Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2) Read online

  Mermaids in the Pacific

  Peyton Brooks, FBI

  Volume 2

  ML Hamilton

  Cover Art by Karri Klawiter

  www.artbykarri.com

  Photography by Jared Lugo

  Mermaids in the Pacific

  © 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.

  After writing a fairly decent number of books, I still marvel at the good will, the dedication, and the loyalty of my readers. You keep me writing and inspire more adventures for Peyton. Thank you so very much.

  And to my family, as cheesy as it sounds, you are my backbone, my foundation.

  I love you.

  O’ train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,

  To drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears!

  -- William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  Friday

  Marco stared at the television, vaguely aware people were running around, chasing a baseball. He’d been sitting here for a while. In fact, except for ordering a pizza and going out for booze, he hadn’t left this spot.

  Someone banged on the door. He glanced over at it, but he didn’t bother getting off the bed. This motel saw a lot of traffic – some of it illegal, the cop in him whispered, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass right now. Based on the whiffs he got when he did venture out, he guessed the guy next to him burned bricks of marijuana on a hibachi 24 hours a day.

  The banging started again.

  “Open the damn door, D’Angelo, or I’ll kick this bitch in!” came an angry voice.

  Cho.

  Nathan Cho would be as good as his word. Cho was five feet six inches of badass cop, who wouldn’t hesitate doing whatever he felt needed to be done. He was also a good friend.

  Grabbing his cane, Marco levered himself to his feet. His vision swam and he closed his eyes until the dizziness passed. Hm, when had he ordered the pizza? He wasn’t exactly sure any more.

  Limping to the door, he turned the lock and yanked it open. A tall black man with wild dreadlocks pushed his way into the room.

  “Abe?”

  Abe wandered around the perimeter, looking into the garbage can and then heading for the bathroom.

  Marco shifted and gave Cho a glare. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “You tell me,” said Cho antagonistically. “You’ve called in sick to work the last three days, and no one knows where the hell you are. You missed your appointment with Ferguson on Wednesday and he reported it to Defino. She and a woman from Internal Affairs are going to be at the precinct Monday morning.”

  Well, shit. That wasn’t good. Marco scratched the back of his neck. “I just wanted a few days off.”

  Abe came out of the bathroom. “Get your stuff. We’re going.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. How the hell did you find me?”

  “Good thing I know detectives,” said Abe. “Get your stuff or we leave it behind.”

  “Look, Abe, I’m not a child. I don’t need you riding in here to the rescue.”

  Abe gave him a cool glare. Marco realized he looked like shit. He hadn’t shaved in three days and he wore a pair of athletic shorts and a ratty t-shirt. “There are three bottles of Jack Daniels in the bathroom trash. The guy next door is having a pot barbecue, but you don’t seem to care, and there’s a pimp doing double duty in the lobby who had no problem telling us your room number. You’re coming home with me.”

  Marco glanced at Cho. He crossed his arms over his chest. “He’s right.”

  Releasing a weary sigh, Marco knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with them. He didn’t have the energy. “I’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Where? Your parents?”

  Oh, hell no. That would never work.

  “Your brothers?”

  Shit, that was worse.

  “What about Peyton’s house?”

  Before Marco could answer, Abe shook his head. “Nope. For whatever dumb assed reason, you broke off your engagement with her and left her wondering if you’re alive or dead. Guess that ship has sailed.”

  “Look, Abe…” He didn’t want to talk about Peyton. It hurt him just to think about her, but he knew they expected some sort of explanation. “What happened between Peyton and me is our business. I’m not discussing it.”

  “Did I tell you to discuss it, Angel? No, I didn’t. I said get your shit, we’re leaving.” He snagged the Charger’s keys off the dresser. “I’ll be waiting in the car.” Then he moved determinedly toward the door, pushing past Marco and heading for the stairs.

  “Peyton called me,” said Cho.

  He figured as much.

  “She was scared to death.”

  Marco didn’t know how to answer that. He thought he was doing the right thing walking away from their engagement, from her. He was trying to protect her.

  “She was crying.”

  Marco’s eyes whipped to Cho’s face. The thought of Peyton crying made him feel sick inside.

  Cho took a step closer to him, a muscle in his jaw bulging. “I’ve never heard Peyton cry before and let me tell you something, D’Angelo, I don’t like it.”

  Marco forced himself to hold Cho’s gaze, but it was hard. He ached thinking of Peyton, especially hurt and upset. He hated thinking he’d caused it, but he knew he had.

  “Now, get your damn stuff...Captain!” said Cho.

  * * *

  Marco watched Abe toss booze into a garbage can. He’d disappear behind the bar in a corner of the living room, re-emerge with bottles, and dump them into the can. Sitting on Abe’s modern, minimalist red couch, he wondered what the hell he was doing here.

