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

by M. L. Hamilton

“I’m Jake Ryder, CSI, and this is Inspector Marco D’Angelo.”

  “Yes,” she said breathlessly, then turned to Marco, but she pulled back at the last minute without touching him. Instead, she pressed her fingers to her forehead in greeting and then rubbed her hands along her skirt.

  Jake’s brows rose at that. He’d never seen a woman not anxious to touch Adonis. Marco didn’t seem to care. He threw himself down into a chair across the table from her and glared at its surface.

  “Please, have a seat.” Jake motioned to the chair.

  “Yes,” she said again, taking a seat. She glanced nervously at Marco from the corner of her eyes, then smiled at Jake. She didn’t wear makeup, but her face had a wholesome, scrubbed look to it.

  Jake sat down at the head of the table, perpendicular to her. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Rain.”

  “Rain?”

  Marco looked up at that.

  “Short for Rainbow.”

  “Really?”

  “My parents lived in a commune for a while. In Berkeley.”

  “Did they now? Last name?”

  “Moon.”

  “Rain Moon.”

  “Yes.” She leaned closer to the table, dropping her voice. “My father’s name was really Monroe, but he had it changed to Moon. They wanted to start with an unfettered history.”

  “Unfettered?”

  “By the weight of their ancestors.”

  Jake nodded, unable to stop the smile that bloomed across his lips. “Yeah.” His eyes lowered to the letter resting on the table before her. “Did you have a chance to look at the letter?”

  “I did.” Her hand hovered over the top of it without touching it. “There is some serious negative energy trapped in this paper.”

  Marco let out his breath and slumped down further in the chair.

  Jake bit his lower lip to keep from laughing. “Well, it is from a serial killer.”

  “That’s probably what I feel.”

  “Probably. Could you be a bit more specific?”

  She used a pencil to shift the paper around so he could see. “Do you see the strokes on the letters t and l?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you see the violence of the down-strike?”

  “The violence of the down-strike?”

  “See how much darker it is than the other letters.”

  Jake picked up the letter and looked closer. “Okay.” Marco made a grumble of annoyance, but Jake ignored him. “What else?”

  “See the loops on the d, the b, and the o?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tight, narrow, not round and full like most people. This is a man who is tightly controlled, disciplined. Probably ex-military.”

  “Ex-military or cop?”

  “Could be cop.”

  Jake felt Marco’s glare. “Did you have a chance to compare it to the signatures I gave you?”

  On Saturday, Maria had pulled samples of signatures from everyone in the precinct.

  “I did.”

  “Did you find any matches?”

  “A lot of the loops are rigid.”

  Jake paused, tilting his head. “The loops are rigid?”

  She picked up a sample on the top. It was Marco’s. Figured. “See. Same problem as the original letter. Tightly controlled loops. Rigid.”

  Jake couldn’t help but smile. “See, Adonis.” He slid the paper to Marco. “Tightly controlled and uptight loops. That fits you to a…pardon the pun…t.”

  She snickered, covering her mouth with her hand.

  Marco didn’t look amused. “Finish this,” he growled.

  Jake turned back to her. “What I really need to know is if you found any similarities between the signatures and the letter? We’re trying to find a match.”

  “Unfortunately no.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m very sure. No matches.”

  Jake picked up the sample signatures and rifled through them until he came to Stan Neumann’s. “Not even this one?”

  She looked at it again, then picked up the pencil and pointed to the a and u. “Actually, this was the only sample without rigid loops.” She took the papers from him and searched through them herself. “And one other.” She pulled out Peyton’s and set it before Jake. “This one. This one is filled with beautiful complexity and realness.”

  Marco sat forward at that.

  “Realness?”

  “A pure soul.”

  Jake glanced at Marco. Marco met his gaze, then looked away.

  “Thank you, Rain. I appreciate you coming down.”

  “It was my pleasure.” She gave Marco her sidelong look again, then smiled at Jake. “You have a blue aura.”

  “A what?”

  “A beautiful, clear blue aura.”

  “Um, thank you.”

  She looked at Marco directly. “Yours is cloudy…and red…very red.” With that she rose and glided from the room.

  As soon as she was gone, Jake burst into laughter.

  “Are we done with your freakin’ séance, Ryder?” said Marco, pushing himself to his feet.

  Jake couldn’t stop laughing. “Every woman we see gets all hot and bothered around you, but her. She saw right through you. Uptight loops and cloudy red aura. You’re a hot mess, Adonis.”

  “Shut up, Ryder.”

  Jake wagged a finger at him. “Oooh, be careful. Your aura’s getting cloudier.”

  “Idiot,” Marco growled and walked from the room.

  * * *

  Peyton reached for her phone without looking at it, her eyes fixed on the report she’d written after they arrested Jedediah O’Shannahan. She wanted to be sure she had everything clear in her mind. One slip and she knew Elizabeth Brown would be all over her.

  “Brooks,” she said into the device.

  “This Janitor nutter is really starting to piss me off,” came Abe’s voice.

  “Fan of the Councilman are you?”

  “When you start bumping off public officials, it makes my skin itch.”

