Free Murder on Potrero Hill by M. L. Hamilton

year when she got the call.
    She set the frame down and looked out the window. The lights from the cars sped up and down 19 th Avenue. Fog was rolling in, sliding through the houses and settling over the street.
    “You ever think about getting married, Marco?” she asked without turning around. She knew Marco had his fair share of conquests. Men who looked like him always did, but in the seven years they’d been partners, she’d never known of a serious relationship.
    “No, I don’t think cops should marry.”
    Peyton nodded, her thoughts turning to her mother. Alice Brooks had never remarried after her husband was killed. She moved in with her sister and worked in a tourist trap of a store for little more than minimum wage. Not that she needed the money. Ben had left her with a healthy pension and a life insurance policy. Still, she liked having something to do. Peyton didn’t see her much. She didn’t approve of Peyton’s job, not after her father died.
    “With divorce as frequent as it is now, why would he kill her? Why wouldn’t he just leave?”
    Marco swiveled in his chair. “Maybe he didn’t want to be a father. Maybe he was afraid he’d have to pay child support.”
    Peyton didn’t turn. Marco had hit on the motive she feared most. It was bad enough to kill one’s wife, but to off an innocent baby…that was truly sick.
    “Hey, Brooks, you ever think about getting married.”
    She turned around and wandered back to the kitchen. “No man can handle me,” she said with a laugh, reaching for her beer.
     
    *   *   *
     
    Jake watched the coffee drip into the pot, inhaling the rich aroma. Reaching for a mug, he poured himself a cup, but didn’t take a sip. Wandering to the refrigerator, he pulled it open. Beyond a bottle of catsup and a half an onion, there was nothing inside to be called food.
    He’d have to go to the store today, and tomorrow he was forcing himself to go to work. He couldn’t keep turning around in this flat or staring at the closed bedroom door. Sam had called three times, but he’d let it go to his voice mail. He hadn’t been able to avoid Faith’s repeated attempts to get a hold of him, but he really had nothing to say to her, so she’d hung up after a few minutes of asking if he was all right or if he needed her to come out. Then he’d gotten the really strange text message.
    Please call me. It’s very important. I need to talk with you in person. Neal Goldman
    He didn’t know any Neal Goldman, but he’d called the number anyway. It didn’t even go to a message center, it just buzzed with a busy signal. He’d given up after the third try. If Neal Goldman wanted to get ahold of him, he could call again.
    He returned to his mug and lifted it, taking a tentative sip. It burned his palate, but he didn’t mind. The smell of the coffee brought Zoë’s face to mind, Zoë closing her eyes in bliss as she took a sip. God, he missed her. He missed everything about her.
    A knock sounded at the door. For a moment, he thought of ignoring it. He didn’t want to talk to anyone. Mrs. Parker kept bringing him sweets – chocolate cake, cookies, a cherry pie – as if eating such things could replace his wife.
    The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. Jake set down the mug and walked into the entry, pulling the door open without looking through the peephole. A short woman and a very tall man stood in the hallway.
    The woman held out a shining bit of metal in a leather case. “Jacob Ryder?” she asked.
    He glanced down at the metal and saw the words S.F. Police Department embossed on the top. A badge. “Yes?”
    She snapped shut the badge. “I’m Inspector Brooks and this is my partner, Inspector D’Angelo. Can we come in and talk with you for a moment?”
    Jake backed up to allow them inside, not sure what they could possibly want with him. Had there been a robbery or something in the building?
    Both of them sauntered into the flat, looking around. The woman stood