The Peyton Brooks' Mysteries Box Set, page 11
Peyton’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know that was there.”
“Yeah, most people forget about it, or never knew it existed in the first place.”
“And you went through those messages?”
“Yeah, I have them saved on my computer too, but there wasn’t anything in them, Peyton. It was just people interested in one house or another that she was selling.”
“What about one from a Harold Truman?”
Stan frowned. “Definitely don’t remember that.”
“What about a man who said he wanted to pay cash?”
That got a response. Stan reared away from her. “As a matter of fact,” he said, wheeling over to a computer and grabbing the mouse. He clicked away for a few minutes, then he looked up at her. “Listen to this.” He punched a button on the keyboard and a man’s voice filled the small room. “Ms. Stevens, I got your number from an ad in the Home section of the Examiner. You recently sold a condo in Gramercy Towers for 1.5 mil. I’m looking for a single family home because I need a garage. I collect vintage cars and I like to work on them, so I need a property that can handle my hobby. You should know, Ms. Stevens, that I’ll be paying in cash. I just recently got an inheritance, a significant inheritance, and I’m looking to make a purchase sooner rather than later. I’ll text you my number. Please call.”
Peyton felt a shiver race over her. “Can you get the number off that message?”
“Yeah, I have it.”
Peyton grabbed her phone out of her pocket. “Give me the number.”
Stan rattled it off and Peyton punched it into her phone. The call rang a few times, then a recording came on the line. “This number is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.”
Peyton lowered the phone. “It’s not in service anymore.”
“It’s probably a burner cell.”
“Can you figure out who bought it?”
“I’ll reverse the phone number and see.” He messed with the computer some more. “It was bought at a Best Buy in San Bruno at the mall.”
“I need to know who bought that phone, Stan.”
He picked up the phone next to his computer. “Give me some time, Peyton. I’ll try to get them to release that information, but I’ll need a warrant.”
Peyton nodded. “Good work, Stan.”
He beamed at her. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring those to you as well. I just didn’t think it had any bearing on the case.”
“You never know what might. That’s why we keep pushing,” she said. “Let me know as soon as you get anything on the burner cell.”
“I will.”
She walked back to her desk and slumped into the chair. Now what? She wasn’t good at waiting. She needed to be doing something. She wrote Harold Truman’s name on her notepad a few times, staring at it. That same itch kept niggling at the back of her mind, but she couldn’t pin it down. There was something about the name. Harold Truman. Something familiar.
She thought about what Debra had said, how she worried for Darla when she went to show people houses, how she often showed them houses at night. It seemed like the perfect setup for anyone wanting to attack a woman. A lot of these realtors were women. How did they protect themselves?
She swiveled her chair back and forth, staring at the name. What if Darla wasn’t his first kill? What if he’d killed before? Except she didn’t remember hearing about women being killed showing houses. They’d know about that. They got information about all the homicides in the City.
Peyton’s eyes widened. But what if he hadn’t killed anyone else? What if Darla was his first, but what if he’d attacked other women? Maybe they’d gotten away? Maybe they’d fought him off? Her precinct wouldn’t hear about those cases because they didn’t result in death.
She grabbed her mouse and pulled up the police database, then clicked the search engine.
* * *
Marco set the laptop down in front of Peyton. “January said no one called her about a cash sale. I ran into Gerald and he said cash buys are rare. They’d have remembered anyone calling to make a cash purchase.”
Peyton looked up from her search and blinked at him. She’d been so preoccupied the last few hours, she hadn’t heard him approach. “Okay.” She scribbled a name down on her growing list.
“What are you doing?”
Swiveling in her chair, she pointed at the screen. “So, Debra mentioned that she worried about Darla when she went out to show a client a house because she was usually alone and sometimes weird people showed up. She also went out at all hours and sometimes put these people in her car.”
Marco took a seat in the chair she’d brought over for Debra that morning. “Okay?”
“So I thought about the fact that the killer took a souvenir from Darla’s murder.”
“The scarf?”
“Right. Either that points to a serial killer or a killer who’s escalating.”
“I’m with you.”
“But we’ve heard of no other murders with this MO. So I thought, what if he hasn’t murdered before? What if he’s just attacked women?”
“We wouldn’t hear about those unless we knew to look for them.”
Peyton pointed her pen at him. “Exactly. So I did a search on attacks in homes that are on the market.”
“And?”
“I found nothing.”
Marco huffed in frustration and rubbed the back of his neck. “This case is…”
“Hold on.” She gave him a cunning smile. “That doesn’t mean there aren’t reports.”
His eyes swung back to her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that nine times over the last two years, female realtors have reported a man asking to see a house they’ve had on the market. He contacts them by phone, arranges to meet them at the house, and each time these women have gotten a strange vibe from the guy, like something was off. One woman said he got so close to her, she grabbed her pepper spray. Another said he smelt her hair. And another said she was sure he’d reached out and petted her from behind.”
Marco made a disturbed face. “What happened with these complaints?”