  “Don’t go beating up on women or doing other unsavory things and you should be just fine.”

  “That’s not the whole of it. He’s unoriginal.”

  “How so?”

  “This is the second chap he’s hung. Where’s the innovation, the je ne sais quoi?”

  “The what?”

  “Je ne sais quoi. Means I don’t know what.”

  “I know what it means, but I don’t know what you mean. We can’t catch this bastard as it is and you want him to be more innovative in the way he kills people?”

  “I don’t want him to kill people, but it’s like he’s just going through the motions now.”

  Peyton rubbed her eyes. “Was there something serious you wanted or did you just want to give me a headache?”

  “Actually, I have something serious to discuss, but first of all, I have a bone to pick with you.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “When did you plan to tell me that Angel’D is living avec vous?”

  “Could we stop with the French?”

  “Could we stop with the deflecting?”

  “I didn’t think I had to clear my household arrangements with you.”

  “Ooh wee, the little kitten has her claws out.”

  “Abe, I have to testify at Jedediah O’Shannahan’s trial in a little while. Can you get to the point?”

  “Why wasn’t I made privy to these living arrangements?”

  “It’s not an arrangement. He’s just staying there until this Janitor nutter, as you call him, is caught.”

  “And you have this Grade A, prime hunk of man sleeping on a military cot?”

  “Where would you have him sleep?” As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to snatch them back. “Please, please don’t answer that.”

  Abe peeled off into laughter, forcing Peyton to smile. “You know me so well.”

  “We all know you so well,” she said, scratching her
forehead. “Abe, have you finished Simon Olsen’s autopsy?”

  “Yes, he died of asphyxia.”

  “Kind of figured that out myself.”

  “He also fought back. He had defensive wounds on his hands and forearms.”

  “Did you get any skin cells from under his fingernails or anything?”

  “Not much to speak of. The Janitor keeps it clean.”

  Peyton exhaled in frustration. “We just can’t seem to catch a break.”

  “Well, Simon Olsen did not go gentle into that good night.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In order to string him up, the Janitor had to subdue him.”

  “How?”

  “He has taser marks on his side.”

  “Okay. Can you send the report over today?”

  “Done and done. So, about your birthday?”

  “I’ve gotta go. I’ve gotta testify in about an hour.”

  “I was thinking Chippendales.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” she said.

  “Just tell me. Yes, Chippendales?”

  “No, Chippendales. Let’s keep it simple.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “I know. Let me be specific. No strippers, no naked men of any kind. No sky writing. No hot air balloons.”

  “Well shit.”

  “No trips to Paris for dinner, or rockets to the international space station.”

  “Now you’re just tying my hands.”

  “Simple.”

  “I’ll pick you up at 6:00PM on Saturday.”

  “In a car. Not an army tank, or a jet, or a golf cart. You hear me?”

  “What about a limo?”

  Peyton paused. Her last limo ride had been for her father’s funeral. “Does it have to be a limo?”

  “That or Muni, baby, ‘cause we ain’t driving. Wait until you see the drink I picked out for your birthday. Three or four of those and you won’t remember your last name.”

  “Just awesome.”

  “Oh, it will be. Later, toots,” he said, and then he was gone.

  * * *

  Peyton found herself distracted as she sat in the courtroom behind Devan’s table, waiting to be called to the witness stand. Of course, at first she couldn’t stop bristling just being in the same room as the Reverend O’Shannahan. Surrounded by his legal team, he glanced over his shoulder as she and Marco entered, making a scene by sighing dramatically.

  He wore a suit that probably cost more than Peyton’s house and his blond hair was perfectly coifed as Abe would say. In fact, he didn’t look like a man who was suffering under the weight of the judicial system, but then again, he’d made bail within hours of his arrest and had been lounging around his multi-million dollar Pink Lady for the last couple of months, waiting for trial.

  However, once Peyton sat down, she’d been able to dismiss him from her mind. Abe’s autopsy results were front and center. Simon Olsen had been subdued with a taser. The Janitor hadn’t used a taser at any other time in his other murders. Why now?

  The answer she kept circling back to was he hadn’t needed to subdue the others. They’d all gone willingly or he’d gotten the drop on them, but Simon Olsen had fought back. Which might mean the Janitor had been injured in one of the other attacks or people were now becoming more aware and not allowing themselves to be preyed upon as easily? Either reason might make it hard for him to do his next kill. They might be getting closer to a window of opportunity to catch the bastard.

  The bailiff called the courtroom to order and the judge entered the room. Judge Angela Tate was in her late fifties, early sixties with her grey hair arranged in a stylish pixie cut. She immediately called both lawyers to the bench.

  Peyton took a moment to glance over at the jury. Eight women and four men. Was that a good mix or bad? She couldn’t decide. Glancing over at Marco, she nodded toward them.

  He shrugged, then shifted in his chair. “Try not to look at O’Shannahan. He can rattle you without saying anything. Just keep your eyes focused on the jury or the lawyers.”

  She smoothed her hands on her navy blue pantsuit. “I don’t know why I’m nervous. I never get nervous for these things.”

  “You’ll do fine.” He curled his fingers around her forearm and squeezed. “Just keep your head.”

