Werewolves in London

Peyton Brooks, FBI

Volume 3

ML Hamilton

Cover Art by Karri Klawiter

www.artbykarri.com

Werewolves in London

© 2015 ML Hamilton, Sacramento, CA

All rights reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine or journal.

First print

All Characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

I remember the moment I decided to study English. It was during my senior year of high school when I was reading Hamlet by William Shakespeare.

This past summer I had the opportunity to study at the Globe Theatre, an experience I will never forget.

This novel is dedicated to all those who keep Shakespeare’s genius alive, and to the Bard himself.

My readers and my family continue that inspiration.

Thank you!

Werewolves were far more terrifying than vampires. It is probably the idea of seeing the human within the beast and knowing you can’t reach it.

– Glen Duncan

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

She’s going to die.

He peered around the pillar at the young woman sitting on the bench, waiting for the tube. Glancing down the platform, he saw no one else waiting with her. It was always like this. Late night, just before midnight, last train to catch. He felt bile rise in his throat and he swallowed hard, grimacing at the burn. It was always like this.

She’s going to die.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, just out of university. Probably drinking at the pub with her mates. She wore the sort of clothes he liked. Short skirt, tight jumper in pale pink, and stilettos. She glanced around nervously, twisting the handle on her handbag around her fingers.

She’s going to die.

He eased out from behind the pillar and approached her, picking at his cuticles anxiously. Her eyes whipped to his face and she sucked in air. People always did that with him. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe the wild hair, maybe the gnarled beard, maybe the run-down trainers and torn trousers – there were so many maybes, he’d stopped trying to figure it out long ago.

She’s going to die.

She eased over on the bench, clutching the handbag to her chest, turning her head away, although her eyes still tried to make contact, keep him in sight. Rocking forward, she looked at the electronic sign. He glanced at it as well. Farringdon, Circle Line, 2 mins. He saw the look on her face, knew she thought the same thing as he did. A lot could happen in 2 minutes.

She’s going to die.

He had to warn her. He had to give her a chance. He sidled up a little closer and she glanced at him, just the shifting of her eyes, her body tense, her instincts telling her not to talk to him. He eased a bit closer still, continuing to pick at his cuticles. A round drop of blood welled out of the torn flesh, momentarily distracting him. He stared at it, thought about licking it off, then worried his hands were dirty.

She’s going to die.

He jerked as the voice whispered to him, and his movement startled her. She met his gaze fully now, her pupils dilated, her mouth slightly open in alarm. She had blue eyes, blond hair, a smatter of freckles over the bridge of her nose.

“I don’t have any money,” she said, glancing down.

He stared at her. Why did people always think he wanted money? “You need to go.”

She shot a look at him and away. “What?”

He wasn’t used to speaking out loud. He didn’t speak out loud very often. “You need to go.”

“I will. As soon as the tube gets here.” She pointed at the electronic sign.

“No.” He shuffled a little closer, too close, too quick.

She jumped to her feet and moved a few steps away, curling her shoulders in as if she could protect herself that way. “Look, just stay where you are.”

He felt his stomach knot. She wasn’t listening. She didn’t understand. He had to make her understand.

She’s going to die.

“No!” He banged his fist against his temple, then glanced over his shoulder. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He could feel him back there, waiting in the shadows, just waiting. Glancing over at the girl, he noticed she’d moved further away, under the electronic sign, leaning forward to see if she could catch sight of the train. “You need to go, please.”

She turned her head away as if ignoring him could make this stop.

“Please, listen to me. You need to leave here, now. Get out of the station.”

“I’ll leave when the train arrives. Now you leave me alone!”

He shuffled closer, glancing back again, feeling him moving forward in the shadows. “He’s coming,” he whispered.

Her terrified gaze swept up to him and her nostrils flared. “Please leave me alone! If you don’t, I’ll scream!”

She’s going to die.

He opened his mouth to beg her, but the sound of the train filled the platform and he caught himself. If she got on the train, she should be all right. If he waited until she got on the train, he could leave. Then it wouldn’t be his problem.

The train pulled up to the platform and the doors swished open. A male voice echoed through the tube, “Circle line, Farringdon Station, next stop Barbican. Please mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

She hurried onto the car and took a seat, looking out at him. He paced across the front of it, watching, waiting for the train to pull away, keeping her safe. Picking at his cuticles he tore another strip of skin away, ignoring the blood that pooled along the nail. Once the train pulled away, she would be safe. He could leave then. He could give up the vigil.

He glanced up as the door swished shut. She visibly relaxed on the other side of the glass and he permitted himself just the smallest of smiles. She was safe. She was going to get home all right.

Turning toward the exit, he saw the shadow slip into the car in front of hers. Whipping back around, he ran for her car, pressing on the door, trying to get it to open. Her blue eyes met his and she rose to her feet, clutching the handbag before her. The door wouldn’t open, no matter how hard he pushed on it, so he banged on the glass.

“Get out!” he shouted at her.

She started walking sideways toward the other end of the car, but he shook his head, banging on the glass. “No! Get out!”

Then the train lurched forward, throwing him backward. He stared in horror as the train pulled away from the station, taking her with it, leaving him stranded on the platform, watching as the shadow appeared behind her.

She’s going to die.

He curled in on himself, wrapping his hands around his head, banging his fists on his temples. She’s going to die. She’s going to die. She’s going to die.

*    *    *

Marco pulled the Charger into the driveway of Peyton’s house, parking next to her Prius. He set the brake and shifted in the seat, looking over at her. She smiled at him, feeling her heart pick up speed. She wanted to continue their time together, she wanted to invite him in, but she didn’t want to be rejected again. She didn’t know where they were, where she stood with him. He’d shown up at the funeral for Finn Getter, the boy killed on the commune, and he’d taken her to dinner, but there was still so much between them, so much unfinished, so much unsaid.

“I enjoyed dinner,” she offered.

He smiled and she felt the old flutter in her belly. God, he was so handsome, the man she wanted, the only one. “I’m glad, but you didn’t eat much.”

She shrugged. “Funny thing is I always think I want a burger, then when it’s in front of me, I have a hard time eating it. You ruined me for cow.”

He laughed. She forgot how much she treasured his laugh, his smile, his touch. He reached out and trailed his thumb along her cheekbone. “I miss you, Peyton,” he said.

She didn’t move, didn’t breathe, afraid anything might ruin the moment. It never used to be this hard with him. It had always been so easy, so very easy, even becoming lovers had been easy, until lately…

He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, just a light brush, then he drew away. Involuntarily her hand rose and curled in his shirt, pulling him back, deepening the kiss. When they parted, they were both breathing heavily.

She wanted more, she needed more. “Do you want to come in and see Pickles? You haven’t seen him in a while.” Weak excuse, but she was clutching at anything here.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yeah, that’d be great. I haven’t seen Pickles in a long time.”

They both laughed, but before he could change his mind, she reached for the door handle, pushing it open. She wasn’t giving him a chance to rethink her offer. He waited for her on the other side of the car, leaning on his cane. She moved close to him, looking up at him, then she rose on tiptoes and kissed him again.

He curled his free arm around her waist and lifted her against him, pressing her tight to his body. When he finally allowed her to slide down to her feet, she felt light headed and giddy with happiness. Grabbing his hand, she turned toward the ramp leading to her door.

“Come on,” she urged, tugging him forward.

He followed behind her, but when they turned the corner, movement by the door had him reaching for his gun.

Peyton recognized the intruder and held out her arm, stopping him. “Mike, what are you doing here?”

Mike Edwards was Peyton’s most recent stray, or so Marco would say. She’d met him on an ill-conceived night out with her co-worker Bambi. He was also the subject of Peyton and Marco’s most recent fight.

“Peyton, I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“When you broke our date, I tried to call, but you didn’t pick up.”

“Your date?”

Peyton recognized the edge in Marco’s voice.

“For beer and pizza,” she told him, turning back to Mike. “How did you find my house?”

“I saw your address on a bill in your car when you drove me home the other night.”

“You drove him home?”

Shit. Peyton turned to face Marco, but she could already see the fury in his blue eyes. They so didn’t need this right now. “It’s not like that. He got hit by a car on his bike and I took him home. I called Abe to check him out.”

Marco’s gaze swung back to Mike. “Are you stalking her?” He still had a grip on the gun beneath his jacket.

“No!” Mike held out his hands. “I was worried. I didn’t know why she broke our date…”

“It wasn’t a date!” Peyton cried.

“Peyton, I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. With your job…”

“He knows where you work?”

Peyton opened her mouth to answer, but she realized it wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good. Right now she had to get Mike out of here without him getting shot. “Mike, you need to go.”

“I’m sorry, Peyton.”

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “Just go, please.”

He moved down the ramp and tried to pass Marco, but Marco wasn’t budging. Peyton pushed Marco in the stomach, forcing him to back up so Mike could sidle past, but as soon as he hurried around the corner of the house, Marco went after him.

Peyton raced around in front of him, bracing her hands on his chest. “Let him go, please, Marco.”

He eased her aside and stepped out onto the driveway, staring at the street where Mike had parked his car. Peyton realized it had been parked in front of her house the entire time and she hadn’t noticed it. She’d been so focused on Marco.

“Please, Marco, let him go.”

He watched Mike until he climbed behind the wheel and started the car, then he looked over his shoulder at Peyton as the car pulled away. “You made a date with him?”

“It was just for beer and pizza. It was nothing.”

“How’s that nothing?”

“It wasn’t a date.”

“But he’s been in your car?”

“You already knew about that. You already asked me about it the other day.”

“He knows where you work, Peyton, and you say he’s not stalking you?”

“He’s harmless, Marco. He’s just this guy who’s new here and he’s looking for friends.”

“He’s not looking for a friend from you, Peyton. Where the hell did you meet him anyway?”

Oh, she wasn’t telling him that. “Just around.”

“Just around?” He faced her, his expression a mix of bewilderment and frustration. “I’ve been sober for a week, but this is making me want to drink again.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “I’ve got to go.”

Peyton felt as if he’d punched her. She stared at the ground, refusing to let him see the sudden tears in her eyes. She wasn’t going to beg him.

He started for the Charger, then stopped and turned around. Limping back to her, he slid his hand under her chin, lifting her face until their eyes met. “I’m not walking away from you, Peyton,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m walking away from a situation I can’t control right now. Do you understand?”

She nodded, fighting the tears.

He bent and kissed her, hard, a kiss filled with longing, but he still pulled away from her. “I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay,” she managed to get out.

He took a step back. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She forced herself to nod and let him walk away. He went to the Charger and yanked open the door, dropping behind the wheel. The roar of the engine made Peyton flinch. There just didn’t seem to be anyway for the two of them to get beyond this. Every time they made progress, something threw them back again.

As the Charger roared off down the street, Peyton turned and walked back to her door, reaching for her house keys. Suddenly the only thing she wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep away the rest of her weekend.

*    *    *

Marco drove away from Peyton’s house, searching for the blue Volkswagen Jetta. No matter what Peyton said, it was strange that this guy had been sitting on her doorstep, waiting for her to get home. How the hell long had he been sitting there anyway and how the hell long would he have waited?

He didn’t see the car on the road. Grabbing his phone, he ordered it to call Stan Neumann, the tech guru at the precinct. Stan picked up on the third ring.

“Hey, Captain.”

“Hey, Stan, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

Marco suppressed a momentary stab of guilt. He was using Stan for something personal, but the guilt was short lived. He didn’t like the fact that this guy knew where Peyton lived and worked.

“I need you to run a license plate for me. Get me all the information you can.”

“Sure, give it to me.”

Marco rattled off the plate number from his memory.

“Anything you looking for in particular?”

“I don’t know. This guy was waiting outside Peyton’s house tonight and I just got a bad feeling about it.”

“He was waiting outside her house?”

“Yeah, he said he got her address off a bill in her car, but…” He caught himself. Something about that explanation seemed particularly off, but he couldn’t place why it bothered him. “I don’t know, I’m probably making more out of it than necessary.” He clenched his teeth in frustration. “Look, Stan, I have no right to ask this of you.”

“If this guy’s stalking Peyton, I’m on board, Captain. I’ll just run the plates and see what I get.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. I’ll let you know what I find out tomorrow morning, okay?”

“Great. Thanks, Stan.”

“Anytime, Captain.”

Stan disconnected the call, leaving Marco to worry over the situation. If Peyton found out he’d run the guy’s plates, she’d be furious, but he couldn’t help it. What idiot sat on a woman’s doorstep waiting for her to come home? He dismissed the nagging thought that he’d done it before with that very woman himself.

Peyton didn’t always have good judgment when it came to people and that was that.

When he arrived at Abe’s condo, he wanted nothing more than to slink into his room and pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. He was already regretting leaving her. He should have stayed, he should have put his anger aside and spent the time with her. It was all he’d wanted since she agreed to go to dinner with him, but he’d let his pride get in the way again.

He unlocked Abe’s door and pushed it open. Immediately he tried to back out, but he was caught. One of Abe’s friends, Serge or something, spotted him and dragged him into the room. The condo was full of men, dancing to Aretha Franklin. Copious amounts of booze had clearly been flowing for quite a few hours.

“Dance with me, darlin’,” Serge said, twirling around with Marco’s hand.

“Don’t hog the beefcake!” shouted someone across the room. “Would you look at this one?”

As the men closed in on him, Marco took an involuntary step back, searching for Abe in the crowd.

“How are you, sweet thing?”

“Would you look at those blue eyes?”

“He’s mine. I saw him first.”

Marco found himself pressed against the door, scrambling for the doorknob when Abe appeared from the kitchen, carrying a pitcher of something in an obscene color.

“Angel!” he exclaimed and passed the pitcher off to the first person he found, then he shoved his way through the crowd toward Marco. “Back off. Back off, you vultures. This one’s mine.”

Hooking an arm around Marco’s shoulders, he shooed the other men away. They grumbled, but backed off, returning to their dance party. Abe shifted Marco to face him, placing his hands on his cheeks.

“They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

Marco gave a relieved laugh. “No, you got here in time.”

“I’m sorry, Angel. I thought you were with Peyton. I honestly didn’t think you’d be home tonight, so I had a little get-together.”

Marco glanced around the room. Only Abe would call this a little get-together. “It’s fine. I’ll just go out.”

Abe turned his face back to him. “What happened? Did you fight again?”

Marco really didn’t want to discuss it with all these men around. “Mike was there.”

“Mike? The guy who falls off his bike?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Why the hell was he there?”

“You tell me. Where the hell did she meet that guy anyway?”

“I’m not sure. Bar or something.”

“That’s just great.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Waiting for her. She broke a date with him, so he thought he’d stake out her house.”

Abe frowned. “Give me a minute to get rid of everyone.”

“No, Abe, don’t do that. I’ll just go out.”

“You don’t have to leave. This is your home, Angel.”

Marco glanced over his shoulder. “There’s a little too much booze here for me right now. I’m gonna go somewhere else, okay?”

“No, I’ll clear everyone out.”

“Please don’t do that. That’ll make me feel worse.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“My brother’s. I’ll be fine. I just need to get out for a while. Don’t worry, okay? I’m fine.”

Abe searched his face. “I’m gonna call you in a little bit and you better answer, you hear me?”

“Yeah, fine.” He moved toward the door. “Don’t worry, okay?”

“If I call, you pick up.”

“I will.” He slipped into the hallway and shut the door at his back, muting the music. Leaning against it, he wasn’t sure what the hell to do now. He didn’t want to bother his brothers on a Sunday. This was their family time and they’d likely be at his parents’ anyway. He sure as hell didn’t need his mother fussing over him right now.

He took the elevator back to the garage and climbed behind the wheel of the Charger, then he drove to the nearest pizza parlor and ordered a pizza. After it was done, he drove until he found himself in front of Jake Ryder’s apartment. Resigned, he climbed out and walked to the door, knocking.

Jake opened it. He wore a pair of sweats and a Giants ball cap. “Adonis, what are you doing here?”

“Abe’s having a gay pride parade in our living room, so I need a place to chill for a few hours. I brought a pizza. You busy?”

“No, just watching the baseball game. Come in.” He threw the door open and Marco stepped inside only to be accosted by Jake’s German Shepherd, Tater.

Jake caught the dog by the collar and held him off. “Sorry. Come in.”

Marco handed him the pizza and took a seat on the brown faux suede couch. An enormous flat screened television dominated the wall before the couch, showing the Giants game in high definition. This was his kind of room.

“Want a soda?” asked Jake, setting the pizza on the glass coffee table.

“Sure.”

Jake walked into the galley kitchen and returned a moment later with two cans, passing one to Marco. Marco opened it and took a sip, resting his hand on Tater’s head as the dog laid it on his thigh.

Jake held out a paper plate to him, but Marco waved it off.

“I’m not hungry. I already ate.”

Jake gave him a wry look. “Why’d you get a pizza then?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like a good idea.”

Jake continued to study him as he sank onto the other end of the couch. “Let me guess, vegetarian?” he said, opening the box.

“You think I’d bring you cow or pig?”

Jake gave a sarcastic laugh. “No, that would be ridiculous. Who wants pepperoni on their pizza?”

“Just be glad it isn’t cheese.”

“That might have been better.”

“Eat the damn pizza and shut up!” snapped Marco.

Jake’s brows lifted as he put a slice on his plate. “Ah, this doesn’t have anything to do with Abe’s party, does it?”

“What?”

“Abe said you were going to dinner with Peyton. What happened?”

“Shit. What do you and Abe do, gossip over your periods? And why aren’t you at Abe’s party tonight?”

“I’m not gay and I’m not a woman, Adonis. You’re deflecting. What happened?”

Marco stared at the television. Tater pushed his head under his hand. “Can we just watch the damn game in silence?”

“Sure.” Jake leaned back on the couch and began eating.

Marco tried to concentrate, but he couldn’t. He didn’t want to talk about Peyton with Jake. At least he didn’t think he did. Staring into Tater’s brown eyes, he rubbed the dog’s ear. “She’s got this new stray.”

“Stray? Dog?”

“Man. This Mike idiot. I think he’s stalking her.”

“What do you mean he’s stalking her?”

“He was sitting on her doorstep, waiting for her.”

“I remember you doing that a few times when I was living there,” said Jake around a mouthful of pizza.

Marco glared at him. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t like any man around her. Why was he there?”

“He said she broke a date with him and he was worried about her.”

“A date?”

“She said it wasn’t a date, but…”

“But? What more do you want?”

“He was sitting on her doorstep.”

“People always do that with Peyton. You know that, but if she said it wasn’t a date, it wasn’t a date.”

“Can we just watch the game?” Marco snarled.

Jake leaned over and grabbed another slice. “Sure. Let’s watch the game. By the way, this is damn good pizza.” He took another bite and gave Marco a stupid grin. “For vegetarian.”

*    *    *

Pounding on the door brought Peyton out of a deep sleep. She rolled over and looked at the bedside clock. 8:00PM. Throwing back the covers, she stumbled into the living room, rubbing the last of sleep from her eyes. Pickles, her Yorkshire terrier, bounced around the front door, barking like a lunatic.

Scooping him up, she peeked through the peep hole, groaning when she saw Maria and another woman on the other side. Sliding back the deadbolt, she peered out. “Hey, Maria, what’s up?”

“What’s up? I get married in two months, that’s what’s up. Let us in.” She pushed at the door.

Peyton stepped back and let the two women inside. They both carried bags filled with magazines. Peyton guessed the other woman had to be related to Maria. They were the same height and had the same curvaceous figures.

“Did we have plans or something?” Peyton asked in confusion.

Maria took in Peyton’s mussed hair and 49er’s jersey. Actually, it was Marco’s jersey, but Peyton just couldn’t give it up. She’d gotten used to sleeping in it, pretending it still smelled of him.

The other woman gave Peyton a critical once-over as well. “You’re right. No boobs to speak of.” She walked around behind Peyton. “And not much ass.”

“She used to have more ass before she started losing all this weight.”

The woman sank her hands into Peyton’s mane of curls. “Probably best to just cut this all off.”

“No!” Peyton stepped away from the woman, putting a protective hand on her hair.

“You can’t do that. She’s super possessive over it, but if we start a serious conditioning regime, what do you think?”

“It might be ready in time.”

“Ready in time?” Peyton blinked in confusion at Maria and held Pickles close as if he could protect her. “For what?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Did you forget already? You’re my bridesmaid.”

“Yeah, but…”

“We’ve got to plan the wedding.”

“I thought it wasn’t until July. It’s just May.”

“And you’re going to get another case, then you’ll be off to God knows where. I gotta get you while I can.”

The other woman turned Peyton to face her. “She’s got a cute face. Not gorgeous, but cute.”

“Yeah, but she’s so damn short.”

“Hey!” Peyton tugged her chin out of the woman’s hand. “Not to be rude, but who are you?”

“Maria’s sister, Marta.” Of course.

“Look, Brooks, we’re gonna need coffee. We’ve got a lot to plan and we’re probably going to be here all night.”

“All night? I have to work tomorrow.”

“Well, then the sooner we get started, the sooner you can go back to bed.” She held up the bag containing the magazines. “We’ve got to pick wedding colors and bridesmaids’ dresses and flatware. Do you have any idea how many patterns of flatware there are?”

Peyton realized her mouth hung open. She shut it and set Pickles on the couch, then went into the kitchen after the coffee. What was the point of fighting it when they were talking flatware?

Maria and her sister started setting out the magazines on Peyton’s coffee table, arranging them based on purpose. A few seconds later, Maria appeared in the kitchen beside her.

“What happened?”

Peyton looked up from spooning grounds into the pot. “What?”

“Why are you in bed at 8:00, wearing his jersey?”

Peyton glanced out at Marta, but she was busy leafing through a thick bridal magazine. “Nothing happened. I’m just tired.”

“I’m not stupid, Brooks. Spill it.”

Peyton set the bag of coffee on the counter and reached for the pot, filling it with water. “He came and took me to dinner.”

“And?”

“That’s all. He took me to dinner.”

“That’s not all. Spill it!”

Peyton poured the water into the machine. “Mike was waiting here when we got home.”

“Who the hell is Mike?”

“This guy I met at a bar.”

“What guy? What bar? When did you go to a bar without me?”

“What?” Peyton settled the coffee pot on the burner and gave Maria a bewildered look.

“You went to a bar without your best friend?”

“I went with Bambi.”

“Who’s Bambi?”

“A co-worker.”

“And you didn’t even bother to tell me about it?” Maria fixed a hand on her hip.

Peyton didn’t know how to respond. Somehow this conversation had taken a weird turn. “What’s happening?”

“I’m your best friend. If you go out, you’re supposed to ask me to go with you. That’s how things work.”

Peyton didn’t think that’s how they worked at all, but she’d never had a female best friend before, especially a self-proclaimed one. “You’re engaged, Maria.”

“What does that matter? I can still go to a bar if I want.”

“I...uh…”

Maria gave a huff of exasperation. “Honestly, Brooks, do you try to hurt me?”

“No, I…”

“Marta,” she shouted into the living room.

“What?”

“You know what would help her lack of butt?”

“No, what?”

“A big ass bow.”

“Oh, shit yeah, I’ve got just the dress for that.”

“A bow?” squeaked out Peyton.

“A big ASS bow,” hissed Maria, leaning close to her.

Not a bow, Peyton thought. Anything but a bow.

CHAPTER 2

His mother opened the bedroom door and peered through the crack. “Who are you talking to, Charlie?”

He looked up from the plastic blocks he was using to build a bridge and blinked at her. Sometimes when he answered questions like this one, she got that scared look on her face. He didn’t like that look. He didn’t like when she was scared.

She pushed the door open and stepped into his room. His father peered in behind her. His father got the same look, but while his mother might follow it up with lifting him into her lap and cuddling him, his father always looked like he wanted to run away.

“Tell me, love. Who were you talking to?” She came and squatted next to him, running her hand over his hair.

“Niles.”

“Niles?” Her eyes shifted away from him, took in the room, then came back. “Is Niles still here?”

He frowned at that. Of course Niles was still there. Niles never left. Not even for a little while. “Yes, Mum.” He picked up a block and pretended to put it on the last one he’d used, but he’d forgotten what he was doing the moment she opened the door. He caught the look she shared with his father.

“Can you tell me what Niles looks like, Charlie?” She stroked a hand over his head again.

“He’s a wolf.”

“A wolf?” She tried to smile, but it came out strained. “A wolf, is he? Now that’s something, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer. It was one of those questions that didn’t require a response. He picked up another block.

“You talk to Niles a lot, don’t you?”

He shrugged.

“I hear you talk to Niles a lot, now don’t I?”

He wasn’t sure what she heard, so he wasn’t sure how to answer her.

“Charlie?” She placed her hand under his chin and turned his face until their eyes met. “Does Niles talk back? Does he say things to you?”

Of course he did. What would be the point if he didn’t talk? In fact, that was the main part of their relationship. Niles talked and Charlie listened. “He talks.”

His father came into the room, circling around them and taking a seat on the bed. “What sort of things does he say to you, Charlie?”

Charlie looked up at him. Instinctively he knew his father didn’t really want to know the answer to this. He just asked because he felt he had to. “Stuff.”

“What stuff, Charlie?” asked his mother.

“Just stuff.”

She brushed hair away from his cheek. “Listen here, Charlie, I’d like you to ask Niles to stop talking to you. Do you think you could do that? Ask him to stop?”

“Why?”

“Well, it just might make it easier on all of us. You know? If Niles went away. It would make it easier on your teachers if Niles wasn’t around anymore.”

Charlie considered that. He’d never thought of a world where Niles wasn’t a part of it, but maybe it would be okay. Maybe he could try, if it would make his teachers happy.

“And your mum,” said his father as if he read the shift in Charlie’s thoughts. “It would make it loads better on your mum if Niles wasn’t around anymore.”

Charlie continued to think, staring into his mother’s expectant, hopeful eyes and he knew he wanted to please her. If it would make things easier on all of them, he could stop talking to Niles. He could pretend that Niles didn’t exist. He could ignore Niles’s constant efforts to communicate. Yes, he could do all of this.

Just…

That didn’t mean Niles had to listen.

*    *    *

Abe hesitated at the door to the kitchen, giving it a blurry-eyed once over. Marco flipped a pancake and watched him as he gingerly walked to the bistro set and took a seat. Grabbing a mug, Marco poured him a cup of coffee and carried it to him.

Abe took it with a pained smile and sipped. “Did you clean up the mess?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Angel.”

Marco dished up a plate of pancakes and brought them to Abe, sliding the butter and syrup across the table at him.

“And you made me breakfast?”

“Sure.”

“That’s so sweet of you.” He placed a hand against his chest and gave Marco an affected pout.

Marco dished up his own plate and took a seat across from him, hooking his cane over the back of the chair.

“You don’t have to do these things for me, Angel.”

“You let me live here for free. It’s nothing.” He slapped a wedge of butter on his pancake. “Besides, Ryder swears pancakes soak up the alcohol from a bender.”

Abe cut into his breakfast. “There is absolutely no scientific evidence to back that up.”

Marco shrugged and started eating.

Abe ate for a moment in silence, then gave Marco a searching look. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s the leg?”

“Like walking on ground glass.” He grabbed his coffee and swallowed a mouthful.

“When did Grey schedule your surgery for?”

“He didn’t. His schedule was booked, so they’re going to call me when he gets an opening.”

“Good.” They ate in silence for a few minutes, then Abe looked up again. “You sure you’re okay?”

Marco set down his fork and pushed the plate away. His appetite had left him. “I don’t know. I screwed up with Peyton again. I should never have left. I should have stayed and worked it out. Why do I keep doing that, Abe?”

“Well, you had eight years to figure out how to be her partner. You’ve just started trying to be more. Seems to me it might take a little more time to figure that out as well.”

Marco gave Abe a smile. “Sometimes you’re a very wise man, you know that?”

Abe reached for his coffee, shaking his head. “No, Angel, all the time I’m a very wise man, the wisest man you know.”

Marco laughed and saluted him with his own mug. “Touché, my friend, touché.”

*    *    *

Peyton stepped into her office and stumbled to a halt. Her desk and credenza were covered in flowers. A bouquet of flowers even occupied an open spot on the floor in a corner. She took it all in, easing around the desk and pulling out her chair, setting her briefcase on it.

Margaret appeared in the doorway, her cardigan buttoned to her chin, her pearls hanging around her neck. “They started arriving half-an-hour ago.”

Peyton began searching through them for a card.

“I assumed they were from your young man.”

Peyton glanced up at her. “No, my young man would never think of doing something like this. Flowers are far too impractical for him.” She found the card and opened the envelope. She suspected she knew who they were from and she wasn’t sure what to do about it.

Sure enough, the card read: I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Barnabas.

She held up the card. “Just as I suspected. These are from Mike Edwards.”

“Mike Edwards? The guy who showed up here the other day?”

“Yep.” Picking up the briefcase, she sank into her seat.

“Why is he sending you flowers?”

“That’s the million dollar question, Margaret. He showed up at my place last night, waiting on the doorstep. Let’s just say it caused trouble.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yep.”

Her cell phone rang. Peyton pulled it out of her suit pocket and looked at the display. Mike’s number flashed on the screen. “And here he is to make it worse.”

Margaret winced and backed out of the room. “I’ll just get you some coffee.”

Peyton thumbed the phone on and brought it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, Peyton, I just wanted to call and tell you how sorry I am for yesterday.”

“I sort of got that idea when I entered my office and found it looking like a florist shop.”

“Do you like them? I was hoping they’d brighten your day.”

“How much did you spend, Mike?”

“I have a friend in the business. He hooked me up. Besides, what are credit cards for?”

“You shouldn’t have done this, Mike. Just like you shouldn’t have been waiting outside my house yesterday.”

“That’s why I got the flowers, Peyton. I really am sorry about yesterday. Honestly, I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just worried about you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Mike. That’s not your job.”

He went silent. Peyton closed her eyes, fighting for composure. She didn’t want to hurt him.

“Look, Mike. This has to stop. You can’t keep doing these things. I told you. I’m not interested in a relationship.”

“I know. You’ve told me that a couple of times, but I just thought we could be friends.”

“Well, I don’t think we can.”

“I see.”

Peyton felt a wash of guilt sweep over her. “I didn’t mean that to sound as harsh as it did.”

“No, I get it. You’re trying to work things out with your ex and…”

“He’s not really my ex.”

“And I’m interfering with that. It’s obvious I make him uncomfortable. I get that...actually, I don’t ‘cause he looks like a Chippendales dancer, but you know, whatever. I get it. It’s just that everything’s sort of messed up right now in my life and…”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask, she pleaded with herself. Just leave it alone. This was always where she got herself in trouble.

“Never mind. It’s not your problem.”

Peyton reached out and fingered a deep velvet-red rose petal. “What’s messed up?” she heard herself say.

“It’s just I’m new here and I don’t know anyone. I thought I’d meet people at work, but…”

“But?”

“I lost my job on Friday, Peyton. They laid me off. First one in, first one out. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll probably have to move back in with my mother.”

“Then why are you buying me flowers?”

“I told you, I got a deal on them. Besides, I really wanted to make it up to you. I didn’t mean to make things difficult for you.”

Peyton covered her eyes with her hand. Stay tough. He ruined your night with Marco. He took that away from you. Do not give in. Do not let him back into your life. “I’m sorry you lost your job, Mike.”

“It is what it is. It’s just hard, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you fight for your country. You risk your life, but then...you’re on your own.”

“Can’t you get unemployment?”

“I was still in my probationary period. I don’t think I qualify. I don’t know. Look, Peyton, just forget it, okay? It’s not your problem. I’ll figure it out some way. It’s just it would be nice to have a friend sometimes.”

“Mike.”

“No, I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it, okay? Just forget I said anything.”

Peyton banged her fist against her forehead a few times. God damn it, she was going to lose Marco for good if she didn’t stop collecting strays. He’d been as patient with her as he could. She had to stop feeling sorry for people, taking them in. She had to put up a barricade against them.

And yet, she couldn’t. She’d never been able to do it before. Marco knew who she was when he asked her to marry him. He knew she couldn’t let people flounder on their own. He was just going to have to accept who she was or not. Period.

“Look, Mike, why don’t you come down for lunch?” she heard herself say. “I might have some ideas for your job search.”

“Really? Are you sure, Peyton?”

“Yeah.”

“What ideas? Do you know of any jobs? Anything I might be qualified for?”

Peyton grimaced. She knew they were hiring front desk security at the moment. Still, she would be in a world of trouble if Marco came here and saw him. No, that wouldn’t work at all. However, Marco had never come down to her office before, not once in all the time she’d worked here.

“Look, I’m not promising anything. Just meet me downstairs in the lobby at noon, okay? We’ll see what we can find then.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much, Peyton.”

“Well, don’t thank me right now. We haven’t found you anything yet.” She paused, listening on the line. “I’m not promising anything, Mike. Please understand this. I’m just trying to help.”

“You don’t know what this means to me, Peyton. Just having you in my corner. It means the world to me.”

“We’ll see. See you at noon.”

“See you at noon, and Peyton, thank you.”

“Yeah.” She disconnected the call and sat staring at the display – the picture she’d taken of Marco and Pickles in the Delta a month or so ago stared back at her. Marco was going to blow an aneurysm if she told him about this, but honestly, what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, right? Besides, she was pissed at him, wasn’t she? For leaving again. For walking out on her. For not listening to what she had to say. She was pissed and she wasn’t going to let him control her life.

Margaret appeared in the doorway, carrying her coffee, four packets of sugar, and a small box. “Look what else arrived for you.”

Peyton peeked into the cellophane window at a chocolate cupcake with milk chocolate icing and rainbow sprinkles. A flush of pleasure swept over her as she saw the gift sticker in the corner.

Enjoy, sweetheart! Marco.

She might be mad at him, but it wasn’t going to stop her from eating this. “Now this, Margaret, this is from my guy!” she said happily.

*    *    *

“How was the weekend?”

Marco drew his eyes away from the window and studied Dr. Ferguson where he sat behind his desk. “Fine.”

“Fine? No drinking?”

“No.”

“What did you do?” He folded his hands on his yellow legal pad and gave Marco a tilt of his head.

“I took Peyton to dinner.”

“And how did that go?”

Marco sighed, studying the wrinkles in the doctor’s navy blue jacket. He wondered if the man balled up his clothes and tossed them in the back of his closet when he undressed because they were always hopelessly rumpled.

“You married, Dr. Ferguson?” Marco had never thought to ask before.

“Why do you ask?”

Marco shrugged. “Just wondering.”

“I was. We decided it was in our best interest to separate.”

“Divorce?”

“No, just separate.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was for the best. We’re very good friends now.” He lifted his clasped hands to his lips and tapped them against his chin. “Are you deflecting for a reason?”

Stretching out his leg, Marco rubbed at the knotted scar. “Maybe.”

“Did dinner go badly?”

“No, it went well. In fact, we went back to her place and she invited me in.”

“For intercourse?”

Marco sighed. “You always make it sound so clinical, and like such a bad idea.”

“Because it is.”

“Clinical or a bad idea?”

“You’re deflecting again.”

“Fine. This guy she met at a bar was waiting on her doorstep for her.”

“Interesting.”

“Not from where I was standing.”

“I see.” Tap, tap went the fingers. “Let me see if I can guess what happened. You flew into a jealous rage, went after the guy, and Peyton told you to get out.”

“Hold on. Jealous rage?”

“That is your typical modus operandi, isn’t it?”

“Most people just say M.O.”

“I’m aware of that, but acronyms are tedious, aren’t they?”

Marco ran his fingers over the silver handle on his cane, fighting his frustration. He really wanted these sessions to be over. It felt like he was in purgatory and he ought to know something about that, growing up Catholic. “I got upset.”

“Of course you did.”

“And I yelled, but I didn’t go after the guy and she didn’t throw me out…”

“You ran away.”

Marco’s gaze snapped to Ferguson’s face. He didn’t want to admit he’d done that again, but Ferguson had him pretty much pinned. “Yeah, I ran away.” He scratched his forehead. “Why do I keep doing that?”

“Because you are more concerned with the physical intimacy of your relationship rather than the emotional. Until you stop relying on the physical, you’ll never handle the emotional.”

Marco rubbed his temple. “What?”

“You’ve got to stop falling into bed with her every chance you get. You and Peyton use your physical relationship to avoid dealing with the problems in your emotional relationship. You will never get back to where you were until you discuss your problems, deal with them like adults, and stop using sex as the answer to everything.”

“That just doesn’t seem right.”

“When she rejects your physical overtures, you run away. You’ve never had a relationship with a woman until now. Every encounter with a woman has been sexual…”

“That’s not true. Peyton and I were partners for eight years.”

“And then you made it sexual. Because you don’t know how to deal with a woman any other way, because you can’t share the intimacy of your emotions, you bolt. Every time it gets too real, you bolt. Honestly, Captain D’Angelo, you are the problem.”

“Wow. Are you supposed to say that?”

“I’m getting frustrated with you.”

Marco blinked. “Well, okay then. Um.”

“How many times have I told you to stop using sex as the answer to your problems?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, but you don’t listen. I can’t help you if you won’t listen to me. You and Peyton need to discuss the very real issues all couples have, or...and I can’t stress this enough, you’re going to lose her. A woman like Peyton is not going to wait forever for you to...pardon the colloquial expression, get your shit together.”

Marco realized his mouth hung open. He closed it and looked out the window. Ferguson must really be frustrated. He’d never been that direct before. With a bewildered chuckle, Marco reached for his cane.

“This is money well spent, Dr. Ferguson, I’ll tell you that. I mean there’s no way in hell I’d have ever come up with get my shit together on my own. I bow down to your superior training and education.”

“You can be angry with me all you want, Captain D’Angelo, but somewhere inside, you know I’m right. If you want to stay sober, you’ve got to face this fear of true intimacy you have. It’s crippling you.”

Marco considered that as he rose to his feet. What was crippling him was his damn leg and the constant pain he was in. Not to mention that he’d fallen in love with the most frustrating woman he’d ever met. Then there was the overabundance of interference in his life from people who couldn’t even take care of their own shit. What the hell did a man who was separated from his wife know about other people’s relationships?

“I’ll take your words under advisement.”

“No you won’t. You’ll keep going the same way you are until you lose her.”

Marco gave him a glare, then turned his back on him.

“I’ll see you Wednesday,” Ferguson called after him when he reached the door.

Marco wanted to flip him off, but he figured that would probably up their sessions to four times a week, instead of three.

*    *    *

Peyton picked the tuna sandwich off the metal rack and settled it on her tray next to her soda can. Beside her, Mike took an apple and nothing else.

“Get a sandwich,” she instructed. “I’m buying.”

“No, I’m good. Not that hungry.”

“So you can’t let a woman buy you a meal, is that it?”

He gave her a smile and reached for a roast beef sandwich, setting it on his tray. Peyton grabbed two bags of chips and tossed one to him.

He snagged a can of soda for himself. “If you’re buying, I’d rather have the kettle chips.”

Peyton gave him an arch look and switched out the bags, then they carried their trays to the cashier. Peyton paid and motioned to an open seat in front of the windows. They sat down opposite each other and Peyton pulled open the bag of chips, emptying them onto her sandwich plate.

“So, what happened to your job?”

Mike shrugged, lifting half of his sandwich to his mouth and taking a bite. He chewed, then swallowed. “Got laid off. They said they were downsizing, but I seemed to be the only one downsized.”

“No other reason?”

“Not that they gave me.” He popped the top on the soda can and took a sip. “So, again, I’m sorry about yesterday.”

“Please stop bringing it up. I don’t want to talk about it.” She popped her own can. “Where are you looking for work?”

“All the usual online sites.” He took another bite of sandwich. They ate in silence for a few minutes. “So, this guy, your ex-fiancé...he’s got a temper, huh?”

Peyton set down her drink. “Look, Mike, I’m not kidding. I don’t want to talk about it. Marco isn’t up for discussion.”

“Fine. I’m not trying to pry. I’m just concerned.”

“Well, don’t be. You have no idea how many times I’ve trusted my life to that man, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Got it.” He started to lift the other half of his sandwich, but stopped. “He get shot in the line of duty?”

“How did you know he was shot?”

“Come on, Peyton. I was a soldier. That sort of damage comes from a gun.”

She placed a chip in her mouth and nodded. This was another topic she wasn’t discussing. Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out the job listing and slid it across the table at him. “There’s an entry level security position in our building. It doesn’t pay great, but you get benefits.”

He pulled the paper over to himself and studied it, while he finished off the rest of the sandwich. “Damn, it sounds good. I could really use a break right now.” Looking up at Peyton, he gave her a sad smile. “Can I use you as a reference?”

“For what?”

“My character.”

“Your character? I hardly know you.”

“I was concerned about your welfare, so that shows my security background. I let you buy me lunch. That shows I’m open-minded and progressive. I can get hit by a car and bounce back, so I can take physical punishment. And I’m brilliant.”

Peyton shook her head, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You’re also humble to a fault,” she said. “Fine. You can use me as a reference. Not that it’ll do you any good. I’ve only been here a little over a month.”

“And solved how many cases?”

Two, but she wasn’t telling him that. Glancing over Mike’s shoulder, Peyton caught sight of Tank. He held up a hand to her and came over to their table, giving Mike an assessing look.

“Hey, Peyton.”

“Hey, Tank, this is Mike Edwards. Mike, this is Thomas Campbell, one of my colleagues.”

Mike rose to his feet and shook hands with the larger man. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” said Tank, releasing him.

Mike took a seat again.

“Hey, Peyton, the professor wants to talk to us about that cold case we caught.”

“Oh, really? When?” Before they’d been called off to their last case, Peyton had been researching the death of Lance Corporal Isaac Daws, who’d been found dead of a drug overdose in a sleazy motel.

“She can see us tomorrow morning, if that works for you.”

“That’s awesome.”

“I’ll meet you in your office at 8:00AM.”

“Perfect.”

Tank gave Mike a final nod. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” said Mike and Tank walked away. Mike popped a chip in his mouth. “What cold case?”

“I can’t discuss an on-going investigation, Mike. You should know that.”

“I do. I just thought you might give me the basics, seeing as we’re going to be colleagues soon.”

Peyton sputtered on her soda. “Getting a little ahead of yourself, aren’t you?”

Mike shrugged. “I believe in kismet. If this is meant to be, and I think it is, then I will be working here shortly.”

Peyton bit her inner lip. That was awesome. She could just imagine Marco’s reaction when he found out her latest scheme.

*    *    *

Marco entered the precinct, his eyes landing on Carly’s desk, which was empty as usual. He sighed and pushed open the half-door. Not bothering to go to his office, he started toward the back. He found Cho, Simons, and Jake at Cho’s desk, looking at magazines. He slowed as he came near them, frowning in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

They all three glanced up at him. “Hey, Captain,” said Cho. “We’re looking at tuxedos for the wedding. Maria gave me three choices and I’ve got to decide which one. Well, mostly we’re deciding on ties.”

Jake gave Marco a smirk. “So what are you, Adonis? Are you a bowtie man or an ascot or maybe a cravat?”

Marco glared at them, but they all three looked at him as if they were waiting for his decision. He didn’t answer, just shifted to the left and continued walking, leaving them to their catalogues, but just before he turned down the hallway to Stan Neumann’s office, he paused and looked back.

“No bowties!” he growled and continued on.

Stan Neumann was sitting in his closet, turned office, the hum of computer fans a constant drone. Along the back wall of his space, he’d erected shelves, which were choked to bursting with action figures in their original boxes. His table blocked the entrance, leaving only a small wedge to slip through. Marco and his bum leg would definitely not fit into that space.

“Hey, Stan?”

“Hey, Captain.”

“Have you seen Carly?”

“Carly, your receptionist?”

That was stretching the title a bit broad, but sure whatever. He nodded.

“Can’t say as I have.” He picked up a paper. “I got that information you asked me to find.”

Marco reached for the paper, but Stan summed it up.

“Nothing popped for me and I went through it carefully. He was in the Army, Army Rangers. He served in both Iraq and Afghanistan. He’s a career military man. One marriage when he was just out of high school, but it only lasted two years. He retired from the military with honors, so…”

“So, nothing pops.”

“A few parking tickets, but nothing else.” Stan fell silent, studying him. Finally he cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something?”

Marco blinked at him. He’d forgotten he was there. Poor Stan with his converse sneakers and myopic glasses was so easy to dismiss unless you needed his genius – Stan would pick bowties for Cho’s wedding.

“What?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Are you concerned about this guy because you sense he’s dangerous or are you concerned because he’s hanging around Peyton?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Stan flinched at his sharp tone, but he bravely stood his ground. “I can go deeper, Captain. I can go places that...well, people would frown about if I did, but if your instinct says that Peyton’s in danger, then I’ll do it. I just want to make sure you know what your motive is.”

Marco had to acknowledge that Stan had a point. A great part of his concern was jealousy. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, ever be able to think of Peyton with anyone else. She belonged to him and him alone, but…

“No, don’t go deeper yet. I mean, I do have a funny feeling about this guy, but I need something more before we go taking his life apart.” He started to turn away, then shifted back around. “No criminal record?”

“A few parking tickets, one speeding ticket on the Bay Bridge.”

Marco shrugged that off. “Okay, look I appreciate what you did for me.”

“No problemo, Captain, and understand, I can do the other search anytime, if you feel it’s warranted.”

Marco smiled and stepped away. “Thanks again, Stan. I appreciate it.” He turned and walked off, moving past the huddle of men around Cho’s desk. Shaking his head, he decided he was going to avoid whatever they were reviewing now.

Just as he reached the front of the precinct, Carly blustered through the glass outer door. “Oh, hey, Captain D’Angelo, I’m sorry I’m late, but I made everyone cupcakes this morning. Look!” She held one up. “Sprinkles.”

Marco was going to have to fire her. That was all there was to it. He just had to grow a pair and do it, which is why he simply shook his head and walked into his office, shutting the door behind him.

CHAPTER 3

He huddled in the doorway of the office building, watching the blonde girl stumble out of the pub, giggling with her friends. She was weaving, clutching her girlfriends to stay upright. He turned his head away, pulling the coat up further on his shoulders. He’d left the tube, hoping to avoid this, but he should have picked a street where there wasn’t a pub, where women didn’t frequent.

What about her? whispered the voice in his ear. She’s perfect. Just our type.

“Please leave her alone,” he whispered in return. “Please just this once, leave her alone.”

She’s our type, mate.

“You want us to walk you home?” called one of the girls.

The lights from the pub spilled over them. Inside he could hear the cheers of the people watching the football match. Happy bunting fluttered in the breeze from the iron work surrounding the pub, marking off an outdoor sitting area.

The blonde waved them away. “No, I’m just a few blocks, now aren’t I? I can make it on my own.”

“We can walk you, then come back for another drink,” said another, then they all dissolved into giggling.

“Stop it. I’m going. I’ve got to go to the loo.” She pushed away from them and started up the street toward him. He closed his eyes and hunched his shoulders, burying his face against his knees.

See, it’s fate. She’s meant to be ours.

“Please, please, please,” he whispered over and over again, hugging his knees tighter.

He heard her heels on the sidewalk as she came toward him. He forced himself not to look up. It was always worse when you looked in their eyes. Always worse.

“Text when you get home, Simone,” called one of her girlfriends.

He peeked up as she waved airily and kept walking. He noticed she was weaving the slightest amount as she walked. She wore a professional skirt and blouse, and a stylish raincoat. Clearly she’d stopped in the pub after work, stopped to have a quick drink with her friends. She probably had family waiting for her. A mum and dad who would be devastated when they couldn’t reach her tomorrow.

Pressing his head back against his arms, he whispered to himself, rocking back and forth. “Not this one, please, not this one.”

She passed him and he released his held breath. At least he didn’t have to see it. At least he could try to forget her.

But he couldn’t. He knew what was going to happen. He knew it and he had to stop it. He couldn’t let this continue. It just couldn’t continue. If he followed her, she’d sense him at her back and she’d quicken her pace. It would sober her if she suddenly felt him behind her. People always felt threatened when they saw him. He could see it in their eyes. Even in the daylight, they felt threatened. If she felt threatened, she’d walk faster and walking faster would get her home faster.

With a groan of misery, he pushed himself out of the doorway and turned toward her, keeping pace a few feet behind her. As he knew would happen, she sensed him and glanced back over her shoulder, then she pulled her handbag around in front of her and started walking faster.

He prayed as he walked. He prayed for her to be spared. She was aware of him, anxious by his presence, and therefore, more alert. Alert was good. It gave her a chance. It gave her an advantage.

He closed the distance a little more, forcing her to speed up. They made a left turn and when she saw he made the turn with her, she decided to cross the street, running a little to get to the other side. Also good.

He stepped off the sidewalk and followed her.

Taking a quick right, she started fumbling in her handbag after something. He hoped it was pepper spray, but maybe it was her keys. Keys could be used as a weapon. That was good. She was starting to think, starting to plan a defense.

This one might make it. She might just have enough instinct to save herself. At least, she understood the danger. She understood what might happen to her.

But she kept fumbling in the handbag, glancing down to see inside of it in the dim light from the street lamps. Stopping in front of a building, she glanced over at him. He stopped walking, standing in the middle of the street.

“Find your key,” he whispered.

He could see the glass door to the building, the safety door, and once behind it, she’d be fine. She’d be safe. He never went after them a second time if he missed the first attempt. He always said it wasn’t sporting. If she got inside, she would live.

“Find your key!” he shouted at her.

His shout startled her and she dropped her handbag. The contents spilled out over the cobblestones and she made a panicked sob. Closing his eyes, he wanted to turn around and run away.

She’s going to die, came the whisper in his ear.

“No, please no. Not this one,” he begged.

Too late.

Squatting over the mess on the cobblestones, she frantically tried to shove everything in the handbag, but she went still as the shadow fell over her. Slowly she lifted her head and he could see the blue of her eyes. Then she screamed.

*    *    *

Peyton turned into her office and came to an abrupt halt. She’d forgotten the bouquets on every surface. Sighing, she walked to her desk and set down her briefcase. Margaret appeared in the doorway a moment later.

“Good morning, Peyton.”

“Good morning, Margaret.”

The assistant settled a cup of coffee and the sugar packets on her desk. “Tank called to say he’ll meet you in the parking lot at 8:15.”

“Great.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her ring of keys, unlocking the cabinet above her head. Lance Corporal Daws’ file lay on top. Pulling it down, she stuffed it into her briefcase and reached for the sugar packets, shaking them, then tearing the tops off. She poured all four into the mug and reached for the wooden stir. “Margaret, I’ve never asked you. Are you married?”

Margaret folded her hands before her, leaning on the door jamb. “For twenty-nine years.”

“That’s amazing. Do you have kids?”

“Two boys. Jonah works for the FBI in Quantico. The other, Joseph, is in law school.”

“Goodness, they did well for themselves.”

She smiled. “They mostly did it on their own. I just supervised.”

Peyton returned her smile. “What does your husband do?”

“Jim’s a painter.”

“Painter? As in houses?”

“As in paintings.”

“Oh. Wow. Does he have art shows?”

“Not as many as he used to, but he tries to schedule three or four a year.”

“Marco loves art.” She looked down, dropping the stir into her wastebasket. “We bought a piece together. It’s hanging in my living room. Every time I see it…” She gave a shrug.

“I’m sorry, Peyton.”

“What you gonna do? Twenty-nine years is impressive. How did you do it?”

Margaret came into the room and took a seat before Peyton’s desk. “I don’t know. We have this method we’ve always used. Jim’s parents used it and it worked for them. If we get angry about something, we tell the other person, then we roll-play what the other person might be feeling.”

Peyton sat down in her chair, taking a sip of her coffee. “What do you mean?”

“Let’s say I get upset when he leaves wet towels on the floor behind the bathroom door.”

Peyton smiled. “Mine was putting empty cartons back in the fridge.”

“With two sons, I’ve been through that.”

“So how does this work?”

“So, when I find the towels, I go to him and tell him right away. I don’t let it fester. Then I put myself in his place, meaning why do I want to put towels behind the door.”

“And why do you? My guess is laziness?”

Margaret laughed. “That was my guess too, but when I tried to figure it out, I realized we had nowhere to put the towels, so I got a rack that he could hang them over. That stopped it.”

“Does he do the same thing?”

“Yes.”

“Does it work?”

“Well, one thing he complained about is how many shoes I buy.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Could he put himself in your place?”

“That one was harder for him. He just couldn’t think of a reason that I would need more shoes than I have feet.”

“Because...shoes.”

“I told him that. So we compromised. I get to buy new shoes if I get rid of the same number.”

Peyton considered that. “Okay. I guess that’s fair.” She leaned back in her chair and took another sip of coffee. “What do you do if the person keeps running away from the problem?”

Margaret gave her a kind smile. “That’s harder, but I think it’ll still work. You need to tell him how that frustrates and hurts you, then try to put yourself in his place. Why does he do it?”

Peyton settled her coffee on her desk. “That’s pretty good advice, Mrs. Jones. And you know what, I’m gonna try it.” Glancing at the time on her phone, she pushed herself to her feet. “Now, I’ve got to go meet Tank. Thank you for the talk.”

“Anytime, Peyton.”

Peyton grabbed her briefcase and went to the door, pausing before she exited. “By the way, take one of these flower arrangements back to your desk and move one to Bambi’s office. Might as well spread the beauty.”

Margaret smiled back at her. “Will do.”

Peyton returned the smile and hurried toward the elevators.

*    *    *

Marco wasn’t even surprised anymore when he walked into the precinct and Carly’s desk was empty. Carly spent less time at her desk than a politician. Turning into his own office, he was surprised to find Devan Adams, the Assistant District Attorney, sitting in the chair before his desk, his head braced on his hand, sleeping.

Marco cleared his throat and Devan straightened, blinking sleepily.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Any reason you’re sleeping in my office?”

“It’s quiet. You have no idea how much I miss the quiet.”

Marco chuckled. “Rani had the baby.”

“Oh, yeah, and I get the 2:00 and 4:00AM feedings.”

Marco moved around the desk. “Well, she did incubate your progeny for nine months. Seems only fair.”

Devan gave him an arch look, then rubbed a hand over his face. “You got any of that precinct tar? It’s probably got enough caffeine in it to kill a rhino.”

“We don’t have tar anymore. Ryder took over buying the coffee for the precinct. You have to drink this shit with your pinkie out.”

Devan chuckled. “I’ll take it.”

Marco motioned into the precinct and Devan rose, leading the way to the break room. Once there, Marco grabbed two mugs and poured them each a cup. “You take yours with anything?”

“Black, man. I don’t need it diluted,” Devan said, taking a seat at the table.

Marco carried the coffee over to him, then went back for his own. Since the stability of his leg was iffy, he didn’t try to do too many things at once. “So, what did you name her?”

“Destroyer of Tranquility.”

Marco sank into the chair across from him. “That’s going to be hard to put on a job application.”

Devan cupped the mug in both hands and brought it to his mouth, gulping it. “Shit. That’s good. Ryder knows how to pick coffee.”

Marco gave a nod.

Devan set down the mug. “We named her Amira. It means princess in Arabic.”

“Pretty. Amira Adams.”

“What could be more American.”

Marco smiled. “You aren’t here to give me a birth announcement, are you?”

“Oh, shit. As a matter of fact.” He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out an envelope, passing it to Marco. It had his and Peyton’s name on it.

Marco ran his finger over Peyton’s name.

“Sorry. I told her not to do that, but she was insistent. I think she feels if she can get you and Peyton back together, she’ll solidify her hold on me.”

“Even after having your baby?”

Devan gave Marco a tired sigh. “Our relationship’s complicated.” Then he caught himself when he saw Marco’s look. “Sorry again. Of course, you know complicated.”

Marco didn’t want to open the birth announcement. Not with Peyton’s name on it. It was something they should open together. And they needed to get a present. Maybe they could do that together as well.

Devan shifted in his chair. “I need Ryder to testify at an evidentiary hearing for Ryan Morris.”

Grief-stricken Ryan Morris had held a gun to Jake’s head in a misguided attempt to discredit the NRA by killing an innocent in the middle of a police station. Marco had been forced into the unfamiliar role of talking him down.

“Wait. Evidentiary hearing? Is the defense suggesting we don’t have enough to try Morris for attempted murder?”

“Not exactly. They’re saying Morris was under acute duress and should be sent to a psychiatric facility, instead of tried.”

“No.”

“I’m with you, but he’s gonna be sympathetic to a judge.”

“He held a gun to one of my people’s heads.”

“I get that, D’Angelo. That’s why I need Ryder to testify. Ryder can also be sympathetic. He’ll balance Morris’ testimony.”

Marco looked into his coffee cup. “Do you know how hard this is gonna be?”

“I understand, but what choice do I have? Either we roll over on the psych facility or we fight this, but we can’t win without Ryder.”

Marco chewed his inner lip. The things they’d put Ryder through. He’d beaten a murder conviction, buried his wife, took pictures of dead bodies, faced down a serial killer, and most recently, had a gun pointed at his temple. And through it all, he maintained his annoyingly upbeat personality.

“All right.”

“I might need you too.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You talked him down. You can speak to whether he was thinking clearly or not. We need something to counterbalance the psych eval they’re going to have that said he was insane at the time.”

“Fine. When is it?”

“Friday at 10:00AM.”

“Can you move it up?”

“Why? Do you have plans?”

Marco gave a snort of laughter. “No, I have an appointment with Dr. Ferguson at 9:00. I’d love a reason to miss it.”

“I can say you need to be in court early.”

“I’ll take it.”

Devan finished off the rest of his coffee and settled the mug on the table. “Well, I should check in at the office. I might be able to steal a half-hour nap before I have to be in court. You want me to tell Ryder?”

“No, I’ll tell him.”

“Excellent.”

He watched Devan walk to the door. “Hey, Adams?”

Devan looked over his shoulder at him.

“Congratulations on your little girl.”

Devan gave him a weary smile. “Thanks, D’Angelo. You know it’s pretty amazing holding your child for the first time. She looked me right in the eye.”

Marco gave him a smile and he disappeared out the door. Sitting in the break room, he twirled the coffee around, thinking about everything in his life. People always talked about what they wanted and didn’t want. For so long, he hadn’t known what he wanted, then he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, but he’d screwed it up. Now he didn’t know what he wanted any more, except Peyton. Except a life with the woman he loved.

*    *    *

Peyton liked going to the Berkeley campus. There was something exciting about standing in one of the locations that sparked the Civil Rights movement. Besides that, the campus was ridiculously beautiful, covered in redwood trees and eclectic architecture.

Tank showed his badge at the kiosk and they were motioned through. He parked and they climbed out of the Suburban.

Peyton reached inside and grabbed her briefcase. “Are you sure we can park here?”

“I have an on-campus parking permit, I come here so often.”

Peyton moved to his side and they started walking through campus toward the anthropology building, Kroeber Hall. It was a three story cement building with a fountain in front of it.

Students moved past them on either side. For some reason, she and Tank drew attention as they went, which amused Peyton since the students themselves were a diverse mix of fashion sensibilities. She guessed the tell-tale black suits and Tank’s mirrored sunglasses spoke Feds.

Professor Campbell’s office was on the second floor. Tank bounded up the stairs, forcing Peyton to nearly run to keep up. Turning down the hallway, he came to the third door and stepped inside. Peyton paused on the threshold, uncertain whether she should enter or not.

A tall, brown haired woman with a short bob rose from her desk and lifted her cheek for Tank to kiss. Then she turned and held out her hand to Peyton. “Nice to finally meet you, Peyton. Thomas has told me so much about you.”

“Nice to meet you, Professor.”

The woman’s grip was firm. She had a pleasant, if rather plain face, black rimmed glasses, and a trim figure. She wore slacks and a blue polo shirt with brown leather loafers. “Call me Sarah, please.” She motioned to a chair beside her desk, while Tank went to fetch another one. “Please sit down.”

Three walls of the office were floor to ceiling bookshelves and one was double layer, the entire unit moving aside on a metal track to reveal another bookcase behind it. The books, the low light, the tightness of the room were a bit claustrophobic. Then Tank added another chair and took a seat next to his wife, his massive size dwarfing the already tight space.

Peyton sank into the chair Sarah indicated and pulled the briefcase on her lap. Sarah studied her behind a friendly smile. Peyton wasn’t sure what she was supposed to do now. She glanced around the office, spying a narrow window that looked out over the fountain. A carrel sat over the desk, choked with more books, binders, and a skull. Peyton frowned at the skull. Was it real?

Sarah followed her gaze. “That is an exact replica of a Neanderthal skull.” She pronounced it Neandertal.  “I keep it to remind me of how fleeting our lives are, how transient our time on this planet is, and how we can all become extinct at any moment.”

Okay then.

Peyton forced a smile. “Interesting.”

“So, the coin is fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I asked Professor Bishara to meet us here. I showed him the picture of the coin. He’s a professor of Middle Eastern History.”

“Wow, that’s great. What did he think about it?”

“He wanted to share his impressions in person. He should be here anytime. So while we wait, tell me about yourself, Peyton.”

“Uh?” Peyton glanced at Tank, but he was smiling benignly. “I don’t know where to start.”

“How long have you been in law enforcement?”

“Almost nine years. Eight with the San Francisco police department.”

“Usually going into law enforcement runs in the family. Do you have siblings on the force?”

“No, I’m an only child, but my father was a cop.”

“Retired?”

“No, dead. He was shot in the line of duty.” Peyton looked down at her briefcase. “When I was a rookie.”

“I’m very sorry. I lost my father when I was nine. He was killed on an archeological dig in North Dakota. They were uncovering a triceratops, but the rigging suddenly gave way, crushing him. Some people say it was an old Hidatsa curse, but of course, that’s ridiculous.”

Peyton realized she was staring at her. “Right.”

“It’s funny. Insurance companies don’t pay out life insurance for acts of God, but my father was an atheist.”

Peyton didn’t know what to do with that. She opened the briefcase and removed Isaac Daws’ file, flipping to the back and removing the photo. “You told Tank...I mean, Thomas, that the coin was Iraqi.”

“Yes, specifically the Sassanid Era between 225 BC to 640 AD.”

Peyton blinked. “That would make them…”

“1,400 years old,” said Tank. “Give or take a few decades.” He smiled affably.

“Wait. How would an American soldier come into contact with such coins?” asked Peyton.

“That, as they say, is the million dollar question,” answered Sarah. Then her eyes lifted and a smile burst across her face.

Peyton looked over her shoulder to see a tall, stately man of Middle Eastern descent standing in the doorway. He came in and took Sarah’s hand, kissing her cheek, then he shook hands with Tank.

“Agent Brooks, I’d like to introduce you to Professor Bishara.”

Peyton shook hands with the man. “Nice to meet you, Professor.”

“Same to you.” He pressed her hand between both of his own. “I understand you have a bit of a mystery for us.”

Peyton held out the photo for him. “This coin was found on the body of a U.S. marine in a Las Vegas hotel room.”

“Very interesting,” he said, taking the photo. “I saw the scanned copy, but I’d really like to see the actual item.”

“Well, that’s where the mystery thickens. I ordered the evidence from the case, but when it arrived, the coin was missing. Tank...I mean Thomas and I searched the entire box, but it just wasn’t there.”

He studied the photo.

“Professor, how would an American soldier come by a coin like this? Sarah said it dates to the Sand...um, something era.”

“Sassanid, yes.” He looked up. He had very dark eyes, heavily ringed with lashes. Peyton found them mesmerizing. “Many archeological sites in Iraq were looted during the American invasion of 2003. More significant is the sacking of the National Museum in Baghdad. Over 15,000 pieces were looted at the time of the invasion, in addition to the thousands of artifacts that were stolen during illegal excavations.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Such is the enormous costs of war. The world is just now beginning to recover some of what was taken, but much of it, I fear, is lost forever.”

“Could this be one of those coins?”

“Most likely. In 2013, Iraqi archaeologists found 66 coins that were at least 1,400 years old. This may be from that same cache.”

“How can we know that without the coin itself?” asked Sarah.

“If we could compare it to the ones that were found, we might be able to link it, but of course, we’d have to do testing to confirm a positive match and we don’t have the coin.”

“I have a couple of resources that talk about the discovering in 2013. We could go through those,” said Sarah. “At least we might be able to get a preliminary confirmation.”

“That sounds like an excellent idea. Let’s get to work.” Professor Bishara moved further into the room, forcing Peyton back into her seat.

Since she felt out of place here, she opened the file and stared at the report Special Agent Turner had written, but her thoughts were churning. The other three went about gathering the various publications, stacking them on a table under Sarah’s narrow window. During one pass, Professor Bishara glanced down at Peyton.

“You’re deep in thought, Agent Brooks. Is something bothering you?”

She glanced up at him. He had such a calm, patient demeanor, she liked him. “Just that if this is really one of those coins, there’s no way Lance Corporal Daws came by it legally.” She shrugged. “I just hate to tarnish the memory of a soldier.”

“I understand.”

Not to mention, it cast more doubt on his cause of death. Where was the coin? How had it disappeared? And why was Daws in Vegas when he died?

While Tank and the two professors poured over their resources, Peyton read through the whole file again, looking for anything she might have missed. Unfortunately, nothing jumped out at her. There were too many holes, too many unanswered questions. And too much missing evidence.

This case had been botched from the get-go, but it seemed almost too well done, as if the breaks in protocol hadn’t been incompetence, but rather deliberate. For the single most important piece of evidence to go missing, it had to be more than coincidence. That had to be orchestrated.

She rose to her feet and wandered over to the bookcases, studying the spines on the books. The Interpretation of Culture: Selected Essays, The Early Mesoamerican Village, On the Origin of the Species by Means of Natural Selection, Primate Behavior: Field Studies of Monkeys and Apes. Wandering back to the desk, she tilted her head, looking at the Neanderthal skull.

She’d gotten her B.S. in criminology, but her studies had been piecemeal at best. When she was younger, the only thing she’d wanted to do was become a cop like her father. Now, she wondered what she might have been if she’d actually gone to college out of high school, if she’d studied something else.

She liked trying to figure out how the human mind worked. Maybe she could have become an anthropologist like Sarah, or studied culture like Professor Bishara. Maybe she could have studied psychology like Dr. Ferguson. She smiled, thinking of herself sitting on the other side of the table like Dr. Ferguson, asking questions with no answers and giving frustrating grunts of noncommittal judgment at regular intervals.

Reaching out, she ran her fingers along the Neanderthal’s brow ridge, down the side of his skull to his jaw. It looked no different than any other skulls she’d seen. The domed forehead, the hinged jaw.

Just as she drew her hand away, the skull fell over on its side and the jaw dropped onto the desk. Peyton jumped back in horror, curling her fingers into her fist. At the window, Tank and the professors spun around to look at her.

Peyton didn’t know what to say. She’d just broken a man’s head. So much for becoming an archeologist. That sort of thing was probably frowned upon during a dig.

*    *    *

Marco wandered into the break room and found Jake stuffing his face with cupcakes. Glancing over his shoulder, Jake gave him a sheepish shrug.

“You gotz ta admit, Carly’s one hella a baker,” he said with his mouth full, then motioned to the platter, “Wan’ one?”

“No thanks.”

Jake swallowed hard, then grabbed the glass of milk and downed a gulp. “She sucks at being a receptionist, but damn, she’s aces with an oven.”

Marco gave a short nod. “Which is why I’m going to fire her.”

Jake stuffed the last of the cupcake into his mouth and carried his milk to the table, taking a seat. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. She’s incompetent, always late, and she still doesn’t know how to work the damn phone. I’m firing her.”

Jake gave a laugh, using his tongue to dislodge chocolate from his molars. “No, you’re not.”

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Look, Adonis, you aren’t going to fire her because you can’t do it. That’s why Bartlet’s still working here.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is.”

“Right. He almost got you and Peyton killed.”

Marco came to the table and sat across from Jake. “Devan was here this morning.”

“His wife have the baby yet?”

“Yeah, anyway, there’s an evidentiary hearing for Ryan Morris on Friday.”

Jake went still, lowering his glass. “What?”

Marco studied him. Jake didn’t often let anyone know something was bothering him, but his expression was definitely alarmed now.

