, I grant you, but it’s so wrong.”

  “Are you saying you have the right to do what you do? To murder people? To kidnap them? To terrorize?”

  “I’m saying it falls to certain men to take action. It’s not a position anyone willingly chooses, but when you are chosen, only a true man will face his own potential greatness and wrestle with it.”

  Genevieve covered her eyes with her hand. “You’re insane.”

  “Ah, judgment – also a corruption of youth. I think we’re done here, Ms. Lake.”

  “No! We have a deal. You can’t just change the rules because you don’t like what I said. You can’t praise me for fighting back one minute and then punish me for it the next. We have a deal.”

  “We have a deal,” he said, then the line went dead.

  CHAPTER 5

  She kicked against the door, then shifted around and pressed her shoulder to it, but it didn’t budge. She could hear banging on the wall beside her, but she didn’t know whether to call out for help or not. What if he heard her? What if he came?

  She searched the floor for a weapon, scrambling frantically for anything she could find. The bed of the van began to flake off in her hands and she held them up, staring at them. Dirt covered her fingers, falling away like sand at the beach.

  The banging was getting closer, coming nearer. She dug frantically in the dirt. She could hear her own breath, her own sobs of fear. Her fingers touched something cold, something hard, metallic. She dug more, glancing over her shoulder at the door.

  The banging sounded on the back panel, ri
ght over where the door handles should be. She found the edge of the metal and scraped the dirt away from it. Curling her fingers around the edge, she pulled upward and it came free of the hole she’d made. She rubbed it against her shirt to remove the remaining dirt and discovered she held a gun.

  The banging had stopped, but she could hear the handles turning, squealing in protest. She faced the door and braced the gun in both hands, but she shook so badly, the gun wavered. She braced her forearms on her knees and closed her eyes, breathing a prayer.

  A ray of light peeked through the crack as the doors were drawn open. A figure loomed at the back entrance, blocking the light. Peyton bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, her fingers tightening on the gun, then she pulled the trigger.

  Light flared in the back of the van, bright enough to illuminate the figure at the doors a moment before he was thrown backward by the impact of the bullet. In that moment, Peyton recognized him…Marco.

  She jerked upright with a gasp. A cold sweat beaded the skin between her breasts and prickled along her hairline. She tented her knees and curled her arms around them, closing her eyes.

  Marco sat up behind her. A moment later she felt his hand in her hair, stroking it, then he curled his body around her back, wrapping her in his arms. She leaned her head against his shoulder, letting him support her.

  “This is getting old,” she said, then cleared her throat. Her voice was raspy.

  He moved away a little and grabbed the water glass on the nightstand, holding it out for her. She took it and drank a sip.

  He swept the curls off her shoulder, then bent down and kissed her bare skin. She closed her eyes, trying to focus on his touch. “It’ll get better,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around her again.

  “What if it doesn’t? What if this is how it’ll be for the rest of my life? We’re going to keep waking up in the middle of the night?”

  He nuzzled his face in her hair, his fingers tracing light strokes up and down her arm. “As long as we have to.”

  He took the glass from her and replaced it, then he laid back against the pillows, his hand trailing down her back. She shifted and slid down next to him, placing her head on his chest and wrapping her arms around him.