  When he moved his hand away, she found herself wishing he hadn’t. Something about his touch actually calmed her. Hm. Maybe their living arrangements weren’t the best idea after all. She was coming to depend on his steadying presence a little too much.

  Devan and Elizabeth Brown walked back to their tables. Peyton watched Brown. She’d seen her before, but she’d never been questioned by her. She was tall and thin, her features angular. Her black suit hung off her frame and turned her figure into something resembling a box. Her short brown bob was slicked back from her face and she wore no makeup or jewelry. She was probably fifteen years older than Peyton herself and everything about her said competence and focus. This was not a woman who would miss anything.

  Devan stopped at the bar and gave Peyton a nod, drawing her attention. Peyton rubbed her hands along her trousers again and drew a deep breath. How the hell was she going to keep from messing this up?

  “Mr. Adams, are you ready?” asked Judge Tate.

  Devan faced forward again. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Call your first witness.”

  “I call Inspector Peyton Brooks of the San Francisco Police Department.”

  Peyton rose and went to the front of the courtroom, raising her right hand as the clerk swore her in, then she climbed into the witness box and took a seat. She focused her attention on Devan and resisted the impulse to wipe her hands on her pants again.

  Don’t look at O’Shannahan, she told herself.

  “Please state your name and position for the record,” said Devan.

  “Inspector Peyton Brooks of the San Francisco Police Department, Homicide Squad.”

  “And how long have you been with the force, Inspector?”

  “Almost nine years.”

  “Thank you.” He picked up a file and opened it. “Were you the arresting officer of the defendant, Jedediah O’Shannahan?”

  “I was.”

  “And what crime were you investigating when you arrested Reverend O’Shannahan?”

  “We were investigating the murder of Teresa Ravensong.”

  “Based on your investigation did the Reverend O’Shannahan commit the murder?”

  “No, he did not. Based on evidence gathered and a sworn confession, his wife, Kristin, committed the murder.”

  “What was the Reverend arrested for then?”

  “Withholding evidence, tampering with evidence, and as an accessory to a murder.”

  “What exactly does that mean in laymen’s terms?”

  “He helped his wife cover up the murder by destroying evidence. In particular, the murder weapon.”

  “How do you know the Reverend was involved?”

  “We have his fingerprint in a blood stain on the weapon.”

  “Was the blood his?”

  “No, it was his wife’s, but the fingerprint matched his fingerprint records at the DMV.”

  Devan picked up a piece of paper. “Your Honor, I’d like to enter this into evidence.”

  The judge nodded, and Devan brought it to the clerk.

  “That is all. Thank you, Inspector.”

  Peyton nodded.

  “Your witness, Ms. Brown.”

  Elizabeth Brown rose to her feet and picked up a pen, holding it between the fingers of both hands. “How old are you, Inspector Brooks?”

  Peyton frowned.

  “Objection, Your Honor,” said Devan, “Irrelevant.”

  “Ms. Brown?” said the judge.

  “I’m trying to review the Inspector’s credentials, Your Honor, that’s all.”

  “Fine. Please answer, Inspector Brooks.”

  Peyton drew a deep breath, studiously avoiding look
ing at O’Shannahan. “I’ll be thirty this Saturday.”

  “Happy birthday,” said Brown without any warmth at all in her voice.

  Peyton inclined her head.

  “Thirty. So young. And you stated that you’ve been a police officer for nine years? In fact, weren’t you and your partner…” She pointed the pen at Marco. “…two of the youngest detectives on the force?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re quite the dynamic duo, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You have an impressive arrest record, one of the best in the City, and more than that, you have…hm, what is it now?” She glanced down at a paper on her table. “An 89% conviction rate.”

  Peyton shot a look at Devan, but he wouldn’t return it.

  “That is quite impressive, Inspector.”

  Peyton didn’t know where she was going with this, so she chose not to say anything.

  “What do you attribute your success to, I wonder?” She looked up at Peyton and smiled slowly. “Clearly, it’s solid police work, but you also have a reputation of being something of a bulldog.”

  “Objection, Your Honor.”

  “Where are you going with this, Ms. Brown?” said the judge.

  “I certainly didn’t mean that in any derogatory way, Your Honor. I’m just trying to establish that Inspector Brooks has a reputation for being a very thorough and determined investigator. If you’ll allow me, I promise it has direct bearing on my case.”

  “Allowed.”

  “Would you say you are determined, Inspector Brooks?”

  “I do my job.”

  “Actually, you go a bit beyond your job. When most investigators would probably give up, you keep pursuing your suspect, don’t you?”

  “Most people would still call that doing their job.”

  That earned her a few snickers from the jury.

  “You don’t like the Reverend, do you, Inspector Brooks?”

  “Objection!” said Devan.

  “Again, Your Honor, it directly relates to my case.”

  “It had better,” warned the judge.

  Brown turned to Peyton and gave her a mirthless smile. “Do you, Inspector?”

  Peyton met O’Shannahan’s gaze for the first time. He wasn’t smiling, but something about his expression seemed smug. “I’m not a fan.”

  “This case isn’t the first time you’ve dealt with him, is it?”