Murder in the Presidio (Peyton Brooks' Series Book 6)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Peyton shook her head, her damp curls brushing against the sides of her face. “He’s not obsessed.”

  Marco leaned back with a sigh of frustration.

  “I think he’s right, Peyton. I wish you’d cancel too.”

  “You just said you didn’t think he was the serial killer.”

  “I know, but with the serial killer running around, it might not be a good idea to do something as public as a date.”

  “Abe is planning to go out the next night for my birthday. Are you saying I should just stay indoors and go nowhere? For how long, Jake?”

  “When you go out with Abe, Adonis will be there too.”

  “I’ll be there if she goes out with Stan,” Marco growled, grabbing his coffee cup and going around the counter to refill it.

  “Yeah, that won’t be awkward at all,” said Jake wryly.

  Peyton reached for her fork again. “You’re both pissing me off right now. Let’s drop it. I’m hung-over and I don’t need to start the day in a bitchy mood.”

  “Oh my God, Brooks,” came Maria’s voice behind her. “You aren’t really wearing that shirt today. It looks like something you borrowed off a homeless woman.”

  Peyton bit her lip and closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Jake settled his evidence case beside his desk, closing one eye as the motion made his temple throb. Sinking into his desk chair, he braced his head with his hands and tried to still the nausea rising inside him. God almighty, he had to stop doing the ritual with Marco and Peyton.

  She hadn’t fared much better, but Marco didn’t seem to be as hung-over as the two of them. Jake tried to remember if he’d seen Marco take as many shots as they had, but his head was too fuzzy to formulate a coherent thought.

  Peyton came around the side of his cubicle. “Defino wants to know if you sent the business card in to be processed for DNA.”

  “I sent it off yesterday afternoon as soon as we came back.” He squinted up at her. “Do you have any more aspirin?”

  She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a bottle, tossing it at him. Of course, he wasn’t ready for it and it hit him in the chest, landing on his desk.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving her an aggravated look.

  “Sorry. I’m just pissed at both of you.” She leaned closer to him. “Don’t go saying anything to anyone about Stan, all right?”

  “Fine. That can be Adonis’ problem. So what’s he do all day while you’re here?”

  “He’s going back to our place and sleep. I’m to call him if I leave the precinct and give him time to get here.” She shook herself in annoyance. “This is so not working for me.”

  “Really? ‘Cause I figured we could probably put up a tent in the driveway if you want to have Simons or Holmes join us.”

  “Take more aspirin,” she said, glaring at him. “You’re bitchy too.”

  She turned away and started to walk back to her desk.

  “Peyton?”

  She stopped and turned slowly around.

  “That blouse is a much better choice with those jeans.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him and walked away.

  Jake leaned across his desk to grab a water bottle he’d left there, groaning in misery, then he reached for the aspirin. His hand hovered over the top of bottle, his eyes catching on the red envelope sticking out of a cubby in his desk hutch.

  He swiveled his chair around, glancing behind him, but no one was in sight. He started to reach for the envelope, but something stopped him. Bending over, he grabbed the evidence case, pulling it to him and reaching into the front slot for a pair of latex gloves.

  He realized his hands were trembling as he pulled them on, but whether it was detox tremors from too much alcohol or nerves, he wasn’t sure. As soon as he had them on, he carefully pulled the envelope free. It had been stuffed between some files he kept on his desk of past cases.

  The red of the envelope was exactly the same as the red lettering on the Clean-up Crew cards. Across the front was Jake in scrawling black ink. He turned the envelope over and looked at the back. It was a regular letter sized envelope, but it had been stuffed full with paper, the closing flap not quite meeting where it should.

  Using the edge of a pen, he tore the envelope open. White, lined binder paper peeked out of the opening. Jake glanced around again, feeling the hair on the back of his neck rise. Picking up the envelope, he shook the paper onto his desk blotter, then searched the inside of the envelope for any shred of evidence – hair, flecks of blood, fingerprints – anything that might be used for identification. Nothing met the naked eye.

  Drawing a deep breath, he reached for the aspirin and shook three into his palm, swallowing them with a sip of water, then he picked up the papers. He half expected something to fall out of the thick pile, but as he unfolded it, he spread them out and counted – ten pages full of handwritten, scrawling script.

  His mouth was dry, so he took another sip of water. A cold sweat peppered along his forehead and he pressed his hand against it to ease the pounding in his temples. He knew he should get up right away and take this to Peyton or Defino, but he was captivated by the opening line.

  I met her the winter she turned nine.

  Dropping the papers, Jake searched through his desk, opening every drawer, rifling through every piece of paper. How had he missed this envelope? Were there more? Maybe he had an entire collection of them and he’d never known it. And how had it gotten here? Someone had placed it on his desk, someone had carried it in here and made sure it was out of sight, but right where Jake would have to see it.

  When his search turned up nothing, he drew a deep breath and picked up the pile of paper again, covering his mouth with his hand. As soon as he read it, he’d take it to Defino, but she’d probably want to know why he hadn’t investigated it before bringing it to her, right? Secure in his justification, he leaned back in his chair and started reading again.