  He knew he couldn’t stay in the motel for the rest of his life, but he was hoping something would come to him. Except he couldn’t summon any energy to do anything but sit and watch television. And he wasn’t really even watching television. He’d been so sure he was doing the right thing, breaking it off with Peyton, but the moment he’d left her house, he didn’t know what to do, how to live without her. He loved her more than he loved anything, but right now he was poison and he was so afraid he’d do irreparable harm to their relationship if he stayed.

  “You don’t have to do that, Abe. I’m not going to drink.”

  The precinct’s medical examiner paused in the midst of chucking a bottle of Courvoisier. “No use keeping temptation around.”

  “I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  Marco didn’t answer.

  Dropping the bottle into the t
rashcan, Abe came to the low-slung white coffee table and took a seat on it, facing Marco. “You broke off your engagement. You love Peyton. How could you do that to her?”

  “I did it for her.”

  “How do you figure that, Angel? She’s devastated.”

  “I know, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I got scared.”

  “Scared? Of marriage? That’s normal. Most people get cold feet.”

  “No, that’s not it. I want to marry Peyton. I want to marry Peyton more than I want my next breath, but I got scared of what was happening to me where she’s concerned.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I was getting possessive and jealous. Not just a little, either. Whenever she was out of my sight, I got anxious, afraid.” Marco leaned forward, bracing his arms on his thighs. “She’s gone beyond me, Abe. So far beyond me. She has her job and her new colleagues. She doesn’t need me.”

  “She loves you.”

  “No, she loved who I was. I’m not that man anymore.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You aren’t a leg, Angel. It was your leg that was damaged, not you.”

  Marco looked down. “I wish that was true. I wish I was still the same person I used to be, but that confidence, that security is gone. I got knocked on my ass in my own precinct. I can’t protect anyone. I can’t go on the street anymore. And I’m a lousy captain. I hate telling people what to do. Then the one case that gave me a sense of purpose got thrown out of court.”

  “The Carissa Phelps’ case? The revenge porn case?”

  “Yeah.”

  Abe reached over and curled his long fingers around Marco’s clasped hands. “I know it’s been hard. I know you’ve had a lot of adjusting to do, but this thing with Peyton is just stupid. You adore her, she adores you. I don’t say this lightly, Angel, but you two are meant to be together. I believe that.”

  “Even if it was wrong for her, Abe?”

  “How?”

  “I didn’t want her out of my sight. I couldn’t stand the thought of another man touching her, even looking at her. Every time she went to work, I wanted to drink because I felt so damn insecure. I almost ordered her to quit. I almost gave her an ultimatum.”

  Abe sighed and leaned back, his hand sliding away. “That’s not good.”

  “No. I could see it wasn’t good. I could see it wasn’t right and I knew I had to leave. I had to get out of there. If I demanded she quit, I knew she would because she loves me that much, but in the end, that love would turn to hate.”

  “So what now?”

  “I don’t know. I thought it would be clear what I had to do when I left, but all I’ve done is drink and think about her. I miss her so badly. I feel empty. I can’t imagine a life without her in it. For so long, she’s been my everything.”

  Abe didn’t answer for a moment, then he reached for the cell phone Marco had placed on the coffee table, hoping for Peyton to call. “Call Dr. Ferguson. Get an appointment for tomorrow.”

  “Isn’t tomorrow Saturday?” He scratched the side of his neck. “I can’t even remember what frickin’ day it is.”

  “Yeah, tomorrow’s Saturday, but I think he’ll see you. He’s been waiting for your call. That’s the first step, Marco. That’s the first thing you’ve got to do to get well. You’ve got to call Dr. Ferguson. And me, I’ll go back to throwing away booze.”

  They both looked at the filled garbage can.

  Abe made a snorting sound. “Clearly this is a two can job. Maybe I need to reevaluate my own alcohol consumption.”

  * * *

  Marco sat across from the psychiatrist. Dr. Ferguson gave him a level look, tapping his pen against his lower lip. He wore a polo shirt and wrinkled khaki pants with sneakers today. Marco had forced himself to shower, but he hadn’t felt strong enough to use a razor. He feared he might slit his own damn throat by accident, since his hand wasn’t steady enough to shave.

  “You look like hell.”

  Marco rolled his eyes. He was only here to protect his job, a job he didn’t know if he wanted or not. And also because maybe Ferguson had some insight into how he could make things right with Peyton.

  “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

  “Some.”

  “And not eating?”

  “Some.”

  “Sleep pretty non-existent?”

  Marco shrugged. Sleep was pretty non-existent because he kept dreaming about Peyton. Every time he dreamed about her, he was trying to find her, searching through the back of cargo vans.

  “Do I need to have you committed?”

  “No.”

