Peyton’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Marco cleared his throat.
“Abe,” she started to say, but he reached out and clasped her hands, pressing them between both of his own.
“I would have made such a good detective.”
She gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, you would.”
“Don’t move. I’m gonna go get us something to drink.” He whirled away and skipped to the kitchen, disappearing inside.
Peyton and Marco stood rooted to the spot.
“How the hell did he do that?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“I’m a little freaked out.”
“You are?”
Abe returned with a tray, three glasses and a bottle of champagne, settling it on the dining table. “Why are you standing there like that?”
“You told us not to move.”
He waved them off. “Don’t be silly. Hey, Angel, remember the Dom Perignon we had on our date?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, this is Cristal and it’s even better.”
“Better than a $200 bottle of wine?”
“Yes, it’s a $275 bottle of wine.”
“You’re not going to open that tonight, are you?” asked Peyton, moving toward the table.
“Of course I am. I’ve been holding it for this very occasion.”
Peyton glanced at Marco. “What occasion?”
“The two of you finally hitting the sack.”
“What?”
He pulled the cork on the bottle with a resounding pop and began to fill their glasses.
“What do you mean you’ve been holding it?”
“I bought this years ago.”
“Years ago?”
“Yeah.”
“You knew we were going to…” Her voice faltered.
“Do the horizontal mambo, yeah. We all did. I think there’s a betting pool at the precinct about it.”
“What?”
“Oh, come on, little soul sista, everyone’s known he’s had the hots for you for years, and we all thought you’d eventually figure out how crazy you are for him.”
“All these times I’ve come to you and told you how lonely I am and you knew what he felt?”
“Yes.”
“And at no time did you think you might tell me?”
Abe gave her a patronizing look. “You wouldn’t have believed me. You had to learn it for yourself. You’ve always had the power to go back to Kansas. Now those magic slippers will take you home in two seconds.” He grinned. “Toto, too.”
Peyton swatted at him. “You’re an ass!”
He peeled off into laughter and handed her a glass. “I prefer the term Good Witch of the North, if it’s all the same to you.”
Peyton couldn’t stop her smile. “How ‘bout Fairy?”
Abe considered that. “No, she was a witch.” He handed Marco a glass, then touched both of them with his own. “Now for a toast. May the sex be…” A buzzer went off in the kitchen, interrupting him. “Hold that thought. That’ll be my quiche.” He set his glass down and returned through the swinging door.
Marco wandered over to Abe’s couch and took a seat. Peyton set her glass down beside Abe’s and followed him, placing her hands on her hips. “What are you doing?”
“Enjoying my champagne,” he said, taking a sip.
She leveled a look at him. “Enjoying your champagne. Did you hear him just say he expected us to wind up together?”
“I did.”
“And that’s it?”
“Doesn’t seem to be much left to say, does there?”
“Really? He said the precinct had a betting pool.”
Marco shrugged, taking another sip.
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“They clearly saw something we didn’t, so…”
“So? You don’t think it’s a bit upsetting that everyone assumed we’d wind up in bed together?”
“We did wind up in bed together.”
Peyton narrowed her eyes. “Are you really enjoying your champagne?”
“I feel like I should say I’m not.”
“Oh, enjoy it, all right.” She moved closer, bracing her hand on the couch and leaning over him. “‘Cause that’s the only thing you’ll be enjoying tonight!” She started to move away, but he caught her wrist and pulled her down onto his lap.
She tried to push away from him, but he wrapped his arm around her waist and held her there.
“Careful. You’ll spill my $275 champagne,” he warned, then he kissed her.
Peyton couldn’t resist giving in when he was being so persuasive. She slid her arms around his neck. “That is good champagne,” she said, drawing back a little. Then she leaned forward and captured his mouth again.
“Oh, gross!” said Abe, coming out of the kitchen. “Why can’t heterosexuals keep it to themselves?”
Peyton pulled away, laughing.
“Come on. Dinner’s ready,” said Abe, setting his quiche on the dining room table.
For a dinner at Abe’s, he was keeping it simple. His vegetarian quiche, paired with a hearty salad of broccoli and brussel sprouts in a poppy seed vinaigrette, was followed by a raspberry mousse that melted almost the moment it touched the tongue. If eating vegetarian could be like this every single time, Peyton would never object.
Abe entertained them with stories from the Medical Examiner’s office or things he remembered from his childhood. Once the meal was over, they continued to sit at the dining table, sipping their champagne.
Marco’s phone buzzed and he pulled it out, looking at the display. “It’s Vinnie,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I won’t be long.”
Peyton gave him a smile as he walked away from the table toward the kitchen, answering the call. She ran her fingers up and down the stem of her champagne glass.
“So dish about the sex,” said Abe as soon as Marco disappeared into the kitchen.
“I’m not talking about that with you.”
Abe winced. “Bad?”
Peyton laughed. “Great. Better than great.”
“I want details.”
“You aren’t getting details. But, are you sure you’re okay with this?”
He lounged back in his chair, holding his wine glass on his knee. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve been expecting it for the longest time.” He drew out longest.
