Zombies in the Delta

Peyton Brooks, FBI

Volume 1

ML Hamilton

Cover Art by Karri Klawiter

www.artbykarri.com

Photography by Jared Lugo

Zombies in the Delta

© 2014 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.

As I embark on this new adventure with Peyton, I want to thank my loyal fans who have been with me since the beginning and I want to welcome my new readers. I hope to turn you into fans. As always, my family deserves the most credit for encouraging the pursuit of a lifelong dream.

And finally, to Cousin Gail, here be your zombies.

“I also have always liked the monster within idea. I like the zombies being us.”

-- George A. Romero

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

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 1

Marco slipped his arm around Peyton’s waist and brushed back her mane of wild curls with his other hand, pressing his lips to her throat. She lowered her mascara brush and leaned into him.

“Come back to bed,” he said. “Let’s play hooky today.”

“Hooky? What are you? From the 1950s?”

His lips trailed down to her shoulder. “Come on.”

“We’ve played hooky for two weeks. Did you forget?”

He looked up at her in the mirror, his blue eyes smoky and undeniably sexy. “Let’s go back to the islands.”

“We have to work, so we can afford trips to the islands.”

“No we don’t. We just need enough to get back there, then we’ll live off the land.”

“How?”

“I’ll fish and you can collect coconuts.”

She smiled. “The vegetarian’s going to fish?”

“Okay, I’ll collect coconuts and you fish.”

She turned and ran her hands up his chest. He wore a white, ribbed tank-top over his suit pants. “I don’t want to be late on my first day. And you can’t be late either.”

“I can.” He pressed her back against the sink, his eyes lowering to her mouth. “I’m the captain.” Then he kissed her.

She returned the kiss, arching into him. He was tempting her and she was weak where he was concerned. Breaking away, she laid her hands flat against his chest. “Well, I’m not captain. I’m a lowly grunt and I need to get ready. Please, Marco, don’t make me late.”

He gave a sigh and backed away, limping into the other room. She turned to the mirror and picked up her mascara brush, but hesitated. Grabbing her phone off the top of the toilet, she thumbed it on and looked at the time.

Maybe they had a few minutes to spare after all.

Replacing the mascara brush, she hurried into the other room, searching for him.

*    *    *

“You’re late!”

Peyton grimaced.

Her new boss gave her a scowl. She had her arms crossed over her chest, her booted foot tapping on the marble tiles. Her crisp black suit was pressed perfectly and her dark hair was gathered in a tight bun at the back of her head. Although the suit was sexless and boring, Rosa Alvarez was a beautiful woman.

Peyton always felt short and bedraggled by comparison. Then there was Marco’s sexual history with this woman. She pushed her briefcase to the side and smoothed her hands down her own black suit.

Rosa gave her a severe once over. Six months ago, she’d showed up in Peyton’s precinct looking for FBI recruits. Peyton hadn’t given it much thought, but after they’d solved a serial killer case, Rosa offered her a special dispensation. Five months of training in Quantico and two weeks vacation in the Virgin Islands later, and Peyton was reporting for her first day of work.

By the look on Rosa’s face, she wasn’t impressed.

Peyton knew she shouldn’t have been late, but it was hard to regret the reason or the man who had put her in this position. “I’m sorry. I misjudged the traffic.”

Rosa’s scowl deepened. “It won’t happen again.” It wasn’t a question.

Peyton nodded.

“Do something with that hair.”

Peyton reached up and touched her curls. “Okay.”

“Worry about it later. Right now I want you to meet the team.”

“Okay.”

Rosa narrowed her eyes. “I hope you haven’t forgotten all words except okay.”

Peyton opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it. She was already regretting her decision to accept Rosa as her boss. And Peyton knew herself well. If Rosa didn’t back off, at least a little, Peyton was liable to say something that would get her fired.

“Let’s go.”

The elevator had let Peyton out into a cubicle jungle. People wandered through the maze of partitions and half-walls, carrying folders, talking on cell phones, or walking rapidly. She could see glass windows along the periphery that she assumed led to offices or conference rooms.

Rosa circled around the outer edge of the cubicles moving toward the wall opposite the elevator. The partitions were utilitarian grey, the carpet under foot grey with black checks, the chairs and desks and flat screen computers all varying shades of grey. And every person she saw was dressed in the same unisex black suit, white shirt and black tie.

She herself had chosen not to wear a tie, but now she felt under-dressed. Not to mention that not a single woman had her hair down. She started to gather the heavy mass in her hand as she jogged along behind Rosa, but she remembered the only clip she had was in her briefcase.

Rosa stopped in front of an office. The name placard on the door was empty, but Peyton could see beyond her to a grey desk, grey desk chair, and grey file cabinets. “Your office,” she said, giving Peyton a frown.

Peyton dropped her hair.

Rosa’s eyes zeroed in on her left hand and she reached out, catching her wrist and pulling her hand toward her. “You’re engaged?”

“Uh…” Peyton felt a moment of panic. Was that not allowed? It had to be allowed. The FBI didn’t own her. “Yeah.”

“To Marco?”

The panic solidified. “Yeah.” She tamped it down and lifted her chin. “Is that a problem?”

Rosa narrowed her eyes. “No, he just doesn’t seem the type.”

Peyton wasn’t sure what to do with that.

Rosa looked back at the office. “Drop your briefcase off and come on. Your name plate should arrive in a few days.”

Peyton wanted some time to look around the office. She’d never had an office before, but Rosa was tapping her foot again. She squeezed past her and laid her briefcase on the L-shaped desk. A row of upper cabinets lined the wall to the right of her and beneath that was her computer and a telephone with what looked like a million lines.

“We also ordered business cards. If you need anything else, tell Margaret. She takes care of the clerical needs for your unit.”

“Margaret.” Peyton nodded.

Rosa made an impatient motion with her chin. “Come on. I’ve got a lot to do today and you’re only one unit I supervise.”

Peyton followed her back into the cubicle jungle. Rosa made a sharp left and continued along the back wall.

“So, I can’t believe he asked you to marry him,” she said.

Peyton didn’t feel like talking about this with Rosa Alvarez of all people. “Yep.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“Uh, this October.”

“Six months from now, eh?”

“Yep.”

Rosa gave her an arch look. “You used to be more eloquent. What happened to you in Quantico?”

Peyton shrugged. It wasn’t Quantico. It was Rosa Alvarez.

“So, where you having the wedding?”

“I don’t know yet. My friend Abe’s planning it.”

“A man?”

“Well, he’s gay.”

Rosa gave a short nod. “And you don’t have a place picked out yet? Don’t you usually need to book them a year ahead of time?”

Peyton gave her a bewildered look. “I don’t know.”

Rosa shook her head, then pushed open a door on their left. It opened on a conference room with a square table and a bank of windows that looked out over Golden Gate Avenue. Three other people occupied the room, sitting in armchairs around the table – two men and one woman.

They rose as Peyton and Rosa entered.

“Peyton Brooks, these are your team members.”

She pointed to a middle aged man, mid-forties, Hispanic heritage, with thick black hair, clean shaven face, deep set penetrating black eyes. He was about 5’10”, lean and fit. He dressed like everyone else she’d seen, except he had a pair of sunglasses tucked into the neck of his shirt.

“This is Carlos Moreno. He’s the lead. We call him Radar.”

Peyton stepped forward and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you,” she said, offering him a smile. He didn’t return it, but one black brow quirked as he looked her over.

Next Rosa pointed to the woman. Up close she didn’t look like she could be more than sixteen years old. Her skin was clear and dewy, her eyes a brilliant shade of blue, her blond hair gathered in a thick ponytail halfway down her back. She had to be as tall as Carlos or taller, a perfect hourglass figure, large breasts, small waist, curvy hips. She would have been Marco’s type just a few months ago.

“This is Emma Redford. She’s the explosives expert. We call her Bambi.”

Shit, thought Peyton. Bambi’s right.

She beamed a huge, gorgeous smile and clasped Peyton’s hand in both of her own. “Aren’t you adorable? I love this hair.” She reached up and bounced her hand against Peyton’s curls.

Peyton took an involuntary step back.

Rosa rolled her eyes, then motioned to the other man. He might not have been as tall as Marco, but he was at least 6’ 3”, and he had Marco by a good fifty pounds. That tonnage was all solid muscle, however. He had a crew-cut and a square blocky face, and he reminded Peyton of a truck.

“Meet Thomas Campbell, also known as Tank. He’s our white collar expert. Well, general expert of any kind.”

Peyton couldn’t deny she felt intimidated as she gave him her hand. He shook it vigorously and released her, but he didn’t speak.

“Good,” said Rosa, “now your team’s complete.” She gave Peyton a slow appraisal. “Welcome to the Ghost Squad, Special Agent Brooks.”

Peyton frowned. She didn’t know what the hell that was supposed to mean.

*    *    *

Marco stood in the middle of Captain Defino’s office, taking it all in. The glass desk had been replaced with a solid oak number he’d picked out of storage. It had a million drawers he didn’t know what to do with. A leather blotter covered the surface, but Marco wasn’t about to keep that. Same with the leather desk chair.

The blinds over the window had been replaced with curtains in navy blue, heavy and masculine, but right now they were drawn back, so sunlight filtered into the room. Two navy armchairs sat before the desk and behind it was an oak credenza with more drawers and cabinets.

The only other object in the room was a phone, sitting on the corner of the desk.

Defino always had a number of things around the edge of her desk – picture frames, staplers, caddies for paper clips – all things Peyton hadn’t been able to resist touching whenever she was in here. Marco smiled and leaned heavily on his cane. He was already missing Peyton.

She’d tell him what to do now.

Maria stuck her head inside the door. She’d been Captain Defino’s secretary, but she’d agreed to stay for a bit, to get him settled and to hire a new secretary. Then she was moving to Captain Defino’s new office with the Chief of Police. Actually, Captain Defino was now Deputy Chief of Police and he needed to remember that.

“Hey, baby, just checking in. Anything you need?”

He glanced over at her. “I need a new blotter and desk chair. Those are leather.”

“Got it. I’ll place the order before I go. Do you want me to remove the old ones and get you something in the meantime?”

“I can do it.”

She stepped into the room and snatched the blotter off the desk, then circled around to the chair and wheeled it past him. “That’s what your Administrative Assistant does, baby.”

As she pushed it past him, Marco felt sure his Administrative Assistant didn’t need to move furniture for him, but Maria would feel he couldn’t do it himself, not with his leg the way it was. The gunshot wound that had shattered his thigh bone had also robbed Marco of his belief in his own invincibility. And it made everyone else doubt his strength.

He drew a deep breath, trying to tamp down on his frustration.

Looking around again, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. For the last six months, he’d been out of the loop. He wasn’t sure he even knew what cases they had.

Maria appeared a moment later, pushing his old desk chair before her. She swung it around the desk, then gave him a smile.

“You look lost.”

“I am.”

“Come sit down.” She patted the back of the chair.

He wanted to tell her he didn’t need to sit down, but he was worried it would come out testy. He also wasn’t thrilled with gimping his way to the chair in front of her, but she wasn’t budging. Gritting his teeth, he caned his way to the chair and sank into it. He ran a hand over his thigh, sliding it under the desk and hooking the cane over the arm of the chair.

Abe, the precinct’s M.E. and Peyton’s best friend, had gotten him an ornately carved blackthorn walking cane with a silver handle. Although he found it ridiculous, he used it because it held up better than anything else they’d given him and right now, his leg wasn’t strong enough to bear his weight without help. Still, it made him feel like an old man.

He fussed with his tie. Damn, he missed being an inspector, wearing what he wanted to wear, spending as little time as possible at his desk. Most of the time he’d spent out with Peyton. Hours running down leads, talking in the car, locating people who didn’t want to be located – just being with her, breathing the same air, occupying the same space.

He thought he missed her when she was in Quantico, but in some ways this was worse. He missed knowing that his day belonged to her and her alone. The two weeks they’d had in the islands wasn’t enough. They needed a lifetime together, a century of just being with each other.

Maria moved around the desk. “Tell me what you need.”

He looked up at her. She gave him a patient smile and he forced himself to focus on the job, not Peyton. “I need all of the case files we’re working right now.”

“On it. There isn’t much, but I’ll get what we have.”

“Good. Then I need to know where everyone is. I should probably have a meeting or something, right?”

“Right. Let me get the case files, then I’ll call a meeting for tomorrow morning. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll have an Administrative Assistant in place and start training her for you. Any preference?”

“Preference?”

“On assistants? Old, young, ugly, pretty?”

Marco gave a laugh. “I’ll let you decide that.”

“Young and pretty it is,” she said, giving him a wink and backing from the room. “That’ll keep your fiancée on her toes.”

Marco chewed his inner lip. Actually, that probably wasn’t the best plan, but Maria was already gone.

*    *    *

A woman in her late fifties poked her head inside Peyton’s office. Peyton turned from the window where she was watching the traffic and smiled at her. She had short hair feathered back from her face and plastered to her head with a gallon of hairspray, a white sweater buttoned at the neck over a floral silk blouse, and black slacks. She wore sensible flats and a string of pearls around her neck.

“Special Agent Brooks, I’m Margaret Jones, I’ll be your assistant.”

Peyton moved around the desk and held out her hand. Margaret took it and gave her a warm smile.

“Just call me Peyton, please.”

“Not a problem. I’ve ordered you a placard for your door and a new set of business cards. They should arrive in a few days. I’ve stocked the desk with paper and pens and paperclips. Is there anything else you’d like?”

Peyton shook her head. “I can’t think of anything.”

“How do you take your coffee?”

“My coffee?”

“Yes, I like to have it waiting for you when you get in.”

“Oh, that’s not necessary. I can get my own coffee.” She didn’t want Margaret knowing exactly how much sugar she took.

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s all right, Margaret. I don’t drink a lot of coffee.”

“Well, Sarge asked me to show you around. You know, all the essentials? Bathroom, break room, etc.”

“Sarge?”

“Special Agent in Charge Rosa Alvarez.”

“Does everyone have a nickname?”

“Most of the agents do. It builds team spirit and also helps to keep their identity secret when they’re in the field.”

“Okay, then.”

“Are you ready for your tour?”

“I’m all yours.”

Margaret motioned for Peyton to follow her. As they meandered through the cubicle jungle, Margaret pointed out different squads and what they did. They greeted a handful of people, but there were so many names floating around in Peyton’s head she didn’t think she’d ever keep them straight. Not to mention that most of the names weren’t real. It made her anxious to think what sort of nickname they’d give her.

Once they made a complete circuit of the floor, Margaret deposited Peyton back at her office. Emma Redford was sitting in the grey chair before Peyton’s grey desk and someone had deposited a pile of folders on Peyton’s grey blotter.

Peyton circled around the desk and sank into her chair, giving Emma a quizzical look. Margaret hovered at the door.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee?” she asked.

“I’m good.”

“My desk is just a few partitions down on your left if you need me. I’m the top button on your phone.”

Peyton leaned over and looked at the phone. “Thank you, Margaret,” she said, giving her a smile.

The assistant nodded and slipped out of the doorway. Peyton turned her attention to Emma.

“Hi,” she said.

Emma beamed a toothy smile at her. Peyton couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t more than sixteen years old. “You want me to show you how to tie up that gorgeous head of hair.”

Peyton touched a curl. “No, I think I’ve got it.”

“Always wanted curls. They’re adorable.”

“Thanks.”

Emma’s eyes shifted to Peyton’s left hand. “So, that’s some rock you got there.”

Peyton looked at it. She’d worn it for the last five months, but it had never drawn this much attention before. “Yeah, it is.”

“I’ve never been married. Seems like a waste.”

“How so?”

“So many men. I can’t see myself settling for just one.”

“Depends on the man,” said Peyton, not feeling comfortable with this conversation. She laid her hand on the files. “Do you know anything about this?”

“Oh, yeah, Sarge asked me to bring them. When we don’t have a case, we help run down leads for the others – you know, make calls, do internet research. These files are yours. When you get something, just pass it off to Margaret and she’ll get it to the right agent. Most of these are stalled cases. In other words, we don’t have a lot to work with and we’re just hoping for a break.”

“Got it. Hey, what did it mean when Rosa said we’re the Ghost Squad?”

“Sarge?”

Peyton gave a nod. “Yeah, Sarge.”

“Each squad here has a name. That’s ours.”

“Does it have any meaning?”

Emma smiled. “Of course it does.” She pushed herself to her feet and leaned on Peyton’s desk. “I think we’re going to be good friends.”

“Sure.”

“Nice to have another chick here.”

“Right. About the name?”

“Have fun with those!” Emma gave the pile a pat. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah, later.” Peyton watched her flounce out of the room. She still had no freakin’ idea what the Ghost Squad was.

*    *    *

“Domestic violence. Guy shoots girlfriend, then himself,” said Maria, glancing over the file. “Ryder gathered enough evidence at scene that Devan thinks we can just put this one away.”

Marco nodded, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.

Maria flipped to a new file. “This one was a road rage thing. Simons and Cho got the guy to confess. He shot a hole in the other driver, but he didn’t even flee the scene.” She closed it and gave him a shrug. “That’s about all we’ve got right now. Slow couple of months after the Janitor case.”

Marco leaned back in his chair. That was good. Slow was always a good thing in homicide. But he knew it wouldn’t last. It never did. Murder rates dipped, but one thing was sure. They’d climb again.

“Can you tell everyone we’ll meet in the conference room tomorrow morning at 9:00?”

Maria rose to her feet. “I already did. I’ve also got a few interviews lined up for this afternoon for your assistant. Did you want to sit in on them?”

“I trust your judgment, just make sure she…”

“Or he.”

“Or he can handle a predominantly male squad room.”

“Got it.” She rose to leave the office. “Oh, and Holmes wants to talk with you. I scheduled him for tomorrow morning.”

“Good, and leave the office door open. I want to have an open door policy for now.”

She nodded and left.

Marco reached for his cell phone, hoping for a message from Peyton, but there wasn’t anything. He didn’t want to call and disturb her, but he really wanted to hear her voice.

“Hey, Adonis.”

Marco looked up at Jake Ryder, the murder suspect turned CSI and Peyton’s personal rehabilitation project. “Captain.”

“Captain Adonis? Isn’t that a bit pretentious?” He came into the room and threw himself down in the armchair. Marco was already rethinking his open door policy.

“What do you want, Ryder?”

“Just to welcome you back. How’s it going?” He glanced around the office. “I like the window, but you need some pictures or something in here.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Yeah. So how was the trip to the islands? Peyton posted some photos. Looks like you two had fun. Do much sightseeing?”

They’d spent a lot of time seeing the hotel room. Marco smiled in memory. God, he wanted to go back.

“Yeah, it was great. How’s your new apartment and Tater?” Tater was Jake’s German shepherd, a dog Peyton had adopted for him.

“Tater’s awesome, but he misses Pickles.”

Jake had watched Peyton’s Yorkshire terrier, Pickles, while they were on vacation.

Marco’s phone rang and he snatched it up. Peyton’s name flashed across the screen. “I’ve got to take this.”

Jake gave him a slow smile and pushed himself out of the chair. “Tell my ex-roomie I said hi.”

Marco gave him a nod. “Hey,” he said into the phone.

“Let’s go back to the islands,” she said.

Marco reclined in his chair and watched Jake leave. “Won’t fly. My fiancée said I had to be responsible and go to work.”

“I don’t think she said that at all, I think she said you couldn’t fish.”

“Well, that and something about coconuts. I like coconuts.”

He could hear the smile in her voice. “I love you.”

“Right back at you, babe. When will you be done?”

“Well, since I got chewed out for being late this morning, I’m not sure when I’ll get out tonight.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Being late or getting chewed out by Rosa Alvarez.”

“Both.”

She hesitated. “Yeah, it was worth it.”

He smiled. “So, any interesting cases?”

“Not a one. I’ve been going over other people’s cases all day. That’s apparently what we do when we don’t have our own case.”

“Sounds like my day. Did you know there isn’t much to do in homicide when you don’t have a homicide?”

“That’s terrible. Hey, what do you think it means that I’m the fourth and final member of something called the Ghost Squad?”

Marco frowned. “Ghost Squad?”

“Yep, and get this. My new partners are named Radar, Tank and Bambi. Makes Tag seem downright normal.”

Tag Shotwell had been Peyton’s last partner before she was offered her position with the FBI.

“What happened to Dopey, Sneezy and Doc?”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t know, Brooks. Ghost Squad, huh? Maybe your partners should be named Daphne, Fred and Shaggy.”

“That makes me Velma, D’Angelo, the nerd girl with the bowl cut and glasses.”

“Own it, baby,” he said with a laugh.

CHAPTER 2

Peyton arrived at her office early the next morning. Her hair was neatly combed back in a proper bun, her suit was pressed, and her boots were polished. She still couldn’t bring herself to wear a tie. Just watching Marco struggle with his had been enough to convince her it wasn’t a necessity.

A steaming cup of coffee, a miniature cup of creamer, and a sugar packet greeted her. She went to the door and walked down to Margaret’s cubicle. The assistant smiled at her.

“Thank you. I appreciate it, but you didn’t have to do that. How did you know what time I was coming in?”

Margaret gave her a patient smile. “You have your ways and I have mine.”

Peyton smiled in return, although it was a little unsettling. Was there a camera on her or something?

Margaret leaned toward her. “If you tell me what you like for breakfast, I can get that too.”

“I’m good. They stressed diet in Quantico, so I’ve been trying to avoid my usual breakfast foods.”

Margaret nodded. “But a treat now and then wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll think about it.” She retreated back to her office and unzipped her briefcase. Lifting out a frame, she settled it on the desk. It was a photo of her and Marco in the Virgin Islands, sitting on a brightly colored blanket on a white sand beach. Marco had his arm draped around her shoulders and he was giving a half-smile to the camera.

Peyton touched his face, then reached back into the briefcase and pulled out a blue squishy ball and settled it beside the photo. Captain Defino had given her the ball when she’d been offered the FBI commission. A quote on the ball read I will seize fate by the throat – Ludwig van Beethoven. Peyton liked it for a number of reasons.

Closing the briefcase, she slipped it into her desk. The briefcase had been a present from her mother and her mother’s boyfriend, Cliff, when she completed the academy. Right now she didn’t have much use for it, but it was nice to surround herself with things from those she loved.

Reaching for the first file, she opened it and began her review, looking for anything that the previous agent might have missed. She was nervous about getting her first case, but reviewing someone else’s files was bound to get old in a hurry.

Curling her fingers in the coffee mug, she dumped the cream and sugar into it, then took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. Not enough sugar by half. Pushing it away, she sighed and went back to the file.

A half hour later, Rosa Alvarez poked her head inside. “Like the hair,” she said.

Peyton glanced up. “Thank you.”

“How was your first day?”

“Fine. Just reviewing files. What exactly am I looking for?”

“Whatever the previous agent missed. These cases are stalled and that makes us look bad. Let’s try and get something new on them.” She turned to go.

“Rosa?”

Rosa swung back around. “What?”

Damn, something about this woman intimidated Peyton, made her want to crawl under the desk, and Peyton didn’t like being intimidated. “Emma called you Sarge.”

“Right.”

“Is that what I’m supposed to call you?”

“It’s better than Rosa.”

“Good to know.”

“Fine.” She started to leave.

“Sarge?”

She swung back around again. “What?”

“What does the name Ghost Squad mean?”

“What do you take it to mean? It’s a name.”

“Right, but does it have significance?”

“Yes.” Then she was gone.

Peyton braced her chin on her hand and stared after her. This whole Ghost Squad thing had to be a load of crap, right? Except the other nicknames fit. Tank was a tank and Bambi was a porn star waiting to happen.

Peyton was beginning to have a bad feeling about this Ghost Squad moniker.

*    *    *

A bottle of Scotch was waiting on Marco’s new eco-friendly blotter. He limped over to it and tilted it so he could see the label.

“Congratulations!” came a deep, rumbling voice and Big Bill Simons appeared in the doorway. “That’s from Cho and me.”

Simons had been an inspector longer than Marco had been on the force. He liked his job and never aspired to anything more. He and his partner, Nathan Cho, were two of the best cops Marco had ever worked alongside. Bill Simons was a big man, barrel-chested and a solid mass of muscle. Marco had him by a few inches in height, but Simons could take him in a fight.

“Thanks.” Marco turned to face him, holding out his hand. They shook and Simons patted Marco roughly on the shoulder. Marco almost staggered.

“Sorry we didn’t pop in yesterday, but I had a doctor’s appointment and Cho had to testify on our last case – road rage shooting.”

Marco nodded. “No problem.”

“How’s Brooks?”

“She’s great. Little intimidated by her new job, but you know Brooks.”

“Yeah, she’ll have her coworkers begging to move in with you in a few weeks.”

Marco laughed. “We just got the last lot moved out.”

“Don’t I know it. Cho was so damn happy to have his own bathroom again, I had to hear about it for a week.”

“Having a woman free zone in the bathroom is a blessed thing.”

“So, meeting at 9:00?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

After Simons left, Marco limped around the desk and sank into his chair. He put the bottle on the credenza behind him, then sat staring at his empty blotter. God, if this was the way it was going to be, the rest of his career was going to crawl by.

He turned on his computer and stared at the screen. So much had changed in the last six months. He still didn’t have his equilibrium. The biggest change, his worthless damn leg, caused him the most problems. Six months and he still couldn’t get used to the fact that he never knew when it was going to give out on him. And although the constant pain had retreated to the back part of his mind, when he had nothing else to occupy him, it came front and center again.

“Hey, Captain,” came a voice at the doorway.

Marco swiveled, praying he didn’t look too eager for a distraction. “Holmes, come in.” Usually he would stand to greet someone, but sometimes the damn leg didn’t cooperate and he couldn’t afford to look crippled here at work.

Holmes came forward, offering him a smile.

Marco held out his hand and Holmes shook it. “Take a seat.”

Holmes sank into the armchair and glanced around. “I like the changes. Having light coming in is nice.”

Marco looked over at the open curtain. For some reason, Captain Defino had always kept her office dark, the blinds drawn. “Yep, I’d go stir crazy in here otherwise.”

“How are you?”

Marco hated the way people asked him that as if they knew he’d never be fully right again. “Good.”

“How’s Brooks?”

“Good.”

“You two still engaged?”

“Yep.”

Holmes gave a nod. “You’re a brave man.”

Marco laughed. Holmes and Peyton had a love/hate relationship. He loved to tease her mercilessly and she hated him for it. Well, not exactly hate. Peyton didn’t hate anyone to his knowledge, which caused a lot of their problems. She collected strays unlike anyone he’d ever known.

“I miss the little spitfire,” said Holmes.

Marco nodded. “It’s weird without her here.”

“Yeah, boring.”

Marco leaned back in his chair, absently rubbing his thigh. “So, you wanted to talk to me?”

Holmes shifted in the chair. He was about six feet tall, thin with sharp features and a hooked nose. His blond hair was thinning on top and he wore it in a crew-cut, pink scalp showing through. “I want to apply for Brooks’ job. I’ve been studying the last six months for the Inspector’s exam and I think I’m ready. They have one this Saturday and I signed up for it, but I need your signature to be able to take it.”

Marco drummed his fingers on the blotter. “I think it’s a good plan, Drew. You’d make a good inspector.”

Holmes blew out air. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Why don’t you shadow Tag for the week?”

“Yes, sir. I dropped the form with Maria for your signature, but I wanted to talk to you about it before she brought it in.”

“I appreciate that.”

Holmes nodded, then tapped his fist on the desk. “I really mean it, Marco. Thanks for this opportunity.”

Marco shrugged. “It’s a good move for you and the department. Did you tell Bartlet?”

Bartlet was the young officer who’d been wounded in their last case. In fact, he’d almost died, and now he sported a huge scar on his throat. He and Holmes had been partners while Bartlet learned the ropes.

“Yeah. Are you going to put him with someone else?”

“No, he’s ready to go out on his own.”

Holmes pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll let Maria know you’ll sign the form.”

“Thanks.”

Holmes walked to the door.

“Good luck on the test, Drew.”

Holmes turned and gave him a lift of his hand.

*    *    *

Peyton leaned back in her chair, scrubbing her hands over her face. She was getting so damn sleepy reading these files, and without coffee to artificially stimulate her, she worried Rosa Alvarez would come in and find her napping. That had to be worse than having untamed hair.

Swiveling the chair toward the window, she looked out at the unusually blue San Francisco sky. Not a cloud, not a shred of fog, nothing but a beautiful sunny day and she was inside, reading files that offered up no secrets. No wonder these cases were stalled. They were burners and she’d been given them to keep her out of trouble.

Suddenly Peyton felt a presence behind her and she wheeled the chair around. Carlos Moreno stood on the other side of her desk.

Peyton’s heart kicked against her ribs and she felt light headed.

He held up his hands, his dark eyes widening. “Easy there, sparky.”

Peyton swallowed and forced herself to draw a calming breath. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Sorry.” He glanced at the files, then back into her eyes. “Sarge says to get you signed up for self-defense training and to take you for target practice.”

“I got self-defense training in Quantico.”

“Yep. Let’s go.” He turned and walked to the door, stepping outside.

Peyton scrambled to follow him.

Wandering around the cubicle jungle, he headed for the elevators with Peyton jogging to keep up with him. Then they took the elevator down two floors and got out. Crossing a non-descript hallway, Carlos opened a door and let them into a gym. Weights, stationary bikes, and other torture devices covered the floor.

Two doors on the back wall sported signs, indicating Men and Women. Carlos pointed at them.

“Go change and meet me over there.” His hand swung to the left, indicating an open area covered in mats and ringed with mirrors. A couple of men were sparing, wearing loose black pants and white tank tops, their feet bare.

“We’re going to work out now?” Peyton asked.

“Yep.” And he took off for the men’s locker room without looking back.

Peyton sighed and followed after him. The locker room sported a row of lockers, a set of showers, and three stalls for toilets. A wall of mirrors hung above the sinks, reflecting the entire room to the door.

Walking down the row of lockers, Peyton discovered they had names on them. The one at the very end had a paper label with her last name on it. She pulled it open and found a pair of pants, a white tank top inside, and a pair of soft soled slippers.

She really wasn’t looking forward to this, but it was slightly better than reading files, so she shucked her clothes and gun, tugging on the training uniform. Then she stuffed everything in the locker and shut the door. She’d have to get a lock tonight. For now, this would have to do.

She came out of the locker room, glancing around, and found Carlos already stretching on the mats. The other two men had left, so they were alone. She hurried over and began the stretching exercises they’d taught her in Quantico.

After that was finished, Carlos positioned himself across from her. “We’ll just try a few moves to start. Nothing too strenuous.”

She nodded and rose on the balls of her feet, trying to tamp down on the anxiety this training always elicited in her. Carlos feinted at her and she dodged him, then he turned and aimed a kick at her shoulder. She deflected it and danced back.

“Good,” he said.

She ignored the praise, not lowering her guard. She’d learned that lesson the hard way in Quantico. The minute they praised her, she dropped her guard and they sent her sprawling on her ass.

He came at her again and she deflected a blow to the body, then one to the head, but before she could get away, he aimed a kick at her knee. She managed to deflect that as well.

Backing away from him, she drew a deep breath. Her heart was pounding and black spots were starting to form in her peripheral vision. She hated this. She hated the panic that always rose inside of her whenever she trained.

Drawing a deep breath, she deliberately held it, then slowly released, reaching for an artificial calm.

He came at her again. This time the blows rained faster, angling in at her on all sides, but she deflected them. Anger edged to the surface and she went after him, striking out with the heel of her hand and catching him in the chin. His head snapped back and he danced away, but she kept after him, aiming a blow against his hip. He turned it, but he had to stagger back to get away from her. She followed him, punching at his nose. He deflected it at the last minute, but she was already striking with her other fist, catching him on the ear.

“Okay, okay!” he shouted, circling wide around her and holding up his hands.

Peyton staggered to a stop, her chest heaving, tears in her eyes. She blinked them away.

He rubbed his ear, giving her a piercing look. “You have PTSD.”

She closed her eyes, fighting for composure.

“How the hell did you get past the psych eval?”

“I told them I had it, and they knew I was working on it. I was under a psychiatrist’s care the entire time I was in Quantico and ultimately, they decided that I handled myself with great restraint.”

“Meaning what?”

“I only killed the perp in my last case once.”

He barked out a laugh. “All righty then.” He rolled his shoulders and straightened. “Let’s see how you are with a gun.”

The firing range was in the basement. They rode the elevator in silence, still wearing their training gear. He hadn’t even given her time to fix the stray curls that had escaped her bun when he sent her to get her gun from her locker.

An attendant inspected their badges, handed them practice bullets, ear protection and safety glasses, then motioned them through to a booth. Peyton replaced the clip in her gun, settling it on the shelf, then put the glasses and the ear protectors on and braced her feet. Drawing a deep breath, she released it and picked up the gun, firing at the target. She emptied the clip and lowered the gun, tugging off her ear protection.

Carlos punched the button to advance the target and they both inspected her aim. Peyton felt proud of her score.

“Nearly 85% in the kill zone.”

Carlos lifted his brows, then motioned for her to put on her ear protection again. She slipped it in place as he moved to the target next to hers. Narrowing his eyes, he raised his gun and fired.

Peyton’s lips parted in awe. She could see most of his shots went through the center of the target, sliding through the same hole the previous bullet had made. He emptied his clip and pulled off the ear protection, then punched the button to advance the target.

Peyton removed her own ear protection and the glasses, leaning forward to see better. Every single shot had struck inside the kill zone, most in the center of the body. They weren’t kidding when they named him Radar.

Carlos smiled as he inspected his work. “Gotta be 100%, sparky.”

Peyton’s eyes whipped to his face. “Oh, no, you’ve called me that twice. That is so not going to be my nickname.”

He gave a chuckle.

Setting her gun on the shelf, she turned toward him. “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About my PTSD. Did Sarge tell everyone?”

He shook his head.

“Then how?”

He motioned to his own eyes. “You got that look, you know? Little vacant, absent, like an animal that’s being hunted.”

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

“Not a problem, just surprised me. Didn’t know a little thing like you could pack such a wallop.” He leaned close to her. “I won’t be taken by surprise again, though, sparky.”

She smiled, feeling a flush of pride. She still didn’t like the nickname, but she definitely liked the praise.

*    *    *

Peyton unlocked the door to her house and stepped inside, expecting Pickles, her Yorkshire terrier, to race over to her, but he wasn’t in the living room. She took off her gun and hung it by the door, then settled her keys and badge on the sofa table.

Marco was home. His beloved black Charger was parked in the driveway, the cover over it. He took better care of that car than anything else he owned. When she’d completed her training, he’d gotten her a Toyota Prius. She loved her little economical car, but it didn’t get a special cover or the coveted spot in the driveway closest to the front door.

Walking toward the hallway, she hesitated in the bedroom doorway. Pickles lay on the bed, but he jumped to his feet, wagging his tail when he saw her. Marco sat on the end of the bed, rubbing his left thigh. His cane stood next to him.

He looked up.

She crossed to him, bending to place a kiss on his cheek. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He fixed his hands on her hips and pulled her between his legs. “How was your day?”

“Boring. How was yours?”

He slid his hands up her back, pulling her closer. “It just got better.”

“Is your leg hurting you?”

He shrugged. “A little.”

“When do you see the doctor next?”

“Friday.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“It’s fine. I’ve just been on it a lot more the last two days.”

She braced her hands on his shoulders. “Abe called today. He wants to come over on Friday and show us his wedding plans.”

“Okay.”

“I thought I’d call Jake and see if he wants to come for dinner too. Unless you want to tell him.”

“You want me to ask Jake for dinner?”

“You work with him.”

Marco gave her an arch look. “You want me to ask another man to come over for dinner?”

Peyton laughed. “It’s not a big deal.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “Shesh.”  Pickles pushed his way under Marco’s arm and she picked him up, cuddling him. “I thought I’d make stir fry tonight. You hungry?”

“I’m okay. I thought maybe we’d do something else right now.” He reached for the buttons on her blouse.

She stepped out of his hold. “I’m hungry, so you’re gonna have to wait.”

He rolled his eyes.

She kissed Pickles on the top of his head and handed him to Marco. Then she went to the closet and pulled out a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, going into the bathroom to change. No use getting him more worked up.

“So what did you do today?” he called to her.

“Went over more files, then had a self-defense session and target practice with Radar.”

“Radar, huh?”

“Yeah, apparently it’s an appropriate nickname. He scored 100%.”

“Huh.”

Peyton stepped out of the bathroom.

“What was your score?”

“85%.”

“Not bad.”

“That’s what I thought.” She hung her suit in the closet. Her closet sported a lot more black pantsuits than she’d ever thought she’d own. “What did you do?”

“Held a meeting and then Holmes asked for your job.”

“Holmes?” She made a face.

“Hey, he says he misses you.”

She closed the closet door. “Come on. You wanna help me chop vegetables?”

“Sure.” He settled Pickles on the floor.

Peyton followed the dog to the door, then looked back at Marco.

She was surprised when he reached for the cane and used it to lever himself upright. He never used the cane around the house anymore. Rather than watch him struggle, she went to the kitchen and began pulling the vegetables out of the refrigerator and piling them on the counter.

He took a seat on the other side of the counter and she passed him the cutting board and a knife, then she pulled open the cabinet by the sink and grabbed her wok. Her eyes chanced on the empty shot glass, sitting in the sink, and she frowned. It hadn’t been there this morning.

Giving him a quick glance, she tried to rationalize it. So he had a drink when he came home. Up until six months ago, she usually had a beer when she walked through the door. It wasn’t that big of a deal, especially since he was using the leg more than he had in a long while. He wouldn’t take the pain pills they gave him, so a shot of Jack seemed like the lesser of two evils.

Grabbing a head of broccoli, she washed it. “So besides Holmes asking for my job, what else did you do today?” She passed him the broccoli and moved toward Pickles’ food bowl.

“I already fed him.” He picked up the knife and began cutting the broccoli.

Peyton exhaled, letting some of the tension leave her. He must not be hurting that bad, if he remembered to take care of Pickles. “And he went out?”

“Yep.”

That was even better news. Pickles needed to walk for at least a block before he’d do his business.

She went back to the counter and leaned on it, crossing her arms. “You didn’t answer me. What else did you do?”

He gave her a curious look. “Why the third degree?”

“I just want to know. I miss the precinct.”

He went back to cutting. “There really isn’t much to do right now. We don’t have a case and even if we did, I’m not sure what I’d be doing while they were out working it.” He set the knife down. “Are we sure we don’t want to go back to the islands?”

She sighed. “I have to admit the best part of my day was tagging Radar in the jaw. I don’t know. I guess we just have to get used to our new lives. We can’t exactly be partners again.”

He nodded.

“Unless you want to change this part of our lives.”

He reared away from her. “Whenever you say things like that, my heart damn near stops.”

She laughed and grabbed a broccoli floweret, popping it in her mouth. “Don’t worry, then,” she said, pushing away from the counter. “One thing you can definitely count on – there’s bound to be a murder soon.”

“Well, then, all my problems are over,” he quipped.

CHAPTER 3

By the time Marco sat down across from Dr. Ferguson, the precinct psychiatrist, his leg felt like someone was shoving hot needles into it. He tried to keep his face neutral, but it was difficult. He hooked the cane over the arm of the chair and extended the leg, pressing his knuckles against his thigh muscles to ease the ache.

He knew the doctor watched him, but he wasn’t sure what the hell he was supposed to say about it.

“You’re in pain.”

Marco glanced up at him. Really? This is what a six digit education bought you. “Yeah. My left thigh’s pretty much hamburger meat over a steel rod.”

Dr. Ferguson steepled his fingers and pressed them beneath his lower lip. He always wore perpetually out of date suits that didn’t fit him right and his blond hair was thinning on top. He had a set of watery blue eyes that seemed to pierce through to the heart of his patients. Marco had been under his scrutiny many times before. “Is the pain worse?”

“Yeah, because you made me walk five freakin’ blocks to get here.” Marco lowered his head and closed his eyes, drawing a calming breath. “Can we not talk about my leg, please?”

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t really care.”

“Okay. How’s the new job?”

Marco gave him a withering stare. He didn’t want to talk about the new job either. Shit. He didn’t want to talk about anything. “It’s fine.”

“Fine.”

“What’s wrong with fine?”

“It’s a signal word.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s not fine. We use euphemisms like fine to avoid what’s really bothering us.”

Marco held up a hand and let it fall. “Okay, it’s not fine. I hate it. We don’t have a case and I don’t know what to do with myself all day.”

“You mean you don’t have a murder.”

“Right.”

Dr. Ferguson tapped his fingers against his lips. “Interesting.”

Marco gave a bark of laughter. “I know what that means. To you it must seem gruesome that we don’t know what to do with ourselves when someone isn’t dead, but that’s our job. We solve murders.”

“And so you look forward to the next one?”

“No.” Marco shifted in the chair. “You can’t possibly understand. There are times like this when there’s a lull, when we don’t have a case. We dream of these times. We long for them. We want to believe that there won’t be any more murder, but the longer the period of quiet goes on, you start feeling…” He made a fist near his belly. “...anxious. You know it’s coming and you know you’re going to feel that punch in your gut when it happens.”

Dr. Ferguson nodded. “That makes sense. There must be a moment when you wonder if you can go through it all again.”

“Yeah, but then the training kicks in and everything hones down to a focus. You go right into that mode – clinical, professional, purposeful. Except now…” Marco caught himself. Shit. This wasn’t where he wanted to go with this guy. He looked past him out the windows.

Of course, Ferguson caught the slip. “Except now?”

Marco curled his hand into a fist on his thigh. “Except now when that case comes in, I won’t be going out with them. I’ll be staying at the precinct.”

Dr. Ferguson leaned back in his office chair.

Marco picked at a seam on his suit pants, avoiding eye contact. He hadn’t wanted to give that much of himself away, but there it was and now it hung between them like a God damn bomb about to go off.

The silence stretched away. Marco fidgeted in the chair, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to end it himself. He’d sit here for the remainder of the hour until Ferguson released him before he’d give him anything else.

The doctor rocked forward in his chair and reached for the pen resting on the yellow legal pad he kept on the table. He wrote a few notes, then settled the pen on the pad again.

“Captain D’Angelo, here’s what I’m seeing. You are what we call an alpha male. Are you familiar with the term?”

Marco glanced up at him. “Yeah.”

“In the animal kingdom, alpha males are the ones who procreate, passing on their genetic material to the greatest number of willing recipients, then they fight to maintain their virility. In modern society, however, beta males have also earned the right to procreate. Take myself for example.” He made an attempt at a smile.

Marco frowned.

Clearing his throat, he rolled the pen on the pad. “Therefore, in modern society, alpha males have been relegated to certain professions.” He held up his hand and began ticking things off on his fingers. “Cop, soldier, professional athlete, politician, CEO. Are you following me?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“These are all socially acceptable outlets for such testosterone laden individuals. The problem arises when such men age or are injured, and can no longer utilize the same outlet for their aggressive tendencies.”

Marco glared at him. “I’m not a Neanderthal, Dr. Ferguson.”

“No, no, of course not, but you are having a difficult time accepting your disability.”

“I’m not disabled.”

Dr. Ferguson held up a hand. “Hear me out, please.”

Marco slumped back in his chair.

“While you may not be disabled, your injury has made it impossible for you to perform at the same level as before. It’s restricted your usual ability to protect and defend. You may feel impotent.”

“Oh hell no. There’s nothing wrong in that area.”

Dr. Ferguson smiled. “I meant in a purely emotional way, Captain D’Angelo. I wasn’t making a comment on your sexual prowess.”

Great. This outburst sure proved he wasn’t a Neanderthal.

“I can imagine for a man like you...”

“A man like me?”

“An alpha male...that you may feel lost, uncertain of your role in society. Maybe even your role in your intimate relationships. We all have an internal identity that we protect, but if that identity is damaged, sometimes we struggle to find purpose again.”

Marco had to admit the doctor had something.

He picked up a pen and wrote on his yellow legal pad, then tore the corner off and passed it across the table to Marco. “I’d like you to call this number.”

Marco took it. “What is it?”

“It’s a number for a group that hosts a meeting in this building on Thursday nights.”

“A group?”

“A support group for people who’ve suffered a life altering loss.”

Marco pushed the paper back across the table at him. “No, I’m not going to some group where people sit around and whine about their lives.”

“You can bring Agent Brooks. In fact, I urge you to bring her.”

Marco shook his head. “I don’t need a group. I’m coming here.”

“You wouldn’t be coming here if the department didn’t mandate it.”

“Well, if you’d sign off on my psych eval, we’d both be free.”

Dr. Ferguson stared at him.

“I’m fine, Dr. Ferguson. I’ll figure it out. I just need some time.”

“How are things with Agent Brooks?”

“Good. Very good. And by the way, she’s having trouble adjusting to her new job too, so…”

“She’s welcome to call me if she needs to talk. In fact, I’d encourage it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant, Captain D’Angelo. And I’m glad your relationship with Agent Brooks is good, but I still think this group is important.” He pushed the paper back at Marco. “Call this number and find out the exact meeting time and room number. They can give you more information about the way the group operates and who’s welcome to attend.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me, Dr. Ferguson.” Marco gave him a wry smile. “There’s no way I’d ever go to a group of strangers and spill my guts. It just ain’t gonna happen.”

Dr. Ferguson’s lips pulled back against his teeth. He wasn’t happy. “Okay, then I have an alternative.”

“Fine.”

“Go to church.”

“What?”

“Either you attend the group or you go to church on Sunday. Otherwise, I will have to recommend that your badge be pulled.”

“You can’t blackmail me into going to church.”

“No, I can’t. And I didn’t. I gave you a choice. Either way, I’m obligated to make sure you’re healthy enough for work and right now, I’m concerned.”

Marco shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“I can understand your objections to the group therapy, but you were a practicing Catholic for most of your life. I think it would do you good to get back to that foundation. Spiritual belief can be very healing.”

