Now Bernardo and Franco slapped him on the back. “Night,” they both said.
“Night,” he answered, watching them as they walked to Vinnie’s truck and climbed inside.
Vinnie hung back with Marco, giving him a sidelong look. “You know Mom’s going to be pissed you haven’t told her yet.”
“It’s still new, Vinnie. We haven’t really told anyone yet.”
“Yeah, but this is Peyton. I think Mom likes her better than any of our wives.”
Marco laughed. Most people did when they got to know her.
Vinnie rocked on his heels, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I don’t want to lecture you, but you know Peyton isn’t like one of your good time girls, right?”
“Good time girls?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, but do you have to sound like a 1930s gangster?”
Vinnie shoved him in the shoulder. “I’m serious, Marco.”
Marco gave him a smile. “I know you are. And so am I. Do you think for a moment I don’t know what I have here?”
“I hope you do.”
“I do.” He shoved Vinnie back. “And right now, she’s waiting up there for me.”
Vinnie laughed. “Then you better hurry. And call Mom. She deserves to stop worrying about you for a while.”
Marco held out his hand. Vinnie took it and pulled him in for a hug. Slapping his shoulders, he backed away from him and went to the truck. Marco waited for them to pull out of the parking lot, then he jogged back to the apartment building door and took the stairs two at a time.
Stepping into his apartment again, his eyes landed on the 49ers jersey, laying draped over the back of the couch. A smile lit up his face and he quickly shut the door and locked it. The dog lifted his head from the couch and watched him.
Marco reached over and ruffled his ears, then grabbed the jersey and slung it over his shoulder, heading for the bedroom.
CHAPTER 8
The stack of files wasn’t dwindling much and they’d been at this for a week now. Marco sank into the seat at the head of the table and watched Maria fuss with straightening them. Cho and Simons entered the conference room, Cho stopping to shake hands with him and Simons patting him on the back. Jake and the dog followed behind him.
When Marco delivered Larry Junior to him this morning, he’d promptly removed the bow from his hair and threw it in the garbage, giving Marco an arch look. Marco thought the bow was funny, which is why he hadn’t removed it himself. It seemed fitting that any dog Jake Ryder had should be sporting bows.
Jake took a seat next to Maria and motioned for the dog to climb under the table. The dog immediately complied. He was the most obedient pet Marco had ever seen and he almost wished Peyton hadn’t given him to Jake.
A second later Tag and Defino arrived. Defino took the seat beside him, but Tag deliberately moved to the very end of the table, positioning herself as far away as she could. Marco wasn’t sure she was ever going to do more than tolerate all of them.
“Where’s Brooks?” asked Defino.
“At Dr. Ferguson’s,” he answered.
“All right, let’s get started,” she said. “Cho and Simons, you had Tony Lopez. What’d you find out?”
“He became a private detective in Sonoma. The night of Simon Olsen’s murder, he was collaring a bail jumper in Sacramento. They’ve got his signature on a police report at the same time as Olsen bit it,” said Simons.
Defino nodded and looked at Tag. “Lawrence Lowell?”
“Pushing up daisies in a sand dune for the past month or so. Preliminary autopsy suggests he died of heart failure.”
“Okay.” Defino gave an aggravated sigh.
Peyton suddenly appeared in the doorway. She always looked stressed after a meeting with Ferguson, thought Marco, and he wished she’d tell him more about what went on. She hurried around the table and took a seat next to Tag.
“Sorry, it took forever to get through traffic.”
“No problem. We’re just doing the updates,” said Defino.
Jake finished typing into his tablet.
“Who’s next, Maria?”
“We have Paul Lund. He’s working security for BART.”
“Huh, that has promise. Our first murder was in a BART station,” said Cho. “We’ll take it.”
Maria slid it across to him, picking up the next file. “Then there’s Roy MacBride. He lives in Santa Clara now. He’s retired.”
“We’ll take it,” said Tag.
Peyton nodded distractedly.
“Okay…” said Defino, but Marco motioned at Maria.
“Give me one.”
“D’Angelo…” began the captain.
“This is taking too damn long, Captain. You need all of us on this.”
She shrugged in acquiescence.
Maria picked up a file. “Here’s Eugene MacFarland. He’s retired too, but he fishes every day from Mission Rock off the China Basin.”
“Got it.”
Maria passed him the file.
“Take Smith with you,” ordered Defino.
“Fine.”
“Be careful everyone,” said Defino and they all dispersed.
Marco hung back to talk to Peyton as she made her way toward the door. “You okay?”
She gave him a tense smile. “I’m fine. Hey, I’m going to be late tonight. I’m going home to pick up Pickles.”
“I can get him for you.”
“It’s okay. I want to pick up some clean clothes.”
He followed her out the door. “How did the session go?”
“It was fine,” she said, but she wasn’t looking at him.
He touched her arm to stop her just past Maria’s desk. “Fine?”
She shifted to face him again. “He wants to put me on anti-anxiety pills.”
Marco narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“I told him how I wake up in a panic every night.”
“What did you say about the pills?”
