The Peyton Brooks' Mysteries Box Set, page 2
The officer gave her a closed-mouth smile, but she didn’t return it. With a chuckle, he walked away again.
“Can you give me your contact information?” Brooks said, flipping to a clean page and sliding the notebook to the Coxs. “Just in case I have more questions.”
Ethan took the notebook and pen, scribbling on the pad.
Lori shifted uncomfortably. “Inspector Brooks?”
The dark eyes swung to her. “Yes?”
Lori tried to formulate what she wanted to ask, but it seemed so calloused to be worrying about herself at this moment.
Brooks reached over and covered Lori’s hands with her own. “I think this is an isolated incident,” she said. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Lori nodded, glad the inspector had anticipated her question without her having to ask.
“Although,” she said, patting her hand. “It wouldn’t hurt to carry mace or pepper spray, now would it?”
Lori shook her head. Her husband had wanted her to carry a taser, but she’d scoffed at him. She wasn’t scoffing now.
Brooks took a business card out of her pocket and passed it to Lori. “If you think of anything or remember something about Darla, please call me.”
Lori picked up the card, studying it. Brooks couldn’t be more than a year or two older than her own daughter, Lauren. What the hell did she know about solving murders? But she put the card in her pocket just the same, feeling better for having it.
* * *
Peyton made her way down the steep staircase to the garage. She couldn’t deny this Painted Lady impressed her. Built in the late 19th century, the old girl had held up against the relentless march of time. It was sure a lot nicer than the little house on 19th that she was renting…well, about to own.
The money from her father’s insurance policy had come through and the owners of her little shack were willing to deal. Peyton wasn’t certain how she felt about owning property. It seemed like a really grown-up thing to do, but she knew it would have made her father happy.
Her thoughts scattered as she hesitated on the landing. Marco had begun climbing toward her and he gave her a stern look. “Did you finally decide to stop chitchatting with the bubblegum millionaires?”
“Bubblegum millionaires?” she said, frowning.
He gripped the railing on either side in his hands, his shoulders straining the ribbed sweater he wore. His gun peeked out beneath his arm. “You know, the Google tech geniuses that are driving housing prices through the roof. Because of them, I can only eat twice a week since rent just keeps climbing.”
She gave him a sultry look. “You could always move in with me, Marco baby.”
He shook his head and straightened. “Hell no. I ain’t one of your charity cases, Brooks. So, you think you wanna do your job now?”
“You mean look at a dead body?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Haven’t you done enough looking for the both of us?”
“Bob wanted you to see it. I don’t know, he thinks you’ve got good instincts or something.”
She elbowed her way past him, accidentally hitting him in the stomach. He made an oof sound and pretended to double over. Uniforms blocked her initial view of the body, standing in a cluster, talking to each other.
“You getting enough of a thrill, gentlemen?” she said.
Drew Holmes turned and gave her a bored look. He kept his hair so close cropped, his pink scalp showed through, and he had a hooked nose. He wasn’t her favorite uniform. Frank Smith looked contrite, stepping out of the way. A few uniforms from another precinct wandered off, giving Holmes and Smith commiserate shakes of their heads.
The body lay behind Holmes, sprawled on her back, her arms folded on her chest. She was in her late thirties, early forties, pretty with dark brown hair. Peyton swallowed hard. The smell of death was heavy in the room, along with a hint of mildew. She didn’t want to get any closer, but Bob Anderson looked up at her.
“You wanna come a little closer?” he said.
Her eyes cut to Holmes and he gave a little smile. She didn’t want to get any closer, but damned if she was going to let Holmes have the satisfaction of busting her chops about it. Marco exited the stairwell, talking into his cell phone. By the sound of his voice, she knew he was calling for the coroner’s bus to pick up their victim.
Once he was at her back, she lifted her chin and walked toward Holmes, forcing him to step away. Years ago she’d decided she would never back down to that rat bastard. Of course, having six foot four Marco behind her helped.
She focused her attention on Bob’s perpetual five o’clock shadow. “Her name’s Darla Stevens,” she said.
“You get that from the bubblegum millionaires?” asked Marco.
“I got that from the bubblegum millionaires’ realtor.”
Marco gave a grunt.
Bob squatted beside the body, wearing gloves, his camera resting on the concrete floor beside him. “I think she’s been dead more than 24 hours. Rigor’s come and gone.”
Peyton nodded, still not looking at the body. “It doesn’t look like she was sexually assaulted.” The glimpse Peyton had gotten revealed she wore a conservative navy blue pantsuit.
“No, it doesn’t look like sexual assault, although the way the body’s arranged seems almost…I don’t know,” said Bob, exhaling in frustration.
Peyton forced herself to look down. Darla Stevens had been arranged, her suit straightened, her hands folded primly on her chest, her legs together, and her feet in their expensive pumps ankle to ankle. Her hair had been fanned out around her head like a halo.
“Where’s her purse?”
Bob shrugged. “I didn’t find one.”
“What about car keys?”
“Nope.”
Peyton glanced at Marco. “Is there a car outside? Can we get some uniforms checking the ones on the street.”
Marco nodded and motioned to Holmes and Smith. They headed toward the stairs.
