She went motionless, staring at it. She didn’t recognize the number, but then she never did. Glancing over her shoulder, she marked where her fellow journalists were, then she sat down again and picked up the phone, thumbing it on.
Pressing it to her ear, she just held it, unable to make her voice work.
“Did you figure out who Ambrose Bierce was?” came his voice.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Who was he?”
“He was a San Francisco journalist in the late 1860s who wrote scathing articles for the Examiner. He disappeared in Mexico and no one ever knew what happened to him.”
“Good. You did your research. Clearly, he was a man unafraid of risk.”
“Who died because of it.”
“You don’t know that. No one knows what happened to him.”
“Someone knows. Someone has to.”
“Why? What if he went into the jungle and disappeared? Here’s the illusion you’re operating under. You think people matter. You think individual lives have meaning. When it comes down to it, no one matters. No one has meaning. Presidents, Kings, Emperors all become dust and blow away.”
“Is that how you felt about Missy?”
The line went quiet. Genevieve glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying her any attention. God, he kept her off-balance. One minute he chided her for her lack of courage, the next he scolded her for being too bold. And she was beginning to question her own sanity. She was expecting logic and reason from a sociopath.
“Ambrose?”
“She mattered.”
Genevieve swallowed hard. Her palms were sweating. “You loved her?”
“I adored her.”
“How long were you married?”
“The years don’t matter. Fifty, sixty years, it wouldn’t have been enough. Nothing would have been enough.”
Genevieve felt tears burn her eyes. “Why me? Why did you pick me?”
“You said it the other day.”
“What did I say?”
“That the fifties weren’t a good time for certain people. You were right. If you weren’t white, it was a difficult time. And it didn’t get much better. Not for a long time. Not for people of two different backgrounds. Even now, there are people who can’t accept change, can’t accept that love doesn’t know color.”
“Missy was black?” Genevieve covered the phone with both hands, lowering her voice. “You were a mixed couple?”
He didn’t answer, but his silence was enough.
“It must have been hard. You’re right. Even now, even now there are people who refuse to accept other people’s lifestyles.”
“We think we can rehabilitate child molesters. We release wife beaters on the street. We turn a blind eye to rape and incest and abuse, but two people in love…”
“Two people in love?”
He sighed. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. It does to me.” She glanced around again. “You sound tired, Ambrose. You can’t win this battle. You can’t stop the sickness in society by yourself. You need to turn yourself in.”
He laughed. “Just when I think you’re beginning to understand, you prove to me how young and foolish you are. Turn myself in? Let them slap me in a cell and try me for doing their job? And then what? Wait for them to put a needle in my arm? That’s just stupid.”
Genevieve gripped the phone convulsively. How quickly he shifted, how quickly everything went south between them. “I’m not the enemy, Ambrose. I’m trying to understand.”
“Well, you don’t! You can’t! You never will!”
Genevieve closed her eyes. “Please don’t…”
The silence on the other end pressed on her. The echo of his last words haunting. She slowly held the phone away from her face and stared at the display. The call had ended.
She set the phone on the blotter and pushed it away from herself. Rising to her feet, she paced back and forth in the cubicle. She should call Inspector D’Angelo. She should tell him what she’d been doing. She was clearly out of her depth and she had no idea how to get out of it.
Walking back to the blotter, she stared at the blank screen, willing herself to have the courage to make the call, willing herself to end it. Clenching her teeth, she snatched the phone up and thumbed it on, pressing the contact list. Her finger hovered over the entry, then she forced herself to press it. Lifting the phone to her ear, she stared at the pictures she’d tacked to the cubicle – her mother, her father, her brother. She missed them.
“Hello?” came the voice.
Genevieve swallowed at the tightness in her throat. “Hey, Jimmy, it’s me. I was wondering if you wanted to come over for dinner tonight.”
“Yeah, can I bring some wine?”
“Wine?” She pushed her hair back from her face. “Yeah, wine would be good.”
CHAPTER 9
The sun was shining fully when Marco pulled the Charger up to the end of the dock. He and Jake climbed out, Jake slinging his evidence case over his shoulder. Smith stepped off the dock, handing Marco the search warrant.
“Is MacFarland home?” Marco asked.
“Yep. He’s been peeking out the slider, watching us.”
Marco looked down the dock, marking the uniformed officers stationed at regular intervals.
Jake took in the scenery. “I think I could live like this. The weather seems better than the City.”
Marco ignored him, following Smith back to the dock. He was already fretting about having to cross the plank onto MacFarland’s houseboat. He wanted to finish up this mess and get back across the bay.
MacFarland was waiting outside as they approached. He was dressed in a filthy pair of jeans, slippers, and a baggy sweatshirt. His grey hair was mussed and a day’s growth of stubble shadowed his chin. He had his arms crossed over his chest and he was eyeing the police with a scowl.
Marco gritted his teeth and followed Smith across the planking. Jake bounded up right behind him as MacFarland squared off in front of them.
“What is the meaning of this?” he growled.
Marco held out the warrant. “We told you we’d be back with a warrant, Mr. MacFarland.”
“What? A warrant for what? What the hell are you talking about? I’d better see a badge.”
