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

  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 sl
ow 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.”