He brushed the hair back from her face and kissed her forehead. “I promise you, though, this will pass. This will end.”
She sighed, running her hand across his chest. “I hate this. I’m so angry about it. I should be able to conquer it. I should be able to stop feeling so afraid.”
“You will, sweetheart. You just haven’t given it enough time.”
“You’re right. I just don’t have patience for weakness.”
He laughed, his laugh rumbling beneath her. “You don’t have patience for anything, sweetheart.”
She lifted her head and stared at him. “Really?” Then she eased up until her mouth was just over his. “That’s not what you said earlier.”
He licked his lips. “Then prove it.”
She kissed him and when she kissed him, she no longer felt afraid.
* * *
“Brian Douglas?” asked Jake, glancing over at Peyton and Tag.
“Total knee replacement. Physical therapy for the last three months,” answered Peyton.
“We checked it out with his doctor,” added Tag.
Jake typed on his tablet, making notations next to each name they researched. “Ron Garcia?”
Simons swiveled in his chair. “His manager confirmed he works five days a week at the hardware store.”
“So?”
“During Simon Olsen’s murder, he was in Arizona for his daughter’s wedding. He showed us a wedding photo with him in it and the wedding invitation,” said Cho.
Defino exhaled and looked away.
Maria grabbed the first folder off the stack. “Paul Gustafson. He’s all the way out in Napa, working a winery.”
“Napa?” asked Peyton. “Isn’t that beyond our scope?”
“The Janitor went quiet for a month and we have no idea where he was,” reasoned Defino.
Peyton glanced at Tag. She shrugged. “We’ll take it. Might as well get some sightseeing in if we have to work our Saturday.”
Maria slid her the file. “Then you get George Hatch,” she told Cho and Simons. “He’s working as campus security for Lowell High.”
Cho reached for the file.
“Be careful out there,” said Defino.
Everyone rose and headed toward the door. Tag was always the first to dash out of the room, but Peyton wasn’t going to chase her down any more.
Defino also hung back. “You sure you’re up for a drive all the way out to Napa?”
Peyton rolled back her chair and stood. “Why not? It’ll be nice to get out of the City.”
“That’s an hour in the car with Tag.”
“Yep.”
“You look tired.”
Waking up every night in a panic did that to a person. “I’m adjusting, Captain. Tag can do some of the driving.”
“You still at your mother’s?”
Peyton hesitated, glancing down at the table. “You know how it is, sleeping in a new place.”
Defino nodded. “How’d it go with Ferguson today?”
“Better. We’re actually working through some things.”
“Good.”
Peyton motioned to the door. “I better go. Tag isn’t much on waiting.”
“So I’ve seen.”
“We’ll let you know if we find anything,” she said, edging toward the exit.
“You do that.” Defino continued to eye her as she walked to the doorway. “Brooks?”
Peyton stopped and turned around.
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
She slipped out before Defino could stop her again. Cho and Maria were talking at her desk, so Peyton ducked her head and hurried toward her own desk, hoping to avoid any more strange conversations. The guilt she carried about Defino made her stomach roil.
She slowed as she came to Marco’s cubicle and peered around the partition. “I feel so horrible about the captain, Marco. I hate keeping things from her.”
Marco rose from his chair and glanced toward the front of the precinct. “We can tell her.”
Peyton considered that, then dismissed it. She wasn’t ready to let him get that far away from her yet. Glancing down, she shook her head no.
He sighed. “Look, let Tag drive out to Napa, okay?”
“I will.”
“She likely got more sleep than you did last night.”
“I know.”
“Remember we have dinner at Abe’s tonight.”
Her eyes snapped to his face. “What?”
“Abe’s for dinner.”
“You didn’t tell me about that?”
“I’m sure I did. He wants you to move in with him for a while.”
Peyton frowned. “Marco, you didn’t tell me.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, shit. How are we going to tell him about us?”
“I don’t know.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “I just don’t know how he’ll react.”
“Neither do I.”
“This could be really bad. He could get really hurt.”
“Or he could be Abe and just roll with it like he does everything else.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Not for a second.”
Peyton slumped against the side of his cubicle. “Why didn’t I think about this beforehand?”
“You’ve had a few things on your mind lately.”
“But I should have thought of Abe. He’s either going to be devastated, God help us, or he’s going to be delighted.”
“God help us,” repeated Marco.
She gave him a worried look. “I’m not kidding.”
“I know you’re not.”
“Hey, Fluffy!” shouted Tag, coming out of the break room. “Are we going to the wine country or not? Maybe you’d like me to roll out the red carpet for you?”
Peyton clenched her jaw as she straightened away from the partition. “I’ve got to come up with a nickname for her. Problem is, each one I think of would get me suspended.”
Marco shook his head in amusement. “Try to avoid that if possible.”
“I make no promises, D’Angelo. A woman named Tag Shotwell is just asking for grief.”