Peyton folded her arms on the table. “I just thought, you know, well, it’s Marco…” She motioned with her chin at the kitchen door.
“You thought that I wished Marco was gay?”
She nodded.
“Every gay man in San Francisco wishes he was gay, Peyton, but I know he’s not.” He took a sip of his drink. “He’s good for you. He always has been.”
She dropped her eyes to the table.
“What’s that about?” He motioned at her lowered head.
“I’m just so afraid I’m going to mess it up.”
Abe waved her off. “I don’t think you can. He’s been so hot and bothered by you for so long, he’s not letting you get away.”
“I wake us up every single night shaking and terrified. I just don’t know how long he can take it.”
“Does Dr. Ferguson think you have PTSD?”
“Yeah.”
Abe reached over and removed her wine glass. “Enough of that, then.”
“I’m not an alcoholic.”
“And you aren’t going to be.” He leaned forward and clasped her hand. “Look, little bits, I don’t know whether you and Marco are destined for a lifetime together, but right now, he’s good for you. He’s here and he isn’t going away anytime soon. Instead of being so all fired worried about the future all the time, why don’t you try to live in the moment?”
Peyton squeezed his hand and gave him a smile.
“And in this moment, sweets,” he said, raising his eyebrows nearly to his hairline, “you’re getting some better than great sex.”
Peyton laugh
ed.
CHAPTER 6
“I hate working weekends,” complained Tag.
“Yeah, but it’s a pretty drive.” Peyton wasn’t thrilled with working on her Sunday either, but if they had to work, she didn’t mind taking a drive down the Coast Highway into Pacifica.
“We’re going to a mobile home park, Fluffy, not the beach.”
Storm clouds had rolled in overnight and hovered ominously on the coast.
“You gonna tell me you wouldn’t rather be cuddled up in bed with Lieutenant G.Q.?”
Peyton ignored that. She wasn’t going to take the bait, but Tag did have a point. She wouldn’t have minded sleeping in with Marco this morning. “If you don’t like working weekends, you definitely picked the wrong business.”
“What’s the name of this guy again?”
“Maria texted it to my phone.” Peyton nodded at the cup holder where her phone rested.
Tag picked it up and thumbed it on. “Lawrence Lowell. What a name.”
Peyton frowned. As if anyone named Tag Shotwell had a right to talk. “By the way, is Tag your legal name?”
“What?”
“You mentioned Lowell’s name, so I was wondering if your name is really Tag.”
“It is where you’re concerned.”
Peyton sighed and focused on the road. No matter what she did, Tag rebuffed her. Fine, they didn’t need to be friends. At least Tag wasn’t refusing to go on calls with her anymore. She pulled off on Palmetto Drive and slowed the Mustang, glancing down at the GPS.
“We should be able to get done here pretty quick, then you can have the rest of your day to yourself,” she offered.
Tag grunted and slumped down in the seat.
Peyton pulled into the mobile home park. It butted up to the ocean – she could see the whitecaps in the distance – and every home had a weathered grey appearance no matter what color it had originally been.
“We’re looking for number 134.”
Tag straightened and shifted so she could look out the window. The residents had tried to make their yards homey, adding lawn decorations or driftwood fences sporting sand dollars tied with wire. Peyton drove slowly, surprised there weren’t more people out and about on a Sunday, but she figured most people were probably still enjoying their morning cup of coffee right about now.
Angling back toward the ocean, they came upon a small blue mobile home with a driftwood fence around it. It was hidden from the street by cypress trees and backed up to the sand dunes. A faded mailbox with the number 134 marked the entrance to a short asphalt driveway. A beat up white pickup sat on the pad and as Peyton parked behind it, she could see a decal in the back window. The decal was a badge with the letters SFPD arced across the top of it.
She set the brake, then she and Tag got out. Immediately the pounding of the waves reached them, followed by a distant cry of gulls. Peyton stepped up on the walkway leading to the front door and reached for the latch on the rickety wooden gate. Pushing it open, she held it for Tag.
Suddenly a dog crawled out from beneath the front porch and started barking at them. He was a big German shepherd, tied up with a metal chain attached to a stake in the ground. Peyton and Tag stumbled to a halt, then Tag reached for her gun.
Peyton caught the motion from the corner of her eye and threw out her hand to stop her. “Whoa! Calm down!” Then she focused on the dog. “Sit!” she commanded.
The dog cocked his head, then slowly lowered himself on his haunches. Tag’s fingers flexed on her gun handle.
“Down!” said Peyton, motioning with her hand.
The dog lay down, resting his head on his paws.
Peyton blew out air, then extended her hand, moving toward him.
“What the hell are you doing, Fluffy?”
“Just don’t move,” she ordered, continuing to advance.
The dog’s tail brushed the dirt and his ears pricked forward.
Peyton sidled over to him, then gradually held her hand down to his nose. He laid his ears back along his head and gave a nervous whimper, then he sniffed her. Rising up, he pressed his head beneath her hand and allowed her to pet him.
Peyton exhaled and stroked his ears.