  I met her the winter she turned nine. She and her parents moved into the house next door, right around Thanksgiving. My mother was big on being neighborly, so we had to take them a cake, chocolate with a cherry in the middle of it.

  Her parents called her Missy. Actually, it started as Lil’ Miss, then just became Missy. It would be decades before I knew her given name. She had an older brother. He was more my age, 11 in the fall like me. In fact, our birthdays were about two weeks apart.

  While my mother made coffee with Missy’s mother, I was told to go play video games with her brother. His name was Clayton and he wasn’t thrilled with meeting me. Later on I found out he was resentful of the move. They left L.A., hoping to give their kids a better life in suburbia, but suburbia was just not Clayton’s style.

  Missy snuck into the family room where we were playing some racing game. Even at nine there was something about her. She had an inner light, a spark that you couldn’t deny. Sure, she was all knobby knees and elbows then, but her eyes, Lord, already she had the wisdom of the world in her eyes.

  Our mothers cut us pieces of cake. You should have seen the way Missy could devour chocolate, as if there was nothing more wonderful. That was the second thing I admired about her – she could eat us boys under the table, but she was thin as a whip. She never said a word to me that first day. In fact, as my mother and I walked home, I was worried she couldn’t speak. Lord, was I wrong!

  I didn’t see Missy through Christmas and winter break, but I’d sometimes see her brother out kicking a soccer ball in their front yard. My mother encouraged me to go and play with him, but whenever I ventured onto our porch, he’d glare at me, so I gave up on ever making him a friend.

  When school started again, I saw Missy and Clayton in the cafeteria for lunch. They always ate together and no one else sat with them. I just assumed it was because they were new. When you go to school with the same people all your life, anyone new is grounds for ostracism.

  The first time I heard Missy talk was in the principal’s office. I got sent
there because I punched Tyler Harris in the throat when he took our ball at recess. I had a tendency to get into scrapes. The principal, an older woman named Mrs. Nancy, figured it was because I didn’t have a father figure in my life. Actually, it was because Tyler Harris was a giant tool, but I digress.

  The secretary told me to take a seat and shut up. She knew me by name and I guess, reputation. I always sat in the same blue plastic chair closest to the window so I could watch the kids at recess, but this time Missy occupied it.

  I sat down next to her. Her cheeks had tear streaks and her nose was running. I told her to wipe her nose on her sweater and asked her what happened.

  The secretary snapped at me to shut up, but the phone rang, so she had to answer it. While she was occupied, I urged Missy to tell me what was wrong.

  Apparently, her teacher (one of these New Method broads) was having them group colored blocks into as many different sets as they could and then guess how many they thought there were based on the number of sets. Missy dared to question why they couldn’t just break everything into sets of equal number, then count the sets and multiply it by the number in the set.

  The teacher wasn’t happy that Missy knew basic multiplication at 9. That was supposed to be what she covered during that year and Missy was showing her up. When she tried to explain why Missy needed to do the grouping and guessing crap, Missy rebelled, saying she wasn’t going to do unnecessary work. This did not fly, so the teacher sent her to the principal’s office to reflect on the error of her ways.

  For me, it was a pivotal moment. First of all, I was stunned Missy could actually speak, but more than that, I was amazed that you could actually get in trouble for something other than fighting.

  I didn’t understand it then, but I did years later. Missy was fighting for justice, for truth, and ultimately for logic. She was fighting for her rights, Me – all I ever fought for was a red, bouncing ball on the playground.

  Missy’s mother and mine became friends. Missy’s mother was a dental hygienist, so she was home the same time as my mom. They sometimes had a glass of wine together in the evenings. Missy’s dad worked for the phone company as a lineman, so he worked odd times and was often on-call.

  He agreed to become the assistant coach of our Little League team, so I spent much more time with him and Clayton. Gradually, Clayton and I became friends. Whenever Clayton’s father drove us to practice, he often had Missy with him. Most of the time when I saw Missy, she had a book in her hand, but even though she hardly ever talked to me, I discovered she had a devilish sense of humor. She loved to pull pranks on her brother, like fill his jockstrap with pudding or replace the shoelaces in his cleats with pink ones. While I verbally agreed with Clayton that she was the worst sister ever, I secretly admired her devious side.

  That summer everything changed, though. Her father fell off a phone pole and died on impact. In one instant, Missy and Clayton’s life was altered forever, but I’ll save that part of it for another time.

  Jake finished the last page in bewilderment. It just ended. He turned it over, searching the back, but the back was blank. Dropping the papers on his blotter, he scrubbed his hands across his face. What the hell was this? He expected a confession, a testimonial, or even a manifesto like Ted Kaczynski had written, not some nostalgic account of meeting a nine year old girl.

  He gathered the papers and folded them, stuffing them back in the envelope. Good thing he had detectives sitting close at hand. He rose to his feet and moved toward the front of the precinct. His instinct was to bring it to Peyton, but he was worried he’d be missing some protocol that he should probably know.

  “Hey, Maria,” he said, pausing by her desk.

  She gave him a lift of her brows. “You need something?”

  “I need to see the captain.” He realized his nervous energy had dissipated as he read the letter. Now he was simply confused.

