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

by M. L. Hamilton

  “What do you mean he was getting texts?”

  “I saw him standing in the driveway from across the street and he was texting on his phone.”

  “You didn’t think that was strange?”

  “I did. That’s why I called him.”

  “Why didn’t you get Cho or Simons?”

  “Because he said you gave him permission to go to the crime scene.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Captain, I don’t know, but you didn’t really expect him to stay here, did you?”

  She took a step closer to Jake. He involuntarily stepped back and ran into Bill Simons. “I have one cop missing. Now it’s two. I damn well expected him to stay put. I need everyone to use their damn heads right now. Who was texting him?”

  “He had the phone out in Peyton’s room,” said Abe, peering meekly over the counter.

  “Who was he talking to?”

  Abe shook his head, his beads clacking against each other. “He said it was his family, calling for an update.”

  Jake drew a deep breath and released it.

  Defino focused on him again. “You know something, Ryder. If you do, you damn well better spill it!”

  Jake glanced around the room. Everyone was focused on him. “I don’t think it was his family, Captain. I think it was the Janitor.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because when Lieutenant Logan found Peyton’s phone, the display showed her contact list.”

  “And?”

  “Not just her contact list. It showed Marco’s number. I think he’s been the target all along.”

  Defino didn’t move for a moment, then she whirled, startling Jake. “Forget the damn phone. Track D’Angelo’s car.”

  * * *

  Peyton felt her head fall forward and touch her knees. She jerked upright again, forcing her eyes open. Exhaustion pressed on her, making it hard to think. She placed a hand against her temple, touching the spot where she’d struck the door. Maybe she had a severe concussion. Hadn’t she read that people got sleepy when they had a concussion?

  She’d lost track of time. The Janitor hadn’t come. She’d tried to push open the doors until her shoulder and feet ached, but they didn’t budge. She had no idea where she was, where he was, or how she was going to get out of this.

  She forced open her eyes again, blinking in the darkness. She hadn’t even been aware that she’d closed them until she realized she was dreaming of her father. Ben Brooks had always told her, You can think your way out of anything, Sweetness. Just use your head for something other than growing hair.

  Clearly, that was one bit of advice that didn’t always work, especially when your head wasn’t working properly.

  Still, she was so tired. She just wanted to lay down for a moment, but she feared if she did, she wouldn’t wake up again. Weren’t head injuries like that? Didn’t you try to keep a person awake with a head injury?

  But she didn’t think she had hit her head that hard. She hadn’t blacked out. She had a headache, but it wasn’t because of the impact – it was because of the smell.

  The smell.

  Her thoughts came into focus. She could feel the engine rumbling in the cargo van. It vibrated beneath her, and the smell was a mix of gasoline and oil – exhaust. She forced her weary mind to think. Exhaust contained carbon monoxide and carbon monoxide made a person very sleepy, so sleepy that eventually that person stopped breathing.

  The van was filling with carbon monoxide.

  She pinched her arm, hoping the pain would drive out the confusion. How did she escape the gas? How did she survive this? Think. Think. Gas rose, so if she kept her face low, she might be able to get enough oxygen to breathe.

  She stretched out on her stomach and covered her mouth and nose with her arm, hoping it might filter some of the fumes. God help her, if someone didn’t come soon, she was going to die in this damn van.

  Even as the thought formed, she found the lull of sleep to be almost irresistible. She pinched herself again, but the pain seemed detached, not a part of her anymore. Her eyes closed involuntarily and this time she didn’t have either the strength or the will to open them again.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Got him,” said Stan, pointing to a dot on the map.

  Jake and Defino moved closer to the screen. “What street is that?” asked Defino.

  “Arguello, just past Geary,” answered Stan.

  “That’s past the park. Where the hell is he headed?”

  Jake studied the little red dot that Stan indicated was Marco’s car. “Can you back the map out a little, Stan?”

  Stan nodded and made some clicks with the mouse. The screen expanded outward, the lines shrinking, the words becoming indistinct. Defino frowned, but Jake felt his heart hit his stomach.

  “He’s going to the Presidio,” he said.

  Defino looked up at him. “The Presidio?”

  “The Janitor has killed there before,” said Simons.

  “Get a squad car to intercept him. We need to stop him before he gets in there. We’ll never find him if he does.”

  Jake turned to her. “Captain?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this, Ryder?”

  “Because you’re not, but here it is. I wouldn’t stop him. It might be our only chance to save Peyton. You can send squad cars into the Presidio, but you have no idea where the Janitor has her. The Presidio is what – 2 square miles?”

  “2.956,” corrected Stan.

  Jake scowled at him. Stan shrugged and pointed at the screen, where he had information about the Presidio open.

  “Okay, almost three. That’s worse. If you go in there without knowing where he is, he’ll kill her.”

  Defino glanced at him. “What are you suggesting, Jake?”

  “Surround the area, shut down the roads leading into it, but do it quietly, then as soon as D’Angelo locates the Janitor, you can go in, but you’ve got to narrow the choices down to have any chance of saving either of them.”