“An evidentiary hearing? They doubt what he did? We have it on surveillance tape. We have two other officers beside you who saw what happened.”

“Calm down, Ryder.”

“Calm down? He pointed a gun at my head, Adonis.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the hearing for?”

“Morris’ lawyer doesn’t want it to go to trial. He wants Morris to get treatment in a psych facility.”

Jake slumped back in the chair. “You’re shitting me.”

“No.”

“A psych facility? He held a gun to my head!”

“I know, Jake. I was there!” Marco drew a breath to calm himself. “It’s worse.”

“How could it be worse?”

“Devan wants you to testify.”

Jake lifted his hand and let it fall against his thigh. “And what am I supposed to say?”

“The truth. Just tell the truth. Devan will debrief you.”

“When’s the hearing?”

“Friday.”

Jake looked away, shaking his head. “This is bull shit.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to see that son-of-a-bitch ever again.”

“I know.”

“Why me? I hardly remember it. Why not Tag or Holmes?”

“Because Devan’s afraid Ryan Morris will appear sympathetic, but he thinks you might be even more sympathetic.”

Jake crossed his arms on the table and placed his forehead on them.

Marco didn’t know what to do or say. This was so not in his wheelhouse. He’d never been good with other people’s emotions. “Ryder?”

Jake rolled his head to the side and looked at him.

“I’m sorry.”

Jake sat up straight. “I know, Adonis. But thank you for saying it.”

CHAPTER 4

He glanced up from the coloring book the doctor had given him, watching his mother and father without trying to be obvious about it. His mother shot him a half-smile, then leaned forward and whispered to the doctor, but he could still hear her. He had good ears.

“He talks to no one. All the time.” She clasped her hands together. “He doesn’t have any friends at school because the kids say he talks to himself.”

The psychiatrist gave his mother a patient smile. She was thin and pretty with brown hair wound into a bun and cat’s eye glasses. “A lot of children have imaginary friends. There’s nothing abnormal about it. He’ll grow out of it in time.”

“And if he doesn’t?” said his father, giving him a sideways look.

“Why wouldn’t he? What is it that worries you most? The talking to himself or the lack of friends? How are his marks?”

“Good enough. He does better in reading than arithmetic, but he’s gotten in trouble because he speaks to himself during tests. It’s mostly whispering, but the teacher says it’s distracting for the other children.”

“It’s perfectly normal for parents to have concerns about their children’s development, but I can assure you, having imaginary friends is very common for children his age.”

“Can other children name their imaginary friend?”

He looked up at that. He’d never heard his mother admit this to anyone else.

“I’m sorry, what do you mean?”

“The friend’s name is Niles. He talks to my son. Is that normal?”

The doctor shot a look at Charlie. “Well, that’s a bit specific, isn’t it now? But I still believe it’s within the realm of normal, yes.” She hesitated, then gave a tense smile. “When you say he talks to your son, what do you mean?”

“I mean Charlie says Niles talks to him. They carry on conversations.”

“Can Charlie describe Niles?”

Charlie chewed on his inner lip. “Niles is a wolf.”

“A wolf?” said the doctor. “Well, that’s something now, isn’t it? A wolf.” She shook her head. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Niles is a wolf.”

His mother and father looked at the doctor as if she’d said something really daft. Charlie looked at her too. What difference did it make if Niles was a wolf or not?

“What if you found him an activity?”

“An activity?” asked his father.

“What about sports? Football? Cricket? Something to take his mind off Niles.”

His mother sighed and looked over at him. Charlie shrugged.

“Niles likes football,” he said.

*    *    *

Peyton knocked on the door. The house was a single story rancher with a struggling rose garden in front. The weather in Daly City was miserable today. The fog had rolled in this morning and refused to burn off.

The house sported a tidy front porch with a rattan bistro set positioned beneath the front windows. A Ford Focus sat in the driveway and an American flag flew from the rafters over the garage.

The door opened and a middle aged woman looked out. She had dirty blond hair, cut short, and she wore jeans and a pink polo shirt. Her feet were bare.

Peyton flashed her badge. “Mrs. Daws, I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks and this is my colleague, Special Agent Thomas Campbell.” She motioned to Tank, who stood beside her.

“Yes, Agent Brooks, please come in.”

Peyton and Tank stepped into the entrance of the house. Mrs. Daws shut the door, then pointed toward the back of the house. They followed her down a short hallway to a living room with a floral couch arranged before a flat screen television. A young woman sat in an armchair perpendicular to the couch and a middle aged man occupied a spot on the couch.

“This is Special Agents Brooks and Campbell,” said Mrs. Daws. She indicated the man. “This is my husband, Walter.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Walter, rising to his feet and shaking their hands.

“And this is Heather. She was Isaac’s fiancée before he died,” Mrs. Daws continued, motioning to the young woman. “We thought you might like to ask her some questions as well, so she agreed to be here for us.”

She rose and greeted them as well.

“Please sit down,” offered Walter. His blond hair was cut in a crew-cut and he wore a nylon track suit.

Heather was also blond, pretty, with elfin features, wearing slacks and an orange and black jersey.

Settling her briefcase on the floor, Peyton took a seat on an ottoman that sat opposite a glass coffee table, while Tank lowered his bulk into a dusty rose armchair across from the couch. Mrs. Daws sat on the couch next to her husband. He reached over and took her hand.

“I was surprised to get your call, Agent Brooks,” she said. “I thought Isaac’s case was closed.”

Peyton shook her head. “No, Mrs. Daws, it’s actually a cold case, which means we’re able to work it when we don’t have another active one.”

“Call me Caroline,” she said.

“Thank you. Agent Campbell and I would first of all like to offer our condolences. I appreciate you agreeing to see us.”

Caroline nodded. “If you can find out what happened to our son, we’ll be forever in your debt.”

“We’ll try our best.” Peyton clasped her hands before her. “Unfortunately, we have to ask you some questions and some of them might bring up unpleasant topics. Are you okay with that?”

Caroline shared a look with her husband. “I want to know what happened to my son, Agent Brooks. Ask whatever you think is necessary.”

“Thank you.” Opening her briefcase, she removed Daws’ file and opened it on her lap, flipping to the coroner’s report. “The initial autopsy was conducted by the Las Vegas Medical Examiner, Dr. Everett Paulson, who concluded Isaac died of a massive drug overdose.”

“Right. That’s what he said.”

Peyton glanced up at them. “You didn’t believe him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Isaac never did drugs in his life. The marines meant everything to him. He would never have tarnished his service that way.”

Peyton drew a breath. This was always such a delicate dance, dealing with a grieving family. “Isaac was diagnosed with PTSD, he had a traumatic brain injury. A lot of people self-medicate for various reasons.”

“Not Isaac,” said Heather in a tight voice. “He wouldn’t have done that.”

“I think you’ll see, Agent Brooks, that we got a lawyer to take our case and a judge ordered a second autopsy by a medical examiner here in California.”

“Yes, Cecelia Gaston.”

“Right.”

“She works out of…”

“Burlingame,” offered Walter.

“She thought the levels of narcotics in his system were unusually high, that he would have lost consciousness before he could have administered that level of opiates to himself,” finished Peyton.

“She said he would have gone into cardiac arrest with half the levels that were found in his system.”

“However, Special Agent Turner didn’t find any evidence in the hotel room to suggest anyone else was there with Isaac the night he died.”

Caroline dragged her teeth over her upper lip. “I read his report, Agent Brooks, but obviously you’re here for a reason.”

Peyton nodded. She flipped to the back and pulled out the photo of the coin, laying it on the coffee table and pushing it across to Isaac’s parents. “I’m here because I don’t understand this. We’ve identified this coin as Iraqi.” She looked to Tank to fill in.

“From the Sassanid Era, nearly 1,400 years old. We showed the photo to an anthropology professor and a professor of Middle Eastern studies at Cal. After some research, they both feel the coin is part of a cache that was found in 2013 near the town of Aziziyah, 40 miles southeast of Baghdad. Only 66 coins were recovered, but it’s believed many more may have been buried there.”

“Did Isaac ever show you this coin?”

“No.”

“Did he ever mention it?”

“No.”

Peyton glanced over at Heather. “Did he ever say anything to you about it?”

“He talked about the artifacts that soldiers found in Baghdad, especially when the National Museum was ransacked.”

“But he never mentioned the coin?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Why is this important, Agent Brooks?” asked Caroline. “What does this have to do with my son’s death?”

“This coin…” Peyton touched the edge of the picture. “...was found on your son’s body. Photos were taken of it, put in the file, and according to the record, the coin became part of the evidence for this case.”

“And?”

“I ordered the evidence box. Both Agent Campbell and I went through it. The coin’s missing. It wasn’t anywhere in the box and more troubling than that, it wasn’t on the manifest either.”

Caroline looked at her husband. Their eyes locked. Finally he nodded. She turned back to Peyton. “I don’t know anything about the coin, but I do have something to show you.” She got up and walked over to a desk in the corner, picking up a piece of paper. She carried it back to the couch and passed it over to Peyton. “We received this after Isaac died.”

Peyton quickly scanned the letter. The letterhead came directly from the office of Senator Theodore Lange from Nevada and it looked like his real signature. Peyton passed it over to Tank.

“It’s a letter of condolence?”

“Yes.”

“And you find that odd?”

Caroline drew a deep breath, then released it. “My son died of a drug overdose in a sleazy Las Vegas hotel room, Agent Brooks. After his death, we received no letter of condolence from the marines, the president, or his commanding officer. He was not given a military burial and except for his closest friends and family, not a single marine attended his funeral. For all intents and purposes, Isaac died in disgrace.”

Peyton nodded for her to continue.

“Why then would a senator, not even from the state where he lived, write his parents a condolence letter?”

“Maybe because Isaac died in his state?”

“Maybe.”

Peyton took the letter back and read it again. It was a bit strange considering no one else had acknowledged him. “Can I take this?”

“Yes, but that’s not all.”

Peyton and Tank exchanged a look. “Go on,” said Peyton.

“Heather?”

“Are you sure, Caroline?”

“I want to know what happened to my son. These agents are the first to look into the case in a long time.”

“All right.” Heather stood and removed a piece of paper from her pocket. She unfolded it and held it out to Peyton. “I received these text messages just before Isaac died.”

Peyton studied the paper.

Luv u.

U hear things, trust me.

Watch 4 Lang.

B careful.

Peyton drew a deep breath. Watch 4 Lang. What did that mean? What connection did a California marine have with a Nevada senator? “Agent Turner said there were no messages on Isaac’s phone?”

“I know. We read the report.”

Peyton considered that a moment. Isaac’s phone hadn’t been in the evidence box. Where the hell had it gone? Turner mentioned it in his report, but why hadn’t it been included? “Did you get Isaac’s phone after the case went cold?”

“No, we assumed it was with the rest of the evidence.”

Peyton passed the text messages to Tank. “Isaac also had four napkins on him, all with a strange series of numbers on them. Do you know what those could have been?”

Caroline shared a look with her husband. “No, we’ve never heard about the napkins before. What were the numbers for?”

“We don’t know.”

“I have no idea then.” She turned to Heather. “Did he mention anything to you?”

Heather looked confused. “No, nothing.”

“I’m sorry we can’t help,” said Caroline.

Peyton took the text messages back from Tank and put it and the letter from Senator Lange into the file, then collected the photograph. “If you think of anything else, here’s my card.” She set her card on the coffee table and replaced the file in her briefcase. “Anything at all, no matter how small it seems.” She held a second card out to Heather, then she and Tank rose to their feet.

“What’s your next move?”

“I’m going to place a call to Senator Lange’s office.”

Caroline moved around the coffee table and took Peyton’s hands. “Agent Brooks, Isaac was my only son. I knew there was the possibility of him dying in the line of duty, but not this way. Not dying in a hotel room of an overdose. I just can’t accept that. Ever.”

“I understand that, Caroline, and I promise you, Agent Campbell and I will do everything we can to figure out what happened. I won’t forget Isaac, trust me.”

*    *    *

Marco entered his office and found Devan sleeping in the chair again, his head braced on his hand. “You can’t turn my office into your crash pad, Adams,” he scolded, hitting the side of the chair with his cane.

Devan’s eyes sprang open and he straightened in the chair. He yawned hugely, then said, “Why not? You weren’t using it.” He pulled out his phone and looked at the display. “Jesus, D’Angelo, you don’t believe in getting here early, do you? It’s almost 11:00AM.”

“I had a session with Dr. Ferguson,” he said, moving to his chair and pulling it out. “Why can’t you sleep in your own office?”

“Because if people know I’m there, they won’t leave me alone. Your office is best. No one bothers you here. You’ve got no secretary…”

“Administrative Assistant.”

“Right.”

“I do have one.”

“You’re right. I should have said you pay for an Administrative Assistant who doesn’t work, your officers leave you alone, and I like the chair. It’s so much better than those horrible recycled soda bottles Defino had.”

“I know, right? What the hell was the deal with those chairs?”

“I think she kept them so no one would stay in her office for long.”

Marco went quiet, his brows lifting.

Devan pointed a finger at him. “Don’t get any ideas. It takes a village to raise a child, D’Angelo, and this is your contribution.”

Marco shook his head. “You’re really here only to catch a few minutes of sleep?”

“Minutes? I’ve been here since 7:00.”

Marco scratched his forehead. “Why are you here, Adams?”

Devan shifted in the chair, stretching. “Derek Renshaw took the case for Ryan Morris.”

“Derek Renshaw? Claire Harper’s lawyer?”

“Same.”

“Will Cooks’ lawyer?”

“Same.”

“Paid for by the NRA?”

Devan nodded.

“Bull shit.”

“‘Fraid not.”

“Are they bankrolling this defense too?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Marco rubbed his temples. “Why?”

“They want Morris committed to a psych facility.”

“Wait. Ryan Morris pointed a gun at Jake’s head and threatened to kill him because he wanted to discredit the NRA, but they turn around and pay for his attorney?”

“Confusing, I know.”

Marco fought to contain his fury. “It’s bull shit!”

“I’m sorry, D’Angelo.”

“I’m not getting this, Adams. Why would Morris take their help? He blamed them for his son’s death.”

“They’re paying for a very effective, high-priced lawyer.”

“Why would the NRA defend him?”

“Think about it, D’Angelo. If they can get him committed to a psych facility, rather than prison, it strengthens their position that the problem is the person, not the gun. Ryan Morris was a distraught father who didn’t know what he was doing. The gun had nothing to do with it.”

Marco thought about it for a moment. “It’s actually brilliant.”

“Yep.”

“Jake isn’t going to be able to testify with Derek Renshaw grilling him on cross.”

“I’ll prep him, but he has to testify, D’Angelo. If he doesn’t, Morris goes to psych. Ryder’s the only thing preventing that.” He leaned forward, giving Marco a pointed stare. “And you’re going to have to testify.”

Marco looked out his window. He hated testifying. Peyton had always done that part of the job. And she was good at it. Very good. He couldn’t count the number of cases she’d turned by her testimony. “I’m not Peyton.”

“I know. I wouldn’t do it if I had any other choice, but knowing that Renshaw’s the attorney is gonna make Ryder a loose cannon. We can’t chance that. I’ve got to have you in my back pocket.”

Marco looked at him. “You look like shit.”

“Yeah, well, the only sleep I get lately is in this chair.”

“You look like Dr. Ferguson. Your suit’s wrinkled, and you need a haircut.”

“Does this make you feel better about testifying?”

“No, but it helps.”

Devan held out his hands. “Whatever works, D’Angelo. Take your best swing.”

*    *    *

Peyton moved through the lobby, searching the people milling about. A tall figure rose from a stone bench and turned toward her, holding out a single rose. Peyton stopped and smiled at him, feeling a flush of pleasure rise inside of her. He wore a business suit and leaned on his cane, but he always took her breath away.

“How long have you been waiting?” she asked, stopping in front of him and taking the rose.

“I got here earlier, but your assistant Margaret said you’d be back in a few minutes. She told me to go out and get a rose.” He gave Peyton a confused look.

Peyton rubbed the petals against her cheek. “I love it.”

Reaching out, he tucked a curl behind her ear. “I thought maybe we could go to dinner.”

“I’d like that.”

“Do you have to go back up?”

“No, I’m free, but my car’s here. I’ll follow you?”

“Sounds good. I thought we’d go to Ernesto’s on Clement.”

“Italian sounds great.”

Ernesto’s occupied a business front beneath a Victorian. Next door was a Japanese restaurant and across the street was a beauty supply shop. They were both able to find parking spaces at meters on 24th Avenue, Peyton waiting while Marco limped down to her. Taking her hand, he raised it to his lips and kissed the back of it.

Inside, the small dining area was choked with white tablecloth covered tables. A young maître d’ smiled at them and grabbed two menus, motioning to a table near the window. Marco gave her the cop’s position, back to the wall, facing out into the restaurant, while he took the seat facing the window. It was a testament to his trust in her.

The maître d’ settled a basket of sourdough bread in the middle of the table and filled their water glasses. “Can I get you anything else to drink?”

Marco looked at Peyton. “Wine?”

“Probably not a good idea.”

“I meant for you, Peyton. I’m fine.”

Peyton glanced at the maître d’. “Just a glass of Merlot. The house wine’s fine.”

The young man nodded and backed away from the table. Peyton picked up her menu and opened it, scanning the offerings, but she was more aware of the man across from her. “This is a nice surprise.”

He shrugged, his shoulders straining the lines of his jacket. “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

Peyton closed the menu. “I’m sorry about that too.”

Marco took a piece of bread and broke it, then set both halves on his bread plate without tasting it.

The maître d’ returned with the wine and set it in front of Peyton. “Your waiter will be here shortly.”

Marco nodded. “Thanks.”

Peyton picked up the wine glass and took a sip.

“Do you know what you want?”

“I was thinking maybe we could split a vegetarian pizza.”

“Sounds good to me.”

The waiter arrived, a middle aged man in a crisp white apron with a black tie. Marco placed their order and the waiter moved away. Peyton leaned back in her chair and sipped at her drink. “You seem pensive. What’s on your mind?”

Marco played with the condensation on his water glass.  “Something Dr. Ferguson said.”

“What?”

With a heavy sigh, he glanced up at her. Candlelight danced in the hollows of his face. “He thinks we need to do more things like this and less of what we usually do.”

Peyton frowned. “I’m not following you.”

“He thinks we shouldn’t...um…”

“What? Just say it, Marco.”

“Sleep together anymore until we work out our other problems, have the conversations most couples have.”

“I see. Like what?”

“You know, religion, politics, money, our expectations for the future.”

“And no sex?”

Marco bit his bottom lip. “No.”

“But that’s what we do well.”

“I know.”

“Really well.”

“I know.” He looked down. “What if he’s right, Peyton? What if we mask our problems with sex? What if we use it to keep from having real discussions? What if that’s all we have?”

“That can’t be true. We were partners for eight years. We shared everything.”

“But partners, that was one thing. This is more. This is being partners and lovers and trying to build a life together. What if we can’t be both at the same time? What if we can only be one thing at a time?”

“Do you believe that?” She leaned forward. Her heart was pounding.

“I don’t want to believe it, no, but I can’t deny that we haven’t exactly spent a lot of time talking about the future, about what we both want. And every time we try, we get in trouble.”

She considered that, then she reached for her wine and took a gulp. “Okay. So no sex. For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

She nodded. “There’s something else we might try.”

“I’m listening.”

“Margaret has been married twenty-nine years. She and her husband have this technique that she says makes all the difference in the world for them.”

“All right. What is it?”

Peyton explained what Margaret had told her. After she was finished, Marco sat still, watching her contemplatively. “Our problems aren’t towels behind the door,” he said.

“I know that. It was just an example. Isn’t it worth a shot though?”

“I guess.”

“You go first. What’s something that drives you crazy about me?”

“Nothing.”

Peyton rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Marco, nothing? We both know that’s a lie.”

He scratched at his forehead, then drew a deep breath. “I hate the way you collect strays. It scares me and I wish you’d stop doing it.”

Peyton held out her hand. “Now, see, there’s something we can discuss.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

“Roll play why you think I do that. Put yourself in my position.”

Marco shook his head, looking around the restaurant. “I have no idea, Peyton.”

“Just try.”

Marco looked back at her and blew out air. “Okay, um, I guess you do it because you can’t stand to see people or animals suffer. You feel you have to help them.” He braced his chin on his hand. “But it’s more than that. It’s a compulsion with you.”

Peyton felt a shiver race up her spine as his blue eyes bore into hers. She was no longer sure this was a good idea. Sex was less intimate than this.

Marco’s gaze narrowed on her. “You fear abandonment. You know what it feels like to have someone leave you and you don’t want other people to feel that.”

Tears burned in Peyton’s eyes.

Marco swallowed hard and reached for his water glass, taking a swallow. “It’s in your nature and you can’t change that.” His fingers tightened on the glass. “I don’t know if this is a good idea, Peyton.”

She took another gulp of wine. “It has us talking. Let’s keep going.”

“Okay. Your turn. What’s something you hate about me?”

“I hate the way you run away when we have problems.”

He held her gaze. “Why do you think I do it?”

“I really don’t know. I know what I feel. I feel like you doubt me, like you doubt my love for you.”

“You’re supposed to put yourself in my place.”

Peyton swallowed hard. “Your feelings are too intense and they scare you.”

He reached over and took her hand. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone, Peyton. And everything I feel is such a conflict. I don’t want to control you and yet I find myself wanting to keep you from doing things that scare me. I can’t seem to balance anything where you’re concerned. If I lost you, I don’t think I could stand it, but at the same time, being with you makes me feel so damn vulnerable.”

“So what do we do?”

He gave her an uncomfortable smile. “Well, at least we’re talking. That’s something we haven’t been doing.”

She squeezed his hand, then released it when the pizza arrived. They ate in silence, both of them deep in thought. She didn’t necessarily like that he believed she had issues with abandonment, but at the same time, he did have a point.

After dinner was over, he walked her out to her car.

Even though they’d shared things that made both of them feel vulnerable, she didn’t want the night to end. She leaned against the passenger door of her Prius and looked up at him. She loved every angle of his face, every expression in his eyes, the way his lips tilted upward when he smiled at her. She wanted to press her body against his, feel his arms around her, hear the beat of his heart.

He reached out and ran his fingers along her jaw. She felt her pulse pick up speed, felt her breath quicken. Just like that he could have her wanting him, needing him. Why couldn’t they just forget all this other baggage and just go with what felt right?

Because he’d run away again and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She couldn’t let him break her heart again that way. Before she trusted him completely, she had to be sure he wasn’t going to bolt at the first sign of trouble.

“I’d better go,” she told him, but she didn’t move.

“Yeah,” he said, his fingers trailing down her throat to where her pulse pounded in the hollow between her collar bones. He leaned forward and touched his lips to hers. Peyton gasped and that’s all it took.

He crushed her against him and deepened the kiss. Peyton wrapped her arms around his neck and angled her head, granting him access, urging him on. They strained together, want and need replacing rational thought.

A discreet cough brought them apart and Peyton leaned against the car, panting, her heart thundering in her ears. A man and woman walked their dog up the street, giving them arch looks.

“No sex, huh?” Peyton said to lighten the mood.

Marco’s eyes were dilated, but he barked out a laugh, raking a hand through his dark hair. “Right. No sex.”

“Well, that’s...um...something.”

“Right. Something.”

“I’d better go.”

“Yeah, probably a good idea.”

She squeezed past him and hurried around the back of the car, unlocking her door with the remote. Pulling it open, she looked over at him. “Thank you for dinner.”

“My pleasure. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” She started to get into the Prius, but stopped and glanced up at him. “I have a good feeling about this.”

“Do you?” he asked incredulously.

She laughed. “Sure. Why not. Sexual frustration is bound to break down some walls, force some issues to the foreground, and then bam, we’ll really have something by then.

Marco laughed with her. “Whatever you say, Brooks, whatever you say.”

CHAPTER 5

He sat at the end of the Millennium Bridge, huddled in his coat, his ball cap pulled down low over his wild mane of hair. His back was against the clear safety glass, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was sitting at the part of the bridge where the homeless gathered to beg as the working class circled around the walkway to reach the Thames Walk. It was dusk, just after work had let out, before the dinner crowd would begin leaving Bankside.

Only a few people meandered along the Wibbly Wobbly, snapping pictures of London Bridge, the Globe Theatre, and the Thames. The lights lining the bridge had just come on and he could hear the bells of St. Paul’s cathedral tolling 6:00PM.

His heart sank when the American girl ran up the walkway onto the bridge. He’d noticed her, sitting along the Thames Walk with her boyfriend, lounging in the lawn just in front of the Tate Modern. Her boyfriend had been snapping pictures of her for the last half hour.

He’d thought to walk away, but as long as they stayed on the Thames Walk, as long as she stayed with her boyfriend, she’d be safe.

There she is. That’s the one.

He closed his eyes and pressed his head hard against his knees. “Leave her alone.”

She’s blonde like the others. Look at that hair.

He peeked at her from beneath the brim of his ball cap. Her blond hair flowed out over her jacket, sweeping across her face in the wind from the river. She pulled it back, laughing as she raced to a spot on the bridge overlooking the Thames Walk.

“Here?” she called down to the young man.

He lifted his head just a bit more to see the boyfriend standing in the middle of the walk, aiming the camera at her. “A little more this way,” he motioned, sending her farther away from him. “Get up on the edge.”

Their American accents were unmistakable. Their youth undeniable. He wanted to call a warning to them, shout for her to run, but it was already too late. Once he picked the girl out, she was dead. He would hunt her down. And if she went back to the boyfriend, the young man was dead too. He wasn’t the target, but he would be eliminated to get the girl.

“Please leave her alone. She’s American.”

All the better. Fresh meat.

He pressed his head hard into his knees, closing his eyes. “Someone will see. Someone will hear. This is a bad place to do it.”

Here is fine. It has to be now. It has to be this one. She’s going to die. She’s going to die now.

“No more,” he moaned, rocking himself back and forth. “Please no more.”

He got no answer, but he didn’t dare lift his head, didn’t dare watch. He couldn’t watch anymore. He couldn’t see the death, the pain, the fear. No more.

Her scream made him jerk, but he didn’t lift his head, tightening his hold on his knees.

Then came the howl.

*    *    *

Marco set the coffee cup at Jake’s elbow and took a seat in the chair beside his desk, hooking the cane over the back of it.

Jake looked into the coffee cup, then gave Marco a frown. “What nasty job do you have for me today?” he asked. “Headless corpse? Eviscerated choirboy? I know. A hooker with her eyes gouged out?”

Marco gave him a grimace. “Hooker with her eyes gouged out?”

“Killers keep souvenirs. Maybe he shellacked them and wears them around his neck.”

“Holy shit, Ryder, that’s sick.”

“It could be testicles, if that makes you feel better.”

Marco reared away from him. “How the hell would that make me feel better?”

Jake grinned and took a sip of his coffee. “What fresh hell are you bringing me along with the coffee, Adonis?”

Best to tell it quick, like ripping off a bandage. “Derek Renshaw took the Morris case.”

Jake went still.

“Ryder?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Derek Renshaw’s representing Ryan Morris.”

“How? He represented Will Cook.”

“I know.”

“Isn’t that conflict of interest?”

“In what way? They’re two separate cases. He’s defending both of them.”

“You want me to be cross examined by the man who tried to get my wife’s killer off?”

“No, I want you to testify against the man who held a gun to your head.”

Jake rose to his feet and paced away, then he came back and gripped the back of his chair. “This is asking too much, Adonis.”

“I know. Devan’s coming today to prep you. Actually, he’s here, napping in my office.”

Jake frowned. “What?”

“It’s a long story.”

Jake let out a bark of laughter. “You’re Peyton.”

“What?”

“She’s gotten to you and you’ve become her.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You have a secretary who doesn’t work, yet still gets paid, and you’ve given your office to a sleep deprived ADA that you don’t even like. Did someone shellac your testicles and use them for a necklace?”

Marco’s face grew grim. “I could break you, Ryder.”

“But you won’t ‘cause you’ve gone all warm and fuzzy on us.”

Marco rose to his feet and Jake scampered back. “Don’t screw with me.”

Jake smiled. “Relax, Adonis. I was never scared of you in the first place. You’re just a big, ol’ teddy bear.”

“Is this helping you?”

“What?”

“Coming at me like this. Is this going to help you face down Derek Renshaw tomorrow?”

Jake’s expression sobered. “No, this is just sport.”

Cho came around the corner of Jake’s cubicle. “Hey, Captain, I need you to pick out what color and style of pocket handkerchief you want to wear to the wedding. Maria’s wanting pink to go with the bridesmaid’s dress, but you can pick the pattern.”

Jake burst into laughter and Marco closed his eyes.

*    *    *

Margaret stuck her head inside Peyton’s office. “I’ve got Senator Lange’s assistant on the line. His name’s Paul Richmond.”

“Thank you, Margaret,” she said, reaching for the phone in its cradle. She pushed the flashing button. “Mr. Richmond, this is Special Agent Peyton Brooks with the FBI.”

“Yes, Agent Brooks, your assistant identified herself. I understand you’d like to talk to Senator Lange about a cold case you’re working in San Francisco.”

“Yes, is there any way I can speak to Senator Lange directly?”

“I’m afraid he’s in D.C. right now, being a senator and all. I’ll let him know you called when he checks in here and ask him to get back to you.”

“That would be excellent. You have my direct number?”

“Yes, Agent Brooks, your assistant gave it to me.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, but I can’t promise to have the answer.”

“I understand.” She leaned back in her chair and adjusted one of the vases on her desk. “Does Senator Lange always send condolences letters when someone dies in your state?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I have a condolence letter for a Lance Corporal Isaac Daws. He died in a Las Vegas hotel room.”

“Ah, I see, well, he was a member of our armed services, Agent Brooks. Senator Lange is a great supporter of our military and he would have felt terribly that he died in our state, so I’m not surprised if his family received a letter of condolence from our office.”

Peyton picked up the text messages and studied them. “Is the name Isaac Daws familiar to you, Mr. Richmond?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I seem to remember an unfortunate case in the news, but it was quite a few years ago. The young man was a military service member, but I believe he died of a drug overdose.”

“Right. Do you keep a record of who Senator Lange meets?”

“That would be impossible, Agent Brooks. Senator Lange is very involved in the community. He does a great many meet and greets.”

“What about formal meetings in his office?”

“Well, of course, we keep a record of that.”

“How far back would that record go, Mr. Richmond?”

“Since Senator Lange was elected into office, 11 years ago.”

“Can you send me those records?”

“Not without a warrant, Agent Brooks.”

Of course not. Peyton sighed. “Can you search those records and see if Senator Lange ever met with Isaac Daws?”

“That I can do. Should I call you at the phone number your assistant gave me?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“Very good, Agent Brooks. I’ll try to get back to you within the next few days.”

“Thank you, Mr. Richmond, and please relay my information to your boss.”

“Done, Agent Brooks. Have a nice day.”

“You too, Mr. Richmond.” She disconnected the call and replaced the phone in its cradle, just as Margaret poked her head inside again. “Sarge asked for the team to assemble in the conference room as soon as you’re done with your call.”

Peyton felt her heart sink. If they got a new case, that would mean Daws would go back in the cold file, but she knew that Rosa never called them together unless she had something for them.

Bambi poked her head inside the room next to Margaret, her hair perfectly contained in a long blond ponytail, her suit fitting her like a second skin. “Did you hear? We’ve got a case. What do you think it’ll be this time? I’ve been hoping for a vampire.”

Peyton pushed herself to her feet. “An alien in a grass skirt.”

“Grass skirt? Why would an alien wear a grass skirt?”

“Because he doesn’t like polyester.”

Bambi peeled off into laughter and Peyton gave Margaret a wink. Margaret smiled and returned to her desk. As they walked toward the conference room, Bambi put her arm through Peyton’s.

“I hear you had a visitor last night.”

“Huh?”

“Downstairs. Tall, dark, and...gor-geous!”

“Oh, yeah, Marco took me to dinner.”

“So are things back on with you two?”

Peyton gave Bambi a tense smile. “They weren’t ever completely off. We’re just working through some things.”

“Did he spend the night?” Bambi squeezed her arm.

Peyton gave her a surprised look, but Bambi appeared so expectant. “I’d rather not talk about it, okay?”

Bambi’s face fell. “Okay. I’m sorry. Did I cross a boundary or something?”

“No, it’s just.” She turned and faced the other woman. “It’s complicated, Emma, and I’m not sure myself what’s going on. Can we leave it at that?”

“Sure.” She flashed Peyton a perfect smile and bounded into the conference room. Peyton followed, finding Tank and Radar already seated around the long table.

“Morning,” said Tank brightly.

“Morning.” Peyton wanted to fill him in on her call, but that would have to wait. Her eyes shifted to Radar. “Good morning, boss. How’s Creampuff and Sugarpie?”

Radar glared at her. “Creampuff and Sugarpie?”

“The cats.”

“Those aren’t their names.”

“You know, eventually I’m going to figure it out, right? Why not just tell me and spare me the effort?”

“You’ll never figure it out, so why don’t you stop trying so hard.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Peyton, taking a seat next to Bambi. “Did Mrs. Radar name them?”

“I’ll bet Radar named them,” said Bambi in an undertone.

“Don’t start!” growled Radar at her and she ducked her head, giving Peyton a mischievous smirk.

Peyton returned it, but before she could continue teasing him, Rosa appeared in the doorway, carrying a computer tablet and a file. She looked pressed and polished in her hand-tailored black suit, her dark hair wound into a neat bun on top of her head.

“We have a case.” She set the tablet on the table and opened the file, tossing crime scene photos into the middle.

Peyton closed her eyes and turned away, but not before she saw the mutilated corpse, the throat torn out, the eyes wide and filled with horror.

“There’s been three deaths, all blond women, all between the ages of 20 and 30, all killed with knives, their throats torn out.” She tapped the picture on top. “This is the first one.”

Peyton glanced at the photo. The young woman had fallen in the middle of a subway car, her legs twisted beneath her, her arms out-flung.

“Angela Evans, 25, a salesclerk at Harrods.” She pulled forth a second photo and placed it on top. “Simone Wright, 24, a cashier at Barclays.” The young woman lay face down in front of a glass door, her body sprawled over a couple of stairs, a pool of blood spreading out beneath her.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Sarge,” said Tank, “but Barclays and Harrods, those are in the U.K.”

Peyton looked up.

“Right. These murders were done in London.”

“So why are we involved?” asked Radar.

Rosa reached for the third photo. This was different than the others because it wasn’t a crime scene picture. This was a picture taken in mid-act. The photographer had caught the young woman as she died, a blurry, shaggy form rising behind her, the knife catching the light as it plunged toward her throat. The look of terror was stark on her pale features.

“This is Rianna Cooper, 20, an American exchange student studying abroad at Oxford. She was with her boyfriend, also an exchange student, Gordon Bell. Bell’s the one who took the photo.”

Peyton shivered. “Is Cooper from San Francisco?”

“Palo Alto, but we have jurisdiction. She’s a student at Stanford. Bell’s from UCLA.” Rosa reached for the tablet. “There’s another reason we’re involved. We have security footage from the first murder on the subway.” She slid her finger across the screen and pulled up the video.

Peyton leaned forward. The grainy film showed Angela Evans, the first victim, sitting by herself in a subway car. Suddenly someone moved into the camera’s view, but his back was turned, hiding his face from the screen. Angela rose to her feet and backed up, holding up her hands. The audio wasn’t very good, so Peyton couldn’t hear what she said, but her meaning was clear. She was telling the man to stay away from her.

All Peyton could see of the man was a massive avocado-colored coat and brown shaggy hair that fell to his shoulders. Angela turned to run, but the man closed with her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her back to his chest. Peyton half-closed her eyes as the young woman screamed and the knife came down again and again, slashing her throat until the scream died.

The man dropped her, the bloody knife hanging from his hand, then he tipped back his head and released a howl like a wolf.

Peyton and Bambi jumped.

“Holy shit!” breathed Radar.

The howl went on and on, echoing through the car.

Rosa reached over and pressed it off. “Bell, the last victim’s boyfriend, reported the same howl. The media’s calling him the Werewolf of London.”

Peyton realized her mouth hung open and she snapped it shut.

“Is this a joke to them?” demanded Radar.

“Not in the least. I’ve been contacted by the Metropolitan Police, an Inspector Caleb Abbott. He suspects these three deaths are not the first, there’ve been others outside of London. He’s requesting our assistance.”

“Metropolitan Police?” said Tank. “You mean Scotland Yard.”

“Exactly.”

Bambi clapped her hands. “We’re going to London!”

Rosa nodded. “I’ll have Margaret make the arrangements. You’ll have tomorrow to get ready, then you leave Saturday bright and early. It’s a ten or so hour flight.”

“What?” Peyton felt her heart sink. London? She couldn’t go to London now. Not with things so uncertain with Marco. They were just starting to make headway in their relationship.

“Is there a problem, Agent Brooks?” asked Rosa in that tone that suggested there better not be.

“I don’t understand. If Scotland Yard’s involved, why do we have to go?”

“We have a partnership with the British government. They’ve asked for our help and we’re going to comply. Are you suggesting we ignore the request of an ally, Agent Brooks?”

Peyton slumped back in her seat.

“I’ve always wanted to go to London,” said Bambi. “I love the accents.”

“Great,” said Rosa, “Settle any cases you’re currently working on and go home. Get rest, pack, and be prepared for an early departure on Saturday.”

She gathered up the photos and the tablet as Tank and Bambi left the room. Radar gave Peyton a pointed look, then he turned for the door.

Peyton splayed her hands on the table. “Rosa?”

At the door, Radar hesitated and Peyton could see him tilt back his head.

Rosa’s eyes lifted. “Excuse me?”

“Sarge,” Peyton amended. “I can’t go to London.”

Rosa straightened to her full height. “I’m sorry, I’m certain I didn’t hear you correctly.”

“Please understand, I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just there’s some things going on here that I need to work on and I…”

“What things?”

Radar turned and shook his head behind Rosa’s back.

Peyton opened her mouth, but nothing came out. What was the best tactic to use? Confess what was going on and hope Rosa had an empathetic bone in her body, or lie? What would be a good lie?

“Brooks, what things are preventing you from doing your job?” Crossing her arms over her chest, she gave Peyton a narrow-eyed look.

“It’s personal.”

“Personal? As in your personal life? As in your love life?”

Peyton started to answer, but Radar came back in the room, crossing around the table to where Peyton sat. “No, she didn’t mean that.” He hooked Peyton under the arm and pulled her to her feet. “What she meant was she’s afraid to fly.”

“Afraid to fly?”

“Yeah, and she’s embarrassed to tell you, but she’s getting therapy.”

When Peyton started to protest, he tightened his grip on her elbow and propelled her around the other side of the table toward the door.

“Don’t worry about it, Sarge. The doctor will prescribe a tranquilizer for the flight. We’ve got it under control.”

“I sincerely hope so because we can’t have agents who have…” She fixed Peyton with an unyielding eye. “...a fear of flying.”

“It’s not an issue,” said Radar, shoving Peyton out of the conference room and marching her down to her office. He didn’t let go until he’d guided her through the door. Taking a bewildered look around, he released her arm. “What the hell is this? It’s a freakin’ greenhouse in here.”

Peyton whirled on him. “Why did you stop me?”

Radar focused on her again. “You were about to get yourself fired.” He pointed out the door. “You think Sarge gives a damn you’re having trouble with your boy toy? You took this job knowing it might entail travel, so knock it off.”

“I’m going to lose him for good if I go now. It’s really not a good time for me to leave, Radar.” She felt tears start in her eyes.

“When is it? You think I want to get on a damn plane and go to foggy-ass London.”

Peyton frowned. “We live in San Francisco, Radar, so…” She held out her hands.

“Well, right now you’re part of a team and that means if we go to London so do you, so get over it already.” Peyton started to protest, but he held a finger in her face. “No more. Now meet me in the gym in ten minutes.”

“What?”

“Instead of mouthing off, let’s work on your self-defense.”

“I don’t want to work out.”

“And I don’t care. Get your ass downstairs in ten.” With that he turned and left the room.

*    *   *

“You’re fired! You’re fired! You are fired!” Marco paced the break room, ignoring the throbbing in his thigh. “It’s not you, it’s me. We’re just not working out. I need someone who can answer the phones, put through a call, take a message.” He hesitated. “Owns a watch.” Raking his hand through his hair, he turned and found Cho standing in the doorway, smiling at him.

“You firing her or breaking up with her?”

Marco dropped his hand. “Breaking up would be easier.”

“You want me to do it?”

“And how would that look? Ryder already thinks someone shellacked my balls and is wearing them as a necklace.”

Cho grimaced. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”

“I’ve never fired anyone before.”

“I suspect no one’s getting fired here either.”

“Why do you all think I can’t fire someone?”

Cho drew a deep breath. “With all due respect, Captain, she’s been here a month and she should have been fired the first day she arrived. In fact, she shouldn’t have been allowed to sit down. She was a hot mess from the start, but you were so determined to make her work out.”

“Who can’t operate a phone, Nathan?”

Cho gave him a sympathetic look. “Remind me I have a bridge to sell you, okay?”

“What does that mean?”

“You answered your own question. Everyone knows how to work a phone, including…”

“Carly.” He clenched his hand into a fist. “You’re right. She’s manipulating me.”

“Got it in one.” Cho touched his finger to his nose.

“Well, that’s it. She’s fired.”

Cho gave a condescending nod. “Right.”

Marco frowned at him. “Did you want something?”

“We got a call. Some idiot shot and killed an intruder on Snob Hill. Patrol just wants us to head out there and confirm the break-in.”

“You let Ryder know?”

“Yep, he’s putting his purse together.”

Marco chuckled. “Call me if you need anything.”

“No problem. We should be out of there before lunch. Just enough time for you to fire Carly.”

Marco tilted up his chin. “Cute.”

“We’ll keep in touch, Captain.”

“You do that.”

Cho disappeared through the door.

Marco reached for his cane and headed after him, angling toward the front of the precinct. Time to get this over with. He’d been holding off long enough. He caught sight of Carly’s ass before he saw the rest of her. She was fishing her purse out of the bottom drawer of her desk. Her skirt was so short, he could tell she was wearing a thong without any effort on his part. He deliberately looked away and cleared his throat.

She snapped upright, turning to face him. “Oh, there you are. I was just going to find you.”

He chanced a look back at her, hoping she was semi-decent again. “Look, Carly, we need to talk.”

“Can it wait? I’ve got a lunch date and I thought I’d take off a few minutes early, if it’s all right with you. We just got a call and I gave it to the Asian guy.”

“The Asian guy?”

“I can’t remember his name. There’s so many people working here.”

There wasn’t. Not really. He could count his employees on two hands. “I’d like you to call people by their names.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Maybe not, but there’s no reason you can’t learn people’s names.”

“Right. I’ll make an effort to do that. So, about lunch? You don’t mind, do you? I mean I’ve been trying to get a date with this guy for months and he finally noticed me. I had to knock over an entire display in the grocery store before he did.”

Marco just stared at her. He didn’t know what to say.

She hurried up to him and squeezed his arm. “You’re a doll. Thank you.” Then she was gone.

Marco watched her scamper out to the parking lot, wondering where he’d lost control of the conversation. “You’re fired,” he said to himself.

Cho, Simons and Jake walked past him for the outer door. Cho simply shook his head.

“Who’s fired?” Simons asked his partner.

“No one,” said Cho.

“Poor damn bastard,” muttered Jake with a smirk.

*    *    *

Peyton faced off against Radar. “I don’t want to do this, Radar, please.”

He came at her, shoving her in the shoulder. “Is that what you’re going to tell a perp?”

She staggered back, then straightened, holding up her hands. “Look, I’m not in the mood.”

He shoved her again. “Tell it to someone who cares.”

She knocked his hand away. “This is stupid. You’re just trying to get me pissed.”

“No, I’m trying to get you to defend yourself.” He aimed a kick at her shoulder and she ducked to avoid it, dancing out of the way. “Fight back, Sparky.”

“No!” She deflected another kick with her hands. “I’m not in the mood.”

He feinted to her right, then came back with a jab that cuffed her shoulder and sent her reeling. Anger sparked in her and she slapped his next kick away with more force. He danced on the balls of his feet, motioning her to come at him.

She didn’t want to do this, but he wasn’t going to give up. Damn it, why did all the men in her life have to be such stubborn asses? She aimed a kick at his knee, hoping to tag him and make him want to stop, but he caught her leg and sent her sprawling on her hands and knees.

Before she could scramble to her feet, he hauled her up and yanked her back against his chest, his arm around her neck. She could feel the thundering of his heart against her spine and the weight of his arm pressing against her trachea.

Shoving his arm downward, she tried to break his hold, but he simply clamp his other arm across the back of her neck, pinioning her. Struggling, she tried to wriggle away, but he had her securely trapped.

Sweat trickled down her temples and her breathing grew ragged. Black spots danced in her peripheral vision and she could feel the edges of a panic attack creeping up on her. “Let me go, Radar!” she gasped, clawing at his arm. “Let me go now!”

“Think!” he said, shaking her. “What do you do? Get out of this!”

“No, Radar, you don’t understand. You need to let me go!”

He brought his mouth close to her ear. “I understand. The PTSD is making you panic. Fight through it, Brooks. Get out of this!”

“Radar!” She felt tears blind her and she tried to pry his hand loose.

He shook her, making her teeth chatter. “Think, Brooks!” he shouted at her. “How do you break a choke hold?”

She tried to ram her head back against him, but he moved, shaking her again. “I know that maneuver.”

She tried to kick backward and catch him between the legs, but he forced her head forward and knocked her off balance. She heard a whimper escape her and she realized she was trembling.

“Think, damn it!” he growled in her ear. “Where is my arm?”

“Around my throat,” she panted.

“Now break my hold!”

She yanked down, but he didn’t budge.

“You’re too small to do that. What else can you do?”

“I don’t know!” she sobbed.

“Always be unpredictable! Always do the unexpected! Think, Brooks! Think! Where’s my arm, damn it!”

Around her damn throat, she wanted to scream at him, but her heart raced so hard she felt nauseated. Around her throat!

Do the unexpected!

Without warning, she shoved upward, forcing his arm within range of her mouth.

“Good!” he snarled at her. “And what do you do now?”

“Use my teeth.”

“That’s right. You bite and you don’t let go!” He released her suddenly, spinning her around, then yanked her forward with a hand at the back of her neck. He placed his forehead against hers and his eyes bore into her. “Never give up! Never stop fighting! Not until they beat the last breath from your body! Never stop! Never give in! Not in your job and…” He glared at her. “Not in your personal life, do you hear me?”

She nodded, her breath hitching.

He released her and walked past her without looking back. She stood in the middle of the room, shaking, until she heard the door slam behind him, then she collapsed to her knees, curling in on herself.

*    *    *

Marco took his seat at the group meeting, glancing around. Everyone occupied the same seats every week and he found himself between the retired school teacher, Barb Harris, and the young army private, Kurt Foster, again.

Tricia Tran, the leader of the support group, called everyone to order and gave them all patient, kind smiles. When no one immediately raised a hand to speak, she turned to Mitch Walker, the engineer who’d recently left an abusive relationship.

“Let’s start with you, Mitch, since you’ve made the most drastic change in your life. How’s it going?”

“Brian called and he wanted me to come home, but I told him I couldn’t. Of course, he started swearing at me, which made me feel horrible.”

“I’m sorry, Mitch,” said Tricia. “How did you handle it?”

“I hung up.”

“Good for you.”

Barb and Linda Hill, the librarian, gave him praise. Linda reached over to pat his back before giving Marco a suspicious look, but he didn’t respond. He knew he’d made mistakes where she was concerned, but he’d already apologized twice for it.

“How are you doing, Linda?” asked Tricia.

Linda clasped her hands in her lap again. “I’m doing all right. The house is empty, really empty – lonely. I hate it.”

“Get another cat,” said Rodney, the insurance salesman.

Linda whipped around to face him. “Would you just get another wife if your wife died?”

“No, but that’s my wife. This is a cat.”

Marco leaned forward bracing his arms on his thighs. He couldn’t deny it was amusing seeing someone else on the hot seat.

“I can’t believe you’d say that. You don’t just replace a loved one.”

“Am I wrong?” Rodney asked, looking to Marco for confirmation.

Marco looked down. He was so not touching that one.

“No one thinks you’re wrong, Rodney…” began Tricia.

“I do,” said Linda.

Tricia held up a patient hand. “...but I think you’re oversimplifying the situation. For many people, animals are family.”

“Oversimplifying? He’s being an ass,” said Barb. “You’re not an animal lover, are you, Rodney?”

“That’s not true,” he protested. “I just don’t understand why she doesn’t get another cat if she’s feeling lonely. Why be miserable if you don’t have to be?”

“Bob was like a child to me. No other cat will replace what we had.”

The room erupted in argument, people shouting, Tricia calling for order. In the middle of it, a voice rose.

“Have you ever killed someone?”

Silence fell like a lead curtain.

Marco glanced over his shoulder at Kurt. The young man was staring at him.

“Have you? Have you killed someone?”

Marco ran his tongue across his teeth. He didn’t really want to discuss this here, but the kid vibrated with a strange sort of energy and his eyes were fever bright. “Yeah, I have.”

“Shot him?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you know the moment he died? I mean, did you see the life go out of his eyes?”

Marco shook his head. “No, it was dark, but I saw his body afterward. He was a priest.”

He glanced at the others. They were still as statues, watching the two of them. Marco wondered if this was the first time the young private had spoken.

“A priest?”

“Yeah. He shot at my partner. I had no choice, but…”

“But it stayed with you.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you dream about it?”

“Yeah, I do. I daydream about it too, replaying it over and over in my mind, wondering if I could have done anything different.”

The kid nodded.

Marco sat up, shifting so he half-faced the kid. “Have you shot anyone?”

The kid clenched his teeth, a muscle bulging in his jaw. “We were patrolling through Haditha. There weren’t supposed to be any insurgents there, but sometimes…” He gave a shrug. “...sometimes the reports are wrong. We turned onto this street and all of a sudden, this guy comes out of a house, carrying something in his hands.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “All we saw was a black box and we freaked. I remember everyone screaming for him to drop it. He was speaking Arabic, but no one on the patrol understood him. He lifted it, motioning to the side with it. I didn’t know what the hell he was doing until I thought about it later.”

He scratched hard at the stubble on his cheek. Marco kept his eyes fixed on him, refusing to look away. “Next thing I know, shots get fired. The guy, he jerks there, you know? Like a puppet? He doesn’t fall right away. I don’t even remember firing my gun, but the MP’s, they tell me later we all fired.” His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He lifted his eyes and fixed them on Marco’s. “He had nine bullets in him. Nine.”

Marco looked down.

“We thought he had an IED. We thought that’s what he carried, but it wasn’t.”

Marco forced himself to look at him again, meeting his tortured expression.

“It was a car battery.” He gave a strange laugh. “A God damn car battery.” He briefly closed his eyes, then stared at his hands, which lay open on his lap. “He died because of a battery. In his wallet was a picture of a little girl in a school uniform. She didn’t look any different than my sister does when she goes to school. Just a little girl who wore pigtails like my sister, and I killed her father.”

Marco didn’t know what to say or do.

The kid gave him an odd smile. “Such a stupid thing to die for, isn’t it?”

“It was war,” said Marco simply.

The kid twisted his mouth and nodded. “Yeah, it was war, but…” He held out his open hands. “...but that just doesn’t seem enough.”

CHAPTER 6

Charlie chased after the soccer ball, kicking it in front of him. The day was foggy, a light mist falling in the park. The fountain in the middle of the square gurgled and pigeons walked around the perimeter of it, hoping for some scraps from people’s sandwiches.

He saw the boys go after the ball, but he couldn’t get there in time. A large blonde boy with a gap-toothed smile sneered in his face. “This is mine.”

He stumbled to a stop, wiping his hands on his trousers. “It’s mine,” he said, thrusting out his chin.

The boy turned to his friend, a small dark haired boy with bulging eyes. “This is my ball, isn’t it, Theo?”

“Looks like it to me.”

The bigger boy gave him another smirk. “Two against one. Go away.”

He stared the boy down, his hands tightening into fists.

Smash him in the neck. Kick him in his bollocks. Drive them into his stomach.

He shook his head. “Can’t,” he muttered.

The smaller boy gave him a strange look, but the bigger boy held his hand to his ear. “What’d you say, wanker?”

“Give me my ball.”

Kick out his knee. That’ll teach him.

Charlie curled his hand into a fist and tapped it against his temple. Niles always had such violent ideas. “No.”

“Who you talking to, wanker?” said the big boy.

“Leave me alone. Give me my ball or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?”

Poke his eyes out with your thumbs. Shove your fist down his throat. Twist his penis off.

“Stop it!” he said, closing his eyes.

“He’s mental,” said the smaller boy. “Let’s go.”

Charlie opened his eyes in time to see the smaller boy nudge the larger one in the stomach. The larger one gave a laugh, still holding the ball.

“You mental, wanker?” He took a step forward and leaned down, placing his face right in Charlie’s. “You a head case? You retarded?”

Let him have it.

Charlie struck, slamming the heel of his hand against the boy’s nose. He heard a crack, then blood spurted. The boy reeled away, dropping the ball and throwing both hands over his face. Blood leaked between his fingers, ran down the backs of his hands.

That’s the way to do it.

Charlie covered his ears with his hands and felt tears fill his eyes.

“What’s going on?” shouted a woman, sitting on one of the benches.

“He broke my nose!” screamed the big boy.

Charlie curled up, wrapping his arms around his head.

“He broke my nose!”

That’s the way it’s done, isn’t it now? That’s the way to fight back. Now knee him in the bollocks. Kick him in the stomach.

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” sobbed Charlie, banging his fists against his temples. “Please just shut up!”

*    *    *

Standing at the counter in her kitchen, Peyton sipped her coffee and stared at the display on her phone. She felt such conflict inside. Her job was important to her, but Marco was more important. If she went to London, would it ruin everything they’d started building again? But Radar and Rosa had made it pretty clear that she had to go if she wanted to keep her job. Then there was Maria. Maria had been bugging her all night about the wedding.

She picked up the phone and pressed the display.

Maria picked up on the second ring. “Don’t even tell me you got a case.”

“What?”

“You’ve got a case and you’re going to leave me with all this wedding planning on my own. I need you to find a florist. I want lilies, not the stupid Easter ones we get here. I want Oxalis Triangularis.”

Peyton shook her head. “Oxa-whatsit?”

Maria made a growl of irritation. “Honestly, Brooks, what do you think your job is?”

“Bridesmaid?”

“And what do you think that means?”

“I show up in a pink dress with a huge bow and carry your train.”

“Well, yes, but you also help me plan the wedding.”

“I don’t remember reading that…”

“Are you my best friend or not?”

“Well, I…”

“The answer is yes!”

“Yes, but Maria, please, I can’t help it. I have to go for my job.”

“Where?”

“London.”

“London?” Maria was shouting now.

Peyton flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry! Do you know what this means for me?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose. This isn’t exactly a great time for me either.”

“You? You aren’t getting married!”

Peyton closed her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just as upset as you are, but I thought Abe was helping you with the wedding.”

“He is, but I wanted to do some planning with you.”

“I know.”

“What about Marco?”

Peyton didn’t immediately answer. She felt a tightness in her chest whenever she thought of Marco.

“Brooks?”

“I don’t know.” She reached down and scooped up Pickles, cuddling him close. “I don’t know what to do about Marco. Things were going better, but now…”

“Have you told him?”

“Not yet.”

“When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning at 6:00AM.”

“Seems to me you’d better tell him sooner rather than later.”

“I know. I thought I’d take lunch to the precinct.”

“You’re going to tell him with everyone around?”

“No, I was going to take lunch to the precinct, then tell him in his office. I think I should tell him in person, don’t you?”

“Yeah, not like you told me.”

“I’m sorry, Maria. I really am. I’ll tell Abe about the oxawhatsits, okay?”

“Don’t bother. You can’t even pronounce it right.”

“Like you know what it is,” she scolded in return.

“I do. You forget, I’m marrying Nathan Cho.”

“Touché,” said Peyton with a half-smile. “I’ll call you while I’m away, okay?”

“Yeah.” Maria went quiet, then she sighed. “Have a safe trip, okay, Brooks? I’m gonna need you as we get closer to this thing.”

“I know. And Maria?”

“Yeah?”

“You might drop in on Marco once in a while? Make sure he’s all right?”

“You got it. Talk to you soon.”

“Okay, bye.”

*    *    *

Marco sank into the seat next to Jake, directly behind Devan. Jake wouldn’t look at him, his gaze focused on the witness stand. Devan glanced back and gave him a lift of his chin. Marco returned it, then cast a sidelong look at Derek Renshaw and Ryan Morris. Morris’ ex-wife sat in the seat behind her ex-husband, wiping her nose with a tissue.

Derek Renshaw was a short man, maybe five six at the outside, slight of build with rounded shoulders. He had thin reddish brown hair and almost no eyebrows. His blue eyes always looked watery and red, but he was a bulldog in the courtroom. There were few defense attorneys as successful as he was.

The judge sat at the bench. Harold Easton was in his early seventies with a full head of iron-grey hair and a paunch. He had a gruff demeanor, but he was always willing to hear a case to its culmination. Marco knew Easton wouldn’t be swayed by Renshaw’s glib demeanor.

“Call your first witness, Mr. Adams,” said Easton.

Devan rose to his feet, smoothing his jacket. “I call Jacob Ryder to the stand.”

Jake gave Marco a panicked look, then rose and squeezed past him, going to the witness stand and holding up his hand to be sworn in.

“You may take a seat, Mr. Ryder,” said Easton.

Jake sat, his back ramrod straight, his hands clasped in his lap.

“State your name for the record, please,” said Devan.

“Jacob John Ryder.”

“And your occupation?”

“I’m a CSI for the San Francisco Police Department.”

“On the date of May 12th, were you at work?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“I was covering for our receptionist. She’d left early and I was answering the phones.”

“What happened?”

Jake swallowed hard, looking at some spot beyond Devan’s right shoulder. “Mr. Morris came into the precinct.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

“Before I could ask, he pulled out a gun.”

“What did you do?”

Jake’s eyes shifted and met Devan’s. “What did I do?”

“Yes, when Mr. Morris pulled out a gun?”

“I froze. I didn’t do anything.”

“And what did he do?”

Jake glanced at the man, then focused on his spot behind Devan. “He came around the counter and…” Jake’s voice faltered.

“And? Mr. Ryder, you need to be very specific about what happened.”

“He pointed the gun at my head.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Yes. He said he was sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”

“He told me his son had been killed and the man who killed him was going to get off. That he had to make a statement and I was the statement.”

“What do you think he meant by that?”

“Objection!” said Renshaw. “Calls for speculation on the part of the witness.”

“Withdrawn.”

Easton gave Devan a short nod.

“Did he tell you what he meant by that?”

“No, not me, but he told Captain D’Angelo when he arrived.”

“Okay, so Captain D’Angelo arrived and what happened?”

“Captain D’Angelo talked him down. He told him that other parents wouldn’t have their children’s killers brought to justice if he killed me.”

Devan moved closer to Jake, placing his hand on the witness stand. “What did Mr. Morris do then?”

“He gave up.”

“He surrendered his gun?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think he surrendered his gun?”

“Objection!” said Renshaw.

“Your Honor, this is just an evidentiary hearing. I’m just trying to establish that Mr. Morris acted in a sane, rational manner during the incident in question,” said Devan.

“He’s asking the witness to speculate about Mr. Morris’ behavior, but he can’t know what the man was thinking at that moment any more than I can.”

“Sustained.”

Devan focused back on Jake. “Did you believe that Mr. Morris intended to shoot you when he had the gun pointed at your head?”

Jake glanced at Morris again. He drew a deep breath and released it. “I did,” he said.

“No more questions, Your Honor.”

“Your witness, Mr. Renshaw.”

Renshaw rose to his feet, picking up a pen. He ran it through his fingers. “Did you process Gavin Morris’ murder scene, Mr. Ryder?”

“I did.”

“What did you discover about the boy’s murder?”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Let me be specific then. Where was Gavin Morris when he died?”

“In Amy Cook’s bedroom.”

“Where specifically?”

“On the floor.”

“But was there evidence that Gavin tried to get away?”

Jake’s shoulders slumped. “Yes. He tried to get out the window.”

“Where was he shot?”

“What?”

“What part of his body took a bullet, Mr. Ryder?”

“His back.”

“He was shot in the back while trying to run away?”

“Yes.”

Renshaw passed the pen through his fingers. “Was it a pretty horrific crime scene?”

“Most are.”

“But this one? It was worse?”

“Objection, Your Honor! Are we rating crime scene horror now?”

“Sustained.”

“Will Cook had powerful allies, didn’t he, Mr. Ryder?”

“He had you.” Jake gave him a grim smile.

“And who funded his defense, to your knowledge?”

“The NRA.”

“Deep pockets, yes?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“How did Mr. Morris take the news of his son’s death?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”

“Did he mention anything about it when he pointed his gun at you?”

Jake swallowed and glanced at Morris again. “He said he didn’t want to live without him.”

“He didn’t want to live. Those are some pretty strong emotions, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Objection!”

“If we can speculate about whether Mr. Morris intended to shoot Mr. Ryder, we can speculate about whether Mr. Ryder believed what he said, Your Honor?”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Mr. Ryder, did you believe Mr. Morris was distraught?”

“Yes.”

“So devastated by his son’s death that he wanted to die?”

“I guess.”

“Do you believe he was afraid Mr. Cook would get off? That the jury might believe Mr. Cook acted in self-defense?

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Didn’t Mr. Morris tell you he was afraid Cook was going to get off? Didn’t you just testify that he said that?”

“Yes.”

Renshaw faced Jake, pointing over his shoulder at Morris. “Does that sound like a rational man to you, Mr. Ryder, a man who’s thinking clearly and understands what he’s doing?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” said Devan, leaping to his feet.

“Withdrawn,” said Renshaw. Turning on his heel, he gave Devan a cool smirk. “No more questions.”

“Redirect, Mr. Adams?” asked Easton.

“No, Your Honor,” said Devan, slumping in his chair.

“You may step down, Mr. Ryder.”

Jake climbed off the witness stand and crossed the courtroom, slipping back into his seat. He sat staring at his shoes, his expression troubled. Marco glanced at him, but he didn’t know what to say.

“Any other witnesses, Mr. Adams?”

“No, Your Honor, but I would like the option of calling a witness after the defense presents his case.”

“Agreed. Mr. Renshaw?”

“I’d like to call Dr. Swartz to the stand. He’s waiting in the hallway.”

Easton motioned to the bailiff to fetch the witness.

Jake shot a look at Marco. “I blew it.”

“No,” said Marco, shaking his head.

A tall, thin man was brought into the courtroom and sworn in. Renshaw rose to his feet. “State your name for the record, please.”

“Dr. Robert Swartz.”

“And your occupation?”

“I am a doctor of psychiatry with the University of California, San Francisco Psychiatric Department.”

“How long have you been practicing, Dr. Swartz?”

“17 years.”

“Did you have the opportunity to examine Ryan Morris after his arrest?”

“I did.”

“And what was your diagnosis?”

“Acute post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“Can you explain your findings?”

Dr. Swartz began a detailed explanation of Ryan Morris’ condition, concluding that he in no way could comprehend what he was doing when he chose to bring a gun into the precinct and place it against Jake’s head. As the testimony went on and on, Jake sank deeper into the chair. A couple of times, Devan glanced back at Marco, shaking his head, but the doctor continued to bombard them with psychobabble and thousand dollar words.

Every objection Devan made was met with skillful dissembling on Renshaw’s part and during the cross examination, Swartz turned aside any attempts Devan made to discredit him. In the end, the damage was done, and Swartz made a very convincing argument for Morris’ insanity plea. After he was released from the witness stand, Devan sat and stared at his folder, tapping the end of his pen against it.

“Mr. Adams, do you have anything further?” asked Easton.

Devan shifted in his chair and looked back at Marco. Marco met the look. He knew Devan didn’t think he was capable of coherent testimony. He’d always picked Peyton in the past. Rather than being insulted, he honestly didn’t care, except this time was personal. Morris had held a gun to Jake’s head. That couldn’t go unanswered.

With a slow nod, Marco indicated he was ready.

Devan turned around again. “I’d like to call Captain Marco D’Angelo to the stand.”

Marco rose, reaching for his cane, and limped to the witness stand, raising his hand to be sworn in.

“State your name for the record,” said Devan.

“Captain Marco D’Angelo.”

“Are you familiar with the defendant?”

“I am.”

“In what way?”

“Mr. Morris was the father of Gavin Morris, the young man shot by William Cook.”

“Did you have contact with Mr. Morris before May 12th?”

“I did.”

“Can you tell us about that experience?”

“Mr. Morris stopped me in the parking lot of the precinct about three days before the 12th.”

“What did he say?”

“He told me that he’d heard the NRA was paying for Cook’s attorney and he felt that his son was becoming a political tool.”

“What did he want you to do?”

“I think he just wanted to know that we were going to continue working the case.”

“What happened on the 12th?”

“I saw Mr. Morris on the news after Cook was released on bail. I’d called him to reassure him that we were doing everything in our power to get a conviction.”

“Did you get ahold of him?”

“He called me. We agreed to meet at the precinct.”

“But when you got there?”

“He had a gun pointed at my CSI’s head.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said Cook was out of jail, sitting at home, while his son was rotting in a grave.”

“And?”

Marco shifted weight, looking at Morris. “He said the NRA wanted guns and violence. He was willing to give it to them. He said that if he could walk into a police station and shoot it up, it would make them see what they’ve done.”

“Did he seem rational to you?”

“Objection!” shouted Renshaw.

“Sustained. Stick to the facts, Mr. Adams,” said Easton.

“Did Mr. Morris say anything to you that made you think he knew what he was doing?”

“He said he had to make a stand. He’d weighed the benefits and the consequences and determined shooting Jake Ryder was an acceptable loss to further his goals of discrediting the NRA.”

“Objection!” shouted Renshaw, standing.

“Captain D’Angelo is testifying to what he heard Mr. Morris say, Your Honor.”

“Were those his exact words?” demanded Renshaw.

“Your Honor?” said Devan, holding out his hand.

Easton pursed his lips. “Overruled. I can’t remember exactly what I said five minutes ago, but I know the gist of what I meant, Mr. Renshaw. This is an evidentiary hearing, not an actual trial, so I’ll allow it.”

Renshaw slumped in his seat.

“How did you talk him down?”

“I told him how valuable Ryder was to our precinct, how many cases he solved for us, and how many other parents would be denied justice if Ryder died. He listened and then he surrendered his gun.”

Devan smiled at him. “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

“Your witness, Mr. Renshaw.”

Renshaw rose, picking up the pen again. “Does it seem rational to you that a man would think he could defeat the NRA by killing a low-level crime scene investigator, Captain D’Angelo?”

“Objection, Your Honor!”

“I’m asking for his opinion as an expert.”

“Overruled. Answer the question, Captain D’Angelo.”

“He stated that he was trying to prove anyone could be killed at any time, even in a well-armed police precinct. It seemed very rational to me. He’d clearly thought it through.”

“Really? He walked into a heavily armed precinct with trained marksmen just to make a misguided statement on gun violence by killing someone himself? Does that really seem rational to you, Captain? I mean it’s sort of like fighting against drunk driving by having a 0.16 alcohol level and driving your car into a fast food restaurant.”

Marco’s expression grew grim. “The act of premeditating a murder for a political purpose may be unsavory, but it is highly rational, Mr. Renshaw.”

Renshaw gave him a grim smile. “Do you believe he would have killed Mr. Ryder if you hadn’t intervened, Captain?”

“I do.”

“And yet, you think this is the action of a sane man?”

Devan leaned forward, but Marco’s eyes snapped to him and he gave him a small shake of the head. Devan settled back.