Marco and Smith exchanged a look as Marco reached for his badge. “I showed you my badge yesterday,” he said, holding it out. “Lieutenant D’Angelo?”
MacFarland stared at him, then glanced at the badge, but there didn’t seem to be any recognition in his face. “What the hell is the warrant for?”
“Your house and the Zodiac.”
“What the hell are you looking for?”
“Smith, take Ryder inside and start searching,” he said, moving toward MacFarland.
MacFarland backed up a few steps. “What the hell is this about?”
Jake ducked his head and followed Smith to the slider. MacFarland moved as if he might block them, but Marco placed a hand on his shoulder. He shook Marco off.
“Calm down, Mr. MacFarland.”
“Calm down? You’re invading my home. What the hell do you want from me?”
Marco sighed. Why couldn’t these things ever go easily? “We just want to look around.”
“For what?” He moved around Marco and shuffled over to the slider, stepping into the houseboat.
Marco ducked in after MacFarland and grimaced. The interior was circa 1970’s with heavy wood paneling and low ceilings. Some threadbare brown furniture created a sitting area around a boxy 1980’s television set.
“Don’t touch anything!” said MacFarland, following on Jake’s heels.
Marco clamped a hand on MacFarland’s shoulder and hauled him back. “Take a seat, sir,” he said firmly.
Something in his tone must have registered because MacFarland sank into a recliner, staring up at Marco with anxious, watery eyes. Marco felt a strange rush of pity for him. He seemed more than
a little confused by their presence, but they’d just been out there the day before. The belligerent old man of yesterday now seemed bewildered and afraid.
Jake shot him a final look before disappearing into the kitchen.
“We told you we’d be back with a warrant, Mr. MacFarland,” said Marco, staring down at him.
He grasped the arms of the recliner violently. “What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you in my life.”
Marco frowned. What the hell?
“Uh, Adonis,” said Jake, poking his head back out of the kitchen.
Marco glanced over his shoulder at him. “What?”
“You might want to come in here.”
Marco backed away from MacFarland, motioning Smith to watch him, then he turned and walked into the kitchen, coming to a stop, his mouth falling open. Slowly, he turned a complete circle taking it all in.
Yellow sticky notes covered every surface.
“What the hell…” he breathed out.
Jake settled his case on a kitchen table cluttered with cereal boxes and crackers and various dried goods. Yellow sticky notes adorned even these.
Walking to the stove, Marco leaned over and read the scribbled note in the center of the yellow scrap of paper. Make sure oven is off. He moved to the refrigerator and stared at the notes papering the outside. Check expiration dates on containers. Take your pills.
He scanned across to the small window that looked out over the back of the boat. A row of prescription bottles lined the window sill and taped directly below it were more notes. Two in particular read Hot and Cold, sitting just above the sink and behind the faucet.
Picking up one of the prescription bottles, Marco reached for his phone and pressed the icon for Abe. He turned and surveyed the whole kitchen as he waited for the call to connect. “What the shit?” he muttered.
Jake gave him a lift of his brows as he waited patiently by the table.
“The sweetest part of any day is seeing your pretty face on my phone display,” came Abe’s voice. “What’s shaking, Angel?”
“What is galantamine?”
“What? Can I have a frame of reference?”
“Drug, prescription.”
“Hold on.”
Marco glanced over at Jake. “I was hoping this was it. He was cagey as hell yesterday.”
“Cagey or confused?”
Marco rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t think confused. He was almost combative. He wouldn’t let us anywhere near the place. Told us to get a warrant.”
Jake motioned at the yellow sticky notes. “Either he’s the cagiest bastard around or he’s not functioning on all cylinders, Adonis.”
Marco turned and looked out the window. He could see the Zodiac bobbing against the dock. “God, I was hoping this was it.”
“You didn’t really think he was the Janitor?”
“He has a Zodiac and he wouldn’t let us in the house.”
“The Janitor wanted you to shoot him and end it. He isn’t going to meet you at the door in his slippers, Adonis.”
Marco looked back at him. “If he wanted to end it, he might.”
“You think the Janitor doesn’t know you want him dead, especially after Peyton? He isn’t going down this way. Not this guy. He’s going down in a hail of bullets and blood.”
Marco’s mouth went dry. That was exactly what he feared. This poking around wasn’t going to get them anything. When the Janitor wanted to end it, he would do so in epic, murderous fashion. “That’s great, Ryder. That’s just freakin’ great!”
Jake shrugged.
“Okay, Angel,” came Abe’s voice. “You said galantamine?”
“Yeah, but I think I know what it is.”
“Alzheimer’s medication.”
“Right.” Marco clenched his jaw. “Thanks.”
“See you at game night tonight, gorgeous.”
Marco frowned. “What?”
“Game night? At our girl’s house? Didn’t Peyton or Jake tell you?”
“No, what the hell is game night?”
Jake glanced up. “Oh, yeah, we’re having game night at Peyton’s tonight.”
“What’s game night?” Marco repeated.
“See you then. Wear something sexy,” came Abe’s voice.
The call disconnected.
Marco shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Game night?”
“So, do you still want me to look around?”