Marco scratched at his ear, looking out the window again. This doctor couldn’t blackmail him into going to church, could he?

“Group or church, Captain D’Angelo?”

Marco looked back at him. “Church,” he said with a growl.

*    *    *

“Okay, really? What are we going for here? Penitentiary grey?”

Peyton’s head snapped up and a flush of happiness went through her. Jumping to her feet, she raced around the desk and threw herself into the arms of the tall, dreadlocked black man, hugging him fiercely. He laughed and hugged her in return. He wore a tangerine button-up silk shirt with a thin black tie and navy blue slacks with navy blue suede dress shoes. The ends of his dreadlocks alternated in tangerine and navy beads.

“What are you doing here, Abe?” she said.

He held her at arm’s length. “A certain man we both adore told me you could use some cheering up, and let me tell you something, sugar, he wasn’t kidding. Will you look at this place? As themes go, color this one depressing.”

Peyton laughed and hugged him again. “How did you get in?”

“I’m one of the premiere Medical Examiners in the entire county, sweets. One flash of the badge and presto, I’m escorted right up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” came a feminine voice from the doorway.

Peyton eased out of Abe’s arms and glanced over.

Emma stepped into Peyton’s office, a sultry smile blazing across her face. “You must be Peyton’s fiancé.”

Abe took the hand she offered and raised it above her head, giving her figure a once-over. “No, but he would so do you.”

“Abe!”

“Excuse me?” Emma asked.

Abe gave Peyton a wild eyed look. “Not anymore, but in the past. You would so have been his type.”

“Abe!”

Emma gave Peyton a bewildered look.

Abe flashed a tooth-filled smile and kissed the back of Emma’s hand. “Abraham Jefferson, Medical Examiner, Wedding Planner, and…” He cast a look around Peyton’s office. “Interior Designer.” Leaning close to Emma, he winked. “But I am not her fiancé. I’d like to have her fiancé, but I am not him.”

“Abe!”

Emma laughed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I guess you came to talk wedding plans.”

“I did indeed. I planned to take our divine Miss P to lunch and discuss my ideas, but I think my talent is more desperately needed on sprucing up this depressing office.”

Emma glanced around herself. “Well, when you’re done with hers, maybe you can come take a look at mine.”

“You’ve got it, baby.”

“Emma, did you need something?” asked Peyton, deciding she needed to take control of the situation before Abe redecorated the entire FBI.

“I just came to see if you wanted to go to lunch, but it looks like you already have a date.” She gave Abe a wink. “Now I’m dying to see this fiancé.”

“Oh, trust me, sweetie, once you see him you’ll never forget him. The man is gorgeous.”

“Abe!”

Abe dramatically snapped his mouth shut and made a locking motion with his fingers.

Emma laughed.

“Maybe we can go to lunch tomorrow,” offered Peyton.

“It’s a date.” Emma turned and walked to the door, but she paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Feel free to bring Gorgeous as well.” Then she left.

Peyton slapped Abe’s arm. “He would so do her?”

“In the past. In the past. Now, he’s just got eyes for you.”

Peyton started walking toward the door. “You’d better be taking me some place nice.”

Abe followed her. “Anywhere you want, toots.”

They circled around toward the elevators and Peyton punched the button. “You didn’t say he would have done her in the past, you said he would do her in the present.”

“Slip of the tongue.”

Peyton glared at him. “No it wasn’t. What is it about her that’s so damn special?”

Abe sighed and gave Peyton a slow perusal. “I’m not criticizing, but did you have to go shopping for this new job in the boys’ section?”

“What?” She looked down at herself. “What’s wrong with my suit?”

“Nothing, if you’re a prepubescent teen.”

“It’s professional.”

“It’s androgynous.”

“What do you want me to wear?”

“Sweetie, you’ve got an adorable little figure. Why don’t you show it off? You could get you some stylish black funeral wear.”

The elevator arrived and they stepped inside.

“And what’s with the dyke bun?”

“The dyke bun? I hate that word.”

“Perfectly good word to describe some things.”

“No, it’s not. It’s bigoted.”

“I’m gay. I can’t be a bigot.”

Peyton gave him an arch look. “Of course not. Besides, Rosa Alvarez said I had to tie up my curls.”

“Well, did you see Hot Stuff’s hair? She doesn’t look like an old Russian housewife.”

“Russian housewife?” Peyton pushed the button for the first floor and the doors closed. “What the hell does that mean?”

Abe reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Don’t worry about it, little soul sista. I’m on it.”

“Who are you calling?”

“Maria. I’m gonna tell her to meet us. We’ll get you a new wardrobe.”

“A new wardrobe?”

He pressed the phone to his ear. “Don’t you worry your cute little head. I came packing plastic.”

*    *    *

As Marco wandered around his desk to his chair, Maria poked her head inside his office. “Hey, baby. Do you mind if I go meet your fiancée for lunch? Apparently, we have a fashion emergency at the FBI.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Abe called and asked me to meet them. He said…”

Marco held up a hand. “All you had to tell me was Abe’s involved.”

Maria smiled.

“How’s the search for a secretary going?”

She stepped into the entrance. “Administrative Assistant, and I’m working on it, but the choices aren’t good.”

“Isn’t Friday your last day?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been training Jake to work the phones and triage the calls.”

“Jake’s my new secretary?” Marco didn’t like that idea one little bit.

“Administrative Assistant. I promise I’ll get someone by Friday, but if not, at least Jake can fill in. He doesn’t mind.”

“He’s not the one I’m worried about.”

Maria laughed. “It’ll be fine. He’s gonna cover the desk while I go to lunch today. You’ll see. He’s a quick study.”

“And a pain in the ass.”

“Do you have a message for your fiancée?”

Marco hesitated. Anything he wanted to say to Peyton, he didn’t feel comfortable relaying through Maria. He shook his head.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Marco waved her away and sank into his desk chair. He was glancing through Cho and Simons’ report on the road rage shooting when Jake stuck his head inside the door.

“Adonis?”

“Captain,” Marco said without looking up.

“Captain Adonis,” amended Jake. “There’s a couple here who asked to talk to you.”

Marco looked over at him. Didn’t Maria usually call one of the inspectors to handle a walk-in? Reaching for his cane, Marco climbed to his feet and followed Jake out into the precinct. A middle aged couple stood on the other side of the counter. The woman was Asian American and the man Caucasian.

They both turned to face him as he appeared, watching him as he limped to the end of the counter and pulled open the half-door stepping through. He offered his hand to the man.

“I’m Captain D’Angelo.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Captain,” said the man, shaking Marco’s hand. “I’m Matt Phelps. This is my wife, April.”

Marco shook her hand as well. “How can I help you?”

The woman glanced up at the man. Her short, black hair was curled back from her face and held in place with a lot of hairspray. She wore a floral blouse with black slacks. Her husband wasn’t much taller than she was, wearing a checked shirt and jeans. He had thinning brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. They both wore black rimmed glasses.

The man held a manila envelope in his hands. “We’d like you to investigate our daughter’s death.”

Marco tipped back his head. “Oh. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Mrs. Phelps lowered her head and gripped her husband’s arm. Mr. Phelps gave Marco a weary half-smile. “Thank you, Captain.”

“Can I ask why you came to the precinct? Usually calls like this go through dispatch.”

Mr. Phelps started to answer, then clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening on the envelope. “Our daughter committed suicide.”

Marco exchanged a glance with Jake. “I’m sorry, Mr. Phelps. Again, I can’t imagine the loss you’ve endured, but we’re homicide detectives.”

“I know that. I know what you are, Captain D’Angelo, but our daughter didn’t take her own life willingly.”

“Meaning what, sir? You think she had help?”

“No. We know she killed herself. She left a suicide note and she explained what she was doing, but we don’t believe she would have done it if she wasn’t pushed into doing it.”

Marco leaned on his cane. “I’m not following you, sir.”

The father opened the envelope and pulled out an 8x10 of a pretty woman, passing it to Marco. “This is Carissa. She was a student at San Francisco State, freshman. She’d just turned 19.”

Marco studied her face. “She was very pretty.”

“She was a Communications major,” said Mrs. Phelps.

“She wanted to run for Congress,” added Mr. Phelps.

Marco passed the picture back to them.

The father took the photo and stared at it a moment, his eyes filling with tears. “She was always so happy, so bright and bubbly.”

“But something changed?”

“She met this boy,” said her mother.

“Ryan Addison,” said the father. “They started seeing each other, but it wasn’t a healthy relationship. Carissa decided to break it off.”

Mrs. Phelps lifted a hand and covered her mouth, closing her eyes. Mr. Phelps blinked back his tears. “After Carissa broke up with him, videos started appearing online.”

Marco looked down. He could guess at the sort of videos her father meant.

“Horrible videos.” He gave a shudder. “She was humiliated. People started posting comments about her online, calling her a slut and a whore. They shared the videos. Even her professors got links to them in their emails. She lost a prestigious internship with one of the state legislators over it.”

Marco drew a breath and exhaled.

“She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t live with what happened, so she overdosed with painkillers.”

Mrs. Phelps lifted her eyes and stared at Marco. “They call it revenge porn.”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“How is it legal?” she asked.

“I don’t believe it is in California, ma’am, but it’s a difficult thing to prosecute. And to be blunt with you, I don’t think this is anything my department has jurisdiction over.”

Mr. Phelps clenched his jaw. “Ryan Addison killed my daughter. He might not have put the pills in her mouth, but he killed her. She wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t done what he did. He murdered her just the same as if he put a gun to her head.” He held out the photo again. “I’m begging you, Captain D’Angelo, please do something to help my daughter. Please do something to make sure no one else has to bury their little girl for something like this.”

Marco took the photo, exhaling. Carissa Phelps smiled up at him from the glossy paper, making his gut ache.

*    *    *

Peyton heard the front door open. Pickles bounced off the bed and raced out of the bedroom. She could hear Marco greet him, talking to the dog in a silly voice.

She fluffed out her hair and ran her hands down her sides, smoothing the lines of the silk chemise. The pale pink color looked good against her brown skin. Maybe she didn’t have Emma Redford’s voluptuous figure, but Abe was right, she had a nice slim shape of her own.

Walking out into the living room, she didn’t immediately see Marco. Turning the corner, she found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen, tossing back a shot of Jack Daniels. Frowning, she stepped into the opening and leaned against the doorjamb.

He glanced up at her, settling the shot glass on the counter. “Hey,” he said.

“Your leg hurting again?”

“Yeah.” He moved over to her and bent, kissing her. Sliding his hand along her belly, he gave her a sultry look. “I like this. Is this what you bought with Abe and Maria?”

“That and a bunch of black suits that apparently look better than what I’d already bought myself.”

“Well, this is nice.” He ran his hand back up, circling around her ribs and pulling her closer.

She slid her hands up his chest. “I thought maybe you’d like to see me in something other than your football jersey every night.”

He frowned and leaned away from her. “I love you in my jersey. It gets me every time.”

She smiled, pleased with his answer. “It’s just that Abe thought I should make more of an effort.”

“An effort? About what?”

“My appearance. He met Bambi today, and he said some things that upset me.”

“What did he say?”

“That you would do her.”

Marco’s frown deepened. “Do her?”

“Sex, D’Angelo.”

“Yeah, I got that. Why would he say something like that?”

“I don’t know, but it’s true. She’s definitely your type.”

“My type?” He sighed. “Peyton, you’re my only type. Damn, woman, I’m crazy in love with you. What do I have to do to prove it?”

“Nothing.” She wrapped her arms around him, tightening her hold. “You don’t have to prove anything. I’m sorry I get insecure.”

He held her off, placing his hand under her chin. “Well, I guess if it takes me a lifetime to make you feel secure, I’ll do it.”

She smiled. “God, that was so good.”

“I know, wasn’t it?”

She laughed. “Do you want to make dinner now, or do you think you can wait for later?”

“I can always wait for later.”

She curled her hand in his and turned toward the door, but her eyes chanced on the Jack Daniels bottle. “I’m worried about your leg. Why is it hurting you so bad?”

“I had to walk five blocks to my psych appointment today,” he said, easing past her and tugging her toward the bedroom. “Come on. Take my mind off the pain.”

She let him pull her. “How was the appointment with Dr. Ferguson?”

“Do we have to talk about it right now?”

“No, but I’ll want an update later.”

“Well, I can sum it up pretty quick right here. We’re going to church on Sunday.”

“Church?” She pulled back at the door to the bedroom. “You bring that up now?”

He gave her a confused look. “What?”

“I can’t go in there with you now.”

“Why not?”

“You brought up church.”

He shook his head in bewilderment. “You’re giving me mixed signals, woman.”

“Well, why did you have to bring up church? Now all I can think about is God watching us.”

He moved back to her, sliding his arm around her waist. “Don’t think about God. Think about your poor fiancé and his aching...leg.”

She laughed. “You’re terrible.”

He nuzzled her neck. “You won’t be saying that in a few minutes. I promise you.”

Peyton closed her eyes and let herself give in to temptation.

CHAPTER 4

Margaret had a cup of coffee waiting for Peyton the next morning, but there were two packets of sugar, instead of one. Peyton smiled. She still didn’t think Margaret needed to wait on her, but it was nice to have someone trying to make her feel welcome. It still wasn’t enough sugar, but she was getting closer.

Peyton fixed the coffee and took a sip, reaching over to boot up her computer. The stack of files on her desk had grown over night, making Peyton sigh. If this was all she was ever going to do, she was never going to make it a month in this job.

Margaret poked her head inside the door a half hour later. “Sarge called a meeting in the conference room for 9:00.”

“I’ll be there.”

Margaret smiled at her and glanced into the half empty cup of coffee, then she disappeared again. Peyton went back to sorting files, trying to triage the ones she thought she’d have a hope of getting any traction on. Keeping an eye on the clock, she tried to concentrate, but she wasn’t sure if she was expected to be early to the meeting or right on time. Would arriving early look like she was trying to duck out of sorting files or would arriving on time open her up for criticism from Rosa?

This insecurity was new to her. At the precinct, she’d known how to read Captain Defino and her co-workers. She’d learned all the nuances of getting along and never had a problem, but here everything was different.

Bambi tried to be friendly, but Radar didn’t seem impressed with her and she’d only met Tank once. Margaret was easy to please, but Rosa Alvarez was a whole other matter. She and Peyton had history and every time Peyton looked at Rosa, she couldn’t forget it.

At five to 9:00, she went down to the conference room. The entire team was assembled, except Rosa. Peyton took a seat at the table next to Emma. The blond flashed a smile at her.

“It was fun meeting your friend yesterday. He’s a wild one, isn’t he?”

Peyton nodded in agreement. “That he is.”

Emma leaned back, giving Peyton a once-over. “I like the suit he picked out. Maybe he should take me shopping so I don’t look like a dowdy old housewife?”

Peyton wasn’t sure how to respond. She didn’t think Emma could ever look dowdy, even if she wore a garbage bag. “Maybe next time,” she offered.

Emma gripped Peyton’s arm, lowering her voice and leaning close. “I want us to be friends. This is the first time we’ve had another woman on the Ghost Squad, so I’m excited.”

Peyton considered that. Interesting. So the Ghost Squad had been established before Rosa came along.

As if conjured by the thought, Rosa strode into the conference room and stopped at the head of the table, laying a file down in front of her. “We have a case.”

Radar blew out air and Emma gave a little clap.

“This is always so exciting,” she stage-whispered to Peyton.

Peyton gave her a tight smile.

“What is it?” asked Radar.

“Zombies.”

Peyton blinked, sitting back in her chair. She must have heard wrong.

Emma gave a squeal of delight. Tank and Radar exchanged a smile. Rosa nodded in agreement.

“Um,” said Peyton, holding up a hand. “I’m sorry. I must have heard you wrong. I heard you say zombies?”

“You heard me right, Agent Brooks. I said zombies.”

Peyton glanced over at her team, but they were too busy celebrating the news. “Zombies?”

“That’s right.” Rosa tilted her head. “What exactly did you think Ghost Squad meant, Agent Brooks?”

“That we were an elite force which moved so mysteriously we were like shadows in the night. Ghosts.”

Everyone stared at her.

“No,” said Rosa simply. She opened the file and picked up a glossy 8x10, tossing it into the middle of the table. “Meet John Doe. His skull was bashed in, and then someone ate his face, finishing up with his brains. They found him in an alley in a Sacramento Delta town called Locke.”

Peyton looked away, closing her eyes. The image lying in the middle of the table looked like hamburger meat with some vaguely human features.

“Awesome!” breathed out Emma beside her.

Peyton’s eyes flashed opened, staring at her.

“That’s so cool!”

Peyton carefully avoided looking at the photo herself.

“No ID, eh?” asked Radar.

“None.”

“I’m sorry, I realize I’m new here” said Peyton, looking over at Rosa. “But can you explain how this is an FBI case? It sounds like local police.”

“This is the third zombie murder in the past six months. People are getting scared and the Governor requested us specifically, so does that answer your question?”

Peyton clamped her mouth shut, keeping her eyes elevated so she didn’t have to look at the photo again.

“Bambi and Tank, get the gear together and commission a Suburban for the drive out to Sacramento. Radar, take the rookie here to see Igor. The body arrived about thirty minutes ago.”

“Got it.”

Peyton glanced around. Igor? Shit, that didn’t sound good.

“Come on, Sparky.”

Peyton pushed herself to her feet and followed him from the room. He immediately set off walking around the perimeter of the cubicle jungle toward the elevators. Peyton jogged to catch up.

“Radar, who had my job before me?”

Radar shot her a dismissive look. “Arthur Greene.”

“Did he retire?”

“Nope. He’s pushing up daisies in Woodlawn Cemetery.”

Peyton stopped walking. “I’m sorry.”

Radar hesitated and looked back at her. “He was my best friend. He took a bullet for me in a shootout when we were breaking up a dog fighting ring in Petaluma. Saved my life.” He gave a chuckle. “We always called him Flash. He was always the first in the door. You never could get him to wait.”

“I’m sorry, Radar. I almost lost my partner last fall. It...uh, damn near ended me.”

“No one understands what it’s like unless you’ve been there.”

She nodded, thinking of Marco. In fact, Marco was seldom far from her thoughts nowadays.

“Come on. Igor’s waiting for us.” He started walking again.

“I’m probably going to regret asking, but who’s Igor?”

“Our medical examiner.”

“You know you people are horrible at nicknames, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bambi for a woman who looks like a porn star, Radar for a crack shot, and Tank for a man as big as a freakin’ tank. They suck. They’re so obvious. Igor?” She held up a hand and let it fall. “Really? For an M.E.? Igor?”

He stopped in front of the elevators, pushing the button. A laugh rumbled out of him. “You got a problem with Sparky.”

“Yeah.”

“What do you want to be called? Rook?”

“I want to be called Peyton. Peyton works.”

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. “Sure enough, Sparky,” he said.

He punched the button for a floor one above their own, then they stood silently waiting for it to climb. Peyton shifted uncomfortably. She should probably tell him about her aversion to dead bodies, but she was afraid it made her seem weak and she was suspecting Radar already thought she was weak. His choice of a pet poodle’s name for her reinforced that idea.

Before she could get up the courage, the elevator came to a stop and released them into a sterile white lobby with linoleum floors and white painted walls. Radar reached for his badge and crossed the lobby, swiping it against a reader next to a glass door. The glass doors hissed open and he stepped through. Peyton jogged to keep up. They walked straight down a long hallway. Heavily reinforced doors broke up the austere bank of walls on either side of them. None of the doors were open and beside each one was a silver placard, labeling the various labs.

Radar turned left and continued walking, stopping before another reinforced non-descript door exactly in the middle of the hallway on their left. He pressed a button by the door.

“Yes?” came a high, reedy voice.

“Igor, it’s Radar.”

Peyton had a moment to wonder if she weren’t in one of Stan Neumann’s graphic novels about superheroes battling supervillains, but then she reminded herself that her first case with the FBI was for zombies, so anything seemed rational after that.

The lock buzzed and Radar pushed the door open. Peyton reluctantly followed. A bald man bent over a body on a stainless steel table. He wore a white lab coat and blue latex gloves. The body was covered in a white drape, but the head was exposed – or what was left of the head, which wasn’t much. Peyton swallowed hard.

“Will you look at this, Radar?” said Igor, smiling at them. He wore black rimmed glasses, his blue eyes bright behind magnified lenses. “Oh, who is this?”

Radar motioned Peyton forward. She fixed her eyes at a spot on the white walls and moved to his side. “This is Peyton Brooks. She’s the newest member of the Ghost Squad, Igor. Peyton, this is Ivan Romanowski.”

Peyton forced a smile for him. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same with you. I’d shake your hand, but I’ve got brains all over mine.”

Peyton gave a jerky nod and lifted her eyes to the wall again.

Igor returned to the body. “This is a fascinating case. See here. There’s actual teeth marks in the flesh. I might be able to get a dental impression.”

“What about DNA?” asked Radar.

“I’m sending a sample of the brain tissue into the lab.” He held up a pink fluid in a petri dish. “Hopefully, we’ll get two separate DNA strands – one from our vic and the other from our perp. But, take a look at this. Looks like our perp bashed in his skull, then used his bare hands to pry back the bone to get at the brain.” He reached for another dish, shaking it. “Guess what this is?”

“Looks like a fingernail.”

Peyton tried to breathe through her mouth. She could feel a prickle of cold sweat along her temple and between her breasts. Black spots were appearing in her peripheral vision.

“Yep. Now, here’s the fascinating part. There’s a long historical record of cannibalism among humans. In fact, some scientists believe that Neanderthals engaged in cannibalism and were themselves cannibalized by modern humans.”

“How does that apply here?”

“Eating human flesh causes a prion disease. If your perp’s been eating human flesh for very long, especially organs, odds are he’s going to be sick. Very sick.”

Peyton glanced at Igor. “Sick how? Like Mad Cow disease?”

“Exactly.” Igor smiled at her. “Very clever, Agent Brooks.”

Peyton felt a flush of pride. For the last four days she’d felt out of her depth here. It was nice to feel like she had something to offer.

“What symptoms would we be looking for?” asked Radar.

“Oh,” said Igor, straightening. “Behavior, definitely. Aggression, anxiety, disinhibition.”

“Disinhibition?”

“Uninhibited behavior. Socially inappropriate behaviors.”

“Like eating someone’s brains?” asked Peyton.

“Well, yes. That is frowned upon in our society, but I have to tell you there’s an ancient history of anthropophagy.”

“Eating people?” asked Peyton.

“Right. In Papua New Guinea, the Korowai tribe has practiced cannibalism until relatively recently, although some reports suggest that very recent incidents may have been a rumor started to increase tourism. However, there is evidence that it was practiced in a ritualistic way.” He leaned toward her and Peyton found herself leaning away. “Most often, the brains were consumed first, while they were still warm.”

That did it.

Peyton took a step back from the table and turned, moving toward the door to get away from the smells and sights. Placing her hand on the wall, she closed her eyes and fought the roaring in her ears.

“You okay, Sparky.”

She held up a hand, but she couldn’t speak just yet.

“Okay. All that’s fascinating, Igor, but why would someone in California practice anthropophagy?”

Igor paused. “That’s your job, Radar. No offense, mind you, but I just give you the science and you do the Sherlock Holmesing.”

“Anything else you can tell us?”

“Besides the fact that the vic appears to be Asian in ethnicity. I just got the body, so I haven’t had time to do a full autopsy, but I’ll get you that information as soon as I can. I also asked for the other two bodies, so they should arrive later today.” He gave a laugh. “I have to repeat that I find this case fascinating. We have so few modern cases of anthropophagy to study. And once you catch the guy, oh my! I’ve been wanting to get my hands on a good prion disease case study for a long time, I can tell you.”

Peyton looked back over her shoulder at him in disbelief. Was he serious? This was just a fascinating scientific study? The guy on the table before him had his brain eaten by another human being!

Radar chuckled. “Glad to get you back in business, Igor. Look, we’re headed out to Sacramento, so send us anything you’ve got as you uncover it.”

Igor nodded. “Nice to meet you, Agent Brooks.”

“Same,” she said and pushed the button for the lab door.

Radar met her on the other side. “You okay?”

She wiped her hand across her hairline and drew a breath of fresh, unzombie tainted air. “Yeah.”

“PTSD?”

“No, I hate dead bodies. I’ve always hated dead bodies, and I will never get over hating dead bodies.”

Radar tilted his head at her. “And yet…”

“I became a homicide detective. I know. Ironic. I hear it all the time.”

“All righty then. Can’t think up a good nickname around that. Fainty? Pukey? Naw. Guess you’re stuck with Sparky.”

“Thanks. There’s a guy in there without half a brain, but it’s good we’re thinking about my nickname right now.”

Radar laughed. “Yep, Sparky it is.”

Peyton shook her head.

He moved toward the elevator. “You coming?”

“Yeah. Hey, Radar, would it be okay if I called my fiancé to tell him I’ll be home late?”

“Just don’t reveal intimate details of our case, and it’s fine.”

“Can I tell him we’re investigating zombies?”

Radar pushed the button on the elevator. “I’d think you were nuts if you didn’t.”

*    *    *

Marco reached for his cell phone and thumbed it on. “Hey?”

“Hey. How’s work?” came Peyton’s voice.

“Jake’s my secretary.”

“Jake? I thought Maria was finding you someone.”

“Apparently the secretary pool is slim.”

“Have you had Jake do anything yet?”

“I had him text Devan and ask him for a meeting on that case I told you about last night.”

“The girl who committed suicide.”

Marco swiveled his chair to look out the window. “Yep.”

“Bet you’re excited to talk to Devan.”

“Ecstatic.”

“Don’t punch him in the nose, okay? He has a baby on the way.”

“Got it. So, what’s up?”

“We got a case.”

“Awesome.”

“Zombies.”

Marco frowned. “Come again? I thought I heard zombies.”

“You heard right. It’s zombies. I just viewed a body with half his face eaten away, in addition to a good chunk of his brain.”

Marco grimaced. “I’ll bet you loved that.”

“Damn near made me sick.”

He laughed. “Well, I guess you know what Ghost Squad means now.”

“Sure do. Look, we’re headed out to Sacramento, so I might be late tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll save you some dinner.”

“Thank you.” She paused and when she spoke again, she’d dropped her voice. “Hey, maybe after I get home I’ll try on another one of those outfits I bought with Maria and Abe.”

Marco smiled. “I’d like that. Although I have to say I enjoyed that sexy little number you were wearing last night.”

“Wearing? I didn’t wear it long.”

“Exactly.”

She laughed then. “I’ll see you later, Marco baby.”

“Later, Brooks, and be careful.”

“Always.”

A cough by the door brought Marco around. Devan leaned in the entrance, giving him a hard stare. “You wanted to see me?”

Marco pushed himself stiffly to his feet and held out his hand. Devan gave him a death grip in return. Marco ignored the blatant masculine display and waved Devan into the chair before his desk.

Devan sank into it, smoothing out his suit. Devan and Peyton had dated for about six months, but he’d broken it off in a fit after she’d failed to call him a few times. He claimed to have done it to make her get serious about their relationship, but Peyton had never taken him back. Then last year, he’d gotten another woman pregnant, despite his repeated attempts to worm his way into Peyton’s life. Marco didn’t hate him, but he wasn’t one of his favorite people either.

Devan was everything Marco was not. College educated, polished, book smart, and well spoken, he oozed a sort of elegant charm that worked particularly well in a courtroom. As Assistant District Attorney, he had political aspirations, something that baffled Marco completely.

“How are you?” Marco asked, trying to be polite. Honestly, he didn’t give a damn how the man was.

“I’m doing well,” answered Devan.

“How’s your wife?”

“Great.”

“When’s the baby due?”

“Next month. It’s a girl. How’s Peyton?”

It always circled back to Peyton. “She got her first case with the FBI.”

“Good. Still engaged?”

“Yep. The wedding’s in October.” Marco wasn’t opposed to twisting the screws a little.

“You living in her house?”

“Yep.” He wasn’t going to take the bait. He didn’t give a damn that he was living in Peyton’s house as long as he got to climb into bed next to Peyton every night.

Devan nodded, pulling his lips back against his teeth. “So what did you want to see me about?”

Marco reached for the manila envelope near his computer. “A couple came in yesterday asking me to take on a case.”

“A walk-in?”

Marco shrugged. “It happens sometimes. Anyway, their daughter died. She was nineteen, a student at San Francisco State, and they want me to investigate it as a murder, but there are some complications.”

Devan steepled his fingers. “Complications?”

“The daughter committed suicide.”

Devan pursed his lips. “Why am I here, D’Angelo?”

“She was seeing a boy at the school, Ryan Addison, but when she broke it off, elicit videos of her began to surface on social media.”

“Revenge porn.”

“Right. A few weeks later, she killed herself. Her parents want Ryan Addison tried for murder. They believe he drove her to do it.”

Devan didn’t speak for a moment. He sat contemplating Marco. “Do you realize what you’re asking?”

“Yes.”

“You’re asking me to prosecute someone for another person’s suicide.”

“Right.”

“Do you know what a hellish can of worms that would open?”

“He put the videos up on the internet. He destroyed her life. She lost a prestigious internship, she was harassed by strangers, her friends walked away from her. Even her professors saw the video.”

“And she committed suicide. Is there anything to suggest she didn’t?”

“No. They have a suicide note.” Marco chewed on his inner lip. “What about SB255?”

“The revenge porn law? That only applies if he took the pictures and distributed them himself without her consent. Anyone else who distributed them after he uploaded them wouldn’t be covered. Besides that, if convicted, it would only be a misdemeanor under disorderly conduct. Not murder, D’Angelo.”

Marco leaned forward on the desk. “If I kill someone with my car, even unintentionally, I can be tried for manslaughter.”

“That’s not the same. He didn’t kill her. She killed herself.”

“He drove her to it.”

“This isn’t gonna fly with any judge, D’Angelo.”

“How do you know? How do you know until you try it?”

“There’s no precedent for it. We’d have to be able to prove he told her to kill herself and even then, it’s an iffy proposition. There’s no judge that’s going to want to touch this. Do you realize what this would open up? With the bullying problem all over the country, every distraught parent whose son or daughter committed suicide would be trying the bullies for murder.”

Marco picked up a paper that he’d printed earlier and passed it to Devan. “In 1960 Tate versus Canonica, a judge granted a trial for a wrongful death case. Three teen boys raped a girl, took pictures of her, and posted them at school. As a result, she killed herself.”

Devan took the paper and looked it over. “Hm, I’m impressed.”

“All I’m asking for is the warrants to investigate. Let me see what happened to this girl.”

“You’re asking me to try a case I can’t win.”

“Where does change ever happen if we don’t try cases we can’t win? Where does precedent begin, Adams? Someone has to have the courage to take that first step.”

Devan stared at the paper, then he set it on the desk. “It’s too soon. Things are evolving in this area as we speak and we need to wait to see where it ends up.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I’m sorry, D’Angelo. I know your heart’s in the right place, but I’m not risking my career for this.”

He turned and walked to the door.

Marco grabbed the manila folder and his cane, lurching unsteadily to his feet. He followed Devan out into the precinct, pulling the picture from the envelope.

“Adams, wait!”

Jake looked up from his spot at Maria’s desk.

Devan halted and slowly turned around.

Marco held the picture out to him.

“What’s this?”

“Carissa Phelps.”

Devan took the picture and studied her pretty, young face.

“You’re about to have a daughter, Adams. Think about that for a minute. Do you want to be facing something like this twenty years from now? Take a step in the right direction. Take a step to protect your daughter.”

Devan looked up at him. “That’s a low blow, D’Angelo.”

“I just want a chance to investigate this case. Just let me do that. Get me the warrants I need.”

Devan bit his inner lip. “Fine. I’ll get you the warrants. Send me a text with what you want.”

Marco exhaled. “Thank you.”

Devan passed back the photo and turned to go, but he stopped and faced Marco again. “If I do this for you, I want something in return.”

“What?”

“A quid pro quo.”

“Quid pro quo?”

“A favor granted in return.”

“I know what it means. What do you want?”

“I’m running for state legislature. The mayor’s throwing me a fund raiser a week from Friday.”

“You want a donation?”

Devan gave a slow shake of his head. “No, I want you and Peyton to attend.”

“What?”

“You’re local celebrities now after the serial killer case. You’ll attract a lot of big wallets – the wounded warrior and his feisty little partner who took the serial killer out.”

Marco glanced over at Jake. Jake shook his head.

“Besides that, people eat up a love story. They’ll adore the two of you. Come on, D’Angelo. A little booze, a little schmooze, and we both get what we want.”

“Fine. We’ll be there.”

“I’ll have them send over an invitation with all the pertinent information.” Devan gave him a slow smile, then stepped closer. “Be sure and wear a sexy little number, okay?”

Marco clenched his jaw.

Turning, Devan gave Jake a disgusted look. “You’re a secretary now?”

Jake glared at him, but didn’t answer.

With a laugh, Devan walked to the half-door and pushed it open, then moved to the glass front doors and let himself out.

After the door closed behind him, Jake said, “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole now.”

Marco gave him a lazy look. “He can’t hear you, Ryder.”

“That’s the point. I don’t need to wind up accused of another crime.”

Marco smirked. “Really brave of you.”

“Yeah, well, he told you to wear something sexy, so…”

Marco sighed. “Yeah, you have a point.” He lifted the photo of Carissa Phelps and studied it. He didn’t give a damn what Devan said as long as he got him the warrants he needed.

*    *    *

Locke, California was a Sacramento Delta town, built in 1915 by Chinese Americans when Chinatown in nearby Walnut Grove burnt to the ground. It was named after George Locke, who owned the land prior to its settlement.

Although the population was less than 100 now, in the past it had swelled to over a thousand during peak harvesting seasons. Situated along the Sacramento River, the ramshackle buildings seemed to defy physics, listing at precarious angles, giving the entire town the appearance that it was about to collapse in on itself. In 1970, it was added to the national registry as a historical landmark.

Radar drove down the Main Street and parked the Suburban behind a Sacramento sheriff’s patrol car. Bambi had let Peyton ride shotgun. Peyton wasn’t sure why, but she wasn’t arguing. Driving the twisting roads with their precarious drops into the river made her stomach roil, although she had to admit it was a pretty ride. White boats dotted the waterways, soaking up the beautiful spring sunlight. Orchards and fields spread out beyond the levees and the water sparkled a crystalline blue.

As soon as Radar turned off the engine, a door on the patrol car opened and a man stepped out, wearing a brown sheriff’s department uniform. Tank pulled open Peyton’s door and held it for her as she climbed out. She gave him a smile, but he simply nodded in return.

Radar approached the sheriff’s officer, showing him his badge. “Special Agent Carlos Moreno.”

The deputy stood with feet braced, his hat pushed to the back of his head, his hands hooked into his belt. He glanced over the badge and then back into Radar’s face. “Deputy Bob Sharpe.”

Radar snapped his badge closed. “We’ll need your files on the case, the autopsy reports on the other two victims, and any crime scene evidence you’ve taken. All other communications on this case will run through our office. Finally, we’ll need you to show us all three crime scenes.”

Peyton hesitated by the front of the Suburban, rolling her eyes. She could see by the deputy’s body language that any cooperation they might have gotten was over. He rocked on his heels and stared Radar down without blinking.

Bambi and Tank moved up behind their leader, presenting a wall of federal intimidation.

Peyton strode past them and held out her hand. “Peyton Brooks.”

Deputy Sharpe accepted her hand. “Nice to meet you, Agent Brooks.”

“Deputy Sharpe, right?”

“Right.”

“I just started with the FBI this week. I worked homicide in San Francisco for eight years.”

Deputy Sharpe nodded.

“Still trying to find my footing.” She gave a shrug, then leaned closer to him. “We always hated it when the feds came in.”

Deputy Sharpe gave a lift of his chin, his jaw working a piece of gum.

“Seriously though, nasty case you’ve got here.”

Deputy Sharpe barked a laugh. “You can say that again.”

“Three bodies, right?”

“Right.”

“All eaten?”

Deputy Sharpe’s shoulders lowered a little. “Just the faces and...brains.”

Peyton shivered. “That’s what gets me. Our M.E. found a fingernail on the last guy, said the assailant pried the skull open with his bare hands.”

Sharpe made a face. “Maybe we’ll get some DNA.”

“Yeah. Is the community getting anxious?”

Sharpe gave a snort. “You could say that. They ran a report in the local paper about zombies.”

“Sure don’t want that. People get hysterical about things they don’t understand.”

“Yep. Folks are gonna start packing heat and shooting things in the dark. You definitely don’t want panic setting in.”

Peyton felt Radar’s glare on her back, but she ignored it. “Can you show us the crime scene for this latest attack?”

“Yeah. This way.” He pointed over his shoulder. Then he turned and started walking.

“Our M.E. thought the last victim might be Asian?” she said, falling into step beside him.

“That’s what we thought too.”

“What about the other two bodies?”

“Asian. We have a large Hmong population out here.”

“Did anyone report missing family members?”

The deputy glanced at Peyton. “Many of our Hmong residents don’t trust the government and with good reason, especially based on where they came from. They don’t usually seek help from the police.”

“That makes it difficult.”

“Tell me about it.”

He led them to an alley. The buildings on either side leaned toward each other, shadowing the street and creating a very narrow wooden boardwalk between them. “Found him down here.” He eased past a dumpster and pointed to a section designated by yellow crime scene tape.

Radar motioned Tank and Bambi to canvass the area, but when Peyton moved to follow, he caught her elbow. “Excuse us for a moment, Deputy Sharpe,” he said and pulled Peyton out of the alleyway onto the street.

He squared off in front of her. “Let’s get something clear, Sparky. I run point on this squad.”

Peyton gave him a nod. “Sure. I got no problem with that.”

“Really? Then what was that back there?”

“How much cooperation did you want?”

“Complete cooperation.”

“And you thought you’d get it by making demands? I was a street cop, Radar. I hated it when the feds came in, barking orders, acting superior. Certainly didn’t make me want to play nice with them.”

“I run point on this squad!”

“I get that.” She stepped closer to him and dropped her voice. “But here’s the thing. I’m part of this team. You all have your specialties. Well, this is mine. Let me do what I do well.”

“What? Charm local uniforms?”

“Yes.”

Radar rocked back on his heels, studying her. “I run point.”

“You run point.”

“Get him to take us to the next location.”

“Aye, aye captain,” she said with a smile.

Radar sighed. “Sarge warned me you were going to be trouble.”

Peyton hesitated and glanced back at him. What the hell? But he was sort of smiling, so she let it go. Deputy Sharpe was standing by the dumpster, watching Bambi and Tank search the crime scene. Peyton stopped beside him.

“Get your ass chewed off?” he asked, glancing down at her. He had laugh lines radiating out from his eyes and he was in his late forties, early fifties. A swoop of brown hair angled across his forehead and disappeared under his hat. He topped six feet, lean muscle without an ounce of fat.

“He runs point.”

Sharpe made a snort of derision. “Why did you want to go fed?”

“Better pay. Interesting cases.” She shrugged. “How often do you get to investigate zombies?” Her eyes fixed on the dark brown blood stain painting the wooden boardwalk and she shivered. “Although I will say I particularly hate it when people get their faces eaten off.”

He laughed. “You and me both. I could do without the brain munching too.”

“Yeah, nasty.” She shifted to face him. “Were the other bodies found in Locke?”

“Nope. Farm up the road. Sweet old lady runs it with her son. Son’s got cancer, so he’s been going to the Bay Area for treatment. Some migrant workers found the body – first one six months ago, second one just a month later.” He sighed. “We ain’t got no leads on those two either.”

“What’d the old lady say when you told her you found bodies on her property?”

“She nearly fainted. Had to call an ambulance. Took her to the hospital to monitor her. She felt so damn bad that something like that happened on her husband’s land. He did a lot for the community around here. Had barbecues and whatnots after the harvest and he always donated to different charities in town.”

“Where is he?”

“Ah, he’s dead. He died a number of years back.”

“And her son has cancer?”

“Yep. I don’t know what she’s gonna do if he dies. Now with this happening on her property. She won’t consider selling the rest of it, but…” Sharpe shook his head.

“Do you think we could see those crime scenes?”

Sharpe considered that a moment. “Can you give me until tomorrow? I wanna pay her a visit and prepare her. I just can’t spring something like this on her.”

Peyton nodded. “Sure. Tomorrow’s good. You can text us the time.”

He smiled at her. “Look at you, being all reasonable-like. Bet the feds knock that out of you but quick.”

Peyton laughed. “They can try. They can sure damn try,” she said.

CHAPTER 5

Marco stepped into the precinct and pushed open the half-door. Someone was rummaging around under Maria’s desk. He approached, peeking over the top. A woman’s backside in a tight mini-skirt stuck out, her feet encased in black pumps.

He cleared his throat, but she continued to mess around under the desk. “Hello?”

She jerked upright, smacking her head on the underside, then eased out, rubbing the back of her skull. “Hi!”

“You okay?”

She climbed to her feet. She was blond and pretty with curves in all the places Marco usually liked them. Her skirt rode high on a pair of shapely thighs and her white sweater strained to contain her bust. She had wound her hair into a bun, but long wisps escaped her clips and trailed along her face. Her lashes were unnaturally long and thick with mascara, and her plump lips were a brilliant red. Peyton was gonna hate her.

“Yeah, I’m fine. The computer’s locked by someone named Jake, so Maria told me to reboot it.”

“Why were you under the desk?”

“Trying to find the plug.”

Marco leaned over the monitor and pressed the start button, holding it down. He didn’t know a lot about computers, but he knew how to force quit. He figured it was something most people knew.

“You must be Captain D’Angelo,” she said, beaming a smile at him.

He released the start button and straightened, curling his fingers on his cane. “Yeah, how did you know?”

“Maria said you were hot.” Her eyes widened and she clamped a hand over her mouth. “I’m so sorry. That wasn’t very professional. I wasn’t trying to sexually harass you or anything. Oh God, you’re probably going to report me now.”

Marco stared at her. Was Maria freakin’ kidding? This was his new secretary.

He heard a chuckle behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Jake had entered the precinct. Just perfect!

“You are?”

“Carly Shaw. I’m your new secretary. Maria hired me yesterday.”

Jake pushed open the half door. “Jake Ryder. Nice to meet you, Carly Shaw.”

“Where’s Maria?” asked Marco, giving Jake a glare.

“She brought coffee cake for everyone and she’s putting it in the break room. She wanted to treat all of you for her last day here. She’s going to work in the Chief of Police’s office. Did you know she’s dating one of the detectives? I think his name’s Cho or something.”

Marco held up a hand to stop her. “Can you get Maria for me?”

She glanced at the cane. “Oh, right. Your leg. She told me to be careful about your leg. Gunshot, right? Oh my, I’m so sorry.”

“Carly?”

“Yes.”

“Maria.”

“Right.” She hurried off, the click clack of her heels echoing back at him.

“I like her,” said Jake, tucking his hands in his pants pockets. “She’s something.”

“You would.”

Jake chuckled again. “Mighty Mouse is gonna hate her, though. Oh, man, Adonis…”

“Captain.”

“Captain Adonis, you just bought yourself a heap o’trouble.”

Marco faced Jake. “Don’t you have something to do!”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go get coffee cake. Have I told you how much I love it when we don’t have a case?”

“Call Devan and find out if he got my warrants for the Carissa Phelps’ case.”

Jake gave a dramatic sigh. “Isn’t that your secretary’s job now?”

“No, I just gave it to you. And it’s Administrative Assistant, not secretary.” He turned to go, but looked back at Jake. “You were my secretary.”

Jake made a scoffing sound.

“By the way, Peyton wants you to come over for dinner tonight. Are you free?”

“I don’t know. I mean this is such short notice, I’ll have to check my calendar.”

Marco leaned on his office door. “You can bring Tater.”

“Are we eating vegetarian?”

“Yeah.”

“Do I have to call you Captain Adonis there?”

Marco scowled at him. “Come or don’t come. This was Peyton’s idea.”

“You don’t have to bark at me. I’ll shift some stuff around, but I’ll come.”

“You’ll shift some stuff around?”

“On my calendar.”

Marco started to respond, then changed his mind. “You do that.”

Maria appeared around the corner of the precinct. “You wanted to talk to me, baby.”

“Wow! She gets to call you baby, but I have to call you Captain Adonis?”

Marco pushed away from the doorjamb and motioned Maria inside. “Go call Devan about my warrants.”

“Shesh! Talk about a double standard here. And after you invited me to dinner.”

Marco bit his bottom lip as he followed Maria into the office and closed the door behind him. Maria took a seat in the armchair before his desk.

“So about Carly Shaw?” he said, limping to his chair.

“She’s horrible. I know. But there was no one else even remotely qualified.”

“She was rebooting your computer by unplugging it.”

Maria held up her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s either her or Jake and I’m afraid you might shoot poor Jake if you have to spend too much time with him.”

“Good point. Can she answer the phones?”

Maria made a skeptical face.

“Can she type reports?”

“Uh.”

“Maria?”

“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll see if I can keep working on it, but she’s what you’ve got for right now.”

Marco slumped back in his chair. “Okay.” He took a greeting card out of his jacket pocket and passed it over to Maria. “Here. Thanks for everything you’ve done. We’re gonna miss you.”

Maria took the card and opened it. She read it, then held up the gift card she’d found inside. Peyton had picked it up the other day when they went shopping together. “Thank you, baby. This is my favorite store.”

“Well, I wish it was more. This place isn’t gonna be the same without you.”

She rose to her feet and crossed around his desk, giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” she said, smiling at him. “You’ll see me all the time. I’m your fiancée’s best friend.”

Marco laughed. “That’s right.”

“I’ll just go get Carly trained.”

Marco nodded. “Can you also see if Jake called about my warrants and tell Stan I need to talk with him?”

“Will do.” She went to the door and opened it.

Tag Shotwell loomed in the entrance.

