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

by M. L. Hamilton

  Peyton marked the peeling paint on the siding, the mildew around the window to the left of the door. A cat lounged on a redwood chair in front of the window, climbing to his feet as Peyton reached for the doorbell. He stretched and pressed his head under her hand as she pushed the button.

  Scratching his head, Peyton listened to the chimes sounding inside the house. A moment later the lock turned and the door opened, revealing a skeletally thin man bracing himself on a walker. He smiled, showing a row of yellow teeth with gaps where he’d lost a few.

  Tag shot Peyton a look.

  Peyton reached for her badge. “Mr. MacBride?” she asked, showing it to him.

  “Yes, come in.” He shuffled back a step with the walker.

  The cat bounded out of the chair and streaked into the house, disappearing around the corner.

  “Please, come in,” said MacBride again.

  Tag touched Peyton’s arm, nodding back toward the street. Peyton understood what she meant. Clearly Roy MacBride was too frail to have harmed anyone, but it would appear rude of them to leave so quickly.

  Peyton stepped inside the house, motioning Tag to follow. Tag made a noise of protest, but crossed the threshold behind her. Immediately the smell of cleaning fluid assailed them, followed by the musty odor of a house that had been shut up for too long.

  Peyton forced a smile for MacBride and held out her hand. “I’m Inspector Peyton Brooks and this is my partner, Inspector Tag Shotwell.”

  “Yes, I got a call saying you’d be coming. You wanted to talk about Simon Olsen, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Well, come on back. I was just having lunch. You hungry?”

  “No, thank you,” said Peyton, but she walked at his shoulder as he shuffled off in the direction the cat had gone.

  They entered a spotlessly clean, yellow kitchen with dated appliances and cracked floor linoleum. The counters were covered in brown tile, the sort that had been immensely popular in the 1970s. Peyton was beginning to see how MacBride afforded this home in Santa Clara.

  MacBride angled his walker into the table and slumped down in a chair. A half a sandwich sat on a plate before him with a glass of milk. He motioned to the two kitchen chairs covered in cracked yellow vinyl.

  Peyton took a seat, but Tag refused, leaning against the doorjamb. Peyton glared at her, but she simply glared back, giving Peyton another motion of her head toward the front door. MacBride studied the sandwich, then pushed it away.

  “So Simon Olsen, huh?”

  “Yeah, how long did you work with him?”

  “About two years over at Ingleside. Not really surprised to find out someone did the bastard in.”

  “That seems to be the consensus,” said Peyton.

  A middle aged woman of Filipino descent appeared in the kitchen doorway. She carried a small plastic box with her. “Hello?” she said, giving Peyton and Tag a questioning look.

  Peyton held up her badge, but before she could introduce herself, MacBride leaned back in his chair.

  “Rosita, this is Inspector Brooks and Shotwell from the SFPD, my old stomping grounds.”

  “Nice to meet you,” she said, setting the plastic box on the counter. “Mr. MacBride, you need to eat.” She pushed the sandwich back at him.

  “Rosita’s my nurse. My son hired her to pester me.”

  She frowned at him, but shook her head fondly, resting a hand on his thin shoulder. “Pester for love,” she said, going to the sink and reaching for a glass on the dish drainer.

  “Are you ill?” asked Peyton.

  MacBride scratched the back of his hand. His veins showed starkly against his pale skin. “Pancreatic cancer.”

  Rosita carried the glass to him, then opened a hatch on the plastic box and shook a handful of pills onto the table.

  “I’m sorry,” said Peyton.

  He stared at the pills, giving a grim smile. Peyton stared at them as well. It was a daunting number.

  “You need to eat and take medicine,” said Rosita.

  He picked up a pill and placed it in his mouth, lifting the water glass to his lips and swallowing. “Are you sure you don’t want lunch? Rosita makes a mean tuna salad.”

  Peyton smiled and shook her head. “We ate before we got here.”