* * *
Rolling golden hills and neat rows of grapevines made for an almost idyllic setting. The winery, itself, was a little stone building with wisteria trailing over the front of it, and behind it undulating beyond sight was the vineyard. Just off the gravel-covered parking lot, a large wine barrel announced the winery’s name – Binot Vineyards.
Peyton climbed out of the Mustang and stretched. Sunlight streamed down, bathing her in warmth. Tag climbed out also and walked around the front of the car, passing her the keys.
Together they headed for the winery, pulling open the door and stepping into the cooler interior. A bell tinkled above the door, but the interior was empty. A few wine-barrel tables covered the stone floor and a long bar took up the back wall. The musky smell of grapes permeated everything. Peyton figured she could get used to this sort of life.
A door opened behind the bar and a woman stepped out. “Hello?”
Tag reached for her badge. “Inspector Tag Shotwell,” she said, showing the woman her credentials.
Peyton frowned. Whoever made the first contact usually introduced both of them.
“Inspector, you’re here to see Paul, right?”
“Right.”
The woman’s brows drew down in a concerned look. “Is he in trouble?”
Tag didn’t immediately answer, her jaw working a piece of gum.
Peyton stepped forward. “No, ma’am, we just have a few questions for him. I’m Inspector Peyton Brooks.” She held out her hand.
The other woman took it. “Questions?”
“About a case we’re working. You know he was once a cop, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, we want to ask him about someone he worked with at one time.”
“I see. He’s out back, prepping for our final harvest of the year.”
“Thank you.”
“You can’t miss him. He always wears a red bandana around his head.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs….”
“Binot. Amy Binot.”
“Thank you again.”
Peyton turned and walked to the door and pushed it open.
Tag followed behind her. “You know I can question people too, right?”
“When we’re dealing with employers, it’s best not to make them concerned until we have a reason to. You get them spooked and they’ll fire someone just because they don’t want trouble.”
“I know that, Fluffy.”
Peyton let it go. She didn’t feel like tangling with her right now. She was worried about Abe and how he was going to react once he knew she and Marco were a couple. Maybe they could keep it from him as well.
Just as Amy Binot said, Paul Gustafson was easy to spot. They quickly marked his red bandana from the bottom of the hill. As they climbed into the rows of grapes to meet him, Tag distanced herself from Peyton, her longer legs carrying her up the incline without a problem.
By the time Peyton arrived, Tag had already introduced herself.
Gustafson was eying them both suspiciously. He was an older man with leathery skin from working outdoors and his hands sported huge knuckles. He gave Peyton a severe once-over.
“Used to be a height requirement for the force,” he grumbled.
Peyton held out her hand, ignoring the slight. “I’m Inspector Peyton Brooks.”
He took her hand. “You get me fired?”
Tag cocked a hip and placed her fist on her gun belt. She liked to wear it around her waist. “No, we told her we just wanted to ask you some questions about someone you worked with.”
“Simon Olsen.” It wasn’t a question. Jake and Maria had done a good job briefing him.
“You know him?” asked Tag.
“I knew him. Can’t say I’m surprised he’s dead. He deserved whatever he got.”
Tag exchanged a look with her.
Peyton heard a scurrying in the dead leaves and glanced down the rows, but she saw nothing.
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Tag, chomping away on her gum.
“You didn’t know Simon Olsen then. He was one rat bastard.”
“How so?”
Peyton tried to concentrate, but the quiet out here was unnerving. As far as she looked, there were only grapevines.
“He was always messing with women, sleeping around, then refusing to call them. If you had a vagina, he was after you whether you wanted him to be or not.”
“How long have you been retired?”
“I quit the force eight years ago.”
“You been here ever since?”
“Yep. I haven’t left this piece of property for more than a few hours at a time. I’ve got a little room above the utility shed down there.”
Peyton glanced back at him. “It’s nice out here,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
He gave her an appraising look. “How long you had the jumps?”
She frowned. “The what?”
“PTSD.”
She glanced over at Tag, catching her rolling her eyes. “I don’t know…”
“You can deny it all you want, but you’ve looked over your shoulder five times in the last few minutes.”
Peyton sighed. “It’s recent.”
Gustafson nodded. “It’ll get better.”
“Have you had it?”
He gave a grim laugh. “Why do you think I’m out here?”
Tag shifted weight impatiently. “I’ll go verify your employment with Binot.” She gave Peyton an annoyed look. “Meet you at the car?”
“Yeah.”
Gustafson dropped his clippers into a bucket and stripped off his work gloves. “Come on. I’ll buy you a drink.”
Peyton followed him down to the back of the winery. A coke machine rested under the eaves in the shade. Gustafson fished out some coins and fed them into the machine.
“This is the only drink you’ll get from me. The other type just causes more problems and you don’t need that. What do you want?”
Peyton pointed and he pressed the button. A can dropped into the dispenser and he grabbed it, passing it to her. She popped the top on it and wandered over to a rustic wooden bench set under the windows of the winery. She had a good view of the golden hills, bathed in sunlight, and the even lines of grape stretching beyond sight.