Maria took a step back, placing a hand over her heart. “You scared the crap out of me?”

“I need to talk to the captain.”

“Come in, Tag,” said Marco.

Tag Shotwell had been Peyton’s last partner. She was a sturdy five feet ten with bleach blond hair cut short and swept back over her head. She sported a host of tattoos, including one of a skull on her neck and she liked to wear leather – all leather. It made the vegetarian in Marco squirm.

Tag loomed on the other side of the desk.

“Take a seat.”

“I’d rather stand.”

Marco exhaled and reached for his cane, pushing himself to his feet as well. God, he hated having to worry about looking weak. He had a new respect for the crap Katherine Defino must have put up with in her career.

“What’da you need?”

“Is Holmes going to be my new partner?”

“If he passes the inspector exam tomorrow.”

“Do I get a say in this?”

“Do you want a say?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He held out his hand. “Have your say?”

“He’s an annoying butt.”

Marco drew a patient breath. “Fine. Is he unskilled in some way?”

“No.”

“Is he unprofessional in the field?”

“No.”

“Is he a liability as far as his police work?”

“No.”

“Is he unable to fire a gun or follow police protocol?”

“No.” Tag shifted weight, crossing her arms over her chest. “He’s an annoying butt.”

“You need a partner, Tag. That’s how we work. Do you have another suggestion?”

“No.”

“Then Holmes will be your new partner.”

“Fine.” She pointed a finger at him. “Just for the record, he’s an annoying butt.”

“Recorded.”

“Good.” She turned to go, but she paused by the door. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks.”

Then she was gone.

Marco sank into the chair and stared at the door. Damn, he respected Defino more and more.

*    *    *

The driveway to the farm was a steep drop from the levee road, angling away from the river. It led to a small white farmhouse with a wrap-around porch. On either side were vast orchards of cherry trees, their gnarled, twisted branches awash in pink blossoms. Peyton stepped out of the Suburban and stretched. The air was warm, the sky a brilliant blue without a single cloud. She could hear the call of birds among the trees.

Two sheriff patrol cars waited in the long drive, Bob Sharpe and another deputy leaning against the side of one of them. Sharpe pushed himself away and strode toward them, the other deputy following. The second man was shorter than Sharpe, mixed ethnicity, probably Hispanic and white. They both wore their hats on the back of their head, hanging precariously from their crowns.

Radar stepped forward and shook both of their hands. Peyton lifted her hand to acknowledge Sharpe. He gave her a lift of his chin.

“Nice day,” said Radar.

“Yep,” answered Sharpe, then he indicated the other man. “This is Deputy Juan Jimenez.”

“Special Agent Carlos Moreno,” said Radar. He didn’t bother to introduce the rest of them. “Did you get clearance from the owner of this property to view the crime scene?”

“Yeah, but she’s upset. We really need to approach this gently.”

“Her son has cancer and he’s in the Bay Area right now, so she’s all alone,” offered Deputy Jimenez.

“Where were the bodies found?”

Sharpe pointed to the orchard behind them. “There.”

“Both bodies?” asked Radar.

“Yep. Just rows from one another.”

“Same M.O. as the guy in Locke?”

“Yep. Head bashed in. Face eaten. Brains too.”

Deputy Jimenez shivered. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Peyton looked back toward the road. She could see a faded sign. Harwood Farms. It was nice and quiet here, but there was also something lonely about it. They were about a half mile from Locke, but that meant less than nothing. From what she’d seen of Locke yesterday, there weren’t many people there either – a bar, a restaurant, and a few art galleries. The residents had stayed inside when the feds showed up. Still, there was something alluring about the quiet. Something intriguing about the peace. Unless it was disturbed by a zombie killer. Damn but they needed to find this guy. There were so few places of quiet and calm left in the world.

When she turned back around, she caught motion from the corner of her eyes. Something flitted around the side of the house and disappeared into the bushes growing there. She took a step forward, squinting.

“Agent Brooks?” asked Sharpe.

She turned to face him. “I saw something dive into the bushes over there.”

“Probably a coyote,” he said with a shrug.

“Coyote? In broad daylight?”

“They’re bold as all hell out here, living off people’s garbage.”

“Seemed too big to be a coyote.”

Radar cleared his throat. “If the nature education portion of this visit is finished, can Deputy Jimenez take my people to see the crime scene?”

“Sure thing.”

“Bambi, Tank, you’re with Jimenez.” He shifted and gave Peyton a dark look. “Brooks, you’re with me.” He turned back to Sharpe. “Can we talk to the woman who owns the farm?”

“Yeah, just try not to upset her.”

“That’s why we’ve got Brooks here.” He clapped a hand on Peyton’s shoulder. “Right, Sparky? You’re just a basket of charm, ain’t ya?”

Peyton glared at him, but she followed Sharpe toward the farmhouse.

“What’s her name?” she asked as they went up the neatly swept walkway.

“Agnes Harwood.”

“And her son?”

“Named for his father. Roy.”

“Thank you.”

He gave a nod and opened the screen door. “She’s frail, Brooks, so go light.”

“I will.”

He knocked at the door. A moment later a stoop shouldered woman in a pale pink cardigan and baby blue capris opened it. She was wearing jogging shoes and her white hair was combed and coiffed. She’d even put on a bit of lipstick.

Peyton smiled at her and she smiled back.

“Agnes, this is Special Agent Brooks and Moreno with the FBI. They wanted to ask you a few questions about the incident in the orchard.”

She stepped back and motioned them into the house. “Please come in, Agents. I’m happy to help you any way I can.”

Peyton and Radar stepped into the house, followed by Sharpe. The door opened into the living room. Filled with sunlight, it was kept neatly with two sofas in floral print facing each other, separated by a wooden coffee table. Tiffany lamps sat on the end tables and a few magazines dotted the surface of the coffee table.

“Please take a seat. I made lemonade. I know how Deputy Sharpe likes my lemonade. Just let me get it for you.” She shuffled off into another room.

An upright piano stood in the corner with a quilted pillow resting on the bench. As Radar and Sharpe took a seat on the couch, Peyton wandered over to the piano and looked at the pictures on top. A smiling, plain-faced man stood next to a small boy. He wore a flannel shirt and jeans, work boots on his feet. The boy was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. As she studied the pictures on the piano, the boy grew up. Pimple-faced and gangly in a middle school photo, then primped and pressed in a prom picture, and finally, decked out in a bowtie and black tuxedo jacket for his senior portrait.

“That’s my son, Roy,” came the woman’s voice behind Peyton.

Peyton turned and watched her set a tray on the table, passing out the glasses to the two men. “Is this your husband?” She pointed to the picture of the man and boy.

“Yes. Lord, he was terrible about having his picture taken. Hated it. I’d have to beg him to let me take it. Even on our wedding. Can you believe that? I have one picture from our wedding and it’s upstairs next to my bed.” She held a glass out to Peyton.

Peyton accepted it. “Thank you,” she said, lifting it for a sip. Sweetness ran across her tongue, blessed sweetness, then just a hint of lemon.

Radar made a face and lowered his glass, but Peyton took another sip.

“This is really good,” she said.

Agnes beamed. “I’ll tell you my secret ingredient. Cherries.”

“I can taste that. And it’s good and sweet, the way I like everything.”

Agnes laughed. “A girl after my own heart. I have the worst sweet-tooth myself.”

“Agnes, how’s Roy doing?” asked Sharpe.

She turned back to him. “He called two days ago. They’re trying a new treatment, but it makes him feel so weak.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Deputy Sharpe said your son has cancer?” asked Peyton.

She gave Peyton a sad nod. “Yes. Poor boy’s been fighting it for years now.”

“Where’s he getting treatment?”

“Stanford.”

“How long has he been gone?”

“Oh, it’s been weeks now.” She motioned to the couch. “Won’t you sit down, Agent Brooks?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Peyton took the seat beside her. “You have a very pleasant house.”

“Thank you, dear.” She gave Peyton an appraising look. “I’m so delighted to see a young woman with such an important job. It’s about time us women made something of ourselves.”

“Thank you. Actually this is my first week. I was a cop in San Francisco for eight years.”

“Well, look at you. FBI. My goodness, that is exciting. So, is this your first case?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look at that.”

Radar gave Peyton a pointed look.

“Mrs. Hardwood?”

“Agnes, dear.”

“Agnes, you know we’re here about the bodies, right?”

She sighed. “Yes. I was so shocked when Deputy Sharpe told me about them, I had to go to the hospital.”

“He told us. I would have felt the same way.”

“Aren’t you a dear for saying that. I just couldn’t believe something so horrible was found in my orchard. Twice. Those poor people.”

“A field worker found both bodies, right?”

“Right.”

“How far from the house?”

“It was back in the river-bottoms.”

Peyton glanced at Sharpe.

“Back in the flood zone.”

That didn’t clear much up, but Bambi and Tank were going to see it.

“How many acres do you have?”

“We have 60. We used to have over a 100, but we had to sell off some of the land when Roy got older. Too hard to maintain and it was too expensive to hire the workers.”

Peyton nodded. “I’ll bet 60’s still a lot of work.”

“It is. I keep thinking about selling, but my husband wanted us on this land. And my son doesn’t want me to sell. I don’t want to get him too upset right now.”

“I understand, but now that your son’s sick, who does the work?”

“We hire a crew. They’re mostly migrant workers, who come through during harvest and pruning season. Li Wang does the hiring.”

“Li Wang? Does he work for you on a permanent basis?”

“Sort of. He comes out and checks on things every couple of weeks and then sets up the workers for us.” She clasped her hands. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. He takes care of everything. I just pay the bills.”

Peyton exchanged a look with Radar. “Can you get me Li Wang’s number, Agnes? Was he the one that discovered the bodies?”

“No, it was one of his workers. I can’t remember his name. Shook him up so bad, they had to get the paramedics out here to check his blood pressure.”

“Do you have his name?” Peyton asked Sharpe.

“Yeah, I’ll get it for you. I’ve also got Li Wang’s number.”

Peyton nodded.

“Have you ever had a problem with trespassing before, Agnes?”

She gave a laugh. “Once in a while, teenagers come on the property to drink, but other than that, no. It’s always been so quiet. My husband used to say that there was no place like an orchard. You could tell it your problems and it would never reveal them to anyone.”

Peyton gave her a smile. “Is there anything else you can tell us?”

“Not that I can think of, Agent Brooks.”

Peyton motioned for Radar to give her a card. “This is our number. If you think of anything, will you call us?”

“Of course.”

Radar and Sharpe rose to their feet. Peyton took another sip of her lemonade and rose with them, holding out her hand for Agnes. Agnes took it, allowing Peyton to help her stand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Agnes.”

“Same here,” Agnes answered. “I wish I’d been more help.”

“You helped us a lot.” She started to turn toward the door, but stopped. “If I can ask, what sort of cancer does your son have?”

“It’s called brain stem glioma or something like that.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She gave a sad smile. “So am I, Agent Brooks.”

“He’s in a good place for treatment though.”

“That’s what they tell me. It’s just so hard. He wants to keep the farm, but he can’t work it anymore. He’s so weak and the tremors are terrible.”

“Tremors?”

“Yes. The tumor’s pressing on the spinal cord or something.”

“Again, I’m so sorry, Agnes.”

“Aren’t you sweet.” She patted Peyton’s back as she walked them to the door. “Feel free to visit me anytime, Agent Brooks. You’re a delight to have around.”

They left the house, walking toward their cars. Peyton nudged Radar with her shoulder. “Did you hear what she said?”

“Yeah, I heard her,” he grumbled. “We got less than nothing out of that.”

“We established that I’m a delight to have around.”

Radar glared at her. “You’re right. What the hell was I thinking? That made the two hour drive completely worth it.”

“It did for me,” said Peyton, unable to hide her smirk.

*    *    *

Carly poked her head inside Marco’s office. “Captain D’Angelo?”

“Yes.” He looked up from his computer.

“I got this phone message from a Jake Ryder. Is that the guy I met this morning?”

“Yes, what did he say?”

She lifted a scrap of paper and read it. “Tell Captain: Adams got his warrants. Courier will be by in an hour with them.”

“Good. Bring them in as soon as they arrive.”

She held something up.

He narrowed his eyes on her. “What’s that?”

“The warrants.”

“Wait. You said a courier will bring them in an hour.”

“No, you asked me what the message said. I just retrieved it.”

Marco realized his mouth was open.

“I probably should have got the message an hour ago, right?”

“Or answered the phone when he called. Or even just brought me the warrants.”

“Right.” She stepped inside the office and handed him the envelope. “I’m sorry. I just need a little time to adjust.”

Marco opened the envelope and pulled the warrants out. Devan had gotten him everything he wanted. He reached for his cane. “I’m going to meet with Stan Neumann, then I have a doctor’s appointment. I’ll be on my cell. Did Maria give you the number?”

“Yep. I’ve got it on my desk.”

“Call if anything comes up.”

“Sure. Who’s Stan Neumann?”

“Our tech guy. His office is behind the conference room.”

“Oh, good.”

Nathan Cho poked his head inside Marco’s door. Cho didn’t top five six, but there was something about the man that gave off a deadly aura. Marco considered him one of the best detectives in the entire force and a personal friend.

“Captain, we just got a call. Head shop burnt down in the Haight Ashbury. Fire department found a body in the rubble. Looks like arson. They want us to investigate. You want Simons and me on it, or Shotwell?”

Marco moved around his desk. “Why do they suspect homicide?”

“Guy was doused in gasoline. He’s what sent the shop up in flames.”

As Marco and Cho moved into the precinct, Tag came to a halt in front of them. “Holmes and I want this one. I’m going stir crazy here.”

Marco glanced at Cho. Shit. Now what?

Cho held up his hands.

A moment later Simons and Holmes appeared from the back. Damn it, they were going to make him decide and whatever he chose, someone was going to be pissed. He hated this. Peyton would know who to choose. Peyton would know how to soften the blow so no one got mad.

He just had to think like Peyton. Ha! That was funny.

“Cho brought me the case first, so it’s theirs.”

Tag made a derisive noise.

“Besides, I hate arson cases. They’re so damn sneaky and hard to get a handle on. We need two experienced inspectors on it. The next case is yours, Tag.”

She gave another huff, then turned and walked away. Cho gave him a pat on the back as he and Simons headed for their desks. Marco wondered when he’d stop agonizing over every freakin’ decision he had to make.

Forcing the worry to the back of his mind, he limped off to Stan Neumann’s lair. Stan Neumann, the tech guru, had converted a supply closet into his office. One table covered the door with a small space to squeeze through, while a second table along the back wall was covered in laptops and tablets, all turned on and generating heat. Above Stan’s head were shelves bulging with action figures, kept in their pristine boxes, never having been touched by human hands.

Stan Neumann himself was the stereotypical nerd. He wore coke-bottle glasses, his brown hair parted on the side and mussed. He wore converse sneakers – Marco had never seen him in anything else – and usually a t-shirt that sported some clever witticism that frankly went beyond Marco – things like May the mass times acceleration be with you and Trek yourself before you wreck yourself.

Still, he was a genius and a third of their cases would never be solved without him. He was also half-in-love with Peyton and for some reason, that devotion earned him a soft place in Marco’s heart. He didn’t view him as a threat, but he did appreciate Stan’s taste in women.

“Hey, Stan,” he said, leaning on the door. He sure as hell didn’t want to wedge himself between Stan’s table and the door jamb. Besides that, there was barely enough room for Stan in the closet.

“Hey, Marco. I mean, Captain. Sorry, still getting used to that.”

“No problem.” Marco held the warrants out to him. “I’ve got a case I need to investigate. Girl’s name is Carissa Phelps. Apparently, she was the victim of revenge porn.”

Stan took the warrants. “Was? She’s dead?”

“Yeah.”

“Murdered? How?”

“Suicide.”

Stan glanced up over his glasses. “Suicide?’

“I know. It’s just…her folks feel like the guy who posted the videos drove her to kill herself. They want to pursue it. Devan got me the warrants, so let’s see what we can find. Maybe if we get enough evidence, Devan will take the case.”

“So you want me to pull together whatever I can find, right?”

“Right.”

“You know, some of it will be…” He shifted uncomfortably.

“I know.” Marco glanced down. “Just find whatever you can.”

“Hey, Adonis?” came Jake’s voice behind him.

“Captain.”

“Captain Adonis, I have to go take pictures of Cho and Simons’ barbecue.”

Marco grimaced. “Really, Ryder.”

“Hey, I just take the pictures. I can’t help it if it’s a freakin’ nightmare. Dinner’s at 6:00, right?”

“Right.”

“Should I bring anything?”

“No.”

Jake gave him a thumbs up and headed toward the front of the precinct. Marco felt Stan’s eyes on him. “Peyton invited him over for dinner.”

Stan’s brows rose.

“So his dog can play with Pickles.”

Stan continued to stare.

“It’s just for the dogs.”

Stan crossed his arms.

“I’ve gotta get to a doctor’s appointment.” Marco took a step back. “Text me if you find anything interesting. Otherwise, I’ll meet back up with you on Monday.”

Stan gave a lift of his chin.

Marco offered him an uncomfortable smile, then turned away.

*    *    *

Marco opened the door and was nearly bowled over by an enthusiastic canine greeting. Peyton hurried and caught Tater by the collar, hauling him back.

“Sorry.”

“He used to be better behaved.”

“Well, Jake’s had him, so…”

“Yeah.” He stepped into the house.

Peyton scooped up Pickles with her other hand, but Marco took the little dog from her and then reached down to scratch Tater’s ear.

“So, do I have to call you Captain Adonis here too?” called Jake from the kitchen.

Peyton and Marco exchanged a look. Easing into the living room, Marco forced a smile. Smells assailed him, some pleasant, some not. Abe had covered their counters with various dishes and he was fussing with something beside the stove.

He looked over his shoulder, his dreads hanging far down his back. “Hey, Angel, come brighten my day with your pretty face.”

“Abe, how are you?”

“Better now that you’re here. Come sit down and try some of these samples.”

Marco settled Pickles on the couch and loosened his tie. “Let me change first.” He pulled Peyton to his side, kissing the top of her head. “What’s all this?”

“Samples for our wedding dinner.”

Marco gave a groan, then limped toward the bedroom.

Peyton followed him. “What did the doctor say?”

He shrugged out of his coat and reached for the closet door. “Everything’s fine.”

Peyton took a seat on the edge of the bed. “Fine? How can it be fine? Did you tell him about the pain?”

He started unbuttoning his shirt. “Yes.”

“And that’s fine?”

“It’s expected.”

“Did he take an x-ray?”

“He said if he took any more x-rays I’d start glowing at night.”

She frowned.

He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Stop worrying. Now, unless you want to shut that door and forget we have company, you should go back out there.” He tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “I’m voting for shutting the door.”

She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Can I go with you to the next appointment?”

“There isn’t one. I’m fine and I’m cleared for duty. It’s just gonna take time. Now, go or I promise you…”

She danced out of his arms. “Hurry up, okay? Some of the stuff Abe made looks ripe.”

Marco sighed. “Just what I want to hear.”

She gave him a half-smile and left, shutting the door behind her.

He sank on the bed and pressed his knuckles into his thigh, closing his eyes. He hated lying to Peyton, but he didn’t see any way around it. He hadn’t made a return appointment because he couldn’t see the need for it. Basically, the leg was as good as it was going to get. No use trying to make it something it wasn’t.

He changed into jeans and a t-shirt, then went back into the living room. Taking a seat on the barstool, he gave Jake a critical look. “How’d it go at the head shop?”

Jake shrugged, lifting his beer for a sip. “If you’ve seen one burnt body, you’ve seen them all.”

Abe turned, tray in hand. “No shop talk tonight. This is a celebration.” He held the tray out to Marco. A very strong ocean scent wafted up from the circle of cucumber with a dark gelatinous center. “Try one, my Angel’D.”

“What is it?”

“Smoked eel and cucumber.”

Marco reared back. “Eel?”

Abe dramatically closed his eyes. “You’re trying my last creative nerve with this vegetarian crap, darlin’. Eel’s hardly an animal. It’s more like a snake. Snake is practically vegetarian.”

“Snake is not vegetarian.” He cast a look at the other trays. “Do you have snake here too?”

“No!” Then he paused. “Well?” He pressed a finger to his lips and looked at the trays himself. “No.”

Peyton and Jake were fighting a laugh.

“No eel, no snake, no flesh!” said Marco firmly.

“Fine.” He reached for another tray with round white balls on it. “How do you feel about salak pondoh?”

“What’s wrong with pasta?”

Abe gasped. “Pasta? You expect a wedding that I’m organizing to have pasta? Next you’re going to ask me to dress you in a tux.”

Marco’s gaze shifted to Peyton. She gave an amused lift of her shoulders.

They tried Abe’s various dishes, ending up picking only two. One thing about Abe – you couldn’t get him discouraged. He vowed to find exotic dishes that they would love and promised their next meeting would be to discuss their wedding theme.

Marco felt his insides twist on that one. He’d never heard of a wedding theme before and he felt damn sure that whatever theme Abe picked would have him parachuting into the church wearing a loincloth or something.

While Abe washed the many silver and crystal platters he’d brought, Peyton rescued them by ordering a pizza. Finally Marco and Jake were able to retreat to the living room and turn on the baseball game. Leaning back on the couch, he elevated his leg on the coffee table with Pickles curled on his lap. Jake brought him a beer and for the first time all day, he felt the tension ease out of him.

Climbing onto the couch next to him, Peyton snuggled into his side. He put his arm around her and played with a curl. After a while, she laid her head on his chest and relaxed against him. It wasn’t long before he could feel the even rhythm of her breathing and knew she was asleep. He kissed her forehead and his gaze met Jake’s.

Jake gave him a wistful smile. Marco figured he was probably remembering a similar time with his own wife. Resting his cheek on Peyton’s head, he drew a deep breath. He couldn’t give a damn about weddings and receptions, exotic food or dressing in fancy clothes. What he wanted was to spend the rest of his life with this woman, waking beside her, building a life together. All he wanted was Peyton.

CHAPTER 6

Peyton picked up her phone and looked at the text message. Li Wang out of town until Tuesday. Sharpe got us a meet and greet for 10:00AM. Enjoy your weekend off, Sparky. Radar. She glanced down at Pickles. The little dog was waiting patiently by his bowl for his after breakfast treat.

“What do you say to a road trip?” she asked him.

He cocked his head.

She poured a mug of coffee and carried it to the bedroom. Marco lay sprawled under the covers, one arm over his eyes blocking out the sunlight. She settled the mug on the nightstand beside him and leaned over, kissing him.

He moved his arm, sliding his hand behind her neck and keeping her in place.

She pulled back a little. “Wake up. I’ve got the weekend off. Let’s go play.”

He slid his other hand up her hip. “Come back to bed and I’ll show you how to play,” he purred at her.

She braced her hands on his chest. “No, we can play like that anytime. This is a day off, Marco. Let’s go to the Delta.”

He frowned at her. “Delta?”

“Yeah. I want to show you the little town where the zombie attack happened and then explore some of the other towns. We’ll take Pickles.” She moved out of his grasp, deliberately putting distance between them. She knew him too well. He’d have her giving in if she didn’t break contact. He always got her to give in. “I brought you coffee.”

He rolled his head on the pillow and stared at it, then pushed himself upright and reached for the mug, taking a swallow. “The Delta, huh?”

“Yeah, when I was there the other day, I saw a lot of art galleries. Maybe we can find an interesting piece for the living room.”

That caught his attention. Marco liked looking at art. With their new salaries, they were actually in a place where they might be able to afford something.

“Okay. Let me get a shower,” he said.

“I’ll go walk Pickles.”

He caught her hand and pulled her back around. “Or you could join me?”

She gave him a quick kiss. “Not a chance, buddy. We’ll never get out of the bedroom then.”

He reluctantly let her go. “I better get some art out of this.”

She smiled and started for the door.

Just as she stepped into the hall, she heard his sharp inhalation followed by a curse. She turned around. He was doubled over, clutching his thigh. She started to go back inside, but hesitated. It usually took him a few minutes to loosen the muscles after keeping the leg elevated all night and he got a bit testy if she asked him if he was all right.

She waited out of sight until he straightened. When he reached for his cane, she felt a knot of worry tighten in her belly. Shouldn’t he be getting around easier without it? It had been six months since the shooting. She knew he’d been religious about physical therapy, never missing a session, but his recovery seemed to be stalled. The leg wasn’t getting better. He wasn’t getting stronger, and the pain seemed to be just as crippling as it had been after his surgery.

She knew she couldn’t call the doctor herself. They weren’t married yet and she had no legal right to know anything. Still, something seemed off in his recovery. She waited until she heard the bathroom door close, then she went to get Pickles’ leash.

Slipping outside into the San Francisco fog, she tried to reason that six month wasn’t long in terms of recovery, especially after an injury as severe as Marco’s had been. She needed to give him more time. Maybe today was the perfect answer. He needed a distraction, and seeing new places was bound to give him that. He hadn’t seemed in as much pain when they were on vacation. Then again, he hadn’t hiked all over the San Francisco hills either.

She walked Pickles around the block and came back. Going into the kitchen, she pulled out two travel mugs and filled them with the rest of the coffee, then she grabbed a couple of bagels, sliced them in half and threw them in the toaster. Wrapping them in paper towel, she grabbed a lunch bag out of the drawer and placed the knife in the sink.

Her hand faltered.

A shot glass lay in the bottom of the sink.

After they’d sampled all of the wedding fare, Abe had washed everything and put it away. She reached for the shot glass and turned it in the light. An oily brown sheen coated the sides. This couldn’t have been from last night. Her fingers tightened on it and she fought down the worry.

“Okay, sweetheart,” she heard Marco call from the bedroom. “Let’s get this day started.”

She placed the glass back in the sink and grabbed the lunch bag and their travel mugs, rounding the counter. She knew she should say something to him about it, but she wanted to spend the day with him having a good time and forgetting their troubles, like it had been on the island.

Handing him the travel mug, she moved into his arms and hugged him tightly. “Do you know how much I love you?” she said, kissing the side of his throat.

He frowned at her. “Okay.”

Leaning back, she smiled at him. “I just want to establish that because we’re taking the Prius, not the Charger today.”

He groaned and closed his eyes. “No morning sex and now this. Shesh, Brooks, are you punishing me?”

She laughed and grabbed his hand, tugging him toward the door.

*    *    *

The sun shown down as it had the day before. Peyton pulled the Prius into a public parking lot along the edge of Locke and they climbed out. The parking lot was filled with vintage cars, shiny and perfectly maintained. A group of older folks stood around, talking. They were discussing the headlight covers on a vintage Rolls Royce. The little car was bright yellow and the vinyl covers sported two round eyes with eyelashes across the top. One of the men motioned at Marco as he moved around the back of the Prius.

“What’da ya think, young fella? Don’t the covers ruin the look?”

“I don’t want to break a headlight,” said the owner, pleading his case.

“Well, it ruins the car. Doesn’t it?” said the first guy.

Peyton thought the eyes were cute, but she didn’t know crap about vintage cars.

Marco gave the car a critical stare. “I’d lose the covers.”

The men laughed and the owner walked over to the car, pulling them off.

Hooking Pickles to his leash, Peyton and Marco began the short trek down the main street. As she had on her first trip here, she marveled at the buildings, some listing precariously in different directions. A few shops and a bar, Al the Wop’s, were open. A number of motorcycles were lined up outside the bar and the front window sported a sign asking the patrons to keep down the RPMs. Raucous laughter slipped out of the open doorway as they passed. A number of motorcycle enthusiasts were gathered inside.

“What do you think?” asked Peyton, motioning to the street.

“It’s like stepping back in time.”

She nodded. They found the alley where the zombie body had been discovered and Peyton pointed it out. Marco made a face and they moved on. Angling down a side street, they found an art gallery, but the sign read Gone Fishing, Might Be Back at 2:00.

Marco wryly shook his head. “Must be nice.”

“The fishing or the fact that you can make your own hours?” she teased.

“Oh, definitely the fishing. If I can’t gut something once a day, I just feel out of sorts.”

She hooked her arm through his and they angled back toward the main street. Across from Al, The Wop’s, they found an open gallery. Peyton scooped Pickles up and hovered in the doorway until a woman motioned her inside.

“Bring the little fella in.” She and a number of other people reclined on a red, velvet couch. They were all sipping coffee, dressed in shorts and tank tops.

Around the perimeter of the room were easels set up with paintings on them. They seemed to be grouped in sections, indicating a collection of work from a particular artist. A number of these groupings also had stands that displayed sculptures.

Peyton meandered beside Marco for a bit, looking at the paintings, but he could spend a lot more time looking at splashes of color than she could. A display in back showed a number of photo books, so Peyton moved toward those. She had a greater tolerance for photography, than modern art.

She leafed through a coffee table book filled with black and white pictures of the Delta, reading the anecdotes written next to them, but she was distracted when a young woman with bleached white hair approached Marco. She wore a torn t-shirt that showed a lot of cleavage and Doc Marten boots over jeans that had the knees ripped out of them. The entire lower part of her hair was dyed black. A number of piercings protruded from her ears and nose.

“That’s mine,” she said to him, nodding at the painting he was admiring.

He gave a brief nod. “Interesting.”

“I call it Rape of the World. Global warming, fracking, consumption of cattle – we’re committing suicide.”

Marco nodded again. “Yep.”

Peyton squinted at the painting. She saw a lot of black swirls over a blue/green canvas.

Marco pointed at a blue marble affixed to a metal rod sitting on a block of wood. A papier-mâché hand was reaching down as if it was about to grasp the marble.

“Hand of God?” he asked the girl.

She raked her eyes up and down his body. “Nice. He’s about to crush the earth.”

“He sure is.”

Her gaze focused on the cane. “I dig the accessory.”

“Yeah? It’s a little much for me.”

“No, man, it’s cool. Decoration or necessity?”

“Necessity.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, not so much. So, are you studying art in high school?”

She gave a laugh. “Really? I’m in college, man.”

“Right. Sorry. Are you an art major?”

Peyton pretended to turn a page, smiling. Wherever Marco went, he attracted female attention, but she hadn’t seen him show much interest in it lately.

“You could invite me for a drink and we can discuss it,” the girl said.

He gave a laugh. “It’s not even noon and…” He tilted his chin toward Peyton. “My fiancée’s armed.”

She glanced at Peyton and Peyton lifted a hand in greeting. She took a step away from Marco. “Maybe another time.”

He smiled and moved toward Peyton.

“Did you like her stuff?” Peyton asked when he walked over to her.

“It’s interesting, but a little bleak for the house, don’t you think?”

“Did you enjoy the flirting?”

He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “If it made you jealous, I did.”

“Terribly,” she said, lifting on her tiptoes to kiss him. Pickles beat her to it.

He grimaced and pulled back. “So, what are we going to see next?”

“I just read about the Ryde Hotel in this book. Let’s go there.”

“Sounds good.”

*    *    *

The Ryde Hotel was a stunning three story pink building with a water tower behind it. Built during prohibition, it functioned as a jazz bar and a speakeasy, where politicians and movie stars congregated to drink bootleg whiskey and dance the night away. Rumor also pegged it as a bordello.

One legend claimed there was a trapdoor in the floor of the speakeasy that led to a tunnel, which ran under the road and to the river. After its notorious past, it became a boarding house for the men who built the levees along the Sacramento River. In modern times, it had been converted into a hotel again, paying homage to its 1920’s art deco heritage, and the speakeasy had been transformed into a ballroom for weddings.

Marco and Peyton wandered through the glass front doors. The friendly proprietor welcomed them in and showed them to a back room that functioned as a wedding planning space and an art gallery.

The paintings on display here were of 1920’s jazz musicians, the colors bold and stunning, the shapes geometric. These paintings suited Peyton’s style and Marco felt they would be better displayed in their house.

Together they selected one of a jazz combo – saxophone, piano and drum – and the proprietor offered to wrap it up for transportation. While they waited, he encouraged them to explore the rest of the hotel, in particular the speakeasy.

The stairs down to the lower floor were narrow and steep. Once they reached the bottom, Peyton could see the lines of pain on Marco’s face and his limp was more pronounced, but he seemed to recover as they looked over the cavernous room with its dressed tables, wooden dance floor, 1920’s art deco booths, and black lacquered bar. A disco ball hung from the middle of the ceiling, twinkling prisms of light onto the dance floor. Peyton settled Pickles on a booth seat and wandered around the room, taking it all in. French doors led out onto a patio that was also covered in tables and chairs.

“We could get married here,” she teased.

Marco smiled at her. “Works for me.”

“Can you imagine what Abe could do with this place?”

“A disco ball and Abe seem like a perfect combination.”

She laughed, then moved back toward him, swaying to an invisible band, sashaying around him. He watched her, his blue eyes darkening.

“Just imagine, everyone dancing, dressed in their finery. There’s a gazebo out back where we can have the ceremony.” She shimmied around in front of him, sliding along his body.

He wrapped an arm around her waist, hauling her against him, his hand splayed on her belly. “All I’d see is you.” Lowering his head, he moved her hair aside and grazed his lips along her neck. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, swaying with him. “We’d probably have to rent the entire hotel out.”

She turned in his arms, sliding her hands over his chest. “Or we could just keep it to our closest family and friends.”

“Whatever you want, baby. I’m willing to elope if you’d rather do that.”

“What would Mama D’Angelo say if we eloped?” she whispered against his mouth.

He gave a groan and kissed her.

“Okay, I have it all packaged up for you,” came a voice from the stairwell.

Peyton moved away and went to gather Pickles. Marco released his breath, giving her a sultry look, then he turned with a smile for the proprietor.

“Thank you,” he said.

Peyton glanced back at the tight stairwell. “Would it be all right if we left through those doors?” She pointed to the French doors. “The parking lot’s right there.”

“No problem,” said the man. “Let me load it in your car.”

Marco gave her a grateful look and she slipped her arm through his, following the proprietor across the ballroom floor.

*    *    *

They stopped in Walnut Grove for lunch, finding a small diner with an outdoor patio where Pickles was welcome to sit with them. The sun felt nice and Peyton enjoyed the way it caressed her bare arms.

Walnut Grove boasted a permanent population of about 1,500. Established in 1850, it became one of the first settlements along the Sacramento River, owing its prosperity or lack thereof to agriculture, primarily walnuts and oak trees. Today, agriculture was still the biggest industry, but tourism ran a close second.

A young man not much older than Peyton and Marco seated them and brought them menus. He wore ragged jeans and a black t-shirt that said Walnut Grove across the front of it. His brown hair was shaggy and fell down over one eye.

“What can I get you folks to drink?”

“Iced tea,” said Peyton.

“Same,” answered Marco.

He nodded and left, disappearing into the restaurant. Marco closed his menu and settled it on the table, folding his hands over it. “This was a good idea,” he said.

She smiled, reaching to cover one of his hands with her own. “I thought it might be nice to get out of the City.”

He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. “No matter what we do, I just like spending time with you. I miss not having you with me every day.”

“I miss that too. I find myself looking for you sometimes.”

He gave a laugh and nodded.

The young man returned with their drinks and settled them on the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Sure,” said Peyton. “I’ll have the grilled cheese sandwich with a bowl of tomato soup.”

He scribbled it on a pad. “And you?”

“I’ll have the salad, Italian dressing.”

“Want chicken with that?”

“Nope. Thanks.”

He nodded and wrote Marco’s order. “So, you folks aren’t from around here, are you?”

Peyton shook her head. “No, we’re just visiting. How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

Peyton glanced around the streets. She figured she could guess how he knew. There weren’t any other mixed couples in the area. In fact, the racial mix seemed a little lopsided.

“Where you from?”

“San Francisco,” said Marco, stretching out his bad leg under the table.

Peyton was distracted as he rubbed it with his knuckles.

“Yeah, makes sense. So, you come because of our zombies?”

Peyton’s eyes snapped to his face. “What?”

“Yeah, we got a zombie killer out here.”

“Doug!” came a sharp voice from the restaurant doorway. A young woman stood glaring at him. She also wore a black Walnut Grove t-shirt.

He gave a sheepish look, then shuffled toward her, stepping inside the restaurant.

Peyton and Marco exchanged a look.

“Well, I guess your case isn’t a secret?” he said.

“I guess not. I wonder if he knows something more.”

Marco shrugged.

They talked about work for a few minutes, until Doug returned with a pitcher of iced tea. “Sorry about that,” he apologized.

Peyton leaned forward on the table. “No, don’t be. I’m intrigued. What’s this about zombies?”

Doug’s eyes drifted to the windows as he poured. “Police found three bodies. Two on the Harwood farm and one in Locke, right in the street. Skulls bashed open, brains eaten.” He nodded vigorously, his eyes wide. “Sounds like zombies, don’t it?”

“Yeah, do the police have any leads?”

He glanced at the windows again. “Not that I know of, but people are real nervous.” He leaned close to them. “I’ll bet I know who it is.”

Peyton started to ask him to elaborate, but he suddenly straightened and stepped away from the table. “Be right back,” he said, moving toward the restaurant again.

Peyton reached for a sugar packet and emptied it into her tea. “Boy, Radar wouldn’t like rumors being spread around like this.”

“What you gonna do? Think about it. It’s a great tourist draw.”

“Yeah.” She lifted Pickles into her lap, smoothing his fur. “Still. People get nervous and guns start coming out.”

Doug returned, settling their plates in front of them. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Can you tell us more about this zombie thing?”

He hooked the chair behind him with a foot and drew it up to the table, turning it around backward and straddling it. “I’ve got my theories.” He tapped his index finger against his temple. “I think it’s Old Man Harwood.”

“Old Man Harwood? The man who owns the farm in Locke?” asked Peyton.

“You’ve heard of him?”

“We stopped in Locke before coming here. Some people in an art gallery were talking about the farm,” Peyton lied.

Marco gave her an amused look.

“Yeah. Let me tell you, he’s the perfect zombie.”

“I thought he was dead.”

“Yeah, undead!” said Doug, holding his hands out.

Marco mimicked his motion, giving Peyton a wide-eyed stare.

Peyton dropped her grilled cheese sandwich on her plate and leaned back. “Okay, come on, Doug. Undead?”

“What do you think zombies are?”

She started to answer, then stopped. “Undead.”

“Right.”

“Why do you think it’s Harwood?”

He glanced at the windows, then lowered his voice. “I was friends with his son, Roy, during high school.”

“Okay?”

“We used to get a six pack and go out under the old man’s cherry trees. He was always running us off with a shotgun.”

“Maybe he didn’t want you drinking with his son,” offered Marco.

Doug shook his head. “The old codger was a mean S.O.B., let me tell you. He was always taking a switch to Roy for some random thing or another. Wouldn’t let any friends in the house. All the time Roy and me were friend, I never once went in that house, but one time I heard him cussing out his wife. I got out of there fast. I didn’t want no part of that.”

Peyton thought for a moment. Agnes Harwood had seemed so reverent of her dead husband, and she didn’t seem like the sort to put up with domestic violence.

“They mentioned Roy was sick at the gallery.”

“Yeah, cancer. He’s up in Stanford, getting treatment.”

“You see him much when he’s home?”

“Naw. He doesn’t have time. After his old man died, the running of the farm fell to him.”

Peyton motioned to Doug’s pen. “Can I borrow that?”

“Sure.” He passed it over.

She wrote her number on a napkin and handed both to him. “Look, I’m actually a special agent with the FBI.”

He leaned back, his eyes widening. “No shit!”

“Yeah.”

Marco gave an amused smile.

“We’re investigating these murders.”

“Really? You got a badge?”

Peyton fished it out of her back jean’s pocket and flashed it at him. “Do you know someone named Li Wang?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s a...whatcha call it...he manages the workers who pick the crops in the orchards.”

“Right. You’ve met him?”

“Yeah. He’s come in here once or twice.”

“What’s he like?”

Doug gave a lift of his shoulders. “I don’t know. Lotta people hire him. He does a good job. I never heard any complaints.”

The girl stuck her head outside the glass door. “Doug!”

He held up a hand. “They’re FBI.”

“Just her,” said Marco, picking at his salad.

The girl came over to the table. “FBI?”

“Investigating the zombie,” said Doug with a meaningful look.

The girl focused on Peyton. “Do you know who it is?”

“We’re working on it. Do you know Li Wang?”

“I’ve seen him. I don’t really know him. He eats here sometimes. Is he a suspect?”

“No,” said Peyton quickly. “We just want to talk to him since he works at the Harwood farm.”

“That’s where two of the bodies were found,” she answered.

“Right.”

“I don’t know much about him. He works for a lot of farms around here.”

“I already told her that,” said Doug. He tapped her arm. “I think it’s Old Man Harwood.”

“He’s dead,” she scolded.

“Undead.”

Her brown eyes swung to Peyton. “You don’t think it’s Old Man Harwood, do you?”

Peyton bit her inner lip and shook her head. She could see Marco smirking as he ate his salad. “No, I don’t think it’s Old Man Harwood. I don’t think it’s a zombie. I think there’s one type of dead and that’s just dead.”

Doug gave her a worried shake of his head. “I’d hate to be you when that turns out to be wrong.”

Peyton started to respond, then thought better of it. Didn’t seem to be much point in arguing. “Look, if you think of something, remember something, will you give me a call?’

“Yeah.” He picked up the napkin and studied it. “Special Agent Peyton Brooks, I’ll call ya.”

“Thanks,” she said, tearing off a piece of her grilled cheese to give to Pickles.

*    *    *

Peyton and Marco arrived at the church for the 10:00 Mass. The entire D’Angelo clan converged on them: Mona and Leo, Marco’s parents, his three older brothers and their wives, and an entire collection of nieces and nephews. The D’Angelos were a close knit family and not opposed to greet any occasion with a round of boisterous hugging. Peyton adored them all.

Mona placed her hands on Peyton’s cheeks, kissing her forehead. “I’m so glad you got him to come.”

“I can’t take the credit for that, Mona. Dr. Ferguson mandated it.”

“Whatever reason, I’m just glad you’re here. Everything will be all right now.” She kissed Peyton again.

Peyton forced a smile. She wasn’t sure this would make everything all right, but she wasn’t about to take that comfort away from Marco’s mother. Mona’s decision to save Marco’s leg had been a contentious one among the family, who thought he’d stand a better chance at a normal life with a prosthesis. Even Marco sometimes expressed that feeling. Still, Mona hadn’t been able to make the decision to take his leg, and her word was final.

Raised Catholic, the adult Marco had strayed from his religion, another bone of contention with his mother. Finding a way to welcome him back into the fold had been her primary goal for many years now, and for some reason, she saw Peyton as an ally.

Not that Peyton minded. Her parents had been ardent church goers when she was a child and sometimes she missed that connection to something spiritual, to something outside the depravity and mayhem she experienced on her job.

Mona hooked her arm through her youngest son’s and turned him toward the church. “Let’s get seats.”

Marco gave Peyton an uncertain look as he allowed his mother to propel him toward the doors. When Peyton moved to follow them, she caught Antonio’s gaze. Antonio was Vinnie’s oldest son and nearly a year ago, he’d been in a bad car accident. His leg had broken, but after surgery and an extensive round of physical therapy, the leg had healed well. However, now he watched his uncle with a worried expression.

Peyton slipped her arm through his. “How are you, Tonio? How’s your senior year?”

“Good.” He tipped his chin at his uncle. “He doesn’t look so good.”

“It takes time. You remember that.”

“Yeah.” He still looked worried.  “I guess so. It’s just he’s always been...you know, the tough one.”

Peyton smiled at him. “He still is. The tough has always been on the inside.”

Antonio returned her smile and they entered the church. People milled about the vestibule, but not Mona. Head held high, she crossed the entrance hall, nodding to the greeter, then dipped her fingers into the holy water and made the sign of the cross. Without missing a beat, she walked into the sanctuary, heading right down the middle of the aisle, but a few steps in Marco halted.

Peyton released Antonio and moved closer to him. He was staring at the white altar with the golden cross dominating the center of it. Two columns of gold filigree rose on either side of it and stained glass windows along the pews spilled muted golden light into the chamber. A number of people were sitting in groups, but the majority of the vast room was empty.

“What’s wrong?” asked Mona, instinctively dropping her voice.

“We’ll sit back here,” Marco said, pointing to the last pew.

“Nonsense. We always sit in the front on the right side.”

Marco shook his head. “No.”

Peyton placed her hand in the small of his back. She could feel the tension. “It’s okay, Mona. You go up front. We’ll stay back here.”

Mona shook her head. Peyton was coming to recognize that stubborn D’Angelo look. She waved the family around her. “Go take your seats. I’m sitting in the back.”

Marco gave Peyton an aggravated look as everyone hesitated, confused. Then Vinnie took over. “Let’s go. We’re blocking the aisle.” They filed around Marco and his parents, moving for their usual spots.

“Let’s sit down,” said Mona, motioning to the pew Marco had chosen.

“I need to sit on the aisle,” he grumbled.

“All right.” She and Leo slipped into the pew and Peyton followed.

Finally Marco limped over and sank down, extending his bad leg into the aisle. Peyton reached over and curled her hand in his.

Mona leaned over Peyton. “Did you take confession yesterday?”

Marco briefly closed his eyes. “No.”

Mona’s face fell, then she reached over Peyton and patted his knee. “It’s okay. Next week, yes?”

Marco blew out air.

Peyton gave Mona an encouraging smile and tightened her hold on Marco.

People gradually came in and took their seats. A few moments later the priest appeared on the altar, resplendent in his robes. He held out his hands and the congregation stood. At the sound of the organ, they began to sing.

Peyton leaned against Marco. She could feel the tension in him and it concerned her. This was supposed to do the opposite. This was supposed to eliminate some of the tension, let him gain some measure of peace and acceptance. Beside her, Mona and Leo lent their voices to the hymn, but not Marco. He stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched.

Once the song had ended, the priest signaled for them to take their seats again. He was an older man, white haired, stoop shouldered, but when he stepped up to the altar and made the sign of the cross, Peyton could feel the power in him.