Bob brushed the back of his gloved hand over his prominent widow’s peak. “This is what I don’t get.” He pointed to her neck.
Peyton forced herself to hunker down opposite Bob and stare at the ligature marks on her neck. “Did you lift her head?”
“Yep.”
“Any fingerprints on the back of her neck?”
“No fingerprints, but the ligature marks extend all the way around.”
“How’d he strangle her then?” asked Marco, looming at Peyton’s back.
“I can’t figure it out. I had the uniforms search the whole garage for a murder weapon, but I don’t know what it is. It’s not rope. That would have left thread marks or burns. It’s not a garrote because that would have cut into her skin, and it wasn’t with his hands.”
Peyton gave Bob a surprised look. Honestly, he didn’t know what she’d been strangled with?
“What?” he protested.
Bob wasn’t the smartest cookie, but when she looked up at Marco, his face looked just as blank. “You don’t know what he could have strangled her with?”
Bob huffed in exasperation. “That’s why I wanted you to come down.”
“She was strangled with a scarf.”
Their faces still appeared blank.
Peyton motioned to her own neck, but she didn’t often wear something so froufrou to work. “A silk scarf.”
Bob’s face lit with recognition. “Where is it?”
Peyton had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She figured she knew where the scarf was and why he wanted it. He was keeping souvenirs.
CHAPTER 2
Darla, this is Gerald! What the hell! I told you I wanted to come by today and pick up my cufflinks. You said I could. You promised to meet me at the house at 4:30. What gives? If you weren’t going to let me have the cufflinks, you should have said so. I’m getting really sick of your irresponsibility. Damn it, just do what you promised to do!
* * *
Peyton and Marco drove back to the precinct after the coroner’s bus took Darla Stevens away. Climbing out of the Charger, Marco’s pride and joy, he waited for her to get out, then he pressed the lock.
“Call Abe and see if he can get the body,” he said as she fell into step beside him.
Peyton pulled out her phone and dialed the medical examiner’s cell phone. He picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, little soul sister, you wanna meet for drinks tonight?”
“Can’t,” she said, imagining the flamboyant ME with his wild dreadlocks and brilliant smile. She could just imagine what he might be wearing – whatever it was, it would be loud and unique, just as he was himself. She felt a little disappointed that they couldn’t meet him for drinks, but there was no way they’d be finished in time. “We have a case. Can you see if you can get the body for an autopsy?”
“Hold on, sweets, let me grab a pen and paper.”
Peyton and Marco climbed the stairs outside the precinct and Marco held the door open for her to pass through before him. He was always thoughtful that way. She pushed the half-door with her hip, Marco on her heels. Glancing to her right, she saw that Captain Defino’s office door was closed. Maria’s desk was empty, but a moment later she appeared from the back, carrying a piece of chocolate cake with what looked like raspberry filling.
Peyton’s eyes zeroed in on it. “Where’d that come from?”
Maria looked as if she smelt something bad, taking a large bite of the cake. “The break room. Geez, Brooks, where else would I get it? The bathroom?”
Peyton started to answer, but Abe was back on the line.
“Okay, sugar lips, shoot me the name,” he said.
“Darla Stevens,” Peyton said.
“Spell it.”
So Peyton did.
“Can Bob send me whatever pictures he took and a list of the evidence he collected at the scene?” asked Abe.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Can he send it to my correct email? Last time, I think he sent it to Mongolia, because I surely did not get it.”
Peyton sighed. Bob Anderson wasn’t the most responsible, conscientious CSI they’d ever had. It made her miss Chuck Wilson, who’d retired a few years ago. Now there was a man’s man, a tough old bastard, but he always dotted his i’s and crossed his t’s.
Peyton covered the receiver part of her cell phone. “Is there any cake left?” she asked Maria, watching her place another bite in her mouth.
Marco shook his head and pushed past her, going toward their desks.
“As if you need cake, Brooks,” said Maria. “You ain’t never getting a man if your trunk’s as big as a…well, trunk.”
Peyton gave her an arch look as Abe laughed in her ear.
“That Maria is such a saucy wench,” he said.
“If my trunk is as big as a trunk? Seriously? Not one of your better insults.”
“My blood sugar’s low,” said Maria, looking away.
“It won’t be in a minute,” said Peyton, headed to the back. “Just send me a text, Abe, when you find out if you can pull our case.”
“Anything for you, sweets. So tell me, what’s my Angel’D wearing today?”
Peyton paused by Marco’s desk. He was sipping a mug of coffee. She turned dramatically to look at her own desk. No cake. “Did you not hear me say I wanted cake?”
“I heard.”
“But you didn’t think to get me some when you went into the break room?”
“I figured you could use the exercise.”
Peyton drew a deep breath and released it. “What’s Marco wearing today, Abe?” she said.
Marco’s eyes widened and he waved his hands to stop her.
“Hot pink bikini briefs and a see-through muscle shirt.”
“Oh my,” said Abe and she could almost see him fanning himself.
She smiled wickedly at her partner.
He smiled back at her.
“I’ve got to go,” said Abe breathlessly, “something’s on fire.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, laughing.
