Zombies in the Delta (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 1) Read online

  “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 decor
ated 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.”