  Maria picked up the phone and punched in some numbers. “Yeah, Capitan, Ryder’s here to see you.” Jake could hear Defino’s voice through the door, telling her to send him in.

  He walked to the door and pushed it open. Defino glanced up from her laptop. “This better be as important as a call from God, Ryder. I’m ass-deep in political bull shit right now.”

  Jake held up the envelope. “Does a letter from the Janitor qualify?”

  CHAPTER 7

  Marco and Jake already had a booth when Defino and Peyton slid into it. Jake leaned forward, looking around the diner, while Defino shifted uncomfortably and reached for a napkin, wiping the table. She hadn’t been thrilled with taking this little circus on the road, but she’d agreed when Peyton suggested they might want to update Marco.

  Peyton’s attention shifted to Jake. “What are you doing?”

  “Seeing if you were followed.”

  “We weren’t followed.”

  Defino rolled her eyes. “This is so stupid. Why can’t we meet in my office?”

  “You didn’t want the Janitor knowing Marco’s back on duty,” reasoned Peyton. “We’re trying to keep our theory under wraps.”

  “But the two of you have been going around telling everyone your theory anyway, so what the hell difference does it make?”

  “We just told Cho, Captain.”

  Defino gave her an annoyed look. “And Abe and Maria and this clown.” She held her hand out indicating Jake. “And you really believe Cho hasn’t mentioned it to Simons? This was their case to start with.” Her voice trailed off as she became distracted by Jake as well. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He’d turned completely around in his seat and was peering back toward the front entrance. Swinging around again, he leaned forward, dropping his voice. “See the blond, the blond to make a man forget he has a wife. The blond to make a man forget to die. She asked us what we wanted.”

  “She’s a waitress,” said Peyton.

  Defino waved him off. “So I read the letter you found. Why do you think it came from the Janitor?”

  Jake narrowed his eyes dramatically. “The red envelope. Red is his color. Red is the color of the blood he spills. Red like the last beat of his victims’ hearts.”

  Marco stared hard at the table, trying to hide a smile.

  “What?” said Defino angrily.

  “I entered the office this morning. Sure, I was feeling a little run-down, but I knew the public needed me to show up, to process the evidence like only I can process it.”

  Defino’s mouth opened.

  Peyton covered her eyes, biting her inner lip to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “Did I have a headache? Yeah, but what man doesn’t when faced with the dregs of society, the very sewer that is mankind.”

  Peyton and Marco began to snicker.

  “I didn’t want to give in to my weakness, but I’m only a man, so I took three aspirin.”

  “Oh, for God’s sakes, Ryder, knock it off,” snapped Defino, but as Peyton glanced at her, she noticed the corners of her mouth were tilting up. “I feel stupid enough as it is. Tell me how you know it’s the Janitor and…” She pointed a finger at him. “Don’t you dare go all Sam Spade on me again.”

  Jake sighed in disappointment. “Seriously, it was the red envelope. It’s the same red as the font on the Clean-up Crew cards.”

  “But it was some rambling story about a nine year old girl?”

  “I know. I don’t get it.”

  “And it was in your desk?”

  “Yeah, slipped between two files. I wouldn’t have noticed it until I was sitting down.”

  Defino looked between Peyton and Marco. “What do you make of it?”

  Marco had his arms resting on the table, his hands clasped. He wore a baseball cap and a baggy sweatshirt. “I think it’s another piece of evidence to confirm he has access to the inner workings of the precinct, that he’s one of us.”

  The blond waitress came over. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Uh.” Defino reached for her menu.

  �
�We need a few more minutes, please,” said Peyton and the waitress moved away.

  “If that’s the case, and I’m beginning to think it is, I feel pretty certain Peyton should be on leave, so she isn’t an easy target for him.”

  “How would I be a target at the precinct, Captain? It’s filled with cops.”

  “And one of them might be a serial killer,” Defino reasoned.

  “He hasn’t tried anything at the precinct. He isn’t going to deviate from pattern.”

  “No, but maybe going on dates with him is a bad idea,” said Marco.

  Peyton wanted to kick him, but Jake shifted and raised his brows, causing Marco to look down at the table.

  “Wait. What are you talking about?” asked Defino.

  “Nothing. I’m not going on a date with a serial killer.”

  “Are you going on a date with someone in our department?”

  “Stan Neumann.”

  Defino’s eyes swung to Marco and fixed there.

  Marco held out his hands as if to say, You see?

  “Have you somehow ruled out Stan?” demanded Defino.

  “Stan, Captain? Do you really think he could be a cold blooded murderer?”

  “I think I have a bunch of dead guys in the morgue who would probably like us to figure this out sooner rather than later.”

  “Well, technically, if they’re dead…” began Jake.

  Peyton kicked him.

  “Okay, smartass,” said Defino, “I have an entire city of people who would probably like us to figure this out.”

  Jake rubbed his shin and glared at Peyton.

  Peyton glared back at him, then she gave them both a quizzical look. “Wait. Why are the two of you sitting on the same side of the booth?”

  Marco let out a heavy sigh. “Sam Spade here felt it would be better to have me on the inside, facing away from the door, so I’m more inconspicuous.”