“Nothing. Each of them admitted he hadn’t hurt them. Even the one who felt like he’d petted her couldn’t be sure he’d actually touched her. The cops had nothing to charge him with, nothing to bring him in on for questioning.”
“It’s not illegal to be creepy, I guess.”
“Right, but it gets better. Each woman said he originally got them out to the house because…”
“He said he’d pay in cash.”
“Bingo.”
“Well, let’s go bring Creepy McMillion in.”
“That’s the problem. I can’t get an ID for this guy.”
“What do you mean?”
She picked up her pad. “He uses different names all the time. Bill McKinley. Andy Johnson. Jim Monroe. Johnny Tyler. Jim Buchanan. Ben Harrison. Frank Pierce.”
Marco’s eyes widened. “Hold on. Let me see that.”
She passed the list over to him.
“What was the name he used on Darla?”
“Um…” She nodded at the notebook. “It’s on the other page.”
He flipped back a page. “Harold Truman.” He grabbed her pen and wrote it at the bottom of her list, then he studied the list for a moment. Finally, he went to the first name and crossed off Bill, writing William over it. Then Andy became Andrew and Jim became James.
Peyton’s eyes widened and everything fell into place. “How the hell did you figure that out?”
“Do you remember when we were looking at Darla’s client list in her office? You laughed at a name. Something’s been bothering me about that name since you said it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember the name…” Her thoughts clicked into place. “Tom Jefferson. Thomas freakin’ Jefferson. They’re all presidents.”
“They’re all presidents,” he repeated.
Peyton tapped her index finger on the notepad. “This bastard is using aliases to get into these open houses.”
“He’s escalating, Brooks. Now that he’s killed, he’s not going back to sniffing hair.”
Peyton shivered. “We need to warn every real estate office in the City, Marco. And we need to call all of these women who filed a report.”
“Do you know how many real estate offices there are in this City, Brooks?”
Peyton closed her eyes. They were so not going home tonight.
CHAPTER 8
Mrs. Stevens, this is Angelica Nunes. I just wanted to call you and thank you for your help getting my mother’s house sold. You worked so tirelessly for us and it is so much appreciated. I just picked up the check and it’s larger than my family expected. You took less commission than you were supposed to. I’m so grateful for everything you did. Mama will be able to afford her care now and that has taken a huge weight off her shoulders. There is nothing I can do to repay your kindness. Bless you!
* * *
Maria laid the stack of papers in front of Peyton. She glanced at them, then up at the entire precinct assembled in the conference room. Sitting next to her, Defino motioned with her hand. “Let’s get this circus on the road,” she muttered.
Peyton cleared her throat and rolled the dry erase marker over in her hand. “Okay. Thank you all for coming in early this morning.”
She had their attention. Marco gave her an encouraging nod. She couldn’t believe how much she relied on that single gesture, but she did.
“Last night, Marco and I compiled a list of all the real estate offices, agencies, and single realtors in the San Francisco city limits. We also tracked down contact information for the nine women who have filed a report about our suspect. We need to warn each real estate agency about our perp and we need to interview the nine women. We’ve divided the tasks, so we can get this done as fast as possible. We’re working against the clock.” She hesitated and glanced back at the white board with their notes on it. “We think Darla Stevens is his first murder, but it won’t be his last. I can’t stress this enough. This guy is escalating and I’m afraid someone else is going to wind up dead if we don’t get out ahead of this.”
They were nodding, even Holmes and Bob Anderson.
She picked up the first set of papers. “Cho and Simons, you’ll help D’Angelo and me contact the nine women who filed a complaint. Try to get as much information out of them as you can regarding the encounter. We especially need a description of the perp. This guy goes by aliases. So far, it seems like they’re all past presidents’ names, but try to find out if he let anything else slip.”
“Got it,” said Simons.
“The rest of you will take part of the realtor list. Contact the office and warn them about our concerns. Tell them if anyone at all contacts them about wanting to buy a house with cash or gives them a past president’s name to contact us immediately. In fact, they should contact us if they feel concerned about a client in the least.”
Defino rose to her feet. “Okay, people, grab a list and head out. Let’s get this sick bastard today.”
Peyton began handing out the lists as people filed up to her at the front of the room. When Stan approached, he paused. “I got the warrant. I’m headed out to the electronics store to see who purchased the burner cell.”
“Great, Stan. Let me know as soon as you get anything.”
He gave her a tense smile, starting to turn away, but he turned back to face her. “We’ll get this guy, Peyton. I promise you.”
“I know, Stan. I know we will.”
* * *
Marco dropped a sandwich on her desk. Peyton stared at it, then looked up at him, rubbing the back of her neck.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Come on. Take a break. You gotta eat something.” He jerked his head toward the break room.
Peyton picked up the sandwich and followed him, sinking into the chair at the table and unwrapping his offering. He went to the fridge and pulled it open, staring inside. “What you want?”
“I’ll take a root beer if there is one.”