“I think,” Marco said, fixing his gaze on Morris, “that the very fact I was able to talk him down makes it clear he was rational.” His eyes swung back to Renshaw. “I was on the receiving end of an irrational man, Mr. Renshaw, a man who killed indiscriminately. I stood in a warehouse and I watched him point a gun at the head of the woman I love and I begged him not to shoot her.” Marco swallowed hard and a shiver raced through him. “I stood in that warehouse, Mr. Renshaw, and I watched him swing the gun toward me and pull the trigger. No warning, no amount of talking would have done a damn bit of good.” He lifted his chin, his fingers tightening on his cane. “That man, Mr. Renshaw, was insane. Ryan Morris, on the other hand, was not!”

Renshaw didn’t answer for a moment, just stared at Marco. Marco stared back at him.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” he said.

“You may step down, Captain D’Angelo.”

Marco rose and limped off the witness stand, going back to his seat.

Judge Easton sat, considering for a few moments, then he looked up at the attorneys. “I am binding this case over for trial. I find there’s sufficient evidence to proceed. Court is adjourned.”

Jake gave a gasp of relief. Morris and Renshaw immediately bowed their heads and began talking.

Devan rose and turned, staring down at Marco. “D’Angelo, I could kiss you!”

“I’ll pass, but thanks.”

“Where have you been all my life!”

Marco smiled and shrugged.

“Come on, let me buy you a drink!” He caught himself and his look grew sheepish. “Sorry, a soda?”

“I’ll take a rain check. I’ve gotta get back to the precinct.”

Jake clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Coffee’s on me for the next month,” he said.

Marco gave him a lift of his chin and pushed himself to his feet. “Coffee’s been on you for the last six months.”

“Yeah, but now I won’t be so pissed off about sharing.”

Marco laughed as they left the courtroom.

*    *    *

A rush of emotion swamped Peyton as she stepped into the precinct. True, her new job was exciting, but there was something about this place that would always mean the world to her. This precinct had been her life for so long. And so many memories of Marco were associated here.

A buxom blond woman sat at Maria’s old desk. She glanced up from a magazine as Peyton paused on the other side of the counter. “How can I help you?”

Peyton smiled at her. This must be the infamous Carly. “I’m here to see Captain D’Angelo. Is he in?”

“Yes.”

“Great. Will you tell him Peyton’s here to see him?”

“He’s busy.”

Peyton frowned. “What?”

“He’s busy.” She glanced at Marco’s closed office door. “Write your name on that pad and I’ll give it to him.” She went back to looking at her magazine, dismissing Peyton.

“Excuse me. Would you mind calling him on the phone and telling him Peyton’s here?”

“Write your name on the pad,” she said without looking up and flipped another page.

“Is Inspector Cho or Simons here? Inspector Shotwell?”

“The pad please.”

Screw the pad. Peyton went to the half door and pushed it open, stepping through.

Carly’s eyes snapped to her face and she rose quickly to her feet. “You can’t come back here.”

“Look, just get on the intercom and call someone up here. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“You need to get back behind the counter now!”

Peyton pushed the button for intercom and picked up the receiver. “Does anyone with half a brain work in this damn precinct anymore?” Her voice echoed back at her.

Carly stared at her with her mouth open, then her eyes shifted beyond her. “She came behind the counter without permission and she won’t go back!” she said.

Peyton turned and found Marco leaning against the doorjamb of his office, smiling in amusement. She took in the fine cut of his charcoal grey suit, the way the linen pulled taut across his shoulders, the deep navy of his tie. Clearly Abe had been picking out clothes for him. He looked delicious.

“That’s Agent Brooks’ style, Carly.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Causing trouble again, sweetheart?”

“It would be a shame if I wasn’t,” she said, then she gave him a sultry look. “I’ve been known to bite too.”

He chuckled, but Carly gasped.

“What’s going on here?” she said.

“Holy crap, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” came Simons’ gruff voice before she was enveloped in a bear hug.

“Hey, there Brooks, you got my fiancée spending money hand over fist,” said Cho, hugging her next.

“Would you look at what the cat dragged in?” said Holmes, pulling her into his embrace.

“Hey ya, Fluffy,” said Tag, punching her in the shoulder.

Peyton gave her a hug and Tag returned it stiffly. Then Peyton opened her arms for Frank Smith. He spun her around.

“How are you, baby girl?” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“I’m great, Frank.” She reached into her pocket and held out her Prius’ keys to Bartlett. “There’s a box filled with Lucca’s sandwiches in my trunk, Jimmy. Do you want to get them for me?”

“Whoa, now that’s a party!” said Smith. “I’ll buy the sodas.”

“I’ll get the paper plates and utensils,” said Cho, turning and moving toward the break room.

“And I’ll get more chairs for the conference room,” said Simons.

Everyone went off to make arrangements for lunch, but Peyton hesitated, holding out her hand for Marco. “You coming, D’Angelo?”

He gave her a smile. “In a minute. I’ve got something to finish.”

“Sure thing. What about you, Carly? You hungry?”

“You have a sandwich for me?”

“I got one for everyone. You wanna join us?”

“Hell yeah,” she said, bounding toward the conference room.

Peyton smiled at Marco and followed her.

*   *   *

Marco waited until Peyton was occupied in the conference room with the others, then he walked to the half-door and pushed it open, stepping through. Bartlet was just opening Peyton’s trunk as he limped out of the precinct and made his way down the stairs into the parking lot, heading toward the Prius.

“Would you look at this, Captain?” said Bartlett, giving him a broad smile. The scar on his neck looked raised and jagged in the filtered sunlight. “She got sandwiches for everyone.”

Marco smiled. “Yeah. You want help?”

“Naw, I got it.” He pushed the button to lock the car again.

Marco wanted to go through Peyton’s car, but he needed some reason to be out here. Mike Edwards said he got Peyton’s address from a bill she left in the car. He could never remember her leaving something like that lying around. She was too careful a cop to make such a huge mistake.

“She said there were some napkins on the passenger side.”

“Oh,” said Bartlett, hoisting the box higher. “You need the keys?”

Marco reached for his own key ring. “Nope, I’ve got a set.”

“Okay. See you inside.”

“Yeah, see you inside.” Marco waited until Bartlett had reached the stairs before he pressed the automatic lock and pulled open her passenger door. He knew he didn’t have much time. She’d come looking for him herself if he didn’t hurry.

He sank into the passenger seat and glanced over, watching Bartlett enter the precinct. Looking in the holder on the door, he found it empty. Pulling open the glove compartment, he went through it, but beyond her auto manual, he found nothing of a personal nature. The floor, the back seat, and the center console were devoid of any papers, completely clean. Leaning over, he pulled down her sun visor.

A vinyl organizer held her sunglasses and her FasTrak device for the bridge toll. Reaching behind the device, he pulled out a detachable wallet that held her registration and insurance information. Someone would have to know she kept it there and had to have time to pull it out, memorize the address, and replace it before she got in the car.

There was no way this Mike character had gotten her address from something in her car. Peyton kept it immaculate, all personal information carefully stored away where no one could casually find it – a cop’s car, just the way he’d told her to keep it years before.

“Captain?”

Marco looked over at the precinct.

Bartlett stood on the stairs. “I found the napkins. They were in the box.”

Marco held up a hand. “Got it.” Climbing out of the car, he locked it, worrying over the problem of this Mike character. How had the bastard gotten her address? Something wasn’t right with any part of his story.

He limped back to the precinct and found everyone gathered in the conference room. Peyton had saved him a seat next to her. He sank into it, giving her a smile, but he wished they were alone. Laughter and raucous conversation were the last things he wanted right now.

She looked so damn good with her hair loose around her shoulders, her jeans and leather jacket, the high heeled boots she always wore when they’d worked together. He wanted to pull her onto his lap and forget about lunch, losing himself in the pleasure of her company.

She placed a sandwich on a paper plate and passed it to him with one of the napkins. He opened the wrapper and lifted half to his mouth. Vegetarian with garlic sauce, just the way he liked it. He took a bite and gave her a half-smile. She reached for a soda and placed it in front of him, her eyes sliding over him and away.

Marco felt the sandwich turn to dust in his mouth. He set it down and leaned back in the chair, swallowing the bite. “You’re leaving.”

“What?” She shifted toward him.

“You got a case.”

She looked down and he knew. She could never keep anything from him. “Let’s talk about it after lunch.”

He no longer had an appetite, but he sat next to her and listened to her share stories with her friends. She had an unconscious way about her so that no matter how long she was gone, the time fell away and it was like she was back here again, working the precinct as she had for so many years.

He reached out and fingered a curl that fell down her back. She smiled at him and leaned into his shoulder, letting him pass the curl through his fingers as she laughed at a story Tag was telling.

Once lunch was finished and his people returned to their jobs, he walked her to his office and watched as she took a seat in the chair before his desk. Moving to the other chair, he sat down next to her and shifted so they were facing each other.

“Where’s the case?”

She fussed with the zipper on her jacket, then she looked up at him. “London.”

“London?”

“Yeah, I have to be at the airport tomorrow at 6:00AM. The plane leaves at 8:00.”

“London.” He looked away, running his fingers across the head of his cane.

“I told Rosa I didn’t want to go.”

His gaze snapped back to her. “What?”

She nodded. “I told Rosa it was a bad time, but…” She sighed. “That didn’t go over too well.”

“I can imagine.”

“It’s a really bad time, though. For us. We just started talking again and trying Dr. Ferguson’s crazy ideas, and…” Her voice trailed away.

He took her hand, bringing it to his lips. “We’ll be okay. We knew this would happen when you took the job. We prepared for it, remember?”

“I know, it’s just…”

“We’ll be okay.”

“We can video chat.”

“Yeah.” He realized his voice sounded less than enthusiastic. “Can I drive you to the airport?”

She tightened her hold on his hand. “I think that would be really hard, Marco.”

He nodded.

“Will you take care of Pickles while I’m gone?”

“Of course. I’ll pick him up tomorrow after your plane leaves.”

“Thanks.” She clasped his hand with both of her own. “I really don’t want to go.”

“What sort of case is it?”

“Murder. Exchange student from Stanford.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the weird angle?”

“Werewolf. Well, he looks like that and he howls after every kill.”

“Werewolf in London?”

“I know, right? Someone has a really sick sense of humor.”

“You’ll be careful, yes?”

“Yes.” She sighed again. “No sex, huh?”

“That’s what Dr. Ferguson said.”

“Well, then, I better go. I still have to pack.”

He nodded and released her.

She hesitated, then she rose to her feet and turned for the door.

“Peyton!” He rose also and she stopped, shifting to face him again. He moved between the chairs and reached out to cup her chin, lifting her head and lowering his own. He kissed her with all of the longing and want he could summon, pressing her back against the door. Her hands slid up his chest and she drew him tighter against her, deepening the kiss.

Finally he pulled away, pressing his forehead to hers. They were both breathing heavily.

“Are you sure about the no sex?”

“That’s what he says,” Marco answered miserably.

“Right.” Her hands flattened on his chest and she pushed against him. “Then I really have to go.”

He released her and she hurried out of his office, shutting the door behind her.

*    *    *

“Yes, Mama, I’m taking a raincoat.”

“You don’t know how quickly the weather changes there.”

“I think I’ll be all right. I hear it’s a lot like San Francisco.”

“No, it’s much bigger than San Francisco. Much bigger. Cliff says fifty times as large.”

“I don’t think it’s fifty times as large, but I was talking about the weather.”

“Do they have phones there? What if your phone doesn’t work there?”

Peyton closed her suitcase, bracing the phone on her shoulder as she zipped it shut. “It’s not the outback, Mama. It’s London. It has all the modern amenities.”

“You’ve never been to a foreign country.”

“That’s not true. Marco and I went to the Virgin Islands. Besides, I’m not sure England qualifies.” She dragged the suitcase off the bed and it bumped against the floor. “I’ll be fine.”

“They don’t let their cops have guns there.”

“They do in certain circumstances. We have a special dispensation to carry our weapons because we’ll be investigating a violent murder.”

“What if they change their mind?”

“Sarge made it clear we wouldn’t be investigating without our weapons.” Peyton didn’t know if that was true, but she figured it would relieve her mother’s fear. “We’ll be fine.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Peyton dragged the suitcase to a corner of her room, then padded barefoot to the door, peering through the peephole. Marco stood on the other side.

“I’ve got to go, Mama. I’ll call you when we land.”

“Why do you have to go? I might not be able to talk to you when you get there.”

“You’ll be able to talk to me.” Peyton fought a wave of annoyance as she unlocked the door and nudged Pickles back. The Yorkshire terrier was barking furiously. “Look, Mama, Marco’s here and I need to talk to him.”

“Oh, goodness, go then. I’ll talk to you in London.”

Peyton hung up the phone, shaking her head, and set it on the sofa table, then pulled open the door. Marco had changed into jeans and one of his ribbed sweaters, but Peyton thought he still looked gorgeous.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” he answered.

Then they were both moving, surging against each other. Peyton felt his hands on her cheeks, then sliding into her hair as she melded herself to him, trying to merge with him. He pushed her back into the house, somehow managing to close and lock the door.

Her hands tugged at his sweater as his pulled at her jersey, but she drew away, placing a hand in the center of his chest and holding him off. “Hold on a minute!” she panted, trying to regain her composure. Beneath her palm she could feel his heart pounding.

“You’re killing me, Brooks,” he moaned.

“Let’s at least try Dr. Ferguson’s idea before we give in.”

His eyes opened wide in a look of disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Let’s at least have some sort of conversation before we get to the bedroom,” she said, trying to sound reasonable. The memory of his mouth on hers, his hands on her body was making concentrating hard. “What were some of the topics he wanted us to discuss?”

“Um…” Marco shook his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “Politics.”

“Okay, good. What about politics?”

“I don’t know.” Marco moved closer to her, but she held him off.

“Come on, D’Angelo, think.”

“Okay. Um, should the president be elected by popular vote or the Electoral College?”

She gave him a skeptical look.

“You wanted to discuss politics.”

“The Electoral College though?”

“Fine, forget it.” He moved toward her, but she danced back, keeping her hand fisted in his sweater.

“No, okay. Let’s see. Um, popular vote.”

“Why?”

“Everyone wants to be popular.”

“Great.” He reached for her, but she danced back again. She realized they’d worked their way from the entryway into the living room.

Pickles jumped on the couch and crashed on a pillow, giving a sigh. Clearly they weren’t going to pay any attention to him.

“What else?”

“Jesus, Brooks.”

“Jesus?”

“No, um…hold on. Uh, should the First Lady wear white after Labor Day?”

Peyton frowned at him, stopping her backwards waltz. “Really?”

“You wanted something.”

“You’ve been living with Abe too long.”

“Tell me about it. I’m dying here, Brooks.”

She gently pushed him back a step. “Okay, white after Labor Day. Um, let’s see. I think ivory’s okay, but anything in the snow variety’s just gauche.”

“Gauche?”

“Unsophisticated.”

“And I’ve been hanging out with Abe too long. Okay, fine. Awesome, actually. I’ll send her an email.” He pushed at her hand, trying to dislodge it. They’d reached the middle of the room now, his limp more pronounced without his cane.

“What else?” Peyton asked, buying time.

“Money.”

“Money, good. What about money?”

Marco gave her a pained look and scratched at his forehead. “How do you feel about the penny?”

“The penny?”

“Sure.”

“Honestly, I’m a fan, but the silver dollar’s ridiculous.”

Marco frowned. “Why’s it ridiculous?”

“It’s pretentious.”

“Fine.”

“What else?”

“Do you think ATMs should offer other denominations besides twenties?”

Peyton shifted her hand, holding it out palms up. “Absolutely, if I get a twenty for chocolate, you know damn well the whole thing’ll be spent and then no one wins.”

He laughed.

Peyton went still. She realized it was the first time she’d heard him really laugh in a long time.

“I love you,” she said softly.

His blue eyes narrowed and then he was moving, sweeping her up into his arms. Peyton didn’t give a damn after that about what Dr. Ferguson would say. Right now there was only one person in the world who mattered, and that was Marco.

CHAPTER 7

Leicester Square was always crowded on the weekend. People lounged around the lawn or wandered through the shops and restaurants.

He huddled beneath a tree on the edge of the square, hoping he didn’t see the blonde woman with her mates, having a picnic around the fountain.

But it was already too late. He’d spotted her quite a while ago and was working his way around the perimeter of the square, trying to get to her. There was no way he wouldn’t be caught this time. The square was filled with people. They’d see him grab the woman, they’d stop him. They wouldn’t let him kill her. Or if they did, he wouldn’t get away. Either way, the killing would stop. Police would come and arrest him. No more killing. No more victims. No more death.

Finally, it would be over.

It’s not over. She’s going to die.

Covering his ears with his forearms, he buried his head against his knees. No matter where he went, the deaths kept happening. He couldn’t get too far from the tube lines because that was where he was most likely to get a few spare pounds, but as long as he stayed on the tube lines, he found him.

But today it would end. He’d gotten bolder and the killings were happening in public places now. If he killed the blonde at the fountain, someone would see him, remember him, report him. He’d be caught and it would be over.

She has to die.

He moaned and rocked himself.

“You all right, mate?” came a voice above him. “You all right?”

He lifted his head and peered up at the young man in the knit beanie. “Fine.”

“Maybe you want to move on that way.” The young man pointed to the street beyond the square. “Lot of people here today, isn’t there? And they’re probably disturbing you.”

He knew what the young man meant. He was disturbing them. No one wanted to look at a homeless man if they didn’t have to. The young man held a pound out to him.

“Here. Go get something hot to eat.”

He reached up and took the pound. Not because it would get him a damn thing to eat, but because it alleviated the young man’s guilt just a bit.

“Sorry, mate,” the young man said with a shrug. “It’s just easier, you understand?”

Easier. Sure. Yeah, he understood.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees, levering himself upright. The young man started to take his elbow to help him, but that earned him a glare and he backed off, holding up his hands in a gesture of futility. Gaining his feet, he started to say something to the young man, but the howl had him ducking again, wrapping his arms around his head and closing his eyes.

It ululated over the square, echoing off the storefronts around them. People screamed and then they were running, trying to get out of the square as fast as they could.

The young man bolted from his side, racing for the street and disappearing into the crowd. Looking over at the fountain, he gasped as he saw the lifeless body of the girl slump to the ground, a puddle of red spreading out beneath her.

*    *    *

The alarm shrieked. Peyton reached over and slammed her hand on top of it, turning it off. Then she snuggled back into the bed. She hadn’t slept this well in weeks, but having the weight of Marco’s body wrapped around her held off the nightmares.

He nuzzled her shoulder and pulled her back into the circle of his arms. She let her eyes close and wondered if Rosa would really fire her if she missed her plane. She could fly out tomorrow and meet the others, give herself another day to spend with Marco. They might not even leave the bed.

Even so, guilt rose inside of her. They’d be waiting at the airport, expecting her to show up. She was part of their team now and they depended on her.

“I have to take a shower before I can even think of getting on a plane.”

Marco’s hand slid down her body, creating a tingle in its wake, but then he rolled to his back and the heat of him left her. “I’ll make some coffee, then I’m driving you to the airport.”

Disappointment slammed into her, but she threw the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed. His fingers traced down her naked spine.

“I don’t want to go,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him.

He toyed with a curl. He looked sleepy and rumpled and delicious. Curling his hand around her arm, he tugged her down to him. “I don’t want you to go, but we’ll be okay, Peyton.”

She braced a hand in the center of his chest and kissed him. “I’d better get that shower before I really change my mind.”

He smiled at her and brushed the hair back from her cheek. “Yeah, you’d better. Beside it takes me forever to get this leg moving in the morning. If you want coffee, you’d better not distract me.”

She kissed him again, then rose and walked to the bathroom. He made a whistling sound that brought a laugh out of her and eased some of the dread she was feeling. She showered quickly and ran a comb through her hair, then dressed in her most comfortable jeans, a V-necked t-shirt, finally pulling on a light sweater. It was as hard to pack for London as it was to live in San Francisco. You had to prepare for any range of weather.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she tugged on her boots. Her thoughts went to the previous night and she smiled. Why couldn’t it just work between them? They obviously had deep feelings for each other. The physical part of their relationship was ridiculously hot. Why couldn’t the rest be just that easy, that wonderful?

Chewing at her inner lip, she wondered if Dr. Ferguson was right. They masked their other problems with sex. Maybe sex was all they had? But that couldn’t be. They’d spent eight years as friends, talking about everything. They’d hardly fought during that time and they could spend hours in each other’s company without feeling bored or annoyed. Why couldn’t they do the same now? Had the sex replaced the friendship they’d once had?

She grabbed her coat and dragged the suitcase out into the middle of the living room. Marco and Pickles were in the kitchen, Pickles scarfing up his kibble and Marco sipping coffee. She climbed on a barstool and he shoved a coffee mug over to her with a plate of toast and jelly.

“You need something on your stomach. Airline food is the worst.”

She smiled and picked up the mug, taking a sip. Sweet, just the way she always wanted it. He knew exactly how much sugar to add. That had to be something. Picking up a piece of toast, she broke off a corner and placed it in her mouth.

“So are you flying directly into Heathrow?” he asked, tearing off a piece of his own toast. She noticed he didn’t have jelly on his.

“No, we fly into JFK, then change planes and fly into Heathrow.”

“How long will you be flying total?”

“Eleven hours.”

He blew out air. “Will you call me when you land?”

“Yeah.” She tore another piece off the toast, but didn’t put it in her mouth. “Do you think we could continue our conversation from last night?”

He frowned at her. “About the penny?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned on the counter. “What’s going on, Brooks?”

She tore the bread some more. “What if sex has replaced our friendship?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Is that what you think or are you allowing Ferguson’s psychobabble to get to you?”

“He got to you or you wouldn’t have wanted to try it.”

Marco picked up his mug and sipped it. “I just don’t understand why we keep passing each other. Why we aren’t able to make it work easier. I feel like I’m sabotaging something really great with you and I can’t stop myself.”

She tore more bread, but he stopped her hand. “You were supposed to eat that, not shred it like a government secret document.”

She sighed and pushed the plate away from herself. “Maybe we went too fast. We went from partners to lovers to moving in and finally to getting married. Maybe we should have taken it slower?”

“That’s probably true.”

“Maybe that’s why you ran away?”

He considered that a moment. “I don’t know. I want to say that’s it, but I still feel the jealousy whenever another man is around. I’m not going to lie. Apart or together, I hate when other men look at you, talk to you.”

“Did you feel that yesterday at the precinct?”

“No, but that’s different. I sure as hell felt it with that Mike clown.”

She wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “Don’t you trust me?”

He released his breath, tilting back his head and closing his eyes. “That’s not it, Peyton.”

“It feels like that’s it. What else can it be?”

He looked her directly in the eye. “I don’t think you’re a good judge of character.”

Peyton leaned back. “Wow. That only insults my intelligence a little.”

“No, that’s not what I meant at all. See, you’re getting angry and you’re pushing me away, and that makes me want to run.”

“You want to run right now? We’re just having a conversation.”

“No, right now I want a drink.”

“So I cause you to drink?”

He closed his eyes again, bowing his head.

She played the last few minutes of the conversation over in her head. “It shouldn’t be this hard, Marco. I love you.”

He looked up at her. “I know. I love you too. I love you more than my next breath, but you’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard.”

“So what the hell do we do?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.” He turned and looked at the clock on her stove. “We’ve got to get to the airport though.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Look, sweetheart, we’re not going to work this out in the fifteen minutes before you catch a plane. We need weeks, months, maybe years, but you are the woman...the only woman I want to work this hard for. Do you understand me?”

Tears filled her eyes and she tightened her grip on his hand. “Yes.”

“So go to London, solve this case and come home. I’ll be here. I’ll always be here, Peyton, for as long as you want me.”

She stood on the rungs of the barstool and kissed him. “I want you forever,” she whispered against his mouth.

He deepened the kiss, then released her. “Come on, Brooks, the Charger’s fast, but it’s not the Batmobile.”

Grabbing her suitcase, he carried it to the door, while she raced around, making sure she had everything. Scooping up Pickles, she hugged the little dog and kissed him a thousand times, then settled him on the couch and followed Marco out the door.

Night still blanketed the City and fog meandered through the streets, painting a misty blush on the plants and cars parked in driveways. Marco put the suitcase in the trunk of the Charger and pressed the button to unlock the doors. She climbed into the passenger seat and shivered in the pre-dawn chill. Marco climbed behind the driver’s side, dragging his leg into the car, then he tossed the cane into the back on top of her jacket. The roar of the engine in the quiet neighborhood made Peyton wince.

He put the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, turning into the street. Once he was headed for the airport, Peyton laid her head on his shoulder and curled her arms around his. She needed the physical contact with him for just a few more minutes. He kissed her forehead and turned up the heater.

“So, let’s talk religion,” he said.

“Okay.”

“Should Wiccanism be recognized as a religion?”

“Wiccanism?”

“Yep.”

“Why not? It’s just a bunch of half-naked women running around in a forest, right?”

“It’s probably a little more than that, but naked women are good with me.”

Peyton punched him in the shoulder. “I said half-naked.”

“Oh, how did I get that confused?”

Peyton laughed, hugging his arm tighter. “Tank could tell you all about Wiccanism. I met a couple of witches on the zombie case. They were very interesting. Apparently it’s all about nature and respecting the earth, peaceful and sort of life affirming. I say people should be able to have whatever religion they choose, as long as it means something to them.”

“Really? What about Satanism?”

“Well, that’s a little different. I have a problem with the blood sacrifices and the pentagrams. Besides, black robes are so last season.”

He laughed. “You’ve got a point.”

Peyton closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound of his breathing, the warmth of his body next to hers. Before she knew it, they were pulling into the airport parking lot and Marco was setting the Charger’s brake.

He kissed the top of her head again. “Come on, sweetheart, we’re here.”

She straightened in her seat and stretched as he got out and went around the back for her suitcase.

Reaching over the seat, she grabbed his cane and her jacket, then climbed out, meeting him behind the car. She handed him the cane and they walked to the tram that would transport them to the terminal.

The five minute ride in the tram was made in silence. The knowledge that she was leaving him for an undetermined amount of time weighed heavily on her. They needed time without distractions to work through their differences, but both of their jobs drew them away.

Arriving at the terminal, Peyton found her team already assembled. Just the three of them waiting for her. She wondered if Mrs. Radar had come to see him off or if the Professor had been here. Marco set her suitcase on the floor and turned her to face him, glancing over her shoulder at the others.

“I guess I’ll say goodbye here.”

She felt tears in her eyes again and fought them off. “Yeah.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Call me when you land.”

She nodded.

“I love you, Peyton,” he said, staring her right in the eyes.

Curling her hand over his, she pulled it away and moved into his arms, burying her face against his chest. “I love you, Marco.”

He held her tight for a long moment, then he eased her back, placing his hand under her chin and tilting her face up to him. He gave her a kiss. It wasn’t passionate or lustful. This was a sweet kiss, a longing kiss, filling her with the memory of only him.

He broke the kiss and took a step back. “Be careful, Brooks,” he said.

She nodded and reached down for her suitcase. Before she could lift it, Tank was there, taking it from her hand. He held out his free hand for Marco.

“Tank Campbell.”

Marco shook it. “Marco D’Angelo.”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.”

Bambi came forward, offering Marco her hand too. With her other arm, she wrapped it around Peyton’s shoulders. “Emma Redford, and you’re gorgeous.”

Marco gave a laugh and took her hand. “Nice to meet you, Emma.” His eyes shifted to Peyton. “Take care of my girl, please.”

Bambi tightened her hold. “Always.”

Marco gave her a smile and a nod, then Bambi turned Peyton away, moving her toward Radar. Tank followed them.

Peyton looked over her shoulder at Marco. He held up a hand and gave her a wistful smile, then his gaze shifted to Radar.

Radar offered a chin nod and Marco returned it, then he turned and limped his way out of the airport, leaving Peyton behind.

*    *    *

Marco walked into the precinct. He wasn’t sure what he was doing here. He had no work and there weren’t any cases that needed his attention, but he didn’t feel like going to Abe’s apartment and answering questions about his night with Peyton and he didn’t feel like going back to Peyton’s house to get Pickles yet. He was too raw from their conversation this morning.

He felt like she might be giving up on him. Her comment that it shouldn’t be this hard scared him more than he wanted to admit. No matter what happened, he hadn’t really considered that she might be ready to move on without him, but it made sense. Why the hell would a woman like Peyton wait around forever? If he wasn’t able to commit and he had no doubt she was beginning to think that, then she might as well find someone else who wasn’t afraid.

The precinct was quiet. Of course, a couple of the uniforms should be on duty, but they could be out on patrol or down in the cells talking with the other cops. He wandered toward the break room after coffee, surprised to find Jake sitting at the table, reading from his tablet.

“Hey.”

Jake looked up. “Hey, Adonis. Why are you here?”

“I could ask you the same.” He walked to the counter and poured himself a cup. Turning he leaned against it. “Why are you here?”

“It’s the Snob Hill case.”

“The one where we’re supposed to verify the break-in?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought we were just putting a rubber stamp on things.”

“That’s what Central wants us to do.”

“But something’s bothering you?”

Jake turned the tablet around to face Marco. “These are the photos from the crime scene. I went over that place from crystal chandelier to Persian rug and I couldn’t find a point of entry for the perp.”

Marco frowned, limping over to the table and studying the pictures. “No jimmied windows, no broken locks, no punched deadbolts on doors.”

“No. No access through the chimney or the basement or the attic. There’s just no way that I found for the guy to get into the house.”

“What did Cho and Simons say?”

“They said it happens sometimes, but they did say they’d feel better if there was some sign of entry.”

“Who’s the dead guy?”

“No ID. We took fingerprints, but nothing pops in our system. Abe’s scheduled to do the autopsy on Monday.”

“Cho and Simons didn’t report to me about this.”

“They’re waiting on the autopsy, but Central wants us to shut it down.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I guess they don’t want to tarnish the good name of Brad Peterson.”

Marco’s eyes snapped to Jake’s face. “Who?”

“Brad Peterson. You know, the quarterback for the Buffalo Bills? I think he retired a few years ago.”

“This is his house?” Marco tapped the pictures.

“Yeah, why?”

“Is Brad the one who shot the intruder?”

“Yeah, but his wife was the one who called it in. When we got there, Peterson was three sheets to the wind. Said he couldn’t handle what he’d been forced to do.”

Marco stared at the pictures for a long time. “What do you need to make you feel okay with signing this off?”

“I need to find the point of entry.”

“So you need to go back out to the crime scene?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“Why?” Jake cocked his head. “You some kind of Peterson fan or something? I don’t think he’ll be there. He owns another house in Woodside and they were talking about going there while I worked the house on Nob Hill.”

“Well, I guess walking through his mansion will have to be enough.”

Jake gave him a skeptical look. “Fan worship, Adonis? That doesn’t seem like you.”

Marco headed for the door. “You don’t know everything about me, Ryder. Now, come on.”

Jake grabbed his tablet and jumped to his feet. “I call shotgun.”

“Of course you do,” grumbled Marco without turning around.

*    *    *

The plane from San Francisco to New York was a small 737. Peyton followed Radar down the narrow aisle trying to find the seat printed on her boarding pass. She didn’t mind air travel, not that she’d done a lot of it, but this plane felt awfully tight and full.

“Why are we flying coach?” she whispered to Radar.

“Because we work for the government. Be glad they’re not making us take a boat.”

“Why would we take a boat? That would take forever.”

Radar glared over his shoulder at her. “It was meant to be a joke.”

“Not a funny one.”

“Let it go, Sparky. You’ve got an aisle seat, be grateful for small favors.” He found his seat, stuck his carry-on in the overhead compartment, and slumped into the chair. Peyton looked down at him.

“We’re not sitting together?” She glanced back toward the front of the plane and saw Tank and Bambi on different sides of the plane, both with aisle seats.

“Margaret couldn’t get us seats together on such short notice. Go sit down and stop whining.”

Peyton moved back two rows and found her seat, except a man in his early thirties was occupying the aisle and when she stopped beside him, he glared at her. She tucked her carry-on into the overhead compartment, hoping he might get the hint and move, but he didn’t.

“Um, that’s my seat,” she told him.

“So?”

“Well, uh, I need to sit there.”

He held up his ticket. “I got A.”

Peyton sighed. If he didn’t know the alphabet at least up to C, they were in trouble. “Right. A is the window, C is the aisle. It says it right on the edge of the armrest.”

He leaned over and looked, then glared back at her. “I like this one.”

Peyton didn’t want to argue, not over a plane seat. “Fine, I’ll take the window.”

“Great.”

He stood up, but he didn’t move into the aisle. She was forced to brush her entire body against his as she tried to get to her spot. Just as she reached the middle seat, she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

A man filled the aisle. He didn’t top five seven, but for all his lack of height, he made up for it in girth. “This is my row and I’m seat B.” He gave the middle seat a skeptical look, tilting his head. “But I don’t think that’s gonna happen.”

Angry guy started shaking his head at Peyton. “Get out. I want the window!”

Peyton opened her mouth to protest, then studied the man in the aisle again. “Fine.”

She climbed over angry guy and waited while he threw himself into the window, turning his back on the both of them. Peyton sank into the middle seat, pulling down the armrest, but aisle guy shook his head.

“That’s gonna have to come up.”

Peyton’s mouth opened in disbelief, but with a resigned sigh, she lifted the armrest. Aisle guy forced himself into the tight space, oozing over into her seat. She started to move toward angry guy, but he shot her a venomous look. Hugging her arms against her sides, she tried not to make contact with either of them.

Breathing through her nose, she fought the rise of panic being packed between two men caused. It was probably a good thing they’d made her check her gun with her luggage because this flight was going to play hell with her PTSD.

As soon as everyone settled, the flight attendant, a middle aged woman with a 1950’s hairdo, told them to fasten their seatbelts. Of course, that meant that aisle guy had to wriggle around and shove his hand between their seats, trying to attach his belt. Peyton bowed her head and hugged as close to angry guy as she could without touching him.

Finally they were taxiing down the runway, lifting into the air. Peyton clenched her teeth, digging her nails into her sides until they leveled off. The minute the seatbelt light went off, aisle guy ordered a beer and a bag of potato chips.

Peyton glanced at him in surprise, but she didn’t say anything. Angry guy leaned forward and gave him a disbelieving glare.

“Do you want anything?” the flight attendant asked Peyton.

Except for a shredded piece of toast and some coffee, she hadn’t eaten anything, but eating something would make her thirsty and she’d want something to drink, but drinking anything would make her need to use the bathroom and there was no way she was asking aisle guy to get up.

“No,” she said.

“What about you?” the flight attendant asked angry guy.

“I want you to leave me alone!” he snarled and turned to the window again.

Peyton shrugged for the flight attendant and faced straight ahead. She tried to watch a movie, but turbulence made her feel nauseous, so she closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but every time she drifted toward dreams, she jerked awake again, feeling panic edge up inside of her.

Tilting her head back against the rest, she tried to practice the meditation techniques Dr. Ferguson had taught her. She was just beginning to relax when the flight attendant was back, asking if they wanted anything else.

Aisle guy ordered another beer and potato chips. Peyton felt her composure shatter as he crunched vigorously and slurped at his drink. Suddenly angry guy spun around in his seat, leaning forward so he could look at aisle guy.

“Jesus H. Christ, no wonder you’re big as a damn house. Do you ever stop eating!”

“Hey!” said aisle guy, “I’ve got low blood sugar.”

“The hell you do. You’ve been stuffing your face since the damn plane left the runway! I can’t stand listening to you, lard ass!”

“Hold on a minute,” began Peyton, holding up her hand.

“Don’t start, missy!” he growled at her. “And don’t put your hand in my face!”

“Just a damn minute!” Peyton began.

“Who you calling a lard ass, you bastard!” shouted aisle guy, trying to shift in the seat and shoving Peyton toward angry guy. “I can eat whatever the hell I want whenever the hell I want! This is America, you sonuvabitch, so go back to wherever you came from!”

“That’s just like all you lard asses! You think you own the freakin’ universe just because you’re too damn fat to live!”

Peyton ducked her head and closed her eyes, certain they were going to throw punches next.

“FBI!” came a familiar voice. Peyton looked up to see Radar leaning over the seat, shoving his badge in both of their faces. “Now, shut the hell up or I will haul both of your asses out of those seats and hogtie you in the aisle until the plane lands and you’re taken into custody!”

Cheers rose in the plane.

Radar shifted his dark, menacing gaze to angry guy. “Curl up in the corner, put your headphones on, and go the hell to sleep! If I hear another thing out of you, I’m gonna make sure you never get on a plane again!”

Angry guy shifted toward the window, slumping in his seat.

Radar turned to aisle guy. “No more beer, no more chips. Just sit there and think about how embarrassing it’ll be if I have to drag your ass off this plane!”

“Yes, sir,” said aisle guy.

Radar’s gaze shifted to Peyton and he forced a fake smile. “Hiya there, Sparky.”

“Hiya, Radar,” she said.

“Did you forget you have a badge too?”

She thought about that for a moment. “Sort of.”

“I see. Well, next time try to remember you’re a federal agent and whoop some ass!”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave them each another glare, then turned and went back to his seat, collecting more applause from the rest of the passengers.

Quiet descended in the cabin.

Peyton leaned her head back and tried to relax again.

“You’re a federal agent?” whispered aisle guy.

“Yeah, and don’t you forget it,” she said.

“Huh,” said angry guy, “guess they don’t give a damn about size.”

Peyton glared over at him. “That’s what the last asshole said...just before I castrated him.”

The two men exchanged a look, then they shifted away from her, drawing their legs together.

Peyton smiled.

*    *    *

Brad Peterson’s house was a three story white mansion with rounded bay windows on the front and a rounded wooden front door leading into a formal entrance hall. The staircase rose to the left of the door. Just before the staircase on the right was the formal living room with two white couches facing each other flanked by a pink marble fireplace. A glass trophy case occupied a wall behind one of the couches and an armchair sat behind the other, looking out the windows at the view of the City.

Jake settled his bag on the wooden floor, while Marco wandered around the room. A strange porcupine ball sat on the white marble coffee table and the only lamp was a rectangular brass fixture with a rectangular black linen shade. A rust colored stain covered the steel grey carpet, spreading out onto the wooden floor and turning it a dark red.

Jake knelt by the blood stain, then stared around the room. “The body was found here.”

Marco moved to his side.

Jake opened his tablet and pulled up his pictures of the crime scene. “See how the head is pointing toward the hallway.”

Marco nodded. “Where was he shot?”

“Chest area. He landed on his knees first, then pitched forward where he died.”

“So Peterson could have surprised him in this room or he could have entered through the windows here.”

“But there’s no sign of forced entry.” Jake rose and went over to the windows, inspecting the window sill and the lock, spraying luminol on each surface.

Marco wandered over to the trophy case and studied the many trophies and plaques Peterson had on display. Brad Peterson had been a good quarterback. He had an arm. His completion rate wasn’t the highest, but he had a knack for pulling out a win in the final seconds of the game. He’d played for the Bills about eight seasons before he retired. Marco vaguely remembered Franco saying something about him suffering one too many concussions over the years.

“You played football, didn’t you, Adonis?”

Marco turned and looked at him. “Yeah, high school.”

“You any good?”

“Pretty good, yeah.”

“You ever have scouts looking at you?”

“Some. Might’ve gotten a scholarship too, but…”

“But?”

Marco chewed on his inner lip. “I don’t know. I mean I liked playing on the team and all, but I didn’t love it. You know? I didn’t love playing the way the other guys did and then...I don’t know. I was a defensive end and I was good at it, but this one game, I went after the quarterback and I sacked him. It was a legal hit and all. Good solid hit, but I knocked him unconscious. They carted him off the field on a stretcher.”

“Shit.”

Marco shrugged. “He was okay. I mean he had a concussion and all, but he went back and played again. Still I just couldn’t get it out of my head – that I’d hurt someone for a game. I was pretty much finished after that.” He gave Jake a wry smile. “Pretty wussy, huh? Go ahead, Ryder, take your best shot.”

“Pretty wussy? ‘Cause you didn’t like hurting people? No, Adonis, that’s not wussy.”  Then Jake grinned. “Besides, you’ll do something else that’ll give me my shot.”

“Well, if it isn’t the sweetest ass in all of the City,” came a feminine voice from the doorway.

“And there it is,” muttered Jake.

Marco glanced over as Carol Talone, actually Carol Peterson, entered the room. She’d always been a bottle blond and buxom. Even in her mid-thirties, she maintained a figure that would give men dishonorable thoughts. She had heavily lashed blue eyes and full, lush lips that she pursed as she took him in.

“Hey, Carol.” He limped over to her and she tilted her face up for him to kiss her cheek. He could feel Jake’s eyes riveted on them, but he ignored him.

Carol placed a hand on his shoulder, stepping back and studying his cane. “What happened to you?”

“Hazards of the job.”

“I heard you’d become a cop.”

“Captain.”

“Wow. Sweet Cheeks made good, eh?” She gave him another slow perusal. “You married?”

Marco gave a short laugh. “It’s complicated.”

“Divorced?”

“No.”

Her eyes shifted to the blood stain and she swallowed hard. “I almost forgot what happened here. Almost.”

He took her arm and directed her back into the foyer. “What are you doing here?”

“One of the officers escorted me in, so I could pick up some clothes. Brad and I are staying at our cabin in Woodside.”

Cabin probably meant rustic mansion.

Marco glanced around her at the front door. A uniformed officer stood there, waiting for her. He gave Marco a cool look, but Marco didn’t recognize him. He must be from Central.

“I heard your voice and I had to say hi.” She ran her hand down his arm. A massive diamond ring winked from her ring finger.

“We’re working an active scene here, Carol, so…”

“It was self-defense. The guy broke in, Marco. If Brad hadn’t shot him, God knows what he might have done to us.”

“We probably shouldn’t talk about the case right now. If I have questions, I’ll have you come down to the station where you can have your lawyer present.”

She took a step away from him. “Do you think I need a lawyer?”

Marco shot a look at the uniform. “I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea, especially for Brad.”

Her expression grew alarmed. He couldn’t deny she was a beautiful woman and he had nothing but fond memories of her. “Thank you for the warning,” she said. “I guess I better go.”

He nodded.

She turned and walked toward the front door. “It was good to see you, Sweet Cheeks.”

“It was good to see you, Carol.”

“I’ll tell Brad you said hello.”

He didn’t give a damn about saying hello to Brad, but whatever.

“Take care of that leg.”

Marco nodded.

A moment later, she disappeared out the door, followed by the Central officer, but not before the cop gave Marco a hard stare. Returning to the living room, Marco found Jake spraying the wooden floor with luminol, but nothing was showing up.

“He was definitely killed on that spot,” Jake said, kneeling by the blood stain again, “but I just can’t figure out how the hell he got in. I’m going to go through the rest of the rooms down here and on the next two floors, but I’d bet my last dollar this guy came through the front door, Adonis.”

Marco rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s just freakin’ wonderful, Ryder. Are you saying this wasn’t self-defense?”

“I’m saying that if I can’t find a point of entry, this guy was invited into this house before he was shot. I don’t know exactly what happened, but as you can see, there’s no struggle in this room. Nothing’s misplaced and the only sign of violence is in this one spot. There’s not even much splatter. The guy stood here and died here and didn’t even try to get away.”

Marco stared at the blood stain. Jake was right.

“So all-American hero Brad Peterson gunned down this guy in cold blood?”

Jake held out his gloved hands. “That’s what it looks like to me, Sweet Cheeks,” he said, then gave Marco one of his shit-eater grins.

CHAPTER 8

“Can I sit here?”

Charlie looked up at the girl in the navy blue school uniform. “Sure.” He lowered his eyes to his lunch, picking at the noodles with his fork.

She took a seat. “I’m Liza.”

“Charlie.” He glanced up at her, catching her smile.

“You’re in my literature class, aren’t you?”

“Right.”

“Did you finish reading the book?”

“Tale of Two Cities?”

“That’s the one.”

“No.” He looked down again, playing with the handle on his fork.

“I haven’t either.” She leaned close to him, pushing her books to the side. “It’s so boring.”

He smiled at that and she returned it.

“Liza!” came a male voice.

Charlie glanced up to see Lance standing behind her. Her smile faded and she lowered her head.

“Why are you sitting with this wanker?”

“Leave me alone, Lance.”

He’s a todger. Tell him to bugger off.

Charlie closed his eyes. Niles’s suggestions weren’t always helpful, especially as Lance was a rugby player who stood six two and weighed 14 stone at least. There was no way he was going to tell him to bugger off.

“Come sit with us, Liza.”

She flipped around in the seat. “I said leave me alone.”

He grabbed her arm. “You’re not sitting with him. He talks to himself.”

“At least he can carry on a conversation, which is more than I can say for you.”

“Come on!” He tugged her arm.

She tried to pry his hand loose. “Let go.”

“No, now, Liza. He’s mental.”

Don’t sit here and take that. Tell him to bugger off.

Charlie lowered his head, muttering for Niles to shut it, but Niles kept whispering in his ear.

“See. I told you.”

Liza hit Lance with her free hand. “Leave me alone. You’re hurting me.”

“Now, Liza. Come on.”

“Leave her alone,” said Charlie without looking up.

“What did you say, wanker?” Lance put a hand behind his ear, leaning toward Charlie. With his other hand, he still held Liza’s arm.

Let him have it. Rip his bollocks off.

Charlie lifted his eyes and met Lance’s mocking stare. “Let her go.”

“Or what? What’re you going to do? Nothing. Now shut your gob!” He yanked at Liza’s arm. She gave a squeal and almost fell off the seat.

Charlie’s hand closed over the fork handle and he lunged upward, jamming the tines under Lance’s jaw into the soft flesh beneath his chin. Blood sprayed over his hand and Liza screamed. Stumbling back, Lance clawed at his jaw, trying to dislodge the fork.

Charlie shivered in revulsion, watching him careen around the room, blood flowing over the front of his rugby jersey. Around Lance, the rest of the students bolted, trying to get away, scrambling over each other, searching for the exits.

That’s the way to handle them, whispered Niles in his ear. That’s the way.

*    *    *

They landed at Heathrow Airport at 6:00AM on Sunday. The flight from JFK to Heathrow had been better than the flight from SFO to New York – the plane was larger and Peyton got the aisle seat Radar had promised her. Plus she got to sit next to an older couple traveling to Germany for a family reunion.

Still, she hadn’t slept much, her feet felt swollen and her legs cramped, not to mention her head felt stuffy. She wanted a shower and to go to bed, but Radar had admonished that they couldn’t sleep until nightfall or they’d suffer jet lag.

She pulled out her phone and checked the time in San Francisco as they waited to be processed through customs. 6:00AM meant it was 10:00PM the previous day in the City. She sent a text message to her mother and Marco both, promising to call the next day.

Before she’d even made it to the front of the custom’s line, they texted back telling her how glad they were to hear from her. She felt a measure of tension ease. She’d never been this far away from either of them before.

Radar took care of customs for the four of them, producing a letter from the American government, signed by Rosa Alvarez with the FBI seal. Peyton was just as glad to let him handle it. She could barely think straight enough to find her passport in her carry-on bag.

Then they were through and moving toward the luggage carousel to pick up their bags. The terminal where they landed was a newer one and still not completely operational, so they had no problem locating their luggage, then they exited into the sterile white pick-up area, looking for their contact from Scotland Yard.

A tall, well-built man with sandy brown hair and laughing brown eyes held a sign that read Moreno Party. Radar walked over to him and they shook hands. Peyton followed, feeling as if every muscle in her body now weighed twice what it had when she left San Francisco. She watched Radar remove his badge and show it to the man, and wondered if she could remember where she’d last put hers.

The man turned his laughing brown eyes on Tank and they shook hands, then he gave Bambi a polite nod, said something Peyton didn’t hear and clasped Bambi’s hand a bit longer than the men. Finally Peyton eased up beside Radar, dragging her suitcase behind her.

“Peyton Brooks,” she said, not even bothering to fish out her badge. She didn’t have an available hand, so she just gave him a chin jerk.

“Inspector Caleb Abbott, nice to meet you.” His British accent was refined, almost arrogant, but Peyton forced a smile. “Welcome to London.” He motioned to the doors, leading out of the terminal. “My car’s parked just outside. May I help you with your bags?” He reached for Peyton and Bambi’s suitcase handles.

Peyton frowned at him and shook her head no, but Bambi flashed him a bright smile. Peyton hated her at that moment. She felt rumpled and swollen and dirty. How the hell could Bambi look so pressed and polished and awake?

He took Bambi’s suitcase and moved toward the glass doors, his dress shoes tapping on the tile flooring. Peyton took in his tweed sports coat, his royal blue collared shirt, and his solid black tie, down to the slacks with the perfect crease on each leg.

“I’m certain you’re exhausted and would like nothing more than to bathe and relax, but your hotel rooms won’t be ready until 3:00PM today. I’ve been instructed to accommodate you at headquarters until then,” he said, smiling at Bambi again as they left the terminal.

“That’s fine. We’d like to get to work,” said Radar.

Peyton didn’t necessarily agree. She was tired and hungry and didn’t really care about much of anything at the moment.

The sky was overcast, the temperature around 65 degrees, very much like San Francisco, Peyton thought. He led them to a black sedan parked at the curb before the terminal, pressing a button on his remote to open the trunk.

He and Tank arranged everything in the trunk, while Peyton tried to stretch the kinks out of her back.

Bambi smiled at her. “Long flight, huh?” she said.

Peyton frowned. “Really? You look like you just came out of a beauty salon.”

Bambi waved her off. “Silly, no I don’t. I look horrible. I need a shower and an iron.” She leaned close to Peyton. “But you do look a little tired.”

“Because I haven’t slept in more than 24 hours.”

“Oh, see now, I can sleep anywhere, at any time. You would not believe some of the places I’ve slept.”

Peyton could probably guess a few. Radar rolled his eyes and yanked open the car door, peering inside.

“Tank, you take shotgun,” he said, eyeing the legroom. “Sparky, you’ve got the hump.”

Of course she did. She glared at him as she climbed into the back seat, sliding into the middle. Everyone else piled in, struggling to find seatbelts, while Caleb Abbott climbed behind the driver’s side. Peyton didn’t know how the hell it would possibly work with him driving on the wrong side of the car, but it wasn’t her problem at the moment.

The Brit turned and smiled back at them. “All set?”

Radar gave a brief nod.

Peyton would have loved to watch the skyline of London rise around them as they drove away from the airport, but her position in the middle of the seat restricted her view, then there was the way Londoners drove. Caleb wove in and out of traffic, driving full speed until the very last second when he vigorously applied the brakes and stopped the car just before it plowed into the car in front of him. Gripping the headrest on Tank’s seat, she tried to keep from being thrown against Radar and Bambi, but it was no use. After the third close call, Peyton clamped her eyes shut and refused to watch.

“Don’t go to sleep!” growled Radar beside her.

“I’m not!” she snapped back. “I’m trying not to throw up.”

Caleb laughed. “I’m sorry, Agent Brooks, I tend to forget how disconcerting it is to drive on the opposite side of the road for you Americans. You’ll have to take especial caution crossing the road. It can confuse people their first time here.”

It wasn’t the driving on the wrong side of the road, although she didn’t love that, it was the speed and braking. Still, Peyton chose to say nothing, trying to keep from gasping every time they came within inches of a traffic accident. Forty minutes later, she didn’t much care if Caleb killed them in a fiery crash. Her legs were cramping and acid was making her stomach ache.

Finally he wheeled the sedan into a covered parking lot and yanked it into a parking space, setting the brake. Radar immediately shoved open the door, climbing out. When he offered Peyton his hand, she accepted it. Pain was radiating from her toes to her knees.

Caleb opened the trunk and dragged their suitcases out, piling them beside the car. “We have showers in the gymnasium that you’re welcome to use if you so choose. I’m sure you’d like a change of clothes and some real food.”

Peyton perked up at that, but getting her body moving again was difficult. They crossed the parking structure and Caleb pressed the button for the elevator. “I’ll have my assistant drive you over to the hotel this afternoon.” He removed a card from his pocket as the elevator doors opened and motioned them inside. It was a tight squeeze with their luggage and Tank’s bulk, but they made it.

Caleb swiped his card against a reader and punched a button on the display. The doors closed and the elevator began to rise. Holding up the card, Caleb showed it to them. “You’ll each be given one of these. They work the front doors from the street and the lift inside the parking structure.”

Radar nodded.

The elevator let them out on the first floor. Another glass door blocked their way and Caleb again used his card. The door swung open, admitting them into a reception area. Peyton could see the street beyond the bank of glass doors. A counter stretched across the length of the room and behind it was a bank of elevators.

A young man in a dark suit sat at a terminal behind the counter. Caleb walked up to him and the young man nodded, typing on a keyboard. “Inspector Abbott, welcome back.”

“Thank you, Neil. These fine people are our American counterparts.”

Neil gave them each a smile. He had close-cropped blond hair and very blue eyes. “We have copies of your badges and other documentation.” He set four clipboards on the counter before them. “Now, if you’ll just sign here, I’ll take your firearms.”

Peyton exchanged an alarmed look with Bambi. “What?”

“Your firearms, please. We’ll store them here for you while you’re in London.”

Radar turned to Caleb. “That’s not what I understood from Special Agent in Charge Alvarez. I was told we’d be given special dispensation to keep our guns while we work this case.”

“I’m sorry,” said Caleb. “There’s been a misunderstanding. You will be given your firearms when you’re in active pursuit of the suspect, but while we investigate, there’s no need for weapons.”

Radar looked like he might argue, but he opened the flap on his luggage and pulled his gun out, setting it on the counter. “Give them your guns until I get this worked out with Sarge,” he ordered them.

“Please don’t fret for your safety,” offered Caleb. “Neil here has been instructed to issue each of you a taser.” He pulled back his sports coat to reveal the taser strapped to his belt.

Peyton’s eyes fixated on the device and she felt her face drain of blood.

Tank and Bambi produced their guns. Peyton’s hands trembled as she found hers and laid it on the counter. Neil logged each of their weapons on the clipboards, then passed them pens and asked them to sign. Peyton’s hand shook so badly, her signature looked wobbly. A cold sweat had peppered the skin between her breasts and along her hairline.

Neil ducked under the counter, swiped a card across a reader, and opened a cabinet. He produced a box and used a key to open it. Inside were six tasers. He lifted one out and checked it to make sure it was charged, then wrote something on Radar’s clipboard.

Peyton felt her mouth grow dry and acid roiled in her stomach.

Tank was next and he immediately unhooked his belt, sliding the taser holster into place.

“You’ve received training, am I right?” Caleb asked Radar.

“It’s part of the process.”

Peyton hadn’t received training. They’d given her a special pass during that part of her time in Quantico. She knew the basics from her employment with the SFPD, but it had been a long time since then. Not to mention the fact that just the sight of the weapon made her feel like passing out.

Bambi received her weapon and immediately removed it from the holster to inspect it. Neil held the clipboard out to Peyton.

“Just initial here.”

She started to reach for the pen, but she knew this just wasn’t going to happen. “I can’t. I can’t use a taser.”

Neil and Caleb exchanged looks. “Excuse me,” said Caleb.

Peyton’s eyes rose to Radar’s. “I can’t.”

Radar grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the counter. She didn’t want to disappoint him, but she couldn’t use a taser.

“Take slow, deep breaths,” said Radar. “Just take slow, deep breaths.”

“I know,” she gritted out between her teeth.

“I know you know, but hearing the monotony of my voice will help it pass quicker.”

The roar gradually died in her head and her heart slowed down to its normal rhythm.

He passed her an open water bottle.

“Take a drink.”

She did as he commanded and swallowed a gulp of water, still shivering.

“So, what was it this time? Turning over your gun?”

She shook her head, running her thumb over the label on the bottle. “The taser.” She lifted the edge of her sweater and showed him her side, where two white scars marked the spot where the Janitor had tagged her.

Radar studied them, then lifted his dark eyes to her face. “Tell me.”

She lowered her sweater. “My last case with the SFPD was a serial killer, called the Janitor.”

“I read about it.”

“Yeah, well, we chased him for months. He stayed one step ahead of us the entire time.”

“He terrorized the City for quite a while as I remember.”

“He was an ex-cop, so he knew all our moves.” She swallowed hard and looked up at him. “He fixated on me for some reason, squatted in a house across the street from my own. I didn’t know he was there. No one did.”

Her voice failed her and Radar tapped the water bottle. “Take another drink.”

She did.

“One day I went for a run and he followed me. He trapped me and used…” She drew a deep breath, unable to continue.

“A taser on you.”

Peyton nodded. “He shoved me into a cargo van and took me to the Presidio, where he left me to die. If Marco hadn’t found me…”

“He’s dead, Sparky.”

“Yeah, well, that might be, but I still remember. I still remember his voice in my ear.”

Radar glanced up at her.

“I still remember him telling me how he was going to rape me, then kill me, leaving my body for Marco to find.” She tightened her hold on the water reflexively. “And I still remember...I will never forget...how it felt when he shot me with that taser, how helpless I was, how I couldn’t fight back. I will never forget that as long as I live, Radar. Never.”

He put a hand on her shoulder. “He can’t hurt you anymore, Brooks.”

She gave Radar a grim smile. “He already did,” she said.

Radar dropped his hand.

“You don’t need this, do you?” she said.

“What?”

“Me. All the work you have to put in on me.”

He shrugged. “You think I didn’t know most of this already?”

She gave him a surprised look. “Really?”

“You think I’d take you on our team without knowing exactly what we were getting, Sparky. I’m not going to risk my people that way.”

“Still, you like things simple. You like people who just do their job and leave you alone.”

He gave her a half-smile. “Like Tank and Bambi?”

“Exactly like Tank and Bambi.”

Radar shrugged. “Since you’ve been on our team, you’ve solved two cases in a little over a month. I’d say that’s pretty impressive, Sparky. So you need a little handling now and then…”

“Handling?”

“TLC.”

She frowned at him. “I don’t need TLC.”

“Right.”

“Does that mean you trust me at your back?”

“If you’re armed. I’m not loving the idea of you at my back without a weapon.”

Peyton shook her head. “I’m not carrying a taser, Radar. I can’t do it, I can’t carry one of those things.”

Radar chewed on his inner lip. “How do you feel about a switchblade?”

“A switchblade?”

“A broken-off beer bottle...a sharpened stick?”

Peyton laughed. “I am more trouble than you wanted.”

He turned her back toward the counter. “Everyone has their own shit, Brooks, everyone.” He pointed at the team. ‘Freakin’ Bambi can sleep on a fence rail like a damn cat.”

Peyton laughed again, feeling the tension ease inside her. “You’re funny when you don’t get sleep, old man.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “Just wait until tonight, Sparky, when I’m really exhausted. Then I’ll be freakin’ hysterical.”

*    *    *

Marco took a seat on the half-circle couch near Cho. A bank of mirrors sat at angles in front of them and Big Bill Simons stood on a raised circular platform before the mirrors, while a middle aged woman in an apron took his measurements.

Jake wandered around the dressing room, snapping pictures with Maria giving him orders, pointing to what she wanted photographed next. Maria’s sister, Marta, leaned against the wall, sipping champagne and watching the chaos unfold around her, while Abe flapped around the seamstress, offering her advice on how to do a job he’d never done in all his life.

“Why does everyone have to be here for this?” Marco asked Cho.

Cho gave Maria a fond shake of his head. “She wants everything perfect. And she wants Ryder to document all of the perfection.”

Marco gave a grunt.

Cho shifted on the couch and draped his arm along the back. “So, Ryder believes our John Doe intruder was actually invited into the house?”

“Yep.”

“Central wants us to put this one to bed.”

“I know, but that’s not how we work.”

“So we’re going to investigate?”

“Yep.”

Cho shifted on the couch, plucking at a loose thread on a cushion. “Do we have a problem with this case, Captain?”

Marco looked over at him. “A problem? How?”

“Ryder mentioned you played football with Peterson and you know the wife.”

Marco frowned. “So?”

“He said she was pretty familiar with you.”

“We don’t have a problem, but I’ll run it by Devan in the morning anyway just to be sure. I’m not turning this over to Central to just sweep under the rug because Peterson’s a local hero.”

“I agree. I’d just feel better about it if we get the ADA’s rubber stamp.”

“I know.” He watched Simons trying to button a vest over his barrel-shaped chest. He had a pained look on his face. “Maria seems happy, Nate.”

Cho smiled. “I hope so. I want to make sure she’s happy for the rest of her life. I just feel so damn lucky to have her.”

Marco gave him a smile in return. “I’m glad for both of you.”

Cho started to say something, probably something about Peyton, then he clearly thought better of it and looked back at his bride-to-be.

Marco frowned at Abe as he stepped up on the platform and tried to help Simons button the vest. “Is Abe wearing giraffes on his shirt?”

“Yep, it’s part of his animal collection.”

Marco’s brows rose at that.

Cho gave an uncomfortable shrug. “He’s been spending a lot of time at the house, prepping for the wedding.”

“Right.”

Bouncing off the platform, Abe stopped in front of them. “Let’s go, Angel.”

“Go?”

“We’re headed to your folks’ house for dinner.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I promised Mama D’Angelo I’d help her make a traditional Ethiopian feast.”

“What?”

Abe grabbed Marco’s cane and held it out to him. “Come on, we’re late. We’re making gomen, azifa, and if I don’t make the injera myself, it just doesn’t turn out right.”

Marco glanced over at Cho, but the other man simply gave him an awkward smile. “You’ve got to get the injera just right. If it’s not spongy enough, I can’t eat it,” said Cho.

Marco gave up trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

“You’ll have to drive, Angel. I left the Mini at home.”

“Well, I’m not cramming myself in the Mini anyway,” he grumbled.

Maria hurried over to him and kissed his cheek. “Come to dinner next week, okay?”

“I’ll see,” he told her, nodding at Simons. “Nice to meet you, Marta,” he called to her sister.

“Nice to meet you, gorgeous,” she said, giving him a wink.

“Bye, Adonis.”

Marco scowled at Jake as he followed Abe out of the shop. Abe blathered on about injera the entire way over to Marco’s parents’ house. Once they arrived, he practically leapt out of the car and hurried up the steps. It took Marco a bit longer to make the trek and when he got to the top, his leg was spasming with pain. Vinnie was waiting for him and swept him into a bear hug.

“Hey, little brother, you look pale.”

Marco couldn’t answer him at the moment, he was gritting his teeth too hard, but he let him guide him into the house. The moment he was inside, his mother and sisters-in-law pounced on him, smothering him with kisses and pressing various foodstuffs into his hands to taste. Finally Vinnie extricated him from the mix and the women went off to the kitchen to be with Abe.

Marco limped over to his father in his recliner and squeezed his shoulder. Leo covered his son’s hand with his own, then patted the recliner next to him. “Sit, Marco, watch the game with us.”

Laughter bubbled out of the kitchen and Marco looked toward it.

“Don’t ask,” said Vinnie, offering him a soda. “Sit and relax.”

Marco eased himself into the recliner, noticing his brothers and father all had soda instead of beer. He felt bad that they’d changed their habits for him. “You know, you can drink. I’m okay.”

“Naw,” said Franco, waving him off. “We need to cut back. Sofia says I’m getting a gut.”

Marco looked around. Except for the kitchen, the house was unusually quiet. “Where are the kids?”

“Tonio and Cristina took them to the park. They were making us crazy,” said Vinnie, plopping down on the couch between his brothers.

“That’s a lot of kids for them to handle.”

“Naw, Tonio’s a pro,” said Bernardo. “So, you haven’t been over for a long time. How’s work?”

Marco shrugged. “Fine.”

“Abe said you’ve been seeing Peyton,” Bernardo continued.

“How often does Abe come to Sunday dinner?”

The brothers exchanged looks.

“He’s been here the last couple of weeks,” said Leo. More laughter leaked out of the kitchen. “So much silly.” He shook his head. “So much silly.”

Marco smiled.

“So, you been seeing Peyton?” persisted Bernardo.

“Some. She’s out of the country right now. London.”

“Wow. She has a case there.”

“Yeah.”

“So you don’t know how long she’ll be gone?”

“No.” He played with the tab on the top of his soda can.

“Brad Peterson’s been all over the news,” said Franco, eyeing him closely.

“Yeah?”

“You get that case?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

Marco gave his brother a quelling look. His family knew he couldn’t discuss an on-going case with them.

“You talk to him?” asked Bernardo.

“Peterson?”

“Yeah.”

“Not yet. It’s Cho and Simons’ case. They’ll probably do the interrogations.”

“What about his wife? You talk to her?” asked Franco.

“I saw her, yeah.”

“She still looks good, doesn’t she?” said Franco, waggling his brows. “We saw her on the news with him.”

“Yeah, she still looks good.”

Vinnie studied him closely. He could never put anything past his oldest brother. “You sure you should be handling this case?”

Marco shrugged. “I’m gonna talk to the ADA tomorrow and see if it’s okay.”

“Why shouldn’t he handle the case?” demanded Leo.

“We went to school with Peterson and his wife, Papa,” said Franco. “Marco played football with Peterson.”

“So, a man can’t play football with another man now.”

“It isn’t really Peterson who’s the problem, Papa. It’s the wife.”

“The wife? Why’s the wife a problem?”

“Marco and Carol have...um...history with each other,” said Franco, grinning wickedly.

“What you mean, history?” said Leo, leaning forward in his recliner. Then his eyes widened and he reached over and swatted Marco’s arm. “I know about history.”

“Ow!” said Marco, rubbing his arm. “It was more than 15 years ago.”

Leo swatted him again. “You’re too easy with the history. All the time with you, it’s history this and history that.”

His brothers started laughing.

“I didn’t say anything. They’re trying to start something.” He pointed at his brothers.

“It doesn’t matter. They’re married like good boys. They don’t do the history.”

Marco started to protest, then stopped. What was the use?

His father slapped his arm again. “You make things right with Peyton and no more history. You hear me? Your mother hear about the history and she’s going to be saying her rosaries for days.”

Marco glared at his brothers, but they’d gone back to watching the game, their shoulders shaking with mirth.

*    *    *

“Peyton!”

Someone shook her shoulder.

Peyton bolted out of sleep, disoriented for a moment, but the dim light of a bedside lamp illuminated the hotel room with its cheesy scalloped wallpaper, striped furniture, and veneer cabinets in a dark oak stain.

“Peyton!”

Peyton blinked. She was sitting up in bed and Bambi was leaning over her. “What’s wrong?”

“You were crying out in your sleep.”

Peyton pushed the damp hair off her forehead. “I was? What was I saying?” Looking around the room, she tried to remember where she was. London. In a hotel room she shared with Bambi. Bambi’s unmade bed was directly across from her own.

She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heart pounded furiously. Marco’s jersey was damp against her skin. “I’m sorry. What did I say?”

“Just no, over and over again, but it was a really scary no.” She took a seat on the bed next to Peyton. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“How often do you get nightmares like that?”

“A lot. Maybe we should ask for separate rooms.”

“No, I don’t mind. I hate to think of you waking up by yourself like that.”

Peyton hated waking up by herself too. When Marco was with her, she slept so much better. He had a way of stopping the nightmares before they completely took her over.

“Was it the abduction?” Bambi asked, smoothing a hand down Peyton’s arm.

Peyton shivered, the sweat chilling her, and pulled the sheet up. “You know about that?”

“We all know about that. We read the reports.”

So, nothing was private.

Peyton looked away.

“Sarge felt it was important we understood exactly what we were getting in a partner. She especially wanted Radar to know, since he’d be training you and all. If Radar hadn’t taken you…” Her voice trailed off and her hand fell away.

“If Radar hadn’t taken me? What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Emma, what did you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter now. You’re one of us. You’re the glue in this operation, holding us all together. Without you, we’re nothing. We have the best closed case record in the department now.”

Peyton pushed herself up on the pillows, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand and taking a sip. “Tell me what you meant, Emma. You said if Radar hadn’t taken me, implying that no one else would have. Was the Ghost Squad my last chance?”

Bambi started to answer, but nothing came out.