Taking a seat, she sipped at the cold drink, watching as Gustafson got his own soda from the dispenser.
He carried it over to her and sat down heavily on the bench, rubbing his knee.
“Tell me what happened.”
Peyton frowned at him, lowering her can. She wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss it with a stranger, but he was the only one she knew who admitted to having PTSD. Placing the can against her thigh, she toyed with the flip tab.
“I was grabbed off the street in broad daylight and shoved in the back of a cargo van. He took me to the Presidio and left me in the van. I almost died of carbon monoxide poisoning.”
Gustafson took a sip, shaking his head. “You know who did it?”
“The serial killer we’re trying to find.”
“Shit. You think he’s a cop, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How did he know where to find you?”
“That’s why we think he’s a cop.”
“Did he…” Gustafson cleared his throat. “Did he assault you?”
Peyton ran her thumb through the condensation. “Sexually? No, but the precinct is making me see a psychologist, and the psychologist says I have PTSD, but…”
“But you don’t believe him or her?”
She shrugged. “I feel stupid saying that. Soldiers who risk their lives every day have PTSD, not idiots who get snatched off the street.”
He shifted and gave her a critical look. “Stop devaluing what happened to you. That’s the first step to getting over it. Look, for some people it’s one horrific episode, for others it’s many things over time, but whatever that experience is, it’s enough to cause trauma. It’s the loss of control, the threat of death, or watching someone else die.”
“Since you asked me, what was yours?”
He sipped his drink, then rubbed his knee again. “I shot a 14 year old kid.”
Peyton flinched. She didn’t mean to, she couldn’t help it.
He nodded. “Yep. He was strung out on LSD. We thought he had a gun.” He looked over at her. “He didn’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. Quit the next week. They gave me my pension, but…” He held up a hand and let it fall.
“Did you get counseling?”
“Yep. Moved here to the quiet. Sometimes I even sleep a whole night through now.”
Peyton let out a sad laugh. “God that would be nice. Every night I bolt awake covered in sweat, shaking.”
“Yeah, cost me two marriages. The last one I slugged before I woke up. That was it. She was gone the next day.”
Peyton looked over at him in misery. “That’s what I fear. How much longer can he take this? How many more times can he let me destroy his sleep?”
“You thought about joining a support group. You and your man? It’ll help him understand and you can talk to other people who have it.”
Peyton shook her head. “I don’t know about that. I still feel foolish telling my story.” She scratched at her temple. “I wonder if some strong sleeping pills wouldn’t be the better option.”
“Don’t do that. You’re just asking for another problem to add to this one. You gotta stop thinking there are different degrees of trauma. If you don’t do that, you’re never gonna make any progress.”
“Progress? I want a cure.”
He laughed. “I don’t think there is one, Inspector, unless it’s time.”
* * *
Peyton knocked on Abe’s door, tucking her hands into her back pockets and giving Marco a te
nse smile. The entire way over, she’d gone back and forth between whether they should tell Abe or not. Standing outside his condo, she’d come out on the not telling him side once again.
He threw open the door with a flourish. He was wearing a midnight blue collared shirt, but as he shifted it shimmered in the light from the candles he had strewn around his condo. He had on a pair of beaded slippers and wore what Peyton could only describe as genie pants in a silky black.
“My two favorite people in the world,” he said, showing them his impressive tooth-filled grin. “I’m so glad you’re finally here.” He swooped down on Peyton and crushed her in a bear hug before she could even cross the threshold, then he reached up and cupped the side of Marco’s face, kissing his cheek. “Come in, come in.” He stepped back, swinging his arms wide.
Peyton drew a deep breath and entered. Wonderful smells caressed her – garlic and spices from cooking mingled with cinnamon from candles. As always Abe’s condo was immaculate and stylish from his eggplant colored walls to his minimalist furnishings.
“Let me take your coats.”
They shrugged out of them, passing them over. Abe walked to the coat closet and pulled the door open, reaching in to grab a hanger. “So Angel said you went to Napa today?”
“Yeah, we questioned a retired cop. He worked with Simon Olsen.”
“Interesting.” Abe hung up both coats, then shut the door. “How was Napa?”
“Beautiful.” She didn’t really feel like talking about it. She hadn’t even told Marco much yet.
“Well, good. Make yourselves at home,” he said, turning away from them and moving toward his kitchen. “I’ll just go get us some drink…” Suddenly he stopped walking, his fingers curling into his fist. He twisted back around to face them, leveling them with a look. “You’re sleeping together.”
Peyton blinked at him. “What?”
“How the hell do you know that?” said Marco.
Abe narrowed his eyes. “Her hair is down and we all know you like it that way, so she’s doing it to please you. And she’s leaning toward you, not standing straight, so she wants to maintain contact. Finally, when you walked through the door, you put your hand in the small of her back, an intimacy that speaks to a much greater intimacy, if you know what I mean.”
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 8