  “He’s right, Captain,” said Cho.

  Defino thought for a moment, staring at the red dot on the screen, then she closed her eyes. “God damn it, get our people in place and await my signal.” She paused, then continued, “And send an ambulance in on standby.”

  Jake released his held breath.

  Cho and Simons nodded, then moved out onto the landing to give the orders. Defino walked over to the table and braced her hands on it. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Ryder.”

  Jake hoped so too. The thought of losing someone else as close to him as Peyton was made his guts knot. He just couldn’t lose her the way he’d lost his wife. Not when Zoë’s death was still so fresh in his memory. Worse still, he knew Marco wouldn’t be able to survive it.

  * * *

  Marco glanced down at the cell phone, catching the text message as it flashed across his screen.

  Go towards the Marina Green. There are some utility buildings there. Red brick, beneath the dismantled over pass.

  Marco knew exactly where that was. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator, the Mustang jumping over the ruts in the road, the siren screaming. The violence of the drive, the speed, the turns, the badly paved roads distracted him from the panic he was beginning to feel. The Janitor said she had twenty minutes. It had been nearly that long. There was just no good way to get anywhere in this City in a hurry.

  He couldn’t allow himself to think about what the Janitor might be doing to her. His mind kept touching on the previous murders. The Janitor was repeating them and Marco knew that Lewis Booker, who died after Father Reynolds, had his throat slit. He forced that thought from his mind, but other insidious fears crept in.

  I like her. More than like her. You wouldn’t want me to like her too much. You wouldn’t want me to make her scream.

  He slammed his fist against the steering wheel and yanked it hard to the left, the tires squealing. I
f he hurt her, if he touched her, Marco would make him die slowly. He would tear his intestines out, he would cut his heart from his chest, he would carve him into pieces so small they would never find him…and what the hell good would it do? If he hurt Peyton, revenge would mean nothing.

  He realized he hadn’t prayed in years, really prayed. He made a mimicry of it at holidays and in church, but soul-wrenching, gut-aching prayer hadn’t come to him in a long time. He needed it now. He needed something or else he was going to lose his mind.

  He started, faltering at first, but he started. He picked Peyton’s favorite prayer -- the 23rd Psalm. The lines were so familiar, they came to him easily. They came to him without hesitation as if he could hear her speaking them with him. How many times had they recited the 23rd Psalm together? It was their thing, something that drew them to each other in the most difficult times of their lives. Something that gave them comfort.

  The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.

  He should have told her he loved her. He should have taken the risk.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.

  For eight years, he’d guarded that secret like it was precious, keeping it from her.

  He leadeth me beside the still waters.

  And for what? Because he was afraid.

  Jake was right. He was a coward.

  He restoreth my soul.

  He’d contented himself with meaningless encounters, when what he wanted was there all along.

  He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

  And now if he lost her...if he lost her…

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death

  I will fear no evil.

  For thou art with me.

  He tore the wheel to the left and bounced into the parking lot. The red brick buildings rose all around him, many of them, too many to search, but a wash of calm went through him. He was not leaving this place without her. For thou art with me.

  He slammed on the brakes, grabbed his cell phone, and threw the car in park, then pushed open the door. He dialed the Janitor’s number, listening for the sound of a ring. A couple of joggers, a man and a woman, ran toward him as he reached for his gun, pulling it out.

  “Is something wrong, Officer?” asked the man.

  “Get out of the Presidio, now!” he said firmly, holding the phone to his ear. They shied away from him, quickening their pace toward the Marina Green. Marco scanned the area with his eyes, but he didn’t see a cargo van. He forced the panic down again.

  The phone stopped ringing. He could hear breathing through the line.

  “I’m here,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “One shot. Make it a headshot. If you miss, she dies.”

  Marco tried to place the voice, but he couldn’t. “I want my partner first.”

  “No. One shot. One chance. You screw this up and you don’t get another.”

  Marco spun around, searching the area, straining his ears to hear a sound, a voice carrying on the foggy air. “Tell me where she is!”

  “I guess that’s your decision then.”

  “No!” Marco heard the raw panic in his own voice. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. “No, I’ll do it your way. Just tell me where she is.” He tightened his grip on the gun. “I’ll do it your way.”

  For a moment there was no answer. Marco spun again, searching frantically.

  Then he heard it. The sound of sirens approaching, cutting through the fog and the gloom, cutting into him.

  “You screwed up,” came the voice in his ear. “Too bad.”

  Then he was gone.

  “NO!” Marco threw the phone down, then he started running. He didn’t know what he intended to do, but he raced to the first building and tugged on the door. A padlock kept him from opening it, so he raced to the next, repeating the same action.

  His heart beat frantically against his ribs, his thoughts had occluded to one thing, movement, but somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was repeating the 23rd Psalm over and over again, obsessively.

  The sirens were growing closer and as he glanced over his shoulder, he could see police cars streaming into the Presidio from every avenue, lights ablaze. He stumbled to a stop in another parking lot, watching them. Gradually, he became aware of another sound, so faint, he wouldn’t have heard it except his every sense was on hyper alert.