Everyone around them made the sign of the cross as well, including Marco.

“The Lord be with you,” the priest said.

“And also with you,” answered the congregation.

“Welcome on this glorious Sunday. Let us take a moment to reflect on our past week and the need for salvation.”

The organ filled the sanctuary with sound and the congregation burst into song again. Mona reached into the slot on the pew before them and removed a hymnal, opening it. She pointed to the top of the page and handed it to Peyton. Peyton took it with a smile and followed along as they sang Glory to God in the Highest.

As the song finished, Peyton realized this was her favorite part of Sunday service – the voices all raised in song, joining together to praise the mysteries of faith and worship. She missed it and it made her miss her father. This might not be working for Marco, but it was working for her. She could feel some of the tension leave her.

“Join me now in prayer,” said the priest.

Mona reached for the hassock and pulled it down, then she and Leo eased onto their knees and clasped their hands. Marco glanced down at the black bit of cushion and went still. Peyton searched the congregation. Almost everyone was kneeling.

She didn’t know what to do. He vibrated with tension next to her, but her brain just couldn’t come up with an appropriate platitude to soothe him and clearly touching him wasn’t solving it. Before she could collect herself, he grabbed his cane and rose, sliding out from the pew and heading for the doors.

Mona gave Peyton a panicked look and started to rise, but Peyton caught her. “Mona, let me handle this, please.”

Mona looked like she might protest, but Leo reached over and took her hand. “Let her handle it,” he said.

Peyton didn’t wait for a response, but slipped out of the pew and followed after Marco.

She found him sitting on the stairs of the church, holding the cane in his hands and staring at the silver top of it. Peyton sank down next to him, sliding her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. For a long while, they didn’t talk, just watched the traffic speed past on the street in front of them.

Peyton didn’t know what to say, what to do. Nothing seemed adequate. Nothing seemed reasonable.

He released his held breath and closed his eyes. “From my earliest memory, I’ve gone to mass. I’ve known the litany since before I could talk. And now, I can’t even kneel.”

She tightened her hold, but didn’t respond.

He opened his eyes and looked over her. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Peyton.”

She felt her gut twist. She wanted him to talk. She’d always felt he played it too close to the vest, never giving any of himself away, but now she felt an overwhelming sense of dread. She wasn’t equipped to deal with this, not with him. He was a part of her, he was her partner in everything, but now she couldn’t stop his hurting, she couldn’t make it go away.

“What do you mean?” she prompted, but selfishly, she’d give anything not to have this conversation. It scared her and she didn’t know what to do. Damn it, she didn’t know what to say.

“I had this self-image, you know? I was your partner and my job was to watch your back. Every day, that was my job.” He paused and looked at the traffic. “Then we became more, but the job was the same. Be your partner, protect your back. Now…”

She leaned away from him and looked at his profile.

“Now, I don’t know who I am. I hate the job. I hate being weak. I hate the way everyone treats me.” He met her gaze. “Even you.”

“Even me?”

“I did the protecting. Now everyone wants to protect me. I see the worry in your eyes. I see it everywhere I look. People are always pulling out chairs for me to sit, or asking me if I need something. I can’t walk Pickles around the block without you watching me to see if I’m in pain. Yesterday, you found a way to keep me from climbing the stairs.”

“Marco…”

“No, wait. I know you’re trying to help me. I’m not stupid, but I hate that I need that help. I hate that everyone sees me as weak.” He looked back at the cane. “And this job? I’m a glorified yard duty supervisor. I keep people from getting into pissing matches over territory. I’m a God damn traffic director. Yesterday, when you questioned the guy at the restaurant – that was the most alive I’ve felt in months.”

He motioned toward the church. “Ferguson tells me I have to go to church, but I can’t even worship the way I used to. I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin in there and it isn’t just the kneeling. I’m so angry inside, Peyton, I’m so angry and scared and I can’t believe in a God who takes a man’s life away from him like this.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He gave a miserable laugh. “I know. I didn’t want to dump this on you. I’m sorry.”

“No!” She clutched his arm. “I just feel so inadequate to deal with this.”

He met her gaze and his own eyes swam in tears. “Why are you staying with me, Peyton? You’ve gone way beyond me. Why are you still here? I can’t be who I was. I can’t watch your back. And…”

“And?”

“I don’t want to be one of your projects.”

“My projects?”

“Like Jake or Venus or Ravensong. I don’t want to be rescued by you, but nothing else makes sense.”

Venus had been a hooker Peyton tried to save, and Joshua Ravensong was the drug addicted rock star she fought so hard to prove innocent. Of course, Jake had been the first perp she couldn’t just leave alone. After proving him innocent of killing his wife, she’d gotten him a job and allowed him to live in her house, something that Marco had never understood.

She swiped the tears away. “Well, how about this? I love you. You aren’t my project. You aren’t a rescue. You’re the man I love, and have loved for eight years. You’re my partner, D’Angelo, in all aspects of my life, but it isn’t because you physically protect me. You’ve never understood that. I don’t need a bodyguard. I need you. You have my back in the only way that matters. You are my partner because you are a part of me.”

He reached up and slid his hand into her hair at the temple. “That was so damn cheesy, woman. God, I love you.”

She clasped his hand with her own and kissed his palm. “I don’t know what to do about the way people treat you. I don’t know what to do about my worry. It’s there, Marco, but I know that I’m willing to go through this with you. Every step of the way. If you hate the job, quit. We’ll figure something else out. If you want to move to the islands and gather coconuts all day, I’ll pack tonight. Just don’t give up on us. Don’t give up. We’ve faced so much together, and we’ll get through this too.”

He didn’t respond, just searched her face.

“I don’t know why this happened, Marco. I can’t make sense of it either, but it did. Here’s an opportunity to start over, to redefine that self-image you talked about, but you don’t have to do it alone. I’m not going anywhere. I love you, and that’s why I stay.”

CHAPTER 7

Rosa called the Ghost Squad into the conference room bright and early Monday for an update. She looked pressed and polished in her tailored black suit, her ponytail smooth and professional. Peyton glared at her over a cup of coffee, hating her.

Margaret had left three packets of sugar for her this morning. She was getting closer. Not quite there yet, but closer.

Peyton felt irritable and out of sorts. Her hair just wouldn’t be tamed and for some reason, the more expensive suits Abe had foisted on her didn’t seem to be fitting quite the way they did on Rosa.

“Where are we on this zombie case?” Rosa demanded.

Radar began filling her in, but Peyton’s mind wandered. After church yesterday, Mona had insisted they come to her house for dinner. Marco declined, which set up an argument between him and his family. Finally, he’d walked away mad. She’d tried to apologize, but she was in a difficult position, apologizing for his behavior to his own family. Following him to the Charger, they drove home and he went inside without speaking. He threw back two shots of Jack Daniels while she watched from the doorway, then he limped to their room and threw himself down on the bed.

She took Pickles for a long walk, trying to sort through this mess, then returned to the house and made dinner for them. He was silent as he ate, mostly pushing the food around his plate, then he watched television. She curled up next to him, hoping he’d talk to her, but he didn’t. Finally she went to bed alone. It was the first time since they’d started living together that she’d gone to bed by herself and she hated it.

“Brooks?”

She blinked and looked up at Rosa. “What?”

“You seem distracted. Is something wrong?”

Peyton glanced around at the team. Emma offered her a friendly smile. “No.”

“Do you have anything to offer?”

“To what?”

“The case.”

Peyton drummed her fingers on the wooden surface, then picked up a coffee stir from the tray in the center of the table. She broke it in half and then in half again. “Not really, except…”

“Except?”

She broke the stick again, creating a pile in front of her. “Well, Marco and I took a drive into Locke this weekend.”

“And?”

“We met this guy named Doug. He thinks the zombie killer is Old Man Harwood.”

“Old Man Harwood?” asked Rosa.

Radar gave Peyton a critical look, then swiveled to face Rosa. “Old Man Harwood owned the farm where the first two bodies were discovered.”

“Well, is he a suspect?”

“He’s dead,” offered Radar.

Rosa frowned at Peyton.

“Doug thinks he’s undead.”

“Undead?”

“You know, zombie?”

Rosa’s shoulders fell. “Really, Brooks?”

“I know, but I’ve got nothing.”

Tank cleared his throat. “It’s not a bad thought. Zombism actually originated in Haiti and was tied to the voodoo religion. Practitioners believed that if you led a good life while on earth, you were taken to heaven, but if you led a bad life, committed suicide or something, you were doomed to wander the earth forever in an undead state.”

“And this applies to Old Man Harwood how?” asked Rosa.

“If the deaths are racially motivated, in particular all three victims were Hmong, it makes sense. Some theories discredit zombism as a fear response from Whites toward non-Whites, a social anxiety of desegregation and loss of power. If we deduce that the location of the bodies may have been a warning to the Harwoods, it could be a reason why they were left on their land.”

“A warning to the Harwoods?”

“The Delta is primarily a white community, Sarge. The Harwoods may have crossed a line by bringing in a Hmong work crew. The bodies could have been a warning to them, to scare them into compliance with the social mores of the area or maybe, just to sell the land.”

“What are you suggesting, Tank?”

“We need to know if someone threatened the Harwoods at any time in the past or present.”

“You and Bambi search the databases for a complaint of any kind. Get me anything you can about Old Man Harwood’s life. I’d also like a copy of his death certificate.” She gave Peyton a hard stare. “Just to make sure he’s really dead.”

Peyton sighed and broke another coffee stir, adding to her pile.

Radar grabbed his phone off the table and glanced at the display. “Igor wants to see me,” he said, pushing himself to his feet.

“Take Brooks.”

Radar made a face. “Sarge.”

“Take her. She needs the experience.”

“She’s also in the room and can hear you,” offered Peyton.

“Let’s go, Sparky,” said Radar with about as much enthusiasm as a corpse.

Peyton followed him out of the conference room, jogging to catch up to his longer stride. “You know I understand I haven’t exactly impressed you yet, but you haven’t really given me a chance. I’ve only been here a week.”

He stopped walking and turned to face her. “What?”

“I know you don’t want to go see Igor with me, but you don’t have to make it so obvious that you dislike me, especially in front of Rosa.”

“Sarge,” he corrected. “And whether I like or dislike you has no bearing on this case, Sparky. What are you – insecure?”

“No.” She realized she was bristling. “I just think people work together better if they have mutual respect for each other.”

“Agreed.”

“Well, all I’m asking for is a little time to prove to you that I belong here.”

“Fine.”

“So, don’t act like you’ve been asked to clean toilets when Sarge tells you to take me somewhere.”

“I protested taking you with me because you get squeamish about dead bodies, not because I don’t respect you.”

“Oh.” That set Peyton back. “I didn’t realize.”

“Well, next time, instead of getting all prickly as a hedgehog, just ask me. Okay?”

“Yeah. Same goes for you. All you gotta do is ask if you want to know something.”

“I’ll remember that.” He turned and started walking again.

Peyton jogged to his side. “So, Tank was pretty amazing back there. I mean, I didn’t really hear him speak at all last week and then here he goes, spouting off about voodoo and all that jazz.”

Radar stopped before the elevators and punched the up arrow. Glancing over at her, he frowned. “Tank only speaks when necessary. Remember it. And listen when he does. He doesn’t speak unless it’s important.”

“Got it.” She rocked on her heels. “It’s just…”

The elevator door opened and Radar stepped inside, pushing the button for Igor’s floor. “It’s just?”

“Doug didn’t mean he thought Old Man Harwood was being threatened for hiring Hmong. He meant he thought he was the actual zombie killer.”

Radar drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Think about it, Sparky, okay? Which of those two scenarios seem more likely? That Old Man Harwood is undead, or that he was being threatened by racists who might have wanted his land.”

Peyton dropped her eyes. “Being threatened by racists.”

“Glad you’re on-board.”

They rode the elevator in silence and got out on Igor’s floor. Peyton followed behind Radar as he slid his badge across the reader and wandered down the nondescript hallway to the lab. He pressed the button and leaned close to the speaker.

“Igor, it’s Radar.”

“And Peyton,” she called over his shoulder.

He gave her an aggravated look, but she simply beamed a smile at him. She was going to win this guy over one way or another.

The door buzzed and Radar shoved it open. Peyton stepped in behind him. Igor was standing in a far corner of the room, looking at a slide under a microscope. His bald scalp gleamed in the overhead lights. He turned as they entered, adjusting his glasses and pulling off his gloves, tossing them into a flip top garbage can.

“Special Agent Brooks, so nice to see you again.”

“You too, Igor.”

“What did you want to see me about?” asked Radar. Apparently he didn’t believe in social niceties when they were on a case.

“Come with me.” Igor moved to the door, pushing the button to open it, then he turned left and led them down to the end of the hall. A large, heavily reinforced door blocked the end, but Igor swiped a card against a reader and the door opened on hydraulics. As they stepped into the large, cavernous room, the temperature dropped significantly.

A cement floor led to a drain in the middle of the room and around the perimeter were stainless steel drawers with labels on the outside. Igor walked over to one and pulled it open, stepping backward as it extended into the room.

Peyton hesitated. She could see a body bag lying on a tray inside the drawer and she knew what it contained.

“Do you remember when I told you I was waiting on the other two bodies from your zombie case?” Igor asked Radar.

“Yeah.”

“Well, there’s something very interesting about them.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another pair of gloves, sliding them on his hands. Then he reached for the zipper and drew it down. Peyton could just make out a desiccated head, the facial features unrecognizable, the skull open, the brains partially exposed. The remaining skin had a shrunken, grey cast to it. “This is our first unidentified body. He was killed six months ago.”

“Right.”

“As you can see, his injuries are very similar to the third body found in Locke. Smashed skull, partially devoured brains.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Radar was impatient today.

“This isn’t what killed him.”

Radar lifted his head. “Come again.”

Igor drew the zipper down further, sliding it past the feet, then he pulled aside the two halves of the bag. “Look at this injury.” He pointed to the dead man’s thigh.

Peyton eased closer, rising on her tiptoes to see for herself. A curved, jagged wound flayed open the thigh muscle from kneecap to groin.

“He died from a stab wound to the thigh, not the massive head injury.”

“It ripped apart the femoral artery. He would have bled out in three or four minutes,” she said, giving a shudder.

Radar and Igor looked over at her. Igor smiled. “Very good, Agent Brooks. She’s exactly right.”

“What about the second victim?”

“He had the exact same injury.”

“But the third one didn’t?”

“No, and here’s something else interesting. Which direction would you guess a thigh wound would originate from?”

“What?”

“How would you go about stabbing someone in the thigh?”

Radar made a downward striking motion.

“Exactly. This wound didn’t happen that way. The entrance…”

“...was at the knee,” said Peyton, moving to the end of the drawer and looking over the edge. “You can see the knife went in at the knee and exited at the groin.”

“Again, very good, Agent Brooks.”

Peyton met his gaze. “Was it a curved blade?”

Igor’s smile was brilliant. “As a matter of fact it was. How did you know?”

“You can tell by the edges of the wound. The center of the cut is deeper than the entrance or exit. He tore the thigh apart as he wrenched the knife through.”

Igor motioned at Radar. “Exactly.”

Radar shook his head. “So what are we looking for and how the hell did he make the killing blow? Was he lying on his back beneath the victims when he stabbed them?”

Igor held out his empty hands. “That’s why you’re the detective and I’m not, Radar.”

When they left Igor’s lab, Radar stopped her in the hallway. “How did you know that stuff about the femoral artery?”

Peyton drew a deep breath. She really didn’t want to talk about it, but she figured she owed Radar some sort of explanation. “My best friend’s an M.E.”

“So?”

“He talks. I listen.”

“I call bull shit on that.”

“Why?”

“Because you had some pretty specific information in there about femoral arteries and I’d like to know how you got it.”

“Can’t we just leave it alone?”

“There might be a time when we have to rely on each other for our lives. I’d like to know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours.” He gave her a narrowed look. “Didn’t you just tell me to ask if I had a question?”

Peyton sighed. “On my last case, we were looking for a serial killer we named the Janitor.”

Radar nodded.

“He got the drop on me, gun pointed at my head. He wanted a murder/suicide pact.” Peyton shivered. She could still feel the press of his gun against her forehead. “My partner volunteered himself, so the Janitor shot him in the thigh.” Good. Keep it short, clinical, without emotion.

“That’s how you almost lost him?”

“Right. The bullet clipped the femoral artery and he was bleeding out on the floor. I…” Peyton’s voice trailed away. She looked down the hall. Here’s where it was no longer clinical. “I thought he was going to die.”

“There’s something more you’re not telling me.”

Peyton met his gaze. “I told you all you need to know. I emptied my gun into the Janitor’s body and I tied a tourniquet around the leg to stop the blood loss. Then I pleaded with God not to take my partner away from me. It was the most empty moment of my life.”

Radar exhaled. “I know the feeling, Brooks.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve felt it twice and that’s just twice too much, so if you don’t mind, I’d like not to dwell on it. We’ve got an undead farmer to catch.”

She didn’t wait for Radar’s response, but she felt sure his mouth ticked up at the corners.

*    *    *

Marco sidestepped Cho and Simons as they headed for the front door of the precinct. “You get anything on the Head Shop case?” he asked.

“We’re on our way to talk to the business owners on either side of it. One’s a tea shop and the other’s a used bookstore,” offered Cho.

“They didn’t suffer damage in the fire?”

“Minimal.”

“We talked to the wife yesterday. She had an alibi and she couldn’t give us any reason why someone would want to torch her husband. Everyone loved him,” said Simons.

“I’ll bet they did. It was also a medical marijuana dispensary, wasn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“That’s the angle I’d pursue. Do we know if anything was stolen from the store?”

“Inventory records burnt up in the fire, but we’ve got a subpoena into the state for their records.”

“Which we’ll probably get around next Christmas,” grumbled Cho.

“You’re probably right,” answered Marco. “Keep me posted, okay?”

“Yep.”

They headed out the door and down the stairs into the parking lot. Moving through the half door, Marco found Carly’s desk empty. He glanced at the clock over the conference room and frowned. He was going to have to talk to her about punctuality.

He caught sight of Jake coming out of the break room, eating a piece of coffee cake. He gave Marco a thumb’s up. “I like this new assistant. She bakes. Homemade.”

“Is she in the break room?”

“Yep, setting up our breakfast.”

Marco started toward the doorway. “You told her she doesn’t need to bring breakfast, right?”

“Now why would I do a silly thing like that, Adonis?”

“Captain.”

“Captain Adonis.”

Marco glared at him as he passed. Inside the break room, Carly bustled around, setting out coffee cake and Danishes on the counter. Holmes and Tag were dishing up plates and Smith, a veteran patrol officer, sat at a table, shoveling food in his mouth.

“Carly?”

She whipped around, a broad smile lighting up her face. “Yes, Captain D’Angelo?”

“You don’t need to bring food. That’s not part of your job.”

“I don’t mind. I love to bake.” Carly held up the plate of Danishes. “Would you like one?”

“No. I’d like you at your desk to answer calls.”

Tag’s brows rose and she strolled over to the table, sitting down next to Smith. Smith gave Marco a curious look.

Carly set the plate on the counter and hurried to the door, slipping out without making eye contact with him. Immediately he felt guilty. Glancing around, he found them all staring at him.

“How was your inspector test?” he asked Holmes.

Holmes blinked at him. “I think I passed, but I won’t know for about a month.”

“Fine, but until then don’t you people have something to do?”

“Nope,” said Tag, shoving a piece of coffee cake in her mouth. “No cases. Nothing to do. You want us to help Simons and Cho on their case?”

“Yeah, they went to talk to the neighbors. Call the Department of Health and find out if any complaints have been issued against our head shop owner in the past six months.”

Tag picked up her plate and her coffee. “On it. Let’s go, Holmes.”

They exited, sliding past him.

Smith lounged back in his chair. “Anything you want me to do?”

Smith was a stocky man, but it was mostly muscle, with a full head of dark hair and a thick moustache. He especially favored Peyton when she worked here, but he’d always treated Marco with respect.

Marco shook his head and turned, heading toward Stan’s office. Damn they needed another case, and quick. He couldn’t believe how lost they were if people weren’t killing one another on a regular basis.

One thing Marco could count on was Stan in his lair. He blinked up at Marco when he appeared on the other side of the table. “Hey, Captain. How was your weekend?”

“Fine.” Marco glanced longingly over his shoulder. He should have at least gotten coffee before he came here. “Were you able to find anything on Carissa Phelps?”

Stan’s expression grew grim. “Yeah. It’s bad.”

“How bad?”

“Bad.”

Marco swallowed hard, tightening his grip on his cane. “Show me.” He pushed his way into the tight quarters, easing past the table. Stan hooked a chair for him.

“She tried to delete all of her social networking accounts, but I was able to recover them.” He began clicking on the computer.

Marco positioned himself on the swivel chair, grimacing as he bent down. “If she deleted them, how were you able to get them back?”

“Nowadays everything’s saved in the cloud. Nothing’s ever really gone. That’s the problem. Once something appears on-line, you’re never getting it off again.”

Marco sighed. “So all these kids taking naked pictures of themselves…”

“Or worse.”

“Or worse,” Marco allowed, “will never be able to get away from it?”

“More than that, with every phone and electronic device having a camera inside of it, you never know when you’re being recorded. Anytime you’re in an intimate situation with someone, someone else might be filming it.” He shifted to look at Marco. “It’s something that’s never far from my mind when I’m with a woman, I can tell you.”

Marco started to respond, then stopped himself. “Right,” he said.

Stan with his converse sneakers, button up shirts, and myopic glasses might not seem like a lady’s man, but he’d gotten Peyton to go on a few dates with him, so who was Marco to judge what women liked.

“I feel uncomfortable showing this to you,” Stan said, fiddling with his mouse.

“This girl committed suicide because of this video, Stan. We need to know if we’ve got a case against the boyfriend or not, so we’ve got no choice.”

“Okay, but I’m warning you, it’s unpleasant.”

“Play it.”

Stan clicked on the screen. A young, dark haired man stood in front of a bed, no shirt on, his jeans open at his waist. Off-screen they could hear a feminine voice, but they couldn’t make out the words. Then Carissa Phelps came into view. Her back was to the camera, but she was easily distinguishable from the profile she presented. She wore a lace teddy, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. As Marco shifted uncomfortably, she went down on her knees before the young man.

Marco looked away. “Okay, turn it off, Stan.”

Stan reached for the mouse.

Marco caught the lifting of the boy’s head from the corner of his eyes and motioned Stan to stop. “Hold on.”

The boy looked straight into the camera.

“Stop it there.”

Stan clicked the mouse.

Marco studied the boy’s half-smile, the smug look on his face. “He knew the camera was there.”

“It gets better. Watch.” Stan clicked the mouse again.

Slowly the boy lifted his hand and gave a thumb’s up.

“Son of a bitch,” hissed Marco.

“She never acts like she knows the camera’s there.”

“You’ve seen the rest?”

Stan chewed on his lower lip and nodded.

“Can you print me out that screen shot right there?”

“Yeah.” Stan reduced the window.

“Can you trace who posted the video?”

“It links back to a revenge porn site. They fiercely protect their clients, but I’m trying to punch my way through and get an IP address.” He reached over and picked up a stack of papers. “I also printed out all of the comments on her wall. There’s some really nasty stuff here.” He passed it to Marco.

Marco leafed through the pages. “Die, whore, die. Suck this. Shit, this girl was hounded to death.”

Stan pointed to a spot on the second page. “Then her professor messaged her, asking to talk to her. It looks like everyone who was on her contact list got the link.”

Marco lowered the papers. “How am I going to prove Ryan Addison caused her to kill herself if everyone was attacking her at the same time?”

“If you can prove he uploaded the video without her knowing about it, isn’t that intent to do harm?”

Marco shook his head. “I need something more. I need proof that he knew she was distraught, but continued to harass her until she had no other choice but to kill herself.”

“I found a blog that she signed up for a few weeks before her death.”

“A blog? What does it say?”

“Nothing. She didn’t post anything to it. I can’t help but wonder if she has entries on her laptop that she planned to post, but didn’t for some reason. Is there any way we can get a warrant to go through her personal computer?”

“What do you think a blog will show?”

“She named the blog The Deepest Cut.”

“Okay.” Marco pushed himself to his feet, picking up the papers. “I’ll call her parents and see if we can get a look at the laptop, and her room. Maybe there’s something there.” He showed Stan the papers. “I’ll keep these and look through them.”

“Sure thing, Captain. I’ll keep searching online. Maybe I missed something that would link Ryan Addison to her death in a more concrete way.”

“I appreciate it. Let me know if you find anything.” Marco eased out of the room, but Stan stopped him on the other side.

“It sure makes you think, doesn’t it?”

“What?”

Stan swiveled back and forth in his chair. “It makes you think about who you can trust. When you’re in an intimate situation, can you ever trust the person you’re with? Are you ever safe?”

Yeah, it made you think, all right. Marco gave Stan a smile. “When you find that person, you know it, Stan.”

Stan shrugged. “I guess.”

*    *    *

“How about lunch?”

Peyton looked up from her desk. Emma was standing in the doorway, giving her a hopeful look.

“I’m sorry, Emma. I’m on my way out. I already have lunch plans.”

Emma’s face fell. “Sure. I get it.”

“Really, I’m sorry. Whenever you ask me, I’ve already got something going. Next time, okay?” She crossed around the desk and stopped in front of the blond. She really couldn’t understand why Emma was trying so hard to be her friend. Surely, she had a lot of friends herself. “You wanna walk with me to the elevators?” Even as she said it, she realized it was a lame platitude.

“Yeah.” Emma seemed excited about that.

Peyton eased past her into the cubicle jungle and headed for the elevator. Emma fell into step next to her.

“So you got to look at the other two bodies in the morgue?” she asked, bouncing alongside Peyton.

“Yeah, highlight of my day.”

Emma wheeled around in front of her, walking backwards. “What’d they look like?”

“Look like?”

“The bodies? Were they starting to decompose?”

Peyton blinked. “Um…” Something about the twinkle in Emma’s blue eyes was unnerving her. “I looked mostly at the legs. I really didn’t want to see the heads.”

“Really? That’s the most fascinating part. The way the flesh loses elasticity and pulls back against the bones. I always look in the mirror and try to imagine how I’ll look when I’m dead.”

Peyton stumbled to a stop. Shit. “You do what now?”

“I know. I’ve got a morbid fascination with death. And the stranger the better. When I was five, my dad caught me watching a horror movie.”

“Five? Which one?”

“Nightmare on Elm Street. Oh, man, I loved it.”

Peyton eased around her and reached for the button on the elevator. “Interesting.”

Emma gave her an anxious look. “My mom says this is why I eat alone so often. It was like this in high school too. Everyone expected me to be a cheerleader, but I just wanted to take physiology so I could cut up a dead cat.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, darn it, now you’re never going to go to lunch with me.”

The elevator opened and Peyton backed inside. “No, I’ll go to lunch with you.” She held up a hand to stop Emma from following her. “Just, could we talk about cheerleading rather than dead cats?”

Emma gave a high tinkling laugh. “Of course we can, silly. I can talk about any subject. I graduated magnum cum laude from Stanford.” She leaned close. “You want the scores of last night’s Giant’s game – I got ‘em. Or the latest episode of any reality show? I’m also well versed on the Higgs Boson.”

“The Higgs Boson?”

“The God particle?”

Peyton forced a smile. “Okay then, I think we’re covered. How about lunch one day this week?”

“It’s a date.”

Peyton reached for the door button and waved goodbye to Emma. Once the door closed, she slumped against the side and gave a bark of laughter. Holy shit!

A few minutes later, she was on the road in her little Prius, weaving in and out of the noon traffic. She arrived at Medical Examiner’s office twenty minutes later, pulling into the back parking lot. Climbing out of the car, she locked it, then crossed to the back door, reaching for her badge. Pulling it open, she showed the badge to the guard at the podium and signed herself in. She recognized the guard from her days on the SFPD, but they never did more than exchange a greeting with one another.

Shoving open the hall door, she wandered past Abe’s lab and went instead to the break room at the end of the hallway. He had lunch set up on a table, complete with linen napkins and tablecloths. A candelabrum sat in the middle of the table, showing an array of multicolored candles.

Abe held out his arms at her appearance. “Ta da!” he said. He wore white pants that looked like they might be leather and a paisley shirt in various shades of pink. A pair of pink slip-on dress shoes completed the ensemble.

Peyton came to the table and glanced over everything. He had some brown mushy substance in a crystal shell, tiny triangle sandwiches on a porcelain tray, and yellow leafy boats with a red gelatinous mass in the middle of them.

“What’s all this?”

“When you called and asked me to lunch, I decided to try more dishes on you for the wedding.” He pointed to the brown mushy stuff. “This is foie gras.”

“Foie gras? Isn’t that liver?”

“Goose liver to be precise.”

“Don’t they torture the poor geese to get it?”

“When they force feed them, but this is from naturally fed geese. Humane foie gras.”

“It’s still liver.”

“Well, not everyone at the wedding is a rabid vegetarian, sugar. We have to offer something for the carnivores.”

She sat down at the table. “Marco’s never going to go for foie gras. And I’m not sure I feel right about it either. Can we do something without internal organs?”

“All righty,” said Abe, pointing to the leafy boats with the red gelatin. “This is Beet Tartare on endive spears. Aren’t they adorable?”

“Better.”

Abe plunked one on a plate and reached for the triangles. “Obviously these are traditional finger sandwiches – cucumber and cream cheese.”

“Good.”

He held up a plate of yellow peppers with pink flesh draped over the tops of them. “Pepperoncinis for our Italian side, draped with a delightful smoked salmon. Will you at least let me have salmon?”

“Sure. Abe, can we talk about something else?”

“Of course, but first, take a look at these candles. What do you think?”

“They’re nice, but that’s a lot of colors.”

He rolled his eyes. “I want you to pick out your two favorite colors. That’s how I’ll build the color scheme.”

“Okay. Um, silver and that blue is nice.”

Abe made a face. “Silver and blue?”

“What’s wrong with silver and blue?”

“You’re playing it safe. Go with something bold.”

“Okay, what would you choose?”

“I like the orange and brown. Spicy colors. Can’t you just see your skin tones in that burnt orange?”

Peyton sighed. “Just like a freakin’ pumpkin.”

Abe sat down across from her. “Okay, not orange. Anyway, we can discuss it later. Let’s eat.” He dished up a plate for her. “So, how’s work?”

“Strange.”

“Strange how?”

“We’re working a zombie case.”

“Zombies?”

“Yeah, apparently that’s what Ghost Squad means. This guy’s killed three people, bashed in their skulls and ate their brains.”

“Oooh,” said Abe, his dark eyes widening as he passed her a plate. “He’s gonna have a prion disease.”

“That’s what Igor said.”

“Igor?”

“The FBI’s M.E. He mentioned prion disease. What is it?”

Abe settled his own plate in front of him and steepled his long hands. “Prion disease is really called transmissible spongiform encephalopathy. A prion is a pathogenic agent that causes abnormal folding of normal cellular proteins. When the protein folds, it causes brain damage.”

“Transmissible? Does that mean other people can get it?”

“It affects the central nervous system, so unless you are handling brain or spinal fluid, you can’t get it.”

“What are the symptoms? I mean, would I know if I’ve met this person?”

“Well, that’s the problem. Prion disease has a very long incubation period. It can take between three to twenty years for symptoms to show. When was the first body found?”

“Six months ago.”

“Yeah, you’re not going to see any symptoms now. That’s just too soon.”

“What symptoms would I see?”

“The first would be behavior. Aggression, loss of interest.”

“Igor said disinhibition.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Anything else?”

“Speech will be affected. They might slur their words, repeat words or phrases. One of the big problems with prion disease is a difficulty in swallowing, since it affects the central nervous system. Also, blindness.”

“Blindness?”

“It’s strange because there’s really nothing wrong with the eyes themselves, but we think the blindness is caused by damage to the visual processing parts of the brain.”

“But I won’t see any of this because of the incubation period?”

“Sorry, little soul sista.”

She pushed her plate away.

“You don’t like the food?”

“The triangles are good, but I don’t care for the red gelatin.”

“That’s Beet Tartare.”

“It’s beet.” She shuddered, then leaned forward. “I actually came to talk to you about something else.”

Abe studied her a moment, then pushed his own plate away. “Dish, sweets.”

“I’m worried about Marco.”

Abe considered that a moment, then nodded. “Why?”

“He’s not adjusting well and he’s always in pain. He hates the job and he hates the way we all treat him, like he’s crippled or something.”

“I told you he’d be in pain.”

“I know, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help him. If I worry about him walking too much, apparently that’s not good. If I tell him things will get better, that’s not good. If I just try to support him, that’s wrong too. What do I do?”

“I’m not sure there’s anything you can do, darlin’. He’s got to work through this himself. It’s hard to face you aren’t the same person anymore. He was used to being the all-powerful Marco D’Angelo. Now he has limits like the rest of us.”

Peyton looked down at the table. She didn’t want to give voice to her biggest worry, but she had to tell someone. “He’s drinking a lot.”

Abe sat back in his chair. “What do you mean a lot?”

“I mean he hits the Jack Daniel’s bottle almost from the moment he wakes up in the morning. It’s just a shot here or a shot there, but it’s constant.”

“That’s a problem.”

Peyton lifted her eyes to his face. “What do I do? Do I confront him? Do I call Dr. Ferguson?”

“You definitely don’t call Dr. Ferguson. Marco doesn’t like him knowing as much about his life as he does. He’d resent that. I think you’re going to have to confront him.”

Peyton bit her lip. God, she didn’t want to do that. They would fight and she hated it when they fought. He was the last person she wanted mad at her. “He asked me why I stay with him.”

Abe blew out air. “Whew! That’s a loaded question. What was the context?”

“He said he didn’t want to be one of my projects.”

Abe didn’t answer for a moment.

Peyton found her eyes filling with tears. “He said he didn’t want to be rescued by me and that I’d gone beyond him.” She wiped her fingers under her eyes. “I love him so much and I’m so scared right now. I don’t know what to do. He’s the person I’ve always leaned on and now he’s the one who needs help, but whatever I do, he interprets it the wrong way.”

Abe reached over and took one of her hands. “Peyton, you just keep doing what you’re doing. You keep showing him how much you love him.”

“What if it isn’t enough, Abe? What if I’m not enough to fix this?” A hitching sob rose in her chest and she fought it. “I keep telling him to give it time, that everything will figure itself out, but what if I’m wrong? What if there’s no way to get to the other side of this? What if he just can’t accept his limitations?”

“What are you saying? Do you think he’s suicidal?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did.”

“He wouldn’t do that to you. He wouldn’t put you through that.”

Peyton closed her eyes for composure. When she opened them again, she fixed her gaze on Abe. “What if he really doubts my love for him? How can I prove something to him if he won’t accept it?”

Abe clasped her hand with both of his and rose up, bringing himself closer to her. He kissed her forehead. “No one doubts how much you love him, Peyton. Not even Marco. Be who you are and I promise you a year from now, all of this will have blown over. He’ll adjust. He always has.”

She tightened her grip and forced a nod. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. I’ve also got to learn some patience too, I guess.”

“It’s what I’ve always said, sweets. It’s what I’ve always said. Now, about the foie gras…”

CHAPTER 8

Marco reached for the Scotch Simons had given him and poured a shot into his water glass, slamming it back. He replaced the bottle on the credenza behind him, then stared at it. More than three fourths of it was gone. He didn’t remember drinking that much.

Rubbing his knuckles in his thigh muscles, he reached for his phone and pressed the icon for Carissa Phelps’ parents. God, he hated making these calls. It was so difficult to talk to grieving parents. Peyton knew how to strike the right chord, make them feel safe. He’d always bumbled through it awkwardly.

He dialed Matt Phelps’ number and held the phone to his ear. A man’s voice came on the line a moment later.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Phelps, this is Captain D’Angelo of the SFPD.”

“Yes, Captain, how are you?”

“Fine.” He swiveled his chair and looked out the window. Blue sky shone through the billowy white clouds. “How are you, sir?”

“We’re just waiting for your call.”

“We found the video.”

Silence filled the line.

Marco wasn’t sure what to do. How did you proceed after saying something like that? “My computer technician says Carissa had started a blog, but she never posted anything to it. Do you know about that?”

“No, Captain, she didn’t tell us. The last few weeks of her life she’d been distant, distracted. It haunts us. We both wish we’d forced her to tell us what was wrong, but we were hurt by her behavior.”

“I understand, sir.”

“What does a blog have to do with anything, Captain D’Angelo?”

“She called the blog The Deepest Cut.”

“The Deepest Cut?”

“Yes, sir. It sounds like she felt betrayed.”

“Yes, it does.”

“My tech guy would like to look at her laptop or whatever device she used for her work at college. He thinks she might have written the blogs, but not posted them. I’d need your permission to search the computer. I’d also like permission to go through her room, search her belongings. Did she live with you while she was in school?”

“Yes, she lived here.”

“Mr. Phelps, I know how hard this must be for you, but if I have any chance of bringing a case against Ryan Addison, I need to get as much information about Carissa as I can.”

“I’ll give you permission, Captain D’Angelo. I’ll sign whatever forms you need.”

“Thank you, sir.” Marco swiveled around as Carly poked her head inside the room. When she saw him on the phone, she disappeared again. “Mr. Phelps, I don’t want to get your hopes up. I’m not sure we can prosecute Ryan Addison for murder, but yesterday, we did get evidence he filmed them together without her knowledge. At least, that would give you something to pursue a civil case.”

“A civil case?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Captain D’Angelo, my daughter was driven to taking her own life. She felt she had no other option. He ruined her life, he destroyed her. Do you really think any monetary amount is payment for her suffering, or for ours?”

Marco sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’m glad you’re on board with me.”

“I am, sir. Can we come out tomorrow to see you?”

“What time?”

“Noon.”

“We’ll be here, Captain. And thank you.”

“Yes, sir. See you tomorrow.”

Carly stuck her head back inside the office. “Captain D’Angelo?”

“Yes, Carly.”

“You have someone here by the name of Abraham Jefferson. He says he’s the M.E. and he wants to see you.”

“Send him in.”

Carly stepped into the doorway. “He left.”

“What do you mean he left?”

“I told him you were on the phone and he wandered away.”

“Where did he go?”

Carly held out her hands. “I’ll probably be able to find him. He’s a little hard to miss.”

Marco laughed. That was certainly true. “Don’t worry about it. He’ll probably wander back this way again.”

A few minutes later, Carly appeared in the doorway. “He’s back.”

Marco looked up from his computer. She seemed so damn happy to have found Abe. “Just send him in, Carly.”

“Right.”

Abe strolled through the door and shut it behind him, then he draped himself over Marco’s arm chair and took a look around. Marco’s brow rose as he studied Abe’s attire. No one else he knew could get away with a blood-red shirt covered in black ravens, black leather pants and wing-tipped red shoes.

“Nice leather,” he said.

Abe dusted off the slacks. “It’s fake in honor of my deep abiding love for you, Angel. I don’t want to offend your animal rights sensibilities.”

“Thanks.”

“Now, this is an office.” He held out his long arms. “Warm and inviting. Made me want to come right inside. You need to give your fiancée some lessons. She’s going for the penitentiary look and that’s so last year. Well, it probably wasn’t a fashion trend any year, but you get my meaning.”

“Did you want something, Abe?”

“I wanted to gaze on your pretty face and then have a heart to heart, but first, were you on the phone for a case you’re working?”

“Yep. Nineteen year old girl committed suicide because her boyfriend posted an intimate moment on-line for all to see. Revenge porn.”

“Oh, that’s becoming a nasty problem.”

“Tell me about it.”

“If she committed suicide, why is it your case?”

“Parents want the boy prosecuted for manslaughter.”

“That’s gonna be hard to prove, Angel.”

“Devan made me very aware of that. Look, Abe, if I get her medical records, can you take a look at them?”

“Of course. Not sure what it’ll prove, but I’ll give it a peek.”

“Thanks.”

“Still, why are you working the case? Isn’t that what you’ve got detectives for? You’re the captain now, Angel.”

Marco rubbed his thigh. “The parents asked me personally and I want to do it.”

Abe studied him a moment, then his eyes went beyond him to the bottle of Scotch. “Nice label, there.”

Marco didn’t answer.

“Not much for drinking Scotch myself, but I recognize a good bottle when I see it.”

“Abe, why are you here?”

“Had lunch with our favorite FBI agent yesterday. We tried some new dishes, but we didn’t find anything for the wedding.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Don’t mock, Angel. I take my duty very seriously. Anyway, in the course of our time together, she mentioned that she’s worried about you.”

Marco frowned. “What?”

“Now before you get all angry hot male on me, hear me out.”

“She talked to you about me? What did she say?”

“Just that she’s worried about you. She says you’re in a lot of pain and you’re unhappy with the new job. She said you told her you didn’t want to be one of her projects.”

Marco couldn’t believe how angry he suddenly was. Why the hell hadn’t Peyton talked to him about this? Why was she going behind his back?

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“When my best friend can’t keep the tears a bay, it has something to do with me. When my other best friend is drowning his pain in a bottle of Scotch, it has something to do with me.” He jerked his chin toward the Scotch. “Just when did you buy that bottle?”

“That’s none of your business, Abe.”

“Don’t shut me out, Angel. I’ve been a loyal friend for a long time and I deserve better than this.”

Marco ground his jaw. “And so do I. I deserve not to have the two people closest to me talking about me behind my back. If you have something to say, come out and say it, Abe.”

“Fine.” He sat forward in his chair. “I think you’re masking the pain with alcohol because you know the pain killers are a quick road to addiction. I think every day you fight to get out of bed because you struggle just walking across the room and it’s making you depressed. I think you hate the new job because you can’t think of anything else but the pain, and it just reminds you of what you can’t do anymore. I think you’re taking your anger out on the woman who loves you because you’re afraid you’re never going to adjust to this new normal and you have some overwhelming macho hang-up that you have to be stronger than she is.”

Marco closed his hand into a fist. “You’re right. We’ve been friends a long time, which is why I’m asking you to leave now before I say something I’ll regret.”

“Marco, sometimes you need to ask for help. You can’t keep pushing everyone away.”

“I’m not pushing anyone away.”

“When you tell Peyton you feel like you’re a project for her, you’re pushing her away.”

“I am a God damn project for her, Abe!” he shouted. He caught himself, realizing he hadn’t meant to say that. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue with you and I don’t want to talk about this. I’ll work through this, okay? I just need time and I need everyone to stop treating me like I’m made of glass.”

“I think I was treating you exactly the opposite of that. I was confronting the problem head on, but you don’t seem to want that either.” He laid a hand on Marco’s desk. “Do you love Peyton?”

“You know I do. I love her more than anything.”

“You’re hurting her. You’re scaring her right now and you need to talk to her. If you don’t want to talk to me, I get that, but you’ve got to talk to her. She doesn’t cry easily, Angel, but she was a mess yesterday. Talk to her.”

“Okay.” He held up a hand. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Good.” He reached for the pen on Marco’s blotter and grabbed a sticky note, then he took his phone out of his pocket. “I have a friend. He’s an orthopedic surgeon at Stanford Hospital, best in the business. Board certified and everything. I’ve already called him and told him you’d be calling. He can help you. There are things they can do for pain, nerve blocks, other things. Call him, Angel. Get some help.” He glanced at his phone, wrote down a name and number. “I think if we control the pain, everything else will work itself out.”

Marco took the sticky note. He was having a hard time looking Abe in the eyes. Damn it, he hated when people started messing around in his life, trying to figure him out. He didn’t want people talking about him, prodding him, getting all freakin’ emotional on him.

Abe pushed himself to his feet and leaned on the desk. “I know you’re angry at me, Angel, and I can handle that, but don’t take it out on Peyton. She doesn’t even know I planned to come here. She told me that stuff in confidence.”

Marco’s eyes snapped to his face. Confidence? What about his confidence? How were he and Peyton supposed to build trust if she was going to talk about him behind his back?

“Don’t be angry at her. She loves you.”

“Fine.” He looked pointedly at the door. “I’ve got work to do.”

Abe hesitated a moment more, then he strode to the door and pulled it open. “The brooding male thing is sexy, Angel, I’ll give you that, but it really is a pisser if you’ve got an emotional attachment to the brooding male. Way too much work.” Then he was gone.

Marco stared at the number on the sticky note, then he grabbed the top drawer on his desk and shoved the note inside, slamming it closed again. Reaching for his cane, he rose to his feet and walked to the door.

Carly looked up as he passed her desk. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be out.”

“Okay. Where should I tell them you’ve gone?”

“Don’t. Just have them call me.” And he sent the half door slamming back into the wall as he left.

*    *    *

Li Wang met them in a coffee house in Walnut Grove. Although he wasn’t much taller than Peyton, he was muscular and trim. His shaggy black hair fell over his eyes and he had leathery skin from spending so much time in the sun.

Bob Sharpe introduced her and Radar, and Li offered his hand. Peyton noted his nails were dirty, the palms of his hands callused and dry. This was a man who worked hard for a living. She tried to see if he was missing a nail, but he took a seat again, tucking his hands under the table.

“Deputy Sharpe said you wanted to know about the bodies on the Harwood Farm?” he said.

Peyton took the seat opposite him, Radar sitting next to her. Sharpe grabbed the chair at the head of the table, waving a waitress over. She came, reaching for a pad of paper. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee,” said Sharpe.

“Same,” said Radar.

She smiled at Peyton. “What about you, honey?”

“Iced tea.”

The waitress hurried off.

Radar shifted in his chair and gave Peyton a look.

Peyton took a breath and clasped her hands on the sticky tabletop. “Thank you for meeting with us, Mr. Wang.”

“No problem, but I gotta get back out there. I got four farms I gotta inspect before tomorrow.”

“Deputy Sharpe told us you were out of town this weekend. Did you go someplace fun?”