  He nodded and picked up another pill.

  “How well did you know Simon Olsen?”

  “Better than I wanted. He wasn’t a very good cop. Too busy chasing skirt.” He gave Peyton a worried look. “Sorry. Guess that’s not politically correct now, is it?”

  “I don’t mind. He pissed a lot of people off, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah. And not just women. A lot of men took offense at his behavior.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  He put the glass down and pushed it away.

  “You take the rest, Mr. MacBride,” said Rosita.

  “In a minute, please.”

  She subsided and went back to the sink, beginning to wash a few dishes.

  Tag cleared her throat, nodding toward the front door again.

  Peyton ignored her. “Did Olsen piss off anyone in particular? I mean was anyone more upset than the others?”

  “Naw. Not really. We were all pretty tight. You know how it is. You work with people for a long time and it gets so they’re almost family.”

  Peyton smiled. “I know.”

  “I’d have remembered if anyone got mad enough to off him. Never heard any threats or anything. It was probably someone outside of Ingleside.”

  “Could be.”

  “God, we used to have so much fun. I still remember every collar like it was yesterday.” He leaned forward and his face became animated. “This one time, we were going after this football player, lineman for the Niners. Big Samoan guy.” He stopped himself. “Sorry, guess that’s not politically correct either.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Anyway. He got drunk after a game and hit a Jag. Some hot shot business guy on Market. Wants to press charges for hit and run. Got his license plate number. So we go out to arrest him.”

  “What happened?”

  Rosita looked over and gave Peyton a grateful smile. Peyton returned it.

  “He resists arrest. Giant of a man. 350...400 pounds. Took four of us to wrestle him to the ground. Know what?”

  “What?”

  “The damn handcuffs wouldn’t fit.”

  Peyton laughed.

  MacBride’s smile sobered and he sat back in his chair. “You’re a good girl, you know that?” Then he shook his head. “Sorry, that’s probably not politically correct.”

  “I don’t mind, but what do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re sitting here listening to an old man share war stories when you got better places to be. It’s kinda nice.”

  Tag made a face, showing her frustration, but she suddenly stomped over to the table and threw herself into the other chair, her leather creaking. “So what’d you do?”

  MacBride blinked at her in confusion. “Sorry?”

  “About the lineman? The handcuffs?”

  “Oh!” MacBride’s face lit with happiness. “We used a bungee cord.”

  * * *

  The dock swayed with the motion of their bodies as they walked out to MacFarland’s houseboat. It wasn’t really much of a boat, or a house for that matter. It was a single story, squat building with brown shingles cascading over the roof all the way down to the pontoons that it sat upon.

  Marco eyed the gangplank, leading from the dock to the house itself, but Smith ventured right over. It dipped and swayed, but it supported him. Smith looked back at him, then surveyed the gangplank.

  “You coming?”

  “Yeah.” But he didn’t move.

  “You scared?”

  Marco shot him a look. “No. Just…”

  “What?”

  “It doesn’t look stable.”

  “It’s not stable. It’s on water. Come on.”

  “I weigh more than you do.”
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  “You want me to tell Holmes your pansy ass couldn’t cross a little bit of wood over water?”

  Marco clenched his jaw, then stepped on the plank, hurrying to the other side.

  Smith laughed when he stumbled up beside him. “Relax, big guy, it held you.”

  “Yeah, but we gotta go back.”

  Smith laughed again.

  Marco reached for his badge and loosened his gun in his holster. “You ready?”

  “Sure am.”

  A sliding glass door passed for the front door on this thing. Marco looked around for a bell or knocker, but found nothing. He rapped loudly on the glass, flinching when the sound echoed away over the water.

  Through a sheer curtain covering the glass, Marco could see someone approaching the slider.

  A hand parted the curtains and unlocked the slider, then pulled the slider back and peered out. Eugene MacFarland was about 5’4”, but he was built in that compact, powerful way of a boxer. He wore a black beanie on his head and a fishing vest with tattered jeans and Doc Marten boots.