“Emma!”

“You need to ask Radar.”

“Well, I’m asking you. You need to answer me.”

“The other teams were skeptical.”

“What does that mean?”

“They feared you might be a loose cannon, but they look pretty damn stupid now, don’t they?”

“A loose cannon?”

“You had a reputation for being difficult, mouthy, opinionated. Then everyone worried your PTSD would make you freeze.”

Peyton looked away, shocked by this information. She thought she was highly respected with the FBI. After all, they’d recruited her.

“Don’t be mad, Peyton. They were wrong. You’re the best of us.”

“You don’t have to go that far, Emma.”

“It’s true.” She pushed a curl behind Peyton’s ear. “You’re our rock, our cement, our asphalt.”

“Your asphalt?”

“You hold us together.”

“Great.”

“How about twine, string, that white paste stuff we ate in grade school for some reason?”

Peyton laughed. “Thank you. I needed that.”

Bambi smiled at her. “I’m glad, but I’m so sorry about the nightmares.”

“It is what it is.”

“It sucks ass.”

Peyton laughed again. “Yes, it does. It sucks ass big time.”

“It sucks ass, then blows the ass-breath in your face.”

Peyton held up a hand. “Okay, don’t get carried away.”

“Too much?”

“Just a little.”

“See, how bad we need you?”

Impulsively Peyton sat forward and hugged Bambi. “Thank you,” she said in her ear. “Thank you for that.”

Bambi hugged her in return.

CHAPTER 9

He crouched by the metal bench, his hands wrapped around his head, his eyes screwed shut tight, shivering. The howl echoed away through the tunnels of the tube. Then silence. Not even the mechanical recording broke up the stillness.

He held himself as still as he could, then he slowly eased aside his hands, peering out from between the arms of his green military jacket. His eyes lighted first on the body. She lay on her back, her leg twisted beneath her, her blonde hair fanned out around her head in a halo. She stared up, her eyes open, her hands resting on her breasts as if she just slept.

He jumped when she blinked, slowly, as if it took every bit of strength she had left. A red scarf of blood flowed over her throat and crept along the concrete of the tube platform. He wanted to run, but she blinked again, then her mouth moved as if she were trying to say something.

He rose to a half-crouch and carefully approached her, easing forward a few inches at a time, searching the empty platform for anyone else. Text scrolled over the display, announcing the imminent arrival of the train, but he ignored it, inching closer to her.

Finally he stood above her, staring down at her strangely beautiful face, at the gore that was now her throat, at the pale pink of her lips as the blood leaked out of her. Her eyes shifted and found him, large, the pupils dilated, her breathing labored. She looked frightened, scared...young.

“Help me,” she whispered. “Please.”

“This is the Circle Line, Temple Station,” announced the male voice over the intercom.

He ducked his head, closing his eyes at the sound.

“Next stop Blackfriars ending at Tower Hill Station.”

He looked into the tunnel and saw the train coming. He couldn’t tell if anyone was on it, but he couldn’t take a chance. He touched the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Darting into the stairwell, he hesitated, listening as the train pulled into the station.

“This is the Circle Line, Temple Station,” came the announcer. “Mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

He peered around the tiled wall and watched a man and a woman exit the car. They saw the girl almost immediately. The woman threw her hand over her mouth. “Oh, dear God!” she breathed, then she was hurrying toward her. “Get out your mobile, Vance. Hurry!”

The man dug out his phone and began to dial frantically as the woman knelt by the girl. He watched, feeling torn between fleeing and staying to help.

“Don’t talk,” said the woman, pressing a hand to the girl’s shoulder, then she looked around the station. He ducked behind the wall as her gaze passed over him. “You there!” she shouted. “Help us! You there!”

“Who, Delores?” the man asked, holding the phone to his ear and coming to her side.

“The man in the stairwell,” she said, pointing. “Oh hurry and help!”

He ran, dashing up the stairs, not looking back. He couldn’t get help, not now, and he was pretty sure it was too late already. The amount of blood loss was too great and he needed to get out of here before the cops arrived.

Reaching the top of the station, he raced through the turnstiles, ignoring the two security guards who shouted at him to slow down, then he bolted through the outer doors and made it outside, stumbling to a stop on the sidewalk and bracing his hands on his thighs.

His heart pounded furiously, but he waited for it to calm before he looked around. He needed to find some place to hide. He would find him again if he didn’t do a better job of staying hidden. He was beginning to believe that the only way to do that was to leave London, but the minute he thought it, he felt like he was going to vomit. London was his life. London was all he knew.

Leaving London would be like leaving himself behind.

*    *    *

Marco tapped Devan’s shoulder with the paper coffee cup. “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

Devan jolted away, then blinked rapidly, reaching for the paper cup. “You could warn me next time.”

“Like what? Bang my cane on the door before I enter my own damn office?”

“Don’t be testy.” He scrubbed a hand across his face and over his short cropped black hair. “I’m a freakin’ zombie, D’Angelo.”

Marco walked around to his chair and pulled it out, setting his own coffee on his desk, then he eased himself down, grimacing as he dragged his leg with him. “So, I need to talk to you about a case.”

“Peterson?”

“Right.”

“I hate celebrity cases. They always get out of control.”

Marco tapped his fingers on the desk. “You’re going to hate this one even more. Ryder can’t find a point of entry for the intruder.”

“Meaning what?”

“The guy was invited into the house.”

“Do we know who the intruder is?”

“Not yet. Abe’s doing the autopsy today. We’re hoping to get a hit on CODIS, but his fingerprints didn’t pop on IAFIS, so...”

“Hm. Illegal immigrant?”

“Maybe.”

“Did he work for the Petersons?”

“They told Cho and Simons they’d never seen the guy in their life.”

“So why do I feel like I’m going to hate this case more than the usual celebrity mess?”

“Because Central caught it initially and turned it over to us to rubber stamp it as a justifiable homicide. They want it put to bed.”

“But you’re not inclined to do that?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Because of Ryder?”

“He’s the best I’ve ever seen and if he says there’s no point of entry, I believe him. He went to the scene on Saturday, and I went with him. I didn’t see anything either, Adams.”

“Okay, so tell Central to back off.”

“It’s not that easy.” Marco leaned back in his chair. “I have a bit of history with Peterson.”

Devan had taken a sip of his coffee, but he lowered it. “What do you mean history?”

Marco drew a breath and released it. “I played football with him in high school.”

“Okay. Well, that’s not a big deal. You’re simply wanting to investigate the case thoroughly, tie up the loose ends. I mean, there’s no bad blood between you, is there?”

Marco chewed on his inner lip.

“D’Angelo?”

“I slept with his wife. Well...she wasn’t his wife at the time, but they were seeing each other.”

Adams lowered the coffee cup to his thigh and stared at him. “You slept with his wife?”

“His girlfriend.”

“Who he made his wife.”

“Technically.”

“God damn it, D’Angelo, is there anyone in San Francisco you haven’t tupped?”

“Tupped?”

“Bedded, had sex with, banged.”

“Oh, yeah, a lot of people.”

Devan rolled his eyes, looking out the office window. “Assemble your team. I need to have all the information you’ve got on this case, and I mean all.” He pointed the coffee cup at Marco. “No holding back. D.A.’s don’t like surprises and I’m sleep deprived, so that goes double for me.”

Marco reached over and pressed the button for Carly’s desk. He got no answer. He pressed again, receiving the same result. Reaching for his cane, he rolled the desk chair out and pushed himself to his feet.

“You’ve got to fire her,” scolded Devan, but Marco ignored him, limping to the door and going to her desk to press the intercom button. He called Simons, Cho, and Jake to the conference room as Devan made his way across the lobby and pushed open the door, flipping on the lights.

They arrived within minutes, moving into seats without asking why. Jake carried his computer tablet and settled it on the table before him.

Marco sank into a seat at the head of the table, but Devan stood behind a chair, his hands resting on the top of it.

“So, your captain tells me he has history with the Petersons,” said Devan.

Jake’s brows rose, but he didn’t say anything. Cho and Simons nodded. “He told us,” said Cho.

“I want everything you’ve got on this case and I want to know why I shouldn’t just kick it back to Central to close.”

Cho glanced at Jake. “Ryder?”

Jake thumbed on the tablet and pressed his finger to the screen a couple of times. A number of photos spread across the screen and he slid it over to Devan. Marco saw a body face down in a pool of blood, taken from multiple angles, pictures of doors, locks, window sills, windows. More pictures of blood stains on the floor after the body was removed.

“I went over every inch of that house at least four times and I couldn’t find a point of entry,” said Jake. “There’s no blood trail, no paint chippings, no dirt or plant debris at any door or window.”

Devan studied the pictures carefully. “Do you agree?” he asked Simons and Cho.

“Completely,” said Cho.

“What do the Petersons say happened?”

“Bradley Peterson says he and his wife heard a noise in the living room,” said Simons. “He got a gun out of his gun collection and carried it downstairs. He startled the intruder and when the man made a move toward him, he fired.”

“Just one shot?”

“As far as we know. We’re waiting on the autopsy report from Abe,” added Cho.

Devan looked at Jake. “Do you have the initial report on here?”

Jake took the tablet and pulled up the report Devan wanted, sliding it back to him.

“Did we find the bullet?”

“No,” said Cho.

“What type of gun?” He frowned as he scanned the report.

“Vintage Webley Vickers.”

“Huh? Why would that be his first choice?”

“Can’t tell you.”

“But you got the gun?”

“Yep. And as soon as Abe digs the bullet out of the intruder, we’ll send it to ballistics to make sure it’s the right weapon.”

“Who called 911?”

“Carol Peterson, Peterson’s wife. She ran downstairs when she heard the gunshot.”

“Do we have the 911 recording?”

“Yeah, it’s standard. Nothing obvious. She says the same thing on the call as she did in person. The same thing that her husband said.”

Devan lowered the tablet. “That’s weird.”

“Yep,” said Cho.

“No deviation?”

“None.”

“Hm, seems a little rehearsed.”

“That’s what we thought,” said Simons, folding his hands on his belly.

“Well, here’s the problem. Apparently your captain here has known the defendant’s wife.”

“Known?” asked Cho.

“Biblically,” offered Jake with a smirk.

Marco glared at him.

Devan turned to him. “I need to know exactly when this happened.”

“A long time ago.”

“How long?”

“About fifteen years.”

“When you were in high school?”

“Right.”

Devan frowned, then picked up the tablet again, re-reading the report. Throwing back his head, he gave a huff of exasperation. “Carol Peterson’s 34, D’Angelo.”

“So?”

“You’re 31.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“If you had relations with her in high school, you had to be a freshman when she was a senior.”

“So?”

Devan set the tablet down hard and turned on him. “She took advantage of you.”

“What?”

“This whole thing’s hinky. You can’t work this case. You’re compromised, D’Angelo.”

Marco glanced at Cho and Simons. Simons looked away, but Cho sighed.

“Hold on,” said Jake. “Are you saying we’re just going to let it go?”

Devan slapped a hand against his thigh. “Yeah, let it go. I’m saying the whole thing’s a mess and I’m never going to be able to prosecute it with what you’ve got. Any more digging and a good lawyer’s going to love shoving your captain’s past connection to the Petersons right in your faces. Turn it over to Central and let them say abracadabra and make it all disappear.”

Marco rubbed his eyes with his hand.

“Do you hear me, D’Angelo? Let this one go. It’s not worth it.”

Marco looked over at his people and saw the aggravation on their faces. He hated to let Brad Peterson off, but Devan was probably right. There just wasn’t any way to spin this in their favor.

“Fine. As soon as we get Abe’s autopsy report, we’ll turn it back over to Central,” he said.

*    *    *

Banging on the door brought Peyton out of the bathroom. She’d just gotten in about five minutes ago. Bambi did not believe in conserving water, or rushing her morning beauty ritual. It was like sharing a house with Maria again.

Scrunching her damp curls with one hand, she crossed the room and pulled open the door. Radar eyed her black tank top and bare feet.

“Get your stuff. Abbott’s meeting us downstairs. He wants us to go with him to the hospital.” He glanced into the room at the disarray. Half of Bambi’s suitcase was dumped on her bed. “Where’s Bambi?”

“She went downstairs to try to find coffee.”

“Don’t bother. They only drink instant here.”

Peyton made a face. “That’s going to be a problem. I need coffee.”

“You need sugar,” said Radar contemptuously.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

“Come on, we’ll figure that out when Abbott gets here.”

“Wait. Why are we going to the hospital?”

“There was another attack, but this time a couple found her and got help. She’s been in surgery half the night, but she’s apparently coming around and Abbott wants to talk to her. Her odds of survival are slim.”

Peyton felt her stomach drop. “Another attack? Where?”

“The subway or whatever they call it.”

“The tube.”

“Yeah, that. Come on, Sparky. Haul ass.”

“Okay. Give me another five minutes. I just got into the bathroom. Bambi doesn’t exactly know how to share.”

Radar gave the room another critical look. “Apparently, she doesn’t know how to put shit away either.”

“Tell me about it.”

Radar shrugged and walked back to his room.

Peyton shut the door and went to finish her preparations. She swiped a bit of mascara on her lashes, gave a quick pass with the eye shadow and blush, then gathered her hair and wound it up into a bun. Grabbing her suit jacket, she swung it on, then sat on the edge of the bed and slipped on her socks and boots.

Grabbing her wallet and badge, she shoved them in her pocket with her room key and left the room, hoping the maid wouldn’t be too upset to see Bambi’s clothes all over everything. Tank and Radar met her at the elevator and they rode down to the lobby together.

Peyton gave Tank a smile. “How’d you sleep?”

“Pretty good. I was exhausted. How’d you sleep?”

Peyton shrugged. “Same as usual.” She nudged Tank with her elbow. “Does he snore?” She pointed at Radar’s back where he stood before them, staring up at the floor numbers.

“He can hear you,” said Radar without turning around.

Tank shook his head.

Peyton snapped her fingers in disappointment. She was hoping he snored. It would give her such good material. Another thought occurred to her. “Boxers or briefs?”

Tank choked out a laugh, but Radar turned and glared at her.

She held up her hands innocently as the elevator reached the lobby and the doors opened. They found Bambi sitting at a bistro table, eating a scone. She beamed a smile at Peyton. “Sorry, only instant coffee. I was pretty sure you weren’t interested.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass. Is that a scone?”

“Yep, apple. Thought I might as well try the local cuisine.”

Peyton wandered over to the breakfast table and surveyed the fare. Besides tea and instant coffee, they had milk and orange juice. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and grabbed a scone, biting into it as she wandered back toward the group.

“Aren’t you getting anything?” she asked Radar.

“I just want coffee.”

“They have tea?”

“Is that in any way the same thing, Sparky?”

“No, but I’m trying to put a happy spin on things. You might try it.”

“And you might try not aggravating me every freakin’ minute.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen.”

Tank wandered back to them carrying a paper cup with a tea bag string hanging out of it.

“See, Tank’s adaptable. You should be too.”

“Good morning, my American compatriots,” sang a male voice from the lobby.

Peyton turned and saw a pressed and polished Caleb Abbott coming toward them.

“I hope you slept well and have overcome your jetlag.”

Bambi bounded to her feet. “I slept wonderful. No problems at all.”

Radar and Peyton exchanged a wry look.

“Excellent. Well, I don’t know if your chief here has informed you, but we had another attack last night. The young woman was found by a couple on the tube and she’s in hospital right now. She had surgery last night, but she’s starting to come around. I’d like to question her as soon as possible.”

“Is she aware enough to question?” asked Radar.

“Yes, although she can’t speak. The assailant cut her vocal cords when he slashed her throat, which is obviously a problem now, isn’t it?”

Peyton grimaced.

“But the doctors assure me she’s lucid, so we’ll have to devise a way to communicate.” He glanced around. “Have you gotten something to eat?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” said Radar, “let’s head out.”

Carrying her glass of orange juice and her scone, Peyton hurried up beside Caleb, tugging on his tweed jacket sleeve. “Is there any place we could get some real coffee? Radar’s going to be a bear until we get some into him.”

Caleb barked out a laugh. “I forgot. You Americans and your coffee. Yes, I’ll take you to Pret a Manger. It’s similar to your Starbucks. Or I could just take you to Starbucks. We have that too.”

“No, let’s try your Pret-a-whatever.”

He laughed. “We just call it Pret ourselves. Quicker and less pretentious.”

She smiled at him in return.

He had a larger car today, something close to an SUV back home. Peyton breathed a sigh of relief and willingly sat in the middle between Bambi and Tank as they drove to the hospital. Peyton was surprised that Radar didn’t drill Caleb on the case the entire way. Instead he asked questions about London.

What’s the population?

Approximately 8 million.

How often do you get snow?

Rarely and when we do, good lord, the city shuts down.

How big is the actual city?

About 600 square miles.

How many districts are there in the city?

They’re called boroughs and there are 32.

True to his word, Caleb took them to Pret for coffee. The interior boasted an entire wall of cooling units with ready-made meals stacked in neat rows. They all claimed to be made from organic products and nutritious. The coffee was real, which was about all the Americans cared about at that point. Carrying their paper cups, they piled back into Caleb’s SUV and drove off.

They arrived at the hospital and Caleb parked the car. He opened the back door and offered Bambi a hand. Bambi took it, giving him a sultry look. He also offered Peyton his hand, but his eyes were focused on Bambi. Peyton jumped down without assistance, shaking her head.

They entered the hospital, much like any hospital one would see in the U.S., but a security guard in the lobby made them produce their badges. They were directed down a hallway behind the security desk and to a bank of elevators.

They rode one to the tenth floor and came out in a sterile white reception area with a counter before them. A young woman manned the counter and once again Caleb produced his badge, informing her they wanted to see Amelia MacDonell. She picked up a phone and called someone.

While they waited, Caleb turned to Bambi. “Is this your first time in our city, Agent Redford?”

“No, my parents used to bring my brother and me once every couple of years. I did a semester abroad here when I was in Stanford.” Her look grew reflective. “Much like our victim, Rianna Cooper.”

The nurse hung up the phone and Caleb spun back around, offering her an affable smile. “Doctor Khouri will meet you at room 1042.”

“Thank you.” Caleb motioned down the hall and they followed him.

A middle aged man with black hair, a black beard, and wire-rimmed glasses met them at the door to a room. Monitors and machines ticked and beeped in the background. He held out his hand to Caleb.

“Good morning, Inspector.”

“Good morning. You must be Dr. Khouri?”

“Yes.”

Caleb introduced his American counterparts and they all shook hands.

“Ms. MacDonell is unable to speak,” Dr. Khouri told them. “Her vocal cords were damaged in the attack. Besides we don’t want to cause anymore bleeding. Her condition is very delicate and I don’t want her unduly upset.”

“We understand,” said Caleb. “We’ll be careful.”

Dr. Khouri shook his head and leaned closer to them, dropping his voice. “I’m only allowing this because I’m not certain she’s going to make it. I want you to have any information you can to stop this butcher.”

“Thank you, Dr. Khouri,” said Caleb. “We appreciate your help.” He hesitated. “I do have a question, however. Was there any sign of sexual assault?”

“None. And more disturbing, there was no sign of struggle. She didn’t have time to fight back.”

“Thank you again. Will you be coming inside with us?”

“Yes.”

Radar turned to his people. “We don’t all need to crowd inside. Tank and Bambi, you wait here.” His eyes lowered to Peyton. “You come in, but keep your mouth shut unless I ask you to say something.”

Peyton thought of a stinging retort, but this didn’t seem like the time to let fly. A young girl was probably dying beyond this door. They entered the room, the smell of antiseptic thick. The girl lay in the white bed, small and frail, a mass of tubes and wires running from her to the machines on either side of her bed. She had golden blond hair, spreading across the pillow, her hands folded on her stomach, a thick bandage around her neck. She was intubated and the sound of the breathing machine echoed loudly in the room.

Caleb and Dr. Khouri moved around the left side of the bed, while Radar and Peyton took the right. Caleb leaned over the girl and offered her a reassuring smile. Large blue eyes pivoted and pinned him.

“I’m Inspector Caleb Abbott of Scotland Yard, and this is Special Agents Moreno and Brooks of the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your attack last night.”

She tried to nod, but Caleb placed a hand on her shoulder.

“We know you can’t speak, but I thought perhaps you could blink once for yes, twice for no. We’ll only ask you yes or no questions. Do you think you can help us that way?”

She blinked once.

“Yes,” said Dr. Khouri.

Caleb smiled at her again, then nodded at Radar.

Radar moved into her line of sight and the eyes shifted to him. “I’m Special Agent Moreno, Amelia. We’re trying to catch this man and we need your help. Can you tell me if you saw your attacker?”

She blinked twice.

“No,” said Dr. Khouri.

“Okay. You were waiting for the train to come?”

One blink.

“Yes.”

“You were sitting down?”

“No.”

“You were standing?”

“Yes.”

“He came up behind you?”

“Yes.”

“So you never got a glimpse of him?”

“No.”

Radar scratched at the back of his neck, letting out a frustrated exhalation. Peyton touched his elbow. “Can I try?”

He held out a hand and stepped back.

Peyton moved up beside the young woman, carefully taking a seat on the edge of the bed and reaching for one of her hands. Amelia immediately tightened her hold.

“Hi, Amelia. I’m Peyton. You’re doing great.”

Amelia’s fingers squeezed. Peyton clasped her hand between both of her own.

“Anything you can remember about this man will help. I know this is hard and an awkward way to communicate, but we have to try.”

“Yes.”

“Great. Do you remember anything about this man, maybe a smell, something he said?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Was it a smell?”

“Yes.”

“Did he smell unwashed?”

“Yes.”

“What about cigarette smoke?”

“Yes.” Amelia’s grip tightened.

“Did he grab you around the neck?”

“No.”

“Around the chest?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember any distinguishing marks on his arm?”

“Yes.”

“Was he wearing shirt sleeves?’

“No.”

“Bare arms?”

“No.”

“Jacket?”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember the color?”

“Yes.”

Peyton patted the back of her hand. “You’re doing great, Amelia. Was the jacket brown?”

“No.”

“Black?”

“No.”

Peyton knew an attorney might call this leading a witness, but Amelia looked pale and there were dark circles under her blue eyes. The girl needed rest if she had any chance of healing. “Was it green, Amelia? Khaki green?”

“Yes.” The fingers tightened.

“Good. One last thing. Did you hear anything?”

The girl started trembling and her eyes grew liquid.

“Agent Brooks,” warned Dr. Khouri.

“Just one more second, please, doctor.” Peyton pressed Amelia’s hands. “Amelia, did you hear a wolf’s howl?”

“Yes!”

A tear spilled over and raced down Amelia’s temple. Peyton felt her throat tighten and she looked at the doctor. “Have you called her family?”

“They’re on their way from Leeds.”

Peyton lifted Amelia’s hand and kissed the back of it. “You did great, Amelia. Thank you!”

The fingers tightened one last time.

*    *    *

Marco let his people leave before he pushed himself to his feet. Devan was already gone, having given his pronouncement. Rising, Marco walked out into the lobby and found Carly standing by her desk, waiting for him. He knew what he had to do. He had to fire her and he might as well do it now, but looking at her hopeful, oblivious face made him feel like he was betraying her somehow.

Before he could summon up his courage, she held out her hand and offered him an envelope. He frowned as he took it.

“I’m sorry, Captain D’Angelo. You’ve been a very nice boss and all, but I have dreams beyond this.”

Marco narrowed his eyes on her. “What?”

She clasped her hands at her waist. “I know this puts you in a bind, but I don’t feel I have any other choice. My future’s not here. I realized that the other day when Peyton visited.”

“Carly, I’m not understanding what this is about.”

“Oh.” She gave a laugh and pressed a palm to her forehead. “I’m so silly. That’s my letter of resignation.”

“You’re quitting?”

“Yes, I know it’s a shock, but I have to pursue my dreams the way Peyton did.”

“Peyton?”

“Yes, she went to work for the FBI. She’s doing great things, not staying here, being a secretary.”

“Peyton wasn’t ever a…”

“And like Peyton, I realize I’m meant for bigger things.”

“You’re applying to the FBI?”

She laughed again and slapped his arm. “No, silly, I’m applying to culinary school. I realize my talent for pastries needs to be answered, so that’s what I’m going to do.” She gave him a sympathetic look. “I know this puts you in a bind…”

“No, it’s fine.”

“You’re being kind, I know, but I hope you can understand.”

“I do. Don’t think about it another second.”

“Great.” She squeezed his arm with both hands. “I’m so excited.”

“Awesome.”

She grabbed her purse and swung it up on her shoulder. “So, I’ll see you in two weeks to pick up my paycheck.”

Marco tilted his head. “Your paycheck?”

“The two weeks of severance pay you owe me from today forward.”

“Two weeks we owe you?”

“Right. I start school a week from today. I’m so excited.”

“So you’re not working here the next two weeks?”

“No, silly, I told you, I start school on Monday and until then, I’m going with some girlfriends to San Diego for a vacation.” She headed for the half-door. “See you in two weeks for my paycheck.”

“Carly, you’re supposed to work…”

She stopped and turned to face him. “What?”

What the hell. It’s not like she’d been working up until this point anyway, and now he didn’t have to fire anybody. He waved her off. “Go have fun in San Diego and we’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Great. And thanks again, Captain D’Angelo. You’re a great boss.”

Marco almost barked out a laugh at that one. As Carly left the building, he walked over to her desk and pressed the button for Jake’s phone.

“Hey, Adonis, did you sleep with someone else that you’re not supposed to since the last time I saw you?”

“Cute. You’re my secretary again.”

“Why?”

“Carly quit.”

“You fired the poor girl?”

“No, she quit to go to culinary school. You’re my secretary now until you get me a new one.”

“Fine. I’ll start working on it stat, since we don’t have any cases to investigate.”

“Leave it alone, Ryder.”

“Hm, that’s advice you might have taken yourself.”

Marco hung up without saying anything more, but as soon as he did, his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket, hoping it was Peyton, but Abe’s number flashed across the display.

“Hey?”

“Hey there, my sweet Angel, how was your session with Dr. Ferguson?”

“Fine.” He wasn’t going to talk about that with Abe.

“I’m about to send my report over to Cho and Simons on their John Doe, but I wanted to touch base with you first.”

“Forget it. Send it over to Central. Devan wants us to bounce the case.”

“Hm.”

Marco set Carly’s letter on her desk. “Hm?”

“Well, it’s just there are some strange things about this case, Angel. Maybe you wanna come out and take a look.”

“What’s strange?”

“Easier to show you and then I get to see your pretty face.”

“Fine, I’m on my way.”

“I’ll be waiting with bells on.”

Marco hesitated. The mental picture that popped into his mind was disturbing to say the least. He didn’t know how to respond. He never knew how to respond. Instead, he mumbled a bye and hung up, reaching for his cane.

*    *    *

Peyton stared at the fancy glass board in the conference room. Caleb had all five victims listed with time of death, location, and a photo spread across the glass. The video from Angela Evans’ murder was primed and ready to go in a corner, as were the pictures of the other victims.

“So all we have is a man, possibly homeless with a full head of dark hair, a full beard and a green jacket. He smells unwashed or of cigarettes and he howls like a wolf,” said Radar, rubbing his neck.

Caleb lounged in a chair at the head of the table.

“The green jacket might be significant,” said Bambi.

Caleb shook his head. “It’s common. St. Mungo’s, a homeless charity, gives out jackets on a regular basis. We tracked the jacket back to them and they’ve given out thousands over the years. It’s army issue, bought in surplus.”

“Have you taken the video to them?”

“Yes, they can’t identify the assailant. He fits the description of many different individuals. It’s a grainy, poor quality video and I myself can’t make out any distinguishing characteristics.”

Peyton rubbed at her eyes. She was tired and they’d been staring at the board for hours, gaining nothing. She looked at her phone. She wanted to call Marco and her mother. Last night she’d been too tired and had simply texted them that she’d call the next day. She wanted to talk to Marco especially.

“What about the howling? Did you ask them if they’d ever come across a homeless man inclined to howl?”

“Well, that’s a start. We can go out to St. Mungo’s tomorrow and show them the video again, and the pictures Gordon Bell took on the bridge, and ask them about howling.”

“Lycanthropy has its origins back as far as the Greeks,” said Tank.

Caleb frowned, but the Ghost Squad turned to listen to him.

“Modern scientists believe the origin for the myth may have come from a number of places.  In the 60’s, there was some belief that werewolves were afflicted with congenital porphyria, a disease that makes a person photosensitive and with reddish teeth. Porphyria sufferers often have psychosis, but this theory was later dismissed because most mythological illustrations portray werewolves to look like actual wolves. Other scientists have postulated it might be hypertrichosis, a condition where the sufferer grows excessive hair, but there’s no psychosis involved in that condition and it’s relatively rare, which wouldn’t account for the pervasive myths surrounding werewolves in almost every culture.”

“Most recently, however, many researchers have begun to wonder if the origin doesn’t rise out of rabies contaminations. The fact that lycanthropy is passed by biting may in fact make epidemiological sense if rabies is involved.”

Peyton smiled at Caleb’s open mouthed expression.

“So, what I’m hearing you say, Tank,” she offered, “is that our assailant is probably mentally ill?”

“Exactly.” He smiled at her.

She felt a flush of pride. She was learning to speak Tank.

Radar’s brows rose. “That’s awesome.”

Caleb frowned at him. “Awesome?”

“Yeah, we can’t ID him, he strikes regularly, and now we can expect he’s mad as a hatter.”

“Ah, irony? Yes, it is awesome.”

“Okay, let’s call it a day. Tank, you’ll come with Abbott and me to St. Mungo’s tomorrow to show them the pictures and you can explain what you just told us. Bambi and Sparky, I want you to go to the bridge where Rianna Cooper died and check it out, then talk to the boyfriend.”

“There are a number of merchants who ply their wares around the Wibbly Wobbly,” said Caleb.

Peyton blinked. “I have no idea what any of that means.”

“There are street vendors selling crap at the Millennium Bridge,” translated Bambi. “He’s suggesting we talk to them.”

Caleb gave her a sultry smile. She returned it. Peyton shot a look at Radar.

“And the boyfriend?”

“He’s studying Shakespeare at the Globe. I’ll arrange a tete-a-tete with him tomorrow. You might talk with him first.”

Peyton held up a hand indicating they’d take care of it. Bambi grabbed Peyton’s arm. “It’s going to be so much fun. We’ll take the tube and learn how to navigate like a true Londoner. I’ve always wanted to see the Globe.”

Peyton smiled at her.

“You’ll want to get an Oyster card in the tube station. That way you can ride without worrying about buying tickets.”

“Oyster card it is,” said Bambi, tugging Peyton to her feet.

Radar pointed a finger in Peyton’s face. “You stay with Bambi. Do you hear me? You don’t have a weapon and you don’t know shit about this city.”

“I thought you were getting me a sharpened stick.”

“Don’t be smart, Sparky. I’m serious. I don’t like you going out without a weapon.”

“Are you kidding? After the training you’ve given me, I’m ready for anything.” She winked at him and turned for the door.

*    *    *

Marco pushed the button on Abe’s lab door and it swished open. Stepping into the lab, he realized he hadn’t been here in a long time. When he and Peyton worked together, they made regular treks to Abe’s lab to consult with him.

A body lay spread out on Abe’s metal table, the chest cavity gaping. Abe leaned over the body, peering inside, his black dreadlocks swinging forward. He looked up and a smile bloomed across his face. Marco noted that he wore a sensible grey collared shirt; however, when he looked closer he could swear he made out the silhouette of an elephant on it.

“Is this the John Doe?”

“Yep.”

The man was in his late twenties, early thirties, trim, about 5’11” with dark brown hair and a square jaw. He was Caucasian, even though his skin had a gray cast to it.

“Did his fingerprints pop on IAFIS?” asked Abe, reaching for a long pointed stainless steel instrument.

“No, are you sending his DNA to CODIS?”

“That I am.” He gave Marco a critical eye. “Why do you want to punt this one to Central?”

“Adams thinks it’s best.”

“Well, I don’t. Something’s hinky here.”

“You said that on the phone. What?”

Abe picked up an evidence bag. Inside was a single bullet. “I fished this out of his pelvis.”

Marco looked at the bullet. “That can’t be right.”

“Why?”

“Central recovered a vintage Webley Vickers at the scene. Does he have two bullets in him?”

“No, just the one. I’ve checked on x-ray too.”

“This is a .357 magnum. You’d use it in a Smith & Wesson or a Winchester, not a Webley Vickers. The Vickers shoots a .455, big ass bullet.”

“The .357 magnum’s what killed him, but that’s not all.” Abe moved to the upper chest. “Here’s the entrance wound. What do you notice?”

Marco shrugged. “What should I notice, Abe?”

“Come over here. I ran it through our new program. It projects the path of a projectile through a body.” He stripped off his latex gloves and grabbed a stool, reaching for a second one for Marco.

Marco eased down on the cold metal surface, dragging his leg into place.

Pulling the laptop over to himself, Abe watched him from the corner of his eyes. “You hear from Grey yet?”

“No.”

Abe looked closer at him. “You think of calling yourself?”

“He said they’d call when they had an opening.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Abe, the program!” Marco pointed at the screen.

Abe exhaled, then turned to the keyboard, scrolling with the mouse. He made a few clicks, bringing up an animation of a man’s body. “So I plug in all the vitals, size, weight, skeletal structure.”

“Okay.”

“Then I try out different scenarios based on the wound path I found on autopsy.”

“Got it.”

“How tall do you estimate Peterson to be?”

“Um, I think I read he’s six three.”

“And a rough estimate of how far away from the victim he might have been when he shot.”

“He said he heard a noise and came down the stairs, startling the guy in the living room, so let’s say he shot from the bottom of the stairs, about 40 feet from there to the blood stain.”

Abe clicked on his program. “Watch.”

A projectile flew across the screen and struck the animated man in the upper chest. It knocked him back quite a bit and he toppled over onto his backside.

“That doesn’t look right,” said Marco. “There wasn’t splatter and the blood stain was almost a perfect circle right beneath the body.”

“It doesn’t fit the tract of the bullet through the body either.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the bullet entered in the upper chest, but it went down through the lung and lodged in the pelvis.”

Marco frowned. “Wait. That means the bullet had to be shot from above the John Doe.”

“Right. If I follow the path through the body, I have to place the assailant at 9 feet minimum.”

“Are you saying someone shot him from the second story?”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Abe played the animation and the bullet went through the body. The John Doe swayed, then collapsed on his knees and dropped face forward. Abe swiveled on his stool. “It’s worse.”

“How’s it worse? We don’t have the right gun. We don’t have the right scenario.”

“The bullet isn’t what killed him, well, not entirely. When the bullet entered his lung, it caused a tension pneumothorax, collapsing of the lung. The lung began to fill with blood called a hemothorax. There’s a slim chance he might have survived if he’d had help immediately.”

“What?”

“I’m telling you he suffocated, Angel. He suffocated on his own blood.”

“How long would that take?”

“I’m not sure, but long enough to call an ambulance.”

Marco closed his hand into a fist. “So you’re saying, he lay there bleeding, unable to breathe for what? A half-an-hour, an hour?”

“Maybe.”

“Carol Peterson said she called 911 as soon as she heard the shot fired.”

“What’s the time between the call and the arrival of the ambulance?”

“I’ll have to look, but I didn’t notice anything excessive.”

“Then if the time was less than ten minutes between the call and arrival, they let the John Doe lay there, gasping for air for at least half-an-hour before they called for help.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yep, well, shit, Angel.”

*    *   *

Peyton lay back against the pillows in her hotel room, holding the phone in front of her. She watched the icon, hoping Marco would pick up. She was so tired, she just wanted to sleep, but not before she got to see him, talk to him. Wearing his jersey just wasn’t enough tonight.

The video finally connected and his handsome face filled her screen. “Hey.” She couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her lips.

“Hey, sweetheart, how’s London?”

“Big and noisy and pretty terrific. History’s just everywhere you look. They have plaques on the buildings, documenting different attacks during the World Wars.”

“Any leads on your werewolf?”

“No, he attacked again last night. The girl survived, but she’s a mess, Marco. They don’t know if she’s going to make it.”

“I’m sorry.”

She didn’t tell him they couldn’t carry guns and she wouldn’t carry a taser. No need to worry him. “We’re going to interview Rianna Cooper’s boyfriend tomorrow at the Globe theatre.”

Marco gave a nod. “Not sure what that is.”

“According to Tank , the Globe theatre’s where Shakespeare staged his plays.”

“Holy shit.”

Peyton laughed. “Actually, this one was built in 1997, but it’s an exact replica of the original.”

“What happened to the original?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask Tank.”

“Are you going to get all Shakespearified while you’re there?”

“Who knows, I might come back quoting Romeo and Juliet or something.”

“Doesn’t that end badly?”

“Most of them do.” She braced her chin with her fist. “I miss you.”

He gave a sigh. “I miss you too, sweetheart. A lot.”

“Tell me about your case.”

“Later. What time is it there?”

“Midnight. Are you still at work?”

“Yeah, Carly quit. I don’t have a secretary again.”

“She quit? You didn’t fire her?”

“She didn’t give me the chance. She said you inspired her to quit.”

“Me? How?”

“Because you’re pursuing your dream.”

Peyton lay her head back against the pillows. “Why do I feel so lonely then?”

He gave her a sultry smile.

“How’s my dog?”

“Being spoiled by Abe. I hope you won’t mind that he’ll likely be the size of a Rottweiler when you return.”

“Don’t let him make him fat, Marco.”

He laughed. “I won’t. Shouldn’t you get some sleep?”

“Yeah, in a minute. Talk to me until I drift off, okay?”

“Where’s your roommate?”

“She’s out with the cop from Scotland Yard. I don’t think she’s coming home tonight. They’ve been panting after each other since we landed.”

“That’s pretty damn fast.”

“You have no idea. Bambi is totally your type.”

“My type?”

“Yep, blond and buxom and blue eyed. Barbie doll beautiful. Your type.”

He smiled again, sending her heart racing. “I don’t have a type, sweetheart.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Not anymore. You’re my only type.”

Peyton giggled. “That was so good.”

“I know. I’m smooth as chocolate, I am.”

She snuggled down into the pillows. “Mm, such sexy talk, Captain D’Angelo.”

Marco gave her an amused frown. “What sexy talk?”

“Chocolate,” she purred, slowly closing her eyes.

CHAPTER 10

“I don’t want to stay here.” Charlie wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. The room had two twin beds and a window with wire mesh embedded in it. Besides that he got a shelf, a pair of rubber shoes without laces, two towels, a washcloth for brushing his teeth, a tube of toothpaste, a plastic cup, and two different sets of blue scrubs. When he used both sets, the attendants would provide him with two more.

His mother ran her hands down his arms. “It’s only until you get well. They’re going to make you well here.”

“Where’s Da?”

“He couldn’t get away.”

Charlie knew that wasn’t true. After the last incident at the school, his father feared him, didn’t want anything more to do with him.

Who cares?

Charlie flinched when Niles’s voice intruded in his thoughts. His mother caught it and her hands fell away.

“They’ll make Niles leave you alone,” she said, dropping her voice, as if everyone here didn’t already know Niles talked to him.

“I want to go home. Why can’t I go home?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “This is the only way, Charlie. You need help. We can’t do it anymore. We can’t protect you.”

She meant they couldn’t protect everyone else.

“I won’t do it again. I won’t fight back.”

She gave him a grim half-smile. “I don’t think you can help it, can you now? I know you try, but it just doesn’t work, does it? Niles starts talking in your head and you do what he says.”

“It’s not like that.”

She stepped back from him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I have to go. You’ll like it here. They have a football pitch.”

Charlie frowned. When had his mother ever seen him play football? He sat on the bed and clasped his hands between his knees, shivering again. He hated it here.

She came forward and kissed his forehead. “I’ll come up and see you during holiday.”

He gave her a wounded look. During holiday? That was months from now.

She’s never coming back. She’s abandoning you.

“Holiday?”

“Please don’t fret. It’ll be here before you know it.” She backed toward the door. “Get well, Charlie. Get well, darling.”

He watched her back out of the room, then she turned and practically ran down the hallway. He curled over, wrapping his arms around his stomach. She was leaving him. Niles was right. She was never coming back.

“Okay, bub,” came a male voice, and Charlie looked up to see a hulking man in blue scrubs standing in the doorway. He had a nametag on his chest. “Off wif ‘em duds and into your scrubs.” He tugged on his shirt as if Charlie couldn’t understand the words. He slid a plastic bucket over to Charlie. “Fold everyfin’ nice and neat and put it in here.”

Charlie lifted his chin.

Tell him to fuck off. Tell him to go screw himself.

“Fuck off,” said Charlie in as strong a voice as he could muster.

The attendant heaved a weary sigh. “Don’ make it be like that, bub. Don’ make me stripe you. It innit as much fun as you’d fink.”

Charlie’s eyes widened. Was he serious?

Let him try it, said Niles, but Charlie was sure the huge man wasn’t kidding.

*    *    *

A knock sounded at Marco’s door and Devan poked his head inside. “You trying to piss me off, D’Angelo?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“I told you to bounce this case over to Central.”

“Take a seat, Adams. I hate having a lawyer loom over me. Makes my digestion all messed up.”

Devan slumped into his regular napping chair. “I was up at 2:00, 4:00 and again at 5:30, so don’t play coy if you value your man parts. I’m not thinking straight.”

“I think it was your man parts that got you into this predicament, if I remember right.”

“D’Angelo!”

“I’m not handing the case over to Central.”

“Why the hell not?”

Marco grabbed a paper out of the file he’d been reviewing and slid it across the desk to Devan. “The Webley Vickers is not the murder weapon. Ballistics confirmed it today. The Webley Vickers hasn’t been shot in ages.”

Devan grabbed the paper and glanced over it. “Ballistics says the gun was probably a Smith & Wesson. Where’s that?”

“No idea. Jake’s going back to the murder scene to search for it.”

“Murder scene?”

Marco nodded. “Look at Abe’s autopsy report. The John Doe was shot from a nine foot height. The bullet went through his lung, causing it to collapse. Abe estimates it took him 30 minutes or so to die.”

Devan looked up from the papers. “And?”

“From the time of the 911 call to the first patrol car on the scene, seven minutes passed. The first patrol officer, Durbin, pronounced the John Doe dead upon his arrival. The paramedics tried CPR and intubation, but he was already gone.”

“So what the hell did the Petersons do for 23 minutes? Sit there and watch the guy bleed to death?”

“Drown, according to Abe, in his own blood.”

Devan rubbed his forehead. “Central’s going to be pissed that you’re keeping this open.”

“Don’t much care. I’ll take care of Central.”

“Do you think Ryder’s going to find the gun?”

“If anyone can, it’s Ryder. That is, if the gun’s still on site.”

“Can we get an ID on the John Doe?”

“We’re working on it.”

“Don’t you have someone over at the FBI that you’ve slept with that you can call?”

“Cute. Peyton’s out of the country.”

Devan made a face. “Yeah, great. Thanks for reminding me of that, but I meant someone else.”

Rosa.

“Yeah, I’ll place a call. See if she can light a fire under her people for a CODIS identification.”

“What’s your next move beyond that?”

“Cho and Simons are bringing Peterson in for questioning. His lawyer’s been notified.”

“I want to be here when he’s questioned. We better play this one straight as a redneck in a gay bar.”

Marco frowned. “Really?”

“I was trying it out. Rani said I was stuffy and I thought I might adopt a few colloquialisms to lighten things up.”

“And that felt right to you?”

“Not one bit.”

“Then stop.”

“Maybe.” He leaned on Marco’s desk. “What if I said straight like a tightrope walker through a river of crocodiles?”

“No.”

“The pope in a strip joint?”

“Worse.”

“A lawyer in a liar’s convention?”

“They always say to stick with what you know.”

Devan touched his nose. “Wise advice. I’ll take it. Call me when Peterson’s here.” He paused at the door and looked back at Marco. “What about Carly?”

“Gone.”

“You fired her?”

Marco didn’t correct him.

Devan gave him a thumbs up. “Glad to see those man parts aren’t going to waste.”

*    *    *

The Globe theatre was a three-story theatre in the round, open to the elements with a large wooden stage jutting into the center of it. Benches ran along the walls, but it couldn’t have been more than 100 feet in diameter, making even the top tier of seating seem close and intimate.

Bambi hooked her arm through Peyton’s. “Oh, I so love Shakespeare. Can you believe we’re standing here, seeing his vision in person?”

“Not hardly at all,” Peyton said, giving her a wry look. Shakespeare had baffled a teenaged Peyton, although adult Peyton had to admit the very fit men working at sword play on the wooden stage met with her approval. She hadn’t expected Shakespearean actors to be so handsome or well built.

A young woman with a clipboard approached them from around the side of the stage. Bambi immediately produced her badge and held it up. “I’m Special Agent Redford and this is my colleague Special Agent Brooks. We’re here to speak with Gordon Bell.”

“I’m Anwen Lewis. I’ve been instructed to give you any assistance I can. Gordon is over at the Sackler right now, but I’ll have him come here, if you’d prefer.”

“That would be fine.”

Anwen pulled a radio out of her belt and spoke into it, asking for Gordon to be sent to the theatre. She had brown hair as wild and curly as Peyton’s, large brown eyes, pale skin, and freckles. She wore a peasant’s skirt, sandals, and a loose button-up blouse cinched at the waist with a pink scarf.

“What play are you rehearsing?”

“Macbeth.”

“Oh, one of my favorites,” said Bambi.

“It’s a fan favorite here too.”

“So is that the final battle between Macbeth and Macduff?”

Anwen smiled brightly. “It is. Very good, Agent Redford.”

Two men slammed at each other with swords, dancing around and around the stage, while a number of other actors watched them. Finally the taller one disarmed the other, the sword clattering to the stage. Peyton caught her breath as the shorter man shoved the taller one in the shoulders.

“Fuck off, you daft prick!” he said, then they both burst into laughter.

Peyton exchanged an alarmed look with Bambi, but Anwen was smiling. “They’re always trying to draw blood.”

“What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to be alarmed about. Just a nick, nothing more. Quite brilliant, wouldn’t you say?” She considered for a moment. “Yes, I think it really is.”

Peyton closed her mouth and looked at her feet. For the last two days, she’d had moments where London felt as familiar as San Francisco, and then there were times like this when it felt very foreign indeed.

A young man appeared behind Anwen. He gave them worried looks as he approached. Anwen placed her hand on his shoulder. “Gordon, this is Special Agents Redford and Brooks. They’d like to ask you some questions about Rianna, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind.”

Bambi pointed behind them at the first tier of seating. “Let’s go sit back here.”

Anwen watched them go, then looked back at her clipboard, moving toward the stage to call out orders. Bambi and Peyton sat in the second level of benches, while Gordon sat in the first, shifting around to make eye contact.

“How are you doing, Gordon?” asked Bambi.

He shook his head, glancing over his shoulder at the stage. “I’d go home if I could. It’s hard to pretend make-believe’s important right now, but the police asked that I stay until you guys arrived.”

“We understand. We’ll try to make this easy on you and get the hard stuff out of the way. Can you tell us what you saw when Rianna was attacked?”

“Mostly what you got from my camera.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I still can’t believe it happened. I keep seeing her standing there, laughing, looking down at me. She was laughing and then she was dead.”

Bambi chewed her lip. “I’m sorry, Gordon.” She looked to Peyton for help. She clearly wasn’t comfortable with this level of raw pain.

“Can you set the scene for us?” Peyton asked. “Where were you and where was Rianna?”

“I was on the Thames Walk below the bridge. She ran up there so I could take her picture.”

“Did you notice anyone behind her?”

“A lot of people passed behind her. I mean there weren’t as many people as there usually is because it was dinner time, but there were tourists and vendors...and homeless people, I guess.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“What?”

“Homeless people, you guess.”

Gordon looked over his shoulder, his hands clasped between his knee. “I’m not trying to be insensitive, but homeless people are everywhere in a big city, aren’t they? Except you don’t see as many here as other cities I’ve been to.”

“Right.”

“I mean there was a guy sleeping under the trees near where Rianna and I were. There’s always a few of them sitting at the end of the bridge every day when we come to class.”

“And you think it was a homeless person who attacked Rianna?”

“I’m pretty sure he was one of the ones at the end of the bridge.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He got to her too quickly. No one else was near.”

“But you didn’t recognize him as one of the homeless you saw?”

Gordon closed his eyes again. “I’m sorry, but I just didn’t pay attention to them. I was focused on Rianna all day.”

Peyton touched his knee. “It’s all right, Gordon. I’m just trying to jog your memory. Do you think you could talk about the attack?”

He swallowed hard. “I’ll try.”

“Rianna was standing at the edge of the bridge, looking down at you, right?”

“Right.”

“Then what happened?”

“She was laughing. She was having a good time. I lifted the camera to snap the picture and he was suddenly there in the frame. He grabbed her around the upper chest and then…” Gordon shivered.

“It’s okay, Gordon,” said Peyton, covering his wrists with her hands. The swords clattered to the stage again and the young man jumped, hunching his shoulders.

“She dropped and he ran. I snapped the picture purely on reflex.”

Peyton forced him to look her in the eyes. “You’re doing good, Gordon. What did you do then?”

“I ran up there. I started screaming her name and ran up there.”

“Did you get there first?”

“No, there was a couple of vendors who were closer. One sold candied peanuts in the middle of the bridge, another did the paintings.”

“The paintings?”

“They paint pictures for people between the metal slats on the bridge. Haven’t you seen them?”

Peyton remembered seeing something between the raised metal parts on the bridge, but she’d thought it was gum ground into it by the many feet that traversed it daily. “Right.”

He shook his head. “She was already dead, or that’s what they said.”

“Who called for an ambulance?”

“Another one of the vendors. He had a cell.”

“Would you remember who these men were if you saw them again?”

“Probably, but I don’t want to go on that bridge again. I can’t go on that bridge. I take a taxi back to Islington every night now.”

“That’s okay. Can you tell me anything about the vendors who helped you? What they looked like?”

“I can tell you where they stood. They were there every day when Rianna and I crossed.”

“Good.”

“The peanut guy stands in the very middle of the bridge. He wears a red baseball cap.”

Peyton removed her notepad and wrote it down.

“The painter is there every other day or so and he ranges all over the bridge. He has dreadlocks.”

Peyton nodded.

“The guy who called on his cell phone is on the north side of the bridge. He sells perfume. He’s got a black beard and black hair.”

Peyton finished writing and closed the notebook, replacing it. They had his name in the file at Scotland Yard, but she couldn’t remember it off hand. “Thank you, Gordon.”

“Can I go home now, back to America?”

“I’ll have Inspector Abbott contact you about that. He has your contact information?”

“Yes.” He shook his head again. “I keep thinking about her. I can’t get her out of my mind.”

Peyton clasped a hand around his upper arm in comfort. “When you get home, see someone about it, Gordon. It helps.”

He nodded and rose to his feet. “If you need anything else, just call me.”

“Thank you,” said Peyton.

“Thank you,” said Bambi with a sad smile.

As the young man made his way out of the theatre, Anwen approached them. “I hope he was able to help?”

“He did fine,” said Peyton.

Anwen held up an envelope. Tickets poked out of the top of it. “The Globe would like to extend complementary tickets to you for tomorrow night’s performance of Macbeth. How many are in your party?”

Bambi looked at Peyton. “Would it be okay to bring Caleb?”

Peyton felt certain Caleb could have her ticket, but she didn’t want to hurt Anwen’s feelings. Besides Abe would tell her she needed more culture. “I think it’ll be all right.”

“Five tickets then,” said Bambi, clapping her hands. She hugged Peyton as Anwen counted out the tickets. “I’m so excited. We’re going to see Macbeth at the Globe. Can you believe it?”

Peyton gave them both a forced smile. “Not even one little bit.”

Bambi clapped her hands again. “This is going to be awesome.”

Peyton felt sure awesome was stretching the issue... A LOT. Just as Anwen offered Bambi the tickets, Peyton’s cell phone rang. She fished it out and put it to her ear.

“Get over to St. Mungo’s,” came Radar’s voice. “We might have a lead.”

“We were about to question the vendors who responded to Rianna’s attack.”

“Do that tomorrow. Right now I want all eyes and ears here. Plus we need your charming personality.”

“I’m certain you do. We’re on our way.” Peyton pushed herself to her feet and looked down at Bambi, who was cradling the tickets as if they were a child. “Radar’s ordered us over to St. Mungo’s.”

Bambi jumped to her feet. “Thank you again, Anwen.”

“You’re welcome, Agent Redford. See you tomorrow night.”

“Yes, you will.” She hooked her arm through Peyton’s and pulled her toward the stairs. “I can’t wait.”

“See you too, Agent Brooks.”

“Yes, you will,” said Peyton, fighting a grimace.

*    *    *

Brad Peterson had been broad shouldered, foul mouthed, and an arrogant prick when Marco knew him. Of course, that had been a fourteen year old being in awe of a seventeen year old who held the position of quarterback. Brad Peterson at 34 didn’t seem so intimidating. In fact, as he took his seat behind the interrogation table, in his khaki chinos, royal blue polo shirt with the Buffalo Bills logo on the left breast, and his leather loafers, he looked like anyone of a million wealthy men out for a day of golf. Plus he was losing his hair.

Marco tried not to take enjoyment in that fact, but he couldn’t help it. Brad Peterson had smacked his naked ass with the end of his towel just one to many times for him to feel anything approaching warmth toward the man.

Devan stepped into the viewing room, his eyes going to the two-way mirror. “So that’s the superstar, eh?”

Marco shrugged. Peterson’s career hadn’t been particularly stellar. He was an average quarterback at the best of times, although he did have that uncanny ability to pull out a win at the last minute, which had guaranteed him at least eight seasons.

Peterson’s lawyer was a middle aged man with a full head of blond hair and watery blue eyes. He lounged in his chair next to Peterson, not talking to the man, one arm across the back of Peterson’s chair in a posture that said he didn’t really give a shit. Marco thought his demeanor was a bit off.

“Do you know the lawyer?” he asked Devan.

“Yeah, Jefferson Greene. Good lawyer, usually takes high profile cases. Angling for a judge’s position, I’ve always thought.”

“Doesn’t seem like he gives a damn about his client. Usually you sharks are always giving last minute advice, telling the suspect not to answer our questions.”

Devan frowned. “Interesting. I wonder what gives.”

Marco didn’t much care. He’d just as soon get this over with than waste manpower on it. Except they still didn’t have an ID on the John Doe. Rosa Alvarez at the FBI had promised to light a fire and get them something from CODIS, but she hadn’t gotten back to him yet.

“Who’s questioning him?”

“Cho.”

As if summoned by his words, Cho, Jake and Simons entered the viewing room, Cho carrying the file. They studied Peterson for a moment. He sat at the table, looking around the room, his foot tapping beneath the table. He had his hands clasped in his lap.

“Are we ready to rock and roll?” asked Cho.

“Yeah. Focus on the things in his story that don’t match the autopsy,” said Marco, nodding at the mirror.

“Got it.” Turning, Cho and Simons left the room, walking across the small hallway and entering the interrogation room. Peterson and his lawyer looked up at their approach.

As was their habit, Simons walked behind Peterson and took up a position of intimidation, while Cho took a seat at the table, perpendicular to him.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Peterson,” said Cho, setting down the file.

“I’m not talking to you.”

Cho’s head lifted. “I’m sorry.”

Peterson glanced at his lawyer, then back to Cho. “I’m not talking to you. Carol told me your captain’s Marco D’Angelo. I’m only talking to him.”

Cho drummed his fingers on the file. “I don’t recommend that, Mr. Peterson. As your lawyer can tell you, Captain D’Angelo can’t interrogate you because it would be a conflict of interest. He had prior knowledge of you and your wife.”

“If I okay it, what difference does it make? My lawyer’s here. That’s what I’m asking for. I know my prior experience with him. We played high school football together. That was a lot of years ago. Shit, we didn’t even play on the same team. He was a defensive end and I was a quarterback.”

“Still, it’s not a good idea…”

“And I know about Carol. She told me years ago.” Peterson’s voice rose and he looked at the two-way glass. “I don’t care that you slept with her. Shit, everyone wanted to sleep with her back then. If I’d been you, I’d have gone for it too.” He looked at Cho and laughed. “Besides, I got her to marry me, didn’t I?”

Marco frowned.

“Is he drunk?” asked Devan.

“We didn’t do a breathalyzer. Maybe we should have.”

“He acts drunk,” said Jake. “You want me to run a test on him?”

Devan considered.

“Mr. Peterson,” said Cho, trying to draw his attention. “If I could just ask you…”

“I’m not talking to you. I’ll tell D’Angelo everything, but I’m not saying a damn word to you.” He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands on his belly.

Cho looked at the lawyer.

“He’s within his rights. He clearly understands the history between him and your captain. Honestly, what difference does it make to you?”

“Come on, D’Angelo,” shouted Peterson. “I know you’re recording this. You can show the video in court, or you can have me sign something saying I know you slept with my wife.” He laughed. “Whatever, but I’m not talking to one of your flunkies.”

Typical arrogant prick, thought Marco. “He’s sober,” he told Devan. “He’s just an ass.”

“I’m going in with you. That way I can pull the plug if it goes south.”

“Fine.” Marco reached for his cane and limped across to the interrogation room with Devan on his heels.

Cho rose as he entered and Simons walked to the door, going out without a backward glance. Cho handed Marco the file. “He’s all yours, Captain,” he said with an aggravated shake of his head.

“Thanks.” Marco moved to the table and set the file on it, studying Peterson, looking for signs that he was drunk. Devan sat down across from the lawyer.

Peterson gave a laugh and shook his head. “You always confused the hell out of me, D’Angelo. Pretty as a girl, but mean as hell on the field.” He nudged the lawyer with his fist. “One time he knocked this poor bastard out. Everyone thought he was dead.”

“This isn’t a good idea, Brad,” said Marco, easing into the chair and hooking his cane on the edge of the table.

Brad’s eyes tracked over him. “You get shot?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, that’s pretty badass, D’Angelo.”

“Did you hear me? This isn’t a good idea, having me interrogate you.”

Brad’s expression sobered. “You’re the only one I want to talk to, so it’s my funeral.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Not yet. Wish I had though. I can’t get it out of my head.” He looked at Devan. “Who’s the suit?”

“ADA Adams,” said Peterson’s lawyer, reaching a hand across to shake Devan’s.

“I said I’d only talk to you, D’Angelo.”

“Well, for that to happen, you get me too,” said Devan.

Brad shrugged. “Whatever.” He looked back at Marco. “What do you want to know?” He clasped his hands beneath the table again. Marco watched the motion. Something was bothering him about Peterson’s demeanor. He didn’t think he was drunk, but there was something in his posture, in the way he moved.

“Tell me what happened again.”

Peterson drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Carol and me were upstairs. She wanted to repaint the guest room, so she had all these swatches of color up on the wall. She wanted me to look at them and pick the one I liked. Like I give a shit about paint color.” He laughed, but no one else did, so he controlled his features again. “We heard something in the living room, so I grabbed a gun out of my gun collection. I keep it in the master bedroom.”

“What sort of gun?” Marco interrupted.

Brad caught himself, frowning. “What sort of gun?”

“Yeah, what sort of gun?”

“You took it. Your guys bagged it as evidence.”

“I just need you to say it for the record.”

Brad lifted a hand and scratched at his thinning hair. “Um, the Webley Vickers.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, what do you mean am I sure?” He glanced at his lawyer.

The lawyer didn’t say anything, which Marco found strange.

“Go on.”

“Okay, so I grabbed the gun and went downstairs. The guy was in the living room and I yelled at him. He came at me, all crazy like, and I shot.”

“Where was Carol?”

“Upstairs in the master bedroom. I told her to stay there. She came running down when she heard the shot and called 911.”

Marco nodded and splayed his hand on the file. “The Webley Vickers fires a big round, doesn’t it?”

Brad shrugged. “I guess. I wouldn’t know about guns the way you would.”

“You collect them though.”

“Yeah, but that’s a hobby.”

“Right. Still, the Webley Vickers, that’s got some kick. Probably knocked him on his ass, right?”

“What?”

“Didn’t it? Knock him backward?”

Brad narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. “Uh, it’s all kinda ‘a blur now.”

“Yeah, that happens. Still, when I got shot, I remember clearly being knocked on my ass.”

Brad scratched the side of his face. Marco’s gaze focused on his hand. “I don’t know. It’s not so clear to me.”

“You didn’t know who the intruder was?”

“No, never saw him before in my life.”

“Do you know where he was shot?”

“In the chest.”

“You remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t remember whether he was knocked backward or not?”

Brad looked at his lawyer. The lawyer shrugged.

“No, he wasn’t knocked backward. He fell forward.”

Marco opened the file and took out the ballistics report, setting it in front of Brad. “The Webley Vickers hasn’t been shot in years, Brad.”

“What? Naw, that’s not right. I shot it that day.”

“The bullet in the John Doe was a .357 magnum. The Vickers shoots a .45. Ballistics is pretty sure the gun that killed the John Doe was a Smith & Wesson. Now, I can pull records for your gun collection and find out if you have a Smith & Wesson, or you can just tell me.”

Peterson swallowed hard.

“How about some water?”

“What?” He swiped a hand across his forehead.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”

Marco lifted a hand toward the two-way glass. “Now, why don’t you tell me the real story?”

“I did.”

“Tell me again.”

“Carol and me were in the guest room, looking at paint swatches when we heard…”

Marco shook his head and Peterson came to a halt.

“What?”

“There’s no point of entry, Brad. No way the suspect broke into the house.”

“That’s just not possible. We heard a crash downstairs and…”

“You never said that before.”

Peterson looked at his lawyer. Devan leaned back in the chair. Greene held up a hand dismissively.

“We were looking at paint swatches in the guest room,” said Peterson again.

Cho entered the room, carrying the water and setting it on the table. Marco pushed it over toward him. “Take a drink and collect your thoughts,” he said, giving him a reassuring smile.

Peterson reached for the water glass and Marco’s eyes focused on his hand. It was all the evidence he needed. Everything slipped into place. The body language, the slight tremor, the minute bobble of his head.

“When were you diagnosed with Parkinson’s, Brad?”

Devan’s eyes snapped to Marco’s face, but Marco ignored him. Greene pursed his lips. He knew. He was waiting for Peterson to give himself away. Clearly, Brad had told him not to interfere.

Peterson set down the glass. “Last year.”

Marco nodded. “Here’s what I think. You couldn’t have fired the gun.”

“I could and did.”

“Well, it doesn’t track for me. The shot came from above, say nine feet over the John Doe’s head. I’m thinking the second floor. You may have been carrying the Vickers, but that’s not the gun that killed him. Where’s the Smith & Wesson?”

“There was no Smith & Wesson.”

“Who’s the guy, Brad?”

“I told you I don’t know.”

“Who shot him?”

“I did.”

Marco leaned forward. “It must have been hard to watch him die, wasn’t it? I mean it took thirty minutes. You had to sit there and listen to the death rattle, listen to him drown in his own blood.”

Peterson flinched. “Carol heard the shot and called 911.”

“That’s the rehearsed version. What really happened?”

“I told you what happened. Carol and me were looking at paint swatches…”

Marco slammed his hand down on the file. “Bull shit. Did she kill him? Did you invite him in and she shot him? Who was he? Was he blackmailing you? Shaking you down for something? Did you have an affair or something?”

“I shot him. I shot him with Webley Vickers and I killed him. Carol called 911 when she heard the shot.”

Marco leaned back, looking over at Greene. “You should talk to him. You should tell him what’s going to happen. In a second, my detectives are coming in to read him his rights.”

“What? It was self-defense!” shouted Peterson. “He broke into my house and…”

“Tell him the truth, Brad,” said Greene finally. “Tell him what really happened.”

“I did. Carol and me were looking at paint swatches in the guest room.”

Greene held up a hand, staring at Marco.

Marco motioned to the two-way mirror. A moment later, Cho and Simons entered the room. “Bradley Peterson, you have the right to remain silent,” said Cho, moving toward the quarterback. “You have the right to an attorney.”

Marco rose to his feet, picking up the file.

Brad’s eyes followed him as Cho continued to read him his rights. “I told you the truth. I shot him in self-defense.”

Marco leaned on the table, close to him. “Bull shit,” he said, then left the room.

*    *    *

St. Mungo’s Hostel was housed in an imposing brown brick building with tall chimney spires jutting from the roof. A brick wall enclosed it and planting pots hung from the wall, sporting red geraniums.

Tank met Peyton and Bambi at the gate and opened it for them. “We might have a lead, but Radar wants you to talk to the woman, Peyton. We’re not getting too far.”

Peyton stepped up the brick stairs and passed into a narrow entrance hall. The smell of garlic and onions struck her and she realized she was hungry. She and Bambi hadn’t eaten anything since the scones Bambi brought in with her this morning.

“This way,” said Tank, turning down a tight hallway. It lead to a bright dining room with heavy wooden furniture and hanging lamps. A bank of windows allowed natural light to fill the space. Tank angled to the right and pushed open a swinging door.

They stepped into a gleaming stainless steel kitchen. A number of people were rushing about, preparing food, while Radar and Caleb stood to the side, watching them. Tank led them over to Radar and the older man took Peyton’s elbow, pulling her close.

He pointed to a young woman peeling potatoes in a small alcove by the stove. She sat on a three-legged stool, the peels falling into a pot, a second pot at her elbow, holding already peeled potatoes.

“That’s Trish. Everyone here claims she was friends with someone looking a lot like our suspect, but she won’t talk to cops.”

“Well, I’m a cop.”

Caleb smiled at Peyton. “But you’re cute as a button, so she might make an exception.”

Peyton frowned at him, but Bambi giggled.

“She is cute as a button, isn’t she?”

“Like a wee bonny rabbit.”

Peyton glared at both of them. “Are you done?”

“Sorry,” said Bambi, lowering her eyes. She held up the tickets. “We have tickets to see Macbeth tomorrow night at the Globe.”

“Oh, Macbeth is such an exceptional study of how ambition corrupts the hearts of men and makes them do things they wouldn’t normally do,” said Tank.

“I know. I find it so fascinating the way both Macbeth and Lady Macbeth deteriorate into madness throughout the play,” said Bambi.

Radar cleared his throat. “We have a number of murders we’re trying to solve that border on madness. Could we focus on that?”

“Sorry,” said Bambi again, while Tank lowered his head and clamped his mouth shut.

Caleb Abbott seemed amused.

“Sparky?”

“What do you want me to do, Radar? You said she won’t talk to cops.”

“Charm her.” He shoved her toward the young woman.

Peyton shot him a venomous look, then smoothed out her t-shirt and leather jacket, walking across the kitchen to the young woman. Grabbing a second stool, she set it in front of Trish and sat down.

“Hi, I’m Peyton.”

Trish looked at her through her lashes, her peeling knife slicing along another potato.

“Trish, I need your help. I know you don’t like talking to cops. Trust me, I get it. I don’t like talking to myself.” She laughed.

Trish’s eyes rose and pinned her.

“But we have four dead women and another fighting for her life in the hospital. They aren’t much older than you are and they weren’t doing anything wrong. All they were doing was trying to get home.” Peyton braced her arms on her thighs. “I need to stop this guy before anyone else dies, Trish, and I need your help.”

The knife slowed on the potato, but Trish didn’t speak.

Peyton glanced around the kitchen. Many of the people were still pretending to work, but it was clear they were watching the exchange.

“Trish, I can imagine it’s hard to trust a cop after what you’ve been through. I’m sure they haven’t shown you much kindness or patience. I get that. I get why you don’t want to talk, but know this, if the suspect is your friend, a lot of cops are out looking for him now. Eventually they’re going to bring him in. Help us bring him in safely, Trish. Help us stop him from doing what you know he shouldn’t be doing.”

The peels fell faster and Peyton could no longer see Trish’s face behind her long, stringy hair. Glancing back at Radar, Peyton shrugged. She wasn’t getting anywhere either.