Radar gave her a bewildered look, but she ignored him.

“I went to visit my mother. She lives in Stockton. It was her birthday.”

“Really? Did you have a party for her?”

“Yeah.” Li Wang seemed to relax. “All of the grandkids and nieces and nephews. Nearly fifty people showed up. She liked it. She doesn’t get a lot of visitors anymore.”

Peyton smiled. “Do you have a big family? I like big families. Mine’s small, but my fiancé has a huge family.”

Wang laughed. “Yeah, there’s a lot of us. You know, extended family. We’re all around the area. Stockton, Sacramento, the Delta.”

Radar cleared his throat.

Peyton glanced at him, but the waitress returned with their drinks. Peyton reached for the sugar packets and tore the top off two, dumping it in the glass. Before Radar could say anything, she reached for a third and added it, then grabbed a spoon and began stirring.

“Mr. Wang,” she said.

“You can call me Li.”

She smiled. “Li, how long have you been the overseer for the Harwood Farm?”

“Fifteen years now.”

“Did you know Roy Harwood, Senior?”

“He hired me. He couldn’t keep up with everything, so he needed help.”

Peyton settled the spoon in the saucer beneath her tea. She noticed that neither Sharpe nor Radar added anything to their coffee. “He had 100 acres at one point, right?”

“Yeah, he sold off 40 toward the end there. He hated doing that. He felt it was a legacy for his son.”

“Did anyone complain about him hiring you to help him?”

Li glanced at the two men. “Some folks around here aren’t happy with my crew, but I don’t think they exactly complained.”

Peyton took a sip of the tea. It wasn’t sweet enough, but she was afraid to add more sugar in front of Radar. “We found a complaint registered with the Agriculture Labor Relations Board that you use illegal immigrants as part of your crew.”

Li Wang’s expression shuttered and he eyed the door.

“We’re not here about that,” Peyton assured him. “We need to track every lead and a complaint like that could be significant.”

“Significant how?”

“If someone wanted to stop Harwood from using your crew, they might…”

“Kill someone? Eat their brains?”

Peyton thought it sounded far-fetched too. “We really hope not. Did anyone ever say anything to you personally? Confront you? Did you ever hear problems between Harwood and anyone else?”

Wang thought for a moment. “There was a developer here a few years back. This is after Harwood died. He started pressuring Mrs. Harwood to sell the rest of the property. She refused, but he was aggressive.”

Peyton glanced at Radar. “Do you have his name?”

“Sullivan Ballor. He bought up a lot of land around Courtland,” answered Deputy Sharpe. “He’s a right bastard. Had a number of complaints about him.”

Radar reached for his pad and wrote something on it.

“Is there anything else you remember, Li?”

“The only other problem I remember was just before Mr. Harwood died. He sold about five acres to these two women. They had a party or something and some people wandered onto Harwood’s property, back in the river-bottoms. They were dancing naked through the trees, high or something. Harwood got pissed and chased them off with a gun. Apparently, he even took a few shots at them.”

Radar and Peyton both looked to Sharpe.

He shrugged. “It happens.”

“Those women were pissed. They came over the next day and confronted him. He was a sick old man by then. He could hardly stand, let alone fight back, but they pissed him off. He started yelling at them and got his gun. I came running, trying to stop it, but they hightailed it out of there.” Wang gave a snort of laughter, shaking his head. “Cussed up a blue streak, that old man. I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying. He just kept cussing and cussing and cussing.”

“Do the women still live there?”

“Yeah.” Wang glanced around the room, then leaned forward, his eyes boring into Peyton’s. “If you ask me, they’d be the ones to do this.”

“Why?”

Wang swallowed hard. “They’re witches.”

Radar tipped back his head with a frustrated exhalation.

Peyton nodded at Wang as she hit Radar’s shoulder. “Give him your card.”

“What?”

“Give him your card. I don’t have any or I’d do it.”

Radar grabbed a card out of his pants pocket and passed it across the table.

“If you think of anything else, will you call us?”

“Sure.”

“I just have to ask one last thing. I’m sorry about this, Li.”

“Ask.”

“Can you account for your whereabouts last Wednesday night around 9:00PM?”

“I was home with my wife and kids. I made a call to my mother at that time to confirm her birthday party. You can check my phone records, right?”

“Yes, we can. Thank you.”

“No problem. I want you to catch this guy, Agent Brooks. I don’t like losing men. They’re like family to me.”

“I understand.”

Radar took a final sip of his coffee and tossed a ten on the table, then he and Peyton rose to their feet and headed toward the door. Sharpe followed them.

The sun was shining as they stepped onto the quiet street and Peyton could hear the sound of a boat zooming up the river. Radar grabbed his sunglasses and put them on, then looked over at Sharpe.

“You know these witches?”

Sharpe gave a chuckle. “Yeah, lesbian couple. Dora Deuces and Lucy Moonstar Dawn.”

Peyton’s brows rose. “Wow! Groovy, man.”

Sharpe laughed, but Radar glared at her.

“What? Dora Deuces and Lucy Moonstar Dawn? Come on, Radar. Even you’ve got to find that amusing.”

“We’re working a triple homicide, Sparky.”

“Yeah, but you guys love ridiculous names. This is so up your alley.”

Sharpe continued to laugh.

Peyton felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and she pulled it out, thumbing it on. A text message from Doug, the waiter, flashed at her. Just thought of something. You need to check out the witches. They bought part of the Harwood farm.

Peyton showed the message to Radar. “Seems like serendipity to me. I guess we better check out the witches.”

Radar made a groan of annoyance, but he turned to Sharpe. “Can you get us a meeting with the…”

“Witches,” offered Peyton.

Radar clenched his jaw. “With the witches,” he said, forcing a tight smile.

Sharpe chuckled and stepped off the sidewalk, moving toward his cruiser. “I’ll set it up for tomorrow around 1:00.”

“Great.” Radar reached for his keys. “And I need to talk to Sullivan Ballor. Can you arrange that as well? Be nice to do it after the trip to the….”

“Witches,” said Peyton.

“Witches,” echoed Radar.

“Done,” said Sharpe, opening his driver’s door. “Later, Agent Brooks.”

Peyton waved to him.

“Stop it,” hissed Radar.

“Why? I’m being polite.”

“He’s got a crush on you.”

“So? I’m delightful. You heard Old Lady Harwood. I’m a perfect delight.”

Radar snorted. “Tell that to your fiancé. Let’s go. I want to beat the traffic back to the City.”

*    *    *

Peyton entered the house, tossing her keys on the sofa table and removing her gun to hang on the pegs by the door. Pickles scampered over to her and she scooped him up, then walked to the kitchen. Marco was dishing up take-out onto two plates. He glanced at her as she stepped into the entry, then he looked away.

“Hey.” She moved toward him, but he turned and went to a drawer, yanking it open and taking out two forks.

“Hey, I hope Italian’s okay. I picked it up on the way home.”

“It’s fine.” There was an edge to his voice and he hadn’t given her his usual kiss. She moved toward Pickle’s food bowl, glancing into the garbage as she did so. A bottle of Jack Daniels lay on the top of the recycle bin.

“I poured it down the sink.”

She turned toward him. “What?”

“If that’s what you were wondering. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

She pressed Pickles closer to her. “Is something wrong?”

“Why would something be wrong, Peyton?”

“I don’t know. You’re clearly angry about something. You want to clue me in.”

He lifted his chin and gave her a withering stare, then he reached for two napkins and held out a plate to her. “Everything’s fine. Let’s eat before it gets cold.”

She didn’t take the plate. “I have to walk Pickles.”

“Done. And he’s been fed.” When she still didn’t take the plate, he set it on the counter and grabbed his own, going to the barstools and taking a seat. He started eating with violent intensity.

Peyton watched him a moment, confused, then she settled Pickles on the ground and walked toward the bedroom, removing her suit jacket. For some reason, tears burned in her eyes, but she fought them as she began changing out of her work clothes. She hung them up in the closet and went to the dresser, reaching for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

Suddenly he was there, turning her to face him. He pulled the shorts and tank top out of her hands and set them on the dresser, then he slid an arm around her waist, pulling her against him.

She pressed her hands to his chest. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” he said, then he kissed her.

“Marco,” she protested, trying to push him away, but he wouldn’t release her.

“Shh,” he whispered, “everything’s okay. Please, sweetheart, just let it go.”

She wanted an explanation, but her thoughts scattered when he kissed her again, pressing her back into the dresser.

Many hours later, she woke and reached for him, but his side of the bed was empty. She pushed back the covers and grabbed the jersey she usually wore off the chair in the corner, pulling it over her head.

She found him in the kitchen, doing dishes. Pushing back her curls, she blinked sleepily at him. He wore only a pair of athletic shorts, the scar in his lower thigh visible, a large rope of knotted tissue.

“Why are you up?”

“Do you want something to eat? You didn’t eat earlier.” He went to the refrigerator and pulled it open, taking out a tinfoil covered plate. He removed the tinfoil and placed the plate in the microwave.

“Marco, why are you up?” She looked at the clock on the stove. “It’s 2:00AM.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” The microwave dinged and he pulled the dish out, grabbing a fork. “Sit down and eat.”

Peyton went to the barstools and climbed up. He placed the plate in front of her. “Do you want some water?”

“Sure,” she said, taking a bite. She wasn’t really hungry. He was acting so strange, she felt a little afraid. “Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

He filled a glass with water and handed it to her. “Nothing.”

“Really? Because earlier you were obviously pissed about something, then there was that whole thing in the bedroom.” She waved over her shoulder. “And now you’re doing dishes?”

He leaned on the counter, folding his arms on the surface. “I was upset about the case I’m working and I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

She took another bite. “The suicide?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s going on with it?”

“Stan found the video. She didn’t even know her boyfriend was filming it, but he did. He gave the camera a thumb’s up.”

Peyton grimaced. “Lord, what a prick.”

“Yeah, but does that make him a murderer?”

Peyton sighed. “I don’t know. He knew he would hurt her by showing it, but did he know she would kill herself? That’s where you’re going to have problems. It’s like this whole bullying thing that’s happening. Are the bullies responsible if the person they bully commits suicide?”

“Maybe they should be.”

Peyton shrugged. “Yeah, but where do you draw that line? If I confront someone because I’m angry and they off themselves, am I a murderer?”

Marco rubbed his forehead. “That’s what I just don’t know.”

Peyton chewed her inner lip. “So is that really what had you worked up before?”

“Yeah.”

The answer was so clipped, so short, she just didn’t believe him.

“What was the thing with the Jack Daniels?”

He looked up at her. Their eyes met and held, then he looked away. “Nothing. I just thought you’d want to know why it’s in the trash. You haven’t been drinking lately, so I thought we might as well get rid of it.”

He was lying. She knew it, but she didn’t know what to do. Abe thought she should confront him, but if he was taking the situation into his own hands, did they even need to have this conversation? And it was a conversation she knew would turn into a fight. Shouldn’t she just let him take control himself and give him the benefit of the doubt? Wasn’t that what relationships were about? Trusting the other person to do right.

She went back to eating.

He put a few dishes away, then wandered around the counter toward her. “What’s say we go back to bed? We both need to get up early tomorrow.”

She leaned over the counter and settled her plate next to the sink. “Sounds good.”

He draped an arm over her shoulder as she moved up beside him and kissed her on the top of her head. “You know I’m crazy in love with you, right?”

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “Well, that’s good, ‘cause I’m crazy in love with you.”

He smiled and kissed her again.

CHAPTER 9

“We had an agreement that you would either go to the group meeting or go to church. You chose church. How’d it go?”

Marco felt as if he were crawling out of his skin. He shifted uncomfortably on the chair and focused his attention on Dr. Ferguson’s windows, but all he could see was the building across the street. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want any part of this therapy any longer. It was as useless as his appointments with the orthopedic surgeon.

“I went to church.”

“How was it?”

“Good.”

“Good? What was good about it?”

“Getting back into the whole routine of it. I realized I’d been missing it.”

Dr. Ferguson studied him, his index fingers pressed to his lower lip. Marco glanced at him and away.

“I see a lot of people, Captain D’Angelo, do you know that? A lot of cops in particular.”

Marco gave him a questioning look.

“After you’ve done this job for many years, you start picking out patterns in people, general templates to use when evaluating what people tell you. As you can imagine, people come in here with all sorts of motives, all sorts of agendas. My job is to find out what those motives are in order to get to the heart of the problem.”

“Thanks for telling me that. I was a little unclear what the purpose of your job was, but that makes it transparent.”

Dr. Ferguson gave a slight smile. “Personalities are so varied that the art comes in trying to figure out just who someone is. We’ve all met the charismatic person who is a font of information, willing to share, willing to express him or herself. We instinctively like these people. We’re hard wired to fall for them, but they are liars. And they’re skilled at it too because after all, what is charisma but manipulation?”

Marco frowned at him. This was all prattle and nonsense. He had a case to work.

“Then there are the people like your fiancée, Captain D’Angelo. Charismatic, but also flawed. She genuinely places herself second to other people. Her selfless sacrifice draws people in and makes them want to orbit around her. She tries to protect others because she has an overdeveloped fear of losing people close to her.”

Marco shifted again. He didn’t want to talk about Peyton. The doctor’s words were playing right into his insecurities about her, about why she stayed with him.

“And then there are people like you, Captain D’Angelo. You don’t give a damn what I think about you. You just don’t want me to interfere with your purpose. You find me an annoyance, a hindrance. You want me gone out of your life. You guard yourself so tightly, you protect yourself so severely, you make it difficult for anyone to get inside. It makes you a terrible liar.”

“What is the purpose of this?”

“You didn’t find church good. You didn’t find it good to get back into routine. You hated it. You felt out of place. The anger you carry prevents you from getting the solace you used to receive when you were part of it.” He lowered his hands. “You are not the same man you were. You inflicted your will on people by being physically imposing, by your virility and masculinity, but you are not that man anymore. When people look at you now, they don’t feel that physical intimidation they once did. They see a wounded man who is struggling to find his place.”

Marco blinked in shock. What the hell?

“And some part of you has to be afraid that you’ll never figure out who you are again.”

Marco gave a disbelieving laugh. “Is the department paying you for this?”

Dr. Ferguson leaned forward. “You will only heal when you figure out who you are. You will only heal when you accept your limitations. This situation was bound to happen at some point in your life, Captain D’Angelo. As you age, you were bound to lose that physicality that you took for granted. At some point, you were going to have to confront your own self-image. The bullet just made it happen sooner.”

Marco gave a sarcastic nod. “Great advice, Dr. Ferguson. If we’re through here, I’ve got a case to work.”

“We’re not through. We’ve barely begun.”

Marco slumped in the chair.

“I wanted you to go to the support group because it’s filled with people rediscovering who they are due to loss. Do I think it’s the perfect solution? No, but it’s a good one. It’s a start.” He picked up a pen and held it between both of his hands. “Let me ask you. What is the most important thing in your life?”

“You know that.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Peyton.”

“Right. If you don’t do something about the anger and despair you feel, you’re going to drive her away. You’re going to lose her and that will be a bigger loss than your unsustainable macho self-image was. You’ve got to go to that support group, Captain D’Angelo. You’ve got to go if not for yourself, then for her. Period.”

*    *    *

The witches’ house was a squat single story with wood siding. It sat back from the road, down a narrow drive with oleander bushes creating a tunnel to the front steps. They pulled the Suburban up next to Sharpe’s patrol car on a widened patch of levee.

Sharpe climbed out of the patrol car and met them at the start of the long drive. Peyton could see past the tunnel of oleanders where two women stood next to an open fire ringed in by river rocks. A black kettle sat on a tripod over the fire and around the fire were lawn chairs.

Sharpe gave Peyton a nod, then shook hands with Tank and Radar. Finally he tipped his cap to Bambi.

“Hello, officer,” said Bambi in a sultry voice.

“Ma’am.” He turned to Radar. “Look, Radar, these women don’t cotton to uniforms.”

“What does that mean?”

“Every time I’ve dealt with them, they’ve been ball busters.”

“How often do you have to deal with them?”

“More often than you’d think. They’re always having some party out here where someone gets wasted, strips naked, and starts running along the road or bouncing through the trees.”

“They look like hippies, not witches,” said Radar, studying them behind his mirrored sunglasses.

“The Wiccan religion, although relatively recent in its current form, does have ties back to pre-Christian Ireland, Scotland and Wales,” said Tank. “Although most pagan religions were wiped out during medieval times, recent discoveries of Paleolithic cave drawings depicting a fertility goddess and a hunter god suggest Wiccan beliefs may date back more than 30,000 years. Certainly, the current incarnation of the religion is within the last century, the 1950’s I believe, but the Wiccan’s beliefs remain relatively benign. They are a duotheistic religion, believing in a goddess and a god, typically the Mother Goddess and a Horned God. Most Wiccans are in tune with the forces of the universe and often perform shamanistic rituals of healing. For the most part it’s a loving, life-affirming religion rooted in the belief that we should only take what we need and no more.”

No one moved. They all stood and stared at Tank.

“Just thought you might like to know.”

Peyton let out a whistle. She was impressed. Talk about still waters running deep. This guy was a freakin’ well.

Radar gave a slow nod, then faced his team, but his eyes bore into Peyton. “I run point.”

“You run point.”

“I’ll do the talking. You just keep your eyes peeled.”

“Got it, chief.”

He held up a finger, glaring at her, then he snapped it to his side and turned, striding up the drive. They followed behind him.

“You are just full of piss and vinegar, aren’t you?” chuckled Sharpe next to her.

She shrugged.

Radar reached beneath his black suit jacket and pulled out his badge, holding it before him. “Ladies, I’m Special Agent Carlos Moreno with the FBI.”

“Ladies? Did you hear that, Lucy?” said a large, round woman wearing a multicolored muumuu. She had her hands tucked up inside the sleeves, her brown hair cut short and feathered away from her face. She looked to be in her late forties, early fifties. Her feet were stuffed into leather sandals.

The other woman, Lucy Moonstar Dawn, was tall and lean, her features angular, sharp cheekbones, sharp hooked nose, dirty blond hair flowing far down her back almost to her ass. She wore capris and a loose peach t-shirt with sneakers and ankle socks. Beads and bangles draped around her neck and off her wrists, and feathers hung from her ears.

“I heard.” She crossed her arms, her bangles jingling.

Bambi nudged Peyton with her shoulder. “Is that a cauldron?”

Peyton studied the black pot and had to admit Bambi was probably right. It looked like something she’d seen in a Halloween store. On the porch behind the women, hanging from the rafters, were all sorts of interesting items – things that looked like bird wings, sparkly bits of soda cans cut into shapes and attached to fishing wire, old chandeliers hung with teacups and eating utensils. As the breeze blew beneath the overhang, the various gadgets tinkled and made whispering sounds.

Peyton shivered and looked around. The yard was choked with weeds. A broken bicycle leaned against the house and a derelict 1950’s Chevy rested on its rims in a back corner of the yard.

Radar took a few steps closer. “Ma’am, we just want to ask you some questions.”

“Ma’am? Honestly, are you trying to insult me? Don’t come any closer, bub. I don’t care for your tone.”

“My tone?” Radar held out his hands. “What tone?”

“Ma’am, ladies. Shit. Don’t dismiss me before you’ve even met me, bucko. I don’t appreciate it and I don’t have to take it.”

“I need to ask you some questions about three homicides that happened in this area. In fact, two of the bodies were found on the farm adjacent to your own.” He took another step closer.

“I said stay where you are. You got a warrant or something?”

“A warrant? For questions?”

The heavier woman, who had to be Dora Deuces, moved over and lowered her bulk into one of the lawn chairs. It groaned under her weight. “If I don’t see a warrant, you aren’t asking any questions. I’m damn sick of men coming on my land and thinking they can boss me around.”

Radar turned to Sharpe. “Is she shitting me?”

“Nope.”

Radar’s jaw hardened. “Fine. Then I’ll go get a warrant and we’ll tear this bastard apart.” His voice trailed off and his eyes came to rest on Peyton.

She gave him an innocent look.

“You think you can get these bitches to talk?”

“Not if you call them bitches where they can hear you.”

Radar drew a calming breath. “Try to get them talking.” He glanced back at the filthy yard. “If we have to tear this place apart, we’re all gonna need tetanus shots.”

Peyton smiled in triumph.

“Don’t be smug, Sparky!” snapped Radar, pointing a finger at her. “They’re probably not going to talk to you either.”

Peyton gave him a fake chastised look. He rolled his eyes.

“Come on, Emma,” she said, reaching for her badge. “Let’s use our much smaller brains and see if we can get any answers out of these women.” She gave Radar a wink. “Why don’t you wait for us by the cars?”

Radar grumbled something, but she didn’t hear what it was. She waited until he and the other two men moved back down the road, then she smiled at the witches as she stage-whispered to Bambi. “Is that a bat hanging from the chandelier on the edge of the porch?”

Bambi’s gaze snapped to it. “Oh man, I think so. How cool?”

The women eyed the two of them, but when Bambi pointed to the porch, they shifted and looked to where she indicated. “Is that a real bat?”

Turning back around the two women exchanged looks. “Yep, found him out under one of the orchard trees,” said Lucy.

Bambi’s eyes grew enormous. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Not at all,” said Lucy, following Bambi toward the porch.

Peyton strolled to the other side of the fire and passed her badge to Dora who was still sitting in the lawn chair. “I’m Peyton Brooks and that’s my partner, Emma Redford.”

Dora handed her back the badge. “And you think that because you have a uterus, I’m going to listen to you any more than the Men in Black knock-offs.”

“As a matter of fact I do.”

Dora tilted up her chin and stared down her nose at her. “Okay. Sit. You got five minutes.”

Peyton grabbed a lawn chair and sank into it. Leaning forward, she peered into the cauldron. “That sure smells good.”

“It’s stew. Cooks best in cast iron over an open flame.”

Peyton smiled. On the porch she could hear Bambi exclaim, “Is that a crow’s foot?”

“Yep, cat got after the poor thing when it was dead. That’s about all I could salvage.”

“Wow! You could make a necklace out of that.”

Dora gave Peyton an amused look. Peyton shrugged.

“We talked with Li Wang yesterday and he mentioned you had a few run-ins with Old Man Harwood before he died.”

“Run-ins? That’s painting things a bit pale. We had some knockdown, drag ‘em out battles. He shot at guests we had here. Not once, but twice. Then he comes over here, cussing us out, demanding we sell back to him.”

“Sell back to him? He wanted the land back?”

“Yeah. He didn’t want our kind living next door to him.” The way she said kind, Peyton knew what she meant.

“Why’d he sell to you in the first place then?”

“He didn’t sell to us. Agnes did.”

“Agnes?”

“Yeah, when she married the old bastard, she had him put some of the land in her name and when things got bad, she’d sell part of it off.”

“She had the forty acres.”

“Yep.”

“She sold you five, but who got the other 35?”

“Sullivan Ballor.”

“The developer?”

“That’s the one. He wants these five too, but we’re definitely not selling.”

“So you’ve met Sullivan Ballor?”

“I have.”

“Not impressed?”

“Do you mean, do I think he’s the zombie killer?”

Peyton gave a noncommittal nod.

“Why? He wants to make this a tourist destination.”

“Well, billing it as a zombie hangout sort of accomplishes that, doesn’t it?”

“You think he’d go so far as to kill for publicity?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“The guy’s already got a butt-load of grief from the environmental front. He surely doesn’t need more. He’s not your zombie.”

From the porch, Peyton could see Bambi staring at everything with rapt fascination. Lucy seemed equally pleased to show her. “I got a coyote in the house. Poor fella got run over on the levee, but the pelt is soft as all get out. You wanna see it?”

“Hell yeah. Does it still have the head on?”

“Sort of.”

Dora’s brows rose.

“She’s got a thing about how the face looks after something’s dead,” offered Peyton.

“Good to know.”

Peyton smiled.

“I’ll tell you who your zombie is.”

Peyton leaned forward.

“Old Man Harwood.”

“Who happens to be dead.”

“Is he? Have you seen his corpse?”

“Deputy Sharpe says he’s dead.”

“All I know is if there is one person evil enough to become a zombie it was that man. You should have seen him when he’d come over here. His hair like a wild man, spouting gibberish, waving his arms in the air. Usually he had a gun in one of them. I tell you, he’s your zombie.” She drummed her fingers on the chair. “And one time, when I went to see Agnes after he died, to check up on her, someone was in that house. I could hear creaking on the stairs and when I asked Agnes, she said it was the wind, but I tell you it was still as death that day.”

“Maybe it was Roy Junior, her son?”

“He was in the hospital with the cancer by then. But it gets better.” Dora shot a look around the yard. “When I left the house, I saw something go darting across the roof.”

Peyton shivered. She’d seen something zip around the corner of the house herself, but Sharpe said it was a coyote. “What do you think you saw?’

“I have no idea, but it was bigger than a cat. A lot bigger. I just caught the motion from the corner of my eye and it was gone.”

Peyton really didn’t want to play into this nonsense, but she felt compelled to ask. “Aren’t zombies slow? Isn’t that their things? You know?”

“You aren’t keeping up with the lore. Nowadays zombies are wicked fast. They can be on you before you have a chance to make the sign of the cross.”

Peyton chewed on her inner lip. “I have to ask this, Dora.”

“You want to know where Lucy and me were last Wednesday night.”

“Yeah.”

“We were here. We held a séance. I’ve got a list of the participants I’ll give you. They can vouch for us.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Peyton rubbed her hands along her knees. “That stew sure smells good. Beef?”

“Best kind.”

“God, I miss beef. My fiancé’s vegetarian, so I haven’t had beef in months.”

“How about I get you a bowl right now?”

Peyton glanced over her shoulder. “My boss would have a fit if he saw me eating anything. This is just my second week. I’d better not.”

Dora pushed herself out of the lawn chair, grunting as she stood. “I’ll put it in a to-go container. He’s got to let you eat sometime today.”

“Thank you. I’d really appreciate it.”

While Dora went to retrieve the container, Peyton paced off the yard, looking for a hooked knife or some other instrument that could have made the leg wounds on the first two victims, but she found nothing. When Dora returned, she brought Bambi with her.

“Thank you for the tour, Lucy,” said Bambi.

“My pleasure.” Lucy passed her a piece of paper. “If you want to come out for one of our celebrations, you’d be welcome, Emma.”

“Thank you.”

Dora dished up a container of stew and passed it to Peyton with the list of séance participants.

“Give them one of your cards,” Peyton told Bambi.

Bambi handed it over.

“If you think of anything else, will you call us?”

“We’ll call, but I tell you, you need to be looking in the cemetery.”

“Thank you for talking with us.”

The two women waved them off. Peyton and Bambi started walking down the long drive toward the men.

“Did you see any weapons when you went in the house?”

“No hooked knives,” said Emma. “And the knives in the kitchen are too small to have made the wounds you describe.”

“I didn’t see anything in the yard either.”

Radar paced away from the car when they approached. “Well?”

“We didn’t find any weapons, at least not in plain sight, and they gave me a list of people who can corroborate their whereabouts last Wednesday. They were holding a séance.”

“Of course they were.” Radar’s eyes fixed on the container. “They gave you lunch?”

Peyton held it out to him. “No, I got a sample out of the cauldron for Igor to process. That way we’ll know they aren’t cooking brains.”

Radar took it and gave a short nod, then he passed it to Tank. Just a nod, nothing more. This guy was worse than Marco with the praise.

“Sharpe got us a meeting with Sullivan Ballor tomorrow.”

“Dora doesn’t think he’s the zombie.”

“And why does she think that and why do we give a rat’s ass what she thinks?”

“She said he’s having trouble getting building permits because of environmental groups. He sure doesn’t need trouble with bodies being found adjacent to the land he’s trying to develop.”

“She’s right about the environmental problems,” offered Sharpe.

“So what now?”

Peyton shifted weight. “How hard would it be to dig up Old Man Harwood?”

“You want me to dig up a corpse?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“How long has he been dead?” asked Bambi.

“Three years,” offered Sharpe. “Why do you want to dig up Old Man Harwood?”

“Diner Doug and Dora Deuces both think the zombie killer’s Harwood.”

Radar shook his head. “This sounds like an episode of Scooby Doo.”

“Hey, you’re the Ghost Squad,” said Peyton, holding out her hands. “Look, Radar, what’s the harm? Maybe there’s something there. Why do people keep pointing at him?”

Radar started to answer, but Tank interrupted. “In the 12th century, a philosopher by the name of John Duns Scotus was found outside his coffin with torn and bloody hands, apparently trying to get out of his tomb.”

Peyton motioned to Tank.

“But with modern embalming techniques, the chance of burying someone alive is highly unlikely.”

“What does this have to do with digging up a man who’s been buried three years?” demanded Radar.

“Can you imagine what he looks like?” said Bambi.

They ignored her.

“I don’t know, but we only have one suspect and he happens to be dead. Shouldn’t we make sure?”

Radar looked at Sharpe. Sharpe shrugged.

“I’m not asking an old lady to dig up her dead husband because we didn’t do our job and find the real killer.”

“We don’t have to ask Agnes. We can ask her son.”

“A man with cancer?”

“We should probably go talk to him anyway.”

“Where are you going with this, Sparky?”

“I’ve talked with three people who say Old Man Harwood had a violent temper, he’d scream gibberish, and before he died he could hardly walk. These are all signs of prion disease, Radar. I think that’s what killed him.” She gave a sheepish shrug. “If he’s dead.”

Radar crossed his arms over his chest and studied her. “He’s dead, Sparky.”

“But if we confirm he had the disease…”

“It still proves nothing. The three bodies were found years after he died.”

“What about his son?”

Sharpe shook his head. “He was at Stanford when the last body was found in Locke. It can’t be him.”

“We might as well suspect Mrs. Harwood,” said Radar.

Peyton waved that off. “Whoever killed those men tore out their thighs, then pried open the skulls to get at the brain. She’s too frail. So where do we go from here?”

“We need to check out the people at the séance. Give your list to Tank and Bambi. Then tomorrow you and I are going to talk with Sullivan Ballor. We’re going to focus on a living, breathing answer to this homicide, not get carried away with spooks and spirits.”

Peyton sighed.

“Wait,” said Bambi, “does that mean we’re not digging up a corpse?”

*    *    *

Marco had just pulled up in front of the Phelps’ place with Stan when his cell phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket as he made the painful and awkward climb out of the Charger and onto the sidewalk.

“D’Angelo.”

“Captain?” Cho’s voice.

“Yeah, what’s going on with the head shop case? Did you get into the guy’s records?”

“We talked with an employee, Byrony Kennings, and she said he kept everything on his laptop. Any paper records went up in the fire and the laptop’s a melted bit of black plastic now.”

Stan stepped up on the sidewalk next to him, carrying what looked like a purse, but it held his own laptop and a tablet and some other devices that Marco didn’t know what they did. He gave Marco a questioning look.

“Maybe he kept his records in the cloud,” he told Cho.

Stan nodded.

“Huh, I hadn’t thought of that. ‘Suppose Stan can get to them?”

“You can get to the records if they’re in the cloud, right?” he asked Stan.

Stan gave him a disgruntled look.

“He can get them,” Marco told Cho, smiling at Stan.

“I’ll get Byrony’s login information. Thanks, Captain.”

“No problem.”

Marco disconnected the call, then he looked up at the house. It was as nondescript as a house could get, painted in earth tones, shuttered windows, and two potted plants on either side of the long staircase. Marco studied the staircase with dread. When he’d moved in with Peyton, she’d replaced her stairs for a ramp to accommodate his wheelchair, but after he’d moved to a cane, she’d kept the ramp. It was easier and although he bristled every time he used it, he realized he should be grateful for it.

“You go first, but wait for me at the top,” he told Stan.

Involuntarily Stan’s eyes tracked to his cane, but he didn’t say anything and Marco was glad. He moved to the stairs and began climbing. Marco followed him, fighting the grimace of pain. When they reached the top, he felt like ground glass had been sawing at what remained of his bones, but he reached for the doorbell, refusing to meet Stan’s worried look. He still had to get down the damn stairs and he didn’t want to think about it right now, but it was all that filled his thoughts, until Mrs. Phelps opened the door.

Her hair was flat and mussed on one side and she wore a cardigan that she’d pulled around herself. Her eyes held an empty, haunted look.

“Mrs. Phelps, thank you for letting us come over,” said Marco, holding out his hand.

She took it in both her own. “Thank you for pursuing this, Captain D’Angelo. I’m sorry my husband isn’t here, but he had to go to work.”

“No problem, ma’am. This is Stan Neumann, our tech specialist. He wanted to look at Carissa’s laptop to see if there was anything on there that might help.”

“Sure. This way.”

She led them into a pleasant living room with leather furniture and earth toned paint, then across to a hallway. Carissa’s room was the first door they came to. Mrs. Phelps pushed it open and motioned them inside. Stan went immediately to the desk before the windows and began working on the laptop he found there, while Marco stepped into the room, looking around.

The room reminded him of his niece Cristina’s room – posters on the wall, mostly of kittens, pictures tacked to a corkboard near the desk, a collection of earrings hooked through iron rungs on a stand shaped like the Eiffel Tower. The bedspread was pink and black, the curtains a frothy sheer pink. Everything feminine and young – innocent.

“My husband told me you found the video,” said Mrs. Phelps. She stood, leaning against the doorjamb as if she couldn’t make herself enter the room. It smelled faintly of perfume.

“We did.”

Stan glanced over his shoulder at the strange sound she made.

“My daughter was a good girl, Captain D’Angelo.”

“I know that, ma’am. She didn’t know she was being filmed.”

Mrs. Phelps nodded, not able to meet his eye. Stan went back to working on the laptop, but he exchanged a pained look with Marco.

Marco studied the pictures Carissa had tacked to the board. A lot of them were her with her girlfriends, some dressed in formal wear at a restaurant, a few at a school, one of her in a tennis uniform, holding a racket. Marco touched that one. She looked happy, smiling at the camera, the tennis court behind her.

“She made sections that year. She was so proud to represent her school.”

Marco nodded, then his gaze fixed on a picture that sat on the desk – Carissa and a brown-haired boy. The boy was looking at the camera, but Carissa was looking at him, her face alight with emotion. She’d cared for him deeply. “Is this Ryan Addison, Mrs. Phelps?”

“Yes. I keep thinking about throwing it away, but it’s a picture of our daughter. I can’t get rid of it.”

“Can I take it? I’ll bring it back when the investigation is over.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

She gave him the most gut-wrenching look, he almost felt sick. “You have children, Captain D’Angelo?”

“No, ma’am. I’m not sure cops should have children. We’re gone too much.”

She nodded, then she looked around the room. “I’d do it again.” She gave him a weary smile. “You know that? I’d do it all over again.”

“Captain,” said Stan, drawing Marco’s attention. “I found the blogs. She wrote a lot of them.” He pointed to a spot on the screen. “I’ve just skimmed a few, but she was trying to warn other girls about what happened to her.”

Marco stared at the computer screen. God, he needed a drink.

*    *    *

Marco heard the front door open. He shoved the bottle into his nightstand and closed the drawer, then he limped into the bathroom and grabbed the mouthwash. A few seconds later, he wandered out of the bedroom, looking for Peyton.

A massive dog barreled into him and knocked him back into the wall, his leg buckling. He caught himself, holding the dog off with one arm. Tater.

“Down,” he commanded and the dog obeyed. Marco reached out and scratched his ear. The German shepherd made a noise of contentment. Glancing up he saw Jake and Abe come through the door, carrying posters and boxes filled with God only knew what. Marco wasn’t thrilled with seeing Abe.

“Sorry,” said Jake, dumping his paraphernalia on the couch and going after Tater. Marco waved him off.

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re going over wedding plans,” said Abe. “Didn’t Peyton tell you?”

“No.”

Abe gave him a close look. “Are you in pain, Angel?”

“I just got body slammed into the wall, so yeah, a little.”

Abe studied him intently, forcing Marco to look away.

“I’m sorry, Adonis,” said Jake.

Marco ignored that and limped to his favorite armchair, throwing himself into it. Abe came around the end of the couch, carrying his box.

“Did you call Greyson?” he asked.

“Greyson?”

“My friend at Stanford.”

Marco remembered the name. Dr. Greyson Chamberlain. Just the name pissed him off for some reason. “No.”

“Angel.”

“Abe.”

With a disappointed look, Abe turned and went into the kitchen, disappearing from view. Marco realized he hadn’t even noticed what Abe was wearing. Jake started setting up an easel in the middle of the living room.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Assisting Abe,” he said.

“Assisting Abe? First you’re my secretary, now you’re Abe’s assistant?”

Jake gave him an arch look. “Laugh it up, pretty boy. Just wait until you see what you’re wearing to the wedding.”

Marco felt his heart drop. “Not a loincloth?”

Jake waggled his brows.

Oh, shit, what did Abe have him wearing? It had better not be a loincloth. He just knew Abe was somehow going to work a loincloth into this at some point.

While he worried over the possibilities, Peyton opened the door and stepped inside. She took in the chaos that was her house, then settled her stuff on the sofa table and hung up her gun. She didn’t seem fazed by any of it.

He watched her walk around the end of the couch, scooping up Pickles. “Hey Abe,” she called into the kitchen.

“Hey, sweets. I got a lot more dishes for you to try.”

“Hey, Jake.” She kissed him on the cheek.

“Hey, Mighty Mouse, how’s the FBIing coming along?”

“Awesome.” Her eyes tracked to Marco. “I forgot to tell you, didn’t I?”

He gave her a tilt of his head. She walked over to him and leaned down. He could smell the floral scent of her soap and he breathed it in. Sliding his hand around the back of her head, he pulled her into him for a kiss. She kissed him back.

For some reason, there was always a moment when he feared she’d pull away. She never did, but that didn’t lessen his fear. She gave him Pickles. “I’m going to change.”

“Need help,” he asked her.

She gave him a sultry wink. “Later.” Then she was gone.

Jake set up a poster on the easel, but it was covered with a pink bit of cloth. Then he laid out a bunch of dishes on the coffee table.

Peyton returned, wearing Marco’s 49er’s jersey and a pair of shorts.  She climbed up on the arm of his chair. He slipped his arm around her waist and she leaned against him.

“I’m half afraid,” she whispered to him.

“I’m terrified,” he answered.

Abe suddenly appeared. Marco blinked, astonished that he hadn’t noticed what he was wearing. It was a pale pink suit with pinstriped pink pants, a thin black tie, a pink fedora covering his dreadlocks, and the most astonishing pair of pink wing-tipped shoes.

Jake retreated to the couch, letting Abe take center stage.

Peyton’s mouth hung open.

“Okay, the inspiration for this design came from your visit to the Ryde Hotel. I thought, why not do a 1920’s theme? What period in American history was more fun than the Roaring 20’s?”

“The Depression that followed it,” said Jake wryly.

Abe waved him away as he reached for the pink bit of cloth covering the easel. A drawing of women wearing frothy pink gowns covered the poster board. “For the bridesmaids, I thought this lacy little number would be perfect. Aren’t they gorgeous? Can’t you see Maria decked out in this dress?”

Peyton’s mouth continued to hang open.

Marco smiled and looked away.

“Of course, the Man of Honor,” and here he ran his hands along his body, “will be resplendent in pink as well.”

“Pink?” asked Peyton.

“Yes.”

“Why pink? We were talking orange the other day.”

“Pink for the beautiful pink Ryde Hotel.”

Marco suddenly had a sinking feeling. Oh shit, pink. A pink loincloth?

“Now for the Groom’s Men.” He removed the first poster and a new one took its place. The men on the poster were all wearing various versions of the suit Abe himself wore – wide lapels with white shirts and fedoras. “Can’t you just see Marco’s gorgeous brothers dressed like this?’

Peyton’s mouth hung open again.

“And for you, my sweet darlin’.” He reached for a new poster. A woman in a short flapper dress appeared. Instead of a veil, she wore a beaded headband and the skirt of the dress came above the knee, fringed in beads that swung outward with her movement. The only allowance for tradition was the color – white.

Marco actually thought Peyton would look good in that. The short sleeves and hem would show off her toned limbs and the white would look stunning against her brown skin-tones. Heels always made Peyton’s legs look long, despite her lack of height.

He gave her an amused look. She looked horrified. “I actually don’t know what to say.”

Abe beamed a smile at her. “Isn’t it adorable? Clever, really. Who else would have such a wedding?”

“Who else,” she echoed.

“It gets better,” said Jake, giving Marco a wink.

Marco began a silent prayer. Please no pink loincloth, please no pink loincloth.

“And now for the only groom who will be more stunning than the bride.” Abe reached for the next poster.

A man in a hot pink zoot suit stared back at them. The jacket came down to mid-thigh, the pale pink of the shirt was set off by a black tie, but the suit itself was shocking – a pink so vibrant it seemed to glow. To top it off, the poor fool wore a hot pink fedora tilted at a rakish angle.

Peyton made a strangled sound and Jake ducked his head, fighting his smile.

“Now to go with this ensemble, I chose these plates. They are authentic 1920’s stemware and china.” He held a plate out to Peyton. “And I found them in pink.”

Marco hardly heard Abe, he was transfixed by the zoot suit. Jake leaned close to him. “Bet you’re wishing for the loincloth now.”

CHAPTER 10

The city of Sacramento rose up off the valley floor, a sudden metropolis where there had once been agricultural fields and twisting rivers. The rivers remained. Peyton craned her neck back as Radar drove down the narrow city streets, staring up at the high rises. People hustled back and forth, wearing business suits and heels, and she couldn’t help but wonder if they worked in the government offices that seemed to be on nearly every corner.

Maneuvering the huge Suburban into the tight parking structure beneath one of the buildings, Radar pulled the SUV to a stop and they got out. He removed his sunglasses and slipped the ear into the neck of his shirt, then they headed for the elevator.

“Are Tank and Bambi going to call all of the people on that séance list?” she asked, stepping into the elevator behind him.

“That’s how we do an investigation, Sparky. Easier to work with the living, then dig up the dead.”

Peyton wasn’t taking the bait. “The witches aren’t the zombie killer.”

“And you know this how?”

“They’d have killed Old Man Harwood, not the field workers.”

“Is that why you want to dig him up?”

“Nope. I want to dig him up because I’ll bet you dollars to donuts he has a prion disease.”

“I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, he’s dead.”

She looked up at the floor numbers and ignored him. He shook his head beside her.

“I can see why now.”

“You can see what?”

“Why she wanted you?”

“Who?”

“Sarge. She was all hot and intent on getting you for our squad.”

“Why?”

The elevator doors opened and Radar stepped out. “You’re nuts.”

Peyton glared at him, but followed. The elevator let them out in a marble tiled foyer with a reception desk directly across from them. A young man dressed in a suit smiled from behind the counter. Radar grabbed his badge and slapped it on the counter.

The young man reared back, giving them a wide-eyed stare. “How can I help you?”

“We’re here to see Sullivan Ballor. We have an appointment.”

“Of course.” The young man fumbled for his computer and began clicking on things.

Peyton leaned on the counter. “He runs point,” she told the young man.

The young man glanced up at her, then looked at Radar. “Okay?” He went back to clicking some more.

Radar gave Peyton a scowl.

She shrugged. “Thought it might hurry him along.”

Finally the young man stopped clicking and reached for a phone. “Just a moment.”

Peyton rocked on her heels and looked around. A list of businesses covered the wall to the right of the reception desk and beyond it were a number of portraits of stylish dressed men trailing off into a hallway.

“I have an FBI agent here with an appointment for Mr. Ballor.”

Peyton wandered toward the portraits.

“Okay, I’ll send them in.”

The first one was of a heavy-set man with thinning brown hair and deep set brown eyes. His round cheeks were red with broken blood vessels. The name on a gold plate beneath the portrait read Sullivan Ballor.

“Go down this hallway,” said the young man, pointing to the hallway where Peyton stood. “First door on your right. He’s expecting you.”

Radar gave a nod and headed toward the hallway. Peyton smiled at the young man. “Thank you,” she said and followed on Radar’s heels.

The glass door listed the business as Ballor Properties, Ltd. Radar shoved the door open and strolled through. A middle aged woman in a business suit and skirt met them on the other side. She had short cropped blond hair and a large wedding ring.

She offered Radar her hand. “I’m Nancy Pennel, Mr. Ballor’s assistant.”

“Special Agents Carlos Moreno and Peyton Brooks,” he said, taking her hand. “Is Mr. Ballor in?”

“Yes, right this way.” She led them down a short hall and to another door. Knocking, she reached for the handle. “The agents are here to see you, Mr. Ballor.”

A deep voice boomed from inside. “Send them in.”

Nancy smiled at them, then shoved the door wide. Peyton and Radar walked into a lavishly appointed office with brown leather sofas, Oriental rugs, and dark wood paneling. Light shown through the plate glass windows behind Ballor’s desk.

Sullivan Ballor didn’t top five six at the outside, but he must weigh about 250 lbs. His face was rounder than the portrait in the lobby and the red veining on his cheeks was more pronounced. His hair had thinned to a few wisps across the crown. He held out a beefy hand and shook first Radar’s hand, then reached for Peyton. His palm was damp and he was breathing hard. He definitely wasn’t their zombie killer.

She gave Radar a look as Ballor pumped her arm vigorously.

“Nice to meet you, Agents. Always happy to help out the FBI.” He motioned to the brown leather arm chairs before his desk. “Please sit down.”

Peyton sank into the seat, watching him huff his way back to his own overstuffed desk chair. Radar sat down beside her, reaching for his notepad.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Ballor. We won’t keep you long.”

“No problem. I cleared my morning for you.”

“Let me get right to the point. We’re investigating three homicides that occurred over a six month period, starting last fall.”

“Right. I know about the deaths. So unfortunate. Have you identified the bodies?”

“We’re working on it. We believe they’re all of Hmong descent.”

“That is unfortunate.” He tried to lean his bulk forward. “Is it true the brains were devoured?”

