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

by M. L. Hamilton

  “Marco.”

  “Open it.”

  She carefully lifted it out of the box and pressed on the latch. Her eyes filled with tears and she clutched it close. “How did you get this picture of Pickles?”

  He exhaled. “It wasn’t easy. Little shit hardly sits still when you have a camera.”

  She lifted her eyes to him. “Thank you. I love it. It means the world to me.”

  He reached out and brushed a tear from beneath her eye. “I’m glad.”

  She caught his hand and placed a kiss in his palm, then she came forward and kissed his cheek, lingering. He closed his eyes and breathed in the lilac scent of her hair. Shit, he was no better than Stan when it came to her.

  She drew away slowly. “Help me put it on.”

  He took the locket from her hands and she turned, lifting her hair. He slid the chain around her neck and clasped it, then he smoothed her hair around her shoulders when she let it fall again. He wanted to sink his fingers into it, he wanted to run his lips up the back of her neck, he wanted to pull her against him and hold her for just a moment, but he forced himself to turn back to the bar and grab his beer, downing the remainder.

  Maria suddenly appeared behind her. “Come on, Brooks. They’re starting a dance contest.” She grabbed Peyton’s arm and pulled her toward the dance floor.

  Peyton looked back at him.

  He nodded for her to go and gave her a smile.

  It was nearly one in the morning before Abe had enough of the nightclub. They tumbled into the limo, all much drunker than Marco was, still he was grateful for Abe’s foresight in getting someone else to drive.

  For the first time all night, Peyton found a spot next to him. Quiet descended in the vehicle as they made their way back to her house. Halfway through the ride, Marco felt Peyton’s head rest against his shoulder. He looked down at her and could see her eyes were closed, her breathing even. She’d fallen asleep. The others were also dozing, except Jake, who gave him a speculative look with a lift of his brows.

  Marco ignored him and pressed his cheek to the top of Peyton’s head, closing his eyes as well and reveling in the moment.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he whispered to her.

  CHAPTER 17

  Peyton sat with her back against her headboard, her knees tented under her covers, holding the picture Jake had given her braced against her thighs. Pickles lay on his back next to her, letting her scratch his belly with her free hand.

  It was such a remarkable picture, artistic, capturing both of them in a moment of pure happiness, the sky erupting behind them in brilliant swatches of light. But it had captured something more -- her complete joy in this one person. Who else made her feel the way Marco did?

  She lifted her hand and ran her fingers across the locket he’d given her. It was a simple gift -- a picture of her dog. She knew she shouldn’t read anything more into it. He knew what mattered to her and he’d been thoughtful enough to respond to that. It didn’t mean anything else. She was letting her emotions get away from her.

  Losing him as her partner coupled with her own loneliness was making her see things where there was nothing. Marco viewed her as his best friend. He’d never given any indication, said anything to make her think otherwise. If he felt differently, he wouldn’t have paraded so many women past her over the years.

  And the truth was, she wasn’t like any of the women he usually dated. How many times had he told her he liked things simple, uncomplicated and God knew, she was anything but uncomplicated.

  She traced her fingers over his profile in the picture. She wished she knew if her recent feelings were getting confused with their partnership ending. Still, when she thought about it, she realized she’d always hated the women he saw, she always hated the way he bounced from bed to bed. Maybe it was more than just moral outrage. Maybe it was jealousy. Maybe she hated those women because they had a part of him she didn’t.

  She braced her head with her hand. She’d drank too much the previous night and a headache hammered in her temples, making thinking hurt. Anyway she looked at this situation, it didn’t end well. If she told him what she was feeling and he rejected her, she’d lose him forever. If she didn’t tell him what she was feeling, she would wonder for the rest of her life. And somewhere in the last few days, she’d come to a realization.

  No man would ever measure up to him in her mind.