“Charlie wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Peyton’s gaze snapped back to her bowed head. “Charlie? Is Charlie your friend? The same one that looks like the man in the photo?”

She gave a brief nod. “Charlie’s gentle and kind. Niles is the one who’s violent. That’s what Charlie always says. Niles does the bad things.”

Peyton smiled gently. “Does Charlie have a last name, Trish? Did he ever tell you?”

“No. I just knew him as Charlie. I met Niles once too.”

“You did? Is Niles Charlie’s friend?”

“Niles follows Charlie around. He talks to him.”

Peyton frowned at that. “Do you know Niles’s last name?”

“Burlington.”

“Niles Burlington?”

“Or something like that. It started with a B.”

Peyton leaned closer to Trish. “Thank you, you’ve been a big help. I really appreciate it.”

Trish lifted her head, her hair partially covering her face, but Peyton could see her hazel eyes behind the strands. “Charlie wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

Peyton nodded. “I believe you, Trish. Thank you for your help.” Peyton started to rise, then sat down again. “Do you know where I might be able to find Charlie?”

“He hangs around the Circle Line. He feels most comfortable there.”

“Great. And Niles?”

Trish’s fingers stilled on the potatoes. She didn’t respond for a long time and Peyton wondered if she was going to. Finally Trish began peeling again. “Find Charlie and you’ll find Niles. They’re always together.”

Peyton nodded. “Again, thank you,” she said, rising to her feet.

Trish didn’t answer, just went back to peeling potatoes.

*    *    *

Marco’s cell phone rang, showing an incoming video. He snatched it off his desk and accepted the call, waiting for the video to connect. He couldn’t believe his heart was pounding with excitement. God, he wanted her home.

Her face appeared on the screen. She was lying in bed like last time, leaning back against the pillows, his jersey on. He smiled. “Hey, sweetheart, I like where we have these nightly talks. Wish I could be there with you.”

She laughed. She looked tired, but relaxed. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Is Bambi out again?”

“Yeah, with our Scotland Yard contact, Caleb Abbott.” She tried for a British accent and failed.

He laughed. “Does she stay out all night?”

“She probably will tonight. Yesterday she got in about 1:00 or so.”

“She’s moving fast with this guy.”

“I think that’s Bambi’s M.O. So, you’re still at work. I recognize the office.”

“Yeah, we’ve got this case. Brad Peterson. I played football with him in high school, then he went on to the pros and played for the Bills about eight years. He shot someone in his house or he didn’t shoot someone, but he’s taking the fall for it.”

“Huh, wife?”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t know. The whole thing’s hinky. I wish you were here to look it over. We can’t get an ID on the dead guy. I called Rosa and asked her if she could put some pressure on her people for a CODIS ID.”

“What’d she say?”

“She’ll try, but DNA doesn’t come back as quick in real life as the movies. Why do I feel annoyed whenever I talk to her?”

Peyton laughed. “Remember that, especially while I’m gone.”

“You’re all I think about, baby.”

She smiled, then the video froze. A moment later, it disappeared from the screen. Marco tried to dial her back, but it didn’t work. Disappointment slammed into him. This was their only time together and they were going to be robbed of it by technology?

Grabbing his cane, he hurried around the desk and out to Carly’s space where Jake was working. Stan happened to be with him, messing with something on Jake’s computer screen.

“Get her back!” he ordered, shoving the phone at Jake.

“What?”

“Peyton! Get her back!”

Jake and Stan exchanged a look, then Stan took the phone.

“What’s got your panties all in a bunch, Adonis?”

Marco watched Stan mess with the phone. They had to get her back for him. He would not be denied this.

“What are you doing?” he snapped at Jake.

“We’re trying to run Abe’s program and pinpoint exactly where someone had to stand in order to shoot the John Doe. Stan thinks he might be able to estimate the shooter’s height.”

Marco felt guilty for snapping at him. “That’s good, but what are you doing about getting me a secretary?”

“I have someone coming in tomorrow morning.”

Marco felt worse. “Fine.” He heard the connecting sound for the video and looked over at Stan.

“Hey, Peyton,” said Stan, beaming at her. “Captain lost the feed.”

“Hey, Stan, thanks for getting it back.”

Stan’s face flushed with pride. “So is that your hotel room?”

“Yeah.”

Stan’s face went even pinker. “Nice...um...pillows.”

Peyton’s laugh carried through the phone. Marco held his hand out for it, but Jake grabbed Stan’s wrist and angled it down, so he could look at her. “Ah, I see why he’s all hot and bothered. You’re in bed, Mighty Mouse.”

“It’s not like that, Jake,” she said, but amusement was in her tone. “Is my guy there?”

“Yeah, but I’m afraid to hand the phone over to him until he promises not to break me.”

“He won’t hurt you if you stop poking a stick in his cage,” she answered.

“So tell me what London’s like.” Jake shot a grin at Marco. “Awesome or just magnificent.”

“Pretty awesome and halfway to magnificent.”

“Ryder, give me the damn phone.”

“See,” he told Peyton, “he’s doing that intimidation thing again.”

“Well, stop provoking him. Give him the phone, Jake. I don’t have a lot of time.”

“Bye, Mighty Mouse.”

“Bye, Jake, bye, Stan.”

“Bye, Peyton,” Stan called as Jake extended the phone to Marco.

Marco snatched it out of his hand. “You’re fired.”

“No, I’m not. You never fire anyone. You wait for them to quit and I don’t quit either. You’d never get anything done without me.”

Marco glared at Stan, but Stan had gone back to clicking on the computer. “If you get anything, let me know right away.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Jake said with a salute.

Marco smoothed his features and lifted the phone. “Hey, sweetheart, sorry about that.” Then he carried the phone back into his office and slammed the door.

CHAPTER 11

This one fought. She kicked and she screamed and she pummeled Niles with her fists. She didn’t want to die, but he was too strong for her and eventually, she went limp in his arms, a bloom of red spreading across her chest, spilling onto the cold cement of the alley.

Charlie waited a long time, his eyes shut tight, his arms over his ears, listening to the echo of the howl die away on the night air. When he was sure he was alone again, he chanced a look. She didn’t move. She lay on her back, looking up at the faintly visible stars, but she didn’t move.

Charlie forced himself to ease up to her, peering into her face to see if she could be saved, but her eyes had already begun to glass over. His attention focused on her hands, particularly her right one, flung out to the side as she fell.

A few strands of black hair were entangled in her fist. She’d yanked them from Niles’s head when she fought him. He thought to remove them and throw them away. Niles would expect him to do that, but he didn’t. He left the hair strands in the girl’s hand and he eased away, trying to avoid looking at the ruin that had once been her throat.

The sound of the howl still echoed in his ear as he turned out of the alley and walked briskly down the street, trying to put as much distance between him and the young woman as he could.

*    *    *

Caleb pointed violently to a photo on the glass forensics board in the conference room the Ghost Squad had been given in Scotland Yard. “Tamsin Durham, 24, waiting tables at Ye Olde Mitre, killed last night in an alley after leaving work. She had a two year old son.”

Peyton looked at the lifeless blond with her throat torn out. Her eyes stared straight up, her mouth parted as if she were sleeping. The enormity of it overwhelmed her.

“Who found her body?”

“Two construction workers leaving the pub for the night, going home. She fought back. There’s signs of a struggle and we’ve now got DNA. She tore some hair off the bastard’s head, but…” He held his hand out over the photo.

No one said anything, bowing their heads.

“We have two names, Charlie and Niles,” said Radar. “Let’s go out to St. Mungo’s again and ask if anyone knows Charlie or Niles besides…” He snapped his fingers at Peyton. “The name of the girl?”

“Trish.”

“Trish.”

“We still need to question the vendors on the bridge,” offered Bambi. “We’ll also talk to any homeless people, show them Gordon’s picture. See if they know a Charlie.”

“It’s not enough. I can’t look into another set of parents’ faces and tell them their daughter’s dead.” Caleb paced a circle and came back.

“Is there any indication these murders are committed by more than one person?” asked Peyton.

“Not according to our medical examiner, no. It’s a clusterfuck, it is,” said Caleb.

“So we have two names, but nothing more. Trish talked about them as if they were two people.”

“And at times, she talked about them as one. I only have the information from the autopsies. There’s nothing to say we have two suspects, Agent Brooks,” said Caleb, wearily rubbing the back of his neck. “All forensic evidence points to one. Especially the hair we got off this latest victim. We may not have a DNA match, but the examiner confirmed they were from the same man.”

“Can we map the murders?”

“We have. They’re all between Islington and Southwark.”

“Can I see it?”

Caleb grabbed the remote off the table and made a few clicks on it. The murder locations came on the board. Peyton studied the array. Six victims. Six different locations. All in a relatively circular area.

“What does this help? We’ve looked at it again and again, but any pattern is ruined by the Cooper murder on the bridge.”

“Is there anything in common with the murders?”

“They’re all blond,” said Tank.

“They’re all between 20 and 25,” said Radar.

“But they don’t all have the same occupations,” offered Bambi.

“Anything else linking them?”

Caleb squared himself in front of the board. He pointed at the first picture. “Angela Evans, British, 25, sales clerk at Harrods, killed in the Farringdon Station.” He slid his finger to the second victim. “Simone Wright, British, 24, cashier at Barclays, killed before her flat on Wellington.” He moved to the third. “Fredie Ebersback, German, 25, student, killed in Leicester Square on a picnic with friends.” He pointed to their reason for being here. “Rianna Cooper, 20, American, killed on the Millennium Bridge in front of her boyfriend.” He pointed to Amelia. “Amelia MacDonnell, Scottish,  23, works in a bank, attacked in Temple station. And finally, last night, Tamsin Durham, British, 24, killed in an alley next to her place of employment, Ye Old Mitre.”

“Okay,” said Peyton, rubbing a hand over her chin. “The only connection I see is that many of them were in the service industry. Two were students. The nationalities are different. And two were killed in tube stations.” She leaned back in her chair. “Caleb, Evans was killed in Farringdon Station. Can you put that on your map?”

He clicked with the remote.

“Wright was killed on Wellington Street. Where’s the closest tube station to that?”

“Um, either Leicester or Temple.” He plugged those into the map.

“Ebersback was in Leicester Square, so she was close to the Leicester Station,” said Tank.

Caleb put another marker on that station.

“Cooper was on the bridge,” said Bambi, squinting at the board.

“Blackfriar Station is closest,” said Caleb, clicking.

“MacDonnell was in the Temple Station when she was attacked,” said Peyton. A marker went on that point.

Caleb turned and faced them. “Durham was killed closest to Farringdon.” He overlaid the tube map on the board. “I thought they might be on the Circle line, but Leicester Square muddies that.”

“What’s that faint number I see?” asked Peyton, pointing to a white area spread over the tube map.

Caleb sucked in air. “Fuck off. They’re all in zone one.”

“So he operates only in that area?” said Radar. “That’s a lot of ground to cover.”

“But he stays close to the tube stations. He must use the tube to go from point A to point B. It’s a start, Radar,” said Peyton.

Radar rose and stretched. “Okay, Tank and Abbott, let’s go back to St. Mungo’s with our picture and our names. Bambi and Sparky, go question the vendors and the homeless on the bridge. We’ll meet back here and see what we’ve got.” He looked at Caleb. “I’m guessing you don’t have enough manpower to stake out those stations, right?”

“We can certainly alert our patrols to be on the lookout for a Charlie or Niles and pass the pictures on to them.”

“Good. We’ll report back here by 1:00.”

Everyone moved to leave, but Radar pointed a finger at Peyton. “Do not let Bambi out of your sight, Sparky. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Dad, I hear you.”

He gave her a pointed glare, then turned away.

*    *    *

Marco felt he’d accomplished something by the time he pulled his car into the precinct parking lot. Dr. Ferguson had agreed to reduce his meetings to twice a week, Monday and Friday, as long as he continued to attend group meetings on Thursday. Marco had agreed because anything was better than sitting across from the psychiatrist and having him stare at him with his index fingers pressed against his lips.

Marco just had nothing more to tell him. He wasn’t drinking. He wasn’t going to admit he wanted to drink. And he wasn’t going to discuss Peyton. That left his pain and since that wasn’t going away, there didn’t seem to be much point in rehashing it every other day.

He limped across the parking lot and climbed the stairs. Bartlet was carrying a tray of coffee into the precinct and waited for him. Marco wished like hell he wouldn’t do that, but it did no good to wave the kid off.

“Hey, Captain,” he said, pulling open the outer door. “Sure is a nice day.”

Marco hadn’t noticed. He fought against the grimace of pain as he pulled himself up the stairs. Glancing up, he marked the blue sky. Since speaking revealed the level of pain he felt, he just nodded.

Bartlet didn’t move until he passed him and went in the open door, fighting to compose himself. He came to a halt. Bartlet halted beside him. A 350 lb. six foot six man stood behind Carly’s desk, while Jake showed him how to work the phones.

“Oh shit,” whispered Bartlet.

The tray tilted and Marco reached out a hand to steady it. Bartlet corrected himself and eased around his captain, going for the half-door and pushing it open. Then he beat a hasty retreat.

“Hey, Adonis,” said Jake, giving Marco his shit-eater grin. “This is Lemalu Faratuopolo.”

The man straightened. He had wild black hair that hung to his shoulders, a wide face, blunt nose, and small dark eyes. His one brow cut a straight slash across his forehead. He wore a Hawaiian shirt that struggled to contain all of him and jeans. “You can call me Lee,” he said.

“Adonis?”

Marco blinked, forcing himself to think, to speak, to do something other than stand there and stare. “It’s Captain. Captain, damn it, Ryder.”

The man clapped his hands once, making both Marco and Jake jump. “I knew it. I saw you come in and I said, I’ll bet that’s the captain.” He walked to the counter and held out his hand.

Marco took it, feeling as if his fingers were being crushed.

“D’Angelo, right?”

“Right. And you are?”

“Your new assistant. Jake here’s been showing me the phones.”

Marco limped to the half-door. “Excuse me for a moment. Ryder, come with me to get...um…” He held his hand out to the massive man.

“Lee,” said the man helpfully.

“Lee a cup of coffee.”

“I take it black. Good and strong the way every police precinct makes it.”

“Right.” Marco gave him a smile, then shoved Jake in the shoulder, forcing him toward the break room. Once they got inside, Jake went to pour the coffee.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me, Ryder?”

“What?”

“You hired a house to be my assistant.”

“He’s not a house. He’s nice. I like him.”

“He’s also a he.”

“What are you, Adonis, sexist? Why can’t a man be your assistant?”

Marco considered that. He didn’t think he was sexists. He’d always admitted Peyton was a better cop than he was, but still, he couldn’t see himself with an assistant that looked like a linebacker.

“Well?”

Marco pointed at Jake. “You did this deliberately.”

“Not at all, he’s the best qualified of all the candidates.”

“There’s not even a small part of you that was delighted when he walked through the door?”

“Well, maybe a small part, but that’s your fault. If you weren’t such an uptight ass…”

“Don’t you dare finish that!” Marco took a step closer to him and Jake stumbled back into the counter. “I will fire you! And when this goes south, you get to tell him he’s fired!”

Jake didn’t respond and Marco turned, walking out of the room without looking back. He found Lee sitting in the chair, which sank under his weight, studying the buttons on the phone and making notes on a pad he’d found in Carly’s desk. As soon as Marco appeared, he rose to his feet and stood at attention.

Marco eased around the desk, headed for his office, giving Lee a forced smile.

“Captain?” Cho and Simons appeared around the corner of the conference room. Cho stumbled to a halt, his eyes taking in all six foot six of Marco’s assistant. “Hey,” he said, looking at him from the corner of his eyes.

“Hey, I’m Lee Faratuopolo.”

Cho hesitantly extended his hand. “Nathan Cho.” He pointed over his shoulder at Simons. “My partner, Bill Simons.”

Simons shook Lee’s hand. “Hey.”

“Hey,” said Lee. “I’m the new assistant.”

“Awesome,” said Cho, then gave Marco a wild eyed look.

Marco shrugged. “What’s up?”

“Smith’s bringing Carol Peterson in for questioning. Ryder and Stan figured out the shooter had to be shorter than six feet.”

“Brad’s six two.”

“Yep.”

“Huh. Call Adams and get him down here. Who’s Carol’s lawyer?”

“Same one as Peterson’s.”

Marco nodded, then looked at Lee. The man was reading over his notes, pretending not to hear. Jake appeared with the coffee and passed it to him.

“I want the report you ran on the size of the shooter,” Marco told him.

“It’s already on your desk.”

“Good.” Marco turned toward his office, but looked over his shoulder at Cho. “Let me know when they get here.”

“Done.”

Marco took a seat at his desk and picked up the report Jake had left him. He read over the findings. The program couldn’t give an exact size on the shooter, but by the angle of trajectory, the person had to be under six feet. Which meant it had to be Carol.

Something churned in Marco’s belly. He hated the idea that Carol could kill anyone. It was much easier to believe Brad, with his gun collection and his prick personality, had done it. Not Carol, not the Carol he remembered – the popular cheerleader who agreed to accompany nerdy Weasel Williams to Homecoming.

Pressing the intercom button, Marco waited to see if Lee would prove more adept than Carly. If not, he was so getting rid of him. The guy had about a day to impress him.

“Yes, Captain.”

Marco stared at the phone, feeling a bit of annoyance that the man had mastered it that fast, although truth be told, it really only required one to press a flashing button. “Can you send Ryder in?”

“He’s on his way.”

Jake opened the door a moment later and stepped inside. “Is this for round 2 of the ass-chewing?”

“Shut the door and sit your chewed ass down.”

“He knows how to work the intercom and he remembered my name after only being told once.”

“That’s not what I called you in here for.” He picked up the report. “How accurate does Stan think this new program is?”

“Fairly accurate, why?”

“The shooter had to be less than six feet tall, but it doesn’t say how tall?”

“Right.”

“Does it take into account a shooter who might be squatting?”

Jake frowned. “Why would the shooter squat?”

Marco set down the paper and grabbed a pad sitting on his blotter. Reaching for a pen, he drew a sloppy staircase, then a stick figure standing a short distance from the bottom of the staircase and another at the very top.

“What if I don’t want the guy here…” He circled the stick figure at the bottom. “...to see me. I might crouch down to peek over the side of the banister. In fact, I might even brace the gun on the banister before I shot.”

Jake picked up the report, then looked at Marco’s drawing. “If so, there should be powder marks on the banister.”

Marco held up a hand. Beside him, his intercom buzzed and he pressed the button. “Yeah?”

“Captain, Nate says to tell you Carol Peterson’s in interrogation.”

Marco reached for his cane and rose.

“Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, go down to Stan’s office and run the program again with that scenario. I noticed Brad’s hand shook from Parkinson’s when he was here. Maybe he steadied himself on the banister before he took the shot.”

Jake nodded and rose to follow him out.

Marco gave Lee only a passing look before he headed to interrogation. Cho and Simons were waiting for him in the viewing room, while Carol and her lawyer, Jefferson Greene, sat at the table, talking quietly to each other.

Marco studied Carol. She didn’t seem worried or anxious. Her make-up was impeccable, her hair styled, and her clothes of the latest fashion.

“Adams can’t be here for another hour or so,” said Simons. “He’s in court. You want us to wait.”

“No, same thing as always. Cho, you interrogate, Simons, you intimidate.”

“Got it,” said Simons.

Cho chewed on his inner lip, then he grabbed the file off the metal table and walked to the door, crossing to interrogation. Carol sat up at his appearance and watched as he took a seat at the table and Simons moved behind her. She shifted and tried to keep Simons in view.

“Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Peterson. I’m Inspector Nathan Cho,” said Cho, opening the file. “We just have a few questions for you.”

“When will my husband be released? We paid bail first thing this morning.”

“Soon.”

“What’s this about? Brad already confessed to shooting the intruder in self-defense. Why aren’t you bouncing this?” asked Greene.

“We have a few discrepancies in the story as I’m sure you are aware from Brad’s interview.”

Carol leaned forward. “Inspector Cho, Brad has brain damage, which doctors feel increased his chances for Parkinson’s disease.”

“And how is this pertinent to our case?”

“He needs to be released. He needs to be home. He needs me.”

“We’ll get him out as soon as we’re done here, Mrs. Peterson.”

“This is ridiculous. I’m going to file a motion to have this case dismissed,” said Greene.

“That’s your job, not mine,” said Cho, clearly not intimidated. “Now, Mrs. Peterson, can you tell me what happened at your house last Thursday?”

“My husband was questioned by Captain D’Angelo. He’s a family friend. Where is he?”

“Mrs. Peterson, you know he can’t question you…”

“He questioned Brad. I want to speak to Captain D’Angelo.”

Cho shifted uncomfortably and looked up at Simons. Simons gave him a chin nod. “He has a more intimate history with you, Mrs. Peterson. If you’ll just answer my questions, we can get this over with and you can get your husband.”

She glanced at Greene. He held up an open hand.

“Fine, what do you want to know?”

“Tell me what happened in your house last Thursday.”

“Brad and I were looking at paint swatches in the guest bedroom, when we heard a noise downstairs. We went to the master bedroom so Brad could get one of the guns out of his safe.”

“Which gun?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know guns, Inspector Cho.”

“All right. Then what?”

“Brad told me to wait in the room. I didn’t think it was anything, but I did what he said.”

“Why?”

“Why? He’s my husband.”

“But you told me he has brain damage, Mrs. Peterson. Weren’t you worried for his safety?”

“He has trouble remembering things. He forgets to turn off the stove, forgets to eat if I don’t remind him, but he was just checking out a noise downstairs. I didn’t really believe it was anything.” Her expression sobered and she clasped her hands over her handbag. “Until I heard the gunshot.”

“What did you do then?”

“I ran downstairs and called 911.”

Cho nodded a few times, then he opened the file. “You don’t know guns.”

“No, I’ve never liked them.”

Cho pulled out a picture of a gun lying on the wooden floor. “Is this the gun your husband got out of the gun safe?”

“It might be. It looks familiar.”

“This is a Webley Vickers, Mrs. Peterson.”

“Okay.”

“It wasn’t shot.”

She looked at Greene. He gave Cho a bored look. “She said she doesn’t know guns. What are you doing? Brad confessed to the shooting.”

“Right.” Cho pulled out another paper and set it on the table before Carol. “According to the autopsy, the John Doe had to be shot from the second story based on the trajectory of the bullet. We’ve run a program that recreates crime scenes and the shooter had to be under six feet tall.”

The lawyer grabbed the paper and studied it. “You think this is going to hold up in court? Really? An experimental program?”

“The autopsy will. Dr. Jefferson is the best in the business.”

Carol looked afraid. Marco felt for her. Usually he could remain detached, but this bothered him. Obviously this was why he shouldn’t be involved in this case. She shifted and glanced back at Simons, but Simons stood expressionless.

“What happened on Thursday, Mrs. Peterson?”

“The same thing Brad and I have been telling you for days now. He surprised an intruder.”

“How’d the man get into the house?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not through a window, not through a door.”

“He was an intruder. They have ways of doing things.”

Cho looked up at Simons. “Did you hear that? They have ways of doing things.”

“Magic. He poofed in.”

Marco gritted his teeth. He knew Cho and Simons were just using the same bag of tricks he and Peyton had used millions of times, but Carol looked so vulnerable, so fragile.

“I didn’t say that,” she protested.

“Is this the way you treat all willing witnesses, Inspector Cho?” said Greene angrily.

“Only ones who lie.”

Greene rose to his feet. “This interview’s over. Come on, Carol. Let’s go get Brad.”

“We have enough probable cause to arrest your client, Greene.”

Greene leaned on the table. “The hell you do.” He took Carol’s arm and helped her to her feet.

“You said this would go away,” she murmured to him.

“It will when I file a motion tomorrow.”

Cho leaned back in his chair. “Where’s the real gun, Mrs. Peterson? We went over that house, but we didn’t find it. Your lawyer thinks he can get your husband off with a motion, but no judge is going to listen when he sees our evidence. How did your husband know the John Doe? Was he a friend? An associate?”

“He didn’t know him!”

“Don’t say anything more, Carol.” Greene tried to push her to the door. “We’re leaving.”

“The John Doe was killed with a .357, not a .45. How? Where’s the gun that shot the .357, Mrs. Peterson? How come so much time passed between the shooting and when you called 911? What were you and Brad doing? Watching the guy drown in his own blood?”

Carol gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. Greene pushed her toward the door. Smith waited on the other side and motioned in the direction they should go. As Carol passed the viewing room, she looked in at Marco. Marco met her frightened gaze, then looked away.

*    *    *

Peyton and Bambi found the perfume vendor exactly where Gordon Bell had told them. He’d set up his small table right at the north end of the bridge, in front of the windows to an investment company. He smiled cheekily when Peyton and Bambi stopped in front of him.

“Good afternoon,” said Bambi. “What a lovely display you have here.”

“Thank you, luv.”

“I’m Emma.”

“Brian O’Shea, entrepreneur.” Grabbing a bottle off the table, he held it out to Bambi. “Here’s a perfume sample for the beautiful American woman. Oscar de la Rent One.”

Bambi took it and looked at the label. “You mean Oscar de la Renta?”

He smiled cheekily. “This is better now, isn’t it?”

Bambi passed it back to Peyton. Peyton turned it over in her hand, but didn’t know what to do with it. In the end, she shoved it in her jacket pocket.

Reaching for a business card he had on the table, Bambi studied it. “We wanted to ask you some questions.” Stuffing the card in her pocket, she pulled out her badge.

The street vendor held up his hands. “I have a license to sell here, luv.”

“I don’t care about your cheap-ass perfumes. I want to ask you about the murder.”

He looked toward the bridge, then he started packing up. “I didn’t see anything, luv, and you can’t make me talk, so go away. You’re interfering with my entrepreneurial spirit. Like I said, I saw nothing.”

“You called for an ambulance,” said Peyton.

“Did I now? Do you have proof of that?” He leaned toward them. “No, I didn’t think so.” He started packing again.

“As a matter of fact, we have a record of the call.”

“So I called a phone number. That’s all I did. I didn’t see it, now did I?”

Bambi grabbed his arm to stop his packing. “A young girl was murdered right there and you saw nothing?”

“I saw nothing.” He tried to pull his arm away. “Let me go. You Americans don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“Actually we do. We’re sanctioned through Scotland Yard, so start talking, jackass.”

He shook his head. “So like an American, arrogant and crass.”

Bambi stepped closer to him. “You want crass, I’ll give you crass when I shove my boot up your ass.”

“Oh, that was nice,” said Peyton. “I saw what you did there – the rhyming and all, very Shakespearean.”

“Thank you. I’ve been working on making my threats more colorful.”

“Well, I think you nailed it, girl. That one had real flare.”

“Fuck off, are you joking?” said the vendor.

Peyton held out a hand to him. “Now here’s something different about the British.”

“The fuck off?”

“Yeah, in America that would be an insult.”

Bambi glared at the man. “Well, I’m gonna say I’m not loving it in London either.” Reaching for her cuffs, she grabbed his wrist and yanked it behind his back.

“Okay, okay!” he shouted. “Let me go.”

Bambi released him.

He rubbed his shoulder and glared at her. “So I called for the ambulance. Doesn’t mean I saw anything. I heard the kid screaming, that’s all.”

Peyton looked toward the bridge. Quite a few people were crossing. It might be reasonable that he couldn’t see the middle, but Gordon had said there weren’t many people on the bridge at that time. “Do you know of any homeless men who hang out at the end, wearing a green army jacket, bushy black hair, beard?”

“You just described about half the homeless population, luv.”

“What about howling? Do you remember hearing a howl?”

He swallowed and his expression grew grim. “I remember the howling. Made my skin crawl.”

“Did you see who did the howling?” asked Bambi.

“I saw someone standing there, then he ran toward Bankside.” He pointed over the bridge. “The girl was already dead when I got there. He tore her throat out.”

“Her boyfriend said two other vendors responded. A painter and a peanut seller. Have you seen them?”

“The peanut guy hasn’t been back since the murder. The painter’s only here once in a while. I think he’s a student or something and just does it for extra money when he can. I haven’t seen him today.”

Bambi pulled out one of Caleb Abbott’s cards and passed it to the vendor. “If you remember anything else, call this number, okay?”

“Sure thing, luv. So, now that we’ve got the unpleasantness over, how’s about I buy you a pint?”

“I’m married,” said Bambi, glaring at him.

He gave Peyton a slow once-over. “What about you, cutie?”

Peyton shook her head and turned away. She and Bambi started walking for the bridge.

“Hey!” he called after them.

They turned and looked back.

“There was nothing I could do. It happened so fast, then the guy was gone.” He shrugged. “There was nothing I could do, but I keep seeing it. I keep remembering that howl and her lying there, her throat…” He shuddered and looked away. “I keep seeing it.”

Peyton nodded. “I know,” she said and then followed Bambi toward the other end of the bridge. Before they’d gotten halfway, her phone rang. She fished it out, but didn’t recognize the number. “Hold up,” she told Bambi as she pressed the screen.

Bambi paused and looked over the side, watching a passenger boat cross under the bridge on a tour of the Thames. Peyton held the phone to her ear.

“Special Agent Brooks?” she said.

“Agent Brooks, this is Paul Richmond from Senator Lange’s office.”

“Yes, Mr. Richmond.”

“You called about a week ago, asking me to search the senator’s records for a visit from a Lance-Corporal Daws.”

“Yes, Mr. Richmond, I remember.”

“I went through the records like you asked, but there’s no record of the Lance-Corporal ever being in this office, Agent Brooks. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Peyton clenched her fist and banged it softly on the rail. “Thanks, Mr. Richmond. I appreciate your time and effort.”

“Again sorry I couldn’t be of more help, Agent Brooks. Senator Lange wanted me to express his deepest condolences at the Lance-Corporal’s death, even though he’d never met him. Senator Lange is a great supporter of our military, you know?”

“So you’ve said.”

“Well, if there’s anything else I can do for you, Agent Brooks, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Richmond. I appreciate it.” The call disconnected and Bambi looked over.

“Bad news.”

“No news and with the way this day is going, yeah, it’s bad news.”

Bambi put an arm around her shoulders. “Well, let’s go try to find some homeless people, then how about I buy you that pint?”

“Won’t your husband be upset about that?”

Bambi laughed, tugging Peyton forward. “Don’t worry about it. We have an agreement that we can see other people.”

Peyton stumbled, giving Bambi a shocked look, but the other woman just laughed harder and pulled her along.

*    *    *

Marco left the precinct at 6:00. He’d gotten a text message from Peyton, but she hadn’t had time to video chat. He couldn’t hide his disappointment. He’d gotten used to their nightly video chats. It somehow made the day seem less long.

Reaching into his pocket for the key to the Charger, he came to a halt when Carol got out of a Beamer and started walking toward him.

“Carol, I can’t talk to you.”

“Just for a minute.”

“No, this isn’t a good idea.”

She stopped walking and he could see the disappointment on her face. “Brad’s not well, Marco.”

“I know that.”

“Why can’t you just make this go away? It was self-defense.”

“The law doesn’t work like that, Carol.” He continued walking to the Charger, pressing the button to unlock her.

“We’ve been in financial trouble for the last few years. I’ll sign a waiver or whatever for you to subpoena our records. We can’t really afford this lawyer.”

Marco hesitated and she rounded the Charger, stopping in front of him. “Please Marco, you’ve got to help us.”

“I’m doing my job, Carol. That’s all I can do for you, but I can tell you this is a really bad idea. If anyone sees us talking, it could be bad for both of us.”

“It was self-defense, Marco.” She laid her hand on his arm.

“How did the John Doe get in the house, Carol? He didn’t break in. Do you know who he is?”

She removed her hand. “We’ve been in financial trouble for years, Marco. We’re late on the payment for the house on Nob Hill. That’s why we were looking at paint swatches. We need to put it on the market.”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“He’s not well. He forgets things, he loses things. He forgot a grilled cheese sandwich on the stove once. Damn near burnt the whole house down. Might have been a blessing. Please look into the financials, Marco. You’ll see what I mean.”

“What does this have to do with the shooting?”

She took a step away from him. “Just look into the financials, please. For me, for old time’s sake.”

Then she turned and hurried across the parking lot to her car and got inside. Marco watched after her until she drove away, then he pulled out his phone and dialed Devan.

“What is it now, D’Angelo?” Devan snarled at him. “I’m elbow deep in poo.”

“Lovely image,” said Marco, sliding behind the wheel of the Charger and dragging his leg inside. “You know how happy it makes me to think of you in your thousand dollar suits, changing diapers, right?”

“My suits cost more than your monthly salary, D’Angelo, so yuck it up.”

“Carol Peterson ambushed me in the precinct parking lot.” He placed the key in the ignition and turned it. The Charger roared to life.

“You didn’t talk to her, did you?”

“Nothing more than to tell her I couldn’t talk to her. She said they were in money trouble and to pull their financial records. She said she’d agree to the subpoena.”

“Really? You think this’ll tell us who the John Doe is?”

“I think it’s a start. This case has more going on than we know, Adams. So will you get me the subpoena?”

“Yeah, I’ll get it. Did you get a hit on CODIS yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Okay, I’ll have the subpoena for you by morning. You want me to send it to Ryder or Cho?”

“Send it to both of them. Ryder’s the one who’ll look through it.”

“Got it. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to put more fuel into my bundle of joy so I can spend the rest of my time cleaning up what comes out the other end.”

“Bon appetit,” said Marco with a laugh.

“Ugh, D’Angelo, I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

Marco laughed again and disconnected the call.

*    *    *

Peyton slid onto the bench between Tank and Radar, watching the people file into the theatre. She was surprised when so many took up positions around the stage, sitting on the hard asphalt floor.

Bambi and Caleb Abbott halted below them and leaned on the wooden railing. “We’re going to be groundlings,” Bambi told Peyton, her eyes shining. “Wanna join us?”

Peyton gave her a bewildered look. “What are groundlings?”

“During the early 17th century, people who were too poor to afford a theatre ticket were allowed to view the production from the yard for a penny,” said Tank, pointing to the area filling before the stage. “They were usually packed in and smelled rather aromatically.”

“Stinkards they were called,” said Abbott with a laugh. “Lucky for us, the same doesn’t hold true today.” He winked at Bambi.

“The name groundling was first referenced in Hamlet, but scholars believe it comes from a small, gaped mouth fish. As you can imagine, the audience staring up at the performers with open mouths might appear to look like gaping fish,” continued Tank.

“You’re going to sit on the hard ground for the whole play?” asked Peyton.

“No, silly, we’re going to stand. Otherwise they can’t fit all the people in,” said Bambi. “Besides, standing is probably more comfortable than sitting on those hard benches without backs.”

Peyton eyed the growing crowd. She knew she’d never be able to stand the press of that many people around her.

“She’s gonna keep me company,” said Radar, giving Bambi a smile. “She said she’d translate for me.”

Peyton shot him a grateful look. They both knew why Peyton couldn’t accept Bambi’s invitation, but he clearly wasn’t going to announce it to everyone. Giving her a shrug, she watched Bambi and Caleb shove their way through the press of people to the very edge of the stage.

Nudging Tank with her shoulder, she whispered, “Help me out here. I never read Macbeth in school.”

“You’re going to be amazed. For me, this is probably his finest work. It has everything: intrigue, politics, supernatural elements, and the most complicated female character he ever devised. The basic premise is this, Macbeth and his wife, Lady Macbeth, want the crown of Scotland and they’ll do anything to get it, even kill.”

“Really?” She found herself mildly interested. Especially as dry ice began to leak out onto the stage from beneath the curtains. “Tell me more.”

Radar leaned in on her right side, listening as well.

“As the play opens, we see three witches conjuring a prophesy for Macbeth, and here’s where we get the famous lines, Fair is foul and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air.”

As Peyton listened to him, she realized she was already hooked.

CHAPTER 12

“The job is beyond simple,” said Cyril. “Most of it’s automated in the machines over there. All you have to do is hand out maps and point. Once in a while you might have to answer a remotely intelligent question.”

Charlie picked at his cuticles and nodded. He adjusted the cap on his head.

“If someone comes up to the window, say welcome to Charing Cross Station, where would you be going? They tell you and Bob’s your uncle, they’re off and running. It’s so easy, it’s mental, it is.” He patted Charlie hard on the back. “You’ll do fine.”

Charlie sank down on the stool and stared out at the station. He’d do fine. He’d do just fine. All he had to do was answer a few questions about the tube lines and no one knew those better than he did, and pass out maps. He could pass out maps.

“I’ll just be over there by the turnstiles if you need me, but you won’t. You’ll do fine.”

Charlie nodded. “By the turnstiles.”

“By the turnstiles.” Cyril backed from the booth and shut the door behind him.

Charlie picked at his cuticles some more and they began to bleed. Sticking his finger in his mouth, he looked up. Two older women were looking at the map posted on the wall next to his booth. He wondered if he should offer to help them, but Cyril had made it clear. Help when help was needed.

One of them glanced over and saw him watching. She pointed at him. He felt a flutter of panic as they came to the booth and gave him a smile. He smiled back.

“We’re headed to Wimbledon. Which line do we want?”

“Northern line,” he said, but she frowned at him. She couldn’t hear him through the bulletproof glass.

“What?”

He looked at the display, then remembered Cyril had told him to press the button when people wanted to talk. “You want the Northern line.” He grabbed a map and folded it open, sliding it into the opening beneath the glass. “Here,” he said, pointing with the edge of a pen.

“Oh, thank you, young man, we appreciate your help.”

He beamed a smile at her. It felt good to help someone, felt good to do something other than rattle around in hospital, going to group meetings, eating when told, being forced to take medication, although he was taking his medication. As long as he took his medication, Niles didn’t bother him, didn’t make suggestions. As long as he took the medication, Niles stayed away.

Sure, the medicine made his thoughts come slow and sometimes it made him shake, but not having Niles whisper in his ear was really something. And he could work. He liked working the tube lines. He liked feeling useful and no one knew the tube better than he did. No one understood it half as well.

Yes, things were finally beginning to change for him and maybe, if he was lucky, he’d eventually be able to move out on his own. He knew his mother and father would like that. He knew they would like to see him able to function the way they wanted. The way they’d always wanted. Maybe soon he’d show them.

*    *    *

“Before you say anything,” said Devan, holding up a hand as Marco entered his office, “look at the presents I brought you.”

Marco eyed him, then reached across the desk and lifted the two folded slips of paper. “Is this the subpoena for Peterson’s financial records?”

“And for his medical records. I already faxed it to Abe, so I expect you to go out there and get me some precinct tar to wake me up.”

“Hold on. Why the medical records and how did you get this so fast?”

“Jefferson Greene contacted me last night after you called. He thought both of those things might help you in your investigation.”

“What gives, Adams? I’ve never had a lawyer be so cooperative.”

“Apparently, you’re more likely to bounce this case if you see those records.”

Marco gave Devan a disbelieving look.

Devan shrugged. “I’m so sleep deprived, D’Angelo, that I’m not looking anything in the mouth.”

“Gift horse.”

“What?”

“That’s the saying.”

“Gift horse, gift ass, gift...shit!” He sat up straighter, his eyes going past Marco out of the office door.

Marco whipped around, his leg protesting. Lee stood in the doorway.

“Good morning, Captain D’Angelo. Sure is a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

Marco was fighting the throbbing in his leg, so he didn’t immediately answer.

“I was just wondering if you and your guest would like a cup of coffee. I found a very nice blend in the break room and a grinder in the cupboard. I thought I’d make a fresh pot.”

Marco pulled his phone out of his suit pocket and glanced at the display. 8:00AM. Carly had never once made 8:00AM in her life. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

Devan still stared, so Marco knocked him in the shin with his cane. He snapped his mouth shut and bent over to rub it. Lee smiled so broadly, his eyes disappeared, then he turned to go.

“Lee?”

“Yes, sir.”

Marco motioned to Devan. “This is ADA Adams. You’ll probably be seeing a lot of him. He likes to sleep in that chair.”

Lee frowned, but he accepted Devan’s hand when he rose and extended it. “I see. Good to know.”

“New baby,” Devan offered by way of explanation.

“Ah, got ya. I’ve been there three times.”

“So you have kids?” asked Devan.

“Three sons – four, six and eight. We like even years.”

Marco and Devan laughed uncomfortably. Marco couldn’t even imagine the sort of woman who’d be able to birth sons for this man.

“I’ll just get that coffee. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Could you ask Jake to meet me in the conference room with his tablet when he gets in?”

“Done.” Lee disappeared out the door.

Marco and Devan exchanged a look, then Devan smoothed his hands down his jacket.

“So, that’s…”

“My new assistant.”

“Right. From Betty Crocker to a mountain, why the hell not?”

“He’s already a thousand times better than Carly.”

“I agree. Besides, someone as pretty as you, D’Angelo, probably needs a bodyguard.” He slapped Marco roughly on the shoulder. “Let me know what you find in the files.”

Not bothering to get comfortable, Marco walked across to the conference room, turning on the light. Lee appeared a moment later with a fresh cup of coffee and not long after him came Jake, carrying his tablet.

“I heard we got Peterson’s financial records already,” said Jake.

“Yeah. His lawyer’s being a bit too cooperative. There’s definitely something in there. Yesterday, Carol told me they were behind in their mortgage.”

“Wait. When did you see her?”

“She was waiting for me in the parking lot.”

Jake gave him a questioning look as he began working through the process of pulling up Peterson’s records. Marco sipped at his coffee and watched him as Jake talked on the phone to the bank. In the middle of it, Cho and Simons entered.

“We just went to talk to Peterson’s neighbors.”

“And? Why didn’t we do this before?”

“They weren’t home at the time, so we left our card, but they both just recently called to check in,” said Cho, leaning on the table. “No one heard the shots or saw the ambulance come. They didn’t know anything had happened until they saw it on the news.”

“Wonderful.”

“Well, one of them remembered a strange car parked in the driveway a number of times recently.”

“A black Mercedes with tinted windows,” said Simons, leaning against the wall.

“Go on.”

“Once the car blocked in the neighbor to the left, so he took down the license plate number.” Cho pulled it out of his pocket. “We’ll run it to see if we get any hits.”

“Great work,” said Marco. “We’re running Peterson’s financials. Check back with us as soon as you run the plates.”

“Done.” They left the room as Jake disconnected his call.

“We’re in,” he told Marco.

Marco leaned forward, watching Jake mess with the tablet.

“So Carol met you in the parking lot?”

“She wanted me to bounce the case.”

“Is that all she wanted?” Jake continued to click, shooting a sideways look at Marco.

Marco fought his annoyance. Jake Ryder knew every way in the world to get under his skin and he enjoyed doing it. “I didn’t ask.”

“Hm.”

“What? What’s the hm for?”

“Nothing, just she’s an attractive woman and you have history.”

Marco leaned forward. “Let me ask you something, Ryder. Do you think I’d risk what I have with Peyton for any other woman, any other woman in the world?” He held up a finger when Jake started to answer. “And before you spout off more of your bull shit, I want your honest answer to that.”

Jake lowered the tablet. “No, Adonis, I don’t think you’d do anything to risk what you have with Peyton. In fact, I think you’d do anything to undo the damage you’ve done and that’s my honest opinion.”

Marco leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee, taking a sip. He wasn’t going to deny or confirm Jake’s thoughts, but they both knew Jake had nailed it. Jake went back to looking at the tablet.

“Only one of their joint accounts is in Peterson’s name.”

“What? What accounts are you looking at then?”

“No, I mean they’re all in Carol’s name. They were transferred into her name about seven months ago.”

“Is he on the accounts?”

“No.”

“How much money’s in them?”

“Not as much as you’d think.”

“Then they’re hiding accounts off-shore or something?”

“I don’t know about that, but everything they have at this bank is here and it’s all in her name with the exception of one. He has a checking account and twice a month she automatically transfers $5,000 into it.”

“Wait. What?”

Jake thought for a moment, then he frowned at Marco. “It’s like he’s on an allowance.”

“How much is in his account?”

“Couple hundred. He takes cash withdrawals almost immediately once the money gets in there.”

“Cash. He carries $5,000 around with him on a regular basis?”

“Looks like it.”

Marco ran his thumb over the writing on his mug. It read there’s no such thing as too much chocolate. He immediately thought of Peyton, then forced himself to focus. “Drugs?”

“Could be.”

Simons and Cho stepped into the conference room. “The Mercedes belongs to Eduard Zonov.”

“Priors?” Marco asked.

“Assault and battery, one count of racketeering, and illegal gambling.”

“I’ll bet he’s a bookie,” said Simons.

“Bingo.” Marco snapped his fingers. “Don’t care how many millions you have, you can go through them but quick if you’re gambling.”

“What did you find?” Simons asked Jake.

As Jake filled them in, Marco’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw a text message from Abe.

A set of interesting medical records suddenly landed on my doorstep. Cho and Simons want to come out here or should I leave my dungeon and come to you?

Marco texted back. Can you come to us? We’re working another angle right now.

Does Jakey have any of that wonderful coffee brewing?

Yeah, we’ve got a full pot. We’re set up in the conference room.

I want lunch, Angel. Just you and me at Tekka on Balboa after we’re done.

Marco sighed.

“Something wrong?” asked Jake.

“Abe found something in Peterson’s medical records and he’s on his way over.”

Jake grinned. “What do you have to give him?”

“Lunch. Just the two of us.”

“I’d say that’s an even trade,” said Cho.

“Agreed,” answered Simons.

Marco picked up the phone. Fine, he texted and shoved the phone in his pocket again.

*    *    *

Peyton sipped at her coffee and watched the Londoners moving about Pret, buying lunch, getting tea, or just sitting around talking. The variety of British accents was astonishing. She didn’t have them all down, but she was beginning to recognize distinct ones.

Tank came over and took a seat on the butcher block stool across from her. “How’d you like the play last night?”

Peyton smiled. “So much better than I thought I would. I actually understood it. I mean not every word, but I got the basic premise pretty clearly. And some of the humor. That surprised me.”

“Pretty neat, right? Macbeth was written in 1606, that’s over 400 years ago, and yet it still holds true. We’ve seen some of the human condition he writes about ourselves in this business. Ambition drives people to do horrible things.”

“The woman who played Lady Macbeth gave me chills, especially during that out, damned spot scene. She really seemed mad. And Macbeth’s solilo…solilowhatever.”

“Soliloquy.”

“Yeah, after she dies. That got to me.”

Tank tilted up his head and struck a dignified pose.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

Peyton felt a chill shiver over her and the two women at the next table gave Tank polite applause, smiling.

“How do you know that by heart?”

“It’s my favorite soliloquy.”

“Mine too.”

Her phone buzzed and she fished it out. She didn’t recognize the number, but the message was clear. Dig deeper. She opened the text and a picture loaded of a man she vaguely recognized, sitting with a soldier in a uniform. She was fairly sure she recognized the soldier too. Sucking in a breath, she set her coffee down and enlarged the image on her screen.

“Tank?”

He looked up at her.

“Is this Senator Lange?” She held the phone out to him and he took it.

“Um, hold on.” Reaching for his own phone, he punched something into it, then pressed the screen and held it out to her. “Looks like the same man, doesn’t it?”

She studied the official senate portrait from his website, then looked at the picture on her display. Same widow’s peak, same artificial black hair, same hooked nose. “And the man with him? Do you recognize him?”

Tank studied the picture a few seconds, then his eyes rose to hers. “That’s Lance-Corporal Daws.”

Peyton clenched her jaw. “His assistant, Paul Richmond, told me he had no record of the senator ever meeting Daws.”

“Do you know who sent the picture?”

“I don’t recognize the number.”

“Respond and ask who it is.”

Peyton did as he asked, but she was fairly certain that wouldn’t get them anything. As she thought, she got no response and they waited a full five minutes.

“Can I use your phone?”

She nodded and he took it, messing with something. “What are you doing?”

“Sending it to our forensics team to see if they can trace the number.”

Peyton looked up as Caleb Abbott entered Pret, followed by Radar and Bambi. Radar detoured for coffee, but Caleb and Bambi came to the table.

“Good morning, Agents. How are you this beautiful London morning?” he said.

Peyton forced a smile. “Fine. And you?” She gave Bambi a pointed look. Her roommate hadn’t come home until 5:00 this morning.

“Wonderful.” He had the grace to blush, but Bambi didn’t. “I have good news. We may have gotten a break in the case.”

Peyton sat up straighter. “Why didn’t you say that before?”

“Well…” He gave a careless shrug. Peyton chalked it up to British manners. Americans didn’t bother with niceties when there was information to impart. “A man is coming into Scotland Yard today. He saw the news reports on our killings and feels like he might recognize the suspect in the picture Gordon Bell took.”

Peyton grabbed her phone and coffee, rising to her feet. “Let’s go.”

Radar approached them and passed Bambi a paper cup, sipping at his own. “For the love of God, Sparky, let a man get a bolus of caffeine in him before you start bouncing like a terrier with a bone.”

Peyton glared at him, but Caleb laughed. “My chariot awaits,” he said, motioning to the door.

They went out into the foggy London morning. The air was crisp, but not cold, and Peyton knew that by the end of the day, the sun would make a welcome appearance. As they walked to Caleb’s car, Peyton tugged on Tank’s sleeve. “Let’s just keep this between us until we hear back from forensics. I don’t want a lecture about not focusing on our current case right now.”

“Got it,” Tank said.

The witness was waiting for them when they arrived at Scotland Yard. Neil, Caleb’s assistant, had him sequestered in a glass room behind the cubicles. Radar surveyed him through the glass, then turned to face his team.

“Bambi and Tank, go check the perfume vendor for priors and add Trish Lyttle to the mix from St. Mungo’s. Can Neil help them?” he asked Caleb.

“He’s at your disposal.”

“Sparky, you’re with me.” He walked to the door and pushed it open. Peyton and Caleb followed him inside as Tank and Bambi went off with Neil. Radar held out his hand to the man. “I’m Special Agent Carlos Moreno on assignment here from San Francisco. You are?”

“Cyril Carlisle.” He wore a navy blue uniform with a navy blue cap that he wrung in his hands. The uniform sported the white and red Mind the Gap warning on the sleeves. He had a thinning head of light brown hair and crooked teeth. His lips struggled to contain his bite.

Radar sat down, motioning Peyton beside him.

Caleb shook hands with Carlisle. “I’m pleased to meet you. Inspector Caleb Abbott of Scotland Yard. I appreciate you coming in today.”

Carlisle twisted the cap in his hands. “I keep seeing the news reports about the murders and it’s messing with my head. I’ve worked the tube lines for seven years now.”

“I understand,” said Abbott. “I was told you might recognize our suspect.”

“I’m not exactly sure, but I thought it might help, so I came in.”

“Whatever you have for us, Mr. Carlisle, will be appreciated?”

He glanced at Peyton. She wasn’t sure why she was here, but Radar wanted her in on the questioning.

“I don’t want to get in trouble, you know? That wouldn’t be good now, would it?”

“How would you get into trouble, Mr. Carlisle?”

“I’m not sure I recognize the bloke. What if I’m wrong? What if I tell you it’s someone and it isn’t him?”

“Mistakes happen, but any information you can give us will help.”

“No.” He rose to his feet, his cap a twisted wad in his hands. “This is definitely a mistake.”

Peyton could see Caleb was trying hard not to lose his patience. Even the British had a limit where that was concerned and they just weren’t getting many breaks in this case. Radar huffed and Caleb sat back, clearly annoyed.

Peyton held up a hand. “Mr. Carlisle, I’m Special Agent Peyton Brooks from the FBI.”

He hesitated and met her gaze.

“Mr. Carlisle, I appreciate that you don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but actually you might be helping this man. Maybe he isn’t our suspect, but someone else might think the same thing you did.”

He leaned forward a little, twisting the cap. “I just can’t believe Charlie would do this.”

“I understand, but here’s what I mean. You’re the second person to say it might be Charlie. Now, if the wrong person makes the same connection that you and our other witness have, Charlie could be in danger.”

Carlisle pursed his lips, then took his seat again. Caleb rose and poured him a glass of water from a pitcher that sat on the credenza against the side wall. He carried it to him and slid it within his reach.

“How do you know Charlie, Mr. Carlisle?” asked Caleb.

Carlisle’s wide green eyes passed between them. Peyton noticed the smattering of freckles on the bridge of his nose. He had high cheekbones and a narrow chin. “Charlie worked with me at Charing Cross Station about three years ago. He worked the booth, giving information, maps and stuff, helping people work the ticket machine.”

Peyton nodded. “Does he still work there?”

“No, there was some sort of an incident and he was sacked. I don’t know what it was. I wasn’t there when it happened, but it wasn’t a big thing. Still, they can’t have employees going off on customers, now can they?”

“Right. Why do you think our suspect is the same man?” said Caleb.

Carlisle thought for a moment, sucking at his front teeth. “He looks like Charlie. I mean Charlie tried to stay clean-cut for a while, but he couldn’t go half a day without his beard coming in and his hair always looked like a rat’s nest. Still, he was a good guy. I mean, I didn’t think anything of it.”

“Of what?”

“He got the job through the DWP.”

Peyton and Radar looked to Caleb for explanation.

“The Department of Work and Pensions,” Caleb said.

“They asked me to train him, keep an eye on him, sort of like his supervisor. He was a nice guy. We talked a little. He was hoping to make his parents proud. Move out on his own.”

“So he’d had trouble before coming to work there?” pressed Peyton.

Carlisle’s eyes shifted to Caleb. “He was a patient at Broadmoor for many years.”

Caleb sat back in his chair.

“Broadmoor?” asked Radar.

Caleb never took his eyes off Carlisle. “It’s a high-security psychiatric hospital in Berkshire.”

“Do you know what he was treated for?” asked Peyton.

“He never said.”

“Can we get his records from Broadmoor?” Radar asked Caleb.

“I’ll work on it.”

“Mr. Carlisle,” said Peyton. “Do you remember Charlie’s last name?”

“Haversham or Hollersham or something, but that was three years ago, now wasn’t it?” He paused considering. “Yes, it was.”

“Did Charlie have any friends?”

“Friends? No, Charlie didn’t socialize well.”

“What about a man named Niles?” asked Radar. “Do you ever remember him talking about a man named Niles?”

“No.” Carlisle shook his head. “We talked about the trains. That’s mostly what we talked about. Charlie loved the trains.”

Caleb pulled a notebook out of his pocket and passed it and a pen over to Carlisle. “Will you write down your contact information for me, mate? We might have more questions.”

Carlisle took it, but he hesitated before he wrote. “Charlie wouldn’t do those things that guy did. He wouldn’t hurt anybody. He was the sweetest, kindest man I’ve ever known.”

Caleb exchanged a look with Peyton and Radar. People weren’t always who you thought they were. Sometimes you entered a person’s house as a guest and they murdered you in your sleep. Macbeth had taught her that, if nothing else.

*    *    *

Marco usually heard Abe before he saw him, and seeing him was a whole different experience. He and Jake had been going through the Peterson financial records for hours, while Cho and Simons tried to run down the whereabouts of Eduard Zonov, Peterson’s bookie.

He knew they were going to have to bring the Petersons in again, but he wanted as much ammunition as he could get before he did it. Abe’s voice carried through the door, distracting both of them.

“So, you’re the new Carly?”

“The new Carly?” asked Lee.

“The assistant. Carly was the last one. She left to become the next Hostess cupcake or something.”

“I see. Yeah, I’m the new Carly.”

“Well, let me tell you she had better legs and dude, you wouldn’t think I’d know something like that because I’m gay.” His laughter floated into the room.

Beside Marco, Jake chuckled. Marco glared at him, but he knew it did no good.

“I wouldn’t know, I never met her.”

“Well, brother, the girl also had some bazongas on her, but she didn’t know how to answer the phone.” His voice lowered so only half of San Francisco could hear. “I think she did it on purpose, you know? Pretend she couldn’t work the phones. So what are you anyway? Samoan, Hawaiian?”

Jake gave Marco a frank look. “How long are you going to let Lee hang out there before you rescue him?”

“I want to see how he handles Abe. If he can handle Abe, he can handle damn near anything.”

Jake’s expression remained disapproving.

“So are you straight? I mean I’d love it if someone as big as you was gay, ‘cause let me tell you, brother, it wouldn’t hurt us to have some butch on our side and…”

“Damn it,” Marco muttered and pushed himself to his feet, but before he could rescue Lee, Lee rescued himself.

“Was there something I could help you with?”

“I’m here to drop some information on your hunky captain. Is he in his office?”

“Conference room,” said Lee. “Can I see some ID?”

Marco couldn’t hide his smile. He was sure Carly had never asked for it even once.

“Oh, I like that. That’s good. My angel needs someone watching his back. You know he got slammed into the counter by a perp one time and the next time someone held a gun to Jakey’s head.”

“That’s fine. Thank you, Dr. Jefferson. You can go in,” said Lee interrupting him.

“Dr. Jefferson, that’s so nice. I’m going to have to demand more people call me that. I like it. Dr. Jefferson.” He appeared in the conference room door, still talking to Lee. Marco frowned to see Pickles in his arms. Turning into the room, he beamed a smile at both of them. “Good morning, darlin’s.” In his other hand, he carried a small cooler.

Marco’s frowned deepened. Abe was wearing a long-sleeved button-up shirt awash in colors. Squinting, he felt sure the colors created a familiar pattern, but he couldn’t place it.

“Nice threads,” said Jake. “Parrots, huh?”

“It’s delightful, isn’t it? It’s from my animal collection. Thank you for noticing, Jakey.” He gave Marco an arch look.

Marco saw it now. Hundreds of parrots created a geometric pattern, overlaying each other like puzzle pieces. He could almost imagine the crazy-ass store where Abe bought his clothes.

“By the way, where’s my coffee?”

“Coming right up.” Jake jumped to his feet and hurried out of the room.

“What’s Pickles doing here?”

“He’s depressed,” said Abe, setting down the cooler and removing a folder from under the arm that held Pickles.

“He’s a dog.”

“And your point?”

“Dogs don’t get depressed.”

“I disagree. Dogs have every emotion that humans do and this dog is depressed. He misses Peyton.”

He wasn’t the only one, thought Marco. “Why is he here?”

“Because I can’t keep him in a morgue. That would give the little guy nightmares. You’re going to have to keep him here.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Abe, this is my place of work.”

“Did you think I’d forgotten that, Angel? I think he needs to go home for a bit, smell Peyton’s clothes. You know, get back into his element. I was hoping you’d take him by there tonight after you’re done.”

“Fine. I’ll just stay at her place tonight. It’s closer to the precinct anyway.”

“Aw,” said Abe, getting a stupid look on his face. “You’re missing her too.”

Marco wasn’t touching that. “Go put him in my office while we meet.”

Abe hugged him closer. “I will not. The poor thing’s depressed and you want to banish him. He stays with us.” He held the dog out to Marco. “What would Peyton want you to do?”

Marco fought his annoyance and took the dog, settling him on the chair next to him. Pickles gave him a sad look from his big brown eyes. While Abe messed with his file, Marco reached over and stroked the dog’s head.

Of course, Jake returned at that moment and caught him. He gave Marco a grin as he passed Abe his coffee.

“Thank you so much, Jakey. Is this the French blend or the Moroccan?”

“I can’t find the Moroccan anymore. This is a Brazilian dark roast.”

“Can we please get back to the case?” snapped Marco.

Abe and Jake exchanged knowing looks. Marco refused to take the bait. He didn’t care what silent communication passed between them. He wasn’t biting.

Abe feigned a businesslike demeanor, except with Abe, it was usually real. “So I received Bradley Peterson’s medical records this morning. Very interesting reading. Did you know he’s suffering from Parkinson’s?”

“Yes.”

“You did? Well, sometimes brain trauma can bring on Parkinson’s in people who’re predisposed to get it.” He sat down at the head of the table. “Brad Peterson’s brain is hamburger.”

“What does that mean?”

“He has significant damage to the temporal lobe. This part of the brain controls memories and emotion, so damage to this part of the brain, in particular the amygdala, could cause an excessive fear response that might make him view a stranger in his home as an intruder.”

“So he could have invited the John Doe into the house, then forgotten he did and gotten scared when he saw him?”

“It’s a reasonable scenario.”

“But Carol was there. Surely she would have told him he invited the man into their house.”

“Are we sure she was there when the shooting happened?” asked Jake. “That might account for the discrepancy between when the 911 call went out and Abe’s time of death.”

“Why wouldn’t she just tell us that?”

Jake shrugged.

“There’s more,” said Abe. “He also has damage to the frontal lobe.”

“Which does what?”

“Frontal lobe damage increases impulsivity. This is the part of the brain we use to decide whether we should do something or not. It’s responsible for addictive behaviors. Alcoholism…” He paused and shifted uncomfortably. “Drug addiction, sex, risk taking behaviors.”

“Gambling?”

“Exactly.”

“How does this point to self-defense? None of this suggest he was defending himself when he shot the John Doe.”

“If he thought he was threatened? If he forgot who the John Doe was and panicked?” Abe drew a breath and released it. “If I was asked to testify on his behalf based on these medical records, I’d have to say I have probable cause to doubt his intent, or his ability to reason the situation as a normal person might.”

“And that’s all a good attorney like Greene would need – reasonable doubt,” said Jake.

Marco considered it for a moment.

“What should we do, Adonis? Bounce the case?”

“No.” Marco studied Abe’s face. “No, we’re not going to bounce it. We don’t even have an identity on the John Doe yet. And I still can’t work out Carol’s involvement. If she wasn’t there when the shooting happened, why didn’t she just say she wasn’t there? There’s still a 30 minute discrepancy between the shooting and the 911 call we can’t explain. I need more.”

“Well.” Abe clapped his hands. “Since my work is done, it’s time for my lunch date.”

Marco realized he had an out. “We can’t go to Tekka with Pickles. Guess we’ll have to put it off until Peyton comes home.”

Abe shook his finger at him. “Nice try, Angel, but I thought of that already. I brought lunch to us.” He patted the cooler.

Jake lowered his head, but not before Marco caught his damn grin.

“I’ll go get us some plates and napkins then.” He reached for his cane, smacking it against Jake’s shin as he rose.

“Ow!” Jake protested, rubbing his leg.

“Sorry,” said Marco, giving him a grin of his own.

*    *   *

Caleb set a massive pint in front of Peyton and took a seat on the barstool next to Bambi. “I put in for a subpoena for Broadmoor’s records on anyone with the first name Charles or Charlie and a last name with the initial H. We should hear by morning.”

Radar reached for his pint and held it up. “Here’s to getting some traction on this case.”

Everyone touched their glasses to his.

“If we find Charlie, what then?” asked Peyton.

“We’ll know his diagnosis and any other pertinent information, perhaps his friends and family,” answered Caleb, “but enough about that. You Americans focus on work too much.”

Peyton knew Caleb wasn’t criticizing them. He was just as focused as they were. He’d expressed a number of times that he couldn’t stand the thought of telling another father his daughter was dead. He’d revealed that he had a daughter of his own, seven years old, living in the north with her mother. He told them he couldn’t see any of these dead girls without thinking of her, but when the day ended, Caleb knew how to put it aside and enjoy life.

It wasn’t a bad philosophy.

Peyton picked up her beer and took a sip, looking over as a group of people at the bar sent up a wild cheer. Above them the flat screen television showed a soccer game. Peyton had no idea who was playing, but whoever it was, the patrons in the bar were happy about it.

She reached for her phone and looked at the display. 8:00PM meant it was noon in San Francisco. Excusing herself, she moved into a quiet corner and climbed on the barstool, leaning back against a wooden partition as she placed the call for Marco.

He connected almost immediately. She recognized the painting on the wall behind him, a photo of the Golden Gate in dense fog.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hey. Why are you in the conference room?”

“We’re working a case. Actually, we just finished with lunch.”

Abe appeared over his shoulder, smiling at her. “We had a lunch date, my little soul sista. I brought the food.”

“Hey, Abe.”

“Hey, little one, how are you?”

“Good.”

The phone tilted until Marco was no longer visible. “Are you in a pub?”

“Yeah. We’re having a pint, eating fish and chips, and watching soccer.”

“Uh oh, they’re converting you.”

“Converting me to what?”

He leaned closer to the phone. “Walk away, Peyton, walk away. I think I detect a hint of a British accent.”

Peyton laughed. “Can I talk to my guy, Abe?”

“Look who’s here with me.” He held Pickles up to the screen.

“Why is Pickles at the precinct?”

“He wanted to see it.”

Peyton frowned. “Is everything all right with my dog?”

“Of course. He’s doing great.”

The phone shook and Marco’s face came back into the screen. “Give me a second, sweetheart. I’m going to my office.”

“Hey, Peyton,” came Jake’s voice, but Peyton couldn’t see him.

“Hey, Jake.”

She watched as Marco moved out of the conference room and to his office, closing the door behind him and taking a seat in one of the armchairs across from his desk.

He gave her a sigh. “That’s better.”

“Is Pickles all right?”

“He’s fine. Abe just makes shit up.”

“Why’d he bring him to the precinct?”

“He thinks he misses you.”

Peyton felt tears sting her eyes. She missed Pickles, and she especially missed Marco. This case didn’t seem to be winding up anytime soon. As much as she loved London, she wanted to go home.

“If it’s okay with you, I thought I’d spend the night at your place tonight. Let Pickles have a night at home.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that to start with. You’re welcome to stay there.”

He smiled. “So how’s the case coming?”

She braced her chin with a hand. “Frustrating. Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. What?”

“Macbeth.”

“Macbeth?”

“The Shakespearean play. We saw it last night. It really got to me.” Peyton leaned her head back against the wall and started telling Marco about Macbeth, and the more she talked the more her loneliness eased.

*    *    *

Marco took a seat in his usual spot between Barb and Kurt. The younger man gave him a glance from the corner of the eyes, but Barb reached over and patted his shoulder. He offered her a smile, then focused on Tricia, the group leader.

“Welcome, everyone. So, would anyone like to begin group?”

Mitch shot a look around, then raised his hand. “I asked the landlord if I could paint my new apartment.”

“Good for you, Mitch,” said Tricia.

“It seemed like a more permanent move, you know, putting up some paint, giving it some of my personality.”

“Exactly.”

“I feel like I’m really starting to see myself separate from Brian. Like I’m a whole person.”

“That’s a huge step forward, Mitch. I’m so glad you’re making such good progress. It’s hard to move beyond a relationship that defined us in a way, even a negative way, but once you start realizing that you deserve to be treated better…”

“I want to hear about the priest,” interrupted Kurt.

Marco felt his shoulders stiffen involuntarily and he stared at his clasped hands.

“Tell me about the priest you shot.”

Marco’s eyes rose and met Tricia’s.

“You know that’s not the way we do things here, Kurt. Everyone shares only what they want to share.”

“Then talk about what it’s like getting shot. Do you remember it? Do you remember what it felt like?”

Marco closed his eyes.

“Kurt!” Tricia’s voice was sharp for the first time, but Marco held up a hand. He knew the kid wasn’t trying to be provocative. He really wanted...needed to know. Marco just didn’t know if he could talk about it.

He drew a deep breath and felt Barb’s hand on his shoulder. The gentle pressure bolstered him and he shifted toward the kid. “I have a hard time remembering it.” He felt a prickle of sweat bead his upper lip and he wiped it away. “I remember walking into the warehouse and I remember hearing voices. And I remember…” His voice failed him. He still woke in a cold sweat at night, still saw Chuck Wilson with his gun pointed at Peyton’s head, telling her to end it with him.

“Marco, you don’t have to do this.”

He rubbed his hands on his thighs and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it, then slowly releasing. “I remember him...the serial killer...holding a gun on Peyton. He wanted her to die with him. Suicide/murder pact.” He swallowed hard and Kurt’s eyes lifted to his.

“Do you remember the bullet hitting you?”

“I’m not sure. I remember this blazing pain and landing on my back. I remember looking up at the rafters or beams or whatever they were and I remember wondering where my gun was. I remember thinking I had to get my gun.”

“Did you think you were going to die?”

Marco shook his head, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know, Kurt. I don’t know if I thought I was going to die, but the last thing I remember is Peyton begging me…”

“Begging you?”