  He closed his eyes and held his breath, listening. There it was again. Faint, but unmistakable. The sound of a car engine.

  He whirled around and his eyes landed on the double doors – the only building without a padlock. He tore over to it and wrenched the doors open. An involuntary sob escaped him as he caught sight of the cargo van, idling inside. He glanced briefly at the slumped form beside the van, only long enough to mark that it was a man, not a woman, then he grabbed the handles on the van’s back doors, and threw them open.

  Peyton lay, facing away from him, in the bed of the van. She didn’t move when he hovered over her. Placing his gun in the bed, he curled his arms under her body and lifted her. Her head lolled against his shoulder as he carried her out into the parking lot and sank to his knees, holding her close.

  “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, pressing his fingers under her chin, searching for a pulse. “Come on, breathe, Peyton, breathe!”

  Her lips were tinged blue. Panic threatened to overwhelm him. He pressed his knuckles hard against her arm, trying to draw a pain response. She gave a little gasp and sucked in air, so he did it again.

  “Come on, sweetheart, breathe!”

  A police car swerved into the parking lot in front of him and he tore his eyes from her pale face, looking up. A uniform threw open the car door and started to climb out.

  “I need an ambulance! Now!” Marco shouted.

  The officer talked into the receiver on his shoulder.

  Marco lowered his face to Peyton. “Come on, sweetheart, breathe.”

  The officer hurried over. “Where’s the suspect?”

  Marco shook his head, not bothering to make eye contact.

  “I need to know where the suspect is!” the officer demanded.

  “Leave me alone!” Marco growled.

  Something in his tone must have registered because the officer backed away.

  He was only half aware that the parking lot was filling with patrol vehicles. He couldn’t get a response out of Peyton, but then he heard the rumble of an ambulance pulling up in front of him. When the paramedic jumped out of the passenger’s door, he focused on him.

  “Get an oxygen tank!” he shouted.

  Suddenly two medics surrounded him, pulling Peyton out of his arms. He didn’t want to release her, but he gave way under their superior experience. They immediately fitted an oxygen mask over her face and then lifted her to a gurney. Marco followed them as they rushed her to the back of the vehicle and lifted her inside. He climbed in next to her, not waiting for them to ask him.

  One of the men slammed the doors shut and ran to the driver’s side, climbing behind the wheel, while the other stripped down an IV. “What’s her name?” he said.

  “Peyton.” He reached over and brushed a curl off her cheek.

  “Peyton, I need you to wake up,” said the medic.

  The ambulance began to pull forward. Marco braced himself, muttering prayers under his breath. Her chest was beginning to rise a bit more, but she still looked so pale, so ashen.

  “Peyton, I’m going to start an IV.”

  He turned her elbow out and pushed up the sleeve of her running jacket. When he pressed the needle into her skin, she gave a little gasp, sucking in more oxygen.

  “That’s a good sign,” said the medic, reaching for the tape.

  Marco bent over her. “Come on, sweetheart, wake up!”

  The medic pressed his knuckles hard into her sternum, between her breast. “Come on, Peyton! Wake up now!”

  She shuddered and her eyes snapped open, searching frant
ically until they landed on Marco. He heard a sound escape him, something suspiciously like a sob, and he ran his hand through her hair, smiling.

  “That’s a girl,” said the medic, going back to the IV.

  She fixated on Marco’s face as tears welled in her eyes and ran down her temples. She couldn’t talk with the mask over her mouth.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said, stroking her hair. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

  * * *

  Marco paced back and forth in the waiting room from the window to the television and back again. A crowd suddenly appeared – Cho, Simons, Jake, Abe, Defino, Maria, Cliff…Peyton’s mother. They surrounded him, asking him questions. He didn’t have any answers. They’d taken her beyond a door where he couldn’t follow and no one had been out to tell him anything.

  There were other people in the waiting room, sitting in little groups, speaking in whispers. They kept their eyes on him, watching him, staring at his empty gun holster. He didn’t remember where he’d stashed his gun, but at this point he didn’t give a damn.

  Defino stepped in front of him. “Tell me what happened.”

  He studied her face, her short cropped hair, the faint lines around her mouth, and he couldn’t process what she was asking. “I don’t know.”

  “The Janitor contacted you?”

  Marco nodded. “Yeah, text. I don’t know how he got my number.” He looked toward the door. “She’s been in there for a long time.”

  “I’ll go see if I can find out anything,” said Abe.

  Maria stepped between Marco and Defino, putting her arm around Marco’s waist. “Captain, can’t this wait until later?”

  Defino squinted at her, then she nodded. “Yeah, it’ll wait.”

  Marco gave Maria a grateful look, then pulled away and walked to the window.

  Alice followed him.

  “What did he do to her?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm.

  Marco glanced down at her. “He had her in the back of a van. The van was idling in this building and…” His voice failed. He swallowed hard. “The van was filling with carbon monoxide.”