  “What?” he grumbled. He carried a paperback and a pair of glasses in his other hand.

  Marco released his held breath. He’d almost convinced himself this guy was the Janitor and would meet them with a drawn weapon. He lifted his badge. “Lieutenant D’Angelo and Officer Smith. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Simon Olsen.”

  “Simon Olsen? That old hound dog. What bitch he get pregnant now?”

  “None. He’s dead. Hung.”

  “Suicide.”

  “Nope. Murder.”

  “Huh?” He tilted his head and gave Marco an appraising look. “Interesting.”

  “Yeah. Did you work with him?”

  “Damn near four years. He was a hound dog, always sniffing after bitches in heat.”

  “Do you mind if we talk to you?”

  “We’re talking, ain’t we?”

  Marco shared a look with Smith. This guy knew his stuff. Never voluntarily let cops or vampires into your house. Suddenly, he missed Peyton. She would be able to talk this guy into letting them inside. She would charm him so completely that he’d probably offer her a kidney or something.

  “You didn’t hear about Simon Olsen’s death?”

  “Why would I hear about it?”

  “He was a councilman.”

  “You think I follow politics. Couldn’t give a damn less.”

  Clearly Marco wasn’t finding the right wedge. Smith gave him a pointed stare. Marco glanced around the patio of the houseboat. “So what’s it like living on one of these things?” He deliberately wandered away from the door and toward the back of the boat. He could feel it dip with his movements. He didn’t like the feeling.

  MacFarland followed him, shutting the slider behind him. He settled his glasses and the book on a folding deck chair, walking to his side. “It’s nice. People don’t usually bother you out here.”

  Marco nodded, resting his hands on the railing. “Bet you wanted to get away after being a cop all those years?”

  “Don’t you?” He eyed Marco up and down. “Maybe not. Guy like you probably likes all sorts of attention.”

  Marco ignored that. “So, how do you get around? Go to town? Get groceries?”

  MacFarland narrowed his eyes on him. “Why don’t you ask me what you really want to know?”

  Marco shifted to face him. “Do you own a Zodiac?”

  “Pretty much everyone out here does.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Other side of the boat. You got a warrant to see it.”

  “Do I need a warrant to see it?”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Marco straightened to his full height. “Guess I’ll be back then.”

  “Guess so.”

  Even though Marco towered over him, MacFarland didn’t back down. Marco eased away from the rail and walked toward Smith. Smith waited until he was beyond him before he turned around.

  As they made their way to the dock, Marco shifted and watched MacFarland take a seat on the deck chair, placing his glasses on his head and picking up his book.

  “What do you think?”

  Marco shook his head. “I don’t know. He’s sure cagey as shit.”

  “That he is.”

  “Let’s get a warrant to search inside as well.”

  Smith reached for his phone. “On it.”

  * * *

  Marco climbed the stairs to his apartment, trying to force the frustration of the day away. He felt like he hadn’t handled MacFarland the right way. He should have been able to get him to cooperate, but it hadn’t gone right the moment they showed up at his door.

  Now, all he wanted was to spend the night curled up with Peyton and her silly little dog. He wanted that more than he’d wanted anything in a long time. How quickly she had become the focus of his days, the very thing that drove him home at night.

  He put his key in the lock and pushed open the door. Pickles’ happy bark greeted him, but when he stepped inside, he was surprised to find his mother standing in the kitchen, holding a sobbing Peyton in her arms.

  As he stood watching in bewilderment, Peyton eased out of his mother’s hold.

  “Go wash your face, dear,” said his mother, clasping her shoulders.

  Peyton immediately turned away and hurried to the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She deliberately avoided making eye contact with him. Marco picked up Pickles and gave him a scratch behind the ear, closing the door at his back.

  “What’s going on? Why are you here, Mom?”