Peyton studied Sullivan Ballor, looking for tremors, strange speech patterns, anything to indicate he might be suffering from prion disease, but according to Abe, he probably wouldn’t be showing signs yet anyway.

“Let’s stick to the case, Mr. Ballor,” said Radar. “You own 35 acres of property adjacent to the one where two of the bodies were found, yes?”

“Yes. I’m trying to acquire the other 65, but I’m running into some difficulties.”

“We understand you’re having difficulties with the land you do own, right?”

“Oh, the environmental reports. Yes, that’s a problem.” He huffed a little. “I don’t suppose you can help a man out, could you, Special Agent Moreno?”

“Not my jurisdiction, sir.”

“Right.” Ballor wheezed a laugh.

Peyton rolled her eyes and shifted her attention to the man’s desk. Clearly he wasn’t the zombie killer. He wasn’t even a zombie wannabe. He was barely living himself, and a far cry from being undead. When Sullivan Ballor went to the great beyond, his poor body was so worn out, it wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

A gold clock caught her attention. It was suspended on a spindle and could be spun to face different directions, depending on where it was placed on the desk. Peyton spun it until the face of the clock stared at her.

“Where were you a week ago Wednesday, Mr. Ballor?”

“I’d gone to Los Angeles to check on some business there. I didn’t get back until Thursday morning. Nancy can give you my plane tickets.”

Peyton spun the clock around, then began to count off seconds in her head. When she spun it back, she checked to see if she’d been even close with her Mississippis.

Radar glanced at her and away. “I assume you have men working the 35 acres you bought, right?”

“We’ve had surveyors and environmentalist. Appraisers and contractors. Electricians and sewer technicians. You name it, I’ve probably had it out there.”

“Has anyone reported anything odd? Any strange people lurking on the land? Any threats? Any complaints?”

“Where do you want me to start, Agent Moreno? A lot of people don’t want me developing that land, even though I’m going to bring a lot of revenue into the area. Everything you do out there someone is protesting. They like their solitude and they want to keep it that way.”

“Do you hire Hmong to work for you?”

“I’m an equal opportunity employer. I hire many different ethnicities.”

Peyton spun the clock again.

“Can you think of any threat in particular that seemed most credible to you? Maybe ones of a racial nature?”

“I report everything to the sheriff’s department. They’ll have those records, Agent Moreno.”

Radar nodded.

Peyton spun.

The clock broke and landed in her lap.

She lifted panicked eyes to Ballor. He chuckled, then held out his hand. “Happens all the time, Agent Brooks.”

She placed the clock on his palm.

He grabbed the spindles and snapped the clock back in place. “See. No harm. No foul.”

Radar gave her a furious look. “Thank you, Mr. Ballor. We won’t keep you any longer or break any more of your possessions.”

Ballor laughed and pushed his bulk upright. “Don’t worry about it, Agent Moreno. It happens.”

Radar offered him a tense smile, then backed out of the chairs, laying a card on his desk. “If you think of anything…”

“Give you a call. I know the routine. Good luck with the case, Agents.”

Peyton accepted his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, Agent Brooks.”

Ducking her head against Radar’s scowl, she retreated to the door.

Once they were in the hallway beyond Ballor’s office, Radar rounded on her. “What the hell was that about?”

Peyton didn’t know how to answer.

“I’ve never gone into a man’s place of business and broken things.”

He’d never been with her, then, she thought, but wisely kept it to herself.

“Are you gonna tell Rosa?”

“Sarge?”

“Sarge,” Peyton allowed.

He shook his head in bewilderment. “No, I’m not gonna tell Sarge. I’m not going to tell anyone and you aren’t either.”

Peyton nodded.

“What got into you?”

“Come on, Radar. He’s clearly not the zombie killer. He can hardly walk across the room, let alone rip open someone’s thigh from beneath them.” She leaned close to him and lowered her voice. “How the hell would he get on the ground to be in position to stab them, then crack open their skulls?”

Radar considered that for a moment. “Now what?” When she started to speak, he held up a hand. “Don’t suggest we dig up Old Man Harwood.”

“Okay.” She pressed her palms together. “At least agree to interview his son. At least give me that.”

“I’m not bothering a man with cancer, Sparky.”

“Then let’s go back out to the Harwood Farm and talk to Agnes. Maybe we missed something.”

Radar let out a heavy sigh. “Fine, but you call your boyfriend Sharpe and arrange the meeting. Tell him we’re getting lunch, then we’ll head over.”

“All right,” said Peyton, reaching for her phone. She’d take anything at this point.

*    *    *

Marco scrubbed a hand across his face and closed his eyes. He’d been reading Carissa’s blogs and he felt the despair and desperation she felt. She’d thought she could make something good out of having her life destroyed by sharing her experience with other women, but it had been too painful.

You think you trust someone. You give them the most intimate part of you, and what? You become a sick joke, a way to earn points, a number. How do you live with the humiliation? How do you face people who have seen you at your most vulnerable and mocked you for it? How do you look people in the eye knowing they’ve seen you do things that should be kept secret? How do you get up and keep moving forward when all you want to do is die? Some mornings it feels like you can’t.

Some mornings it feels like you can’t.

On some level, Marco understood what she felt, what she meant. And if she had published this blog, other people would have understood too. She would have humanized what happened to her. She would have made people see her as something more, but the hurt was too great. The humiliation too insurmountable.

Carly poked her head inside Marco’s door. “Captain D’Angelo?”

“Yes.”

“A Stan Neumann is here to see you, but I told him you were busy.”

Marco stared at her. What the hell? “Stan works here, Carly. I’m never too busy for people who work here. He’s helping me on a case.”

“Oh, well, I told him I’d talk to you and then schedule an appointment for later.”

“He went away?”

“Well…”

“Get him back!”

Carly flinched and immediately he wished he hadn’t yelled at her. Before she could retreat, Stan poked his head inside the door.

“I know you’re busy, Captain, but I found something I think you should see.”

“Come in, come in.” Stan slid around Carly because Carly wouldn’t budge. Her shoulders had started shaking and tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying, it’s just…” Her voice broke and she covered her mouth with her hand. “...there’s so much to learn.”

Stan gave Marco a horrified look. Marco clenched his jaw in aggravation.

“Listen, Carly.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t...I just can’t.” Then she disappeared.

“She can’t what?” asked Stan.

Marco grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet. “Who the hell knows, Stan? I’ll be right back.”

He found Carly slumped at her desk, blowing her nose into a tissue.

“Look, I’m sorry I snapped, I’m stressed about this case.”

She waved him off, but she didn’t make eye contact. Her mascara was running beneath her eyes. Marco made an uncomfortable face.

“Hey, um, you brought in donuts or something this morning, right?”

“Scones,” she choked out, wiping the mascara away with a corner of the tissue.

“Can I get you one? I’m feeling a little hungry myself.”

“No, I’ll get it,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “Would you like some coffee too?”

Marco sighed. This was not what he wanted from a secretary, but apparently, it was the part of the job that Carly felt she could master, even though it wasn’t at all part of the job. Oh, Peyton would be pissed if she knew Carly was getting him coffee and a scone.

“That would be really nice, Carly.”

She beamed a smile at him. With her running mascara and blood-shot eyes, she looked like a hot mess. Then she was out of her chair and hurrying off to the break room after the food. Marco tamped down on his guilt and returned to Stan.

Stan sat in a chair before his desk. Marco took his own seat again. He had the picture from the Phelps’ house sitting by his laptop, but he set it down so he couldn’t see Carissa’s face.

“What do you have for me?”

“I used the warrant and pulled all of Carissa’s text messages from her phone.” He gave a weary sigh. “There were a lot. I’ve printed them out. Took an entire ream of paper, but I manage to skim through all of them.”

“Okay?”

“I narrowed them down to communications that seemed to pertain to our case. Anything where she mentioned the video or others did. Things got really heated. Apparently, Ryan Addison uploaded the video before they broke up. Some girls started texting Carissa about it and that’s how she found out.”

“Wait. I thought it was posted on a revenge porn site.”

“It was, but that’s not what Ryan Addison used it for. He used it to score points with his fraternity.”

Marco slumped back in his chair. You become a sick joke, a way to earn points, a number. He ran a hand across his mouth.

“Captain, I found something else.” Stan passed a piece of paper across the desk to him. “These are between Carissa and Ryan Addison.”

Marco picked up the paper.

How could u do this 2 me?

What? U wanted 2.

I didn’t know. I’m so embarrassed.

Not my prob. Get over yourself.

Ryan, people R harassing me. What if my parents see? I feel sick.

It’s not a big deal. Get over yourself.

I want to die.

Then die. U keep saying that. I’m sick of it. Do it. Kill yourself. No one gives a shit. No one cares. Just get it done and leave me alone.

Marco let out a pant of air. He felt like someone had gut checked him.

“Captain, isn’t that intent to do harm?”

Marco swallowed hard. His heart was pounding in his ears.

“Captain?”

He blinked up at Stan. “I’m sorry. What?”

“That text message – isn’t that intent to do harm?”

Marco nodded. “I sure as hell think it is.”

*    *    *

Sharpe met them on the driveway to the Harwood farm. He had his hat tilted at an angle, his hands hooked into the belt on his pants, and his face lit up when Peyton stepped out of the Suburban.

“What exactly are we looking for?” he asked her.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” she said, giving him a smile.

Radar slammed the door. “That’s right, Sparky. Give everyone confidence in the FBI’s ability to solve cases. I’ll know it when I see it. Awesome.”

“You got something better? Tank and Bambi said all the séance people checked out. We know it’s not the witches or the land developer. Li Wang has an alibi. You won’t dig up Harwood and you won’t question his son. So here we are. My daddy always said if you’ve run into a dead end, go back to the scene of the crime. We’re at a dead end, Radar.” She smirked and dropped her eyes. “Or an undead end?”

Sharpe choked on a laugh, but Radar glared at her. “Just get this over with.”

They walked up to the house and rang the bell. After a moment, Agnes opened the door. “Agent Brooks, how delightful to see you again.”

“Same to you, Agnes. Can we come in and talk to you a bit more?”

“Of course you can. I have some fresh lemonade made up.”

She stepped back and waved them into the parlor. A serving set was already in place on the coffee table. She hurried over and began pouring out the drinks. “I have some nice homemade chocolate chip cookies. They’re still warm.”

Peyton sat down on the couch and accepted the glass and a cookie on a napkin. “You’re gonna spoil me, Agnes. I might just decide to move in.”

She laughed and passed the men their helpings, then she took a seat. “What can I do for you?”

Peyton settled her drink on the coaster Agnes provided. “This is going to seem like a strange question, but when did your husband die?”

“Three years ago.”

“What was the cause of death?”

Agnes considered that. “Probably cancer.”

“Probably? Did he have an autopsy?”

“No, he died here. In his bed. We didn’t need an autopsy.”

Peyton glanced at Radar. “Who signed the death certificate then?”

“The old doctor who had a practice out here. Dr. Bill Bartley. He’s dead now.”

“Agnes, why do you think it was cancer?”

“Well, cancer gets most of us, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, but was he being treated for cancer?”

“Roy? Lord no. That man was so stubborn. He would never go to the doctor. I’d have to fight him to get any of us to a clinic.”

Peyton broke a piece of cookie and placed it in her mouth. There were few things as absolutely wonderful as warm chocolate chip cookies. “That is so good, Agnes.”

Agnes beamed at her. “I’m glad you like it. I’ll give you some to take with you.”

Peyton wiped her fingers on the napkin. “What symptoms did Roy have? Before he died? What did he complain about?”

“Oh, that’s so hard to remember. He complained a lot about indigestion. Everything he ate he said stuck in his throat. He used to do a lot of the pruning, but his hands got so weak, he couldn’t hold the shears.”

“Weak? Did they shake?”

“Yeah, but that happens as you age. You don’t have the steady touch you once had.”

“Did he have trouble walking?”

“Well, yes, but he was sick, Agent Brooks. Weak. You know?”

“Yes.” She glanced at Radar. “What about his mood? Did he have mood swings?”

Agnes’ face clouded over. “Roy was a hardworking man. He worked his entire life to provide for us. That caused a lot of stress, Agent Brooks.”

“I understand.” She leaned back and brushed crumbs off her pants. “Agnes, we have a long ride back to San Francisco. Do you have a bathroom I can use?”

“Of course, dear. Go down that hall and take the first left. It’s the room next to the kitchen.”

“Thank you.”

Radar gave her a frantic look, but she ignored him, moving toward the hallway. She found the bathroom. It was small and decorated with lace curtains, purple flowers, and penny tiles in pale lavender. Toilet seat covers and terry cloth rugs were arrange around the shower and toilet. Peyton stepped over these and went to the medicine cabinet.

She found it hard to believe that Roy wouldn’t have seen a doctor at some point in his illness, and one thing she knew, people kept all sorts of interesting things in their medicine cabinets. She carefully rifled through the medications she found.

Agnes had prescriptions for heart medicine, thyroid and anxiety. Huh, anxiety? Interesting. A strange bottle caught her attention. It was different than the others, the label written in Spanish. She opened the lid and peered inside. It was filled with small, round white pills. She read the label again. One word looked vaguely familiar.

Luminal.

She reached for her phone and dialed Abe’s number.

He picked up on the third ring. “Are you calling to tell me you decided on the Flapper theme for the wedding?”

“No, Abe, listen. I need to know something. What’s luminal used for?”

“Luminal? Why are you whispering?”

“Abe, please focus. I’ve got very little time. What is luminal?”

“Lumin—a—l? Because you know what luminol is used for?”

“Yes, blood stains. I want a—l, not o—l.”

“Phenobarbital. Seizure medication, although we don’t use it here in the states much anymore. Why?”

“Is that why a label might be written in Spanish?”

“Wait. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

“I’m in a suspect’s house and I’m going through the medicine cabinet.”

“Don’t you need a warrant for that?”

“I asked to use the bathroom. Doesn’t everyone go through other people’s medicine cabinets?”

“Peyton.”

“Just listen. I found a bottle with a label that’s written in Spanish. The only word I recognize is Luminal. Why don’t we use it here in the states?”

“Because it has a serious sedative effect and it can also cause hallucinations. It’s a long-acting barbiturate. If the bottle you’re holding has a label written in Spanish, it was probably brought in from Mexico. People can go down to Mexico and get all kinds of medications out of their pharmacies without a prescription.”

“Thanks, Abe.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“So do I.” Peyton hung up and replaced the medicine, closing the cabinet door. She heard a bang outside. Going to the window, she parted the curtains. The window looked over the back of the property and right before her was a run-down shed. Once it had looked like a miniature copy of the main house, but now the siding was peeling and the eaves looked dark with dry rot. The door on the shed stood open. As she watched, a shadow detached itself from the side of the shed, rose to a crouch, and sprinted around the corner of the building.

A knock sounded at the door and Peyton jumped, letting out an involuntary squeak.

“Is everything all right, Agent Brooks?”

Agnes.

Peyton let the curtain fall and went to the sink, turning on the water. “Everything’s fine, Agnes. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She washed her hands, then returned to the living room. Radar gave her a quizzical look, but Peyton forced a smile and took Agnes’ hand. “Thank you for the refreshments and the talk. We should probably get on the road. Traffic and all.”

“Of course, dear. Please visit anytime you’d like.” She placed a bag of cookies in her hands.

Peyton forced a smile as Agnes walked them to the door and out. No one said anything until they reached the vehicles, then Radar turned on her.

“What’s going on?”

“I found Phenobarbital in the medicine cabinet.”

“You went through her medicine cabinet?”

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“No. No! No one goes through other people’s medicine cabinets.” He paced away from them, running a hand through his dark hair, leaving her facing Sharpe.

“That sounds familiar. What is it?” Sharpe asked.

“Seizure medication, but it’s also a sedative and a hallucinogenic.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Radar.

“Google,” she lied.

“What the hell does that prove?”

“The U.S. doesn’t use it anymore. The bottle I found had a label written in Spanish.”

“You went through her medicine cabinets. I can’t believe you.”

“What does this have to do with the zombie case?” asked Sharpe.

“I don’t know yet, but I think we need a warrant to search this farm.” She looked over at Radar. “I heard a noise outside, so I looked out the window. There’s a shed out back.”

“Really? A shed on a farm? Yeah, that’s crazy unusual.”

“I saw someone leave the shed.”

“What?”

“Well, I think it was a someone. They kept to the shadows, but they ran along the side of the shed and disappeared. When we came out here before, I saw someone as well.”

“Maybe it was a worker?”

“Maybe, but I still say we need to search this farm.”

Sharpe and Radar exchanged a look. “If it isn’t a worker, who do you think it is?”

“Roy Junior.”

“He’s in a hospital at Stanford, Sparky.”

“Is he? Do we know for sure?” She took a step closer to him. “Look, Radar. I’m telling you Old Man Harwood had a prion disease. He didn’t die from cancer. What if his son has it too?”

Radar’s eyes widened. “What are you saying? Old Man Harwood and his son were both into eating human brains?”

Peyton held out her hands. “We haven’t called the hospital to see if he’s there. I’m telling you, everything we need to know about this case is right here on this farm. Trust me on this.”

“You have no evidence. You have no proof of any kind.”

“I feel it.”

“You feel it? You’ve been an FBI agent for less than two weeks and I’m supposed to go on your feelings that we’ve somehow got a...what? Zombie cult here?”

“If you won’t dig up Old Man Harwood and look for a prion disease, then at least let’s see if his son’s really in the hospital and let’s find out if he really has cancer.”

Radar looked at Sharpe. Sharpe shrugged. “Honestly, you don’t have anything else. I say go with her feeling.”

Scratching the back of his head, Radar huffed. “Fine. We’ll go bother a dying man.”

*    *    *

Devan took a seat across from Marco. He wore his usual dark suit, perfectly tailored, with his tie straight and conservative, and his shoes polished. He clasped his hands in his lap and released his breath.

“The fundraiser’s tomorrow at City View at Metreon. Black tie, semi-formal,” he said, giving Marco his politician’s smile.

“I know. We got the invitation.”

“Good location. The mayor’s having one of the finest caterers in the City do this function. All of the local celebrities will be there.”

“Can’t wait.” Marco fought down his annoyance. “About the case.”

“The suicide?”

“Right. We found the video. Carissa Phelps clearly didn’t know she was being filmed.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“She never once looked at the camera, but Ryan Addison did.” Marco slid the picture of Ryan across the desk to Devan.

Devan grimaced. “Smug prick, but this doesn’t prove she didn’t know about it.”

“We also accessed her blogs. The blogs were written to warn other girls about something like this happening to them. She mentions she didn’t know she was being filmed.”

“That’s better, but what you’re talking about is a civil case under SB255, D’Angelo, not a manslaughter charge.”

Marco picked up the last piece of paper. “We also have the text messages between the two of them. Take a look at this.” He gave Devan the paper.

Devan placed a hand over his mouth as he read it. When he got to the end, he swallowed hard and lifted his eyes to Marco. “This is horrible.”

“I know.”

“But it’s just words, D’Angelo. Nothing more. No one’s going to convict this boy on words.”

Marco’s eyes widened. “Are you shitting me, Adams? Your entire life is comprised of words. Without words, you don’t have a job.”

“Still, you’re asking for a murder conviction. On words.”

“It shows intent to do harm. He didn’t give a shit what happened to her.”

“But he didn’t actually put the pills in her mouth, D’Angelo.”

“He might as well have! He killed that girl. He destroyed her life and at her lowest moment, he told her to kill herself!” He grabbed the picture Mrs. Phelps had given him and plunked it down in front of Devan. “She trusted him. She cared for him. Look at her. You can see it in her face.”

“But he didn’t kill her. He didn’t cause her death. Not with words.”

“How can you say that? Words have power. If I yell fire in a crowded theater and people are killed trying to get away, I’m responsible for their deaths. I caused them.” He pointed at the paper. “More than one revolution has been started over words, Adams. Give me liberty, or give me death! Seems to me we owe our entire country to words.”

Devan stared at the photo. “You’re asking me to risk my career on a very fragile case, D’Angelo.”

“I’m asking you to do what’s right. I’m asking you to take a stand. Maybe I’m making your career for you. Maybe you’ll be the first damn politician that’s elected for doing what’s right.”

Devan’s eyes lifted to him. “This isn’t like you. Why are you so damn caught up in this? This is the sort of shit Peyton gets herself entangled in. Not you.”

Marco swallowed hard. He didn’t want to share this with anyone and especially not Devan, but Carissa Phelps deserved better than she’d gotten, and he had to try. He had to make an attempt. “In one of her blogs, she writes How do you get up and keep moving forward when all you want to do is die? Some mornings it feels like you can’t.”

Devan didn’t move, just stared at him.

Marco briefly closed his eyes. “I know what she’s talking about. Not to the degree she felt it, but…” He opened his eyes again. “I understand.”

Devan looked away, looked out the window.

“I want to question Ryan Addison. I want to see if he’s as remorseless as he seems. That’s all I’m asking for, Devan. Let me question this kid.”

Devan turned back to him. “Fine, but I’m going to be there. I’m going to watch. And you’re not doing the questioning. Get one of your detectives for that.”

“Done. I’ll set it up for tomorrow.”

Devan nodded and pushed himself to his feet. As he did so, a loud cacophony sounded from the squad room. They exchanged a confused look, then Marco grabbed his cane and hurried around his desk, yanking open his office door.

Carly was standing by her desk, her hands covering her mouth. Jake and Stan were backed into the doorway of the conference room. Easing out further, Marco could see Cho and Simons were struggling with a man. The man wore tattered clothes, a straggly beard on his jaw, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Spiky brown hair stood up all over his head and he had tattoos running up and down both arms. Cho had his arms pinned behind his back and Simons was struggling to get the cuffs on him, while the guy rained down a string of curses.

“What the hell’s going on?” shouted Marco.

“Byrony gave us this prick’s name, so we picked him up for questioning, but he’s on something, Captain!” shouted Cho over the man’s swearing.

“Tase him!” Marco ordered.

Simons gave up with the cuffs and reached for the taser in his belt, but the moment he released him, the guy tore away from Cho and raced for the front door. Marco stepped forward to cut him off, but he never braked, slamming full body into Marco and sending him back into the counter.

He heard Carly scream, then his leg gave and he slid down the counter, crumpling at its base. He was vaguely aware that Cho and Simons jumped on the guy’s back and brought him down, but all he could think about was the agony raging through him.

Devan and Jake appeared at his side.

“Call an ambulance!” ordered Devan.

“No!” he gritted out. “I’m all right. Help me up!”

He caught Jake’s worried look and he focused on him. “Help me up, damn it!”

They hooked him under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. The minute he put pressure on his leg, the leg buckled and he nearly went down again.

“You need to go to the hospital!” said Devan.

“No! Give me a minute.” He leaned on the counter, closing his eyes against the agony in his thigh. Looking over at Cho and Simons, he growled, “Lock that bastard up until he comes down off whatever he took.”

They nodded and led the guy away, but he could see the worry in their eyes. Turning his attention to Jake, he held out his hand. “My cane.”

Jake retrieved it. “Adonis, you need to go to the hospital.”

“It’s Captain. Captain, damn it!” He curled his hand around the cane and set his foot on the ground, praying that it would hold him. Gradually easing away from the counter, he gave the leg more weight. It held, but spears of pain shot through to his groin. Gritting his teeth, he pivoted and limped into his office, shutting the door behind him. When he made it to his desk chair, he threw himself into it and reached for the Scotch.

*    *    *

Scanning the apartment for Marco, Peyton set her keys on the sofa table and pulled off her blazer, hanging her gun on the peg, then she hurried across the living room and pushed open their bedroom door. He was sitting, propped up against the headboard, his leg elevated on a pillow with a bag of ice covering it. Pickles was beside him, his head resting on Marco’s other thigh.

She released her held breath. “How bad is it?”

“Did Jake call you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m fine.” His eyes were a little blurry.

She crossed to the bed and ran her hand through his hair. He closed his eyes and leaned in to her touch. “Did you take a painkiller?”

“Mmhmm. The room’s spinning.”

She kissed him. His breath smelled minty and clean. Mouthwash? Reaching over, she rubbed Pickles’ ears. “Is he helping?”

“More than the painkillers.”

“Jake said a suspect body-slammed you into the counter?”

“Yeah, I don’t think I got hit that hard playing football. He was on something. Probably meth.”

She circled around the bed and climbed on the other side, shifting Pickles a little. Laying her head on his shoulder, she fitted her hand inside his. “Are you sure you shouldn’t have gone to the hospital?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He kissed the top of her head. “I just need to rest and ice it, sweetheart. Don’t worry.”

She sighed and pressed closer to him. She was always worried anymore, but she was afraid to tell him that. Especially now. She sensed it was the last thing he wanted to hear.

CHAPTER 11

Peyton sat quietly on the ride out to Palo Alto. Marco had gotten up this morning, forcing himself into the shower, then struggled to dress. She could tell by the way he clenched his jaw that he was in pain, pain like when he’d first been released from the hospital, but he wouldn’t consider going to the doctor. And he didn’t want to talk to her about it.

Marco had always been reticent about sharing his innermost thoughts, but this went beyond that. He was shutting her out and it scared her.

“You okay, Sparky?”

She blinked and turned away from the window. “What?”

“You okay? You haven’t said a word all morning and that’s definitely weird.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” She reached for her phone and thumbed it on, hoping for a text from him, but there was nothing.

“Fine and you don’t seem to be in the same zip code.” Radar looked over at her with his mirrored sunglasses.

She knew Marco wouldn’t appreciate her discussing him with Radar, but she didn’t think Radar was going to give up without some information. “My fiancé got hurt at work yesterday and he refused to go to the doctor.”

“Hurt? How?”

“A perp body-slammed him.” She placed the phone back into her pocket.

“He’s a cop, huh?”

“Captain.” She drew a breath and released it. “He’s the one who was shot in the thigh last fall.”

“Oh.” Radar pulled into the hospital parking lot. “I’m sorry, Sparky.”

She nodded and fell silent as Radar maneuvered the Suburban into a space. They climbed out and strode across the parking lot for the interior of the hospital. Fog had blanketed San Francisco this morning, but Palo Alto was bright and shiny.

They entered the hospital and approached the visitor’s desk. Radar laid his badge on the counter, along with a warrant, pulling off his sunglasses. The older woman studied the documents, then smiled up at them. Radar didn’t smile in return, but Peyton forced one.

“How can I help you, Agent Moreno?”

“We’re here to see Roy Harwood.”

She turned to her computer and typed on the keys. “Um, I don’t see a Roy Harwood here.”

Peyton gave Radar a telling look.

“Are you sure? He’s being treated for cancer.”

“Yes, no one by that name is listed in our current patient files.”

Radar snatched up his badge. “Can you tell if someone’s been discharged?”

“Sure. Give me a moment.” She clicked some more on the keys. “Nope. No discharge.”

Radar turned to face Peyton. “Do you think he was ever here?”

“I don’t know. Looks like maybe he wasn’t.”

“There’s one more place for me to look. Give me a second.” More clicking ensued. “Oh, goodness.” She leaned back from the monitor.

“You found something?”

“Let me get my supervisor.” She got to her feet and hurried into an office directly behind her desk.

“Huh, that’s strange.” Peyton propped herself on tiptoes and leaned on the counter.

“What are you doing?” hissed Radar.

“Trying to see the screen.”

“Stop it!”

Peyton dropped down and gave him a disappointed look. “You really don’t get the whole detective thing, do you?”

“I do things legally. I don’t peek at computers and…” He dropped his voice. “I don’t go through people’s medicine cabinets.”

“Do you solve any cases?”

That earned her a glare.

The older woman returned with another woman in her mid-forties. “Agents, how can I help you?” the new woman said.

Radar held out his badge and the warrant. “I need information on Roy Harwood, ma’am.”

The older woman pointed at the screen. The other woman leaned closer and squinted at it, then she straightened. “I’m sorry, Agent Moreno. Roy Harwood died two days ago. His body’s in the morgue.”

“The morgue? Has his mother been notified?”

“We’re trying to reach her.”

Radar and Peyton exchanged a look. “Who was his attending physician?”

“Dr. Morehouse.”

“Cancer doctor?”

The supervisor gave Radar a quizzical look. “No.”

“Then what?”

“Neurologist.”

“Ha!” said Peyton.

They all looked at her.

“We need to see Dr. Morehouse. Now.”

The supervisor picked up the phone and dialed a number. She studied Radar and Peyton as she waited for someone to pick up. “Yes, I have two FBI agents here with a warrant who want to speak with Dr. Morehouse.” A pause while she clicked on something on the screen. “Fine. I’ll send them up.”

She hung up and placed a map on the counter. Drawing lines with a Sharpie, she directed them where to go. Radar grabbed the map and headed for the elevators.

“Thank you,” said Peyton, hurrying after him.

Once they got into the elevator, Radar punched the button and stared at the floor. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

“What?”

“You’re gonna make me dig up a dead guy.”

Peyton hid her smile.

“It still doesn’t add up. If Junior Harwood is dead, how did he kill that guy in Locke? He had to be too sick to leave the hospital.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he went home, killed the guy, then got worse and came back here.”

“Right. He took a little break from dying just so he could kill again.”

Peyton shrugged. “Maybe human brains taste really good.”

The elevator doors opened and let them out into a brightly lit hallway with sterile linoleum floors. Painting of landscapes lined the walls, all with placards that offered them up for sale. Radar lifted the map and they began walking, making two right turns and a left before arriving at their destination.

The door read Department of Neurodegenerative Disease. Beside it was a list of doctors and midway down a Dr. Evelyn Morehouse. Radar pushed the door open. The interior of the office was covered in blue carpet with pale blue walls. The furnishings were warm and welcoming – blue armchairs and end tables with magazines strewn across them. A counter ran across the end of the end of the room with sliding glass windows. Potted plants were arranged on either side of the counter. Two women sat in the chairs, reading magazines, one quite a bit older than the other – grandmother and granddaughter, perhaps.

As they neared the counter, a young man rose from his chair and pulled back the sliding window. “Good morning.”

Radar slapped his badge and warrant in front of him. “We need to talk to Dr. Morehouse now.”

“She’s expecting you.” The young man pressed a buzzer beneath the counter, letting Peyton and Radar into the office. He met them on the other side of the door and walked them briskly down a corridor to another office, passing nurses as they went.

Opening the office door, he peered inside. “The Agents are here.”

“Send them in.”

He motioned them into the office. The small room glowed with light. A wooden desk dominated the center of the room and floor to ceiling bookshelves ran along three walls. There wasn’t a window, but Peyton didn’t think there’d be room for one with all of the books Dr. Morehouse possessed.

The woman herself rose from her chair and held out her hand. She was tall and thin, mid-fifties, with short-cropped grey hair. She had on a white medical jacket with her name embroidered on the pocket. A stethoscope hung around her neck and she wore pale blue scrubs beneath the jacket. Glasses perched on the end of her nose and her face was freshly scrubbed without a trace of makeup.

“Dr. Evelyn Morehouse,” she said.

“Special Agents Carlos Moreno and Peyton Brooks, ma’am. Thank you for seeing us.”

“Of course, please have a seat.”

They sat down in the same blue armchairs that decorated the lobby.

“We need to know about Roy Harwood. He was a patient of yours.”

“Yes, I was told you have a warrant.”

Radar passed it to her and waited while she read. She passed it back.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Harwood died two days ago.”

“We know. What was the cause of death?”

“I’m uncomfortable divulging that information, Agent Moreno. The deceased deserves privacy.”

“Well, as I’m sure you know, Dr. Morehouse, patient/doctor privilege ends at death. He’s at the heart of a triple homicide we’re working, so I need to know what killed him.”

She made an uncomfortable face. “I don’t see how this helps your investigation, Agent Moreno. Roy Harwood couldn’t have killed anyone. He’s been a patient here for the last two years, the last week in a coma with a breathing tube.”

Radar glanced at Peyton.

“He had a prion disease, didn’t he?” Peyton asked.

Dr. Morehouse hesitated a moment, then she sighed. “Yes.”

Radar’s head dropped back and he groaned.

“How did he get it?”

“If we knew that, we’d be able to make advances on treating the disease, wouldn’t we? We know it’s infectious. We know patients have to be exposed to it. Most of our cases have come from eating undercooked beef. We assumed that was the case with Roy.”

“What about eating brains?”

“Cow brains? Well, I don’t know who does that anymore, but eating any internal organ would expose one to higher chances of getting the disease.”

Peyton glanced at Radar, then leaned closer to the doctor. “I don’t mean cow brains, Dr. Morehouse. What about eating human brains?”

Morehouse reared away. “What?”

“Could someone get a prion disease by eating human brains?”

She looked to Radar for help.

“Please answer her,” he said reluctantly.

“Um, yes, that would be one way to contract it. Are you saying Roy Harwood practiced anthropophagy?”

“We believe he did. Who pronounced him dead?”

“I did.”

“Was an autopsy done?”

“Yes.”

“Was his mother notified?”

“We’ve been attempting to contact her, but she hasn’t been answering her phone.”

“So his body’s in the morgue here?”

“Yes. We have to be careful about releasing it. A commercial morgue has to carefully follow certain procedures when preparing the body, so there is no contact with neurological fluids. We can’t chance a cross-contamination. In fact, we’ll be recommending cremation when we finally get a hold of Mrs. Harwood.”

“We can tell her,” said Radar.

“Thank you.”

Peyton drummed her fingers on the edge of the doctor’s desk. “We’re gonna need to see the body.”

“What?”

Radar swung around and stared at her. Peyton gave him an emphatic look. He turned to Dr. Morehouse again. “She’s right. We’re gonna need to see the body.”

Dr. Morehouse’s face twisted into a look of bewilderment. “Okay? I can take you now.”

As she rose to her feet, Peyton leaned close to Radar and dropped her voice. “You know, if his body’s in the morgue, we’ve got a problem.”

“I know.”

Peyton felt she ought to address the obvious. “That means we’ve got a third member of our zombie cult.”

Radar reached for his phone. “I’ll have Bambi get to work on a search warrant for the Harwood farm.”

“And?”

Radar groaned in aggravation. “A warrant to dig up Old Man Harwood.”

Peyton smiled. “Bambi’s gonna love that.”

*    *    *

Ryan Addison was a handsome, raw-boned young man in his late teens, early twenties. He had spiky brown hair and his jaw was clean-shaven. He wore a royal blue polo shirt and jeans with sneakers. He sat in the chair in the interrogation room, looking frightened and young, not the cocky ass he’d been when he’d given the camera a thumb’s up.

Devan made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I bring him before a jury and they’re going to go soft.”

Marco ignored the comment and watched as Tag and Holmes entered the interrogation room. Holmes leaned on the wall by the door, but Tag approached the table, settling a file on it and taking a seat.

“Do I need a lawyer?”

Tag lifted her blond head and gave the kid a look. Marco could see the skull tattoo on her neck from where he stood. The kid probably saw it too. “Yeah, we called him and he’s on his way, but I’m not sure why you’re all hot and bothered for a lawyer. We just want to ask you some questions.”

“You don’t pull people into the police station to ask questions. You’re trying to pin something on me.”

Tag looked over her shoulder at Holmes. “What cases are open that we need someone to pin them on?”

Holmes shrugged. “I’m sure we can dig something up. You like to play with fire, Ryan?”

“What?” Now he really looked scared. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Right,” said Tag. “What about Carissa Phelps? You know anything about her?”

Ryan’s expression shuttered. “Yeah. We went out for a while.”

“You did a little more than went out, didn’t you, Ryan?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tag drummed her fingers on the file, the fingers that had happy tattooed on them. “I get that you don’t want to admit it. I mean it looks pretty bad.”

“What does?”

“The way I understand it, you and Carissa went out, you got intimate, and you shot some video. Then she dumped your ass, so you leaked the video online.”

“She didn’t dump me. We weren’t really going out or anything. We just…you know...fooled around.”

Tag gave a sarcastic laugh. “Yeah, I saw the way you fooled around. Here’s what I don’t understand. Why the hell would you leak that video? You don’t come off very good in it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I mean, come on, dude. You lasted what? Thirty seconds or so? It was embarrassing.”

“The hell it was!” He started to get to his feet, but Holmes took a threatening step forward and he sank back in his chair, watching him. “I’m not saying anymore.”

“Fine.” She took the photo of Ryan smiling for the camera and set it in front of him. “You don’t need to say anything. This says it all.”

Ryan stared at the photo and shifted uncomfortably.

“You heard of the revenge porn law?”

“What?”

“Yep. Whoever posts videos or pictures of an intimate moment with another for revenge can be prosecuted.”

“It wasn’t revenge.”

“But it was posted on a revenge porn site.”

“I didn’t post it.”

“Well, that should be easy to prove.”

Ryan buried his head in his hand. “What do you want? If you arrest me, I lose my scholarship.”

“Well, you should have thought of that before you made a sex tape, huh?”

“I did it for the frat. They weren’t going to take me if I didn’t do something big, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Something outrageous, something...cool.”

“Cool? You think this is cool? You did this for a frat? You ruined a girl’s life to belong to a boy’s club?” Tag brought out the picture of Carissa and Ryan together.

Ryan gave Carissa’s picture a venomous look. “She was a whore. She didn’t care I took that video.”

Beside Marco, Devan shifted uncomfortably.

“She killed herself after you leaked it on-line.”

Ryan looked up at Tag, his mouth twisted. “That’s not my problem. Stupid bitch, what did she think I’d do? Everyone does it now. Everyone’s got a sex tape.”

“She lost an internship, people harassed her, they called her a whore and a slut on-line, they shared the video.”

“So what!”

“So what? She killed herself because of you.”

“That’s stupid. Prove it.”

Tag opened the file and removed the paper with the text messages on it. She slapped it down in front of Ryan. “We got these off her phone.”

Ryan read them, then his face lost color. “Okay, look, I shouldn’t have said those things, but she was harassing me, calling me all the time, crying and whining. I didn’t want to hear it anymore. It’s not like I could do anything about it. The video was already out there. It’s not my fault if people were sharing it.”

Marco closed his eyes, lowering his head. Devan made a strangled sound.

“Not your fault? How the hell is it not your fault? You tortured this girl. You destroyed her!”

“I didn’t do anything!” Ryan shouted, then he slumped in his chair. “I’m not saying anything else until my lawyer gets here.”

Tag shifted in her seat and looked at the two-way mirror. Marco turned to Devan. After a moment, the district attorney met his gaze.

“I’ll get a hearing with a judge on Monday. We’ll see if there’s enough evidence to bring the case forward to a grand jury.”

Marco nodded.

“I’m not promising anything, D’Angelo. I don’t think I’m going to get past the judge, but…” He looked into the room. “...let’s give this bastard a try.”

*    *    *

City View at Metreon was located on the fourth floor of the Metreon Mall. The loft space featured open ductwork and beams on the interior, then a garden terrace that wrapped around the front of the venue overlooking the City. Round tables had been set up throughout the space, each glowing with LED lights on the interior. Wait staff in crisp white shirts, bowties, and black aprons roved around carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne.

Dignitaries, business people, politicians all roamed and rubbed elbows, and the place echoed with fake laughter and too much perfume. Marco fussed with the tie on his black suit as they stepped out of the elevator and were greeted by a hostess. She asked for Peyton’s wrap and gave her a ticket, which Marco stuffed in his pocket.

“Enjoy,” she told them and motioned them forward.

Marco slid his arm around Peyton’s waist, bending close to her. “I hate this,” he grumbled.

“I know.” She turned and straightened his tie, running her hands up the lapels of his jacket. “But you’re the most handsome man here.”

He smiled down at her. She wore a little black dress with sequins sewn all over it. It shimmered when she moved and hugged her curves. The spaghetti straps showed off just a hint of cleavage and her arms were bare. The dress came to above her knees and she’d paired it with opened toed black heels, wearing her hair in loose ringlets down to the middle of her back. Except for a pair of earrings he’d given her, she’d added no other jewelry, but damned if she didn’t take his breath away whenever he looked at her.

“I’d rather be home with you.”

She smiled and he felt his heart catch. “I know. We’ll stay for a few hours, then leave. He won’t even notice.”

Marco caught motion behind her and glanced up. Devan was pushing his way through the crowd to get to them. “He’ll notice,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder, then turned. Devan wore a tuxedo in black with a white shirt and grey vest. His face lit up when he saw Peyton and he reached for her hand, kissing the back of it.

Marco tried not to whack him with his cane like an errant puppy.

“You are gorgeous,” he said, eying her up and down. Then he glanced at Marco. “D’Angelo.”

“D.A.”

“There’s food and drink everywhere, help yourselves.” He snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray and handed it to Peyton. “Damn, you really are beautiful.”

She leaned back into Marco and he slipped his hand around her waist again. “Where’s your wife?”

Devan gave a forced sad look. “She’s home. This late in the pregnancy she just isn’t feeling well. I told her it would bore her anyway.” He glanced around the room. “The mayor couldn’t make it at the last minute, but the President of the Board of Supervisors is here in his place. Come on, I want you to meet him.” He slipped her arm through his and pulled her forward. “D’Angelo, there’s a bar on the terrace if you want something harder than champagne.”

Peyton pulled back. “I think I’ll stay with Marco.”

Devan gave Marco a shuttered look.

“It’s okay. I’ll get a drink. I’m not into mingling.” She looked reluctant, but he ran a hand down her back under her mane of hair. “It’s okay. We’ll meet up later.”

She hesitated some more, so he walked off, headed for the terrace. The entire wall of the building was made of glass. Beyond it, the City shown in all its high-rise, sparkling glory and the night was mild as he stepped onto the terrace. A few women gave him appraising looks, but he ignored them, moving toward the glowing bar in the corner. Leaning on the counter, he braced the cane against the underside.

A handsome bartender with a neatly cut beard moved toward him. “What can I get you?”

“A shot of Jack.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ten, placing it on the bar.

The bartender returned with the shot and set it in front of him. Marco stared at the amber liquid for a moment, then he reached for it and threw it back.

*    *    *

Peyton let Devan usher her around the room, introducing her to one person after another, but she couldn’t remember any of the names. She was more worried about Marco and wanted to get back to him. Devan kept a proprietary hand in the middle of her back, something that annoyed her. Hadn’t he married his wife, Rani, in order to have a trophy to show around like this?

And the people didn’t give a damn who she was. After Devan announced that she was FBI, the conversation became stilted as if they weren’t sure how to act around her. She didn’t really care. In this room of politicians and high rollers, there must be any number of criminals, but tonight she wasn’t on the clock.

As soon as Devan got caught up in a conversation with a media mogul, Peyton slipped away, headed for the terrace. As she approached the wall of glass windows, a man grabbed the door handle and held it open for her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he answered, giving her a wink.

Peyton stepped onto the terrace and glanced back at him. Was he flirting? She was so unused to men flirting with her so blatantly, she wasn’t sure? He closed the door behind her and his eyes roved downward, over her ass and legs. Peyton gave a little laugh, turning back around to search for her fiancé. Moving toward the edge of the balcony, she marveled at the beauty of the City rising around her, resplendent in lights and ethereal in the slowly advancing fog. Night hid much of the rawness of its underbelly, but up here it was all sparkle and fantasy.

Glancing along the terrace, she saw a tall figure leaning on a glowing bar and she started toward him.

“Well, if it isn’t the stunning Inspector Brooks,” came a smoky voice at her back. She’d recognize this voice anywhere and a thrill raced up her spine, causing goose flesh along her arms.

She turned and gave him a smile. “Joshua Ravensong, imagine you at a function like this.”

He was beautiful, dressed in a navy blue suit, his pale blue shirt open at the throat and showing a glimpse of bronze flesh. His dark hair was loose and flowing over his shoulders, a peek of silver shimmering at his ear. He held a glass of clear liquid and his smile softened his sharp, angular features as he moved close to her. A year ago, she and Marco had worked his case, proving him innocent of killing his ex-wife. Somewhere in the journey of that investigation, she and Ravensong had developed a friendship of sorts. It was more like a sexually charged acquaintanceship, but he definitely tripped buttons in her.

“I was promised a nice donation to my charity if I attended,” he said, then his eyes lowered over her. “You are stunning, Inspector Brooks.”

“Actually, it’s Special Agent Brooks. I’m with the FBI now.”

He gave a surprised look. “Congratulations. Giving them hell at the federal level, huh?”

She laughed. “How are you? How is Tiffany and Elena?”

His daughter Tiffany had been instrumental in solving the case for them, and his significant other, Elena, had never lost faith in his innocence.

“Well, Elena and I married at Christmas.”

“That’s fantastic. I’m so glad, Joshua.”

He gave a nod. “She’s also pregnant. That’s why she’s not here. First trimester and she’s not feeling great.”

Peyton grabbed his arm with her free hand. “Oh, I’m so happy for both of you. Are you nervous?”

“Scared to death, but I’m good. Really good right now.” He glanced at the hand that held her champagne glass. “Looks like you’re engaged.”

She nodded.

“Who’s the very lucky man?”

“My partner...well, ex-partner, Marco.”

He smiled and tilted back his head. “I thought I saw something there.”

She laughed. “I’m really glad things are working out for you, Joshua. You deserve it.”

He leaned close and kissed her cheek. He smelled of sandalwood and forbidden desires. Leaning back, he looked her in the eyes. “I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t for you.”

*    *    *

Marco glanced over as Devan leaned on the bar next to him. “What are you drinking?”

Marco tilted his glass. “Jack.”

Devan motioned at the bartender. “Refill my friend, and I’ll have a rum and coke.”

The bartender poured another shot into Marco’s glass, then fixed Devan his drink and placed it before him. Devan threw a twenty on the bar.

“Where’s my fiancée?”

“She found someone more interesting.” Devan picked up his drink and shifted, pointing down the terrace.

Marco looked over his shoulder and saw Peyton talking to the rockstar Joshua Ravensong. “Oh.” He grabbed his drink and tossed it back.

Devan gave a surprised laugh. “You really are secure in your relationship, aren’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s Joshua Ravensong, man.”