  It was why her relationship with Devan failed. It was why she would never seriously consider anything with a man like Stan. When she looked at the men in her life, she couldn’t help but compare them to him, and they always came away wanting something.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  She quickly shoved the picture under the covers and smoothed her hair. “Come in,” she said.

  The door opened and Marco stuck his head inside. “You okay?”

  She ran a hand over her ponytail again. Just the very person she didn’t want to see right now. “Yeah, just a little hung-over.”

  He opened the door wider and stood in the entrance. “I was getting a little worried. You didn’t even come out for coffee this morning.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I know better than to drink Abe’s concoctions.”

  “Can I bring you anything?”

  “No, Pickles and I are just going to have a lazy day, I think.”

  Pickles rolled over at his name and placed his head on his paws as if he had a hangover as well.

  Marco nodded. “Vinnie just called. He’s got tickets to the Raiders’ game. Then we’re all going over to Mom’s for Sunday dinner. You feel up for a little football?”

  “He has enough tickets for me to come?”

  “Yeah, his boss gave him a bunch of them.”

  “I don’t feel like going all the way to Oakland, Marco, but you go. I’m just gonna stay in bed today, I think.”

  “I can stay if you need me.”

  “No, go. Tell Mama D’ that I’m sorry I didn’t come.”

  “I will.” He hesitated. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, Marco, I’m fine.”

  “How ‘bout I bring you something to eat? You know she’d love putting together a plate for you.”

  “That sounds really good.”

  “Okay.” He started to leave.

  “Marco?”

  He looked back, his features silhouetted against the light from the outer room.

  “We need to talk about your promotion.”

  He gave a brief inclination of his head. “We’ll see. Only if you’re feeling better. Get some rest, okay?”

  “I will.”

  He left, closing the door softly behind him. Peyton listened until she heard the front door close, then she scrunched down in the bed and rolled to her side, hugging Pickles against her. The tears came then, hot and wrenching, tearing up from inside of her. She gave over to them, pressing her face into the pillow as she sobbed.

  Once the wave was over, she dozed a little, only to be awakened by the buzz of her cell phone on the nightstand. She brushed her fingers over her eyes and rolled to her back, reaching for it. Devan’s name flashed across the screen, followed by a texting icon.

  She ran her thumb over the display and the text opened on the screen.

  Jury came back yesterday. Didn’t want to ruin your birthday. O’Shannahan acquitted of all charges. Sorry.

  She sat staring at the message for a moment, her mind unable to comprehend what she was reading. O’Shannahan acquitted? How the hell could that happen? The bastard admitted to disposing of the murder weapon.

  All of their work, all of their time spent on that case, and the jury acquitted him. Rage spiraled through her and she reached for the phone, beginning to text back, but she stopped herself. Devan couldn’t do anything about it. The judge couldn’t do anything about it.

  She was giving up her life for a job that didn’t matter, where justice wasn’t served, where men like Jedediah O’Shannahan walked free. For a moment, she simply
stared at the phone, wanting to cry again, but she was sick of crying, sick of feeling miserable.

  Throwing back the covers, she climbed out of bed and changed into her running clothes. If she didn’t do something with this negative energy, she was liable to hurt someone. She wasn’t a person who wallowed in self-misery for long. The pity-party was over.

  Going into the bathroom, she smoothed her hair, washed her face, and brushed her teeth, then she sat on the edge of the bed and tugged on her shoes.

  Pickles crawled over to her, placing his head on her thigh. She paused and scratched his ears. “I’m sorry, buddy, I don’t mean to scare you. Maybe if I go for a run, I’ll feel better.”

  With a final pat, she grabbed her cell phone and pulled open her bedroom door, walking into the living room.

  “Hey, roomie, you finally decided to get up?” said Jake from the couch. He was holding a bag of potato chips and watching yet another freakin’ Giants’ game.

  “I’m going for a run.”

  “What?” He dropped his legs to the floor and settled the bag on the coffee table. “Marco went to the Raiders’ game.”