He grabbed two cans and walked back to the table, dropping his own sandwich on its surface and placing a can in front of her. She reached for it and popped the top, taking a sip of the bubbly liquid. Then she picked up half the sandwich and took a bite. Ham, her favorite.
He unwrapped his own sandwich. “How many complaints are left to track down?”
“Two. I think one of the women left the area. I can’t trace her phone number or her address. She just disappeared off the grid. I even went on social media trying to find her, but nothing.”
He took a bite and chewed, considering. “How are Cho and Simons doing?”
“They got through their list and went back to their case. The information’s pretty much the same across the board. The guy called, gave them an alias, asked to see whatever house they were representing, offered to pay cash.”
He nodded. “Then they met him at the house.”
“Yeah, he showed up at the listing some way. None of them remember a car, so no license plate number, not even a partial. Then he walked around the house, not really asking many questions, gave some comment about wanting to see the garage. A couple of the women said he got really aggressive about the garage thing, and that’s what triggered a warning in them.”
“What do you mean, aggressive?”
“Demanding to see it. At least two of the women broke off the tour at that point. They both said they just had a really bad vibe off him.”
“What about a description?”
“Five seven, five eight. Stocky. Maybe 250, 300 lbs. Brown, wavy hair. Some said he was clean-shaven, others that he had a five o’clock shadow.”
“So, your basic every man,” said Marco, reaching for his soda.
“Yep. They didn’t remember any distinguishing scars, tattoos, piercings. He wore jeans and a t-shirt. No glasses or physical deformities.”
Stan walked through the door, his expression troubled.
“Hey, Stan,” said Peyton, setting down her sandwich.
He stopped by the table, shifting weight from foot to foot. “Hey, Peyton.”
Peyton could tell just by his demeanor that he didn’t have good news for her. “They don’t know who bought the phone, do they?”
“Nope. He paid cash.”
“Do we even know when he bought the phone?”
Stan nodded. “Two weeks before Darla’s death.”
She pushed the half-eaten sandwich away. “It’s like this guy’s a ghost.”
“I’m so sorry, Peyton,” said Stan miserably. “I’ll go back through Darla’s laptop and see if I can find anything. Maybe I missed something like I missed the call.”
Peyton reached over and laid her hand on his forearm. “You didn’t miss anything, Stan. You never do. We’re just up against a guy who has planned all of this down to the minute, but he’ll mess up. That much I know. He’ll mess up and we’ll get him.”
Stan gave her a worried smile. “But before he kills again?”
Peyton released him and shrugged. “That’s the seven million dollar question.”
He stared at the ground, his shoulders slumping, then he turned for the door. “I’ll let you know the minute I get something more,” he muttered as he walked from the room.
Peyton braced her forehead with her hand.
“God, that poor bastard has it bad,” said Marco, chuckling.
Peyton looked up at him. “What?”
“Seriously, Brooks. The poor damn fool’s half in love with you.”
“Who?”
Marco shook his head in amusement, continuing to eat. “Stan. He’s nuts about you.”
Peyton looked away. She didn’t want to talk about this with Marco. “What now, Marco? What do we do about this case?”
He finished off his sandwich and then downed the rest of his soda. “We wait, Brooks. That’s what we do. That’s what we always do.” He nodded at her lunch. “Eat some more, then let’s go back to the conference room and review all of our notes. Maybe something will jump out at us.”
Peyton stared at her sandwich, but her appetite was gone.
* * *
Peyton laid her head on her arms, closing her eyes. Her brain was mush, she was so tired. They’d compiled the list of realtors until late last night and then they’d come in early to meet with the rest of the precinct. After they’d made their calls to the nine women who filed complaints, she and Marco had been reviewing notes all afternoon. Dinner had come and gone, and still they had nothing.
She’d drifted into a half-doze when Marco touched her shoulder. “Come on, Brooks. I’ll take you home.”
She blinked her eyes a few times to clear them. “No, we need to keep going.”
“Nothing’s going to pop with what we’ve got. You need sleep. Come on. We’ll get back at it tomorrow.”
She sat up, realizing she had a crick in her neck from the way she’d been lying. She rolled her shoulders and yawned. God, she was so tired.
He was right. They both needed sleep, then they could hit the case fresh in the morning. After a certain point, they just weren’t going to gain any ground until they had time to re-energize.
“Fine, but you pick me up by 6:00 tomorrow. And I want another mocha.”
Marco chuckled. “You got it.”
As she pushed herself to her feet, Maria stepped into the room. “There’s a woman at the counter. She’s asking to talk to both of you.”
Peyton got an adrenaline kick, her eyes whipping to Marco’s face. He gave her a nod, then they walked to the door. The woman waiting on the other side of the counter was in her early thirties, a redhead, pretty, with big green eyes and a curvy figure. She wore a black pencil skirt and a white silk blouse with a red scarf tied around her throat.
Peyton approached the counter, holding out her hand. “I’m Inspector Brooks and this is my partner Inspector D’Angelo.”