“Not to leave her. And I thought…” He ran a hand over his forehead, wiping the sweat away.

“What? What did you think?”

Marco met his gaze, saw the desperation there, and he couldn’t answer. He shook his head. “I...I don’t know. I don’t know what I thought.”

Barb’s fingers tightened on his shoulder. “That’s enough, Kurt.” She turned to Tricia. “Call a break.”

“Yeah,” said Tricia a little breathlessly. “Let’s take a five minute break. Get some refreshments.”

Kurt stared at him for a moment, but he couldn’t meet his gaze, then the kid rose suddenly and walked over to the refreshment table, followed by Mitch and Linda. Rodney shifted uncomfortably and Barb gave his shoulder a final squeeze before heading toward the restroom.

Tricia came over and sat down in Kurt’s vacated chair. “I’m sorry, Marco.”

He shook his head, shrugging.

“He shouldn’t have pushed like that.”

“It’s fine.”

Tricia curled her fingers over his fist. He didn’t even realize he made fists until then. “What did you think at that moment, Marco?”

He looked up at her.

“When Peyton begged you not to leave her?”

Marco let out a shivery pant. “I thought I didn’t want to go.”

The meeting didn’t last much longer. No one seemed willing to open themselves up after that. Linda talked about looking at cats in the shelter, but explained that none connected with her the way Bob had. Barb mentioned she’d started a painting class to fill the time, but each topic stayed on the surface, remained shallow.

Finally Tricia wrapped things up and released them. Marco half expected Kurt to ambush him on the way out, but as soon as Tricia said the meeting was over, he jumped to his feet and scuttled out as if his clothes were on fire.

By the time Marco got to the Charger, his leg blazed with agony and missing Peyton was almost a physical ache in his gut. He admitted to himself that he desperately wanted a drink, but he dragged his battered body into the car and drove to Peyton’s house instead.

Pickles greeted him joyously when he opened Peyton’s door and he leaned over to pick the little dog up, groaning as the motion jarred his leg. Setting Pickles on the couch, he removed his suit jacket and gun, dropping both on the sofa table where she left her things. He added his keys and badge, but when he went to place his wallet beside the other things, he missed and the wallet fell under the table.

His reluctance to drag it out, even with his cane, and bend over to pick it up told him more about his state of mind than anything else, so he left it where it lay. He’d be in better spirits tomorrow when bending over to retrieve something wouldn’t have him grabbing a shot of Jack just so he could accomplish it.

Scooping Pickles off the couch, he limped into Peyton’s bedroom and dropped down on the bed, breathing deeply and trying to fill his lungs with her scent. A few minutes later, he fell asleep without removing the rest of his clothing.

CHAPTER 13

Charlie scrubbed his hands on his thighs and approached the counter. The bobbies hurried back and forth, radios crackling and people shouting to each other. The chaos confused him and made him want to run, but he had to do something. He had to stop Niles.

“Excuse me.”

“Just a minute, mate,” said a portly man, only half glancing at him.

Charlie was used to this. People rarely saw him, remembered him when they did. They had this way of looking past him, over him as if he were invisible. That was how Niles operated. How Niles managed to do what he did. No one saw him. No one noticed. Until he howled.

“Excuse me,” he said to a woman in uniform moving past the counter.

She waved to him and continued on her way, not once making eye contact.

Two men in delivery uniforms entered the outer glass doors and came to the counter, ringing a bell. They carried a number of packages between them. They shouldered him aside, so they could set the packages on the counter.

“Watch yourself,” said one of them, reaching for the bell on the counter. A young male officer came to the counter and greeted them, taking the stylus the second guy offered and scrawling on an electronic clipboard.

“Packing slip?” he asked, tilting up his chin to read the packages.

The second guy opened the clipboard and took a pink slip of paper out, passing it to the officer, then they left, stepping around Charlie without so much as begging his pardon. He stood on tiptoes, trying to see past the counter, but the boxes blocked a good portion of his view.

“Excuse me!” he tried louder, but no one noticed.

Feeling panic edge up inside of him, he backed to the door, then grabbed the handle and went out, hurrying into the street. He knew he should stay away from the tube, but the dark platforms called to him. He could be invisible there and no one would care. If he did a really good job, he could hide so well that Niles wouldn’t find him.

He pushed his way through the early morning crowd, found the closest tube station and hurried down the stairs. Pressing up close behind a man in a business suit, he slipped through as the man used his Oyster card. He was so quick, he only felt a slight pressure as the barricade pressed in on either side, trying to stop him from doing exactly what he was doing.

He followed the crowd down to the platform, then moved along the wall, slipping into the alcove of the maintenance closet and sliding down until he sat on the cool metal of the floor. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, trying to still the frantic pounding of his heart. He’d tried to do the right thing, but it hadn’t worked. Now all he had to do was stay hidden and everything would be all right.

Keeping his eyes closed, he listened to the trains come and go, the people getting on and off. Gradually the traffic slowed as the morning drifted toward 10:00. If he could make it past 10:00, he would probably be all right.

He heard the footsteps and he curled in on himself, praying it was a security guard or a maintenance worker. Then he felt the hot breath on his neck and heard the voice, whispering so close to his ear.

There you are. Hiding? From me?

“Please go away.” He fisted his hands and covered his ears with them.

You know I don’t like it when you hide. Come on. It’s time to go hunting.

“No, no more.”

See the girl. She’s panting. She’s late. She missed her train. Look at her pacing.

“Please leave her alone.” Charlie opened his eyes and peeked out from beneath his arm. He could see the girl in the skirt, silk stockings, high-heeled pumps, pacing on the platform, looking up at the sign. She hadn’t noticed them yet, not hidden as they were in the alcove.

Let’s have some fun.

“No. No more. No more. No more.” Charlie tapped his fists against his ears, closing his eyes again.

Fine. Then I’ll have fun by myself.

Charlie went still. He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t watch another one die. No matter what happened, he had to do something. He lurched to his feet and darted out of the alcove, startling her.

Her eyes whipped up to him and she saw him, really saw him.

“Run!” he growled at her. “Run!” Then he tipped back his head and howled.

*    *    *

“Charles or Charlie Howsham,” said Caleb, dropping a picture on the table in front of the Ghost Squad.

Radar leaned over and picked it up. “Charles Howsham?”

Peyton peered over Radar’s shoulder at the picture of the man with the slicked-back brown hair, wearing a grey utilitarian button-up shirt. He had brown eyes that looked worried and a gentle mouth that didn’t smile.

“When was this taken?” she asked.

“Three and a half years ago.”

“At Broadmoor?”

“Correct.”

“Do we know what he was being treated for?”

“I’ve served a subpoena for their records, but they’re citing confidentiality. The judge will be hearing it this afternoon, but we may not need it.”

“Why not?” asked Radar, dropping the picture on the table again.

“I found his parents. They live in Penshurst, about 45 minutes by tube just outside of Charing Cross Station.”

“Can we talk to them?” asked Bambi.

“I don’t think we should all converge on them at once,” said Caleb, giving Bambi a sultry wink.

She blushed and lowered her head.

Caleb continued, “I’ll definitely need to be there as a representative of Scotland Yard, but I’d like one of you to accompany me.”

Radar drummed his fingers on the table. “We haven’t located the peanut guy yet. I still want to talk to him. He was the closest witness on the bridge when Cooper died.”

“Bambi and I can go back out and canvas the area. The Burroughs Market is open today, so there’s likely going to be a lot of vendors plying their trade,” said Tank. “We might get lucky and find him there.”

“Good thinking,” said Caleb. “Which means you, Radar, and Agent Brooks are with me.”

“Do you need to contact the parents before we show up on their doorstep?”

“I think it’s best if we don’t give them warning. The element of surprise might just work for us better than anything else has.”

“Then let’s go.” Radar pushed himself to his feet.

As Peyton rose to follow him, Tank reached for his phone and pulled it out, frowning at the display. Peyton watched him, wondering if it had anything to do with the picture she’d been sent the day before. Jerking his head toward the door, Tank walked into the hallway.

“Radar, I’ll meet you in the parking lot. I’ve just got to go to the restroom,” she said.

Radar lifted his hand, but didn’t respond, following Caleb out of the room. Peyton waited until they’d gone, then she hurried after Tank. He was waiting at the end of the hall for her, his phone pressed to his ear.

“Okay, thanks. Yeah, whatever you can find. Yes, send it to me or Agent Brooks. I appreciate it.” He hung up and slipped his phone into his jacket pocket. “That was Forensics.”

“The phone number?”

Tank nodded. “It came from a burner cell.”

Peyton felt disappointment slide over her. “Awesome.”

“They have the picture though and they’re going to try to research it, see if they can find a source.”

“It was a cell phone picture.”

“Yes, but someone may have posted it on a social media site or something. If they can trace it, we might be able to find out who took it.”

“It’s worth a shot, I guess.”

Tank shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got.”

“Do you think I should confront Lange’s assistant about the lie?”

“Not yet. Let’s play this close to the vest for now. The picture was sent from a burner cell. There’s a reason for that, Peyton. This case is starting to worry me and I’m not sure we know what we’ve gotten ourselves into.”

“Should we tell Radar?”

Tank looked down the hall. “You know what he’s going to say?”

“Focus on the live case first.”

“Exactly. Let’s find this werewolf, then regroup and see what we’ve got. If we both think it’s enough to bring Radar in, we will.”

“Hey!” came Bambi’s voice. She moved back into the hallway. “Are we going to the market or not?”

“Yeah,” said Tank. “Coming.” He gave Peyton a squeeze on her upper arm and moved past her, hurrying to Bambi’s side and disappearing around the corner.

Peyton reached for her cell phone and pulled up the picture again, studying it. Tank had a point. Clearly there was a hell of a lot more going on here than a depressed marine offing himself in a sleazy hotel room.

*    *    *

As Marco drove back to the precinct, his mind kept replaying the session with Dr. Ferguson. He usually felt frustrated with the time spent in the psychiatrist’s company, but today he just wished it was over. He wasn’t coming to any new conclusions about his situation and trying to get him to admit his feelings when he didn’t even know what they were felt voyeuristic.

“Tricia called me about the group meeting last night. She was concerned you were pushed too hard, too fast,” Dr. Ferguson had said, running his pen through his fingers. Today his rumpled suit was pinstriped, and double-breasted, circa 1970. In fact, Abe would say Ferguson’s fashions were so out, they were on the verge of being in again.

“I’m fine.”

Ferguson gave him that look. “I’m fine for you is code that you are not fine, Captain D’Angelo.”

Marco knew it didn’t do any good to dissemble when Ferguson thought he had a wedge he could force. “The kid asked some questions about the priest I killed, then wanted to know what it felt like to be shot.”

“And?”

“I had a hard time talking about it.” He paused and briefly met Ferguson’s gaze. “I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“He pushed you, didn’t he?”

“Yeah. He’s struggling and for some reason he’s identified with me. He wanted to know what I remembered, but most of what I remember has to do with Peyton.”

“What specifically?”

Marco shook his head. “Why do we have to do this? Why do you have to open up the scab?”

“Because that’s exactly what it is – a scab. It needs to heal.”

Marco gave a bitter laugh. “Some things don’t heal, Dr. Ferguson. Like my memory of that day, my leg, even Peyton. She’ll always have PTSD because of that case. And Kurt Foster isn’t going to heal either.”

“Is he the young man?”

“Right.”

Ferguson spent a few seconds pondering that, watching Marco, the pen sliding between his fingers. “Did you drink last night?”

“No.”

“Did you want to drink last night?”

“Yes.”

“How did you avoid it?”

“I went to Peyton’s house and I fell asleep.”

“So, you felt that being near her would be a way to avoid your usual habit?”

“Sure.”

Now as Marco pulled the Charger into the precinct parking lot, set the brake, and turned off the ignition, he scrubbed his hands over his face as if that would banish the doctor from his head. Peyton always said Dr. Ferguson thought their minds were his playground. He was beginning to agree with her.

Grabbing his cane, he levered the door open and climbed out, grimacing as his leg took his weight. He was beginning to forget what it felt like not to calculate every single step he took from point A to point B. His days were obsessively filled with the desire to find the quickest route no matter where he went.

Limping into the precinct, he paused when he saw Lee at his desk. The huge man looked up and beamed a smile at Marco.

“Good morning, Captain. Can you believe the weather we’re having?”

Marco glanced out the door at the spring sunshine. He hadn’t even noticed it. “Yeah, it’s great.”

“I love coastal springs. You get a little cleansing morning fog and then by 10:00AM, the skies clear and it’s just beautiful.”

Just beautiful. Marco pushed open the half-door and moved toward his office.

“Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“No, you don’t need to do that.”

“I was going to get myself some, so I don’t mind.”

Marco hesitated. Lee definitely had Carly beat in almost every area so far. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.” He rose to his feet, surprisingly graceful for his massive size, and headed toward the break room.

Marco opened the door to his office and left it open. He’d planned an open door policy when he first took over as captain, but then Carly had happened and shutting his door was a way to escape the rare times she showed up to work; however, with Lee, Marco thought it might be okay to open his door again.

As he took a seat behind his desk, his cell phone rang. He pulled it out, glancing at the display. Rosa’s name flashed at him and he thumbed it on.

“Hey?”

“Hey? That’s what I get? Hey? Not good morning, not thank you for calling, Special Agent-in-Charge Alvarez. I get hey.”

“Good morning, Special Agent-in-Charge Alvarez, I appreciate a call from your lofty heights to my lowly depths.”

“Better.”

Marco chuckled.

“I got the CODIS on your John Doe. I’ll send it over. Who do you want it addressed to?”

“Me. Who is he?”

“His name’s Demetri Zonov, he’s the nephew of an Eduard Zonov. We’ve had our eye on Uncle Zonov for a few years now. Can’t make anything stick permanently, but he’s a nasty character. Funny thing is young Demetri isn’t supposed to be here. He came over from Chechnya on a student visa four years ago. He was supposed to return when he didn’t meet muster.”

“Meaning what? He get picked up for something?”

“Nope. Student visa sorta implies you go to school. Young Demetri didn’t think that was a necessary evil.”

“Hm. We saw that Uncle has a record.”

“Yeah, but it’s petty shit. The real stuff we’d like to nail him for is a bit more...how shall I put it...explosive.”

“Oh, wonderful.”

“So Peterson’s messed up with Zonov?”

“Looks that way. Zonov’s black Mercedes was in his driveway and Nephew wound up dead in his living room.”

“Peterson the doer?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’m thinking not, but I can’t get either of the Petersons to budge. They want me to bounce it as justifiable homicide, but I don’t like the way things are lining up.”

“Hm. Anything I can do?”

“Besides bring my girl home?”

“Yeah, well…”

“No, but I’ll keep you in the loop.”

There was a pause on the line. “Look, Marco, Zonov’s a nasty piece of work. You better watch that fine ass of yours, you hear me?”

“Yeah, I hear you. By the way, I appreciate the rush job on CODIS for us lowly grunts, Special Agent-in-Charge Alvarez.”

She laughed. “Keep in touch.”

“Done.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” Marco lowered the phone.

As soon as he did, Lee poked his head in the door. “Didn’t want to interrupt.” He set a mug on Marco’s desk. “Here’s that coffee I promised.”

Marco reached for it. “Thanks.”

Lee gave a salute and headed for the door.

“Lee?”

He whipped back around.

“Can you tell Inspectors Cho and Simons I need to see them?”

“Instantly.” And he was gone.

Marco leaned back in the chair and sipped at his coffee, considering how best to approach this case. Clearly they needed to have a talk with both Petersons again, separate them, and see if they could get one of them to fold. The Zonov angle created a whole new set of issues and Marco wasn’t looking forward to tangling with someone on the FBI’s watch list. He wondered if the Petersons understood the significance of that as well.

*    *    *

Bea Howsham was a tall, stately woman with short, curly grey hair. She wore a cardigan and a pair of pale blue capris with loafers. She peered out at them from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Caleb flashed his badge at her, giving her his affable smile.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Howsham, I’m Inspector Caleb Abbott from Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, come in. Please call me Bea.”

She motioned them into the long hallway of a row-house. Indicating they should follow, she led them past closed doors to a brightly lit main room that functioned as both a living room and a kitchen. A man stood by the kitchen table, his hands clasped before him.

Bea indicated the man. “This is my husband Jasper. This is Inspector Abbott from Scotland Yard and…” She gave a shrug. “I didn’t catch your names.”

“Special Agents Moreno and Brooks,” offered Radar, extending his hand.

Greetings were exchanged and Bea asked them to take a seat on the sofa that faced the window. She and her husband sat on an identical one across from them. Peyton looked out the window, but all she could see was a brick garden wall and the wall of the houses across from the Howsham’s. Fluffy white clouds floated by.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. and Mrs. Howsham,” said Caleb.

“Please, Inspector, just call us Bea and Jasper.”

“Great.” Caleb removed his notepad and a pen. “Do you mind if I take notes while we talk?”

“Not at all,” said Bea. “You said you wanted to talk about Charlie.”

“Yes. When was the last time you saw your son?”

Bea exchanged a look with her husband. Honestly, if Peyton didn’t know better, she’d think they were brother and sister, not husband and wife. Jasper Howsham was also grey, also curly-headed, tall and spare. The exact same type of glasses perched on his nose. He wore a plaid collared shirt and jeans with sneakers.

“We haven’t seen Charlie in years,” answered Bea. “Not after he lost his job.”

“Right,” said Caleb, clicking on his pen. “He worked out of Charing Cross Station, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And he hasn’t contacted you since?”

“No.” She shifted on the couch, clasping her hands in her lap. “Is Charlie in trouble, Inspector Abbott?”

Caleb exhaled, pursing his lips. “I’ll be honest with you, Bea. I’m not sure. We’re investigating a number of murders…”

She made a small gasp, but her expression didn’t change.

Her husband looked at his hands.

“The murders in the tube stations?” she asked.

Caleb nodded. Then he removed the picture Bell had taken from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. “Is this Charlie?”

Bea and Jasper leaned forward, studying it. Jasper moved as if he might pick it up, then thought better about it and left it on the table.

“I don’t know,” said Bea. “We haven’t seen him in so long.”

“What’s this man doing?”

Caleb exchanged a look with Radar. “Attacking an American college student. We cropped it so only the suspect is visible. Does he look like Charlie to you, Jasper?”

“I don’t know.” Jasper pressed his fingers to his lips. “The beard, the hair, it’s hard to tell.”

“Charlie isn’t a violent man, Inspector Abbott,” said Bea, looking away from the picture. “He wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“That’s what everyone says, but we’d still like to find him, talk to him.” Caleb shifted on the couch. “Do you have a picture of him, maybe one where he’s cleaned up, presentable that we can use?”

Bea rose and went to the table behind them, pulling open a drawer. She removed a small snapshot and passed it over Caleb’s shoulder. Peyton saw a young man with brown hair combed to the side and large brown eyes that were piercing. He didn’t smile, but his face had a softness about it.

“Can you tell us about Charlie?” asked Caleb, studying the picture. “We know he was committed at Broadmoor for a long time.”

Bea’s eyes went distant. “Almost twenty years.”

“What was his diagnosis?”

“Schizophrenia.”

“Onset at puberty?”

Bea glanced at her husband. “That’s what the doctors said. We believe it happened much earlier.”

“Why?”

“He had imaginary friends,” said Jasper. “He talked to imaginary people.”

“It wasn’t really people, now was it? It was just one,” Bea corrected, patting her husband’s hand where it lay in his lap. “Just one. Charlie said he was a wolf.”

“And you took him to see a psychiatrist when he told you this?”

“When he was very young, we did. The psychiatrist felt it was normal, that many children had imaginary friends, but Charlie talked to him so often, it made things difficult for him in school, with other children.” She looked above their heads as if it hurt too much to look them in the eyes. “We finally brought him home and got tutors for him.”

Caleb consulted his notebook.

Peyton shifted impatiently. She’d never been good at just observing.

Bea’s eyes found hers. “Can I get you any refreshments?”

“We’re fine,” said Radar.

Peyton smiled at her, trying to show her sympathy and warmth.

“How did he end up at Broadmoor?” asked Caleb.

“He wanted to go back to school. He was doing well. We’d finally found a doctor that seemed to be helping. We thought it was all right.”

“It was never all right,” said Jasper.

“We thought it was, now didn’t we?” continued Bea. “So we let him go to school. He got into a fight and injured a boy.”

“He got into a fight?” pressed Caleb.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Bea, but you said Charlie wasn’t a violent man, didn’t you now?”

“He isn’t. He was provoked. He was defending a young woman and then the boy who was bothering her made fun of Charlie for talking to himself. He had no choice.”

Jasper eyed his wife as if he didn’t agree, but he kept his mouth shut.

“So you committed Charlie to Broadmoor?”

“The magistrates in youth court recommended it. We didn’t know what else to do. Besides, they promised to treat him at Broadmoor and he did well there. He took his medication and he got better. He even finished his schooling.”

“Why did they release him?”

“Laws change. Funding gets difficult,” said Jasper.

“Funding gets difficult?” asked Caleb.

“The government didn’t want to pay for Charlie to stay there anymore, did they?” said Radar.

“Exactly,” answered Bea.

“So Charlie got the job at Charing Cross Station?”

“Yes.” She gave a faint smile. “Charlie loved the trains. When he was younger, we’d take a holiday in London just so he could ride the trains. It made him happy. Working at Charing Cross was a dream of his.”

“What happened at Charing Cross?” asked Radar. “Why was he fired?”

“We don’t know. We went for a visit and we were told he’d been sacked,” said Jasper.

“We haven’t heard from him since.”

Peyton got the impression that Jasper, at least, was relieved. “It must have been difficult raising Charlie,” she said.

Bea’s expression hardened, but Jasper gave a slight nod.

“He was a good boy,” said Bea. “He couldn’t help the voices, now could he? He tried. He tried so very hard. Maybe if they’d helped us when we first asked, when he was so very young, things might have been different.” She clasped her hands in her lap. “I wish things had been different, his life was so hard, but I tell you this, I don’t believe he’s involved in these murders. Charlie is just not a violent man.”

Caleb tried to get more information out of them, but unfortunately, a large block of Charlie’s life, more than 20 years was a mystery to his parents. From the time he went into Broadmoor, they’d only tangentially been involved with him.

When Caleb realized this wasn’t getting them anything, he thanked them and they rose to leave. Peyton felt like they weren’t any closer to solving these murders than they’d been when they arrived.

“We’ll see ourselves out, Bea,” said Caleb, waving her down when she started to rise. “Thank you for your time.” He laid his card on the kitchen table and turned for the hallway, Radar on his heels.

Peyton paused as she moved to follow them. “You said Charlie had only one imaginary friend, Bea.”

“That’s correct.”

“A wolf?”

“Yes, Charlie always said he was a wolf. I think that’s why the doctor wasn’t concerned at first. Many children have favorite stuffed toys, now don’t they?”

“So it was a toy he talked to?”

Bea looked down. “No. No, there was no toy.”

“Did he tell you a name for the wolf? Did he have a name for who he talked to?”

Bea’s eyes rose and her mouth moved, but nothing came out. Peyton waited, but Bea didn’t seem able or willing to speak.

“Niles,” said Jasper. “The wolf’s name was Niles.”

*    *    *

Marco stood in the viewing room, watching Brad Peterson sitting at the table, drumming his fingers on his thighs. He didn’t seem concerned, he didn’t seem to fully comprehend he was being questioned for murder.

Devan appeared in the doorway, his gaze shifting to Peterson behind the glass. He came over and leaned on the table next to Marco. “So, Carol’s in the other interrogation room?”

“Yep.”

“And Greene’s with her?”

“Yep.”

“But you’re here, not with them?”

“She’s not talking. Cho and Simons have been at her for an hour and she isn’t budging. She keeps insisting on talking to me. I came down here to see what he’s doing.”

Devan jerked his chin toward Smith. “He say anything to Frank.”

“Asked for water. That’s all.”

Cho and Simons pulled open the door and entered the viewing room. “She ain’t budging,” said Simons.

“Is she still asking for D’Angelo?” asked Devan.

“She’s not saying a damn thing. Greene ended it. He ordered us to charge her with something or let her go. He’s on his way down here now.”

“Who’s with Carol?” asked Marco.

“Bartlet’s got his eye on her, but Greene’s paralegal is here to walk her out.”

Cho watched Peterson. “He acts like he’s waiting in a doctor’s office or something.” On the other side of the glass, Smith walked to the door and opened it, admitting Greene. Cho turned to face Marco. “How do you want us to play this?”

Marco considered for a moment. “Throw Zonov at him. Tell him we know the dead guy is the nephew of his bookie. Let’s see if we can get a rise out of him.”

“Got it.”

Cho and Simons headed for the door where they took up their regular positions. Greene continued to whisper in Peterson’s ear, but Peterson’s eyes shifted to Cho as he sat down.

“Where’s Marco?”

Cho splayed his hand on Peterson’s file. “He’s busy. You get me.”

“I’d rather talk to Marco.”

“Why?”

“We have history. He knows me.”

Cho glanced at Greene. Greene didn’t give anything away. “Let’s start with me, okay?”

Peterson slumped back in his chair. “My lawyer says I don’t have to talk to you. You already charged me. What more is there to say?”

“We know the identity of the John Doe you allegedly shot.”

Peterson shrugged. “He was an intruder. My wife and me were looking at paint swatches in the guest bedroom…”

“His name’s Demetri Zonov.”

Peterson went still.

“The nephew of your bookie, Eduard.” He opened the file and removed Eduard’s mug shot, placing it in front of Peterson.

Recognition crossed Peterson’s face. “Bookie? I don’t have a bookie.”

“Apparently you do because his black Mercedes was seen in your driveway a number of times by your neighbors.”

Peterson’s brows lowered and he shot a confused look at Greene. “In my driveway?”

“Your wife gave us your financial records. She’s got you on a tight leash. Is that to keep you from losing everything? What’s your game? Ponies? Craps?” He looked past Peterson to Simons. “I like blackjack. Gets my brain firing.”

“I hate it. I get confused trying to add all those numbers,” answered Simons. “I like roulette. That way I can lose faster and get out of there for a prime rib dinner.”

Cho laughed, lowering his eyes to Peterson again. “So, what’s your game, Brad? Maybe you bet on football?”

Peterson’s gaze rose to his and he ran a hand over his thinning scalp. “Who’d you say I shot?”

“Demetri Zonov, the nephew of your bookie.”

“Demetri? I don’t know a Demetri.”

“Was he shaking you down? Do you owe his uncle or something?”

Brad reached for the water bottle, his hand trembling. He had a difficult time removing the cap. After he struggled with it for a bit, Greene took it from him and unscrewed it. Cho shot a look over his shoulder at the two-way glass.

Marco understood the look. “How’d he aim a gun, Adams? How’d he have enough strength to pull the trigger?”

“Maybe he’s nervous right now.”

Marco jerked his head at Peterson’s tremors. “Does that look like nerves?”

Devan sighed. “No. You think Carol shot Zonov?”

“I don’t know. Why would she let Peterson take the fall?”

“You gotta get her to talk, D’Angelo.”

“You want me to question her?”

“No, we can’t do that.” Devan made a face. “The media’s been hounding me about this case from the moment it landed on your door. If they make the connection between you and Carol…”

Marco focused on Cho again.

“Tell me what happened last Thursday, Mr. Peterson,” said Cho, softening his tone.

“My wife and me were looking at paint swatches in the guest bedroom.”

“Because you’re going to sell the house?”

“What?”

“That’s what she told us. She told us you’re behind on the mortgage and need to sell the house.”

Peterson’s expression was genuinely confused. “She said what? That’s not true.” He looked at Greene. “We’re not behind. Are we?”

“It’s been a rough couple of years, Brad.”

“But we’re not behind on the mortgage, right?”

“You are.”

“Why? Why isn’t it being paid?”

“Because money’s tight right now, Brad. Carol’s trying to free some stuff up, but it takes time.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Where’s my money?”

“Maybe you spent it on gambling? Maybe you lost a lot and borrowed some from Eduard Zonov?” said Cho.

“I don’t know Eduard Zonov. I don’t know anyone like that. I don’t have a bookie! I don’t gamble!”

“But you shot the nephew of a bookie in your house, Brad. Why was he in your house?”

“I shot an intruder. I heard a noise downstairs and I went to see what it was and I shot an intruder.”

“That’s the rehearsed story. What really happened, Brad? Did you let Demetri into your house? Maybe he wanted to talk, work out arrangements for payment with you? He came there to negotiate on behalf of his uncle, but things went south and...what?”

Peterson stared at Cho, his expression anxious, afraid. “My wife and me were looking at paint…”

“No!” Cho slammed his hand down on the table. “That story’s bullshit. It’s made up. What happened to Demetri Zonov, Brad? Why did he get shot? Who shot him?”

“I heard an intruder,” said Brad. “I heard an intruder.”

Greene put his arm across Peterson’s shoulders. “That’s enough, Inspector. You’ve already charged him with the crime. Unless you have something more concrete to ask, we’re leaving.”

Cho held up a hand and let it fall. “Fine.”

Greene used his other hand to pull Peterson to his feet. “Let’s go home, Brad. That’s enough for now.”

“I don’t have a bookie,” said Peterson. “I stopped that a long time ago.”

“I know. You don’t have to say anything else.” He nudged Peterson toward the door.

“I don’t have a bookie. Carol said she’d leave if I didn’t stop, so I stopped.”

“I know. That’s enough though. Don’t say anything more.”

“We were looking at paint swatches.”

“That’s right,” said Greene, getting Peterson to the door and stepping out. “You were looking at paint swatches.”

Peterson’s confused voice trailed off down the hall. Marco ran his fingers along the silver head of his cane, then he turned to Devan, waiting for some direction.

“I don’t even know what to say,” muttered Devan. “What if you bounce it?”

“Then the real murderer gets off.”

“What if the real murderer’s Carol Peterson, D’Angelo?”

Marco shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

*    *    *

“Peyton, wake up, wake up, honey. It’s okay. I’m here.”

Peyton jerked awake and found Bambi leaning over her, stroking the hair back from her forehead. She pushed the covers off and rolled to her back, pulling the damp jersey away from her body and fanning herself.

Bambi took a seat on the edge of her bed, watching her. A bedside lamp cast a faint light in the hotel room.

“What time is it?” asked Peyton, pushing herself into a sitting position and bracing her back with her pillows.

Bambi reached for the glass of water on the table and handed it to Peyton. “Just a little before 5:00. Drink this.”

Peyton took the water and drank, brushing her hand over her forehead to wipe away the sweat. She gave Bambi a questioning look. “Did you just get in?”

“Yeah, just in time to stop your nightmare.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I should be here at night for you.”

Peyton shook her head. “That’s not going to do any good. I’ll still have them. The only thing that stopped them was 6’4” and male.”

“Marco.”

Peyton nodded.

“The sex probably helped too.”

Peyton’s shocked gaze snapped to Bambi’s face, then they both laughed. “Yeah, it helped,” Peyton admitted. She set the glass on the table and fluffed the pillows behind her. “So, is this thing with Caleb getting serious?”

Bambi made a face. “No, we’re just having fun.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. He’s got a wife and kid up north, and he lives in England.”

“He doesn’t have a wife. He’s divorced.”

“Yeah, but they’re still baggage.”

“You really don’t ever want to get married and have kids?”

“No, I do not. Do you want kids?”

Peyton considered that. “I don’t know. I didn’t think I did, but Marco mentioned having them and it kinda sounded nice with him.”

Bambi reached out and smoothed back a curl that had escaped Peyton’s braid. “I could see you with kids. You’d be an awesome mother.”

Peyton smiled. “I don’t know about that, but I think he’d be an awesome father.” She gave Bambi a serious look. “You’ve never met anyone you wanted a long term relationship with?”

“Not really. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m friends with all my past lovers. We never part on bad terms. In fact, I meet most of them regularly for lunch or dinner. I just don’t ever want to get tangled up in marriage. Does this shock you?”

“No, it doesn’t. But I’m not going to lie. It’s hard for me to believe there hasn’t been someone, anyone that meant something more.”

Bambi shrugged. “Maybe I’m just not wired like that.” She thought for a moment. “Look, sometimes I think it might be nice, you know? Like Radar and his wife, he’s crazy about her and he always has someone there when he comes home. And Tank and the professor, they’re freakin’ adorable, but it makes you vulnerable too. Look at you. I hate seeing you hurting over a man and I can’t help but think that you might have more fun if you just let it go and be more like me.”

Peyton smiled and pulled the blankets back over her. “The thing about that is that once you’ve met that person, the person that makes you feel whole, makes you feel happy when he’s around...then letting go just isn’t an option.”

“So are you going to wait forever for him to get his shit together?”

Peyton shrugged. “I don’t know, but right now, right at this moment, Emma, he’s worth waiting for.”

*    *    *

Marco’s phone rang as he was getting into the Charger. Vinnie’s number flashed at him, so he pressed the speaker button and started the car.

“Hey, little brother.”

“Hey, Vinnie, what’s up?”

“Where are you?”

“Just leaving the precinct.”

“Did you remember Tonio’s graduation’s tomorrow?”

Marco closed his eyes briefly and then put the Charger in reverse. “No, I forgot. When did you tell me?”

“We sent you an invitation.”

“Where did you send it, Vinnie?”

Vinnie hesitated and Marco backed the car out of his spot. “Peyton’s house.”

“She’s in London, Vinnie.”

“I’m sorry, little brother. We weren’t even thinking. We were in a hurry to get everything out. Can you make it?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Do you want me to send you the information?”

“No.” He pulled into traffic. “I’m going to her house now. I left Pickles there. I’ll get it.” Besides, he’d left his wallet on the floor beneath the table where it had fallen when he went there the previous night. “So I’m guessing money would be all right for a gift?”

“You got it. Have you seen the increase in tuition for the UC’s?”

“Yeah, I heard something about it. He decided on UCLA then?”

“He did. Rosa’s miserable about him being that far from home, but it has the best program for him.”

“Great. Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye, little brother.”

“Bye, Vinnie.” He pulled up to the light and disconnected the call. Pressing the button at the base of the phone, he waited for a beep. “Call Abe.”

“Calling Abe,” came the mechanical voice.

“Angel!” came Abe’s voice. In the background, Marco could hear laughter and talking. “Where are you? We’ve got a beautiful Thai feast laid out here.”

Marco frowned. Was he missing something else he’d promised to do? “What?”

“It’s poker night, darlin’. Come home and win some money off these fools.”

Marco made a left turn. “Sorry, Abe. I’m gonna spend the night with Pickles at Peyton’s again. My nephew’s high school graduation is tomorrow and they mailed the invitation to Peyton’s house.”

“Oh, pooh. Misha was really hoping you’d come. He’s got some great new jokes for you.”

Marco smiled. “I’m sure he does.”

“What do you call a gay drive-by?” shouted Misha.

“What do you call a gay drive-by?” translated Abe.

“I heard him the first time. I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t know.”

“A fruit roll-up,” shouted Misha, then erupted into laughter. He wasn’t the only one.

Marco chuckled. “Tell them I’m sorry. Is Ryder there?”

“Of course he’s here.”

Marco rolled his eyes as he pulled the Charger to a stop at the light. “Don’t drink too much.”

“Really, Angel? Don’t drink too much. Do you know what I’m making for cocktails tonight? The Flaming Volcano.”

“Wow! I can’t even imagine.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, it’s vodka, simple syrup, a beautiful mix of liqueurs, until you have an orange flavor, and the piece de resistance is an apricot. Now here’s what you do with the apricot…”

Marco found himself distracted by a car passing by on his left down 19th. It was a blue Volkswagen Jetta with a blond man behind the wheel.

“You take this apricot and you soak the tip in 150 proof rum, then you light it and the entire top of the drink is engulfed in flames.”

Marco shifted in the seat, watching the car drive past him. The driver had his hand braced on the window, so Marco couldn’t completely see his face. He turned back and looked in the rearview mirror, trying to memorize the license plate number, but the car disappeared around the corner before he could catch it. Still it seemed familiar.

“Are you listening to me, Angel?”

“Yeah, flaming apricots.” He pulled into the suicide lane and the first chance he could, he flipped a U-turn.

“What’s going on, Angel? You sound distracted.”

Marco weaved in and out of the traffic, trying to catch up to the Jetta, but after a few blocks, he realized he’d lost him again. He pulled over to the curb and slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration.

“Angel?”

“Abe, do you remember when Peyton called you to look at that clown that fell off his bicycle?”

“Yeah, I remember. Mike Somethingorother.”

“Edwards.”

“Right. What about him?”

“Do you remember where his apartment was?”

“Not far from Peyton’s house.”

“Do you remember exactly where it was?”

Abe went quiet for a moment. “Why are you asking me that, Angel?”

“I just want to know.”

“I don’t remember precisely, no. I might be able to pull up the address on my texting history, but that was a few weeks ago and I’m not sure it’s still there.”

Marco hit his blinker and pulled back into traffic, easing toward the left lane so he could flip another U-turn. “Don’t worry about it. I can find it myself if I need it.”

“Why, Angel? What’s going on?”

“Nothing. If he lives by Peyton, it’s probably nothing.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I think I just saw the idiot driving away from her house, that’s all.”

“Well, she lives on 19th, Angel. A lot of people drive 19th.”

“I know. Look, I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay? Enjoy your game.”

“I’d enjoy it better if you were here. You know how jealous it makes Misha and Serge to know you’re my sweetie.”

Marco gave a good natured laugh. “Knock it off.”

“You aren’t here to defend yourself, sweets. No harm, no foul.”

“Fine. Talk to you later.”

“Night, Angel.”

“Night.” He disconnected the call and drove the rest of the way to Peyton’s house.

Parking the Charger in the driveway, he climbed out, reaching for his cane and finding the key. Walking up the ramp, he thought everything looked fine. As he fitted the key in the lock, he could hear Pickles barking.

He pushed open the door and reached in to turn on the lights. Pickles danced around his feet and he bent, picking him up.

“Hey, little one,” he said, letting Pickles bathe his face with kisses. Moving to the sofa table, he started to drop his keys on it, but his hand stilled. His wallet lay in the middle of the table, not on the floor where he’d left it. Reaching for his gun, he yanked it out and settled Pickles on the couch. “Stay!” he told him.

Pickles immediately sat down, his ears cocked, while Marco made a pass through the house, checking the rooms, the closets and forcing himself to get on his hands and knees to look under the beds. Coming back into the main room, he holstered his gun and shut the door, picking Pickles up again, then he reached for his phone.

“What’s up?” came Jake’s voice.

“I need you to come to Peyton’s house with your CSI kit.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“I just need you to dust for fingerprints.”

“Is everything all right, Adonis?”

“Fine. Just come, okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a bit.”

Marco moved to the barstools and leaned against one, holding the dog and surveying the scene. About fifteen minutes later, Jake arrived with Abe. Marco didn’t know why Jake had brought the medical examiner, but he didn’t have time to question him.

“What’s up?” asked Jake.

Marco filled him in on what happened, how he’d dropped the wallet beneath the sofa table the previous night, how he’d thought he saw Mike Edwards driving away from Peyton’s house, how he’d come in to find his wallet on the table, not the floor.

Jake dusted the table, his wallet and the lock on the door, but he picked up nothing. Marco stood, holding Pickles and watching him. Abe stood beside him, his face a mask of concern. Jake went over the whole house with a blue light, but found no trace of anything. Finally he came back to the front door and gave Marco a shake of his head.

“I got nothing.”

Marco clenched his jaw, but didn’t answer.

“Are you sure you left your wallet on the floor? Maybe you picked it up and didn’t remember doing it.”

“I wasn’t drinking, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Marco snapped.

“No, I wasn’t suggesting that at all. Just I’ve done things and haven’t remembered doing it later.”

“The wallet was on the floor. That’s one of the reasons I came back here tonight!” Marco paced away.

Abe caught his shoulders. “We believe you, Angel. Why don’t we set up a camera tomorrow outside of Peyton’s house?”

Marco considered that. “I have Tonio’s graduation tomorrow.”

“Well, Jakey and I can do it. We both have keys. We’ll get it set up, and that will take care of it. Okay?”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

“Good.” Abe clapped his hands. “Go get the guys from the car, Jakey.”

Jake gave Marco a concerned look.

“Go get what guys from what car?” asked Marco, turning back to Abe.

“We brought the poker game here when you called.”

“You did what?”

Abe placed his hands on Marco’s cheeks. “It’s just not a party when you aren’t around, Angel. Now, we’ll have a party, and where better to have it than party central.” He made an expansive gesture around the room.

Marco’s eyes cut to Jake and he gave a sheepish shrug. Exhaling, Marco held out his hand. “Fine. Have your party, but…” He pointed a finger in Abe’s face. “...no strip poker!”

CHAPTER 14

Charlie took a rag out from beneath his bench and scrubbed it along the counter. He liked to keep his booth clean. Cyril had praised him for that, told him it was good that he took pride in his work. Charlie didn’t mind. He liked working in the station. He liked helping the people find where they were supposed to go. One time an Italian tourist had offered him a pound as a tip. Charlie hadn’t taken it, but it was nice to have someone recognize you did good work and want to reward you for it.

He didn’t have enough to afford his own flat yet. He still lived with his parents, but soon, soon he’d have more money. Unfortunately, the medications took most of his salary. His mother said that was okay, that he could stay with them, but he really wanted to prove to them that he could live on his own.

He started scrubbing the inside window of the booth with the rag, making sure all the fingerprints from the previous workers were gone. He didn’t know why they had to touch the inside of the glass. Why couldn’t they point without touching something?

Charlie’s thoughts went back to his living situation as he worked. He saw only two answers. Pay for the medicine and live with his parents forever, or stop paying for the medicine and move out on his own. It was pretty simple. He didn’t like the medicine anyway. It made his thoughts scattered and unfocused. He liked it better when he didn’t have muddy thoughts.

Except...except there was Niles and Niles had started whispering in his head recently. It was only a few words at a time. Some inappropriate suggestion when Charlie needed it the least. Niles always got interested when there were women at the booth. He wanted Charlie to try peeking down their tops. He was obsessed with breasts.

Charlie tried not to look. He tried to look anywhere else, but sometimes it was hard not to see. Hard not to notice the way a woman’s jumper hugged her body. And the longer he went without the medicine, the more Niles talked and the more Niles commented on things around Charlie.

“Can you tell me which line I want if I want to go to South Kenton?”

Charlie lowered the rag and stared at the woman. She was blond and young with just a hint of mascara. She wore trousers and a spaghetti strap blouse that didn’t show off much cleavage. She smiled at him and Charlie felt his pulse race.

That’s the one. See her. We could have fun with her.

Charlie flinched at Niles’ intrusion.

“I just get all confused with these lines and stops and if you could help me, I’d appreciate it.”

Ask her to tea. Ask her for a pint.

“You want South Kenton, you said?”

“Right. South Kenton.”

Charlie’s mind went blank and he tried to pull his thoughts together.

How long are you going to be a virgin? How long are you going to pretend you don’t want this? A girl? Your own girl? You know you do.

She continued to smile at him, but as he waged his internal battle, she shifted impatiently, glancing over at the map on the wall.

You’re going to lose her. Like all the others. She’s going to go away and you’ll never see her again. Do something.

“South Kenton?” he repeated.

“Right.” Her smile was brittle, forced.

“You want the...you want the Bakerloo Line.”

“Bakerloo. Thanks.”

He nodded, giving her an odd smile. He knew it was odd. He could feel how strange and strained it was.

She moved away from the booth, looking at the map, drawing her finger up the brown line that marked Bakerloo.

She’s leaving. You blew it again. You messed it up. Strong people take what they want. Strong people go after things that they need. You are a coward.

He tapped his fist against his temple. “Stop it,” he whispered to himself. “Stop it please.”

You are a coward. Other men have girls, they have mates. You have no one. You have your parents. That’s all. That’s all you’ll ever have and when they die, you’ll be alone.

“That’s a lie.”

Is it? You let the girl go. You didn’t even try to stop her. They’re right. They’ve been right all along. You’re a wanker. They’re having a laugh, aren’t they now? Having a laugh at you. Because you’re barmy, that’s what. You’re barmy as hell.

Charlie fumbled for the door handle, yanking it open. He stepped out into the station, looking for the woman. “It’s not true. Take it back.”

A couple of people passing by glanced over at him, but he ignored them, searching for the girl.

Get stuffed. You aren’t going to do anything. If you find her, you’ll stammer and stutter and act like you’re gobsmacked. Go back inside and hide, little man.

“No!” She was headed for the Bakerloo line. He could cut her off there. He ran toward the turnstiles, shoving people out of the way.

They gave cries of alarm, but he whispered he was sorry and continued to push his way through until he reached the turnstiles. Fumbling for his pass, he slapped it on the reader and waited for the gates to open.

It’s too late, wanker. You’ll never find her now. She’s gone and you’re alone.

The gates opened and he raced through, turning left and running down the stairs. People tried to get out of his way, but he didn’t care. He shoved through them. Once he tripped and nearly toppled down the flight, but he caught himself on the railing.

He hit the platform and paused to catch his breath, bending over at the waist and resting his hands on his thighs. Searching the platform, he didn’t see her.

You missed her. You wasted too much time. You mucked it up. You’ll never be anything.

But a moment later, he caught sight of her, sitting on a bench, reading a book. He ran over to her and she looked up, surprised when he came to a panting, sweating halt before her, but as soon as he looked into her eyes, his thoughts fled. He didn’t know what to say or do.

Mental, that’s what you are.

“What about a pint?”

“I’m sorry,” she asked.

“A pint? I’ll buy you a pint.”

She shot a look at the woman sitting next to her. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it now?”

Charlie held out his hands. He didn’t know what else to say. His mouth worked, but nothing came out and of course, now that he needed him, Niles went silent.

Her look shifted from surprise to alarm. “I’ve got to go to work. Should you have left the booth?”

Charlie didn’t know how to answer that.

Glancing around, she rose to her feet and slipped past him, moving toward the other end of the platform.

“We could get a pint,” he said, following her. “Just us. Just the two of us. I’ll buy.”

She shook her head, turning her back on him. “I’m good. Please just go.”

Charlie flapped his hands against his thighs in frustration. “Please. Just a pint.”

“No!” she said, giving him a warning glare. “Please leave me alone.”

He grabbed her arm. “We can go now. I’ll pay. I promise you.”

“She said leave her alone!” came a man’s voice behind Charlie.

“Don’t do this,” he begged her. “Don’t say no.”

Her expression grew frightened.

“Hey!” shouted the man, moving up behind Charlie. “Let her go!”

“Please,” he pleaded with her. “Just one. Just one pint!”

“Hey!” Someone grabbed his shoulder.

Panic flooded Charlie and he struck backward, trying to dislodge the guy’s arm, but he slapped him in the side of the head. The girl screamed and other people converged on him, grabbing at him. He swatted, trying to drive them off, but they circled him now, separating him from the girl.

“Leave me alone!” he shouted.

“Just calm down, mate! Just calm down!”

“Leave me alone!”

A man threw his arms around Charlie, pinning his own arms against his side. Charlie went crazy, slamming his head back into the man’s nose, kicking, bucking, rearing, trying to drive them off.

Then someone kicked his legs out and he found himself falling forward, connecting hard with the platform. A knee jammed into his back, stealing his breath, and he felt his face grind into the metal surface. Twisting his head, he could just make out the girl, her hands covering her mouth, another woman’s arms around her.

You’re mental, that’s what you are, whispered Niles in his head.

*    *    *

Peyton was beginning to hate the meeting room in Scotland Yard. They met here every morning after their daily stop at Pret, but nothing seemed to be accomplished in here. They were no closer to finding the killer than they’d been when they arrived, and their leads were slim and none. Peyton just knew there was going to be another killing soon.

She took her customary seat at the table and drummed her fingers on its lacquered black surface. Bambi perched on the seat next to her. Peyton wasn’t sure how many hours of sleep Bambi was getting each night, but it was definitely less than Peyton, and yet she still looked like a damn model.

Tank sat across from them, lost in thought. He didn’t usually look pensive and he’d always been good natured with her, but today he seemed down. She didn’t feel like she knew him well enough to ask. Finally, there was Radar, who had his head tilted back, his eyes closed, his mirrored sunglasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. She suspected he was doing his meditation crap, working on his chi or whatever. She didn’t know why his detachment annoyed her, but it did.

Caleb Abbott and Neil entered the room. Caleb beamed a good natured smile on all of them, and Neil offered a shy lift of his hand.

“Good morning, my American comrades,” Caleb said.

“Good morning,” said Peyton. No use perpetuating the rude American stereotype. “How are you?”

“We’re quite well,” said Caleb. “A night with no new murders always brightens my mood. I thought we might report out and then we have a bit of evidence to share. Neil has obtained the video recording of Ms. MacDonnell’s attack in the tube station.”

“How is she, by the way?” asked Peyton.

Caleb gave a small shrug. “Last I heard, she was stable and improving. I should probably call today.” He paused as if considering. “Yes, I should definitely ring her up and see how she is. Now, Bambi and Tank, will you fill us in on your chat with the peanut guy, for want of a better term?”

Bambi reported, although they didn’t have much to report. He denied seeing anything, said he was too afraid to go on the bridge, and that he was planning to leave London. They got his name and address, but he admitted he paid little attention to the homeless and hadn’t noticed the suspect until the attack. Even then he’d been fighting a battle with himself on whether to help Rianna Cooper or run.

“Thank you,” said Caleb, giving her a bright smile. “Now, let me fill the two of you in on our visit to the Howshams’ yesterday.”

He proceeded to explain the trip, showing them the photo they’d gotten from Bea. When he was finished, Tank got that look that usually meant some bit of brilliance was coming.

“Can we get a confirmation from Broadmoor about Charlie’s diagnosis?”

“We’re working on that as we speak,” said Caleb, motioning to Neil.

“We’ve served the warrant and they’re looking through their records,” offered Neil.

“What are you thinking?” said Radar, his hands clasped on his belly.

“Well, his parents mentioned schizophrenia and that’s likely the case; however, I was just wondering about dissociative identity disorder.”

“Split personalities?” said Caleb. “I wondered the same myself, although I’m not sure I believe in it as an actual psychological aliment.”

“There’s a lot of debate in the psychiatric community to support you, but if you think about it, it might make sense. Charlie has an alter-ego, Niles, that does these horrific things. Everyone we speak with says Charlie’s too nice to commit murder. What if Charlie can’t commit murder, but Niles can?”

“I’m not seeing how this has anything to do with anything. If that’s the case, you find Charlie, you’ve got Niles,” said Radar.

Peyton stared down at the table. Something about Tank’s assessment bothered her. Charlie had violent outbursts. He had wound up in Broadmoor for assaulting another boy, but assaulting a boy and murdering women, and the way he murdered these women, were two completely different things. In the first, he’d been provoked and struck out to defend himself and the girl he was protecting. In the second, he hunted these women down like a wild animal.

“Well, it sort of explains the werewolf mythology, though, doesn’t it?” continued Tank. “When a man becomes a werewolf, he loses his humanity. He takes on a darker persona. Charlie, in his dissociative state, becomes the werewolf.”

“And again, if we find Charlie, we find the werewolf.”

“But has Charlie really done anything wrong?”

“What?”

Tank held up a hand. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”

“Well, stop it. Our mission is clear. We stop the werewolf, we stop the killing. It’s that simple.”

Peyton studied Tank. She still felt uneasy about his words, but she couldn’t place a finger on why.

“You said you had the video of the MacDonnell attack,” said Radar.

“Right.” Caleb turned to Neil.

Neil picked up a remote and pressed the button. A video screen loaded on their fancy glass board. A few more clicks and Neil had the video of the station. At the far left of the screen was Amelia MacDonnell wearing shorts and a tank top, standing on the edge of the platform, waiting for the train. She was alone.

Suddenly a shadow moved up behind her, all wild dark hair, huge coat. She turned and threw up her hands, but he grabbed her and slammed her against his chest, then his arm rose and something glinted against the camera lens. The knife.

He stabbed her again and again until her knees buckled and her weight slumped forward, then he dropped her on the platform, on her back, and threw back his head. He must have howled, but there was no audio on the video feed. Even then, he managed to keep his features hidden. At his feet, Amelia flinched and her hands fluttered against her breast. Then ducking his head, he darted around the corner of the platform, out of sight of the camera.

Peyton closed her eyes. She could hardly stand seeing it. She felt sick inside, nauseous

Bambi reached over and clasped her hand, giving her a commiserate look.

Amelia lay on the platform. They could see her chest rising in a shallow pant. Then as they watched, he came back, but this time he edged forward slowly as if he were afraid or shocked or sickened by what he’d done. He hid in the voluminous folds of his army coat and the way he held himself, he actually looked smaller, hunched, afraid.

He knelt by her side, keeping his face away from the camera and carefully reached out, touching her hand. Her mouth moved, but they couldn’t make out what she said, then his head jerked up and he skittered away, disappearing out of view.

The train arrived and a middle aged couple got off, spotting the girl. The woman was the first to rush to her side, the man following a few steps behind. As they knelt by her, the woman suddenly looked up, looked toward where the suspect had disappeared. She said something, then said it louder, shouting to the figure just beyond sight.

The video ended.

Neil shifted to face them. Peyton didn’t know what to say. The attack had been brutal, savage, unpredictable, then he’d returned and it almost looked like he’d felt remorse.

“Sparky, you’re awfully quiet,” said Radar.

“I…” Her thoughts wouldn’t coalesce. “I don’t know what to say. How can you attack someone with such ferocity one minute, then be almost...I don’t know.”

“Apologetic,” said Bambi.

“Yeah.” Peyton held her hand out to her.

“If dissociative identity disorder is in play here, it makes perfect sense. One part of Charlie’s personality, Niles, drives him to commit these brutal murders. Once catharsis is achieved, the other part of Charlie takes over and he’s horrified by what he’s done,” said Tank.

“Or it’s a psychotic break, brought on by schizophrenia,” said Caleb, almost contentiously.

“Except, I’ve been around schizophrenics, Caleb,” said Peyton, voicing what was bothering her, “and I’ve never seen them break and then recover so quickly. They can be in a psychotic stage for…” She motioned to Tank.

“Months,” said Tank, nodding.

“Does that really look like schizophrenia to you, Caleb?”

Caleb forced a pleasant smile. “Unfortunately, Agent Brooks, I am not a psychiatrist, so I wouldn’t venture a diagnosis. Let’s get the information directly from Broadmoor. In the meantime, why don’t we work on bringing Charlie in?”

Peyton nodded because she couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“All right, let’s make a plan of action,” said Radar, clapping his hands together.

“I want to talk to Trish again at St. Mungo’s,” said Peyton.

Radar nodded. “I was actually thinking it might be in all of our best interest to go out there, canvas the dining room with the picture we got from Charlie’s mother and find out everything we can about Charlie.” He shifted his attention to Caleb. “I also want to know why Charlie was fired from Charing Cross Station.”

“We’re working on getting that information as we speak,” said Caleb, laying a hand on Neil’s shoulder.

“Fine. Are there any objections to my plan?”

Everyone shook their head no.

“Then let’s head out.”

*    *    *

Marco found his family already seated in the football stadium of George Washington High School. The day was sunny and bright, the sky clear. He caned his way up the bleacher steps, trying to keep the grimace off his face. He could see his mother’s hands fluttering anxiously, worry lining her brow.

Vinnie rose and clasped him in a bear hug. His mother pushed passed Cristina and Rosa to get to him, almost knocking them over. She grabbed his face in both of her hands and kissed his cheek.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Marco.”

He patted her hands and pulled them away, clasping them in his. “Of course I’m here.”

She squeezed his hand, then went back to her seat, using her family to brace herself as she crawled over them. Marco leaned around Vinnie and kissed Rosa’s cheek. Bernardo patted him on the back from the row above them and Serena put her arms around his shoulders, kissing the side of his face. He leaned over and clasped his niece’s hand, but he could only wave to his brother Franco and Franco’s family.

“Marco,” said his father, giving him a salute.

“Papa.”

“Here,” said Vinnie, pointing to the spot next to him. “I saved you an aisle.”

Marco appreciated the gesture, but he hated the cause for it. He sank down on the bench and settled the cane at his feet.

“Vinnie told me Peyton’s in London,” said Rosa, looking around her husband. “When does she get home?”

Marco shrugged. “No telling.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“Rosa,” scolded Vinnie mildly.

“What? I can’t ask my brother-in-law a question.”

Marco smiled at her. “It’s all right. I talk to her every night on video messaging.”

Rosa patted his hand. “Good.”

Bernardo leaned close to him. “Heard you arrested Peterson for murder.”

Marco nodded. “Can’t get much of anything else on the television, can you?”

“You sure it’s not a conflict of interest?”

Marco drew a breath and released it. “Not yet.”

Vinnie gave him a look, but before he could comment, Pomp and Circumstance began to play and the entire stadium rose to its feet. Marco reached for his cane, but Vinnie placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Marco glared at his brother and levered himself to his feet. “I can stand, Vinnie, damn it!”

“Okay, okay.” But he watched Marco with a worried expression.

The graduates began filing into the stadium. At first Marco was aggravated by his brother’s condescension, then it struck him what he was here for. Rosa began to sob quietly and leaned on Vinnie. Vinnie put his arm around her.

Antonio was graduating. His first nephew, the tiny baby he’d held in the hospital 18 years ago, when he himself was only 13. Vinnie had been 23 at the time, just out of Stanford, trying to decide what he wanted to do with his life. In some ways Marco had grown up with Antonio. While Vinnie went to school and Rosa worked, Mama had taken care of Tonio. Since Franco was 16 and could drive, he hadn’t been around much. A lot of the time Marco had been called in to keep Tonio occupied while Mama did other things.

The graduates promenaded in in two straight lines and came to a stop before their seats, all dressed in black caps and gowns. Marco searched the faces for his nephew, but they were too far away to see anything distinct. A man in a cap and gown with a drape over his shoulders stepped up to the podium and silence fell. He asked everyone to remove their hats for the National Anthem.

After that they were finally allowed to sit. Marco’s leg was trembling by the time he eased onto the bench, but he placed his hand on it, trying to hide the discomfort. Of course, he could see Vinnie watching him from the corner of his eyes.

The same man approached the podium and introduced himself as the principal. Then he proceeded to give a long and drawn out speech. Marco let his mind wander to the case. He wasn’t sure where everything fit, but one thing he knew, Peterson hadn’t shot that man. Marco would bet his career that Peterson wasn’t physically able to fire a gun of any kind. Not to mention the gun they recovered was definitely not the murder weapon.

A number of speeches followed the principal’s. Someone from the district, the Valedictorian, the Salutatorian, then a young girl got up and sank a weepy song that had both Rosa and Cristina crying now. Marco suspected Serena was crying as well by the sniffles coming from behind him. Vinnie’s attention was finally diverted to his wife and he wrapped her in his arms, muttering soothing platitudes into her hair.

Marco smiled. All three of his brothers had made good marriages, women who were devoted to their family, devoted to their children, and devoted to their husbands. He cared for all three of them.

Finally the principal came back to the podium and Marco was daring to hope it was time to pass out the diplomas. Much as he loved Tonio, he was finding the bench uncomfortable and the speeches interminable.

“Thank you, Melissa,” he told the girl, who hurried off the stage. “Now our keynote speaker will deliver his address. For this speech, the students were given the opportunity to audition. The competition was stiff, but we are delighted to say this young man stood out from the rest. I am proud to introduce George Washington’s own, Antonio D’Angelo.”

Marco looked at his brother. Vinnie gave a delighted laugh and shrugged. Rosa began crying in earnest now. A young man in the front row of students rose and walked up to the stage, climbing the stairs. Marco was amazed at how well he moved, no sign of his injury evident in his steps.

He walked to the podium and set some index cards on its surface, then he looked out at the audience, taking them in. Marco realized Tonio was at least 6 feet now, if not more. No longer a little boy, but a man.

“Welcome, my fellow classmates, administrators, teachers, and parents,” he said, clear and loud into the microphone. “I’m sure you were disappointed when Principal Bell said there’d be another speech. And let’s be honest, they pretty much all say the same thing: remember the past, succeed in the future, and finally, Go Eagles!”

Cheers erupted and people laughed.

Antonio waited for quiet. “I’m sorry to tell you that I’m going to talk about the same thing.”

More laughter.

“As we all go off to new locations, new experiences, and new adventures, we have a bright future ahead of us. Whether we become doctors or lawyers, architects like my father, or choose to do the hardest job of all, raise a family like my mother, we will face successes and failures, good times and bad. It’s easy to live through the good times, but it’s what we do with the bad ones that probably matter more. Here’s where I’m going to deviate from your typical graduation speech.”

A smatter of laughter rose and fell.

“More than a year ago, my best friend and I were in a car accident.” Tonio motioned to someone off to his right and Marco craned his neck to see a boy in a wheelchair, sitting at the end of the first row. “We were both on the track team. It was our life: the thrill of competition, the camaraderie of our teammate, the euphoria of pushing your body to its physical limits, and of course, missing class to go to the meets.”

More laughter.

“I wasn’t bad, but you should have seen Billy run hurdles. He was like the Flash.” Tonio looked down at his cards. “We had everything ahead of us. We were sure we’d get college scholarships, Olympics. But in one instant, it was over. Our car spun out of control and hit a tree. We were lucky we didn’t die, but our dreams ended that night. I broke my leg, had surgery, physical therapy. Running is pretty much over for me. For Billy…” Tonio drew a deep breath, then blew out. “It cost him his legs.”

The silence in the stadium was weighted.

“I remember lying in that hospital bed, thinking everything was over, that nothing would be right again. I felt such guilt, such anger, such emptiness. I can only imagine what Billy felt. All the dreams I had were dashed. All the hopes for the future gone. I didn’t know what to do.”

Tonio shifted and looked into the bleachers. “About eight months ago, my uncle, a captain with the San Francisco police force, was shot in the thigh.”

Marco’s head lifted.

“It almost killed him. In fact, the doctors wanted to take his leg, it was so badly damaged. Before that, I was just going through the motions, just pretending that everything was all right in my life. I didn’t want my parents to worry, but watching my uncle fight for his life changed my perspective.”

“My uncle’s this big, tough guy. I remember watching him pick up one end of this huge couch by himself, while my dad and my other two uncles struggled with the other end.”

Laughter.

“But seeing him after the shooting, I knew what he was feeling. I knew he was thinking that in that one instant everything in his life changed, everything he believed about himself was now different.”

Marco felt Bernardo’s hand on his shoulder.

“Over the days and weeks and months, I’ve watched him fight. I’ve watched him get up and learn to walk again. I’ve watched him battle the pain, and I’ve watched him accept that he wasn’t the same anymore, that he was forever changed.”

“And over that time, I realized that we all have our challenges, our obstacles, our mountains to climb. I’ve been fortunate to have people like Billy and my uncle show me what true courage is. True courage is facing the difficult times and moving forward. It’s knowing that sometimes you’re gonna get knocked down, beaten, trampled, even broken, but you never give up, you never stop, you never give in. You keep getting up and going forward. You keep fighting for what you know is right. And most of all, you face what the world has in store for you with determination and heart and courage because nothing...nothing will ever defeat you! So when I say, Go, Eagles, I mean go, conquer, succeed… because you can!”

Cheers rose and the students leapt to their feet.

After a moment, Antonio inclined his head to his audience, then he walked off the stage.

Vinnie turned to Marco and gave him a watery smile, hugging him against his side, but Marco’s attention was fixed on the boy he’d held so long ago as he went directly to Billy Miller in his wheelchair and bent over to hug his best friend.

*    *    *

At noon St. Mungo’s filled with people looking for a meal to stave off hunger for another day. Workers walked past in white aprons with the St. Mungo’s logo on the front, but interspersed with them were homeless, helping out by stacking plates, polishing silverware, arranging cups.

The Ghost Squad and Caleb fanned out into the room, showing Charlie’s picture and talking to the visitors. Peyton searched the pockets of people until she found Trish behind the counter, stirring mashed potatoes with a large stainless steel spoon. Peyton approached her and the young woman looked up, giving her a smile. She wore a hair net on her head and a St. Mungo’s apron. A run down pair of sneakers covered her feet.

“You’re Peyton, right?”

“Right.”

“You’re looking for Charlie?”

“That’s right. I was hoping I could ask you a few more questions.”

“Sure.” She continued to stir.

Peyton reached inside her jacket and pulled out the snapshot of Charlie they’d duplicated. “I have a better picture of Charlie. Can you tell me if it’s him?” She held the picture out to Trish, but she didn’t take it. She was too occupied with keeping the potatoes smooth.

Trish tilted her head. “His eyes are the same.” She smiled. “Look at Charlie, all cleaned up and spiffy. No beard, no crazy bushy hair. That’s Charlie, it is.”

Peyton put the picture back inside her jacket. “Trish, you said Charlie’s too kind to do bad things.”

“Charlie’s gentle.”

“Right. Did you ever see Charlie get angry though?”

“Never. I never seen him raise his voice.”

“You met Charlie here at St. Mungo’s?”

“Right.”

“Is this the only place you’ve ever talked to Charlie?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean did you ever go anywhere else with Charlie, do anything else with him? Do you know where he likes to go?”

She glanced around the room, then lowered her head and stirred the potatoes for a few seconds. Peyton looked around herself and saw Radar standing behind them, pretending to read a brochure on the wall, but he was listening to them. Peyton wanted to tell him to get lost, but she was afraid Trish wouldn’t talk to her anymore if she diverted her attention for even a moment.

“Trish, did you ever see Charlie away from St. Mungo’s?”

“I told you Charlie never hurt anyone. Why can’t you believe that?”

“I do, but I need to find him. It’s important, Trish.”

“Charlie likes the tube.”

“Did you ever ride it with him?”

“No, we only talked at St. Mungo’s.”

Peyton thought for a moment. She knew Caleb had dismissed Tank’s multiple personality diagnosis, but something kept bothering her about this dual personality thing. “Trish, you said you’d met Niles?”

“Once.”

“Once, right? Where did Charlie meet him?”

“I think he met him here.”

“What was he like, Niles?”

Trish’s eyes snapped to Peyton’s face and her hands tightened on the spoon. “He’s not nice. He’s dodgy.”

“Dodgy?”

“Something’s off in him. You can see it in the eyes.”

Peyton felt a chill shiver over her. “You only met him once, but have you seen him other times? Maybe you’ve run into him on the street when you’re coming to St. Mungo’s?”

“He’s always with Charlie. Follows him around. It’s barmy, it is.”

Peyton wanted to look back and see if Radar was still listening, but she didn’t want to lose Trish’s cooperation. “Trish, are you sure he follows Charlie?”

“Yes.” She leaned closer to Peyton, dropping her voice. “Charlie doesn’t want him around, but where Charlie goes, there goes Niles.”

“Does he ever come into St. Mungo’s with Charlie?”

“No, he won’t come in here. He waits in the shadows, in the alleys.”

Peyton realized her heart was pounding. “So, he never comes inside?”

“No.”

“So when you met him, you went outside with Charlie?”

“We were sharing a smoke out back and Niles was suddenly there. I don’t know where he came from. He made some sexual comments about me, and then Charlie told me to go inside. Something wasn’t right, so I left.”

Peyton swallowed hard. “What did Niles look like, Trish?”

“What’d he look like?”

“Yes, I need a description. Height, weight, age, hair color. That way we can find him and prove that Charlie didn’t hurt anyone.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Yes, anything you can tell me will help.”

Trish gave Peyton a frown. “He looks like Charlie. They could be twins.”

Peyton felt her heart sink. “What?”

“He and Charlie could be twins now, couldn’t they?”

Peyton risked a glance behind her at Radar. Radar bowed his head and closed his eyes. Suddenly Trish grabbed her arm, squeezing tight.

“I knew he was one of them.”

Peyton looked to where she pointed. Caleb had stopped to question a few servers at the other end of the counter. Suddenly he lifted his hand and pressed the device in his ear, engaging a call. The blue light blinked rapidly as he began talking, turning away from the counter for privacy.

“You knew he was one of what, Trish?” Peyton asked.