“I told him I’m not taking them.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s my girl.”
She smiled at that. “I’m not going to lie. It’s tempting.” She glanced behind her, then lowered her voice. “Wouldn’t it be nice to sleep all the way through just one night?”
He shook his head. “It’s overrated. I don’t mind waking up with you.”
She reached out and touched his arm.
He leaned close to her. “Besides, I like what happens after you calm down.”
She laughed and pushed him in the chest. “Knock it off.” Turning away from him, she moved toward her desk. “You’d better be careful out there. You’ve gotten kinda soft since you became paperwork.”
That was his girl, he thought, relieved to see her spirit.
* * *
“What do we got on MacBride?” asked Tag, wheeling the Mustang into traffic.
Peyton was staring out the windows, thinking about her session with Dr. Ferguson. Would anti-anxiety pills work or would they just dope her up? She knew what Abe would say – he’d be adamantly against them, but then Abe didn’t like any sort of medications, unless it was alcohol. Even then, lately he’d been after her to quit drinking.
“Fluffy?”
Peyton blinked and glanced at her. “I’m sorry.”
“You okay?”
She shifted in the seat and studied Tag’s profile. It was hard not to stare at the skull tattoo on her neck. “Yeah. You ever take any psych drugs?”
“Like for depression?”
“Yeah.”
“Once. When I quit smoking.”
“Did they work?”
“I didn’t shoot anyone, if that’s what you mean. Why?”
“Dr. Ferguson suggested I take an anti-anxiety medication and I was wondering if I should.”
Tag glanced at her. “I’m no doctor, so anything I say is...well, just personal opinion, but you seem to be holding up okay. You come to work each day and you perform
your job well.”
Peyton looked out at the freeway. “I wake up in a cold sweat every single night, my heart pounding in my throat.”
Tag didn’t respond for a moment, then she shot a wry smile at Peyton. “Must be hard on Lieutenant GQ, eh? A man like that needs his beauty sleep?”
Peyton ignored the comment. “Whenever we go on a call, I’m hyper aware of every movement anyone makes, and when people come up behind me, I damn near piss myself.”
“But you still get up each morning and come to work.”
Peyton fussed with the vent on the air conditioner. “I had to leave the grocery store yesterday because a man reached around me for some milk. I felt like I was going to pass out and when I got out of the store, I couldn’t drive for about ten minutes until I calmed down.”
Tag drummed her hands on the steering wheel. “You tell Lieutenant GQ about that?”
Peyton shook her head.
“You tell the shrink?”
Peyton shook her head again.
“Okay, look, what does it hurt to try the pills?”
“I’m afraid I’ll become reliant on them. I’m afraid of the side effects.” She didn’t mention that Marco basically told her he didn’t want her to take them.
“You really want to know what I think?”
“Please.”
“I think you’re being too hard on yourself. It’s only been, what...a little over a week? I’d probably be swinging at people who come up on me. I think what’s happening is a pretty normal reaction to your experience and I think you should give yourself a little more time. If in six months, you still can’t buy milk, then cry defeat, but right now, I think you shouldn’t be so stressed over it.”
Peyton considered that a moment in silence. Then she gave Tag a smile. “Thank you. That really helped. I needed to hear that from someone who wasn’t so closely involved.”
Tag shrugged. “No problem.”
Peyton played with the vent some more. “So, since we just had a moment, you think maybe you could tell me your real name?”
Tag exhaled in aggravation. “Leave it to you to ruin said moment, Fluffy. No, I don’t think maybe I’ll tell you my real name. You ain’t earned that yet.”
Peyton slumped in the chair.
“You wanna give me an address for this MacBride dude or do I have to try my skills at telepathy?”
Peyton reached into the back and hooked the file, opening it on her lap. “You know I won’t tell anyone?”
Tag made a noise of disgust. “Right. When you’re sitting up in bed with your night terrors, I’ll just bet you tell Lieutenant GQ all sorts of secrets.”
Peyton flipped the file to another page. “No, I don’t,” she grumbled, then looked over at Tag in horror, realizing what she just said, but Tag simply chuckled and shook her head.
* * *
Marco and Smith wandered out toward Mission Rock Pier, showing their photo to the men gathered along the edge, fishing. A few said they recognized Eugene MacFarland by sight, but no one seemed to know him by name. Until they came to the end.
A small man in a beanie and a down-filled camo-colored jacket sat on a camp stool, dangling his fishing line in the water. He was of an indiscriminate ethnicity and about 60 years old. He looked at the photo, then nodded. “Yep, that’s Eugene.”
“You know him well?” asked Marco, placing the picture back in the file and tucking it under his arm, so he could put his hands in his pockets. The breeze off the bay was chilling.
“Known him these last four years. He comes out here every day and fishes for a few hours.”
“Can I get your name?”
“Who’s asking?”
Marco removed his badge and showed it to the man. He hadn’t thought it was necessary since Smith was in uniform, but apparently it was. “D’Angelo and Smith,” he said.
“Lieutenant D’Angelo,” Smith corrected mildly.
