Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Page 12

  “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 b
rown. 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.”