Keeping her eyes fixed on Caleb, Trish leaned close to Peyton’s ear. “They’re everywhere now, aren’t they? They watch us, record what we do, report on us.”

“Who?”

“Near as I can figure, they’re aliens. They’ve been here for years. They track all of us, the humans, they track us, monitor what we do, observe us. It’s like we’re laboratory specimens for them.”

“Inspector Abbott’s just a cop, Trish.”

“That’s what they want you to think, but I can tell the difference. The aliens put out a vibration and I can feel it in my skull.” She tapped a hand to her temple. “I get this shiver along my scalp and I know there’s one around.”

Peyton sighed. Damn it, she’d thought she’d finally gotten a break.

“You need to be careful. They monitor us.”

“How?” Peyton asked, despite herself.

“Vaccinations. You know how all those littleuns are becoming autistic?”

“Autistic?”

“From the vaccinations?”

“No, that’s been proven wrong.”

Trish grabbed Peyton’s arm, digging in her fingers. “Listen to me.”

Peyton patted her hand, trying to get her to ease her grip. “I’m listening, Trish.”

“That’s how they track us, in the shots. They have microchips embedded in them and they shoot them in your arm. Then they can scan you and get the information they want. Ingenious, isn’t it now?” She paused and her eyes went distant. “It is rather ingenious.”

Peyton gently pried her hand loose. “I think the potatoes are clumping.”

“Oh.” She released Peyton and snatched up her spoon, stirring vigorously.

Peyton backed away from her. “Thank you, Trish.”

Trish tapped her finger against her skull and jerked her chin at Caleb. Peyton nodded and forced a smile, turning and walking over to Radar.

Radar gave her a shake of his head. “Well, it was worth a shot.”

Peyton frowned at that. Was he praising her or mocking her? “I thought I had something there until she started spouting that Niles is Charlie’s doppelganger and Abbott’s an alien.”

Radar draped an arm over her shoulder, directing her toward Tank and Bambi. “I don’t know about Niles, but she might be right about Abbott. He told me he loves kidney pie.” He gave a shiver of revulsion and Peyton laughed.

*    *    *

Marco watched his nephew open his graduation gifts. A lot of the presents had a common theme – UCLA paraphernalia. Leaning against the doorjamb in his brother and sister-in-law’s house, he was feeling a little claustrophobic. He loved his family something fierce, but this many people in such a small space were bound to bump into each other.

“Here, Uncle Marco,” said Cristina, offering him a sparkling champagne glass off the tray she carried. “We’re going to do a toast.”

Marco took the glass and touched her on the nose. “How do you get prettier every time I see you?”

She blushed and ducked her head. “You always say that.”

He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Because it’s always true.”

She beamed a smile at him, then continued her circuit of the room, passing out her glasses.

Vinnie rose to his feet from the couch and held up his champagne glass. “I would like to propose a toast to my son, Antonio Vincent D’Angelo.”

Everyone picked up their glasses as well. Tonio grabbed his and rose to stand by his father. Vinnie put his arm around Tonio’s shoulders.

“Tonio, you are a good son. Cheers!”

Protests arose and Vinnie laughed.

“Always with the humor,” grumbled Leo.

“Okay, Papa, here it is. Tonio, today begins your adventure independent of your mother and me. You have made me proud so many times in the last 18 years as you grew from a tiny infant to an independent minded young man. It has been an honor to parent you and a privilege to be the cause of your future therapy. Congratulations, son, you amaze me. Cheers!”

Everyone lifted their drinks and took a sip. The sickly sweet flavor of apple cider struck Marco’s tongue and he grimaced. Tonio made a face too.

“You gotta toast with champagne,” he grumbled.

“Not when you’re under twenty-one,” said his father, but his eyes lifted to Marco.

Marco looked away. He knew the gesture was well meaning, but it stung and he suddenly wanted out of this room more than he wanted anything. Still, he forced himself to stay. Peyton’s comment that he ran whenever things got rough whispered through his mind. He had to stop running if he ever wanted a relationship with her again.

Rosa rose and clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone, we have a wonderful buffet in the kitchen just waiting to be eaten. Let’s go.”

As everyone filed into the kitchen after the food, Marco hung back, leaning on the wall. When Tonio followed the others, Marco motioned for his nephew to come over to him. Tonio immediately shifted in his direction, stopping before Marco. Vinnie gave them suspicious looks, but Marco ignored his brother, waiting for everyone to enter the kitchen.

As soon as they were alone, Marco handed Tonio the card he’d been holding for him. “Open it here.”

Tonio gave him a searching look as he took the card and tore open the envelope. He pulled the card out, smiling at the front cover. A little cartoon man with his empty pockets turned out graced the front. Across the top it said, Congratulations and welcome to adulthood! Opening it, Tonio gave a bark of laughter. The inside read, And welcome to debt!

“Yep, that’s true.” He reached for the paper inside and turned it over, then his eyes snapped up to Marco’s face. “I can’t take this, Uncle Marco.”

“Yes you can, and you can keep it just between the two of us.”

“You need this for your wedding.”

Marco drew a ragged breath. No he didn’t, but he didn’t voice it out loud. “Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of.”

“What about Peyton?”

“What about her?”

“Shouldn’t you talk to her about this?”

“Peyton? Peyton would give you twice that amount.”

Tonio gave him a calculating look. “Then maybe I should talk to her.”

Marco laughed. “Look, that isn’t going to go far, but maybe it’ll buy your books or something for the first year. I’m proud of you kid and I know you’re going to do great things.”

Tonio’s eyes grew liquid. “I’m going to become an orthopedic surgeon, Uncle Marco.”

Marco felt a rush of emotion inside of him, but he tamped it down. “Well, then, that’ll buy you one book.”

Tonio laughed, then he stepped forward and hugged his uncle. “Thank you, Uncle Marco.”

Marco hugged him in return. “It’s really nothing, kid. You deserve it.”

Tonio stepped back and nodded to the kitchen. “You’re gonna come eat something, right? Mama and Grandma will be furious if you don’t.”

“Yeah.” He started to turn toward the kitchen, but his phone rang. He grabbed it out of his pocket, seeing Peyton’s number on the screen. He couldn’t help the thrill of happiness that went through him as he pressed the icon to connect the call. “Tell them I’ll be there in a bit.”

Tonio waved from the doorway and Marco limped over to the couch, sinking onto the seat, as Peyton’s face appeared on the screen.

*    *    *

“Hey.”

Peyton breathed a sigh, seeing Marco’s handsome features filling her phone. She leaned back into the corner of the leather booth, resting the phone on her knee. “Hey.” She felt tears prickle her eyes. “Where are you?”

“Vinnie’s. Tonio graduated today.”

“He did? I missed it.”

“Yeah, but don’t feel bad. I almost missed it too.”

“We need to get him something.”

“I took care of it. I said it was from both of us.”

“Thank you.” She braced her head with her hand. “I’m sorry I missed that.”

“It was pretty amazing. He gave a speech.”

“I know. He was selected out of about twenty other kids.”

Marco gave her an amused smile. “How did you know?”

“Rosa told me. We talk every few days.”

“Really?” He frowned. “Are you in another pub?”

“Yep.” She rubbed at her eye. “I wanted to stay in, but everyone insisted I come with them.”

His expression sobered. “You okay, sweetheart?”

She looked away, trying to compose herself. “I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t feel that way to me. What’s wrong, Brooks?”

She forced a smile for him. “I’m just tired and frustrated and homesick. I don’t think this case is ever going to end, and all I want is to be there with you, and my dog. How is my dog?”

“He’s fine. He’s happier being at your house.”

She nodded, relieved. “And I want a hamburger.”

He laughed. “The last time I got you a hamburger you didn’t eat it.”

“I’d eat it now.”

He smiled and her heart did that funny little flutter whenever she looked at him. “Look, sweetheart, you may never get the chance to be in London again. You should enjoy the parts of it you can and soak up all the local culture. And one way to do that is to get off the phone with me.”

“How’d you get so wise?”

“Therapy.”

Peyton laughed. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

“You can call me anytime.”

“Bye, Marco baby.”

“Bye, Brooks.”

She disconnected and slipped out of the booth. Going back to the pub table, she climbed on the stool and lifted her pint, taking a sip.

“Everything all right?” asked Bambi.

“Yeah, are we getting food?” She didn’t want to talk about the call or she knew the homesickness would come raging back.

“We ordered fish and chips,” said Radar, playing with his paper coaster.

Caleb pulled open the door and stepped inside. Bambi waved frantically to him and he shifted in their direction. Tank grabbed him a stool and he took a seat on it, giving them his affable smile.

“I just heard back from Charing Cross. The shift manager’s willing to talk with us tomorrow.”

“Excellent,” said Radar.

The fish and chips arrived and Caleb ordered a pint. As they ate, Peyton found herself studying a group at the end of the bar. They were watching a soccer game on the big screen television and cheering loudly. Every once in a while they’d break into song.

After the food was eaten and cleared, Peyton managed to finish her pint. She felt a bit of a buzzing in her head and she realized she hadn’t drank that much in a long time. As soon as her glass was empty, Bambi nudged her with her shoulder.

“Help me buy another round. It’s my turn.”

Peyton didn’t think she wanted anymore, but she jumped off the stool and followed Bambi, surprised she was weaving a little. Bambi went to the bar and leaned on it. A young female bartender came over and took her order.

Two men who’d been with the group watching the game came over and leaned on the bar. “You’re American,” one said. He had spiky blond hair, crooked teeth and a pleasant smile.

“Yes, what gave us away?” said Bambi, turning to face them.

“Your Hollywood good looks,” said the second. He had very pale skin and black hair.

Bambi rolled her eyes and turned back to the bar. The bartender started lining up the pints for them. Something happened on the television and the group cheered. The blond looked back at Peyton and Bambi, holding out his hand.

“I’m Patrick.”

Bambi took it. “Emma, and this is my friend, Peyton.”

“Nice ta meet ya, Peyton,” said Patrick. He patted the dark haired guy. “This is Roddy, me mate.”

They shook hands with Roddy. Bambi paid for the drinks, but as they reached for the glasses, Patrick took the extra one. “Let me give ya a hand.”

“Sure,” said Bambi.

They carried everything back to the table. Bambi introduced the two men to Caleb and the Ghost Squad. The men pulled a second table over and sat down with them. Radar gave Peyton a skeptical look, but Peyton shrugged and sipped at her drink.

“So, what part of America do you hail from, lass?”

“California,” said Bambi.

They gave each other a nudge and laughed. “Told ya Hollywood.”

“Northern California,” corrected Tank.

“How many movie stars have you met?”

“None,” said Peyton.

Radar made an annoyed sound and sipped at his drink.

A cheer went up from the group again.

Patrick and Roddy looked over. Someone shouted something to them from the group and they both whooped. Laughing, Patrick turned back to them. “You don’t watch soccer much in the states, do you now?” He said soccer with an affected American accent.

“Not much.”

“I’ve always wondered why it never took on in the colonies,” said Roddy.

“They don’t like to be called the colonies, mate,” said Caleb.

“Right. I’m an arse-hat,” said Roddy, leaning close to Bambi.

Bambi shrugged.

“Would you mind telling us arse-hats why you don’t like football?” said Patrick.

“It’s too slow,” said Radar, giving them his Radar-death stare.

“Too slow? How canna be too slow?”

“He means there isn’t much scoring,” translated Tank.

“Ah, it’s true,” said Patrick, nudging Roddy. “The American’s like scoring. You’ve seen basketball, now haven’t ya?”

“Yeah, basketball. I think it’s a bit manic, it is. All the running up and down. I’d be knackered, I would.”

“Knackered?” asked Bambi.

“Worn out,” offered Tank.

“Ah.”

“Funny, innit, our language,” said Roddy. “It seems the same, but it isn’t, is it now?”

“There are some difference, but spoken language is an ever changing thing. Shakespeare himself added around 1,700 words to the language,” said Tank.

Patrick and Roddy laughed. “This one’s a walking dictionary, he is,” said Patrick. “Okay, let’s play a game. I’ll say somethin’ and you tell us how you’d say it.”

Bambi’s eyes danced with delight. Peyton shrugged. She was just tipsy enough to go along with it. Tank actually seemed excited.

“If I say I think basketball is pants, what would you say?”

“Pants?” questioned Bambi.

“Rubbish,” volunteered Caleb.

“We’d say it sucks,” said Peyton.

Bambi nodded.

“Ah, that’s rather gobby of you.”

Peyton shook her head.

Tank frowned in concentration. “Does that mean the same as cheeky?”

Patrick and Roddy laughed. “Close. It means outspoken, offensive. What if I say you’re taking the piss.”

“Piss means urinate to us,” said Bambi.

Patrick laughed. “Well, then I’ve dropped a clanger.”

Roddy leaned close to Bambi again. “Your beauty makes me feel all collywobbles.”

Bambi shoved him back. “I think I get that one and I say it’s a load of tosh.”

Caleb laughed. “She snookered you, mate.”

“She did at that,” said Roddy, reaching for his drink.

CHAPTER 15

Straightening the ball cap on his head, Charlie leaned against the brick wall beside the entrance to St. Mungo’s. He glanced up and down the street. He wanted to go inside and get something to eat, but he was afraid Niles would show up and he didn’t want that. There were a lot of young women seeking help in St. Mungo’s and it had been a number of days since Niles made his last kill. He had to be getting restless.

A few people came and went. Charlie knew he should move along, but this was as close to a home as he had now and well, frankly he was afraid to go to his usual spots. Niles had turned them into crime scenes.

When Trish stepped out of the gate, Charlie started forward, but he stopped himself and slumped back on the wall. Trish caught his motion and looked over. She wore an oversized sweater and she hugged it about herself, then moved toward him.

“Hello, Charlie.”

“Hello, Trish.” He looked down at his boot toe and picked at his cuticles. “How are you?”

“I’m right fair and you?” She glanced up at him through her lashes.

Charlie shrugged.

“Why didn’t you come in and get a meal? We had plenty.”

“Niles.”

She nodded and cuffed at the sidewalk with her shoe. “American bobbies have been asking after you at St. Mungo’s.”

Charlie’s eyes snapped to her face and he straightened away from the wall. “What?”

“They’ve been here twice. One’s from Scotland Yard.” She leaned closer to him and dropped her voice. “He’s an alien.”

“They asked for me? Me specifically?”

She nodded. “They have a picture of you from your mum.”

“What do they want?”

“Something about the girl killed on the Wibbly Wobbly.”

“What about her?”

“Who killed her. That’ll be what they’re wanting to know, now isn’t it?”

“Did you talk to them?”

“Just the one. The first one, the alien, I wouldn’t talk to, but the American, I talked to her. She’s sweet, actually looks at us.” She paused and considered. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“What?” Charlie was becoming confused and alarmed.

“They don’t actually look at us, you know? They look right past us, over our shoulders, they never make eye contact.” She hugged her arms tighter. “Well, this one, she looks at us, she sees us. I warned her about the aliens. I told her how to tell who they are. I think she’ll appreciate that.”

“Did you tell them where I was?”

“Now how could I do that, Charlie? I’m not knowing, now am I?”

“No, I guess not.” He cast a wistful glance at St. Mungo’s. He guessed he wasn’t going to be able to come here for a while.

“I told them it was Niles. I told them all about Niles.”

“You did.” Charlie’s attention shifted back to her and he felt a chill race up his spine. “You told them about Niles? What did they say?”

“Asked a lot of questions, they did, but I didn’t have much to tell them.”

“Did you tell them anything else?”

“They wanted to know where to find you. I didn’t tell them that. I didn’t give you up, Charlie, but the American, she’s smart, clever, and nice. She’ll be able to get others to talk.” She reached out and touched Charlie’s arm. “You need to get rid of that manky coat, Charlie. They know about it.”

He looked down at his army coat and stepped back from her. It was the one bit of comfort he had and she wanted to take that away from him. No, he wasn’t getting rid of the army coat no matter what.

“Thank you for telling me about the Americans. I’ll keep a weather eye out.”

She gave a shrug, then started walking away down the street. “Take care of yourself, Charlie,” she called over her shoulder. “And keep an eye out for the aliens, now won’t you?”

*    *    *

Neil brought Peyton a bottle of water. She screwed off the cap and swallowed it with a couple of aspirin. Funny how quickly you lost your tolerance for drinking when you didn’t do it as often as you once did.

“Hangover?” asked Radar smugly as he took a seat at the table.

“Shut up.”

“Sparky, Sparky, Sparky, don’t you know they don’t have our weak-ass 12% beer here?”

“Does Mrs. Radar appreciate your sage advice, old man?”

“She listens. This is also what you get for flirting with foreign men.”

“Flirting? That wasn’t flirting. What are you, my father?”

“Perish the thought,” he said, rubbing his temples.

Throughout their whole exchange, Neil smiled. Peyton looked over at him.

“Are you married, Neil?”

“No’m, I have a girlfriend, but we haven’t decided if marriage is something we find necessary.”

“Have you always lived in London?”

“Born and bred, mahm.”

Caleb, trailed by Bambi and Tank, entered the room. He clapped his hands brightly, making Peyton wince. “Good morning, all.” His attention focused on Peyton. “Are you not well, Agent Brooks?”

“I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth and shooting a death glare at Radar when he gave a snort of laughter.

“So, another night without a murder and I’m chuffed.”

“Chuffed?” asked Peyton, frowning.

“Delighted,” said Tank, taking a seat next to her. He looked about as good as she felt.

She slid the water bottle over to him and pulled her aspirin out of her jacket pocket. As she did so, her hand touched on something cool with sharp angles. She gave the aspirin to Tank, who muttered thank you, then reached back in her pocket and took out the perfume bottle she and Bambi had gotten the other day, turning it over in her hand.

“Forgot to bathe this morning?” asked Radar wryly.

She shoved the bottle back in her pocket. “You’re sure full of piss and vinegar this morning, old man. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m not hung-over.”

Peyton stuck her tongue out at him and Caleb laughed, nudging Neil with his arm. The gesture annoyed Peyton, but she kept her mouth shut. She wondered if the two Brits were, as they would say, having a laugh at them after they left them at the hotel each night. Of course, they’d say laugh like lawf, which this morning only added to her annoyance.

“Can we get back to the case?” she grumbled.

“Certainly.” Caleb clapped his hands again. “I’m wide open to suggestions on how to proceed. Clearly someone needs to visit Charing Cross Station and find out why Charlie was sacked.”

“Sparky and I will go,” said Radar.

“Joy,” she muttered, then she focused her attention on Neil. “Can you show me the video of the first attack on the train?”

“Certainly,” said Neil. He reached for the remote and booted up their glass board.

“I was also thinking the rest of us might go talk to the couple who saved Amelia MacDonnell,” said Caleb.

“Going to see Amelia herself in the hospital might not be such a bad idea,” said Tank.

“Why don’t the three of us handle that chore then?” offered Caleb.

“Here’s the video,” said Neil, pressing a button on the remote.

Peyton watched as Angela Evans stepped onto the train. She moved to the opposite side of the car and sat, clutching her purse in her lap. She was staring at the opposite window, but the camera angle didn’t show anything beyond the car she was in. Suddenly she rose to her feet and held the purse before her as if it offered a barrier. She was still looking toward the other side of the car, staring at something, then she started moving toward her right, easing down the car.

“What’s she looking at?” asked Peyton.

Nobody answered.

The train lurched forward and Angela staggered to keep her feet, then a shadowy figure came into the camera view, forcing Angela to face him, holding up her hands. He moved rapidly toward her and she turned to run, but he caught her around the waist, pulling her back against his chest, then the knife rose again and again and again. A moment later he dropped her, discarded her, the knife dangling from his hand. Finally, he tilted back his head and howled. Even though Neil hadn’t engaged the audio, Peyton shivered at the image.

Radar and Tank looked down, but Bambi stared with rapt attention at the screen.

“Your point, Sparky?”

Peyton shook her head, trying to process the violence they’d just witnessed. “I don’t know. He never turns his face toward the camera, so we can’t get an image. What did he do after this?”

“He walked down the cars and got off at the next station,” said Neil. “We don’t have him on video before this.”

“Where’s the video of Angela in the station?”

“They erase it every morning unless a problem is reported. Since the murder took place on the train, no one knew to keep the video at the station.”

“What’s she looking at when she first gets on the train and why does she suddenly stand up before the attacker appears?” asked Bambi.

Peyton nodded at her. That’s what bothered her too.

“We think the attacker tried to get in at the door to her car, then ran down to the car in front of hers and used that door instead,” said Caleb.

A female police officer entered the room. “Good morning,” she said to all of them before handing a piece of paper to Caleb.

Caleb thanked her and read the paper silently to himself, then he looked up. “This is the diagnosis from Broadmoor that we’ve been waiting for. Charles Howsham was being treated for paranoid schizophrenia. Of note is the fact that Charlie seemed to have early onset of symptoms, but everything else is consistent with that diagnosis.” He held up a hand and let it fall. “So there we have it.”

Tank looked down, his hands tightening into fists.

“Tank?”

He gave Peyton a quick look and shook his head.

Caleb clapped his hands again. “So we now have a plan for our day. Let’s meet in five minutes and head out. I need to go to the loo and get a travel mug of coffee. Bambi, would you like one?”

“Sure.” Bambi rose to her feet, her eyes still on the video, but she followed Caleb from the room.

Radar rose. “Five minutes, Sparky, so down that water, pee, and hustle.”

Peyton waved him off, but she waited until he left the room before she turned to Tank. “You don’t believe that diagnosis, do you?”

“No, I believe it. His parents told you he had schizophrenia and now the doctors at Broadmoor confirm it.”

“What’s bothering you then?”

“The Jekyll and Hyde nature of his personality. I’m not saying schizophrenics don’t break and have violent outbursts at times, but when Charlie is Niles, he’s calculating, predatory. He knows what he’s doing. It’s not the rash, sudden violence we hear of where someone pushes an innocent bystander onto the subway tracks. He plots out these murders, he selects his victims, he stalks them.”

“I know. Something’s not fitting for me either.”

“I’m well aware of the debate among psychiatric circles regarding split personality. I’m well aware it’s a controversial topic, but…” He pointed at the screen. “...this just doesn’t fit schizophrenia either.”

Peyton closed her hand over his. “Be careful, Tank. I don’t like where this case is leading us.”

He squeezed her hand with his free one. “You too. Stay close to Radar, okay?”

“I will.”

Tank gave her a forced smile, then rose to his feet and walked out the door. Peyton rose as well and pulled the perfume bottle out of her pocket again. She unwound the protective tape and uncorked the bottle, thinking to throw it away, but when she lifted it to her nose for a sniff, she found she actually liked it. Lilacs, her favorite scent.

*   *    *

Marco woke to the sound of loud voices and hammering. He rolled to his back and lay listening for a moment, trying to clear the sleep from his brain, then he pushed himself to a sitting position. Pickles’ bed was empty and the door to the bedroom was slightly ajar. He threw back the covers and reached for his gym shorts in the armchair by the bed, sliding them on. His leg screamed in protest when he rose to his feet and pulled the shorts over his hips.

Grabbing the cane, he raked his free hand through his hair and limped to the door, yanking it open. Immediately he recognized Abe’s voice, but the other voice was unfamiliar. Frowning, he went down the small hallway and paused in the opening to the living room. A man around Marco’s age stood on a short step ladder in Peyton’s open doorway, banging away with a hammer, while Abe stood below him supervising. The man had a tool belt strapped around his waist and he wore a wife beater tank top with low-slung jeans and work boots. A red bandana held back a head of wavy blond hair.

“What the hell is going on?” Marco grumbled.

Abe and the man turned and looked at him. The man’s eyes widened and the hammer dropped from his hand, but he caught it at the last minute.

“Hey, Adonis!” said Jake, sticking his head through the opening over Peyton’s breakfast bar. “Uh, you might want to put some clothes on.”

“Don’t get dressed on my account,” said the blond man.

Marco glanced down at his bare chest, then turned and went back into Peyton’s room. He could hear Abe chuckling behind him.

“You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s a bit prudish,” said Abe. “Catholic upbringing and all.”

“I get it. Just, that’s one fine man.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Abe.

Marco pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. His leg was paining him too much to think of socks, so he gave up on that and went back into the living room. The banging was getting louder and he was concerned they were dismantling Peyton’s house.

Abe was still in his same spot, but Jake had disappeared into Peyton’s kitchen. Marco limped over to the medical examiner and gave him a frown. Today Abe wore a jumpsuit that was covered in dogs of every size and variety.

“What’s this?” He motioned at Abe’s jumpsuit, then the doorway. “All of this.” Worry suddenly replaced confusion. “Where’s Pickles?”

“He’s in here with me,” said Jake, banging away under the counter. “He wanted his breakfast.”

Marco turned back to Abe. “What are you wearing?”

“My working clothes.”

“Why the dogs?”

“I’m in my animal period.”

“And what are you working on?” He motioned to the guy on the step ladder.

“Parker Stockwell,” said the man, holding out his hand.

Marco shook it. “Abe?”

“Parker’s installing the security system you wanted. He’s a handyman extraordinaire and today, I’m his assistant.”

Marco looked over his shoulder. “And what’s Jake doing here?”

Jake’s head popped up from below the counter. “I’m making flapjacks.”

Marco sighed and raked his hair into some semblance of order, then he caned his way to the kitchen. He didn’t know why he persisted in questioning things that made no sense. This was Peyton’s world and he was just an inhabitant.  “Is there coffee?”

“Of course there’s coffee. Why wouldn’t there be coffee?”

“I don’t know I figured we’d be having camel’s milk or something.”

Jake looked up at him from the floor and frowned. “Camel’s milk? Where would I get camel’s milk?”

Marco ignored him and grabbed the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug. Pickles was busy eating what looked like eggs and bacon from his bowl. Marco decided he didn’t want to question that either, so he took a seat at the bar and watched Parker bang away at Peyton’s door jamb.

His phone suddenly rang on the sofa table. Abe snatched it up and brought it to him, smiling from ear to ear.

“Where the hell do you find these crazy outfits?”

“Only the finest fashion establishments, Angel. Not everyone can wear what I wear.”

“Now that’s the truth.” He took the phone from Abe, glancing down to see Cho’s number on the display. He slid his finger across the screen. “Hey?”

“Hey, Captain.”

“You got something for me?”

“Huh?”

“About the case we’re working?”

“Oh, no, um, Maria wants to know if you’re coming for dinner tonight.”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh, by the way,” said Abe, holding up a long finger. “We’re going to Maria and Nathan’s for dinner tonight.”

Marco glared at him.

Jake popped his head up over the counter. “We’re making wedding favors.”

“We’re doing what?”

“We’re all helping her make wedding favors, since Peyton’s out of town and that would apparently be her and Marta’s job,” said Cho.

“What the hell are wedding favors?”

Abe and Jake started to explain it to him, but he waved them off.

“I’m not exactly sure, but apparently it takes a village,” said Cho.

“Could you tell Maria I’m working tonight, Nate?” he said, lowering his voice so no one else would hear, but Abe whipped around giving him a wounded look.

“I don’t think that’s gonna work, Captain. She promised Peyton she’d look out for you.”

Damn it all. Marco tightened his hand on the phone. He could tell them he had dinner at his parents’ house tonight. They usually had dinner on Sundays, but they’d spent the whole day together yesterday.

“I’m free, if you want to do something low key, maybe stay in,” said Parker, giving him a suggestive wink.

Marco paused, holding the phone against his ear and studying the man. What? “Tell Maria I’ll be there,” he grumbled. “But you owe me.”

“You’re right. I owe you,” said Cho. “Name your price.”

“I’ll think of it later.” He disconnected and laid the phone on the counter.

“Ah ha!” shouted Jake, popping up from the floor. “I knew she had one and I found it.” He turned the pan around so Marco could see. “We’re having panda shaped pancakes today!”

*    *    *

Radar hailed a taxi outside of Scotland Yard and they climbed into the little black vehicle, taking a seat along the back. The driver slid open the plastic partition and peered at them through his rearview mirror.

“Where to, mate?”

“Charing Cross Station.”

The man gave a quick nod and slid the partition back in place, then he whipped the little taxi out into the traffic again, making Peyton scramble to grab the armrest and keep from being pitched into the open luggage area of the car.

“What’s bothering you about this case?” asked Radar, putting on his mirrored glasses and facing forward.

“What?”

“Something’s bothering you about it.”

“Tank’s what’s bothering me. Why aren’t we listening to him about Charlie’s mental illness?”

“All of the experts have said the same thing. Besides that, what difference does it really make?”

“What?”

“If it’s schizophrenia or split personality, what difference does it make? We catch the killer, we stop the murders.”

“And you’re sure Charlie’s our guy?”

“It’s looking like that more and more. Do you have any other ideas?”

“No, but I still don’t like it. It should fit together neater.”

He gave her a frown. She could only tell because his brows drew down below the glasses. “When does a case ever fit neatly together, Sparky? Never, that’s when.”

“Then it seems too easy.”

“How? How has any of this been easy?”

“We identified Charlie based on a guy who worked with him at Charing Cross for what? Two months or so? And that’s the only suspect we’ve focused on.” She gasped as the taxi threw her into the side of the vehicle. “And why are we taking a taxi? If Charlie hangs out in the tube stations, shouldn’t we be searching them ourselves?”

Radar considered that. “You have a point. Okay, tomorrow we ride the tube lines all day. We’ll go in partners and question people at the stations with the two pictures we have.”

Peyton felt a bit mollified and leaned back in her seat, watching London speed past outside the window. When they arrived at Charing Cross, Radar paid the taxi driver and pulled open the door. Climbing out, she enjoyed the spill of sunlight over her. She couldn’t really complain about the weather in London. It had been pleasant for the most part. Certainly there were times each day where it rained, but mostly the fog burned off by noon and it never got hotter than 80 degrees or so.

They walked into the tube station and Radar reached for his badge, going up to the booth and showing it through the glass. Peyton studied the booth, imagining Charlie working in it, enjoying his first real job, his first time doing something on his own, being productive. It made her sad. Of course, Charlie was likely a mass murderer, but before this, he’d tried to live an upstanding life, he’d tried to be a working member of society.

What had gone wrong? Who had failed him? Had there been something someone could have done differently?

Radar spoke with the middle aged man inside the box. The man picked up a phone and called someone, then he placed the phone back on its cradle and opened the box, stepping out.

“Come with me,” he said, motioning them to follow him.

He led them across the station to a door with a glass window in it. The window was covered by a shade. He knocked on the door and then reached for the handle, opening it and poking his head inside. “FBI here, sir,” he said.

“Send fem in,” came the response.

The man waved them to the opening and Peyton followed Radar inside a small, spare office. A metal desk and desk chair sat in the middle of the room with a heavy-set man behind it. He rose to his feet and extended his hand. He had large fleshy lips, crooked teeth, and broken capillaries in his cheeks. He did, however, have a full head of brown hair that was parted on the side.

“Roger Hammersley,” he said, shaking first Radar’s hand, then Peyton’s. His palm was damp and clammy. Peyton resisted the impulse to scrub it on her pants.

To the left of the desk were a row of steel filing cabinets, some of the drawers open and the papers hanging out. On top of the filing cabinets were magazine holders with files in them. Behind Hammersley’s desk was a map of the tube lines and over the door a metal sign with a red circle and a blue band crossing through the center of it, reading UNDERGROUND. A small model of a tube train lay across the front of his desk.

“Please have a seat,” he said, indicating two metal chairs with blue cushions across from him.

They sat down, then Radar reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the warrant Caleb had given him. “I’m Special Agent Carlos Moreno and this is my partner, Special Agent Brooks.” He held the warrant out to him.

Hammersley took it and smiled at Peyton. “Nice to meet you bouf,” he said, unfolding the paper and scanning it. He reached for a pair of glasses, perched them on his nose, and went back to reading. “Terrible about the murders, innit?”

“Yes,” said Radar.

Hammersley folded the warrant and handed it back to Radar. “Looks in order. What is it you’re wanting to know?”

“Charlie Howsham worked here?”

“For around six monfs.”

“Six months, right. You fired him.”

“We sacked him, right.”

“Can you tell me why?”

He rose to his feet and went to the filing cabinet, pulling open a drawer and searching for a file. He carried it back to the desk and opened it. “Jus’ refreshing me memory,” he said, smiling at Peyton again. He read through the file for a few moments, flipping pages and pooching out his full, wet lips.

Peyton couldn’t stand watching him, so she studied the model train instead. Reaching forward, she touched the lead car, but Radar curled his hand around hers and brought it down, smiling at Hammersley.

Peyton shot him a glare, then folded her hands in her lap to resist the temptation.

“Not a bad worker, he was. On-time, stayed late. He’d cover ofer people’s shifts.”

“And yet you fired...I mean, sacked him.”

“He lost it. Chased down fis woman on fa platform, begging her to go for a pint wif him. Scared her half to def.”

Radar exchanged a look with Peyton.

“What did the woman look like? Do you know?”

“‘Course I know. She came in and filed a complaint, she did. Sat right in fat chair.”

“Can you give us a description?”

Hammersley looked down at his file. “Don’ know what fat will prove?”

“It helps.”

He tilted back his head as if he was trying to pull the memory forward. “Blond, young, mid-twenties. Pretty.”

Peyton forced a smile. “Can you give us her name?”

“I guess fat won’t hurt.” He searched through the file again, reaching for a pad of paper and a pen.

“Has Charlie been back here since he was sacked?”

“I don’ know,” said Hammersley, busy searching the file for the young woman’s name. “People come and go. Not so’s I keep track of fem, mind you. I’m a busy man.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Now, what was her name?” He tapped the pen against his fleshy lip. “What was it? I’m sure I wrote it down.”

Peyton extended her left hand, the one farthest from Radar, and touched the last car on the train. It tilted on its wheels and tumbled off the desk, dragging the rest of the cars with it. Peyton tried to catch them, but they separated and a couple landed on the floor.

Hammersley looked up from his file and frowned at her. Peyton could see Radar’s jaw square as he ground his teeth. She set the cars in her hands on the desk and gave Hammersley a sheepish grin.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

He laughed. “I fink you owe me a date.” Then he winked.

Peyton’s alarmed gaze snapped to Radar’s face, but he refused to look at her.

“You wouldn’t survive it, Mr. Hammersley,” he said wryly, “of that you can be sure.”

*    *    *

“Hello, baby,” said Maria, opening the door of the pleasant rancher that Cho owned in South San Francisco. She rose on tiptoes and kissed Marco’s cheek. Marco held the flowers out to her. She took them and sniffed, giving him a pleased smile. “They’re lovely. You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“I was going to bring wine, then…” He gave a helpless shrug.

“Come in, baby.”

She stepped back and welcomed him into a boxy living room with a very ornate velvet sofa, a black lacquered coffee table, and a baby grand piano. The piano was positioned before the floor to ceiling windows that looked out over the front yard. To the right was a formal dining room with a black lacquered table and white upholstered chairs.

Maria caught his speculative look. “This is the formal part of the house, Nathan’s part of the house,” she emphasized. “The rest reflects my more ethnic tastes.”

He gave an amused nod and followed her down a short hallway toward the back of the house. She made a quick right into a large kitchen with red chili peppers hanging from the ceiling and burnt orange walls. Brilliantly colored plates and pottery ringed the room, sitting on the tops of cabinets and shelves someone had affixed over the kitchen table. The smell of onions, garlic and chilies filled Marco’s nostrils and he took a deep breath. Besides the pancakes this morning, he’d been eating most of his meals out of the freezer.

Marta, Maria’s sister, left the stove and came over to him, giving him a saucy once-over. A chili pepper apron struggled to contain her ripe assets. “Tell me you’re single, baby,” she purred, running her long-nailed hand down his chest.

Maria removed her hand. “He’s taken,” she told her, turning her bodily and pushing her toward the stove. “That’s the joy of having an older sister,” she told Marco.

Marta waved over her shoulder at him and Marco couldn’t help but smile.

“She’s divorced with two kids, and she’s horny. You stay away from that one, baby.”

He gave a nod of agreement. Maria laid the flowers on the kitchen table and reached for a bright piece of pottery. “Go around there. The boys are working in the family room.”

Marco wasn’t sure what that meant, but he did as Maria instructed, walking around the refrigerator. Marta made smooching noises behind him, but he ignored her. Beyond the refrigerator was an archway that led to a wood paneled living room, piled from floor to ceiling with wedding paraphernalia. Jake and Abe sat on the floor in front of a wooden plank coffee table, fussing with little bits of netting and ribbons. Cho sat on a run-down leather couch, studying some diagram, his lips twisted in frustration.

They all looked up at the same time. Only Abe seemed to be enjoying his task. Whatever Jake had looked like he’d used it to blow his nose and Cho was alternately eyeing a pair of scissors and a roll of iridescent ribbon.

“Hey, Captain,” he said, dropping everything and jumping to his feet. “Come in, come in.”

Marco looked around. It was as if a wedding had crawled in here to die. There were place settings and linens, fabric swatches and fake flowers.

“Look, Adonis, I made my first wedding favor.”

Marco looked at the mess in Jake’s hand and grimaced. “Has Maria seen that?”

Jake’s expression fell. “I’m just now getting the hang of it. You gotta burn some muffins before you get a dozen.”

“You should have that inscribed on your apron and heels.”

“Why would I inscribe something on my heels?” Jake asked, giving him a look that said he was daft.

“He’s insulting your manhood, Jakey,” said Abe, pursing his lips and holding up a perfect favor.

“I know he is. He’s threatened by the fact that I’m a renaissance man.”

“You’re right, Jakey, he is.” Abe smiled over at Marco. “So, Angel, come sit next to me and I’ll teach you how to zhuzh it up.”

“I don’t want to zhuzh it up, I don’t even want to know what zhuzhing is.”

Cho gave the pile of netting a wistful look. “I wish I didn’t know what zhuzhing was. Or tulle or décolletage.”

Marco couldn’t help but laugh.

Maria poked her head around the archway. “Nathan, darlin’...”

“I’m zhuzhing,” he said, holding up the netting. “See, I’m zhuzhing.”

She gave him a strange look. “Okay, I was just going to tell you that your phone’s ringing.”

“Oh.” He hurried into the other room.

Marco took a seat on the sofa, leaning his cane against the arm. “What are you putting in the favors?”

Abe grabbed another square of the netting and laid it out. “A couple of Jordan almonds.” He dropped some pink colored almond into the middle of the square. “A few sprinkles of this delightful metal confetti.” He showered the almonds with sparkly bits of paper. “A heart-shaped bottle opener with Cho and Maria’s names on it. And then you tie it all up with this delightful pink shimmer ribbon.” He gathered the ends together, expertly tied it with a bow, and then fluffed out the top. “Finally a quick zhuzh and wa-la, you’re done.”

Marco gave a chin nod.

“Now for your wedding, I had something much grander planned. I found these delightful little bottles of…”

“Captain.”

Marco looked over to see Cho standing in the archway.

“That was Simons. He got a call from dispatch. There’s been an explosion at Petersons’ house.”

“What?”

“Fire crews are on the way over and the local police are on scene.”

“Petersons’ house in San Francisco or Woodside?”

“Woodside.”

“Were the Petersons in the house?” He rose to his feet, grabbing his cane.

“I don’t know yet. Simons is in route and he’s been trying to get ahold of the Woodside police, but he doesn’t know much.”

“Do you want me to come, Adonis?”

“No, stay here. This’ll likely be taken over by ATF, but keep your phone close in case I do need you.”

“Sure.”

“Be careful, Angel,” called Abe.

They both rose and followed Marco and Cho into the kitchen. Marco grabbed his keys and gave Maria a quick hug. “Sorry about dinner.”

“Don’t you worry about it, baby,” she said, kissing his cheek. “Just take care of yourself and my man.”

Cho stopped to kiss her goodbye, then they were heading for the door.

“I’ll drive,” said Marco, “Get me directions.”

“On it,” said Cho, pulling out his phone.

They were silent for the ride to Woodside. Cho spent a lot of the time trying to get information from dispatch, but except for a verification that the Petersons were indeed in the house during the explosion, he got nothing else.

Marco could see the black smoke rising through the redwood trees before he got to the house. Flashing lights played through the gathering darkness and as they turned on Peterson’s street, they were stopped by a uniform.

Marco rolled down the Charger’s window and showed him his badge. “Captain Marco D’Angelo from the SFPD.”

The young man tipped the hat back on his head. He was about Bartlet’s age with wavy blond hair. “We got word you were on your way. Go through. It’s the last house at the end of the street.”

“Has anyone located the Petersons?”

“From what I’ve heard they’re fine. They were in the back of the house, but Peterson’s cherry F-150 is toast.”

Marco felt something ease in his chest. “It was the car that exploded, not the house.”

“Yeah. I haven’t gotten much, but based on radio chatter, it sounds like someone planted a bomb under the axle. As far as I can tell, it was on a timer.”

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Cho.

“No. Did some damage to the front of the house, scared the piss out of a few neighbors, but mostly it was just property loss.”

“Thanks,” said Marco, then he drove up the street. “Rosa warned me about this.”

“What?” asked Cho.

Marco glanced at him. “She told me Eduard Zonov gets revenge in explosive ways.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, I’m done playing softball with Brad.”

They had to park a block away from the massive rustic mansion, hidden in a grove of towering redwood trees. The long front drive was filled with fire trucks, police cars, and ATF SUVs. Marco eyed the distance, then clenched his jaw and got out. He and Cho walked to the house and stood, staring at the twisted metal remains of Peterson’s pick-up.

A sheriff’s deputy detached himself from a huddle of firemen and made his way over to them. Marco held up his badge.

The deputy inclined his head. “Captain, SFPD, huh?”

“Yeah, D’Angelo and Cho.” Marco motioned between them. “We’ve been investigating a shooting on Peterson’s property on Nob Hill.”

He nodded. “I heard about it. Let me introduce you to Special Agent Donaldson from the ATF.”

“Thank you.”

They followed the deputy to the house. A man in a black suit had just stepped out, giving instructions to a couple of uniforms.

“Special Agent Donaldson, this is Captain D’Angelo from the SFPD.”

Donaldson held out his hand and Marco shook it. “Nice to meet you. Both Petersons have been asking for you.”

Marco exchanged a look with Cho. “Neither one of them are hurt?”

“No. They weren’t even the ones to call it in. A neighbor did.”

“Do they have security cameras on the front of the house?” Marco nodded to the ornately carved rafters and posts of the wide front porch.

“They didn’t have them on. They turn them on when they go to bed, but one of the neighbors reported seeing a black Mercedes in front of the house a few hours ago.”

“Did they get a license plate number on the Mercedes?” asked Cho.

“‘Fraid not.” He motioned between them. “You both looked like you recognized something when I mentioned the car.”

“We think Peterson’s mixed up with Eduard Zonov.”

Now Donaldson’s face lit with recognition. “Really?”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. I’ve seen his work, although we’ve never been able to pin a damn thing on him. He likes a lot of flash. Enough to do serious damage, even kill, but it leaves no trace evidence. How’s Peterson mixed up with him?”

“We’ve identified his nephew as the man shot in Peterson’s house on Nob Hill.”

Donaldson filed that away. “Zonov’s a nasty piece of work.”

“Yeah, we’re getting that.”

“He and all-American Peterson don’t exactly run in the same circles. How would a guy like Peterson come across his nephew?”

Cho looked out at the motion behind them. News trucks were beginning to arrive.

“We think Zonov was Peterson’s bookie.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” He motioned to the massive carved oak front door. “Come on. Peterson won’t talk to me. He’s a hot mess, I can tell you.”

“I’ll go look at the truck,” said Cho, “and meet you inside.”

Marco nodded agreement, then followed the ATF agent into the cavernous entrance of the house. Although the furnishings were rustic looking, he knew they had to be worth thousands. Strange antler shaped chandeliers, horse-hair sofas, wagon wheels with gilded edges filled the interior.

“It’s like western hell,” muttered Donaldson.

Marco chuckled as they wended their way to the back. When they came to salon doors blocking off the family room, Donaldson looked over at Marco and rolled his eyes. Marco followed him into a massive room with an entire wall dedicated to a flat screen television, over-stuffed leather couches, and floor lamps with green glass shades.

“Marco,” said Carol. She was sitting on one of the couches, while a paramedic took her blood pressure. She held out her hand. He took it and glanced up to where Brad was pacing before a western style bar, a highball glass in his hand. He stopped pacing and turned to face them, his expression stark.

“Did you see what they did to my truck?” He jabbed a finger toward the front of the house.

“I did. Look, Brad, why don’t you put the drink down and come sit next to your wife?” He released Carol.

“It’s just twisted metal. That was my favorite truck. That was the truck I had when I signed with the Bills.”

“No, it wasn’t, Brad. We bought that truck last year.”

He frowned at her, then lifted the drink and drained the rest. Turning his back on them, he faced the bar, setting the glass on its surface. He stood there, his hands resting on either side of the glass. Donaldson gave Marco a telling look.

Marco took a seat on the coffee table in front of Carol. The paramedic was finishing up, packing up his medical bag. “Carol, I need to know what happened.”

“I don’t know. We were just getting ready to watch a movie, when we heard this loud explosion.”

Marco was distracted as Peterson filled his glass again and sipped at it, his back still to the room.

“We ran outside, but the truck was already gone.”

“Did you call 911?”

“I did, but someone had beat me to it.”

“Did you notice anything unusual, hear anything before this happened?”

“Nothing, Marco. Who would do something like this?”

Marco scratched at his forehead. “Do you know Eduard Zonov, Carol?” He kept his eyes focused on Peterson. He could see his shoulders stiffen at the name.

“I’ve never heard that name before,” Carol said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. What’s this about?”

Peterson lowered his head.

Marco rose and walked over to him. He was staring into the glass, swirling the liquid around.

“Brad?”

He looked over, confusion on his face, then it cleared. “Hey, Sweet Cheeks, want a bourbon?”

“No, I need to talk to you about Eduard Zonov.”

Brad’s gaze lifted, then flitted away. “Did you see what he did to my truck?”

“Yeah.”

“I got that truck when I first signed with the Bills and he blew it all to hell and gone.”

“You think Zonov did that?”

“He was always making these threats, you know? Telling me if I didn’t pay, it’d be like the freakin’ fourth of July.”

“How much money do you owe Zonov?”

Brad shrugged and sipped at his drink. “Who knows? I lost track of it, but I’ll pay him back after next season.”

Marco frowned. “Next season?”

“Yeah, I got a rider in my contract. If I bring us a winning season, just over 500, I get a bonus. I’ll get Zonov off my back and…” His voice trailed away, his expression turning inward. “I’ll...um…” He pressed a hand to his temple.

Carol rose from the couch and came over to him, slipping under his arm. “Come sit down, Brad.”

He looked down at her in confusion for a moment, then he smiled and squeezed her against him. “Look at this, just like old times, the three of us together. Hey, Sweet Cheeks, remember when we played that game against St. Ignatius and I won in the last seconds on that quarterback sneak. You opened the hole for me, remember?” He reached up and cupped Marco’s cheek. “You were only a freshman, but damn you were a brute.”

Marco nodded, his gaze shifting to Carol. Her eyes pleaded with him. “Brad, can you tell me what happened today?” he asked.

“Today.” His hand lowered and he gave Marco a smile. “Today?” The smile faded. “I’m kinda tired, Sweet Cheeks, you know? It’s been a long day.”

“Do you remember the explosion a little while ago?”

He grew alarmed. “Explosion? What explosion? Where was there an explosion? In New York?”

“New York…” Marco caught himself. 9/11. “No, in front of your house. Your truck?”

“My truck? My truck was in an explosion?” He gave Carol a panicked look. “Not the red one, not the one I bought with my signing bonus. I love that truck.”

Marco became aware of the number of people in the room. The paramedic, Donaldson, Cho, and the deputy from the driveway. They all stared at Peterson as if he were insane and Marco suddenly felt sorry for him. The great Brad Peterson, the All-American quarterback whose sense of time was now as fluid as water.

“Help him to bed, Carol,” he told her.

She reached out and squeezed Marco’s hand, then she urged her husband with her. He let her lead him like a five year old toward the other end of the house.

Marco’s gaze shifted to Donaldson as they left the room.

“Poor damn bastard,” whispered the ATF agent. “Poor damn fool.”

CHAPTER 16

Charlie huddled in the covered doorway of the building across from St. Mungo’s. Another homeless man down by the Thames had told him to come here, that he could get a meal and maybe a place to stay for the night. He watched people come and go from the brown brick building across the street. He studied the pleasant potted flowers hanging from the wall, and he wanted to go inside, but he was afraid. What if they turned him away? What if they didn’t have room? Night was falling and he had to make a decision soon. He couldn’t stay in this doorway until morning. The bobbies would chase him off.

He’d learned a few things since he’d been sacked. On the streets, you either learned quickly or you died. Still, his stomach ached with hunger. Water was an easy problem to solve. He could find half-empty bottles in the trash, or a lot of public places had water fountains. Once in a while, he could sneak into a public toilet and fill the plastic water bottles he collected.

Food was harder. He hated eating scraps out of the bins and he wasn’t very good at begging. In fact, he was terrible at it. It embarrassed him and then sometimes he said something out loud to Niles and people heard, shying away from him.

“You should go inside.”

Charlie hunched his shoulders and ducked his head, wrapping his arms around himself. Cold was another problem he hadn’t yet figured out. All he had was the thin nylon running jacket that his parents had given him last Christmas.

“I can’t go inside.”

“Why not? They’ll feed you.”

“What if they don’t? What if they turn me out?”

“We can go somewhere else. We can go look for women.”

Charlie glanced over at the shadowed figure next to him in surprise. Then he shivered in apprehension. He hadn’t heard the guy approach, but he was a little worried that he might be feverish. Still the guy certainly seemed solid. He wore a green army coat, which looked a lot warmer than Charlie’s running jacket. He had a bushy beard and wild hair. Growing a beard wasn’t a bad idea. It would keep his face warm.

The man leaned close to him. “I see you wandering around by the river, by the tubes. I see you a lot.”

Charlie nodded, shivering harder.

“They’ll give you a coat in there, mate. That’s where I got mine. Go ask for one.”

“I just want to watch for a bit.”

“Suit yourself. It’s daft, it is, to stay out here when there’s food inside.”

“Why don’t you go in?”

He laughed. “They banned me, they did, but I get mates to bring me stuff. You go in, you can help a gent out.” He tapped Charlie on the shoulder. “What’s got the collywobbles up in you, boy?”

Charlie shook his head, looking down at his torn cuticles.

“Is it the talking? I see you wandering about, talking to yourself.” He pointed at St. Mungo’s. “Don’t fret about that. They won’t fuss about it. Half of them talk to themselves too.”

Charlie looked over at him. “You’ve seen…”

“And heard, mate. Half the time you don’t even know you’re doing it. You carry on a right good conversation with yourself too.” He gave another laugh.

Charlie ducked his head, hugging his arms around himself more. He hated that people heard him. His cheeks burned and he didn’t know if it was from fever or humiliation.

“So, what do they call you, mate?” The man nudged him again.

“What?”

“Your name? What do you go by?”

“Charlie.”

“Charlie.” The guy held out a hand. He had gloves with holes in the fingers. “I’m Niles.”

Charlie jerked back from the man, staring at him. “What did you say?”

“I’m Niles.” The smile he gave Charlie didn’t reach his eyes.

Charlie felt his heart pick up speed and he scrubbed his hands over his own eyes. “No, that’s not right. That can’t be.”

“What?”

Charlie pressed his fists to his ears and buried his face against his knees, screwing his eyes shut tight. No, that can’t be. That can’t be right.

“Are you okay?”

He felt a gentle touch on the back of his head. The voice was feminine, gentle. “Sir, are you all right?”

Charlie rocked himself. “Please go away. Please leave me alone.”

“Do you need help?” The hand transferred to his elbow and she exerted a slight pressure for him to rise. “I can help you. Come inside.”

Charlie jerked away from her, lifting his head. “Please don’t.”

She gave him a worried look, her hand outstretched. Charlie glanced frantically around, but besides the two of them, there was no one else on the street.

“Where’d he go?”

“Who?”

“The man? The man who was sitting right here in the army jacket?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The man!” Charlie rose to his feet and pointed to the spot next to him. “He was sitting right here. He didn’t have time to get away.”

She looked up and down the street. Charlie looked too. “I think you have a fever, sir.”

“I was just talking to him. He said his name was Niles.”

“Niles?”

“He was sitting right here.” He gave her a closer look. She wore an apron that read St. Mungo’s on it. He reached out and gripped her arm, making sure she was real – that she was standing in front of him. “There was a man here.”

“You’re the only one I saw, sir. Some of our patrons told us you’d been out here awhile. I wanted to offer you a hot meal and…” She eyed his thin running jacket. “Maybe something a bit more appropriate for the weather.”

“What?”

“I have a nice coat for you. The army donates these wonderful coats to us. They’re quite warm, actually, and will turn out the rain.”

Charlie stared at her, trying to process what she said.

“We can also help you get to hospital, get you an examination, medication.” She turned her hand and gripped his elbow again. “Please come, sir. We’ll start with a hot meal. You’ll see, everything will look much brighter after you’ve got a hot meal in your belly.”

Charlie let her lead him into the road, but he looked back over his shoulder at the covered doorway and the empty streets. “Are you sure you didn’t see him?”

“I’d be telling you if I saw anyone else, now wouldn’t I, sir? But don’t worry yourself about it. I promise we’ll make you right as rain in no time.”

*    *    *

Leaning back in his desk chair, Marco clicked on the computer, finding another link about traumatic brain injury. He knew he could just ask Abe, but he wanted to learn as much as he could on his own.

Lee poked his head inside the open office door. “Simons just called. They found Zonov and they’re bringing him in for questioning. They want to know if you want to watch the interrogation. They’ll be here in about 15 minutes.”

“Yeah, let me know when they get here.”

The big man nodded and ducked back out of the room. Marco looked at the spot he’d just occupied. A few years ago he would not have been comfortable with a male administrative assistant, but Lee was better suited to it than Carly had certainly been. Abe would say he was evolving. Maybe he was.

As a final test, he reached for his phone and pressed the button for Lee’s desk.

“Yes, Captain,” he said, answering on the first ring.

Marco wanted to give him a raise.

“Can you get ADA Adams on the line for me?”

“Done.”

Marco went back to reading his websites, until Lee’s call came through. Picking up the phone, Marco clicked on another link.

“What do you want, D’Angelo? My patience is rice-paper thin right now.”

“Eduard Zonov exploded Brad Peterson’s F-150.”

“You know it was Zonov?”

“No, not yet. ATF’s investigating that part of it, but Rosa Alvarez at the FBI warned me Zonov had an explosive personality. Cho and Simons located him and they’re bringing him in. I wanted you here for the interrogation.”

“On my way.” He paused. “D’Angelo?”

“Yeah.”

“Zonov’s on a lot of radars, but no one’s ever been able to make anything stick. I don’t like this. You might put a call into your FBI source and see if you can get any intel on this bastard.”

“I’ll do that.”

“See you in 10.”

Marco disconnected that call and picked up his cell phone, dialing Rosa’s number. She picked up on the third ring. “You know, D’Angelo, people might frown about you having my personal number.”

Marco smiled. “They might.”

“A person in my employ might frown about it.”

“She knows.”

“Right. What’s up?”

“We think Zonov torched Peterson’s truck last night.”

“I figured as much. I saw the explosion on the news.”

“My guys are bringing him in right now.”

“Hold on. You’re bringing Zonov into the precinct?”

“Right.”

“I want to be there.”

“Fine. In exchange I want whatever you have on him.”

“It fits on one page. We know he emigrated from Chechnya when he was a teenager. Graduated high school in New York and moved out west four years ago to open a food truck. He’s been married three times, has no kids, and pays his taxes on time.”

“He got popped for selling cigarettes on the street, racketeering, and assault, but the assault charge was dropped.”

Rosa laughed. “Yeah, ‘cause Renchenko suddenly decided to pull a Jesus and walk across the Hudson.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you know if Zonov has connections to organized crime?”

“That’s the thing. We think Zonov’s an entrepreneur. Mostly he brings in family, like the unfortunate Demetri. Still, he’s a nasty piece of work. I wanna say at last check, we had about seven or eight suspicious murders we like him for, yet nothing sticks to the bastard. He’s teflon coated.”

“Suspicious murders like walking on water?”

“Walking on water, trying to fly, becoming a human shish kabob. The last is his personal favorite.”

“Awesome. He’s a one-man circus act.”

“And charming. Just wait ‘til you see him in action. This is where Brooks would be good to have in your pocket. She’d get him to roll on his dog.”

“Yeah, but you went and sent her to London.”

“She’s gotta see the sights, D’Angelo. Besides, we still owe England for that whole Revolutionary War thingy.”

“So you sent them Brooks. They used to be our allies, Rosa.”

She laughed. “I’ll bring the information on Zonov when I come over. I should be there in 15 or so. Wait for me.”

“He’s not going anywhere.”

“Thanks, D’Angelo. Look, you might want to have your ADA in on this.”

“He’s in route too.”

“Well, look at you, playing captain and all. It’s kinda sexy.”

“Don’t tell anyone. If they look close enough, they’ll see the man behind the curtain.”

She laughed again and hung up.

*    *    *

Peyton leaned against the chair in the conference room, stretching her lower back. She missed running and working out. In London, they hadn’t had much time for exercise beyond walking and Radar didn’t want her going anywhere on her own since she refused to wear the taser.

Caleb and Neil entered the room and Neil took up his post at the clear board. Caleb beamed his customary smile at them, but Peyton was beginning to see dark circles under his eyes. This case was taking a toll on him, or else Bambi was.

“Amelia MacDonnell is improving steadily. They believe she’ll survive the attack,” he said.

“That’s wonderful news, Caleb,” said Peyton.

“It is at that, but the fact remains that we’ve still not gotten a solid lead on Charlie and it’s been more than six days since the last attack. He’s going to kill again and soon. We’re running out of time.”

“Sparky’s right,” said Radar. “We need to cover the tube lines.”

“The tube lines?” asked Caleb.

Radar continued, “Everything we’ve heard points to the tube stations as the place Charlie goes most often.”

“Well, in particular the area around the first zone,” corrected Caleb.

“Right, so I propose we ride the tube all day in groups of two, getting off at each station and passing around Charlie’s picture. We might get lucky and stumble on something.”

“Not a bad idea, Agent Moreno,” said Caleb. “You and Agent Brooks spoke with the gents at Charing Cross yesterday, why don’t you start there? Bambi and I can start from Farringdon, and Neil and Tank can begin with Blackfriars.”

Radar nodded his agreement.

“Approach with caution. Charlie’s hold on sanity may be tenuous at best and when cornered, he’s liable to attack without provocation.” Caleb’s eyes focused on Peyton. “Agent Brooks, I’d feel better if you’d allow Neil to outfit you with a taser.”

“And I’d feel better with my gun.”

Caleb held out his empty hands. “I wouldn’t be able to get clearance at this stage in the investigation. We’d need to have clear evidence we’ve got Charlie cornered.”

“And there’s the rub, isn’t it? In order to use our guns, we have to corner Charlie, but once we corner Charlie, there won’t be time to get our guns.”

Caleb started to answer, then stopped.

“Something needs to be done about this, Abbott,” said Radar. “She’s right and you know it. You’re putting the horse before the cart.”

Peyton frowned at that, but Caleb gave a nod.

“I’ll discuss it with my superiors,” he said. “You’ve definitely got a point, haven’t you now? All right, let’s head out and we’ll meet back here this evening for a debriefing.”

Everyone headed for the door and into the hallway beyond. Peyton eased up beside Radar. “It’s cart before the horse, by the way.”

“What?” he grumbled at her.

“The saying. Putting the horse before the cart is sort of what you’re supposed to do, you know?”

Radar gave her a baffled look, but Tank and Bambi shot amused smiles over their shoulders.

“You said put the horse before the cart, but the saying is put the cart before the horse, meaning everything is ass-backwards.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Come on, old man, you should know about horses and carts. Wasn’t that your mode of transportation when you started with the FBI?”

Bambi and Tank snickered, but Radar glared at her. “You know I could dump you on someone else and they could try to protect that wise mouth of yours.”

“You could, but you won’t because I make you smile.”

“You don’t make me smile.”

“I do. You get that twitch at the corners of your mouth that you fight so hard to hide. I’ll bet it’s the same twitch you give Gazpacho and Jambalaya when you see them.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Kitty Wiggums and Bootsybuttons?”

“Not even close.”

*    *    *

Eduard Zonov was completely bald with large dark eyes. He wore a plain long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans with heavy work boots. A diamond earring and a silver bracelet were his only adornments. He wasn’t a physically imposing man, standing around 5’8” or 5’9”, not particularly thin nor heavy nor muscular. In fact, except for his remarkable eyes, he was rather ordinary.

Smith escorted him to a chair at the metal table in the interrogation room and Zonov gave him a polite smile, clasped his hands in his lap, and grinned at the two-way glass. This clearly wasn’t his first rodeo.

“Arrogant bastard,” muttered Devan next to Marco.

Marco studied Zonov carefully. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer, hadn’t asked why he was being brought in, and hadn’t shown the slightest sign of concern.

Cho and Simons walked into the viewing room, carrying Peterson’s file.

“We’ve got a problem, Captain.”

Marco glanced over at Cho. “What?”

“Peterson didn’t pick him out of the line-up. He said he didn’t recognize anyone there.”

“Was he lying?”

Simons shrugged. “If he was, he’s a better actor than we thought.”

“What about the neighbor who reported the black Mercedes? Did she get a look at the driver?”

“No, she says it was too dark. She noticed the Mercedes because she saw the Mercedes’ three pointed star on the trunk in the street light.”

Marco looked back at Zonov. “I’ll bet Peterson never met the snake in person. I bet he always dealt with flunkies.”

“You’re probably right,” said Devan.

Rosa rounded the corner of the viewing room, wearing her obligatory FBI black suit, white shirt, and tie with her dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail. “I like the new assistant, D’Angelo. He’s both efficient and intimidating as hell.”

Marco smiled at her. “He also knows how to answer phones.”

“Well, there’s a bonus.” Her eyes tracked to Zonov and she studied him for a moment. “Sonuvabitch loves this. It’s a game to him. Let me guess, he hasn’t asked for a lawyer.”

“Nope.”

“Who’s going to question him?” She eyed Simons and Cho.

Cho held up his hand.

“Bust his balls if you have to,” she suggested.

“Peterson couldn’t pick him out of the line-up,” said Marco.

Rosa’s attention shifted to him. “Too afraid?”

“I don’t know,” said Cho. “He actually acted like he didn’t recognize anyone.”

“He has brain damage, according to our M.E.,” said Marco.

“Well, that’s going to make this harder. I’ll bet ATF didn’t get anything off the bomb.”

“Not one thing,” said Simons.

“Yeah, well, let’s see what we can get on tape. Maybe you can make him slip up.”

Cho nodded, then led the way into the interrogation room. Rosa rubbed her hands together and leaned on the table next to Marco. “Now you’ll get to see some waltzing, D’Angelo, just watch.”

Marco and Devan exchanged a look. Rosa almost appeared to admire Zonov.

Cho sat down at the table and Simons took the seat next to Zonov. It was a new tactic for them, but Zonov didn’t seem concerned by it. He gave Cho a bland smile.

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Zonov.”

“I always want to help police.”

“Right. Let me start by giving you our condolences.”

“Condolences? For what?”

Cho’s eyes lifted and met Zonov’s. “The death of your nephew?”

“Ah, thank you, but it is misplace. I warn my nephew he will end bad if he continue his ways. He never listen.” Zonov held out his hands. “That is way of world, is it not, Officer?”

“Inspector.”

“Right, Inspector Cho. You are immigrant too, yes?”

“No. I was born here.”

“Ah, yes, English is good for you.” He placed his hand in the middle of his chest and leaned closer to Cho. “I learn English when I am thirty-two. Is much more difficult then, I think, yes?”

“Yes. Can we talk about your nephew, Mr. Zonov?”

“Is very sad, no? My sister will be…” He made a motion with his hand. “...how you say, devastate.”

“Right.”

“But I tell him, these things you do will end badly.”

“What was he doing?”

Zonov motioned Cho to lean closer. “He offer people…um...protection, I think, yes?”

“Protection?” Cho glanced at Simons.

Simons shrugged. “Maybe he distributed condoms?”

Zonov laughed. “Is good, yes? Protection. Condoms. Is good joke, yes?”

“Did you know Brad Peterson, Mr. Zonov? Did you have dealings with him?”

“Dealings? I run food truck. I sell piroshkies and pork dumplings and blini with smoke salmon.”

Cho opened the folder. “You were also arrested for assault, racketeering and illegal gambling. How’d those things happen?”

“Is what I’m telling you. When I was young, I did not understand about ending badly. As we get older…” He laughed and motioned between Simons and himself. “...we know these things, no?” He nudged Simons with his forearm.

Marco let out his breath.

Rosa glanced over at him. “I warned you. He oozes charm through his sweat.”

“He doesn’t seem to be sweating to me.”

“No, he’s the cat, Cho’s the mouse. Cho needs to give him a nip.”

Marco tapped on the glass.

“Excuse me a moment,” Cho said, then rose to his feet and stepped out of the interrogation room. Simons stayed behind.

“Captain?”

“Push him harder.”

“He’s bouncing everything off. He acts like we’re having a beer or something.”

“Accuse him of planting the bomb under Peterson’s truck,” said Rosa. “Get him off balance.”

Cho nodded and went back into the room. He set the file down and leaned on the table.

“I hope everything is okey dokey,” said Zonov, smiling.

“No, it’s not. I have a dead body in the morgue, who just happens to be your nephew and you don’t seem to give a damn. Your sister’s going to be devastated, but how is she going to feel when you show her you don’t care?”

“Chechen women are strong. They know suffering. They survive.”

“I call bull shit on that. You aren’t okay with the death of your nephew. You wanted revenge, so you put a bomb under Brad Peterson’s truck.”

Zonov leaned back, folding his hands on his belly. “I’m food truck driver. I make piroshkies. I don’t build bombs. You confuse me with someone else.”

“No, we know it was you. We know your black Mercedes was on Peterson’s street.”

“I am food truck driver. How I get Mercedes?”

“Because you’re a bookie. The Mercedes is registered in your name.”

Zonov gave a disbelieving look. “Where is Mercedes then?” He chuckled at Simons, nudging him with his arm again. “I like Mercedes. Gets the women.”

“Peterson owes you a lot of money, so you sent Demetri to intimidate him and make him pay up. Peterson shoots Demetri and now you want revenge, but what I don’t understand is why you blew up the truck and not Peterson?”

“Maybe he’s not very good. Maybe he exploded prematurely,” said Simons suggestively.

Cho gave an agreeable shrug.

Zonov broke into laughter. “Is good, yes? You make joke about sex, yes? I get joke. Is good.”

Cho glanced back at the two-way glass.

Rosa shook her head almost gleefully. “I told you he was slick.”

“Are you enjoying this?”

“Hell’s yeah. You think we haven’t been after this bastard for years? He dances around us the same way. Nice to see it happening to someone else.”

Marco glanced over at Devan. “What now?”

“We don’t have an ID from the line-up, we don’t have evidence from the scene, the witness who saw a black Mercedes recognized it by the logo, nothing else, and Zonov is tap dancing around your cops like freakin’ Gregory Hines.”

“I haven’t thought of Gregory Hines in years. Huh, I’m gonna have to get some of his movies,” said Rosa.

“You’re not helping,” Marco told her.

She shrugged. “You’re not helping me either.”

“Cut him loose,” said Devan, shaking his head.

Marco tapped on the glass again. Cho backed away from the table and turned, walking into the viewing room.

“Cut him loose.”

Cho held up a hand, then let it fall. “I’m sorry, Captain. I tried.”

“I know.”

Cho shuffled his feet, then gave Rosa a stern look. “We needed Brooks for this.”

Marco nodded, watching Zonov smirk at the two-way glass.