“Well, Lieutenant,” said the man, “I’m Pauly Barton.” He held out a gloved hand and shook Marco’s. “Pleased to meet you.”
Marco looked around the pier. “You seen MacFarland today?”
“Nope. Fact is, he ain’t been out here for about three weeks.”
“Do you have his number?”
“Nope. We ain’t that close. We just spend a few hours a day fishing.”
“He ever talk about what he does when he isn’t fishing?”
“Yep. We talk about our kids. He’s got a daughter, grown now. His wife died about three years ago. Real sad. He wasn’t sure what to do without her.”
Marco exchanged a look with Smith. This guy was sounding awfully familiar. “You know where he lives?”
Pauly nodded his head at the bay. “He’s got one of them houseboat thingys over in Sausalito. He’s lived on it ever since he retired.”
“Don’t suppose you have an address?”
“Nope.”
Marco reached for one of his cards and passed it to Pauly. “Call me the next time he shows up, okay?”
“He in trouble?”
Marco shook his head. “He’s an ex-cop. We just want his opinion on a case.”
“Good to know.” Pauly looked at the card, then tucked it into his coat. “You ever wanna do some fishing, this here’s the spot.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Marco answered, then motioned Smith back down the pier.
As they walked toward the end, Marco pulled out his phone and dialed Maria at the precinct. She answered on the second ring.
“Hey, Maria?”
“Hey, Marco baby, what can I do for you, darlin’?”
“Do we have an address on Eugene MacFarland?”
“Hold on a moment.”
He and Smith left the pier and angled up the street where he’d parked the Charger.
Maria came back on the line. “I’m sending the address to your phone. He’s out in Sausalito on a houseboat.”
“Great. Can you call the Sausalito Police Department and asked them to stand by?”
“On it.”
“Thanks, Maria.”
“You’re welcome, baby.”
The line disconnected and a moment later, the text message came through. Marco glanced at it. “Sorry, Frank. Looks like we’re heading across the bay.”
“No problem. I’m all yours.”
“Wife died three years ago and the guy hasn’t shown up in three weeks.” Marco slowed and looked out over the bay. “You could probably take a zodiac from Sausalito to Alcatraz fairly easily, wouldn’t you say? Or visa versa?”
“I’d say it would be an easy way to hide it. I’ll bet most of those houseboat people own ‘em.”
“Yep.” He continued walking. “Think we’d be that lucky to catch the bastard at home?”
“We can always hope. If we’re going to be cornering him, I like to think it’s us and not a certain curly-headed little detective we both know.”
Marco sighed. “That was sort of my idea coming out here today. I feel so damn jumpy every time she leaves the precinct.”
They arrived at the Charger and Smith made eye contact with him over the roof. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”
“Okay?” Marco pushed the button to unlock the Charger and they both climbed inside. Inserting the key into the ignition, he gave Smith a glance from the corner of his eyes. “About what in particular?”
Smith fastened his seatbelt. “Look, you and me, we’ve worked together a long time, right?”
“Right.” Marco pulled out onto the street.
“And understand where I’m coming from, I ain’t got no complaints, okay?”
“Okay?”
“I mean with you being my supervisor and all. You’re a good cop, D’Angelo.”
Marco frowned, but didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure why Smith needed this elaborate set-up right now.
“It’s just…” Smith sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Here’s the thing. Peyton’s like a daughter to me.”
Mar
co pulled to a halt at a stop light and looked over at him. He had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going now. “Okay?”
“I think the world of that little gal, and I sure as hell would hate to see her get hurt.”
“Why would she be hurt, Frank?”
Smith met Marco’s look. “Listen, I don’t want to go into it, but I’ve been on the force a long time. There’s only one reason a captain splits up a successful team like yours.”
Marco started driving again. “I see.”
“I’m not trying to interfere, but I sure don’t want to see you deal double with her.”
“Deal double with her?”
“I want to make sure your intentions are honorable.”
Marco let out a laugh.
“I’m not kidding.”
“No, I know you’re not. It’s just everyone I’ve talked to in the last few days has started speaking like a 1930s movie character.”
Smith frowned.
Marco held up a hand, shooting him a quick look. “Listen, Frank, you don’t have to worry. Peyton’s the best thing that ever happened to me and I sure as shit don’t want to do anything that will screw that up.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
Marco fought a smile. “Not that I give a damn, but Peyton is all fired intent on keeping this on the down low, if you understand me?”
“Now who’s talking like he’s from the 1930s,” said Smith with a laugh.
“Yeah. Anyway, can we just keep this conversation between the two of us?”
“You got it. I got no reason to gossip.”
“Thanks. Personally, it annoys the crap out of me, all this sneaking around, but she’s determined about it and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, she gets her way whenever she’s determined.”
“Most women do,” said Smith, patting him on the shoulder.
* * *
Roy MacBride lived in a little green cottage in Santa Clara. It couldn’t have been larger than three bedrooms, but Peyton figured it probably set him back about half a mil. The small front yard was going to seed and the roots of a large tree were breaking up the concrete leading to the door.
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 13