Fatal Exposure

by Gail Barrett

  Turning back to the counter, he picked up the tumbler she slid toward him and took a sip, savoring the smoky taste as the whiskey glided down his throat. He arched a brow, impressed. “Great whiskey.”

  Her gaze tangled with his, another wild flurry of attraction tripping his pulse. This close, he realized her eyes weren’t the green he’d originally thought, but a deep, slate-blue with golden starbursts—definitely unique. But nothing about this woman was typical, from her lethal street-fighting skills to the outrageous talent in her work.

  Another flush suffused her cheeks. “I don’t see the point of drinking rotgut.”

  She could definitely afford better, given the money her photos earned. “So what does the B in B. K. Elliot stand for?” he asked.

  “Brynn.”

  That suited her. “Why the pseudonym?”

  “I like my privacy.”

  “Most people would like the fame.”

  “I’m not most people. Is that a crime?”

  No, but running away from a murder scene was. Not to mention pulling the trigger. “I’m here about Tommy McCall,” he said, getting down to business. “What do you know about his death?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know him. I told you that before.”

  Right. He set the tumbler on the granite counter, pulled his brother’s old photo from his wallet and slapped it down. Then he pinned his gaze on hers.

  For a minute she didn’t move. Her gaze dueled with his, her chin rising to a stubborn angle as she held her ground. But several seconds later, she broke the connection and glanced down.

  The color leached from her face. Freckles stood out on her suddenly pasty skin. Fearing she might faint, he lunged across the kitchen toward her, but she grabbed the edge of the counter and held on. Emotions rippled through her eyes—shock, sorrow, regret.

  “Where...” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Where did you get this?”

  “He’d hidden it under the insole in his shoe.” The shoe Parker hadn’t inspected until years after his death, when he’d finally decided to dispose of his brother’s clothes.

  He’d shown the photo to the head of C.I.D.—by then, his boss—who’d agreed to reopen the case. But no one remembered the girl by then. The witnesses who’d seen her leaving the crime scene had long since disappeared. And after several futile months spent canvassing the area, the case was closed for good.

  Until now.

  He pocketed the photo again. “How well did you know him?”

  Her hand shaking, she picked up her glass and drained it in a single gulp. “Not well. We talked a few times on the streets, that’s all.”

  He doubted that. Tommy wouldn’t have kept that photo unless she’d mattered to him. But she’d barely been a teenager back then, far too young to be his girlfriend. More of a kid sister, perhaps?

  “So what can you tell me about his death?” he pressed.

  “Nothing.” She shook her head, the expression in her eyes still stark. “Why? What does it matter now? Why start asking questions after all this time?”

  “His murder’s never been solved.”

  “A lot of murders aren’t.”

  True enough—which was exactly why the Colonel had made the homicide cold case squad his priority, allocating extra resources to the cause. But Parker had another reason to care. He took out his business card and tossed it down.

  Brynn picked it up. Her face went pale again. “You’re Tommy’s brother?”

  So Tommy had mentioned him.

  “And you’re a detective.” She sounded numb.

  “That’s right. And I want answers. Justice.” No matter how many years had passed.

  “Justice?” She barked out a strangled laugh. “That would be a first, coming from a cop.”

  Parker gritted his teeth, her accusation striking home. His father had been corrupt. He’d paraded as a model citizen—a decorated cop, a dedicated family man—until a police corruption sting had stripped away the illusion, exposing the truth behind the facade.

  And then he’d taken the coward’s way out, leaving Parker to deal with the mess.

  His suicide had ripped the family apart. Parker’s mother had turned into a recluse overnight. Tommy had rebelled, lashing out against authority and getting hooked on drugs. As a rookie cop, Parker had battled to save his job, struggling to live down his father’s reputation and prove that he wasn’t the same—a doubt that still lingered in the force, even after all this time.

  “All cops aren’t bad,” he said, his voice flat.

  “No?” She jerked her chin toward the photos on her walls. “Ask those kids about that. They can tell you about justice and the police.”

  “They’d be wrong.”

  “The hell they would.” Her voice turned hard. Her gold-flecked eyes darkened to steel. “They know a lot more about reality and justice than you do. They’ve been raped, robbed and abused—and the police don’t give a damn. The only thing they care about is power.”

  He wanted to argue the point, to defend the life he led. But he didn’t have to justify his choices to a suspect. He hadn’t done anything wrong. And he wasn’t about to let her distract him from his brother’s murder—the reason he was here.

  “You’re entitled to your opinion,” he said.

  “That’s generous of you,” she snapped back. “But it’s not an opinion. It’s a fact.”

  “Regardless, I still want answers about my brother, and you were the last person to see him alive.”

  Her head came up. “What makes you think that?”

  “Witnesses saw a girl matching your description running from the scene.”

  Her jaw went slack. “You think I killed him?”

  “Didn’t you?”

  She stared at him, her eyes sparking with a kaleidoscope of emotions—shock, outrage and something else. Something that looked a lot like guilt. “Get out.”