  “No? You broke off your engagement, you were staying in a sleazy hotel, and refused to go to work for three days. You’re drinking and shutting out everyone in your life, including your family. I think we’ve gone beyond a minor counseling need here. I think we’re dealing with full blown depression now.”

  “I’m not depressed. I’m…”

  “You’re what, Captain D’Angelo?”

  “I’m pissed. I’m lost. I’m frustrated.” He gave Ferguson a snarky smile. “And seeing you isn’t helping.”

  “I gave you a tool to help, but you wouldn’t take it.”

  “You wanted me to go to a group meeting where people sit around and moan and whine about their lives together. Yeah, that’s gonna help. Here’s the thing. I don’t spill my guts to people. I don’t share all of my hurts and pains and sadness with the world. I don’t make myself a fool for other people’s amusement.”

  “No, you sit in a sleazy motel and drink.”

  Fair enough. Marco looked at the table and ran his finger across a scratch on its artificial surface.

  “I’m increasing our meetings from once to three times a week – Monday, Wednesday and Friday.”

  Marco’s eyes snapped to his face, but Ferguson held up a single finger to stop him.

  “Group meeting is Thursday night. I’m adding that to your schedule.”

  Marco started to protest, but he wagged a finger at him.

  “Nope. You just listen.”

  Marco clamped his mouth shut. He’d never seen Ferguson so forceful before.

  “You go or I report to Chief Defino that you disobeyed a direct command. As I’m sure you’ve been told, she and an officer from Internal Affairs will be at the precinct Monday morning to interview your officers. I’m not certain I can save your badge now, but I can promise you that if you fail to attend any of the sessions I’ve laid out, I will personally recommend you surrender it.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the table. “Are we clear with one another, Captain D’Angelo?”

  Marco nodded. He really didn’t think he wanted the job, but if he lost this too, he’d have nothing, and in the absence of everything, he wouldn’t be able to stand losing Peyton.

  * * *

  Ruth poked her head inside the study and gave him a sympathetic smile. “You okay?”

  Jeff glanced up. “Yeah.” Laying the picture on the desk blotter, he forced a smile. “It’s just so hard. All this stuff. I see her in all of it.”

  Ruth moved into the doorway, leaning on the filing cabinet. “I know.”

  He laid his hand on the pile of papers he’d taken out of his mother’s desk. “Did you know my mom went to D.C.? I found a photo of her.”

  Ruth came to his side, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  He held up the photo for her to see. “See, that’s the Washington Monument.”

  Ruth smiled, taking the grainy black and white photo. “No, I didn’t know that. She had a whole secret life before you were born, huh? How old is she here?”

  “Um, she had to be in her late twenties, early thirties. That was before she met my dad.”

  He picked up a stack of envelopes tied with a pale blue ribbon. In the center of the envelope, in the most beautiful handwriting he’d ever seen, were the words:Mrs. Aster King. Someone had written letters to his mother. Not just a few. There was an entire stac
k, all neatly gathered, the top slit precisely with a letter opener. He gave a snort of laughter. Leave it to his mother to have a pen pal. She’d never trusted computers.

  When he’d bought her one for her birthday about five years ago, she’d given it to the neighbor kid, said he needed it for his schoolwork, that there wasn’t anything she needed doing that couldn’t be done with paper and pen.

  Ruth rubbed his shoulders. “I’ll make some lunch. You gonna stay in here?”

  He picked up her hand and kissed the back of it. “For a while. I just want to spend a little time with her.”

  “I understand.” She walked to the door, but paused on the threshold, looking back. “Simon and Josephine will be here tonight.”

  “Good. The viewing starts at 5:00.”

  “They said they’d meet us at the funeral home.”

  He nodded, distracted by the photo of his mother – a handsome Caucasian woman in a dress with a hat positioned at a jaunty angle on her head. She stood with a number of other women, the tall obelisk of the monument rising behind them. Why the hell hadn’t he known she took a trip to D.C.? Why hadn’t she ever talked about it?

  Turning to the letters, he untied the blue ribbon and picked up the first one, pulling out the yellowed piece of binder paper. The same beautiful script leapt out at him as he opened it and began reading.

  * * *

  Dear Aster,

  My name is Finn. I was named after my mother’s favorite literary character Huck Finn. She said she always liked the idea of floating down a river, having an adventure. She used to tell me the greatest adventure was in books. I like to read too. I spend all of my free time at the library.

  We don’t have a very big library, but the librarian is nice and she orders me any books she thinks I might like. Her name is Mrs. Elder. I think that’s funny. She must be about 95 and her name is Elder. I wonder what her name was when she was young.

  I just finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. What a long name for a book, but in it, these people in World War 2 become pen pals with this author. That put me in mind that I’d like to have a pen pal, but you know, everything’s computers nowadays and we’re not allowed to have a computer.