*    *    *

Peyton and Radar started at Charing Cross, showing Charlie’s pictures to everyone they could find. They scoured the platforms, but no one reported seeing him. Getting back on the train, they rode to the Embankment Station, got off and did the same thing. No luck.

Switching to the Circle Line so they could stay in Zone One, they rode to Westminster. Once there, Radar scoured the station with their photos, but when it turned up not a shred of interest, Radar put his hands on his hips and stared up a long flight of stairs where a ray of sunshine beamed down.

Peyton watched the people bustling back and forth, hurrying on their way. Westminster was one of the largest stations they’d seen. “It’s too big for Charlie. He wouldn’t come here, Radar. He’d feel overwhelmed by all of this.”

Radar continued to stare up the stairs. “Come on.”

Peyton followed him as he began to climb. “What are you doing? You’re leaving the station.”

“We’ve been in London a week now and beyond a few pubs and Scotland Yard, I’ve seen very little of this city. We’re getting some air.”

Peyton jogged to follow him, tamping down on her aggravation. She just wanted to get Charlie, turn him over to Scotland Yard, get on a plane, and go home. This wasn’t a damn vacation. This was a case and they didn’t have time for sightseeing.

Peyton’s breath caught as they reached the top of the stairs. The Thames spread out before them, boats carrying tourists up and down her massive width, barges hauling cargo back and forth. They exited the stairwell onto a pale-green bridge choked with traffic and pedestrians.

Before them rose the London Eye, the giant Ferris wheel with observation capsules spaced around the enormous circle. Behind it stood an ornate stone building with a bright green bell tower. Peyton could make out the words London Sea Life Aquarium emblazoned across the semi-circular structure.

Radar pointed to the stone building. “County Hall, where the city council once met. It’s part hotel now. I always wanted to take Mrs. Radar there.”

Peyton smiled at him.

He slowly turned and looked over her shoulder, then he gave a breathless exhalation. Peyton turned to follow his sight and gasped. A massive clock tower rose above them, part of a gothic structure of brown stone, ornate towers, and stained glass windows.

“Big Ben and Westminster Abbey,” whispered Radar in her ear.

Peyton felt tears sting her eyes. “It’s beautiful.”

“Royal coronations, funerals, and weddings have taken place inside those walls.” He leaned on the bridge and just took it in.

Peyton felt dwarfed by the scope of it. The weight of history was heavy here and disconnected from the bustle of red double-decker busses, modern cars and trucks, people taking pictures with their tablets, wearing shorts and t-shirts, all standing in the shadow of a building that was simply ancient.

“How old is it?” she whispered, awed by the enormity of it.

“I asked Tank this morning. He said he believed it dated to the 10th century.” He gave Peyton a wistful smile. “Makes you feel insignificant, doesn’t it?”

Peyton shrugged. “Actually the opposite.”

“What do you mean?”

She returned his smile. “Humans endure. Against all odds, we endure, and sometimes...sometimes, we create things of beauty.”

Radar gave her a nod and they continued to breathe in the sight.

*    *    *

Marco’s phone buzzed on his blotter and he set his sandwich down, reaching for it. He thumbed it on and saw a text message from Peyton. Pressing the icon, he smiled as he studied the picture of her before Westminster Abbey. Her eyes seemed to glow with pleasure. His expression sobered. She was half a world away, seeing things he never would. Why would she ever want to come back here and settle into a sedate life as the wife of a police captain?

Lee stuck his head inside Marco’s open door. “Captain?”

Marco set the phone down. “Yeah?”

“Tag Shotwell and Drew Holmes want to see you.”

Marco motioned for Lee to let them in. Tag stepped into the office and moved to his desk, ignoring the chairs. Holmes followed behind her. He was a full-fledged inspector now, but he seemed oddly resigned to being Tag’s apprentice.

“Captain, Cho just called. He said to tell you the Petersons are in the wind.”

“Shit. They’re not in Woodside or Nob Hill?”

“Nope. He can’t locate them. Not only that, but a black Mercedes…” She took a paper out of her pocket and looked at it. “...was just found burning at Pier 31. Cho wants us to meet ATF out there and check it out. We’re apparently supposed to contact a Donaldson.”

Marco rubbed his fingers against his temple. “Yeah, he’s the ATF special agent who handled the torching of Peterson’s F150. He’s familiar with the case. What are Cho and Simons doing?”

“Trying to locate the Petersons and this Zonov character. Cho says the car looks like a professional job,” said Holmes. “The VIN number was filed off and the license plates are missing.”

“The bastard didn’t waste any time, did he?”

“Huh?” asked Tag.

“Zonov. He got rid of the Mercedes the minute we turned him loose. This guy’s like an eel. Take Ryder with you and have him go over the car. I’ll call Donaldson and get it cleared.”

“What are we looking for in particular?”

“Anything that can tie Zonov to the car. Fingerprint, hair, toenail. I don’t give a damn, I just want him linked to the car.”

“With no VIN number?”

“Have Ryder take a picture of the plate. Donaldson’ll never let you have the plate itself, but maybe Stan can work some computer voodoo and pull some numbers off it.”

“We’ll do our best,” said Tag.

“Have Ryder go through the trunk. Zonov might have shed some hair or flaked off some skin when he was putting a body in there or something.”

Holmes reared back and Tag made a face. “What exactly are we dealing with here, Captain?” she asked.

“A slick, dangerous character. Have Cho and Simons brush you up on him when they get in.”

“Done.”

Marco’s desk phone buzzed. He gave his inspectors a nod and sent them off as he reached for the line. “Yeah.”

“Carol Peterson’s on the line for you, Captain,” said Lee. “Do you want me to take a message?”

“No, put her through.” A moment later Marco could hear Carol’s breathing. “Carol, where are you?”

“Marco, I’m so glad I caught you. I had to take Brad to Sequoia Hospital last night after you left. He was so shaken up about losing the truck, they had to give him a sedative. I just wanted to know if you have this Eduard character in custody.”

“No, we don’t, Carol. We couldn’t charge him with anything. We had no evidence.”

She paused on the line. Then her voice came back lower than before. “Marco, you need to drop the charges on Brad, so we can get out of here. We need to leave the state. Brad shot Zonov’s nephew in self-defense.”

“I don’t believe he shot anyone, Carol,” he said, taking a risk. “Why don’t you come in and we can talk about this? Where are you staying? My officers said you weren’t in Woodside anymore. Did you go back to Nob Hill?”

“No, we’re in a hotel. I can’t tell you where. I’ve got to keep us safe. You said you let Zonov go. Why?”

“I had no choice. Tell me where you are and I’ll send an officer to get you. I’ll make sure the two of you are safe.”

“Come into the precinct?”

“Yeah. You can bring your lawyer, but I think we need to lay all the cards on the table.”

“I can’t leave Brad right now. He’s not well, Marco. I told you that before.”

“Which is why we both know he didn’t kill anyone. I get self-defense, Carol. I get defending someone you love, but I need to know the truth. Zonov’s a nasty character and he isn’t going to stop until we get something on him. You need to help me for both your sakes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We told you what happened. Brad shot the nephew. It was entirely self-defense.”

“The gun Brad had hasn’t been shot in years, Carol. Come in and we’ll talk about it. Let me send someone to get you.”

“No, it’s not safe.”

“I can track you down, Carol. I can find you and arrest you on obstructing justice. You need to come in voluntarily. You’re in danger out there.”

“We’re in danger no matter where we are. You said you’d help us, but you just kept pursuing the case. Everyone said you’d bump it, everyone said it was self-defense. They all said there wouldn’t be a trial.”

“Who said that, Carol?”

“The police officers. They said it was an open and shut case. Brad wouldn’t even be booked, but that wasn’t true. You want to put him in prison.”

“That’s not true at all. I want to protect the two of you. Brad got himself into some bad business, Carol, and you’re in danger.”

“I know that, Marco. I just didn’t know where the danger was coming from. Forgive me if I don’t trust you anymore. I’ve got to go.”

The phone line clicked off and Marco looked at the display. Shit! He so didn’t need this right now. Pressing the button for Lee, Marco waited, but the assistant picked up on the first buzz.

“Yes, Captain.”

“Get Smith and Bartlet in here. I need them to go track somebody down.”

*    *    *

Peyton and Radar took the tube to Gloucester Road Station and got off. As they’d done at every station since Charing Cross, they began walking the platforms, showing the pictures of Charlie, asking people if they’d ever seen him. Gloucester Road was a smaller station, but crowded with people trying to get home. Still no one admitted they’d seen him.

Earlier Peyton had taken calls from Caleb and Bambi reporting nothing, then Tank and Neil. It had seemed like a good plan when they first started this morning, but it was almost 8:00PM and she was getting tired.

She took a seat on a metal bench and watched Radar moving back and forth, questioning people. London was simply too big, too vast to make finding one man an easy task. She took the bottle of perfume out of her pocket and rolled it around her hand. She didn’t know why she kept it, but she liked the feel of its smooth surfaces and sharp edges. Besides that, lilac had always been her favorite scent. Marco remarked on it whenever he hugged her, burying his face in her hair.

Shoving the perfume back in her pocket, she tried to concentrate on the case, not the homesickness she was beginning to feel. She went back over everything in her mind, but she couldn’t think of anything new, so she started watching the people.

One thing she’d noticed about London was men had more hair than in the states. The number of men balding here was much lower. That made her wonder if they had a special secret to prevent hair loss or if it was something in their diet. The food was less processed here, so maybe that had something to do with it.

Her eyes scanned the platform, counting how many men had full heads of hair, versus how many were balding. Then she started studying the different ethnicities she saw. Like San Francisco, London was fairly cosmopolitan. She saw a wide range of people, many of color, all hurrying about, their strides purposeful, their intent obvious.

Her attention snagged on one person at the far end of the platform not moving with the same hurried purpose as the others. He wore a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, his brown hair spilling out beneath it, nearly to his shoulders.

A train pulled into the station and people began moving toward the cars. Peyton stood up, but she couldn’t see him over the heads of the people. Climbing up on the bench, she searched the crowd for the man.

She spotted him at the last car. He spotted her at the same time, his head shifting toward her. She couldn’t see his eyes, but she could feel them. And then she saw the avocado green of his army jacket.

“Radar!”

He whipped around and searched for her. She pointed at the last car.

Radar’s expression grew grim, then he started shoving through the people getting on and off the cars. Peyton jumped off the bench and hurried after him.

“Circle Line, Gloucester Road, next stop High Street Kensington. Mind the gap.”

Radar stumbled to a stop, staring over the heads, as Peyton came to a halt beside him.

“Where is he?” she demanded.

“He got on the train.”

Peyton shoved Radar toward the nearest car. “Get in. We’ll trap him at the end.”

“He might be armed, Sparky.”

“You have the taser.”

“Yeah, but there’s people on that car.”

“We’ll approach slowly, act like we’re just taking a seat. This is our chance, Radar.”

He nodded, then hurried into the closest car. “We wait until it pulls away. Keep an eye on the platform and make sure he doesn’t get off.”

She nodded.

The doors closed and Peyton pressed herself to the window, watching the platform. A man ran up to the doors and pressed a button, forcing the doors to open again. She gritted her teeth impatiently and banged her fist against the metal hand-hold. This was their only chance.

Radar stood close beside her, but he was staring toward the end of their car, trying to catch sight of Charlie coming down the train. For some reason, Peyton didn’t think he’d do that. He’d hunker in the last car and hope they missed him until they got to the next station.

Finally the train lurched away from the platform, but Peyton kept her eyes trained on it until they were in the tunnel and it was out of sight. Turning to Radar, her eyes met his.

“We take this slow. Try not to spook him. It would be really bad if he took a hostage,” said Radar, speaking as low as he could, but the woman seated next to him grabbed her purse and pulled it on her lap, giving them an anxious look.

Peyton marked the look, then nodded to the end of the car. “Let’s go now before this spreads.”

Radar nodded and reached under his jacket for the taser, but he didn’t pull it out.

They eased into the next car, grabbing the handrails to keep from falling over. Eyes followed them as they moved. Peyton could swear she heard a whisper start up behind them, spreading like wildfire.

Leaving that car, they searched the people in the next car as they continued forward, looking for the man in the avocado coat with the ball cap. They got some suspicious glances, but this car wasn’t as heavily populated as the last one had been.

They eased their way down it and came to the next car, which was nearly filled, but most people had found seats. Suddenly Charlie appeared in the opening at the other end. Their eyes met and Radar pulled out the taser. A collective gasp rose in the car and some people jumped to their feet.

“Charles Howsham, you’re under arrest!” he shouted.

That brought more people to their feet, their heads whipping back and forth between Radar and Charlie, then they started moving to get out of the car, pushing past Peyton and Radar. Charlie turned and bolted back into his original car.

“Smooth!” hissed Peyton, shoving past Radar in pursuit, but people were trying to go the opposite way and hindered her.

She finally pushed through them and started for the next car, but Radar grabbed the tail of her leather jacket and yanked her backward, then he shoved her up against the shifting passage between the cars.

“Do you want to get yourself killed? You don’t have a weapon.”

“Then go.” She shoved him off, but the train lurched suddenly and they were thrown into each other, nearly pitching to the floor. Screams filled the train.

Radar righted himself, grabbing her elbow and pulling her up.

“What the hell!”

“We’ve stopped,” he said ominously.

Peyton felt her mouth go dry. “Why? Why did we stop?”

“I don’t know.” He leaned out of the passage and looked out the closest window. “We’re in a tunnel. I don’t like this.” Checking the taser, he turned into the next car.

People had crowded against the right side of the car, staring at a spot in the middle of it. Peyton’s eyes swept the group, but she didn’t see Charlie. A moment later she realized a door on the left side had been forced open.

Radar rushed toward the group of people, grabbing his badge from his belt and shoving it at them. Peyton ran to the door and looked out. Charlie had leapt from the train onto a narrow service platform that ran between the tube tunnels. The jump had to be between seven or eight feet in length.

He paced back and forth along the platform, mumbling to himself and tapping his fist against his temple. His wild hair flowed over his shoulders and his beard obstructed his features, but Peyton could hear him muttering, even if she couldn’t make out the words.

“Radar?”

He came to her side, staring out with her. “Holy shit.” Slowly he replaced the taser in its holster.

A man moved up beside them. “He forced the doors open. I’ve never seen someone do that. The train came to a stop and he just jumped.”

Peyton rubbed a shaken hand over her mouth. “Okay. We need to get him back in the car.”

Radar gave her an arch look. “How?”

“Talk him in.”

“Talk him in?”

“Yeah.”

“Go for it, Sparky.”

Peyton watched Charlie pacing. He didn’t seem to be aware of them, his muttering growing more and more animated. He kept banging his fist against his temple, then he’d reach the end of the little platform and pace back.

“Charlie?” she called, but he didn’t act as if he’d heard her. “Charlie, I want to help you. I’m Peyton.”

He stopped for a moment, and his eyes rose to meet hers.

“Keep going,” whispered Radar.

“Charlie, my name’s Peyton. I want to help you. You must be hungry, cold. We can get you something to eat. It’s dangerous out there. You need to come in.”

His eyes shifted away from her and he started muttering again. Suddenly a shrieking alarm went up from the train and he cowed, covering his head with his hands. Rocking himself, he began talking louder, almost sobbing, as he slapped both fists against his temples.

Peyton grimaced against the cacophony of the alarm. “We don’t have much time. Someone’s going to come investigate why we stopped.”

“What do you suggest?” shouted Radar. “I don’t think he can hear you over this noise.”

“We have to go out there.”

Radar gave her a disbelieving look. “Come again.”

“We have to jump onto the platform and talk him down out there.”

“Nooo, no way. I’m not jumping…” He looked over the side at the drop. “Ten feet.”

“It’s not ten feet. It’s maybe eight.”

“Eight? Eight feet? What do you think I am, Sparky, a damn kangaroo?”

“We don’t have any choice. We have to try it. I’ll be right behind you.”

Radar’s mouth moved, but nothing came out. He pointed outside the car to the platform.

She grabbed his arm. “What else can we do? We have to get him now. Look at him, Radar, he’s sick. He needs help.”

“He’s a murderer, Sparky.”

“I know that, and we have to stop him.”

Radar stared at her, then he stared at the jump.

“You can do it. This is what all that ninja training’s been leading up to.”

Radar just shook his head.

“It’s not that far. I promise you. He made it and he’s not in the physical shape you’re in.”

“And the minute I jump out there, this train starts moving again and I get cut in half!”

Peyton shrugged that away. “The odds of that happening are about a million to one.”

“And I’m the one!”

“The train isn’t going to start, Radar. You’ll be fine. It’s just a little jump.”

Suddenly the alarm cut off. Radar looked up at the speakers, then back at the jump. “If I die, you have to explain it to Mrs. Radar.”

“No problem.” She patted his shoulder. “I’ll be right behind you.”

He gripped both edges of the door and drew a deep breath. “This is so not a good idea,” he muttered, taking another deep breath. “So not a good idea.”

“Moind the gap,” said Peyton, flashing him a grin.

He glared at her, then he took another deep breath. Just as he shifted his weight backward to make the leap, Peyton felt the car roll beneath her feet. Her eyes flew wide and she grabbed the back of his jacket, throwing herself backward as the train lurched forward.

She and Radar landed in a tangle on the train floor, the doors slammed closed and the train picked up speed. Scrambling to right himself, Radar threw himself at the doors, but the train was already moving away from the service platform, leaving Charlie behind.

Whipping around, he pointed at her, but he couldn’t find the words. Peyton let her head fall back on the floor, panting, her legs too weak to support her. Staggering to a seat, Radar collapsed on it, leaning forward, his expression a mix of shock and relief.

Peyton closed her eyes and tried to still the rapid pounding of her heart as she lay there on the floor of the car. When she opened her eyes again, they landed on the ball cap, discarded under one of the seats. She rolled to her side and fished it out, sitting up.

“What’s that?” Radar asked, frowning.

Peyton turned the cap over and studied the inside. A number of long brown hairs had caught in the lining. Holding it up, Peyton gave Radar a weak smile. “Charlie’s cap, Radar. We have Charlie’s cap, and you know what else?”

“We have his DNA.”

Peyton touched her nose with her index finger.

CHAPTER 17

Charlie watched her. She sat in Pret with her mates, sipping coffee, laughing. She laughed a lot. She’d said her name was Peyton. He liked that name. He hadn’t heard many women named Peyton before.

Trish had said the little American saw them, she noticed them, she looked them in the eyes. Yesterday that’s what drew him to her. The way she looked him in the eyes. The way she didn’t pretend like he wasn’t there.

Her mates gravitated toward her. They sought her approval. Charlie’s attention shifted briefly to the blond American woman. She was pretty. Niles’ type. But Peyton was different. She was special. He sensed that about her. She’d chased him with the dark man, but when they’d trapped him on the platform, she’d shown concern for his safety.

Charlie had wanted to give himself up for her. He’d wanted to tell her it was over, he’d do whatever she wanted him to do, but then the train had moved on, taking her away. It hadn’t been hard to find her again. He’d huddled in the darkness outside Scotland Yard, then when she’d emerged, he’d followed her back to the hotel and slept under some bushes across the street. This morning, he’d awaken as soon as the sun came up and waited for her to appear again.

She hadn’t disappointed him.

If he could get her alone, he’d be able to tell her about Niles. He knew she’d understand. He knew she wouldn’t judge him. He’d seen it in her eyes. He’d seen it in the way she fretted over him on the service platform. She’d been afraid he’d get hurt.

He just had to get her alone. He had to find some way to get her away from the dark man. Charlie shivered, remembering the way the dark man had been prepared to leap out after him. He was not a man to take lightly. No, it wouldn’t do any good to try talking to her when the dark man was around. He’d never allow it.

Charlie had to get her off by herself.

But that brought up another problem. He had to make sure Niles didn’t find her too.

*    *    *

Marco stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his middle, then he limped over to the sink and drew a comb through his short, dark hair. Once it had been long enough to tie into a ponytail. No longer. Not since he’d taken the job as captain. He had to admit it was easier this way.

He heard his phone ringing on the nightstand by Peyton’s bed. He went to retrieve it, finding Pickles sprawled out in the middle of her bed on his back, his head on her pillow. Marco smiled at the little dog, rubbing his belly with one hand as he reached for the phone with the other.

Simons’ number shown on the display.

Marco thumbed it on and brought it to his ear, taking a seat on the bed and absently rubbing his thigh. “Hey, Bill.”

“There’s been another shooting at the Petersons’ house.”

Marco frowned. “What?” His heart began pounding. “Which house?”

“The one on Nob Hill. Dispatch just called. They’re sending a uniform out there right now. I’m about ten minutes out.”

“I’m on my way. Have you called Cho?”

“Dispatch called him as well.”

“Call Ryder and get him out there too.”

“On it.”

Marco opened Peyton’s closet. He’d moved most of his suits over to Abe’s, but he still had jeans and some casual shirts here. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt, then his worn work boots, dressing hurriedly.

Reaching for his phone, he dialed Abe’s number. Abe picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, Angel.”

“Look, Abe, I’ve got to go. There’s been a shooting at the Petersons’, but I haven’t had time to walk or feed Pickles.”

“I’ll take care of it. Be careful, Angel.”

“Yeah.”

He glanced back at the little dog who was now lying with his head on his paws, watching him. Then he grabbed his cane and hurried into the living room, stuffing his wallet and badge into his pocket, tugging on his gun, and grabbing his car keys.

Fog was teasing around the streets as he climbed into the Charger, but the sun was curving over the horizon, getting ready to burn it off and reveal a beautiful late spring day. The Charger roared to life and he threw her in reverse, pulling out onto 19th.

Placing his phone in the cup holder, he kept waiting for someone to call, to update him on the situation. A sick feeling had settled into the pit of his stomach. This case had gotten much larger, much more complicated than it should have. And he was too involved. He probably should have done exactly what Devan wanted from the start – punt it off to Central and wash his hands of it.

But he hadn’t and now whatever happened was on his head. Peterson and Zonov had been on a collision course and he’d thrown them at each other. He should have had the house on Nob Hill staked out, so he could take Brad and Carol into custody as soon as they showed their faces, but he honestly thought they were leaving the state, going back to New York.

The street was choked with news vans by the time he pulled onto it. He flashed his badge at a uniform and was motioned through the barricade. He stopped the Charger next to Jake’s derelict car and climbed out.

Police swarmed the entry. They refused to look at him as he stepped into the house. Simons waited for him on the bottom stair. Marco’s eyes rose to the upper floor where he could see more police standing in the hallway, talking softly to one another.

“What the hell’s going on?” Marco demanded of Simons.

“Let’s go into the living room, Captain,” said Simons, reaching for his shoulder.

Marco shrugged him off and started up the stairs, his thigh screaming in protest at his speed. His heart was pounding furiously and he felt light headed. The cops on the landing parted, allowing him to walk between them and he turned left.

The first thing he saw was Carol Peterson, sitting hunched over in an armchair in the corner of the room, Cho beside her. She looked up at him as he stepped through the doorway, her face streaked with mascara, her eyes rimmed in red. She curled her arms around herself and lowered her head.

He turned then and saw the bed, the blood, the body lying on its back.

Jake eased around the bed, snapping pictures, but he stopped as Marco moved toward him. Walking to the end of the bed, Marco stared down into Brad Peterson’s pale face, the round black hole in his forehead, the halo of blood spreading on his pillow.

Moving to the side of the bed, he started to touch his out-flung hand, but stopped himself. He looked up at the paramedics hovering close, but he knew what they knew. There was no saving this man.

He felt Jake’s hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t know what to do, what to feel, what to say. He shifted toward Carol and she flinched. Cho held up an evidence bag and inside he could see a Smith & Wesson.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to ask questions, but nothing would come to him. He could smell blood and gunpowder and death. Already...already he could smell the distinct tang of death in the room.

“It’s the missing gun,” said Cho, breaking the terrible pall.

Marco blinked. Then he drew a ragged breath. His eyes met Carol’s and hers swam with tears.

“Marco.” She held out her hand.

His attention zeroed in on it. She wanted him to comfort her, tell her it was all right. She wanted him to what? Sweep it all away.

Marco’s gaze rose and pinned Cho. “Dust her hands for powder.”

Then he left the room.

*    *    *

They gathered in the lobby of Scotland Yard, standing in partners, waiting for instructions. Caleb Abbott grabbed a megaphone off the front counter and called for attention. A tense silence fell in the lobby.

“You’ve each been given a partner and an area of the tube lines to search. In addition to that, you’ve been issued firearms and a photograph of our suspect. The suspect’s name is Charles Howsham. Our goal is to take him alive; however, you must consider him armed and dangerous. Approach with caution. He may be suffering from a psychological break and unable to comprehend what he’s doing. He’s attacked in public before, so understand he may do so again.”

Peyton glanced over the more than forty officers listening to Caleb.

“Each partnership has been issued a radio for ease of communications. Relay any sightings or attempts to apprehend the suspect directly to me. I will be running point.”

He paused and looked over the gathering. “I cannot stress enough how dangerous Charles Howsham is. We believe he is responsible for six attacks, five resulting in fatalities; however, we are eyeing him for involvement in other murders outside of London. Do not become separated from your partner and take all precautions possible to protect yourselves and the public at large. Unless there are questions, we depart in five.”

No one indicated any concerns.

Caleb set the megaphone on the counter, his gaze sweeping over the Ghost Squad. “Neil’s going to return your weapons to you; however, we have one requirement.”

Radar frowned at that. “We’re not going out there unarmed.”

“Understood. However, each of you will have to be teamed with someone from Scotland Yard, otherwise, you will have to stand down.”

They exchanged looks with each other. Radar acted like he was about to protest, but Peyton held up a hand. “I’m not standing down, Radar. We came out here to find Rianna’s killer and we need to see this through.”

“Agreed,” said Tank.

“Fine. Give us our weapons.”

Caleb nodded to Neil, who ducked under the counter to retrieve the lock-box. While he began to open it, Caleb motioned between him and Radar. “You’ll be with me at point. We’ll coordinate the teams together.”

“Fine.” Peyton could see he didn’t like it, but he couldn’t argue with the logic.

“Tank, you’ll be with Inspector Cooley.” He gave Bambi a fond smile. “And you’ll work with Inspector Greenwood. I’ll introduce you to them as soon as you receive your weapons.” His attention shifted to Peyton. “Peyton, you and Neil will partner.”

Neil flashed a smile at her and passed her her gun. Peyton took it and checked it over, surprisingly glad to feel the weight of it in her hands. “Sounds good to me,” she said, smiling at Neil herself.

While Caleb went to gather the two inspectors, Radar pulled his team around him.

“I don’t like this, but we don’t have any other choice. Trust your training. Trust yourself. Do not engage with Charlie. If you find him, wait for another team to arrive before you approach.” Tank and Bambi nodded, but Peyton fussed with her holster. Radar reached over and tugged on her ponytail. “Sparky?”

She looked up at him. “Don’t engage with Charlie. Wait for another team to arrive. I heard you, Radar.”

“Hearing me is one thing. Listening is where we always have problems.”

“I listen too,” she said testily.

Bambi winked at her, but Radar just shook his head.

Caleb brought the two inspectors over to meet Bambi and Tank, then it was time to leave Scotland Yard. Neil fell into step beside her, carrying a neatly folded map of the tube stations. Teams of cops left the building, heading in different directions. Neil pointed to the street and they hailed a cab.

“We’ve got Edgware Road to Notting Hill Gate,” he told her.

“Sounds good.”

“Radar and Caleb have Queensway to Bond and Bambi has High Street to Gloucester. We’ll all be close together.”

“Let’s hope this works,” she said brightly as the cab pulled up by the curb and Neil reached for the door handle.

They took the taxis to the Edgware Road station and got off. Inside the station, they began showing the photo to everyone who would spare a moment to look at it. Most people were hurrying off to work and didn’t have time to talk. The radio crackled on Peyton’s jacket collar as various teams reported in.

Wandering around the station, then moving down to the platform, Peyton had an eerie sense that someone was watching her. She stepped off the stairs onto the Circle Line platform and tried to peer over the heads of the people meandering around. She asked a group of young girls if they’d seen Charlie and they shook their heads.

Neil moved to her side, pressing his radio to contact Caleb. “We’re moving on to Bayswater in under a minute,” he said.

“Copy,” came Caleb’s response.

Moving up the platform, Peyton continued to show the photo of Charlie, but she got no confirmation. Still the feeling of being watched persisted. She started to climb up on one of the metal benches to get a better look, but the train pulled into the station.

“Edgware Road to Notting Hill Station. Mind the gap between the train and the platform.”

Neil jerked his chin at the car in front of them and Peyton followed him onto it, but rather than taking a seat, they split in either direction, asking the people on the train if they’d seen Charlie. Grabbing a handrail, Peyton steadied herself as the train pulled away from the platform and entered the tunnel. Moving from one pole to the next, she continued to question people until the train pulled into Bayswater where she and Neil disembarked.

Once again they scoured the station, covering each platform and into the station itself, receiving no response. More reports came in through the radio, but no one had gotten even the vaguest response to their search.

Walking down the narrow stairs in Bayswater back to the Circle Line platform, Peyton felt the hair on the nape of her neck rise. Neil was just before her, but she touched his shoulder and turned, looking back up the stairs.

“What is it?”

No one was behind her. “I don’t know. It’s just a strange feeling I have.”

“Like what?”

“Like being watched.”

A young couple turned the corner and started down the stairs, chatting to each other, the young woman holding the young man’s arm. Peyton stopped them.

“Did you pass anyone up there?”

They frowned at her. “Pass anyone?”

“A man?”

They glanced at each other. “A man? We passed a number of men,” said the young woman.

Peyton held out Gordon Bell’s picture of Charlie. “This man?”

They both looked at it, then shook their head. “I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Maybe.”

Neil chewed on his inner lip as Peyton took back the photo with a sigh. The couple passed them and continued onto the platform.

“Bayswater Station to Notting Hill Station,” came the announcement below them.

Neil pressed the button on his radio. “Brooks and McCabe moving to Notting Hill Station,” he said.

“Copy,” answered Caleb.

Peyton followed Neil back to the platform and once the train arrived, they kept to the same routine, moving up and down the cars, showing Charlie’s picture and asking if anyone had seen him. Before they’d covered the entire train, they arrived in Notting Hill.

Notting Hill was more crowded than the others had been and Peyton got separated from Neil as they tried to shove their way out of the crowd streaming onto the platform. She waited, searching the faces for him.

Just as she found Neil, her radio crackled.

“Sparky,” came Radar’s voice.

She pressed the button. “Radar?”

“Where are you now?”

“Notting Hill Station.”

The radio crackled as Neil moved to her side.

“Stay there. We’re coming to you.”

“Why?”

“We’re at Queensway and Bambi’s at High Street. Tank’s coming in from Holland Park.”

“Wait. Why do you want us to stay here?”

More crackle. She gave Neil a shrug. “Radar?”

“...back to Scotland Yard.”

“Wait, what? What about Scotland Yard?”

“...the results of the hair…”

“Radar!” she fussed with the radio. “Radar, what are you saying?”

“The hair in the cap you found. Charlie’s cap.”

“Yeah, what about Charlie’s cap?”

Static cut him off.

“Radar, what about Charlie’s cap?”

Nothing.

She looked at Neil. “Did you get any of that?”

He shook his head. “All I got was for us to wait for them here. Let’s go up into the station.”

She sighed and folded the photo, tucking it in her jeans pocket, then she and Neil pushed their way through the people toward the metal stairs leading up.

Her foot had just touched the bottom step when Neil grabbed her arm. She turned and found him pointing to a spot behind them, on the far edge of the platform. Peyton could just make out the shaggy head of hair over the heads of the people waiting on the platform.

Charlie.

She stepped off the stair. This was her chance to talk him down. To get him to go with them. She had to try. As she started toward him, Neil caught her elbow.

“That’s Charlie.”

He nodded. “Remember what Caleb said. He’s probably armed and there are a lot of people on this platform.”

Peyton drew a breath. He had a point. She had to do this slowly and carefully.

“Peyton?”

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry. Just have my back.”

“Your phone’s ringing.”

Peyton realized it was, but she hadn’t heard it over the cacophony of voices on the echoing tube platform. She fished it out of her pocket, her fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the perfume bottle, but just as she went to thumb it on, the call ended. Radar’s name flashed briefly on the screen.

She shrugged, then started to put it away, but it buzzed in her hand. Peyton lifted it and a text message flashed on the screen.

The hair in Tamsin’s hand and the hair in the cap does not match. Repeat, the hair does NOT match.

Peyton frowned at that. What the hell did that mean? The hair didn’t match. It was too soon to get a DNA match. What did Radar mean that the two hairs didn’t…

Her thoughts came into focus and she looked up toward where Charlie still stood. “Neil, the hair doesn’t match,” she said, absently slipping the phone into her pocket.

His head turned toward her, but before he could say anything, something slammed into the two of them, throwing Peyton back against the wall beside the staircase. Too late Peyton realized someone had leaped on Neil’s back, taking him down onto the platform where he landed hard.

Screams filled the station and people began bolting, slamming Peyton back against the wall as she tried to draw her weapon. Shoving people away, she scrambled to get around them and help Neil. Her fingers closed on the handle of her gun and she drew it, creating more screams, but before she could get around the end of the stairs, a shaggy figure rushed her, throwing her back into the plastic display covering posters that lined the platform’s walls.

Fingers closed on her wrist, slamming the gun back into the Plexiglas frame, and her fingers opened involuntarily, dropping the gun. She heard it clatter onto the metal grating at the bottom of the stairs.

Instinct saved her a moment later as her attacker’s right hand rose, glinting in the light from the overhead bulbs. She struck out with her left arm and felt a slash of pain radiate from her shoulder to her elbow, then she was lifted and thrown out onto the platform, landing on her back, the breath knocked out of her.

She couldn’t move for a moment, gasping for air, as a howl echoed through the tunnel. She was vaguely aware that people bolted around her, screaming, and she started to roll to her side, trying to get her knees under her.

Before she could move, a massive weight landed on her, pinning her. Then fingers reached down and closed on her throat, squeezing. She bucked, trying to throw him off, staring into the twisted features of a man with wild hair and a bushy beard. Her brain registered the avocado colored coat as his fingers tightened, cutting off her breath. Pain exploded in her head and she scrambled with her right hand in her coat pocket, trying to find anything she could use as a weapon.

Radar’s words echoed in her ears. You’re too small to do that. What else can you do? Always be unpredictable! Always do the unexpected! Think, Brooks! Think!

Her fingers closed on the perfume bottle and somehow she managed to flip the cap off, covering the opening with her thumb. She could feel unconsciousness begin to flit at the edge of her vision, black spots starting to appear. And then she saw him raise the knife.

She pulled her hand out of her pocket and threw the contents of the bottle at him. Her aim was true and she caught him full in the right eye. He roared and released her throat, scrubbing at the eye, but he was still seated over her hips. She gulped in air and started to reach for the arm that held the knife, but something slammed into him, dragging him off her.

Charlie.

Choking and coughing, she rolled to her side and got her knees under her, then she scrambled toward the stairs and her gun. A hand closed over her ankle, dragging her back, but she kicked with all her might and the hand released her. Lunging the rest of the way, her fingers closed on the gun and she rolled to her back, bringing it up, her gaze clashing with Niles’ as he rose above her.

Before she could pull the trigger, shots echoed in the tunnel and Niles convulsed in mid-air, then he slowly crumpled to his knees and pitched over backward.

Footsteps pounded down the metal stairs, moving past her and going to check Niles, then moving to Neil. Peyton lowered her gun and scrambled back against the stairs as Bambi dropped beside her, holstering her own weapon.

“Are you all right?” she said worriedly, grabbing Peyton’s elbow.

Peyton just stared at her, unable to process her thoughts.

“Come on, let’s get you up.” Bambi rose and helped her to her feet.

Finally Peyton’s thoughts coalesced.  “Charlie!”

She shoved away from Bambi and skirted the huddle of people around the two bodies. Then she ran to Charlie’s side and dropped to her knees next to him.

He was lying on his back, staring up, the hilt of Niles’ knife sticking out of the center of his chest. As she leaned over him, his eyes shifted and found hers.

“Help’s coming. Hold on, Charlie,” she told him, taking his hand.

He shook his head, his fingers tightening on hers. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” he whispered.

“Hold on, please, Charlie. Hold on!” She looked up frantically.

Radar stood in front of her with Tank and Bambi behind him.

“Help him, Radar! Please help him!” she begged.

Radar walked around them and knelt on Charlie’s other side.

“It’s okay,” said Charlie softly. “It’s okay. It’s quiet.” His eyes drifted away from hers and he stared at the ceiling of the station. “Finally, it’s quiet,” he whispered.

Peyton pressed his hand to her breast. “Charlie, please stay with me! Please, Charlie!”

But his fingers loosened their hold and his eyes grew unfocused.

“Radar! Do something! Help him!”

Tank knelt beside her, putting his hand on her shoulder. “It’s too late, Peyton. By the position of the knife, it severed his coronary artery.”

“No! He saved my life! He saved my life! Do something, Radar! Do something!”

Radar turned and grabbed her shoulders, pulling her to him. “It’s too late, Sparky. It’s too late.”

She buried her face in his neck and clung to him. “No! You have to do something! You have to help him!”

She felt Radar’s hand leave her arm, then he reached for her jacket. “Get a medic over here now!” he shouted.

CHAPTER 18

Caleb Abbott rose to his feet as Peyton entered the conference room in Scotland Yard. He pulled out a chair and helped her into it. She sat down gingerly, ignoring the disapproving look Radar shot at her.

He’d ordered her to stay at the hotel while they wrapped up the loose ends and bid their London counterpart goodbye, but she wasn’t going to sit there by herself brooding. She was going to be with her team.

“How are you doing, Peyton?” asked Caleb with a kind smile.

She nodded. It hurt to talk and she had a bruise around her throat. Marco was going to have a fit. Not to mention the thirty stitches it had taken to close the wound in her upper arm. The blood vessels in her eyes had burst and she had a garish ring of red around her iris. Then, as they always did, the hospital staff had given her pain killers, pumped her full of them. This morning Bambi had forced her to take a pill before she’d leave. It made everything feel fussy and distant.

Tank got a glass of water and set it before her and Bambi put her sweater over Peyton’s shoulders. Her leather jacket had gone into the rubbish bin as the Brits would say.

“How’s Neil?” she asked, her voice scratchy.

“He has a nasty lump on his noggin, but they did a CT scan and everything looks normal. However, because he lost consciousness, they’re keeping him in hospital another day for observation.”

“Which is where you should be,” growled Radar.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

Caleb smiled. “I am going to miss you Americans and your spirit.”

Peyton wasn’t sure what to do with that. “Did you notify Charlie’s parents of his death?”

“I did. I drove out there last night. Bea was devastated, but in some way, I also think relieved. Now her son has peace for the first time.”

Peyton looked down, fighting the sudden tears. Bambi put her arm around her shoulder and rested her head against Peyton’s. Usually the gesture would annoy her, but not today. Today she let Bambi comfort her.

“You were just telling us about Niles,” prompted Radar.

“Right. Actually, Jerome Pearson. He was originally from Camberley in Surrey. He has a colorful record to be sure – larceny, assault, sexual misconduct. We feel there’s a good chance he’s responsible for eight other murders that we haven’t be able to solve outside of London proper.”

“How did he meet Charlie?” asked Tank.

“We believe they met at St. Mungo’s. Jerome was an alpha personality to Charlie’s beta one. He latched onto Charlie and took on the persona of Niles. Where Charlie went, so did Niles. It got so the two were inseparable, they even began dressing like each other, down to the hair and beard. They were nearly impossible to tell apart. Truly, they functioned as halves of one person.”

Peyton’s eyes lifted and met Tank’s. He gave a short nod, but she knew that he’d sensed all along something wasn’t right with focusing exclusively on Charlie. Maybe if they’d listened to him, Charlie would still be alive. When Tank had talked about split personality, it might have led them to the reality sooner if he hadn’t been dismissed so completely by Caleb and his adherence to Charlie’s diagnosis.

“Does Niles...Jerome Pearson have family?”

“We’re trying to locate them, but we can do that ourselves. We’ve released Gordon Bell, the American exchange student, to go home and Rianna Cooper will be flown back to her family in California this week.” Caleb gave them all his beaming smile. “Personally, it has been a pleasure to work with each of you and I cannot thank you enough. You are truly our allies in all things and this case wouldn’t have been solved without you.”

*    *    *

Marco stared at the picture of Peyton he’d taken in the Virgin Islands. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, falling nearly to her shoulder blades, she’d placed a lily at her temple, and she wore a sundress with spaghetti straps. She was looking up at the camera, her dark eyes exotic, beckoning, drawing him in. For that single moment in time, everything was good, everything was happy, everything had been so easy.

A knock sounded on the door and Lee poked his head inside his office.

Marco set the picture frame down on the corner of his desk and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Yeah?”

“ADA Adams and a Mr. Greene would like to talk to you.”

Marco frowned at that. What the hell did the Petersons’ lawyer want with him? “Send them in.”

Devan entered, looking tired, but polished and stiff in his dark business suit. Greene followed him, dressed impeccably, but his wavy hair curled over his forehead, and his blue eyes were watery and set too close together.

“Captain D’Angelo, this is Jefferson Greene,” said Devan, introducing him.

Marco didn’t bother to rise, just held his hand out and shook the other man’s. “Take a seat.”

Devan sank into his favorite napping chair and Greene sat down beside him. Marco leaned back in his own chair and regarded them. He knew how to play the waiting game better than anyone after all of his sessions with Dr. Ferguson.

“Cho has been interrogating Carol Peterson for hours, but she won’t talk to him,” began Devan.

Marco shrugged. “Sometimes it takes a while to break someone down.”

Devan gave him a warning look, while Greene shifted uncomfortably.

“She’s not your common street thug,” Greene said.

“She killed two people in cold blood. She’s worse than a common street thug.”

Greene held out his hands, offering Devan a disbelieving stare.

“Captain D’Angelo has a tendency to see things as black or white. It’s a hazard of the job,” explained Devan with a fake smile.

“I don’t need you making excuses for me, Adams. If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, I have things to do.”

Devan gave Greene a nod.

Greene scooted forward in his chair. “Carol’s ready to explain everything.”

“Great. My inspectors are waiting to hear it.”

“On two conditions.”

Marco leaned forward in his seat. “She’s not in a position to offer conditions.”

“Listen to him, D’Angelo. Just listen, damn it,” warned Devan.

Marco glared at him, but he held up a hand for Greene to continue.

“She wants the death penalty taken off the table.”

“She murdered two people,” said Marco.

“The death penalty with women is a hard sell, D’Angelo. And the minute the jury gets a look at Carol Peterson, we’re dead in the water.”

“Fine.” Marco sank back in his chair. “But she tells my people everything.”

“That’s the other condition.”

Marco frowned.

“She wants to talk to you. She’ll only talk to you. She says she has to explain it...to you.”

Marco’s gaze shifted to Devan.

Devan shrugged. “We’ll record the confession, but it makes my job a whole lot easier if they just tell us what the hell happened, D’Angelo. You and I both know she’s not a street thug. This case was a bitch from the offing and we need to be done with it. You need to be done with it. This isn’t one of your crusades.”

Greene gave him a funny look, but Marco knew what he meant.

He didn’t want to question Carol. He didn’t want to see Carol ever again. He felt betrayed by her, betrayed by his memory of her, and he couldn’t reconcile that conflict. Still, this was Carol, the girl who’d been his first – a memory from high school, a memory from a time before he knew the hearts of people could be so false.

His gaze shifted to Peyton’s picture, and he could almost imagine what she’d tell him. Man up, D’Angelo, it’s not like it’s brain surgery. Use that pretty head of yours for something besides growing hair.

“Fine,” he said.

Devan gave him a nod and Greene held out his hand to shake. Rising, they made their way to the interrogation room where Cho was still trying to get Carol to talk. Marco watched her through the two-way glass. Her blond hair was mussed, her mascara streaked beneath her eyes, her eyelids rimmed in red. She twisted a tissue around in her hands, staring at the two-way glass without moving, her shoulders curled inward.

Cho paced behind her, trying everything he could to get her to break, while Simons lounged in the chair next to her, idly tapping his fingers on the metal table. Marco could see Cho was tiring. He himself had been in interrogations like this and they usually didn’t result in any actual information. Finally the person broke and spewed whatever you wanted them to say. It always left a bad taste in your mouth when it was over.

“She wants to talk to you alone,” said Greene.

Marco nodded, then he turned and limped to the interrogation door, knocking. Bartlet opened it and Marco motioned him out into the hallway. “Wait out here,” he told the kid.

Cho turned at his entrance and Carol looked up, her mouth parting. Marco jerked his chin toward the door and Simons rose to his feet, following his partner from the room. They didn’t question him, which made him wonder if Greene or Adams hadn’t filled them in on Carol’s conditions.

“Marco,” she whispered, holding out her hand to him.

He ignored it, taking a seat perpendicular to hers. Cho had left the file for him and he laid his hand on it.

“Marco, I’m so glad you’re here.” She pressed her hands to her breast. “I wouldn’t talk to them. They don’t understand the way you do.”

He stared at her, wondering if she comprehended how serious this was. “You killed your husband, Carol.”

“I had no choice.”

Marco tilted back his head. “You had no choice?”

“Brad was sick, Marco. He couldn’t take care of himself.”

“So what? You made the decision to put him down, like a pet dog?”

She lowered her head, her hands dropping into her lap. “No, you don’t understand either.”

“Then tell me. What was it, Carol? Did he cheat on you?”

She gave a grim laugh. “Cheat? We both cheated. He was gone so much of the time, on the road. We both had lovers, but it didn’t matter. We knew about them. We never lied to each other.”

Marco gave her a bewildered look. “You told each other about your lovers?”

Her eyes rose and pinned him. “It didn’t matter. We always came back to each other. We always knew who mattered.”

Marco shook his head in disbelief. “Was it the gambling then? We know you tried to curb it. You tried to save some of what you had.”

She nodded. “I tried, but I didn’t understand how badly he was addicted. I didn’t know about the bookie until that day that…” She swiped at her nose with her tissue. “...that day I shot Zonov’s nephew.”

“So you did shoot him?”

She nodded again, staring at a spot on the table. “We were doing exactly what we said. We were looking at swatches in the guest bedroom. We really did plan to sell the house.”

“And then what?”

“The doorbell rang. Brad went to get it, but I stayed upstairs. He didn’t come back right away, but I didn’t think anything of it, until I heard them arguing. I came out on the landing. Brad was standing by the stairs, telling the nephew to leave and pointing at the door. I couldn’t see the nephew, but I could hear him, threatening Brad that he was going to smash up the house, take some of our art, our trinkets. Brad was getting more and more agitated.” She stopped and wiped her nose again. “Can I have some water?”

Marco motioned to the two-way glass and a moment later Bartlet appeared with a plastic water bottle, setting it before Carol. She unscrewed the top and took a sip.

“I’m so tired. I feel like my head’s full of cotton.”

“What happened after you heard the arguing, Carol?”

She pushed the water away. “I ran into our room and got the Smith & Wesson out of the gun locker. Brad always kept the guns loaded, so I carried it back to the top of the stairs. I could see the nephew now, standing in the archway of the living room. He and Brad were still arguing. It was getting heated and the nephew…”

“The nephew?”

“He reached into his jacket. I thought he had a gun.”

Marco straightened, curling his hand into a fist on the file. “He didn’t have a gun, Carol.”

“I know that now!” she cried. “I know that now, but then I was just protecting my husband.”

“He took thirty minutes to die. What did you do while he was drowning in his own blood?”

“I panicked. Brad panicked. We didn’t know what to do. I had to get rid of the gun, so I ran outside and put it in my neighbor’s SUV, in the spare tire well.”

“How’d you get into the car?”

“It’s Nob Hill, Marco. No one locks their cars.” She reached for the water, but didn’t take a sip. “I came back in and Brad was sitting on the stairs. He was just rocking back and forth, so terrified. Like a child, Marco. Just like a little boy.”

“So you decided he’d take the fall?”

She swallowed hard and her chin lifted. “It was the only logical thing to do.”

Marco lifted his hand and rubbed his forehead. “How? How is any of this logical?”

“I figured the case would just be written off as self-defense. Brad might serve a few months, get probation, but he was a big football star, a local hero. Who’d convict him for killing someone who broke into his house? The cops from Central, they told us the same thing. They said it probably wouldn’t even go to trial. They were certain.” She hesitated and her expression hardened. “But then you walked in and you wouldn’t let it go.”

“This isn’t my fault, Carol.”

“Well, it isn’t mine.”

Marco stared at her in disbelief. “You put a bullet in Brad’s skull, Carol.”

“I had no other choice.”

Marco shook his head, holding out his hand. “How? How the hell can you justify this? How can you sit here and say this?”

“Because it’s true. Brad was sick, Marco.”

“You keep saying that, but that doesn’t give you the right to take his life.”

“When I am the only thing keeping him alive it does!” she shouted, slamming her hand down on the table.

He reared back from her, stunned.

She grabbed another tissue out of the box and twisted it in her hands. “You don’t understand anything, Marco. It’s all so clear to you. The law is the law and that’s all it is.” She gave him a watery smile. “You always confused Brad, you know that?”

“What?”

She laughed. “He had you moved to defense because you were so damn pretty, he thought he was turning gay.” The laugh became sobs. “God, I loved him so much, but he was so damn stupid sometimes. He always came home to me though. No matter what. He was always my guy. He’d bring me these stupid little presents, cheap crap from some hotel he’d been in. A shot glass, or a horrible t-shirt with some stupid saying on it. Once he brought me a taxidermied frog with a sombrero on its head. Racist damn thing I ever saw, but I loved him for it.”

She reached over and took Marco’s hand. “I loved my husband, Marco, and I couldn’t let him become a joke.”

“I’m just not getting this, Carol.”

“He couldn’t take care of himself any more, Marco. He couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t even go to the store and leave him or he’d burn down the house. He was so damaged, his brain just didn’t work. Half the time he didn’t know what the hell year it was.”

Marco leaned back. He was beginning to see how she’d put this all together.

“It would have been fine if they’d even locked Brad up for a few years. He would have done fine in prison. They would have taken care of him, told him when to get up, when to eat, sleep, bathe. But you wouldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop investigating, and I knew you were going to figure it out. You were going to know I shot Zonov.”

She released his hand and let her own fall against her thigh. “If I went to prison, Brad would be alone and he wouldn’t make it.”

“You could have gotten nursing help, Carol. He still had some money left. You had the house on Nob Hill and the one in Woodside.”

“And how much do you think 24 hour care costs, Marco? Brad was 34. How long do you think he might have lived?”

“What about family?”

“His parents are dead and his sister wants nothing to do with him. There was no one, Marco. Just me.”

Marco hadn’t really considered that.

“And after the uncle blew up the truck, I knew I didn’t have any choice. I knew that if I went to prison, Zonov would keep coming after Brad until he killed him. And I knew he wouldn’t worry about what pain he caused him.” She stared at the two-way glass. “I made the only decision I could. I protected Brad the only way I knew how.”

“At the cost of your freedom, Carol.”

She shrugged, giving him a sad, weary smile. “That’s what you do for love, Marco. And honestly, I hope you find that someday. I hope you find someone who you’d do anything to protect. Even this. Even the worst thing you can imagine doing. If you’re willing to give everything you have for another person, then you know it’s real. You know it’s true.”

*    *    *

Heathrow Airport was like a small city. It had restaurants and clothing stores, coffee shops, and salons. It even had showers and beds you could rent by the hour. Had someone been so inclined and had enough money, he would never have to leave the airport. Every amenity could be found right here.

Peyton sat in a chair across from a perfume shop, watching people passing back and forth, some talking on cell phones, others rushing to find a kiosk that would list their flights and time.

Radar brought her a cup of coffee, taking a seat beside her. For a long while, he sipped at his own cup and watched the people with her, then he gave a heavy sigh, shifting in the chair. “I know I’m going to regret saying this, but I don’t like it when you get quiet.”

Peyton smiled at him from behind her sunglasses. The glasses and a scarf were the only ways she’d thought to conceal the attack from passersby. The workers at the hotel had been alarmed when she checked out that morning, seeing the broken blood vessels in her eyes and the distinct fingerprints visible even on her mocha colored skin.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

She shrugged, then regretted moving her arm. It was almost time for another painkiller, but she was holding off as long as she could. “I’m just wondering if there was something anyone could have done to help Charlie. Maybe there was some way to make things better for him.”

Radar sipped at his coffee. “No culture seems to know what to do with the mentally ill. The British are no different than we are with this.”

She considered that. “It’s just he said to me it’s okay. It’s quiet.” She fought the rush of tears, pressing her tongue against her teeth to force control. “I can’t imagine what he suffered, all those years, with another voice talking at him all of the time. Why couldn’t someone do something to help him?”

Radar sighed. “I don’t know, Sparky. Some things we just don’t understand. And some things we just don’t know how to fix.”

She nodded and took a sip of the coffee. Nice and sweet, just the way she liked it. She looked over at him. “I listened to you, you know?”

“What?” He glanced at her.

“During the attack, I remembered what you told me. Back in San Francisco when we were training. You told me to do the unexpected, so I did. I threw perfume in his eye.”

Radar gave a bark of laughter. “I thought he smelt awful pretty.”

She smiled at him. “I do listen to you, even though you don’t believe it. I listen and I remember.”

He faced forward again, squaring his jaw. “You should. I give damn good advice.”

She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

His gaze snapped to her face. “That wasn’t very professional, Agent Brooks.”

“I don’t really care.”

“Yeah, I’m learning that about you.” But he was smiling.

“Were you the one who took the shot?”

“No. I didn’t have the right angle. It was Bambi who took it. She’s almost…” He held up a finger. “...almost as good as I am.”

Peyton smiled, glancing up as Bambi and Tank approached. Bambi dropped into the seat next to Peyton, holding out a box with a cellophane window on the top.

“This is a chocolate cupcake with chocolate filling, and chocolate icing.” She pressed it into Peyton’s hands. “For you.”

Impulsively, Peyton leaned forward and kissed Bambi on the forehead.

She gave Peyton a bewildered smile. “It’s just a cupcake, Peyton.”

“Sparky, you’ve got to stop kissing people. You’ll give the FBI a bad reputation.”

“You got a kiss too?” asked Tank mournfully.

Peyton rose and grabbed the lapel on his jacket, pulling him down to her so she could kiss his cheek. He beamed a smile at her.

“You need to stop,” said Radar, glaring at her.

“I love my team. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“That’s the painkillers talking.”

She sat down next to him again. “It’s not the painkillers.”

“Have you figured out what you’re going to tell your boytoy when he sees your throat?”

Peyton sobered at that. “I’ve got a twelve hour flight ahead of me. Maybe it’ll be faded by then.” She gave Bambi a hopeful look.

“Honey, your eyes look like you’re the spawn of Satan. There’s no way that’s going to fade.”

Peyton stared down at the box, chewing on her bottom lip.

“Eat your cupcake, Sparky, and stop fretting. You could always tell him it’s the latest fashion trend in London.”

Peyton lifted the lid on her box and took a sniff. She was going home to him, and honestly that was enough. Yesterday that almost wasn’t a possibility, so if Marco wanted to yell at her, so be it. She was still alive to hear him.

*    *    *

Marco left his office, hesitating by Lee’s desk as Cho and Jake moved toward the front of the precinct.

“I sent our report to you a few minutes ago,” said Cho.

“Thanks.”

He pointed to the door. “We’re just headed out, unless you have something else you want me to do.”

“No.” Marco looked at Lee. “You should go too. It’s past 6:00.”

Lee grabbed a small cooler and rose to his feet. “Just headed out, Captain.”

Marco smiled at him as he went around the desk and made for the front door, Cho on his heels. Jake hung back and Marco could feel his eyes searching him.

“What?” he snarled.

Lee and Cho hesitated on the other side of the counter.

“You okay?” Jake asked, his eyes narrowed in that speculative look he got.

“I’m fine.”

Cho gave Marco a forced smile. “We’re just going to the symphony tonight.”

“What?”

“Jake and I and Abe. We’ve got tickets to the symphony.”

“Okay?”

“If you need one of us, we’ll be on cell.”

“I won’t need you.”

“When’s Peyton coming home? Have you heard from her?” Cho continued, shifting weight uncomfortably.

Marco ground his teeth, fighting not to snap. It was one thing to growl at Jake. Jake didn’t care, but Nathan Cho was a friend he didn’t want to offend.

“She’s coming home tomorrow. She’s probably already in the air.”

“Good. Good.” Cho jerked his head toward the door, indicating that Jake should come, but Jake held back, studying Marco intently.

Marco started for the door himself, deliberately refusing to make eye contact. “Go to the damn symphony, Ryder,” he grumbled and shoved open the half-door.

Lee and Cho got out of his way as he threw open the outer door, walking down the stairs and into the parking lot without looking back. Climbing behind the Charger, he started her and wheeled out of his space, pretending he didn’t notice them watching him.

He meant to drive directly to Peyton’s house, but he found himself in front of the liquor store down the street. He sat in the Charger for at least five minutes debating.

Finally, he threw open the door and limped inside, grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels on the display as he headed for the counter. Thankfully the attendant didn’t want to talk with him and simply took his money, placing the bottle in a paper bag and giving him his change.

He didn’t allow himself to think about what he was doing as he got back in the Charger and drove to Peyton’s house. Parking in the driveway, he grabbed the bag and climbed out, slamming the Charger’s door and heading for the ramp.

He hesitated before Peyton’s entrance, staring down at the bouquet of red roses resting on her doorstep. He picked them up and unlocked the door, casting a baleful eye on the security camera. Pickles bounced around his feet as he set the bottle of Jack Daniels and the roses on the sofa table, threw his keys, wallet and badge on its surface, shucked out of his suit jacket and holster and hung those on the pegs by her door.

He forced himself to feed Pickles and take him down to the drive to relieve himself, then he came back into the house and grabbed the bottle and flowers, carrying both to the couch. He sank into a corner of the couch, setting the flowers on her coffee table. A card was affixed to a plastic holder in the middle of the bouquet and he debated whether he should read it or not. In the end, he set the bottle of Jack Daniels on the coffee table and reached for the card, flipping it over in his hand.

I got it. Thank you, Barnabas.

He didn’t know what the hell it meant, but he knew who the flowers were from. He wanted to throw the whole mess out her window and into the street, but he replaced the card on the holder and shoved the flowers into the middle of her table, then he reached for the bottle of Jack Daniels, pulling it out of the paper bag.

Resting the bottle on his thigh, he stared at the flowers, feeling rage and hurt and confusion race through him. Just when he was about to break the seal on the bottle, Pickles jumped up on the couch and curled up, pressing his back against Marco’s leg. Marco stared down at the little dog, then reached out and ran his hand over the Yorkie’s fur.

And that’s where Jake found him sometime later.

Marco heard the lock turn on the door, but he didn’t move.

“It’s me, Adonis. Don’t shoot,” Jake called. He eased into the living room, pausing by the armchair, resting his hands on the top of it.

Marco gave him a quizzical look. “You were going to the symphony.”

“Eh, honestly, I’d rather catch a baseball game. I was just going because Nate and Abe asked me to go.” He eased into the armchair. “So what exactly are you doing?”

“Sitting with Pickles.”

“And the bottle of Jack.”

Marco tilted it, staring at the label. “Deciding whether to drink it or not.”

Jake reached out and took the bottle from his hand. “Let’s not do that, okay?”

Marco didn’t respond.

Jake set the bottle on the floor next to his chair. “You get the flowers? That doesn’t seem like you.”

“Nope.” Marco let the word drip with sarcasm.

“That Mike idiot?”

“Yep.”

“Did the fool deliver them himself?”

“I suppose. I haven’t looked at the surveillance tape yet.”

“Did you read the card?”

“I did. And I don’t give a damn what you think about it.”

“I would have done the same thing. In fact, I would have thrown the damn things away.”

Marco sighed, stroking Pickles.

“Why didn’t you?”

“They don’t belong to me. They’re Peyton’s. She gets to decide what to do with them.”

“What does the card say?” Jake rose and read the card. “What does it mean?”

“No idea.”

Jake sat down again. “You can’t really believe she’s interested in this clown.”

Marco shrugged. “Who the hell knows?”

Jake braced his arms on his thighs. “Look, Adonis, I know it’s been a bitch of a day…”

“You might say that.”

“And I know you feel gut punched by the Peterson case.”

Marco didn’t respond.

“But it’ll pass and Peyton will be home tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

Jake gave a low laugh. “That’s the sort of sure someone says before he downs an entire bottle of Jack. Talk to me, Adonis. Don’t brood by yourself. Come on. I know you’re more evolved than that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Jake considered for a moment, then he slapped his hands against his thighs. “Have you had anything to eat? I can order take-out. What do you want?” He got to his feet and turned toward the kitchen where Peyton kept her take-out menus. “Feel like Chinese?”

“She said it was my fault.”

Jake stopped and turned around again. “Carol?”

Marco nodded. “She said I wouldn’t give up the investigation, so she had no choice. She said she had to kill him.”

Jake returned to his chair and sat. “You had to keep investigating, Adonis. Nothing was adding up. You had to figure out who shot Demetri Zonov.”

“Why? He was a low-life. A junior criminal. He would have just kept on until he killed someone. Maybe Carol did the world a favor by taking him out.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t know what I believe.” He looked at Jake for the first time. “I don’t know what I think anymore. Brad died because I didn’t bounce the case, because I didn’t ignore the evidence and leave it alone. All I had to do was give it to Central and they would have taken care of it for me. That’s all I had to do.”

“You couldn’t do that. You couldn’t pretend it was self-defense when it wasn’t. Whether he was a good person or not, Demetri Zonov deserved the same justice Brad Peterson did.”

“Who got justice? Tell me who. Carol? She’s going to spend the rest of her life in prison. Brad? He got a bullet in the head. Demetri? He’s dead. Who got justice here, Ryder?”

“I don’t know, Adonis. I guess no one did, but that isn’t your fault.”

“How isn’t it?”

“You don’t decide who gets justice. Peyton told me this once and she was right. We don’t decide that. That’s for judges and juries. All we do is solve the cases, find out what really happened. Get the truth. Sometimes that means that people go to prison, Adonis, and sometimes it means people don’t get the justice they deserve.”

Marco exhaled wearily. “What’s the point then? What’s the reason for any of this?”

Jake leaned forward, his eyes piercing. “Because sometimes, Adonis, sometimes they do.”

EPILOGUE

He stood waiting for her, leaning on his cane, a tall, solid figure in jeans and a ribbed sweater. She paused a moment, staring at him, a conflict of emotions flooding her. She was home and he was waiting.

Hurrying through the crowd in the airport terminal, she stopped before him, releasing the handle on her suitcase. He gave her a puzzled look, taking in the scarf and the sunglasses, but she didn’t give him time to say anything.

Stepping forward, she wrapped her good arm around his waist and pressed her face to his chest, breathing in his scent. He curled his free arm around her, lowering his head and burying his face in her hair.

For a moment, this was enough.

Then, without saying anything, he eased her away and took the handle of her suitcase. Together they walked toward the airport exit and rode the shuttle to the parking lot. As he put her luggage in the trunk of the Charger, she climbed into the car and exhaled the tension that had been with her since London.

He got behind the wheel and started the car, pulling out of the parking structure. She rested her head on his shoulder and hugged his arm, closing her eyes and just breathing him in. He was so attuned to her that he allowed her to decompress without saying anything. She knew the questions would come later.

He drove them back to her house and they climbed out of the car. While he retrieved her suitcase, she went ahead, using her key to open the door and scoop Pickles up. The little dog was frantic, kissing and wriggling in her arms as she hugged him and whispered how much she’d missed him.

The warmth of her little house surrounded her and she felt a prickle of tears in her eyes. She’d missed everything about it and she was so glad to be home, so glad to be alive. She heard Marco enter behind her and set the suitcase on the floor, then he closed the door.

She moved to the couch and put Pickles on it, turning to face him.

He gave her a slow once-over. “Where are you hurt?”

She reached up and removed the sunglasses, then unwound the scarf from her neck. He moved to the couch and took a seat on the arm, resting his cane against the side of it, then he drew her between his legs.

Slowly he lifted his fingers and traced the bruises on her flesh.

“If you want to yell at me, I prepared myself for it.”

His jaw hardened and his eyes darkened, then he drew her closer and brushed his lips gently over the marks. “Just tell me the bastard’s dead.”

She tilted her head back, giving him access and closing her eyes. “He’s dead.”

He leaned away and looked at her. “You?”

“Bambi.”

“Good.”

She met his gaze. “I know you’re upset with me. I’m serious. If you want to yell at me…”

“I don’t want to yell at you.” His lips returned to her throat. “I want to make love to you. Is that acceptable?”

She tightened her hold on his shoulders. “God, yes,” she whispered breathlessly. Already he had her.

His fingers rose to the buttons on her shirt, but she stopped him, moving back just a pace. “There’s something else.”

His eyes narrowed on her.

“I have thirty stitches in my left arm.”

“What?”

“The doctor says it’ll heal perfectly. Only a slight scar.”

His hands slid down to her hips and he pushed her away a few inches more. “Okay, plan B. We get you to bed to rest, and I’ll make you dinner.”

She moved closer to him, bringing her lips just a hairs-breadth from his. “I don’t like that plan. Let’s go back to the original one, but you just go slow. Really, really slow.”

His eyes sparkled and a faint smile touched the corners of his lips. “I can do that.”

“Yeah,” she said, smiling in return. “You can.”

Then she kissed him.

THE END

Author’s Note

According to the National Institute on Mental Health (NIMH), approximately 9 million Americans, or 4.1% of U.S. adults, suffer from serious mental illness. The rate of schizophrenia is approximately 1.1% of the U.S. adult population. Education is the key to understanding and helping those suffering from mental illness. For more information, visit the NIMH website at http://www.nimh.nih.gov/index.shtml.

In the play, Hamlet by William Shakespeare, Hamlet adapts an “antic disposition” to fool his uncle and mother into thinking that he is mad and to thus hide his true intentions of avenging his father’s murder. Many scholars have debated whether Hamlet is truly mad or if, as he himself puts it, “I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw,” (Act II, Scene 2).

Perhaps most debated, however, are Hamlet’s final words to Horatio as he lay dying in his arms:  “The rest is silence,” (Act V, Scene 2). After the turmoil of his soul-searching debate about whether to kill his father’s murderer, after the “madness” that he adopts to fool the murderer about his intent, and finally after the dreadful charge put on him by his father’s ghost, many scholars believe Hamlet is making a judgment about heaven and hell, finally arriving at the conclusion there is neither. That death is final and there is no God.

I, for my humble part, wonder if Hamlet’s message is a much softer one, that in his last moments, when the frantic conflict has ended, he has finally found peace.

“Good night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

Hamlet, Act V, Scene 2

Now that you’ve finished, visit ML Hamilton at her website: authormlhamilton.com for more information on the Peyton Brooks’ mysteries and her other contemporary fiction novel, Ravensong.

If you missed the first seven novels in the Peyton Brooks’ mystery series, download them now!

Then check out her fantasy series, The World of Samar, at worldofsamar.com.

All ML Hamilton titles available in ebook and paperback formats.

The Complete Peyton Brooks’ Mysteries Collection:

Murder on Potrero Hill Volume 1

Murder in the Tenderloin Volume 2

Murder on Russian Hill Volume 3

Murder on Alcatraz Volume 4

Murder in Chinatown Volume 5

Murder in the Presidio Volume 6

Murder on Treasure Island Volume 7

The Peyton Brooks, FBI Series

Zombies in the Delta Volume 1

Mermaids in the Pacific Volume 2

Werewolves in London Volume 3

The Avery Nolan Adventure Series

Swift as a Shadow Volume 1

Short as any Dream Volume 2

The Complete World of Samar Collection:

Emerald Volume 1

The Heirs of Eldon Volume 2

The Star of Eldon Volume 3

The Spirit of Eldon Volume 4

The Sanctuary of Eldon Volume 5