  “The hell I will.”

  “I said to get out of my house.”

  “Not without answers.”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

  “I think you do.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  Not this time. This woman knew what had happened to Tommy. And after fifteen years trying to find her, he wasn’t going to back off now.

  “Tommy was your friend,” he fired back. “He carried that photo around in his shoe. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t you care what happened to him?”

  “Care?” A flush climbed up her cheeks. Fury vibrated her voice. “You’re the one stirring up trouble. You’re going to get people hurt—innocent people who don’t deserve this grief. So don’t accuse me of not caring!”

  “What people?”

  Her lips pressed tight.

  “What people?” he demanded again, stepping forward.

  She bumped against the counter and stopped. “Leave me alone.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Everyone has a choice.”

  And he’d made his. He’d vowed to bring his brother’s killer to justice, and he refused to stop until he did.

  A shrill ring split the air. Their eyes waged a silent battle, tension crackling between them as the telephone rang again.

  “I need to get that,” she said.

  Parker braced his hands on his hips and scowled, refusing to let this drop. If Brynn hadn’t killed his brother, she knew who did. He’d bet his badge on that. He had to convince her to talk.

  The telephone trilled again. When he still didn’t move aside, she arched a brow. “Do you mind? I really need to answer the phone.”

  Cursing the interruption, he expelled his breath. “All right, but we aren’t done yet.” He inched aside, just far enough to let her pass.

  Her eyes blazed into his for another heartbeat, her anger clear. Then she turned and stalked past the microwave to the phone. He lowered his gaze to her hands, tensing in case she tried to incapacitate him somehow. But in a move so quick he could hardly believe it, she
lunged sideways, scooped up her coat and backpack then upended the table into his path.

  He sprang into instant action, stumbling over the chair as he raced after her into the hall. But the split-second delay had given her a head start. She flung open the basement door and dove inside, slamming the dead bolt home just as he grasped the knob. Her steps thundered down the basement stairs.

  Swearing, he rattled the knob. He rammed the door with his shoulder, but the thick wood didn’t budge. Unable to believe his stupidity, he ran through the mudroom and out the back, searching the shadows for a cellar door. But there was no other exit in sight.

  The toolshed. He sprinted to the corner of the patio. The side gate hung ajar. He raced through it to the sidewalk, then stopped and turned in circles, scanning the empty street. The cold air brushed his face. A siren wailed in the quiet night.

  But B. K. Elliot was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Brynn pressed deeper into her neighbor’s doorway, her entire body trembling as Parker McCall stalked into view. His sharp steps bludgeoned the brick sidewalk. Fury radiated off his powerful frame. He veered to a black pickup truck beneath a streetlight and leaped inside, then gunned the engine and roared away. Brynn held her breath, plastering herself flatter against the building as the truck’s high beams swept past. The engine’s growl faded into the night.

  Thoroughly rattled, she sank to the cold cement door stoop and pulled her knees to her chest, her frenzied pulse refusing to slow. What a disaster. Her picture had appeared in the newspaper. Her identity had been revealed. Now Tommy’s brother had found her.

  And he was a cop.

  Still quivering wildly, she dragged in a breath, knowing she’d had a lucky escape. Everything about Parker McCall reeked of danger—from the jut of his steel-hard jaw to those penetrating black eyes that scrutinized every move. He was too smart. Too determined. And there wasn’t a chance he’d leave her alone.

  Especially since he’d found that photo in Tommy’s shoe.

  She hugged her knees even tighter, unable to stop the rush of guilt. Seeing that photo had demolished her composure, bringing back a swarm of regrets. Of all the mistakes she’d made in her life, of all the hell that she’d been through, the day Tommy had died had been the worst.

  And it was all her fault. That sweet boy was dead because of her.

  Struggling against a tide of emotions, she forced the memory aside. She couldn’t wallow in the past. God knew, she’d berated herself for it enough. She had to keep moving forward, keep the truth from coming to light and survive.

  But how? Parker would never give up. And if he’d already found her, the others couldn’t be far behind.

  Her head jerked up at that thought, and she frantically scanned the street—but nothing moved, no one emerged from the row houses, not even a car drove past. Easing out a tremulous breath, she willed herself to calm down. Nadine was safe in Peru for now. But she had to warn Haley fast. And she’d better prepare her agent, Joan Kellogg, for the upcoming media storm.

  Wishing she still had her cell phone, she grabbed her backpack and rose. Since her agent lived only a few streets over in the heart of Old Town, she would head to her house first. She could notify Haley from there.

  Aiming another quick glance at the shadows, she scurried down the empty street. The cold wind blew, sending goose bumps down her neck, and she buttoned her coat to block the chill. Returning to the area had been a gamble, she’d known that. And it was one she’d been reluctant to take. After Tommy’s horrific murder the three runaways had made a pact—they’d hidden the evidence, changed their identities and vowed never to reveal what had happened, no matter what the cost. Then they’d gone on the run, moving from city to city for years. Eventually Nadira—Nadine now—had moved to New York to get her medical degree. Haley had come to D.C. to start her shelter for pregnant teens.