“Talk to you soon, sugar lips.”
“Talk to you soon, Abe.” She disconnected the call.
“You’re evil, Brooks, you know that?”
She leaned over him. “You have no idea,” she said, then walked into the break room after her cake.
* * *
Tapping her foot impatiently, she watched Bob Anderson rifle through the mess in his cubicle, looking for the notes he’d taken on the case. His camera sat on the edge of the desk balanced precariously and his evidence kit was open, evidence bags, disposable gloves, and vials shoved inside in a haphazard mess.
“You need to get organized.”
“Don’t keep at me, Brooks. I’m doing the best I can.”
“There isn’t evidence from another case in there, is there?” she said, pointing at the label on an evidence bag.
He glanced at it. “That’s just a cigarette butt from Cho and Simons’ BART station jumper.”
“Why isn’t it at the lab being analyzed?”
Bob looked at her, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “He jumped in front of a BART train, Brooks. He didn’t die of lung cancer.”
“But you collected it for a reason,” she said.
“Cho told me to. He wanted it tested for illegal substances.”
Peyton held out her hands, her eyes going wide with disbelief. “Seriously, Anderson, are you stupid?”
“You know what!” said Bob, jumping to his feet.
Before she could react, Marco was suddenly between them, a heavy hand on Bob’s shoulder, shoving him back into his seat. “Let’s just take a breath, okay?” he told Bob.
“She’s always picking on me!”
“Just take a deep breath,” Marco said again, then he turned and moved into Peyton’s personal space, forcing her to take a step back herself. “Let me handle this.”
“He has evidence in his case from Cho and Simons’ jumper. That should have been at the lab yesterday.” She pointed to the evidence.
“Brooks,” said Marco firmly. “Go see if Stan can get anything off her cell phone.” He handed her a slip of paper. “I got the number from the real estate agent who found her body.”
Peyton frowned, looking at the number. When had he talked to Lori? As far as she knew, she’d been the only one to question her. Of course, Lori was a woman and Marco had a way with women. She was surprised he didn’t have Lori’s personal number too, then she decided she didn’t want to know if he did.
“Fine.” She looked past his shoulder at Bob, who had his head braced on his hand. “Get that evidence to the lab!” she ordered, pointing at him.
Bob slammed his hand down on the desk, scattering papers and rattling the camera. As they watched in horror, the camera tilted and started to fall.
Marco snatched it by the strap at the last minute.
They all breathed out a sigh of relief.
Peyton backpedaled quickly, hurrying around the corner of Bob’s cubicle, headed toward the supply closet Stan had made into an office.
Stan Neumann was the precinct’s tech genius. A small, mousy man with curly brown hair and coke-bottle glasses, who wore t-shirts with silly sayings on them, he was probably the smartest man Peyton knew, next to Abe. He was also one of the sweetest.
He’d taken a supply closet and filled it with electronic equipment. He had a massive desktop with three monitors and a laptop, and sometimes a tablet. On the wall directly opposite the door, he’d hung shelves and those shelves were choked with dolls. Action figures, Peyton mentally corrected herself. Whenever she called them dolls, he got mildly offended. She didn’t like to offend Stan. The action figures were all in their original boxes because he told her they were worth more that way.
He’d placed a table over the door, so no one could just come inside and mess with his equipment. Not that anyone would. It looked like ground control in here and Peyton always felt anxious when she visited. As soon as she stepped up to the door, he wheeled around to face her and his face lit up.
“Peyton, hey, how are you?”
“Good, Stan, and you?”
“I’m hunky dory.” His eyes swept down her body, not in a lecherous way, but appreciative. “I like the leather jacket. You look all badass.” He widened his eyes until they appeared enormous behind his glasses.
“Thanks,” she said with a laugh and held out the slip of paper. “Can you get a warrant to search this woman’s phone? I need any information you can find out about her.”
“I’ll get right on it.”
“If you can get me her address too, that would help.”
“What happened to her purse?”
Peyton leaned against the doorjamb. “We couldn’t find it. We didn’t find a car at the scene or anything personal on her body.”
“Yowsa,” he said.
Peyton nodded. “We wouldn’t even have a name if the person who found her hadn’t known who she was.”
“I guess you want a license plate number on the car if there is one, so you can put out an APB?”
“That’d be awesome, Stan.”
He beamed at her. “Can I call you if I get any information?”
“You know you can.”
He looked down, his fingers folding the message into a tiny square. “Hey, Peyton?”
She gave him a fond lift of her brows.
“I was wondering…”
“Brooks!” came Marco’s bellow.
She looked down the hallway toward the main room, then she turned back to Stan. She hated it when Marco bellowed at her. “What, Stan?”
“I was wondering if…”
“Brooks!”
She winced. “I’ll be there in a minute. Stop shouting at me!”
“Defino wants an update.”
“Go. I’ll be right behind you!” She turned back to Stan and forced a smile.
He looked like a rabbit that wanted to bolt.
“You were wondering if…”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Forget it.”
She exhaled, trying to keep her composure. This is what you got when you worked in a predominately male profession. “Okay. Well, if you decide differently, you can text me.” She started to turn away.