  “So? The last time I looked at my license, it said I was thirty, well beyond the age when I need a chaperone.”

  He gave her a bewildered look.

  She shoved the phone into her jacket pocket and went to the door. “Do I have to take my keys or will you be here?”

  He shifted on the sofa, placing his arm on the back. “I’ll go with you.”

  She frowned at him. “You don’t run.”

  “I can start.”

  “I can go for a run by myself, Jake. I don’t need a man to protect me.”

  “Peyton.” He rose to his feet.

  “Leave it alone, Jake!” she snapped. “I want to be by myself.”

  Without another word, she pulled open the outer door and stepped out, slamming it behind her again. She hurried down the stairs before he’d be able to follow her and turned up her usual path toward the park.

  Immediately she regretted getting angry at him. It was wrong and she knew she’d have to apologize to him when she got back. Maybe she could take him to dinner to make it up. She knew he was trying to protect her. Marco was probably going to give her hell when he came home.

  Her thoughts returned to the jury and their acquittal. How the hell could that have happened? How do you hear a man admit he’d disposed of a murder weapon, then acquit him of doing the very thing he admitted to doing?

  Oh, Jedediah O’Shannahan was a slick mother. His wife was rotting in prison because he’d had an affair. She would never have a chance to raise a family, have children, enjoy all the things most women did, because she’d had the misfortune to marry such a man.

  Why the hell did she think she herself needed a man? They only caused trouble. Here she was pining for something that couldn’t be, wasting energy on it when she should be thinking about advancing her own career, improving her own life.

  Except whenever she went down that train of thought, she came full circle. The joy in her life was Marco.

  Even this. Even running was better with him.

  She came to Lincoln Way and crossed the street, deciding she’d jog up to the running path that bordered MLK Blvd. She had no problem making it into the park now, ever since she’d started running with Marco. The late afternoon sun was bottled behind the clouds, but people still meandered through the park, watching kids on bicycles, walking their dogs, or like her, jogging. A cool breeze blew into her face, a faint sprinkle of mist gathering in her ponytail.

  Everywhere she looked there were families, laughing and enjoying each other, having a picnic or simply reveling the beauty of nature around them. Elementary school aged kids kicked a soccer ball to her left, parents sitting on the benches watching. She longed for this, she wanted this. She wanted to have something good and pure to come home to after the day was over, some reminder of why she dedicated her life to being a police officer.

  A cry of alarm sounded in front of her and she slowed, glancing up. An older model white cargo van was coming up MLK, driving too quickly. It had almost clipped a couple and their dog as they crossed the street.

  She shook her head and started running again. Idiot drivers. The cargo van came toward her, then unexpectedly swerved up on to the sidewalk, blocking the walkway. She stumbled to a halt, alarm rising inside of her as the driver’s side door open and a man in a black ski mask stepped out. He held something in his hand, but Peyton didn’t wait to see what it was.

  She turned and started to run in the opposite direction, but she was so close to the van when he jumped the curb that she didn’t make it two steps before something slammed into her right side. A jolt of electricity speared through her, making her heart leap, then her legs went liquid and she felt herself falling.

  He caught her around the waist before she landed, hoisting her up against him. She tried to gain control of her arms to fight him, but nothing seemed to be working correctly and she couldn’t catch her breath. Pain radiated along every nerve ending and her muscles felt like jelly.

  “Hey!” said a man from across the street. “Let her go!”

  “Ah, chivalry,” came a voice in her ear and she saw the muzzle of a gun lift next to her shoulder, pointed at the man.

  The man stumbled to a stop and held out his hands, his eyes wide with terror.

  Peyton wanted to call out to him, but she was finding it difficult to breathe.

  Her attacker turned and dragged her back to the van. She willed her muscles to struggle, but she still didn’t have control over them. He opened the back door, then threw her against the fender. A little feeling was beginning to radiate into her limbs, but he suddenly heaved her upward, striking her head on the opposite door. Then he tore the probes out of her side. An involuntary scream escaped her.