“Yeah, so?”

Devan gave him a speculative look. “Okay?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It’s Joshua Ravensong.”

“I got that. Why do you keep saying it like that?”

Devan shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “If she was still mine, I’d be worried, knowing their history.”

Marco straightened away from the bar. “Their history? What the hell does that mean?”

Devan’s mouth opened and he took a step back. “Sorry. I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?”

Devan held up a hand. “Look, D’Angelo, forget I said anything. I’m sure it’s all in the past. In fact, I think I heard he got married, so I don’t think you have anything to be worried about.” His eyes tracked back to Peyton and the rockstar, then he looked down.

Marco glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Ravensong lean forward and kiss Peyton on the cheek.

*    *    *

It was just after midnight when Peyton and Marco made it home. She parked the Charger in the driveway and turned toward him. The car ride home had been silent and tense, and as soon as she turned off the ignition, he opened the door and got out. She wasn’t sure what had happened.

After she talked with Joshua, Devan had commandeered her around, meeting more people until dinner was served. She’d finally gotten to sit with Marco, but he wouldn’t talk to her and the noise in the place made it almost impossible to speak anyway. Then they’d had to sit through speeches before she could suggest they leave.

She opened her own car door and climbed out, watching him as he maneuvered his way to the ramp. Halfway up, he staggered and caught himself on the railing. She hurried after him, slipping her hand under his arm.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Peyton,” he said, pulling away from her. “The damn ramp gets slippery in the fog.”

“Okay? Are you angry with me?”

“Why would I be angry with you? We hardly spent any time together tonight.”

She searched his face in the half-darkness. “I’m sorry. I tried to get away from Devan, but he made it so difficult.”

“I told you I hate those things.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Really? It won’t? I won’t have to watch you surrounded by your ex-boyfriends anymore?”

“What?”

He started moving toward the door again, grabbing his keys. “Forget it.”

“No, what does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Clearly, it does. What ex-boyfriends?”

“Let it go, Peyton.” He shoved the key in the lock and turned it.

She followed him into the house. Pickles danced around their feet until he sensed the tension, then he sulked away, hiding under the sofa table and watching them.

“Let it go? You’re the one that brought it up. What do you mean by ex-boyfriends?”

He turned to her, slamming the door. “Devan and apparently Joshua Ravensong.”

“Joshua Ravensong? We were just talking.”

“Really? Does he always talk with his lips pressed to your face?”

Peyton threw her wrap down on the sofa table. “You’ve had too much to drink.” She moved to go past him.

“Devan seemed to think I was being very progressive, letting him manhandle you, but I didn’t exactly know everything, did I?”

She whirled to face him. “Know what? What exactly is it you think you know?”

“Not enough apparently. Devan mentioned you had a history with him, but stupid fool that I am, I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Did this history begin when he was a suspect in our murder case? When we were investigating him?”

“No.”

“No? But there is history there?”

She couldn’t believe he was doing this to her. All she’d thought about all night was him, worried about him, wanted to be with him and he was accusing her of...what? She didn’t even know. “Whatever there was between us didn’t happen when we were on the case, but I can tell you this, it happened before you and I were anything, so it’s none of your damn business.”

“That’s how you’re going to play this? That’s what I get from you? None of my damn business!”

“It was nothing, Marco. Why are you doing this to me?”

“It didn’t look like nothing from where I was standing, Peyton!”

Tears threatened in her eyes, but she wasn’t going to give in, not here, not now. He was drunk. That was the problem. He didn’t even know what he was saying. She pushed past him. “I’m taking Pickles for a walk.”

“I’ll take him. I need to clear my head anyway.”

He reached beyond her and grabbed Pickles’ leash. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, fighting the tears, but she let him go.

As she changed out of her dress and heels into his jersey, she fought to keep from crying, but as soon as she climbed into bed and turned out the lights, the sobs came, tearing out of her. She didn’t know what to do for him anymore, she didn’t know how to help, and it felt like everything was coming apart around them.

She’d fallen into a half-doze when he climbed into bed. She felt his hand slide across her waist, pulling back her hair and pressing his lips to the spot between her throat and shoulder.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

She rolled to her back and looked up at him. He smoothed the curls away from her face where they’d caught on her dried tears. “Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

He bent his head and kissed her, lingering on her lips. Peyton wrapped her arms around him, pulling him down to her. After a moment, he drew away and searched her eyes. “No, I think we should have make-up sex and tomorrow we should stay in bed all day, eating junk food.”

“Marco…”

He kissed her again, then trailed his lips down to her throat, working the jersey upward. She knew they should discuss it, but right now, she didn’t think talking could do more healing than making love.

CHAPTER 12

Peyton slipped on her suit pants and tucked in her shirt. Marco opened his eyes and watched her for a moment, then he rolled to his back and sat up, combing his hands through his hair. Glancing at the bedside clock, he tented his knees and braced his head with his hands.

“It’s 7:00, Peyton. I thought we were spending the weekend in bed.”

“I have to meet Radar at work, then we’re headed for Sacramento to see a judge about a couple of warrants. I shouldn’t be home late.” She went to the bed and kissed him. “I’ll feed Pickles and walk him before I go. Go back to sleep.”

He sank against the pillows. She could sense his disappointment, but she didn’t have time to discuss it right now.

“Mom wants us to come over for dinner tomorrow night.”

Dinner on Sunday at the D’Angelo’s was a ritual she usually enjoyed, but they needed to work through some things between them.

“We didn’t go last week, remember?”

Peyton hesitated as she reached for her jacket. “Yeah, that’s right. Tell her we’ll be there.”

He nodded and closed his eyes. She climbed on the bed and leaned over him. “We need to talk when I come home.”

He groaned and looked up at her. “I hate those words.”

She kissed him. “I know, but it’s still happening.”

He sank his hand in her loose, damp hair and pulled her in for another kiss. “Stay with me now and you can talk all you want.”

She extricated herself, gathering her hair into a ponytail. “No, later.”

After taking care of Pickles, she drove her Prius to the FBI office. Radar met her in the parking lot by the Suburban. He clicked open the doors and slid his sunglasses in place. “We’ve got a meeting with Arielle Tran from the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Sacramento at 10:00. She’s going over the documentation I sent her and then we’re going to see the judge about the warrants. He’s playing golf until noon or so.”

“Where are Tank and Bambi?”

“They’ve got the day off.”

“Why don’t I?”

“You’re the one that wants to dig up dead people and search old lady’s farms. I also want you there when we tell Agnes her son is dead.”

Peyton slumped in her seat. She knew she was the rookie and therefore could expect some shit work, but she and Marco had a lot they needed to work out right now and she’d rather be home.

She and Radar didn’t talk much on the ride to Sacramento. She was preoccupied with how she was going to approach Marco’s drinking without having a horrible fight and Radar was preoccupied, probably, with how he was going to convince a judge to dig up a zombie.

“Radar, you married?”

“Why?”

“Just conversation. You ask me about my life all the time. Can’t I ask you about yours?”

“Yes, I’m married. I’ve been married for twenty years.”

“Wow! Any kids?”

“Nope. Two cats.”

Cats? Hm, that surprised her. She hadn’t expected him to have cats. “I have a dog. Yorkshire terrier. His name’s Pickles.”

Radar glanced at her, but she couldn’t see his expression behind his shades.

“Your cats have names?”

“Yep.” That and nothing more.

“I like cats. I’ve never had any, but I like the idea.”

“You like the idea?”

“Yeah, I mean they’re independent and all that. You can leave them overnight and not worry about them, but my dog is even better. He knows what I’m thinking.”

Radar gave a laugh. “Of course he does.”

“What does that mean?”

“If anyone would have a psychic dog, it’d be you, Sparky.”

She fell silent and looked out the windows. After a while, she asked, “Your wife have a name?”

“Yep.”

Okay, then.

They reached Sacramento at 9:45. The U.S. Attorney’s office was located on I Street in a rectangular white building with a lot of windows. It was one block from the county jail and three blocks from the county courthouse.

Arielle Tran waited for them in her office. No one else seemed to be working. She was a few inches taller than Peyton with sleek black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, a navy blue business suit, and very red lipstick. Her eyes were made up with heavy swipes of eyeliner and her eyelids were a smoky grey color. She would have been pretty, but the makeup made her intimidating.

So did her crisp mannerisms. As soon as they entered the office, she crossed the lobby, holding out her hand for Radar. “Arielle Tran,” she said, grabbing his hand and giving it a vigorous shake. In her four inch heels, she was nearly as tall as he was.

“Special Agent Carlos Moreno. This is my team member, Special Agent Peyton Brooks.”

She jabbed her hand at Peyton. “Pleased to meet you.”

Peyton offered her own hand. Arielle yanked her shoulder up and down, then abruptly released her, turning to grab her briefcase off a counter. She shoved a bunch of files into it and snapped it closed. Peyton craned her neck to see what she kept inside. Her own briefcase currently rested in an office she seldom used with a month-old copy of People inside it.

“Shall we go?”

“Go?” asked Radar. “Did you review the documents I sent you?”

“I did. You want a warrant to dig up Roy Harwood, Senior, and a warrant to search the Harwood Farm. Your evidence is mainly circumstantial and anecdotal, which is going to make this particularly difficult to sell. We need as much time as we can to convince Judge Tabor to grant your request. I can tell you right now, Agent Moreno, I think it’s highly unlikely, given that your main suspect has been in the hospital for nearly a year, dying.”

“Of a prion disease,” offered Peyton.

“That’s your single bit of evidence, and even then, it’s thin.”

“Thin?”

“Thin like wax paper. I got the autopsy report. The doctor, Morehouse I believe, states that they think he contracted the prion disease from beef, in other words, Mad Cow Disease.”

“Then how do you explain the three dead bodies with their brains eaten?” asked Peyton, trying to tamp down her irritation.

“I can’t, but it would be nice if you’d found the murder weapon.”

“We need to search the Harwood Farm for that.”

Radar held up a hand. “Look, where are we going if you think our evidence is thin?”

“To see Judge Tabor.”

“Why are we seeing him? No disrespect, Ms. Tran, but that’s your job.”

She slipped the strap of her briefcase on her shoulder, hesitating. “He said he wanted to meet you.”

“He wants to meet us?”

“Right.”

“Why?”

She gave a huff of impatience. “He said, and I quote, he wanted to meet the agents who think they’re zombie hunters.”

Radar gave Peyton a glare.

“I thought you said he was golfing until noon.”

“He is. We’re meeting him at the golf course. Can we please go? We’ll take your car.”

They backtracked to the Suburban and Arielle gave them directions to Judge Tabor’s golf course. Teal Bend was located along the Sacramento River on a levee road fancifully called the Garden Highway, a pretty winding stretch of road lined in heritage oaks with the river peeking through on one side.

Rather than go onto the green, they found the judge eating lunch in the Teal Bend Grill, a nicely appointed restaurant with flat screen televisions arranged around the seating area so patrons could watch any number of sporting events as they ate.

Judge Tabor was sitting alone, a grey haired, balding man in his late sixties wearing a golf polo shirt in yellow with brightly striped golf pants in khaki and red. He was eating a hamburger and drinking a beer.

Arielle walked up to him and offered her hand. He looked at her hand, then looked at the hamburger and ignored her. She snapped her hand to her side. “Judge Tabor, thank you for agreeing to meet with us. This is Special Agents Moreno and Brooks.”

“Got it. Sit down. You’re blocking my view of the game.”

Peyton glanced over her shoulder and saw he was watching the start of the baseball game. She and Radar took seats, while Arielle perched on the edge of her chair, taking a file out of her briefcase and settling it next to the judge’s plate.

“We have all the documentation here just awaiting your signature,” she said brightly, patting the file.

The judge took another bite, chewing vigorously. “Tell me again why we’re bothering an old woman whose son just died.”

“Agents Moreno and Brooks would like a warrant to search the woman’s farm for the murder weapon believed to have been used in a triple homicide.”

“And why do we think the murder weapon’s on the farm?”

“They believe the woman’s son may have been part of an anthropophagy...um, ritual.”

“Anthropophagy ritual?” He gave Arielle a disbelieving look. “What the hell is that?”

“Zombie cult,” said Peyton.

Radar made a choking sound.

Judge Tabor’s eyes swung to Peyton. They were a watery blue. “Zombie cult?”

Peyton started to answer, but Arielle shot out a hand to stop her. “The son died of a prion disease, which is most often acquired by eating humans.”

“He died where again?”

“Stanford Hospital.”

“Do the doctors at Stanford say he ate people?”

Arielle gave a tense smile and tilted her head. “They aren’t sure where he got the disease.”

“Where do they think?”

“Cow,” said Peyton.

The judge’s gaze swung back to her again. Then he set down his hamburger. “Cow? So why are we bothering the old lady again?”

“You see, Your Honor,” began Arielle.

He shook his head. “Nope. You tell me.” He pointed at Peyton.

She swallowed hard and glanced at Radar. He gave her a warning look. “We’ve interviewed everyone involved in the case. Every person we’ve interviewed has pointed to Old Man Harwood as our zombie killer.”

“Old Man Harwood?”

“Roy Harwood, Senior,” said Arielle.

“That’s what the second warrants for? You want to dig him up too?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” began Arielle, “you see, we believe…”

“Nope. Still you.” He pointed at Peyton again. “You speak my language.”

Peyton gave him a smile. “Everyone we’ve interviewed has said Old Man Harwood was probably our zombie killer.”

“Why?”

“He exhibited symptoms of prion disease – erratic temper, inability to swallow, slurred speech. Over and over again, we’ve heard how he would go into a rage, cussing so badly that no one could understand what he said. Towards the end of his life, he became very weak and unstable on his feet, tremors.”

“What’d his autopsy say?”

“There wasn’t one. He died at home. His wife, Agnes, said it was cancer. The family doctor signed the death certificate and he was buried.”

“How long ago?”

“Three years.”

“Then his son gets sick?”

“Right. He goes for treatment, but there’s no treatment for prion disease. Only death.”

“And you want to dig up...what you call him?”

“Old Man Harwood.”

“Old Man Harwood to prove he had a prion disease.”

“Yes.”

“What’s that gonna prove? Why couldn’t they have gotten it from the same mad cow?”

“Two of the bodies were found on their property, both with their brains eaten.”

Judge Tabor wrapped his hand around his chin. “I thought one of the bodies was found two weeks ago.”

“It was.”

“But Old Man Harwood’s dead and buried.”

“As far as we know.”

The judge hesitated, then gave Peyton a smile. Peyton returned it.

“And the son was dying in the hospital at Stanford?”

“Right.”

“How do you explain the last death then, Agent Brooks?”

“I can’t, which is why I need to get on that farm.”

“You think there’s a third zombie killer?”

“I do.”

Radar lowered his head.

“Is it Agnes?”

“The two bodies found on the farm had their thighs ripped out, then their skulls crushed. Someone peeled back a part of the skull to get at the brains. Both bodies were male.” Peyton shook her head. “I just can’t see how Agnes has the strength to do any of those things.”

“So who does that leave?”

“I don’t know, Your Honor, but if we find the murder weapons, the curved blade that did the damage to the thighs or the blunt instrument used on the skulls, we might be able to get Agnes to tell us something.”

He sat back in his chair and scratched his forehead. “I hate digging up dead people. I hate desecrating graves.”

Peyton waited for him to continue.

“I hate that almost as much as I hate upsetting old ladies.”

Peyton chewed on her upper lip.

Judge Tabor leaned forward on the table. “Okay. Here’s how we’re going to work this. I’ll give you the warrant to dig up Old Man Harwood. If he has a prion disease and that’s a big if, I’ll let you search the Harwood Farm, but I want to know the old man had it too. If it was just the boy, we’re gonna assume he got it from cow and you’re gonna look elsewhere for your killer, understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If he has it, I’ll give you the warrant to search the farm.” He motioned at Arielle. “Give me the exhumation order.”

She scrambled to get it.

“Who’s telling Agnes her son died?”

“We were going to do it.”

“Let the local cops do that. I don’t want you upsetting her twice unless it’s absolutely necessary. Bad enough to tell an old woman her son is dead, but it’ll be a whole lot worse if we have to tear apart her farm to prove her son was a zombie killer. I just ain’t looking forward to that no amount at all.”

*    *    *

Marco wasn’t sure what to do with himself once Peyton left. He took Pickles for another walk, but that was pure torture, so he drove over to the gym and tried to work out. By the time he got home, he felt like he could probably do his own amputation if he had enough Jack.

Opening the nightstand drawer, he took a swig, then closed it, hobbling to the bathroom for a shower. Pickles watched him, his head tilted.

“Don’t judge me,” he told the dog, pointing his finger at him. Pickles wagged his tail. Marco had to admit Pickles didn’t do much judging, but Peyton was another matter. He dreaded having the talk Peyton wanted to have, but he knew he owed her something for the way he acted the previous night.

Taking a shower, he puttered about the house, but the continual ache in his leg kept him thinking about the bottle in his nightstand, so he grabbed his keys and went to the Charger. He didn’t know where to go. He could go to Jake’s apartment and watch the baseball game with him, but Jake always wanted to talk.

He could go see Abe, but then Abe would start hounding him about calling the orthopedic surgeon at Stanford. Abe could be as bad as Peyton when he got something to fuss over. And he wasn’t up to fending off Abe’s flirtation today.

That left him with his brother Vinnie.

He drove to Vinnie’s house. Vinnie’s wife, Rosa, answered the door, her face lighting up as she rose on her tiptoes to kiss him. “You haven’t been over here for a long time. Come in.” She looked beyond him for Peyton. His family seemed to like Peyton more than they did him. Truth was right now, he liked Peyton a whole lot more than he liked himself too.

“She’s working.”

Her face fell. “Oh, I was hoping we could talk wedding stuff.”

“Sorry. I’m all you get.”

She hooked her arm through his and led him into the living room. Vinnie and his son, Antonio, were sitting in front of the television, watching the game. Vinnie rose when he saw him, coming forward to grab him in a bear hug. Marco raised a hand to Antonio and the boy returned the gesture.

Vinnie clapped both hands on his shoulders. “I’m glad you came over.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

“You never have to call. Come on, sit down.”

Antonio slid to the other end of the couch, giving Marco the spot closest to Vinnie’s armchair. Rosa disappeared into the kitchen and came back with two beers, passing one to Marco and his brother.

“Can I have one?” Antonio asked.

“Not even for a moment.” She laid a hand on Marco’s shoulder. “Will you stay for dinner?”

“No, Peyton said she’d be home early.”

“Okay. If you need anything just let me know, I’ll be in the garden.”

Marco nodded and squeezed her hand. She bustled from the room and he turned his attention to the television, sipping the beer. Shifting so he could stretch out his leg, he absently rubbed at his thigh.

They watched the game in silence for a while, then Vinnie cleared his throat. “So, how’s the new job?”

Marco glanced at him. “Fine.”

“Fine? Last time I talked to you, you didn’t have many cases.”

“We have two now.”

Vinnie nodded. “How’s Peyton’s job?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Vinnie gave a snort of laughter. “You never were one for conversation.”

“I came over to watch the game, not paint your fingernails and do your hair.”

Antonio gave Marco an approving smile.

Vinnie sat quietly for a bit, then he shifted in his chair. Marco could feel him watching him. “How are things with Peyton?”

Marco leaned forward and settled the beer on the coffee table. “Okay, why are you grilling me?”

“You haven’t been over here in weeks, and suddenly you turn up. You look like shit, you keep rubbing your thigh, and you aren’t really watching the game. Something’s wrong, little brother.”

Marco glanced at Antonio.

“Tonio will go in the other room if you want to talk,” said Vinnie.

“No, I don’t want to talk. Things are fine with Peyton. She’s just working and I was tired of wandering around the house doing nothing. Look, if you’re going to give me the third degree, I’ll watch the game at home.”

Vinnie made a motion with his chin at his son and Antonio got off the couch, heading for the bedroom. Marco noticed that Antonio hardly had a limp any longer.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Vinnie leaned on the arm of his chair, bringing himself closer to Marco. “Well, you weren’t going to talk with him here. Now, what the hell is going on?”

“Nothing, Vinnie, damn it. Why do you always do this?”

“I know you better than anyone.”

Marco stared at the end of his cane. “Everything’s fine. I just want to watch the game and not have someone poking at me all the time. Can we just do that?”

“Fine,” said Vinnie, lifting his beer. “We’ll just watch the game.”

They sat quietly through a few batters. Marco couldn’t really concentrate. All he could think about was the fight with Peyton, how upset he’d been, how jealous it made him to think she’d had anything to do with Joshua Ravensong and then when she refused to tell him, it made him even angrier. Devan was bad enough. He could hardly stand the thought of Devan touching her, but Joshua Ravensong was worse somehow. And he knew she was keeping something from him.

“You know, stewing in your own thoughts just magnifies everything.”

Marco stared at his brother. “You’re not going to let it go, are you?”

“I just don’t understand why you can’t tell me what’s wrong.”

Marco pushed himself to his feet. This was obviously a mistake. “Screw it. I give up.” He started for the door, but Vinnie rose and cut him off.

“You’re walking out?”

“I get enough head shrinking from Dr. Ferguson. I don’t need this from my own family. Let me go, Vinnie.”

“No, talk to me.”

“Screw you! You always think you can fix everything. You always think you’re the big ass older brother. I don’t need you fixing my life, Vinnie. I don’t need you sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“What the hell do you want me to do? You always do this, Marco, you always push everyone away when you’re hurting. Did you do this to Peyton too?”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

From the corner of his eyes, he could see Rosa appear in the doorway to the kitchen.

He tried to tamp down his anger. “Look, I don’t want to fight with you. Just let me go home.”

“No, you’re not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong!”

“What isn’t wrong! I can’t walk, I can’t do my freakin’ job. The other day I got knocked on my ass by a perp. Then last night, I found out my fiancée had an affair with a rockstar! What the hell is freakin’ right in my life, Vinnie! You tell me!”

Vinnie’s mouth hung open and he searched Marco’s face.

“Then I come here to get away from it all, and my brother won’t shut the hell up! Now, you’re blocking me so I can’t leave and we both know I’m not strong enough to make you!”

Vinnie looked down, then he backed up. Marco pushed past him and went for the door, yanking it open. Except on the landing, he faced the long bank of stairs leading down to the driveway. He slumped against the wall and stared at them.

Why the hell was he fighting with everyone? He didn’t want to fight with his brother. He didn’t want to fight with Peyton. He wanted everything to go back to the way it had been. Sinking down on the top stair, he covered his face with both hands.

He heard the door open and he tensed. He really didn’t want to go another round with his brother right now. Someone took a seat on the stairs next to him and he lifted his head, looking over.

Antonio.

“I’m sorry I yelled at your dad, kid. I didn’t mean it.”

Antonio shrugged. “I yelled at him too when I got out of the hospital.”

“Yeah, but look at you now. You hardly have a limp.”

“It still hurts sometimes, if I do too much.”

Marco nodded.

Antonio scuffed his feet on the stairs. “No one gets it.”

“Gets what?”

“What it’s like. You know, when something like this happens. One day, you’re running and no one can stop you, then the next day…”

Marco sighed. “Yeah.” He twirled the cane in his hand. “I hate this thing!” He lifted the cane for Antonio to see. “I hate it so much, I can’t even tell you, but if I reach for it and it’s not there, I feel this moment of panic.”

Antonio nodded. “I was angry for a long time, you know? Really angry. I yelled at Mom and Dad, I called Cristina really bad things. Everything was hard. Getting a shower, going to the bathroom.”

Marco chuckled in agreement.

“I just wanted my old life back.”

“I hate the way people watch me.”

“God, I remember that. They look at you like they’re worried you’re gonna fall or something.”

“Yeah. Every time I go to do something, someone says let me. I know they’re trying to help, but it just pisses me off.”

Antonio fell silent, staring at his hands.

Marco nudged him with his shoulder. “What helped the anger?”

Antonio looked over at him. “I still have it sometimes, you know? My leg gets to hurting and I get angry all over again, but I can deal with it better. But before, God, it was bad, Uncle Marco. I remember one night I got in a fight with Mom about my grades or something, and for a minute, I swear, I saw myself walking out the door, just walking and never coming back.”

Marco didn’t say anything, just watched his nephew.

“I went online and I found this group through the hospital. Other kids who had cancer or were dying. We could chat online, you know?”

Marco nodded.

“Then I started thinking about Billy Miller. You remember him?”

“Yeah.” He was the other boy in the car with Antonio when they had their accident. Billy Miller had been paralyzed. “I called him on the phone and we just talked. We hadn’t talked really since the accident.” Antonio’s eyes filled with tears, but he swiped them away. “I suddenly realized I could deal with what I had. I could handle my problems. They weren’t that big. I wasn’t paralyzed, I wasn’t dying. I could deal, you know?”

Marco reached up and gripped his nephew’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know. You’re a good kid, Tonio. You know that?”

Antonio encircled Marco’s wrist with his fingers. “Dad’s right, Uncle Marco, you gotta find someone you can talk to.”

*    *    *

Standing in the gathering dusk at the edge of the grave, Peyton slipped her phone out of her pocket and glanced at the display. It was after 6:00PM by the time they got someone to agree to exhume Old Man Harwood’s body.

First of all the cemetery had been blocked off to visitors and screens had been put up to ensure privacy. A backhoe had been brought in for the first part, but now, workers in protective gear were using shovels to dig down to the vault.

A priest stood by, blessing the ground and overseeing the operation to make sure proper respect was shown to the deceased. Tank and Bambi had picked up Igor and drove out from the City, hoping Igor would at least be able to identify the body. Tonight they would transport it to Igor’s lab, then tomorrow he would perform the autopsy.

Peyton caught motion at the edge of the screen, and Deputy Sharpe slipped around it, striding over the uneven ground to meet them. He nodded at Radar and gave Peyton a grim smile.

“How’d it go with Agnes?” she asked. She knew he’d be the one to draw the short straw and tell the woman her son was dead.

“Drove her to Lodi Memorial Hospital for a sedative. She didn’t want to go. She kept telling me she couldn’t leave, she had to make arrangements for her son. She got so panicked, she damn near passed out.”

“Funeral arrangements?”

“That’s what I figured. She kept saying arrangements. What other kind could there be?”

“So the farm’s empty?”

Radar glanced over at her. “We aren’t going on that property without a warrant, Sparky.”

“I didn’t say we were.” She touched Sharpe’s arm. “I’m sorry it didn’t go well.”

He nodded. “That’s the job.”

Peyton could see Bambi standing on tiptoes trying to see into the grave. “Did you bring the dental records?”

Sharpe held them up. Peyton took them and passed them to Radar, who gave them to Igor. “What if it isn’t Old Man Harwood in that grave?”

“I’m more worried about what will happen if Old Man Harwood doesn’t have a prion disease.”

Bambi leaned around Radar. “Do you suppose there’s any flesh left?”

Peyton and Sharpe gave her horrified looks.

“That’s one’s twisted,” he whispered.

“Tell me about it.”

The priest shifted and glared at them. Peyton clamped her mouth shut and pulled out her phone again.

“Do you have some place you’d rather be?” hissed Radar.

“Yeah, home with my fiancé. I promised him I’d be home early.”

“You’re the one who wanted to dig up the dead, Sparky.”

“Not on Saturday. I was fine with digging up the dead on Monday.”

“Shh!” hissed the priest.

Peyton clamped her mouth shut again and pulled out the phone, sending Marco a text. Just as she finished, they heard the sound of shovel hitting stone. One of the workers pulled off his facemask and straightened. “We’re here.”

“Careful,” said Igor. “Try to disturb the body as little as you can.” He shut the folder he’d been studying and moved closer to the edge of the grave. His white bald head and pale hands looked even more translucent in the late day sunlight as if he glowed like the LED tables from Devan’s fundraiser last night.

Bambi followed in his footsteps, Tank and Radar a few steps behind. Peyton hung back, not certain she wanted the first glimpse of whatever was going to come out of that grave.

The workers, using crowbars, pulled up the lip of the concrete vault with a hiss of escaped air, then they brought a small crane forward and attached straps beneath the coffin, winching it upward. Peyton winced as they carefully lifted the coffin out of the vault and swung it to the side, bringing it down until it rested beside the grave on solid ground.

Sharpe glanced at Peyton. “Aren’t you just a little curious about what’s in there?”

“Not really.” She shook her head, but when he moved to the side of the grave, Peyton reluctantly followed.

Bambi grabbed her arm, hugging it to herself. “This is so exciting.”

Peyton forced a smile for her.

“What if it’s empty?”

Peyton swallowed hard. She didn’t really believe it would be empty. In fact, she was more concerned it wouldn’t be.

Igor pulled on gloves and a facemask. “Okay, open it.”

The workers set to unbolting the lid while the priest began a prayer, crossing himself. After the bolts were removed, two of the worker lifted it. The smell was the first thing to strike them and Peyton turned away. She felt Sharpe touch her back with his hand.

Tank made a gagging noise and the workers scrambled back, covering their noses with their hands. Igor and Bambi were the only ones to move closer.

“Oh, shit!” whispered Bambi. “He’s turning to liquid.”

“Yes, anaerobic bacteria thrive in these partially metallic coffins and they have the fascinating ability to cause putrefaction. Actually, if you’d like a more pleasant decomposition you should choose a wooden casket instead.” Igor reached into the coffin.

“You gotta see this, Peyton,” said Bambi. “You’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Peyton, trying to breathe through her mouth.

“Is it Harwood?” asked Radar through clenched teeth.

“Patience, Radar. This fellow’s been doing a lot of falling apart.” He gave a wheezing laugh. “He really does look like a zombie.” Holding out the file to Bambi, he instructed her to place it near the coffin, so he could reach in with both hands.

“In twenty-five years on the FBI, I’ve never dug up a body,” Radar said, turning toward Peyton. “You come on, and here I am two weeks later.”

She gave him a sheepish half-smile. “So, does your wife work for the FBI?”

He stared at her in disbelief, then shook his head, snapping his sunglasses over his eyes, but Peyton caught the twitch at the corner of his lips. He shifted back to face the coffin.

“Igor, for the love of God…” He held up a hand to the priest. “Sorry, Father.”

The priest gave him a nod.

“Is it Harwood or not? I’m gonna puke if I have to breathe anymore zombie air.”

Igor’s mouth suddenly tilted up at the corners. “Come look. The dental x-rays indicate both the maxillary central incisors were replaced with implants. The deceased here has implants in the same location.”

Radar didn’t get any closer to the coffin. “What are the maximum incisors?”

“Maxillary central incisors.” Igor turned toward him and bared his teeth, pointing with a gloved finger. “In layman’s terms, my two front teeth.”

“So is it Harwood?”

“I would like to compare DNA with the deceased son and the DNA sample I took from the fingernail, but yes, I feel comfortable identifying this corpse as Roy Harwood, Senior.”

Peyton released her held breath.

Radar clapped his hands together. “Okay, let’s pack this rodeo up and head on back to the City. I still might have time to catch a movie with the wife.”

*    *    *

The house was dark when Peyton got home. Pickles crept out of the bedroom as she unhooked her gun and hung it on the peg, then dropped her keys and badge on the sofa table with her wallet.

The little dog gave her a tired yawn and turned around, disappearing again. Peyton slipped out of her blazer and pulled off her boots, then walked in stocking feet to the bedroom door and pushed it open.

Marco lay on his stomach in the bed, the even sound of his breathing greeting her at the door. She tiptoed to the closet and slid it open, dropping the shoes and hanging up the blazer. She settled her cell phone on the nightstand, then grabbed his jersey and went into the bathroom to change.

As she was brushing her teeth, Marco appeared in the doorway, squinting in the bright lights. “You just get home?”

She nodded and turned off the water, moving into his arms and laying her head on his bare chest. He encircled her with his arms and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his skin.

“Did you get dinner?”

“Fast food on the way home.”

He leaned back and ran his thumb across her cheek. “You okay? Did it go all right?”

“It went fine, but I have to go in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? That’s seven days in a row, Peyton.”

“I know, but I should be done early and we’ll go to Mama D’Angelo’s together.”

He sighed, then reached for her hand. “Come on. You look exhausted.”

“We were supposed to have a talk today.”

“Yeah, well, we were supposed to spend the day in bed too, but that didn’t happen.”

“What did you do?” She let him pull her into the bedroom.

“Nothing. Puttered around here and went to the gym for a while.”

“The gym? That’s good, right?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed and drew her between his legs. “Yeah, that’s good. Look, I know you wanted to have a talk and all, but I just want to tell you, I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

She ran her hands along the broad expanse of his shoulders. “I know. You told me last night.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Then you showed me.”

He smiled. “Still, it was uncalled for and I’m sorry.”

“How sorry?” she asked, placing her forehead against his.

“Very, very sorry.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have to show me again, aren’t you?”

He laughed as he pulled her down on the bed with him.

CHAPTER 13

Marco poured the last of the coffee into a travel mug for Peyton and screwed the cap on, then handed it to her as she came around the counter. She took it and lifted on tiptoes to kiss him.

“Can I make you some toast or something?” he asked.

“No time. If I get this done, I can get home early. Wait for me. I should be home around 2:00 at the latest.”

He nodded and leaned on the kitchen counter, crossing his arms.

“You going to church today?” she asked as she gathered her keys and other paraphernalia.

“Nope.”

She hesitated. “I thought that was the agreement you made with Dr. Ferguson?”

“It was. I changed it.”

“And he’s okay with that?”

“Yeah.” She started to question him, but he lifted his phone and looked pointedly at the clock. “You’re gonna be late.”

Snagging her gun off the peg, she pulled open the door and stepped out, waving to him over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah.” Then she was gone.

Marco picked up his own coffee mug and took a sip, then went around the counter and climbed on the kitchen stool. Pickles jumped on the couch and turned around a couple of times, then settled himself. Reaching for his laptop, Marco booted it up and clicked on Carissa’s blog, picking up where he left off.

He didn’t know why he was torturing himself with her words, but he couldn’t stop reading. If she had just gone through with her plan to post the blog, would things have turned out differently? If she had just reached out to other people going through the same thing, would it have made a difference?

He thought of what Antonio had said to him yesterday. Antonio had felt the change came when he talked about the accident with others. Somehow sharing it had made it easier to accept. Marco wasn’t sure how the hell that worked. Sharing emotional shit went so against his nature that he wasn’t sure he could do it. Even with the woman he loved more than anything. Even with Peyton he was reluctant to give away that much of himself. And if he couldn’t do it with her, who the hell could he do it with?

His thoughts turned to her as they did so much of the time. A strain was developing between them. They were circling around each other, afraid to really hear what the other one was saying. He felt out of his depths with her. She represented everything he wanted in life, but he felt her holding back. He felt her pulling away. This terrified him. He didn’t know how to live without Peyton and that fact went way beyond the new incarnation of their relationship. She’d been the central focus of his life for so long. Everything he did had her at its core.

Was she pulling away because she saw they weren’t equals any longer? Was she pulling away because the guilt she felt about his injury completely eclipsed the love she once had? Was she pulling away because he couldn’t control his jealousy?

He slammed the lid down on Carissa’s blog. He couldn’t read this anymore. He was starting to have nightmares about Carissa Phelps. He kept trying to stop her from going into the room where Ryan Addison waited, but he was always too late, he was always arriving at the wrong time. And once, when he actually reached her, it hadn’t been Carissa Phelps. It was Peyton.

Marco hated his jealousy, he hated his insecurity. He’d never been insecure around women before. He’d never felt so vulnerable, so anxious all of the time. When he was with Peyton, he was okay, but the minute she left, the fear raged back to the surface. And he was self-aware enough to know this wasn’t good. For either of them.

He swiveled on the barstool and stared at the little dog. “What’s say we go feed bread to the ducks around Stow Lake?”

Pickles lazily thumped his tail, but even he seemed to sense the tension in their house. Marco felt guilty for that. Shit. How the hell would he and Peyton ever have children if they couldn’t even raise a dog without making him need therapy?

*    *    *

Peyton paced back and forth by the door of Igor’s lab, wearing a bulky blue lab gown. The body lay splayed open on the table and Igor, dressed like something from a horror movie, leaned over it, cutting out pieces and putting them in petri dishes. Bambi stood on the other side of the table, dressed in the same full body hazmat suit as Igor, but at least she was partially obstructing Peyton’s view.

Tank sat on a stool at the other end of the lab, his back straight, his arms folded across his massive chest, his closely shaved head lifted as he watched Igor perform the autopsy. Once in a while, he’d make a face, but Peyton wasn’t sure he even knew he did it.

Radar lounged in a chair near the door, his arms crossed, his legs crossed at the ankles, his head tilted back and his eyes closed. “You’re making me anxious, Sparky.”

She shot an aggravated look at him. “You don’t look anxious. You look like you’re meditating.”

“I am and you’re messing up my chi.”

“Your chi?”

Tank glanced over at them. “For the Chinese, the chi is one’s life force. Most cultures believe in it. In India, it’s called the prana, in Japan the ki, and for Native American’s it might be the Great Spirit. The idea is that one can build life force through relaxation techniques, such as meditation, and thereby inner strength, which also leads to strengthening the physical health and the mental wellbeing.”

“You’re a Buddhist?” she asked Radar.

He cracked one eye at her. “Does it help you to label people?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

“If I were going to follow any religion, it would be Buddhism, but I’m against organized religions on principle. Do you have a belief system, Sparky?”

“I used to go to church all of the time when I was a kid, but…”

“But?”

“I stopped.”

“Why?”

“My dad was murdered.”

Radar opened both eyes and gave her a full look. “You got a lot of baggage, kid. You might try meditation.”

She gave that a thought. Did she have a lot of baggage? Who didn’t? Weren’t all people walking wounded? Why was her baggage any different than their own? She began pacing again. What the hell was taking so long? She didn’t want to be here today.

“Pass these out,” said Igor to Bambi, holding out face masks and goggles. Bambi distributed them. “Put them on and don’t take them off until I tell you.” Then he reached for a saw.

Oh, shit. A saw? That couldn’t be good.

“Step back, Agent Redford,” he said, then moved to the head of the body.

Peyton turned away as soon as she heard the saw begin grinding.

“Oh man,” said Bambi over the noise of the saw blade. “That is so cool!”

Peyton felt she might be sick. She fumbled for the button on the lab door, but Radar caught her arm stopping her. “Not right now,” came his muffled voice.

Peyton sank to a crouch beside him and hugged her arms around herself. How the hell did she get herself into a job where a normal Sunday was sawing open a man’s skull? Finally the saw stopped, but the next sound almost made her vomit. It was a sucking, slurping sound as Igor removed the top of the skull.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” said Bambi, then her voice trailed off. “Is his brain supposed to look like that?”

“That’s a very good sign, Agent Redford, a very good sign.”

Peyton looked over her shoulder and watched Igor take samples out of the hole in Old Man Harwood’s skull. Then he slid a sheet over the body and moved to the bench on the back wall, placing his petri dish under the microscope.

Peyton rose to her feet and watched his hunched form. Her stomach roiled and it wasn’t just from the horror of this room. When she thought about changing careers, this was the moment that always stopped her. This was the adrenaline rush that kept her going. The final solution to the mystery, the final proof that they’d put the puzzle together the right way.

She trembled with excitement and nervousness. She could hardly breathe. Figuring out a case was as addictive as drugs, as alcohol, as any artificial stimulant known to man. And this was why she couldn’t give up this job.

After what seemed like hours, Igor straightened and motioned for Bambi to take a look. She pounced on the microscope. Peyton could almost understand her enthusiasm, although she wished she’d tamp down on the creepy a tad.

“Igor?” Peyton took a step toward him.

He smiled behind the blast shield of his hazmat suit. “I feel comfortable declaring the cause of death to be…” He paused dramatically. “...prion disease.”

Peyton whirled on Radar. He nodded behind his face mask and goggles, then he rose to his feet and pushed the button on the door to the lab. Peyton followed him into the hallway, stripping off the protective gear.

Yanking off his own mask and goggles, he reached for his phone and dialed Arielle Tran from the U.S. Attorney’s office. Peyton could hear her muffled voice on the line. “We have confirmation,” said Radar. He didn’t bother with banalities like hello. “Roy Harwood, Senior, had prion disease.”

Peyton’s phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it, intent on Radar.

“Right. Right. Uh huh. Got it. We’ll be right down.” He disconnected the call.

“What?”

“We’re going to Sacramento.”

“Wait. Now?”

“Yep. The judge won’t grant the warrant to search the Harwood farm until we bring him the results of the autopsy. We’ll wait here for Igor to write it up, then head over there.”

“No.”

“No? This is what you wanted.”

“I have plans today.”

“Plans?”

“Yes, I’m going to dinner at my future in-laws.”

“You’re going to Sacramento, Sparky. You saw yesterday, that judge only listened to you.”

Peyton closed her eyes. Marco was never going to understand this. “I have to call my fiancé.”

“Fine. Get it done. I’ll go wait for the report.” He moved toward the lab as Peyton pulled out her phone.

She expected the call she missed to be from Marco, but it wasn’t. It was from Sharpe. “Radar, wait.”

He turned around as she dialed Sharpe’s number. “Bob, it’s Peyton.”

“Peyton, I’ve got something interesting I thought you might want to know.”

“So do I. Bob, Old Man Harwood had prion disease. We’re on our way to Sacramento for the warrant.”

“Actually, that’s good. Wait until you hear my news.”

“Go on.”

“I did a little digging into the Harwood family.”

“And?”

“Agnes Harwood gave birth twice.”

“Twice?”

“Yep. Three years after Roy Junior, Agnes Harwood was admitted to Lodi Memorial Hospital’s Labor and Delivery floor.”

“How did you find this out?”

“I can get my own warrants. I got curious after you questioned what she said about making arrangements. At first I thought it was funeral arrangements, but then I wondered if she meant something else.”

Peyton’s fingers tightened on the phone. “What sex was the second baby?”

“A boy, named Randal. Did a little more digging and found that Randal entered school briefly before his parents pulled him out to homeschool him. I can’t find out why.”

“Huh?”

“But the homeschool teacher quit after a few sessions, so Agnes took over.”

“Does it say why she quit?”

“Not a word. The academic records are really sketchy, but it doesn’t matter because I found police reports as well.”

“What do those say?”

“Six years after his birth, Mr. and Mrs. Harwood reported their second son missing. He’d escaped the house and wandered onto the levee. They believed he fell in the river. DART dragged the river for a full week, Peyton, but never recovered a body. A year later, he was declared dead.”

“What’s going on?” asked Radar.

“There was a second son.”

“Harwood had a second son?”

“Yeah.”

“Where is he?”

“Either he drowned in the river and crawled out as a zombie…”

“Technically, wouldn’t that make him a swamp creature?” asked Sharpe.

“The river’s not the same as a swamp,” answered Peyton.

“Really, Sparky?” demanded Radar.

Peyton held up a hand. “Or he’s hanging out on the Harwood farm completely unsupervised now that Agnes isn’t there.”

“What the hell are we talking about here?”

Peyton shook her head. “I’m not sure, but they kept this kid hidden for a reason, Radar. And I’m betting the luminal I found wasn’t for Agnes. I’ll bet it was for him.”

Radar swallowed hard.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sharpe.

“Can we get some patrol cars surrounding the Harwood place? We’re on our way with the warrant, but I don’t know how long that might take.”

“We’ll be in place when you get here, but Peyton…”

“Yeah?”

“Hurry. That place is starting to give me the creeps.”

*    *    *

Marco grabbed the phone off the coffee table. “Hey?” He glanced at the clock. It was almost 2:30.

“Don’t be mad.”

He slumped back on the couch, laying his hand on Pickles’ head. “You’re not coming home?”

“I have to go to Sacramento.”

Marco forced his clenched jaw to relax. “Fine.”

“Marco, please.”

“No, it is what it is.”

“Please tell your family I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated. “You’re angry?”

“I’m not happy, Peyton, no.”

“I don’t know what to do. I told Radar I had plans, but he said I had to go.”

Marco forced himself to gentle his touch as he petted Pickles. “You’re spending a lot of time with this Radar.” Once he and Peyton had spent this much time together, working cases, tracking down leads. The jealousy that was always so close under the surface now came raging to the foreground.

“You’re really not going to like the next part. I don’t think I’ll be home tonight.”

He fought for composure. He had a sudden, irrational urge to throw something. “I see.”

“Marco, don’t say it like that. It’s just this case. We’re so close to solving it. Please understand. This is my job.” But he could hear the excitement in her voice. This wasn’t just her job, this was her life, this was what gave her life meaning and he was incidental.

“Yeah, I got it, Peyton. Look, I gotta go.”

She fell silent, holding the phone. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Okay. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Yeah.” He started to disconnect, then he hesitated. “Peyton?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, okay?”

“I will. I love you.”

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He felt so angry and hurt that he was afraid he’d say something spiteful instead. “Just be careful.” Then he disconnected the call. For a moment, he fought with himself. He wanted to call her back, he wanted to tell her he was sorry for acting distant, but he couldn’t. She was the sun and he was caught in her orbit, spinning around her, waiting for her to shine a little light on him. The problem was – he wasn’t the only planet in her solar system.

He texted his brother Vinnie and begged off dinner, asking him to tell their mother. Vinnie began an instant text back, demanding why, but Marco set the phone face down on the coffee table and looked at Pickles.

“It’s damn near 3:00 o’clock, bud. What do you say we have a drink?”

Pickles tilted his head, then laid his chin on his front paws with a heavy sigh.

*    *    *

Sharpe met them in the driveway like he always did, but this time patrol cars filled the lane and Radar had a hard time finding space for the Suburban. Peyton jumped out and handed Sharpe the search warrant.

“See anything?”

“Not a damn thing. Called the hospital to talk to Agnes, but they said she had a heart attack. She isn’t conscious.”

Peyton hated that. She’d liked Agnes, even if her whole family was a bunch of brain eating zombies.