Marco sighed. “Yeah, just don’t mess up anything. Or touch one of his sticky notes.”
“Got it.” Jake turned to his case. “You might wanna see if he has family or anything? Seems like he’s not functioning too good by himself anymore.”
Marco clenched his fist. “Peyton always handled this shit. I freakin’ hate this.”
“Well, you should have thought of that before you started sleeping with her.”
Marco glowered at him, but Jake was unfazed. “Shut up, Ryder,” he said, pushing away from the counter and moving toward the living room.
* * *
Marco got back to the precinct around noon. He walked to his cubicle, avoiding everyone, and tore off his jacket, throwing it into his desk chair. He watched the chair rotate in a circle as he fought for composure.
Eugene MacFarland had a daughter who lived in Sacramento. The daughter had written the sticky notes, but she informed Marco she considered that the extent of her responsibility. Her father refused to move to an assisted facility and she didn’t have time to deal with it right now. She had kids’ soccer practice and carpools to organize. Unfortunately, without the daughter’s help, there wasn’t much more Marco could do. He’d left MacFarland fussing over his sticky notes, shuffling confusedly around in his slippers.
“Hey!”
Marco looked over his shoulder. Tag was standing in the opening of his cubicle. “Hey?”
She jerked her chin toward the break room. “You might want to check on your girlfriend. Last I saw, she was trying to freebase an entire chocolate cake by herself.”
“What happened?”
“Roy MacBride died in his sleep last night.”
Marco rubbed a hand across his forehead. “That’s just awesome.”
“Yeah, well, how do you think I feel? I didn’t want a damn partner, but in the past week, I’ve helped adopt a dog, spent two hours listening to a sick old man reminisce about the good old days, and Friday, I get to go to a funeral for someone I didn’t even know.”
Marco smiled.
“Don’t look smug. You’re going too.”
“Of course I am.”
“And then there’s game night tonight. I don’t even know what the hell that is, but I’ve got to go.” She let her hand fall against her thigh. “Game night? Knowing her, it’s probably Candy Land.”
Marco frowned. “Candy Land?”
“Or something with glitter and sparkles.” She pointed at Marco. “Unicorns. I’ll just bet there’s gonna be unicorns.”
Marco laughed.
Tag made a frustrated face, then turned away, starting back to her desk, but before she’d gotten a few feet, she stopped and turned back around. “Look, I know you worry about her when we’re out on the street.”
Marco gave her a grim nod.
Tag looked down, chewing on her upper lip. “You don’t have to anymore. I’ve got her back, you know?”
“Thanks, Tag. That means a lot.”
Tag nodded, then turned and walked away. Marco’s eyes shifted to the break room.
He found Peyton sitting with her back to the door, stabbing a fork into a chocolate cake. A few slices had been taken from it, but three quarters of it remained. He moved to the open seat across from her and sat down.
“Tag told me about MacBride.”
Peyton nodded, licking the chocolate off the fork.
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “People die.”
“You are the worst liar I’ve ever met, Brooks.”
She met his ga
ze. “I’m fine, Marco.”
“Which is why you’re downing an entire cake?”
She stabbed the fork into it and pulled out a bite, placing it in her mouth.
He refused to break eye contact with her.
“If you’re expecting me to fall apart, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said, throwing the fork onto the plate.
“I don’t want you to fall apart. I just want you to talk to me.”
“What do you want to talk about? How shitty cancer is? How damn pathetic it is that we die alone? That his nurse told me the two shitty hours Tag and I spent with him the other day was the best time he’s had in months?”
“What more could you do, Peyton? Before yesterday, you didn’t even know Roy MacBride existed.”
“So, what does that mean? That I shouldn’t care that he died alone, that no one was there for him when his time came, that the two hours we spent with him didn’t mean a damn thing?”
“I’m just saying that instead of beating yourself up over a stranger, you should take care of what’s in front of you.”
She glared at him. “What the hell does that mean? Are you saying I’m neglecting the people closest to me? Am I neglecting you?”
“No, you’re neglecting you!” he snapped back, then drew a deep breath and held it. Slowly, he exhaled. “I’m sorry. It’s been a shitty day all the way around.”
She didn’t answer, just sat glaring at him.
He drummed his fingers on the table. “I’m never getting sex again, am I?”
She gave a snort of laughter and visibly relaxed. “What happened with MacFarland?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. He’s not our guy.”
She leaned her elbows on the table. “You know this road goes two ways, right, D’Angelo?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t always have to take care of me. You can share some stuff with me too.”
Marco stared at the black flecks in the white Formica table. “MacFarland has Alzheimer’s. When we got in there, he had sticky notes plastered all over the place, reminding him to turn off the stove, take his pills.” He lifted a hand and let it fall on the table. “Tell him which knob was the hot and cold water.”
“Wow.”
“I called his daughter, but she didn’t give a damn.” He glanced up at her. “The thing is you would never be MacBride, but me...I could be MacFarland. For so long, I pushed people away. I didn’t want any entanglements, any complications. I could have been MacFarland, rattling around in my bathrobe and slippers, not knowing which switch turned on the lights.”
Murder on Treasure Island (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 7) Page 15