“Huh,” said Tag behind her. “Go figure. You like dogs too.”
“You don’t?” Peyton had always found that hard to believe. How could anyone not like a dog?
“Not particularly. Got bit by one when I was six.”
Peyton hunkered down and let the dog press himself against her.
“How did you know he wouldn’t take your arm off?”
“He was wagging his tail even when he was growling at us.”
“So?”
“He didn’t really want trouble. Besides, he belongs to a retired cop. I figured he probably had some obedience training.”
“Unbelievable.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Tag edged wide around the dog and climbed the stairs to the front door. As she knocked, Peyton gave the dog a last pat, then followed her. A moment later the door flew open and a young man in a wife-beater t-shirt and shorts peered out. A cloud of sweet smelling smoke followed him.
“Stop messing with my dog!”
Tag exchanged a look with Peyton, then reached for her badge. “Inspector Shotwell from the SFPD. We’re here to see Lawrence Lowell.”
He took a step back, but continued to hold the door. “He ain’t here.”
“Hm.” She waved the smoke away from her face. “I think I’d like to see a medical marijuana card. What about you, Inspector Brooks?”
“Definitely.”
He gave an exasperated huff, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out a card, flashing it at her. “Don’t you have something better to do?”
Tag held out her hand. “I think I’d like a closer look.”
He shifted weight and looked down, then placed the card in her hand. Tag glanced at it, then passed it to Peyton. “Funny isn’t it, that we’re looking for Lawrence Lowell and your name is Lawrence Lowell, except it says here you have glaucoma. That’s a shame. Young guy like you.”
Peyton tapped the card against the door jamb. “Must be some good Maryjane ‘cause you’ve taken about thirty years off your age too.”
“We’re gonna need a driver’s license, Mr. Lowell.”
“Okay, look. I just went and picked it up for him.”
“License!”
He pulled a wallet out of his back pocket and opened it, turning it to show Tag. “I’m living with his daughter.”
Tag nodded with a tight smile. “Here?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Mr. Benjamin Campbell, is Mr. Lowell’s daughter here right now?”
“Yeah.”
“And you still say Mr. Lowell isn’t?”
“Right.”
“Well, here’s the thing, Benjamin, we can call the sheriff’s department and let them handle this, or you can let us in to talk with his daughter. My partner and I aren’t much worried about the pot, but we might become worried if you keep us standing here on the porch.” She glanced over her shoulder. “It looks like it might rain.”
He huffed again, then backed up, swinging the door open. “It’s just Benny. I hate Benjamin.”
“Good to know.”
Tag stepped through first and Peyton followed. Glancing back at the dog, Peyton marked that he’d taken a seat on the porch stairs, his head on his paws.
“You know it’s illegal to chain a dog in California, right?” she told Benny.
He shrugged. “Ain’t my dog.”
“When was the last time you fed him?”
“Not my problem.”
Peyton turned to face him, making him stumble to a halt. “It is your problem or I’ll be your problem. Do we understand each other?”
“Yeah.”
He led them through a paneled hallway into a low ceiling living room covered in cast off clothing. A big screen television hung on the wall, tuned to a ta
lk show where people yelled at each other. Two couches in faded green created two sides of a triangle and a young woman with dirty blond hair lounged on the one facing the TV. As they entered, she sat up, letting a blanket pool around her waist.
“They’re looking for your dad,” said Benny, stepping past them and throwing himself down on the couch beside her.
Empty pizza boxes lay strewn in the middle of the clothes and a collection of soda cans lined the coffee table. A cloud of pot smoke hung over everything.
Peyton reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card, passing it to the girl. “We want to talk to your father.”
She pushed back a lank strand of hair and took the card. “He ain’t here.”
“That’s what Benny said,” offered Tag. “Where is he?”
“Vegas,” the girl said, balling the blanket in her hands.
“Are you sick?” asked Peyton.
She shook her head. “We just had a late night.”
Peyton gave a slow nod. “How long has your father been in Vegas?”
“A week.”
“When does he get back?”
She looked at Benny. He shrugged, scratching at his belly through a stained t-shirt.
“I can’t remember.”
“Where’s he staying?” asked Tag.
“Where’s he staying?” she repeated.
Tag glanced at Peyton.
“As in hotel?” suggested Peyton.
“Oh, he’s staying with friends.”
“Can we have their names?”
She balled the blanket some more. “I don’t remember.”
“Maybe you wanna open a window and get some oxygen in here!” snapped Tag.
Peyton shifted. The smoke and the dingy room were making her uncomfortable. Tag gave her an assessing look. Peyton rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, trying to focus on the situation.
“Look, she’s got your card. We’ll call you when he gets back,” said Benny.
Peyton reached for her notebook and flipped it open. She needed to stick to her usual routine. “What’s your name?” she asked the girl.
The girl looked worried. Peyton suddenly realized that was the vibe she was getting from her. “Helen.”
Peyton wrote it down. “Lowell?”
“Yeah.”
Peyton focused on Benny. “Go get the dog some food so we can talk to Helen.”
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 9