“All right. Let’s search this bastard from every rafter and roof to the cellars!” said Radar, stepping out of the Suburban in a flak jacket and black gloves. Tank and Bambi came after him. They all wore FBI issue ball caps. Coming around the front of the car, Radar slapped a ball cap on her head. “Just so we know who we’re shooting at if it comes to that,” he said.

Peyton tightened her own flak jacket and unholstered her gun.

“What exactly do you think we’re dealing with here?” asked Sharpe.

“A zombie killer,” answered Radar. “I sure wouldn’t let him bite you if I were you.”

Sharpe looked at Peyton for explanation. “Igor, our M.E., has a theory that Old Man Harwood started eating brains even before Roy Junior was born. Since prion disease has a long incubation period, he wasn’t sick yet when Roy was born, but when Agnes got pregnant with Randall, he was most likely infected.”

“So he passed the prion disease on to his son?”

Peyton shrugged. “That’s what Igor’s speculating, or possibly, the prion disease changed Old Man Harwood’s DNA enough to affect Randall. Randall may not have been able to attend school because he had behavioral issues.”

“Why fake his death?”

“The state probably wanted to know what was going on, why the boy wasn’t in school, so the Harwoods said he drowned.”

“Then what? Old Man Harwood had the boys join him in his zombie rituals?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Sharpe leaned away from her. “No, stranger things haven’t happened. Are you saying Agnes didn’t know?”

“We trick ourselves into believing all sorts of things when we can’t face what’s in front of us,” she said. Like ignoring the fact that your fiancé has a drinking problem. She tamped down on that thought. She couldn’t let her worry for Marco cloud her mind right now.

“If we’re finished with the rampant speculation, we’ve got a zombie to find,” said Radar. He gave his team an appraising look. “Stay close together. Don’t get separated. We search every inch of this farm. Got it?”

“Got it!” Tank and Bambi said in unison.

Radar gave Peyton a disbelieving look.

“Oh, got it!”

“Way to be a team player, Sparky.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know we were a glee club.”

Radar rolled his eyes, then they moved out. Sharpe gave orders to his men to begin the search and Peyton saw patrol officers leave their cars, advancing on the Harwood farm with guns drawn. Adrenalin pumped through Peyton as she moved toward the house with Sharpe and Bambi. She knew she had blown the image of Randall Harwood out of proportion in her mind, but she couldn’t deny that the rosy light of dusk and the fog creeping in off the river gave everything a surreal feeling, like something out of a low-budget horror movie.

They searched the house and moved beyond it to the shed. Radar was waiting for them at the door. He nodded for Peyton to take the other side of the opening, then he kicked the door in. They spun into the room, Radar going high, Peyton going low, but the shed was empty.

Peyton rose to her full height and looked around. A twin bed had been shoved in a back corner with a rumpled quilt covering it. Dirty plates and utensils were stacked on an apple crate in the middle of the floor.

She lowered her gun as she took it all in. A few pictures of the Caribbean were tacked on the bare shed walls, torn out of magazines. Moving toward the bed, she noticed leather straps. She bent down and fingered a strap. Something had chewed through the leather; she could see teeth marks embedded in the soft suede.

“They were tying him down?” asked Radar next to her.

“Looks that way, and he chewed his way out.” She shivered.

Tank entered the shed, filling the small space with his bulk. He studied the magazine images on the walls. “Hm?”

“What?” asked Radar.

“Well, zombie legends originated in Haitian folklore. Believers thought that a dead person could be revived by a bokor or a priest in the Voodoo religion. The revived zombie would remain a slave to the bokor, since they have no will of their own.” He tapped the magazine pictures of the Caribbean. “Hence the photos of Haiti.”

“Are you saying Old Man Harwood had his sons eat brains because he thought he was a bokor?” asked Radar.

“Could be.”

“But he ate brains himself?”

“Well, I have another theory. Maybe we’ve fixated on the brain consumption.”

Radar and Peyton exchanged a look.

“But maybe it isn’t zombism, but rather anthropophagy that’s the situation here.”

“And the difference would be?”

“Old Man Harwood engaged in exocannibalism, the consumption of a person outside the community, in this case, the Hmong culture, as a sort of victory over a rival. He may have harbored some xenophobic fears that the Asian culture was going to overcome his own Caucasian race. If that’s the case, eating the flesh of one’s rival is a way to endow oneself with their characteristics and strength.”

“And his sons?”

Tank shrugged. “Maybe he thought he was creating a super race.” Tank gave a half-smile. “Ironic, really, that his errant belief system actually caused his line to die out.”

“What about the photos of the Caribbean?” asked Peyton.

Tank looked back at them. Then he shrugged. “Pretty pictures to lighten up the atmosphere.”

Radar gave an exhalation of frustration, but Peyton’s attention was snagged by something else. The wind had blown the door into the outer wall, drawing her attention to the opening. Tucked into the corner behind the door was a sledge hammer.

“Radar?”

He followed her to the door as she reached for the handle with her gloved hands. Lifting the tool, they moved into the dying light from outside. Blood and bits of a bone were smeared on the rubber head of the hammer.

Radar gave her a nod, then turned to Tank. “Bag it and put it in the Suburban.”

Tank moved to comply.

“Let’s see if your spidey sense can find the knife,” Radar said to her.

“If he kept the hammer here, wouldn’t he keep the knife in the same place?”

“Let’s go over this mother with a fine tooth comb then.”

She and Radar searched every inch of the shed, but found nothing. They left the barn and met up with Sharpe. He shook his head. “No sign of him.”

The three of them looked out across the back of the farm where the orchards spread away on all sides of them. “Sixty acres is a lot of land to search,” said Peyton, feeling her heart sink. She’d really hoped she’d get home tonight, so she and Marco could have their long-overdue talk.

“The faster we search it, the quicker we’ll catch him,” said Radar.

They fanned out and began walking down the rows of short, squat cherry trees. In the day, it had seemed idyllic, but now, with the light failing and the fog seeping into the lower areas, it seemed nightmarish.

She remembered searching for the Janitor, the serial killer, less than a year ago. He’d killed a troop leader in heavily wooded Huddart Park and they’d had to search for him much the same way, uncertain where he was hiding, waiting for him to spring out at them. She hated that search, just as she hated this one.

She could see Radar and Sharpe’s figures on either side of her, but she still felt isolated, cut off from the world beneath these tightly growing trees. The soil was hard beneath her feet, uneven, littered with rocks and dirt clods that tripped her up.

Squinting into the dusk, she caught sight of something propped against a trunk. She quickened her pace and came upon a wooden ladder. Reaching it, she stepped back, studying it. If someone was standing at the top of the ladder, they were vulnerable to anyone coming upon them from below.

“Radar?” she called.

He and Sharpe pushed through the trees on either side to come to her. She pointed at the ladder. “I know how he got the drop on them.”

Radar looked the ladder over. “He stabbed them in the thigh with the knife when they were pruning the trees.”

“Then they fell off and he used the sledge hammer to bash in their skulls.”

“I know what the knife is then,” said Sharpe. “I’ve seen them my whole life. And I bet I know where it is. We found a smaller shed behind the house.”

He led them back the way they’d come as the light failed in the orchard. His radio crackled, communication coming in from the other patrol officers stating that they’d found nothing.

Entering the yard, he led them to a smaller metal shed tucked against the back of the house. Handing Peyton his flashlight, he told her to shine it on the door. She did so and he grabbed a rock off the ground and hammered on the door handles until they bent. Then he wrenched open the doors.

Peyton shined the flashlight across the interior, catching her breath as it gleamed off something metallic. She gave Sharpe the light and stepped forward, pulling out the curved blade of a pruning knife attached to a long pole. Reaching into her belt, she grabbed the luminol and sprayed it on the blade, then angled it so the light could fall on it.

The blade glowed blue.Blood.

CHAPTER 14

Marco hesitated as he entered the courtroom. Devan and another lawyer stood at their tables, facing the judge. Marco recognized Judge Harold Easton. He’d been in Judge Easton’s courtroom before. He was an older man, late sixties, early seventies, but he’d always been open to hearing a case, always open to studying evidence. Even now, he had his head bent over the file, reviewing the evidence Marco and Stan had collected.

Ryan Addison and his parents sat on the left side of the courtroom, directly behind their lawyer, while the Phelps sat in the last row on the right side. Marco shook hands with Matt Phelps. April Phelps gripped his hand with both her own, forcing a tense smile. They released him and he made his way to the first seat behind Devan. The ADA turned and gave him a brief nod. The other lawyer looked over at him. He was young and Caucasian, his brown hair parted on the side without a strand out of place.

Ryan Addison glanced at him and away, his leg jogging up and down. His parents didn’t make eye contact, their entire attention focused on the judge as he read the file. They were both well dressed and clean-cut, definitely middle class.

Judge Easton looked up, removing his glasses. “Do I understand this right, Mr. Adams? This young woman, Carissa Phelps, committed suicide?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And you want to file manslaughter charges against Mr. Addison?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor, this hearing is an obvious miscarriage of justice by the ADA. This is clearly a civil case that should have been filed under SB255.”

“Mr. Darby, if you don’t mind, I’ll decide what is a miscarriage of justice,” said Easton. He shifted his attention to Devan. “While Mr. Darby is a bit presumptuous, he does have a point. Why wasn’t this case filed in civil court?”

“Because we believe Mr. Addison caused Ms. Phelps such devastating emotional distress that she had no other choice but to take her own life. As you can see from the text messages we obtained, he went so far as to tell her to kill herself.”

“I didn’t mean it!” shouted Ryan.

His parents pulled him back and his lawyer turned, shaking his head violently.

Devan clasped his hands before him. “We’d simply like the opportunity to bring this case before a grand jury.”

“And you have evidence that Mr. Addison posted the...video himself?”

Devan motioned to Marco. “Captain D’Angelo’s computer forensics team analyzed the video and was able to trace it back to the original IP address. That IP address belonged to Mr. Addison.”

“And what was Mr. Addison’s reason for posting the video? Was it to assassinate Ms. Phelp’s character?”

“Actually, it was more sinister than that, Your Honor. He was trying to gain points with a fraternity, so they would take him on as a pledge. When Ms. Phelps expressed her profound grief regarding this scandalous violation of her privacy, he showed absolutely no remorse. In fact, he rejected her with impunity and laid the blame for the event on her.”

“Your Honor?” said Darby. “Ryan has expressed his deepest condolences for the unfortunate actions Ms. Phelps took, but in no way did he know that his ill-advised behavior would result in her committing suicide.”

“Ill-advised?” said Easton. “I think his actions were a bit more harmful and pernicious than ill-advised, Mr. Darby. He exposed this young woman to societal shaming that progressed to outright verbal assaults.”

“He is aware of his actions, Your Honor, and wishes he could take it back, but in no way does this immature lack of wisdom and common sense constitute manslaughter.”

“Lack of wisdom?” said Devan. “He posted an intimate sexual encounter on-line for the world to see, then he distributed the link with no regard to the damage being done. Ms. Phelps lost a prestigious internship as a result, she was made a pariah on campus, and her academic standing was in jeopardy. He willfully and wantonly set out to assassinate her character for his own gain, until the only avenue of escape that remained in her mind was taking her own life. He caused her death. He is responsible!”

“Of a civil violation under SB255, not manslaughter!”

Easton turned his attention to Devan. “While I abhor the actions taken by Mr. Addison, I’m not certain the burden of proof has been met for a manslaughter charge, Mr. Adams.”

Devan glanced over his shoulder, meeting Marco’s eyes. Marco felt his stomach roil. Opting for a civil case would in no way make up for Carissa Phelps’ death. Facing the judge again, Devan held out his hands.

“Words have power, Your Honor.” He picked up a piece of paper from the table. “He told her and I quote, It’s not a big deal. Get over yourself. Her response, I want to die. This young woman reached out, asking for help, asking for understanding.”

Behind Marco, Mrs. Phelps began to cry. To his left, the Addisons shifted anxiously and Ryan scuffed his feet across the tiled floor.

Devan pointed at Ryan. “But instead, he told her, Then die. You keep saying that. I’m sick of it. Do it. Kill yourself. No one gives a shit. No one cares. Just get it done and leave me alone.” Devan set down the paper. “Just get it done. Do it. No one gives a shit. No one gives a shit!”

He drew a deep breath and released it. “Words have power, Your Honor. If I yell fire in a crowded theater and people die, I am culpable, I am responsible. I killed those people with my actions, with my words.” He paused and picked up another piece of paper – the picture of Carissa Phelps her parents had given Marco. “She trusted him, she gave him the most intimate part of her life, and he betrayed her. And when he was made to face this betrayal, he sought to eliminate the stain from his life, so he told her to kill herself.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” said Darby.

Easton held up a hand, stopping him. “Continue, Mr. Adams.”

“In a month, I’m going to have a daughter, Your Honor. I already have dreams for her, I have plans for her future. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Phelps did. When I look at Carissa Phelps, I see a beautiful young woman with a bright future ahead of her. I see what she could have become if only she hadn’t met Ryan Addison. I see my daughter, Your Honor, and I can’t help but put myself in their place. I can’t help but wonder how I’ll protect my daughter from predators like Ryan Addison.”

“Objection!”

Devan ignored Darby. “All I’m asking for is the chance to let a jury hear this case, all I’m asking for is a chance to give Carissa Phelps the justice she deserves and the honor that was stolen from her. I’m asking you to let me try Ryan Addison for manslaughter.”

Darby threw up his hands in disgust.

Easton sat silent, staring out at the courtroom. Marco’s fingers tightened on his cane. He had to admit Devan had done everything he could to lay down his case. This judge had to see that. He had to see that this was more than a civil complaint. Carissa Phelps had been driven to killing herself by Ryan Addison just the same as if he’d put a gun to her head. He’d destroyed her. He’d killed her with his actions and he needed to suffer more than a monetary penalty for it.

Judge Easton had to understand the opportunity standing before him. He had to know that this was the right thing to do, this was the right stand to take. If someone didn’t do it now, when would it ever be done? When would the laws change to protect people like Carissa?

Closing his eyes, Easton drew a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. He laid his hand on the file. “I agree with the ADA that Mr. Addison’s actions were more than just negligent and hateful, they were willfully aimed at destroying the integrity and dignity of this young woman.”

Marco’s heart pounded in his throat. He could hardly draw breath. He understood a little why Peyton got so involved in her cases. It was impossible not to care about people like the Phelps, about Carissa.

“His actions were beyond reproachful, reprehensible and condemnable…”

Darby started to speak, but Easton held up a hand, stopping him.

Looking down at the file, he shook his head sadly. “But is it murder? Is it manslaughter? Did he really understand that his actions would cause her to take her life?”

“Manslaughter is the crime of killing an individual without malice or forethought. What Ryan Addison did is the very definition of manslaughter, Your Honor,” said Devan.

“And had he caused her death in any other way but through his selfish behavior, I would agree with you, but consider the slippery slope this case opens up, Mr. Adams. If I agree to let it go to a Grand Jury, what family won’t want to prosecute whenever there’s a suicide? The courts will be overrun with cases, and actual murders will go unpunished.”

Devan’s shoulders slumped. The Addisons sat forward, their faces lighting up. Marco felt his stomach turn.

“While I have the utmost sympathy for Mr. and Mrs. Phelps, while I feel the world is a much poorer place with the loss of Carissa Phelps, I just cannot allow this case to go beyond this courtroom. I cannot try this reckless, feckless young man for manslaughter.”

He shook his head. “I know this is no consolation, but I do hope that Carissa’s parents pursue a civil case under SB255.”

With that, he rose to his feet and left the bench.

Marco watched him go. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t believe what had just happened. To his left, the Addisons hugged each other, shaking hands with Darby. Before him, Devan bowed his head, gathering up his papers. Still Marco couldn’t move, couldn’t process what had just happened.

He heard April Phelps’ muffled sobbing. He heard the quiet murmur of Matt Phelps as he helped his wife to her feet. He heard the courtroom door open and he knew the Phelps were leaving, after having relived the death of their daughter all over again.

Ryan Addison and his parents followed after them. Somehow that was more than he could stand. His fingers tightened on the cane and he had a mental image of seeing himself rise, smashing Ryan Addison’s head in with the silver handle, but the Addisons passed by unmolested and still Marco couldn’t rise.

Devan slipped the papers into his briefcase, then he snapped it shut. Darby came over and held out his hand. Devan picked up the briefcase and stared at Darby’s hand, but he didn’t take it.

“Come on. No hard feelings,” said Darby with a smile.

Marco focused on that smile and saw himself slamming the cane into Darby’s face, breaking those even white teeth.

Devan finally took his hand in a grip so hard that Darby gave an involuntary gasp. “You won nothing today,” Devan said in a low voice. “What you did is allow your client to violate a young woman and her parents a second time. Make peace with that, Darby.” Then he released him.

Darby took a step back, rubbing his hand on his jacket. He glanced at Marco, then he walked down the aisle toward the door. Devan moved beyond the barrier and stopped, looking at Marco.

“I’m sorry, D’Angelo. I did everything I could. I really thought we had him for a moment.”

Marco didn’t respond, just stared at the judge’s bench.

“Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”

Marco shifted and looked up at him. “I don’t want a beer.”

“I told you this wouldn’t work. I warned you this would happen. You can’t blame me.”

Marco pushed himself to his feet and stepped out into the aisle, forcing Devan to back up. “No, I don’t blame you. I blame the system that places a dollar value on a life.”

“I’m sorry, D’Angelo. I did what I could.”

Marco released his held breath and started down the aisle. He felt so empty, so hollowed out. There wasn’t even room for anger. He wanted to call Peyton, but she was busy on her own case. She didn’t have time for his problems anymore.

Shoving open the courtroom door, he came to a halt. The Phelps were waiting for him. He felt his breath leave him in a pant. Oh shit! His brain wouldn’t cooperate. He didn’t know what to say to these people. He’d failed them. He’d just brought them more pain.

April moved forward and reached for his hand, pressing it to her cheek. “Thank you, Captain D’Angelo,” she said. “Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

Marco opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

April stepped back, leaving him facing Carissa’s father. He took Marco’s hand and clasped it between his own. His eyes were bloodshot, the lower lids rimmed in red.

“Thank you for listening, for taking us seriously. We knew we wouldn’t win this one, but at least it’s in the books, at least someone’s made the first attempt. That’s all we really wanted – the first strike.”

Marco didn’t know how to respond to this either. His logical mind told him that their words made sense, but his heart told him they’d failed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Phelps, I don’t even know what to say.”

Matt Phelps gripped his hand tighter and released him. “You don’t have to say anything. You honored our daughter and that’s enough.” Then he stepped back and slipped his arm around his wife. Together they walked down the hallway, turned toward each other for support.

Marco limped across the hall and slumped down on the bench. Holding the cane in his hands, he twirled it, staring at the courtroom door. Devan moved closer to him, watching him.

“Come on, D’Angelo, let me buy you a drink. We both need it.”

Marco laid his palm on the bench, splaying his fingers. “You go,” he said softly. “I’m just going to sit here for a while.”

Devan gave him a bewildered look. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just go, Adams. Please.”

Devan shook his head, but he turned and wandered down the hallway, disappearing around the corner…

…while Marco continued to sit.

*    *    *

Peyton pulled her phone out of her pocket and looked at the time. 10:00AM. Still no sign of Randall Harwood. They sat in the house, in the kitchen, watching out the back windows to see if he returned to his shed.

Sharpe had released some of his patrol and the rest they’d pulled back to the driveway, surrounding the perimeter of the farm. They even had people stationed on the witches’ farm in case Randall fled that way.

She wanted to call Marco, but she knew he was in a hearing on the Phelps case. She wasn’t sure how long the hearing would take, but she figured he’d call when it was over. Still, she didn’t like the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in over twenty-four hours, and she’d missed dinner at his parents. That wasn’t a way to earn points with the in-laws.

Sharpe entered the kitchen, striding over to Radar and pitching his voice low.

Radar listened, then nodded.

Peyton glanced over at him. “What?”

“Agnes died this morning.”

Peyton curled her hand into a fist and banged it on the table a couple of times.

Bambi lifted her head from her folded arms. “How long are we going to sit here?” she asked.

“Until Harwood turns up,” said Radar.

Peyton considered the situation. “I really thought he’d return to the shed when it got cold out. It’s the only thing he’s known for years. Why wouldn’t he go home?”

“Maybe he’s more self-aware than we think he is. Maybe he knows we’re waiting for him.”

Peyton shook her head. “They tied him up. They tranquilized him. Agnes had to know what he was capable of doing. She tried to stop him the best way she could.”

“Seems to me Agnes had a lot on her plate. Randall may have been the worst, but don’t forget both her husband and oldest son also ate brains,” said Sharpe. “She didn’t do anything to stop them.”

“She couldn’t. They may have hidden it from her.” Peyton shifted in her seat. “What if she didn’t know? What if she just knew something was wrong with her youngest son? What if Harwood did a good job of hiding his anthropo-whatevers for years?”

“Where are you going with this, Sparky?” asked Radar.

“We know prion disease has a long incubation period. We know Old Man Harwood died three years ago. We know Junior became too sick to function about a year ago.”

“Right.”

“Where are the bodies from those attacks?”

Radar leaned away from the counter, setting his coffee cup down.

“The first sign any of us had that there was something wrong was when the first body was discovered on this property six months ago, past the window of opportunity for either Old Man Harwood or Junior. The last body was two weeks ago in Locke and there was no attempt to conceal that murder.”

“Because Randall doesn’t have the mental capacity to conceal his crime like the other Harwoods did.”

“Exactly.”

“So where would he go now? Locke?”

“No, back to where he left the first two bodies. He must have a hide-out or something there.” She motioned to Sharpe. “Where did you say that was?”

“The river-bottoms.”

“We searched the entire property,” said Bambi.

“We didn’t search well enough,” answered Peyton, rising to her feet. “We need to search the river-bottoms, specifically where the first two bodies were found.”

“Let’s go then,” said Radar, reaching for his keys.

The four Ghost squad members and Deputy Sharpe filed from the house and piled into the Suburban. Sharpe took shotgun and directed Radar back onto the levee, then to a dirt utility road that ran along the edge of the Harwood property.

The Suburban bounced over the uneven roadway and Peyton braced her hands on the door frame to keep from being thrown into Bambi. Bambi beamed a smile at her. “This is so exciting. I love this part of it!”

Peyton gave her a smile and held tighter. She hated this part of it. She liked figuring out the puzzle, but she hated the moment when it was time to draw guns. They arrived at the juncture of two roads and Sharpe told Radar to pull over.

“We need to go on foot from here. It can get a bit swampy this far in this time of year.”

They exited the Suburban, pulling on flak jackets and checking their weapons. Sharpe radioed an update to his people and Radar gathered his team around him.

“We’ll each take a row and follow it to the end, but we’ll be only one row away from each other. If you see something, a structure or a hole or anything that might hide a person, you are not to approach until you have backup. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir!” said Bambi and Tank.

Radar gave Peyton a severe look.

“Yes, sir!” Then for good measure, she saluted him. “You run point.”

He reached out and pulled the brim of her ball cap down over her eyes. “At least try to act the part, Sparky.”

“Yes, sir!” she said again with another salute.

He gave her a half-smile, shaking his head, then he drew his gun. “One row apart.”

“One row apart.”

They started down the rows.

Peyton could see Bambi on her right and on her left was Radar. At least this was better than last night. At least the light wasn’t failing and the fog wasn’t creeping into the river bottoms.

Today she heard bird song and the hum of insects. Today the cherry blossoms looked welcoming and festive.

However, the ground was not. The river bottoms were aptly named. Water seeped up through the mud, sticking to the bottom of her boots and making it difficult to lift her feet. The deeper in she went, the stickier the mud got.

And now the insects were beginning to bite as well as buzz. A few lodged in between her black FBI-issue t-shirt and her skin. She scratched at them, trying to dislodge them from their feast, but they quickly returned, becoming more demanding.

The sun wasn’t fully overhead, but it created a humid atmosphere beneath the tightly growing trees as it warmed up the water and made it evaporate. She could feel the ground gradually dipping downward, creating bogs where trapped water lay between the rows. Here the bugs buzzed fiercely, forcing her to swat them away from her face as she walked.

Looking ahead, she tried to judge the distance, but she stumbled over a rock and nearly fell, catching herself on the trunk of a cherry tree. She gave a startled gasp and braced herself, straightening her flak jacket.

“You okay, Sparky?” called Radar.

“Yeah. Just, the bugs are becoming a problem. Do you really think he’d stay out here all night with them biting the way they are?”

“You have a point. We’ll go to the end of the row then head back.”

“And then what, Radar? This is becoming a wild goose chase.”

“We’ll figure it out. He’s got to be around here somewhere.”

Peyton swatted at a fly that buzzed near her ear, then felt something biting her ankle beneath the upper part of her boot. Bending over, she struggled to find the culprit, digging her fingers between the laces and tongue, but she couldn’t reach the nasty critter.

“Damn it!” she swore, lowering her gun to her side and grabbing for the laces. “Hold on, Radar,” she called to him. “I’ve got something…”

Before she could finish, she caught a blur of motion from the corner of her eye, then something landed on her, knocking her to her back. A twisted face rose over her – wild brown eyes, wild hair standing on end, sharp teeth snapping in her face.

Peyton fought for air, instinctively throwing up her arm. She connected with the underside of her assailant’s chin, slamming his jaws together, then she kicked and scratched, trying to get out from under his pinning weight.

Panic took over and she curled her hands into fists, hammering at her attacker, striking anywhere she could. Somewhere during the assault she realized she’d lost her gun. After his initial surprise, he came back at her, reaching for handfuls of her hair and snapping his teeth in her face again.

Ramming up with her knee, Peyton caught him between his splayed legs. He gave a howl and rolled off her, giving her room to scramble to her feet. She tripped and nearly fell, fighting to remain upright.

She didn’t have time to look for her gun, but stumbled forward, trying to turn back down the row with the mud clinging to her shoes and slowing her pace. She saw her attacker roll to his feet and she instinctively knew he was quicker and stronger than she was, knew he’d be on her before she could get away.

Her only chance was to face him. If he brought her down from behind, he could throttle her or bite her and she’d be defenseless. She whipped around as he raced at her, bracing herself for impact.

When he was a few feet away, he launched himself into the air, arms outstretched to bring her down. Peyton threw up her own arms to block him, but as she did so, a sharp report echoed through the orchard, followed by another and another. Her attacker crumpled in mid-flight, his eyes opening wide as he was thrown sideways into a heap.

Pain raged through Peyton and she doubled over, clutching her side. The attacker had landed on her ribs when he dropped on her from the trees and now that the immediate threat was over, the pain came rushing to the foreground.

Radar stepped into the row beside her, lowering his gun as he took in the scene. The smell of gunpowder lay over everything.

“Thank you,” she said, grimacing.

“You hurt?”

“I think he cracked some ribs. He dropped down on me when I was tying my shoe.”

“He was in the trees?”

Peyton nodded, watching as Bambi kicked her way through the brambles, then eased over to Randall and knelt beside him, her gun held ready at her side.

This was the third time Peyton had watched someone die right in front of her and it never got easier. Poor Randall. He never had a chance. “His eyes were empty, Radar. Completely empty. He kept trying to bite me.”

Radar put his gun in his holster and hooked a hand under her elbow. Suddenly Tank and Sharpe appeared, their guns drawn.

“The area’s secure,” said Radar.

“You got him!” said Sharpe, giving Peyton a concerned look.

She pointed at Radar, then curled her hand around her ribs again.

“Clean shot through the heart,” said Bambi in admiration. “He probably didn’t feel a thing.”

Tank stood looking at the body, a grim expression on his face. “Ironic, isn’t it? Old Man Harwood wanted a superior breed.” He held out his hand, indicating Randall. “This is what he got.”

“Come on, Sparky. Let’s get you to a doctor.”

Peyton let him turned her around, his hand firm beneath her elbow. They went a few feet, Peyton watching the ground, but suddenly she hesitated.

“What? Do you need me to get transport?”

She lifted her eyes to Radar’s face. “Radar, you’re gonna have to dig up this whole orchard,” she said softly.

He looked about them – at the rows of trees, at the acres and acres of land. “Oh, shit!” he whispered.

CHAPTER 15

Peyton opened the door to her house and tossed everything onto the sofa table. Pickles danced around her feet as she shrugged painfully out of her jacket and hung it on the peg. Stripping off her gun made her whimper, but she finally discarded it too.

“Sorry, little man,” she told the dog, “I don’t think I can pick you up right now.”

The emergency room doctor who x-rayed her ribs said nothing was broken, but she was likely to be sore for at least a week. She’d declined the pain pills the doctor had offered her, thinking she could make do with aspirin, but a two hour car ride had made her realize aspirin probably wasn’t going to cover it this time.

Walking into the bedroom, she turned toward the bathroom and pulled open the medicine cabinet, searching for Marco’s pain pills. He’d stopped taking them shortly after the surgery, so he had a nearly full bottle left.

She searched behind the other bottles and boxes, but she didn’t see his pills. Frowning, she went through everything again, then searched the drawers in the vanity, but that turned up nothing as well.

Maybe he’d moved them? After he got slammed into the counter at the precinct, he’d taken a pain pill to get through that first night. He probably placed them in his nightstand for convenience.

Walking into the bedroom, she moved to his side of the bed. Pickles had jumped up on the bed, so she could pet him. She rubbed his ears and reached for Marco’s drawer. Sucking in a breath as she moved her arm, she pulled it open.

A bottle of Jack Daniels lay in the drawer.

She reached for it, sitting down hard on the bed and staring at the label. He’d told her he poured everything out, but here was a bottle, three-quarters gone, in his nightstand. A sick feeling roiled in her gut. He was hiding it from her.

She heard the key in the outer door and Pickles took off, racing for the living room. She jammed the bottle back in the drawer and shoved it closed, then rose to her feet, facing the entrance. Marco loomed suddenly at the opening, his blue eyes searching over her from head to toe. She realized she was unconsciously holding her ribs again.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

She didn’t know how to answer. She was still so shocked at finding the bottle.

“Peyton?” He took a step into the room.

She could see herself in the mirror over the dresser. Her face was smudged and her clothing was dirty. She had a bruise on her cheekbone starting to show, and her hair was escaping her bun in loose curls.

“I’m all right.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why are you holding your ribs? What the hell happened?”

She shook her head, still unable to gather her thoughts. “I...um, the case, but I’m fine. The ER doctor said I’m just banged up.”

“ER? What the hell happened?”

“Marco, I can’t tell you. The case is technically still open.”

His hand clenched around the head of his cane. “You can’t tell me? You come in here after being gone for twenty-four hours, looking like someone beat the shit out of you and you can’t tell me.”

“Marco, please. Let me take a shower, then we’ll talk. We need to talk.” She needed to confront him about the drinking.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“I told you I can’t.”

“You can’t?” He lifted his hand and let it fall against his side. “You can’t! This is no way to build a marriage, Peyton. I never know where the hell you are, what time you’re coming home…”

“Marco, I…”

“How the hell are we ever going to start a family!”

That took her aback. “What? You’ve never said anything about wanting a family. In fact, you’ve always told me you didn’t want kids.”

“That’s part of the reason people get married, Peyton, but how the hell is that supposed to work? I’m supposed to just sit here by myself, hoping to hell you’re all right, because you can’t tell me what the hell you’re doing!”

“Marco, please, this is my job. You knew this when we decided to get married.”

“No!” He made a slashing motion with his hand. “I didn’t know it would be like this. I sat here last night imaging horrible things happening to you. I can’t stand it, Peyton! I can’t stand being sidelined while you go out there and put your life at risk. Then you come in here hurt and tell me it’s none of my business!”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You might as well have!” He raked a hand through his hair. “I thought I could do this. I thought I could compartmentalize it, but I can’t. I can’t.” He looked her directly in the eye. “I don’t think I can do this, Peyton.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t think I can marry you.”

She felt the air leave her lungs and she sank onto the bed. For some reason, her brain wouldn’t process what he said.

He stood silent for a moment as if he didn’t believe he’d said it himself. Then he turned and walked out.

Somewhere in her mind, Peyton registered the opening and shutting of the outer door, but she didn’t have the strength to go after him. I don’t think I can marry you. I don’t think I can.

Oh God, what the hell was she going to do?

*    *    *

Marco tossed back another shot and settled the glass on the table, turning it to look inside. The Fiddler’s Green was crowded tonight, especially this late on a Monday, but everyone instinctively avoided his table, circling wide around him. He was even having a hard time getting the waitress to come over and the bartender refused to sell him a full bottle.

Every time he thought of Peyton, he forced it aside. He wasn’t really angry at her. She’d always been very clear on her priorities – job first, everything else second, but he loved her so completely he couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t accept being second to anything in her life.

She wasn’t second for him. She’d never been second for him. From the moment he’d met her, she’d been his primary focus. So much so that he wondered if it was healthy. Before it had been so simple. His job was to protect her, keep her safe. Then they’d become so much more and his job had shifted. He was her partner in all things and yet, he didn’t feel adequate to that anymore. He couldn’t physically protect her. She’d gone beyond him in her own job. She had new people in her life, leaving him behind.

Whenever he thought of her at work, jealousy raged to the foreground. When he’d seen her with Ravensong, that same jealousy had nearly choked him. He knew that wasn’t good. He knew that wasn’t any way to build a relationship.

And when he thought of the future, he realized it wasn’t enough just to have Peyton. He hadn’t lied to her. He’d never wanted children before, but the thought of a child created between him and Peyton made him long for that very thing. Clearly she hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t even considered it.

Could he give up that dream now? Forget it? Agree to suppress that side of him just to be with her?

He twirled the shot glass. He could if he didn’t also feel like she was moving past him, if he didn’t worry that she stayed with him out of some misguided belief she owed him.

And there it was.

There was no way for him to accept that she truly loved him when he hated everything about himself right now.

Staring into the depth of the empty glass, he curled his hand into a fist. He couldn’t be what she needed because he didn’t know what the hell he was. It was the very psychobabble he hated, but this time it was true.

She was everything to him, but he couldn’t be anything to her because he was so damaged and broken inside.

He tried frantically to work through it, make sense of it, but he couldn’t. Gradually he became aware of someone stopping in front of the table, then reaching for a chair and pulling it out, sitting down.

“You’re a royal pain in the ass, Adonis, you know that?” said Jake, crossing his arms on the table.

Marco looked up at him, his vision blurry, but he didn’t answer.

“I get a frantic phone call from Peyton, she’s crying by the way, and she tells me you broke off the engagement and walked out on her. She doesn’t know where you’ve gone, but she suspects you’ve been drinking.”

Marco studied Jake’s face, his brown hair, his mid-western boyish features. He resented the fact that Peyton had called him for help. It made the jealousy rise up inside of him again.

“Did I mention she was crying?”

Marco still didn’t answer.

“You are a piece of work. You got one of the best girls in love with you and you screw it up. Do you know how many men would give anything to be in your place?” He leaned forward on the table. “I’m one of them, you freakin’ idiot!”

Marco turned the shot glass over and banged it on the table. “I’m drunk and armed, Ryder. Don’t say something like that again.”

Jake gave him a level look. “What the hell is wrong with you? She loves you!”

“I’m a project for her.”

“A what?”

“A project. Like you and Venus and Ravensong. I’m a soul to save.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“What the hell, Adonis? That’s a load of bull shit and you know it.”

Marco spun the shot glass around. “You sure of that?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I see the way she looks at you. I see the way she’s always looked at you. You’re everything to her.”

“Not enough.”

“What?”

“Not enough.” He pushed the shot glass away. “She’s physically hurt. Did you know that? She got hurt on the job, but when I asked her about it, she told me she couldn’t tell me what happened.”

“Maybe it’s classified.”

“Maybe, but I’m her fiancé. So I asked her how it would work, the job I mean, if we had a family. You should have seen the shock on her face. She never even considered it.”

“Maybe because you’ve always said you don’t want kids.”

“Maybe, but she didn’t consider it. She told me…” He shook his head. “She told me that I knew her job was the most important thing when I asked her to marry me.”

“She doesn’t mean that.”

“She does!” He slammed his hand on the table.

“So what is it you want? You want her to give up the job for you?”

Marco shook his head grimly. “I don’t know what I want. I want Peyton, but I don’t want to be her project, her latest casualty to save.”

“You’re drunk and you’re not thinking right.”

“I want to be worthy of her.”

Jake went still. “And you think you’re not?”

Marco shook his head again. “I know I’m not. Look at me, Ryder. I’m not the same man I was and I don’t know who that man is anymore. I can’t be what Peyton needs. I’m angry and jealous and scared, and I can’t be what she deserves.”

Jake slumped back in his chair. He didn’t speak for a moment. Marco looked away. He didn’t expect Jake to have answers. No one did. Not Dr. Ferguson, not the church, not Peyton. No one could tell him how to recover, how to live now.

“Come on.” Jake pushed himself to his feet.

“Where are we going? I can’t go home drunk.”

“No, you’re right. You’ll come home with me. You can sleep on the couch.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You’re not sitting here all night, drinking, Adonis. Come on.”

Marco reached for his cane and rose to his feet, swaying. Jake started to extend a steadying hand, but Marco gave him a severe glare, so he dropped it.

“I need to call Peyton.”

“The hell you do. I already called her. You need to get some sleep and sober up.”

“Then what?”

Jake drew a deep breath and exhaled. “Then you need to do some soul searching, Adonis. You need to figure out how you’re going to get well.”

EPILOGUE

Peyton struggled with putting on her gun the next morning. She wanted to go back to bed, but she’d forced herself to get up and shower. Radar had already called, telling her he wanted to leave for Sacramento by 9:00. He’d gotten the warrant to dig up the Harwood’s orchard. She didn’t give a damn about the Harwoods, or their orchard, or for that matter, her job. She wanted Marco to come home.

As if he heard her thoughts, the lock turned and the door opened. She stopped fighting the strap on her gun and watched him enter the house. He gave her a look, then closed the door behind him, bending to stroke Pickles’ head.

Then he came forward and reached for the strap, helping her straighten it.

She fought the tears that rushed to her eyes, wanting to be strong right now. After he fixed the strap, he ran his hands down her arms to her hands and then ran his thumb over her engagement ring.

“We need to talk. Do you have to leave right now?”

She shook her head. She didn’t give a damn about the job. He was all that mattered.

He led her to the living room, guiding her into the recliner as he took a seat on the couch, but he kept hold of her hands. The look on his face scared her. It was bleak and empty, so void of the emotion she’d come to recognize.

Pickles sensed it. He came around the couch and laid down, his head resting on Marco’s shoe. Peyton knew that couldn’t be a good sign.

“Sweetheart.”

Her gaze whipped back to his face.

“I’m sorry for last night.” He ran his thumb over the ring again. “I seem to be saying that a lot lately, and I really don’t have a good excuse.” He focused on her eyes. “I love you, Peyton. I adore you. I always have and I always will. This isn’t a love that will ever go away.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her stomach had twisted itself into knots. She knew where he was going and she couldn’t think fast enough to stop it.

“I love you more than anything, Peyton. I think about you all the time. I worry every day when you leave for work. You are the center of my life. The most important thing in it.”

She forced herself to swallow. “And that’s bad?”

He gave a short laugh and looked at her hands. “Yeah, it is. Because I’m not the only thing in your life.”

“That’s not true, Marco.”

“No, sweetheart, please listen. I shouldn’t be the only thing in your life. I shouldn’t be your everything. That’s not love, Peyton, that’s obsession.” He reached up and tucked a curl behind her ear. “Lately, I’ve been feeling such jealousy that it makes me sick inside. Whenever I think of you talking to another man, I get this rage…” He touched the center of his chest. “I know it’s not healthy, but I can’t control it. It’s there because you’re all I have. You’re everything. People need more. They need to have other interests, other pursuits. If one person becomes the reason you’re living, you start wanting to control everything about that person, you want to absorb them. And…” He released her hands, clasping his before him. “I love you too much to do that to you.”

She tried to process what he was saying. It made sense, but how did they fix it? “So what do we do?”

“We can’t do anything.”

“Marco, don’t say that. We can. We’ve been through so much more than this. We can make this all right.”

“No, sweetheart. We can’t.”

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she ignored it. The tears were coming now, fast and furious. “You can’t mean this, Marco. You can’t walk away from us like this. I love you. I’ll do anything you need me to do. I’ll quit the job.”

He slid his hand under her chin and lifted her face. “I know you would, and you’d be miserable. You’d grow to hate me as much as I’m hating myself right now.”

She shivered as the sobs caught in her throat.

“Listen to me. We can’t fix this. I have to fix it. I have to find out what’s wrong with me and I have to make it right. You can’t do this for me because I’m the one that’s broken.”

“We’ll do it together.”

“No, sweetheart. We can’t do it together.”

“That’s how couples work, Marco. They face the good and the bad together.”

“Not when the problem is one of the pair. When you’re with me, Peyton, I’m fine. I feel like there’s a reason for getting up in the morning, but when you’re gone, my mind conjures up all sorts of things and I think, sometimes that there’s nothing left for me. I know this is so damn cliché, but I don’t know who the hell I am anymore, Peyton. I hate the job. I hate this damn body I’m trapped in. I hate the possessive feelings I have over you and if I don’t learn how to control that, Peyton, if I don’t figure it out, you will hate me too.”

Her phone buzzed again.

“Take the call,” he said, leaning back.

“No.” She reached into her pocket and turned the phone off. “We’ve been through worse, Marco.”

“Yes, we, together, but this isn’t we. This is me. I’m drinking too much. I’m angry all the time. I’m in constant pain and it isn’t just the leg. Whenever you walk out that door, I’m suspicious and bitter, and even as I feel it, I hate myself for it. I want us to be a partnership, Peyton. I don’t want to control you. I want us to have complete lives that we build together, but right now, all I see is you moving forward and I’m…” He shook his head, looking at a spot beyond her shoulder. “I don’t even know where I am, Peyton. I don’t even understand what’s going on inside of me. It scares me and I feel that if I don’t get some help, I’m going to lose you for good.”

The tears rushed down her cheeks. “What are you saying? You want to take a break?”

“No, I’m saying I have to take a break. I have to fix me.”

“So, what? We live here like roommates?”

“No, sweetheart. I couldn’t stand to do that with you.”

Her breath caught and the pain felt as physical as the blow she’d taken from Randall Harwood. “You’re moving out?”

“For a while. Until I can get help.”

She tried to speak, but the sobs were too wrenching. She buried her face in her hands and closed her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be saying these things to her.

He gathered her into his arms, pulling her onto his lap, sliding back on the couch with her. He kissed her forehead and wrapped her in his embrace. “Please, sweetheart, please try to understand.”

Understand? She couldn’t understand this no matter what. If he left, he was taking her lover and her best friend all in one. She loved him. Why wasn’t that enough? Why wasn’t her love strong enough to make this right?

“I need to do this for us, baby,” he whispered. “I need to make things right.”

She curled her hand in his shirt and buried her face against his neck. How could this possibly be right? How could he think leaving her was an answer to anything? But she couldn’t tell him this. She couldn’t get the breath to say any of it.

*    *    *

Radar stood at the edge of the orchard, his arms crossed over his chest, watching the black FBI-issue windbreakers moving over every inch of the acreage with their high tech sensors. They’d been at it for the last two hours, combing the surface and probing beneath it with ground penetrating radar. Cadaver sniffing dogs meandered back and forth with their handlers. Occasionally the dog would indicate an interesting discovery and the handler would motion a forensic geophysicist to sweep the area.

Glancing to his side, he marked Bob Sharpe crossing over the irrigation channels to get to him. He stopped beside Radar, tilting back his hat.

“Where’s Brooks?”

Radar pushed his sunglasses up on the bridge of his nose. “She had a personal issue come up.”

“Huh, too bad. After today, you’re probably moving on, right?”

“Yeah. If we find anything, we’ll turn the rest of the case over to the forensics team.”

“She’s something, that one.”

“Yeah, well, she’s engaged.”

Sharpe shrugged and rocked on his boot heels.  “Yeah, I saw the ring. So, this case is pretty well wrapped up?”

“Except identification of the three bodies and notification of the families.” He jutted his chin out toward the orchard. “And figuring out if there are more bodies buried under these trees.”

Sharpe released his held breath. “God I hope not. If this has been going on as long as you people think, just imagine how many people never got closure.”

Radar nodded.

He saw Tank conversing with a forensics team member, nodding and looking at the display on the GPR. They set up a heated discussion and the geophysicist motioned over the entire acreage. Radar felt his stomach plummet.

Tank glanced back at him, his jaw clenching, while the geophysicist continued to talk and gesture, then point at the display. Tank looked back at the display, then he nodded and stepped away.

With his long stride, he crossed the distance to Radar and stopped before him, giving a chin lift to Sharpe. Sharpe nodded back.

“What?” demanded Radar.

Tank blew out air, then he turned and looked over the orchard.

Radar fought for patience.

Finally Tank shifted to face him. “Radar, so far they’ve found the distinct remains of twenty-seven people.”

Twenty-seven?

“Are you sure?”

“They seem pretty convinced.”

“Twenty-seven?”

Sharpe made a strangled sound next to him.

“Yeah.”

“Twenty-seven?”

Tank shrugged. “It gets worse.”

“How can it get worse?”

Tank chewed on his upper lip, shifting weight. “They’ve only covered thirty-two acres, Radar. There’s still twenty-eight more.”

Oh shit, thought Radar. Oh shit!

THE END

Now that you’ve finished, visit ML Hamilton at her website: authormlhamilton.com for more information on the Avery Nolan Adventures and her murder mystery series, The Peyton Brooks’ Mysteries. 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 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

The Avery Nolan Adventures Collection

Swift As A Shadow, An Avery Nolan Adventure Volume 1

Short As Any Dream, An Avery Nolan Adventure Volume 2

Peyton Brooks FBI Collection

Zombies in the Delta Volume 1

Mermaids in the Pacific Volume 2

Stand-Alone Novels

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