  His mother clasped her hands over her apron. “I thought I’d come by and make the two of you dinner, so you didn’t have to worry about it tonight. Your father’s at a Warriors’ game with Bernardo.”

  He should have been able to smell his mother’s cooking in the hallway. Of course, his damn brothers would have to tell her about him and Peyton.

  He settled Pickles on the couch. “Why was she crying?”

  “I think she’s had a bad day. When she came in, I just told her how happy I was the two of you have finally admitted your feelings for each other and hugged her. Then she burst into tears.”

  Marco glanced at the bedroom door.

  “Give her a moment to collect herself,” said his mother. “Women don’t like their men to see them all upset.”

  “I need to talk to her.”

  “Well, if you insist, take her this.” She picked up a glass of red wine from his bistro table. “I poured her a glass of wine.”

  “She’s not drinking right now, Mom.”

  His mother’s face lit up. “Why not?”

  Marco knew immediately what she thought, but he shook his head. “It’s not that. The doctor thinks she has PTSD, so she’s afraid drinking might become a crutch. She’s avoiding it right now.”

  “Oh dear.” Mona drew the wine glass back. “I didn’t know.”

  He came forward and kissed her forehead. “I know. It’s okay.”

  She touched his cheek. “I really am happy for the two of you.”

  Marco smiled. “Thanks.”

  He pulled away and walked to the bedroom, pushing open the door. Peyton was sitting on the end of the bed, a damp washcloth in her hands. She glanced up at him when he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

  “I’ll bet your Barbies never made you go through this much work,” she said with a sigh.

  He smiled. “Didn’t really give much of a damn, to be honest. Besides, you forget I’ve known you for a long time. I knew what I was getting myself into.”

  “Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”

  He moved to the bed and sat down next to her, reaching out to brush her curls behind her ear. “What’s going on?”

  She stared at the washcloth. “We went to see Roy MacBride today. He’s dying of pancreatic cancer.” She shook her head. “He’s all alone. No one’s with him. When he dies, no one will care.” She lifted the washcloth and let it fall again. “I just
kept thinking how that could have been me a while ago.”

  He wiped a tear away from her cheek. “It would never have been you, sweetheart. Not the way you collect stray people and dogs. I think the bigger problem is whether you’ll ever have a moment alone to yourself again.”

  She gave a half-sob, half-laugh. “Then I come in here and your mother…” She motioned to the door. “She tells me how happy she is that we’re together and welcomes me with open arms…” Bracing her elbow against her knee, she laid her chin on her hand and looked over at him. “Everyone should have someone who’s there for them when they need it. But what do I do? I keep falling apart on you.”

  He toyed with a curl. “Peyton, there’s so much to worry about in this world. It seems like a waste of energy to worry about things that you don’t need to worry about. Do you think that if you get upset or cry, I’m going to run away? After all this time? Do you really doubt me?”

  “I just don’t want you to think I’m weak, needy.”

  He laughed. “I think you are the strongest person I’ve ever met. I’m so in awe of you, I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I felt that way when we first met, and that feeling has only grown with the years. Never doubt that, Peyton. Damn it, woman, I love you.”

  She smiled at him. “D’Angelo, if your mother wasn’t here, you would so be getting sex right now.”

  “Then let’s hurry up and eat her dinner,” he said.

  Peyton laughed and let him pull her to her feet, but rather than opening the door, he drew her into his arms and just held her for a moment.

  * * *

  The Examiner had given Genevieve her own cubicle. Three grey temporary walls that enclosed a desk and a few cabinets. She’d never been more grateful for anything in her life. She swiveled her chair around and took it all in. Pinning a few pictures on the batting, adding a green plant to the corner, and pasting a few quotes on the edges of a cork board made it feel more personal, hers, and she liked that.

  Reaching into the drawer on her desk, she pulled out her purse and settled it on the blotter in front of her, then rose to her feet and reached for her jacket. She’d just pulled it on when her cell phone rang.