  A moment later, the doors slammed and darkness descended.

  * * *

  Pickles crept out of Peyton’s room, his tail between his legs, his ears back. He walked over to Jake and sat down in front of him. Jake bent down and picked the little dog up, scratching his ears, then settling him on the couch beside him.

  “She yell at you too, buddy?” he said, soothing him.

  Pickles let out a sigh and placed his head on his front paws. Jake studied him, finding his behavior strange, but the announcers on the game were suddenly exclaiming in excitement. He glanced up at the television and watched the replay of the Giants’ homerun over the right field fence, landing in the bay.

  Leaning back on the couch, he concentrated on the game. Peyton was out running, Marco was at the Coliseum, and Maria and Cho had gone to catch the Sunday concert in the park like he and Zoë used to do. He had the house to himself. It didn’t happen often, but boy, it was nice sometimes.

  A siren suddenly went by, rushing down 19th Avenue. Pickles let out a little howl as it passed the house. Jake glanced over his shoulder at the window, then dismissed it, turning back to the game.

  The television cameras were panning the fans at the Giant’s ballpark – a sea of orange and black. He should think about getting tickets for one of these games. Marco complained he didn’t care for baseball much, but he still watched the games with him. He’d probably want to go.

  Another siren rose over the sound of cheering at the game. Jake reached for the remote and muted the sound. He wasn’t like Peyton. He couldn’t tell the difference between an ambulance and a police car. It sped past the house like the previous one had done.

  Hm, they were headed toward the park.

  He looked down at Pickles again, reaching out to scratch his ears. The little dog was listening as if he expected to hear something more. Or as if he already did. Jake could now make out the distant sound of another siren coming this way.

  He jumped to his feet and hurried to the window, pulling back the curtains. The siren grew louder and then a black and white police car sped past the house, definitely heading toward the park.

  Fear snaked up
Jake’s spine and he ran for the door, grabbing his sneakers and throwing them on his feet. He gathered his cell phone and car keys from the bowl on the sofa table, and yanked open the door, struggling to close it and fix the heel of his shoe at the same time. Then he ran down the stairs and out to the street where the Daisy was parked.

  As he fumbled to open it, another police car sped past him, sirens ablaze. He yanked the door open and dropped into the driver’s seat, shoving the key into the ignition. The Daisy sputtered, but didn’t start.

  He slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel and the ignition caught. He turned the wheel hard and punched the gas, racing down 19th toward the park. He told himself that he’d likely see Peyton jogging back or he’d find all of the cop cars surrounding another house a few blocks away. Peyton would probably scold him for being paranoid, but he could live with that as long as she was all right.

  Before he made it to Lincoln, he could see people running toward the park. A cop had the intersection of 19th and Lincoln blocked off with his patrol car. Jake yanked the Daisy hard and double parked near the curb, then he jumped out and ran to the officer.

  “Hold up there, buddy!” the cop said, extending a hand, his other on his billy club.

  Jake stumbled to a halt and scrambled for his wallet, pulling out his precinct ID card and shoving it at the officer.

  The officer took a look at it, then nodded. “Straight up MLK. Just at Mother’s Meadow. You know? The field?”

  Jake wasn’t sure what that meant, but when the cop motioned him to pull around the patrol car, he ran back to the Daisy and followed his directions. He had no trouble getting up MLK and found the field almost immediately. Pulling over to the side, he saw a number of cops wandering the area, canvasing it.

  A uniform came over to him and Jake showed him his ID.

  “They call you?” said the uniform.

  Jake glanced at the cop’s name tag. Hodges. “No, my housemate’s Inspector Peyton Brooks and she went for a jog in this direction. She hasn’t come back.”

  The cop’s expression shifted and he reached out, grabbing Jake’s shoulder and dragging him across the street. Officer Hodges led him to a plain-clothes officer who was questioning a man in running shorts.