  And although she’d hated to admit it, Brynn had been lonely. Haley and Nadine were the only family she had. She’d finally decided to chance it, figuring enough time had passed. As long as she steered clear of her stepfather, as long as she avoided the Baltimore neighborhood where Tommy had died, no one would notice her here.

  Her agent had helped. Although Joan didn’t know the details of Brynn’s past, she’d guarded her identity religiously from the start of her career—arranging her exhibits, appearing for her in public, hiring publicists to manage her website and promote her work. And no matter how intense the pressure—even after those awards—she hadn’t cracked.

  That safety had been an illusion, of course. Parker McCall had just proven that. Now she had to keep him from discovering the truth about Tommy’s death before more innocent people got killed.

  She darted across the road, the buzz of traffic on the distant beltway mirroring the hum of dread in her nerves. A few blocks later, she reached her agent’s house. Still hurrying, she unlatched the iron gate, crossed the small brick patio and rang the bell. Then she shot another furtive glance behind her, relieved that no one had followed her here.

  So far.

  Seconds crawled by. Her agent didn’t answer the door. Frowning, she stepped back and surveyed the windows, for the first time noticing that the house was completely dark. But Joan had to be in town. She always notified her clients before she took a trip. Brynn reached for the bell again, then froze.

  The door was hanging ajar.

  Inhaling swiftly, she spun around. The bare trees creaked overhead. The withered mums along the walkway bobbed in the frigid wind. Dried leaves tumbled across the bricks, skittering into the corners like frightened mice.

  Longing for her missing handgun, Brynn nudged the door open wider and peered inside, but she couldn’t make out much in the dark. Her heart stuttering wildly, she crept through the open door.

  She waited a beat, letting her eyes adjust to the shadows, the destruction making her reel. Tables had been overturned. Glass covered the floor, remnants of the once-majestic chandelier. Ruined paintings lay amid the shards, their canvases slashed, their gilded frames snapped apart like twigs.

  Appalled, she glanced from the ruined foyer into the equally demolished parlor and tried to breathe. Joan’s row house had been trashed. But why? By whom? And where had her agent gone?

  Her nerves coiling, she crept inside, inching past the staircase into the kitchen while trying not to make any noise. But broken plates crunched under her feet. Smashed groceries littered the floor, adding to the senseless mess. Behind the kitchen, Joan’s office looked as if a tornado had touched down with desk drawers ripped out, papers flung everywhere, her computer gone....

  Along with any client information she’d stored on the machine.

  Beating back a rush of panic, Brynn prowled back through the foyer and up the staircase, the creaking steps erupting like gunshots in the tomblike house. She checked out the vandalized guest rooms, then continued down the hall to the master bedroom and peeked inside.

  Her heart skidded to a halt. Joan lay sprawled across the rug in a sliver of moonlight, her eyes closed, her skin sheet-white, her body completely still. Blood glistened on her forehead and matted her silver hair.

  Horrified, Brynn raced to her side and knelt. “Joan.” Oh, God. The sixty-year-old woman was far too pale.

  She seized her agent’s wrist, feeling frantically for a pulse. Each tortured second seemed an eternity before she detected a feeble throb. She was alive. But barely. Her skin felt much too chilled.

  Desperate to save her, Brynn leaped to her feet, lunged for the telephone on the bedside table and punched in 9-1-1. “I need an ambulance. Fast,” she added, reciting the address. “Joan Kellogg. She’s been attacked in her bedroom upstairs. Hurry.” Ignoring the dispatcher’s questions, she hung up.

  Then she dropped to Joan’s side again. “Hold on,” she pleaded. “Help’s coming soon. I promise.”

  Her agent’s eyes fluttered open. “Brynn?”

  “Don’t talk. Save your strength. An ambulance is on the way.”


  Joan fumbled to grasp her hand. “Man...black hair. Snake tattoo. Looking for you...”

  “Shh. It doesn’t matter now. Just rest.” Her throat thick, Brynn gently squeezed Joan’s hand, her clammy skin icing her heart. Where was the blasted ambulance? Why was it taking so long? She shot a desperate glance at the window, despising the feeling of helplessness—and guilt. Joan had nearly died because of her.

  But who had sent the attacker? How had he connected Joan to her? Had he seen Brynn’s photo in the newspaper—or found her some other way?

  “Go. Hide,” Joan croaked out.

  “Forget it. I’m not leaving you alone.” She’d already caused enough problems. The least she could do was stay and protect her from further harm.

  A siren finally cut through the night, and Brynn expelled her breath. Thank God. The ambulance was nearly here. But then a new worry thrummed through her nerves. In seconds help would arrive—along with the police. They’d ask questions she couldn’t answer, scrutinize her in ways she couldn’t afford.

  “Go,” Joan whispered again, echoing her thoughts.

  Red lights flashed outside the window. The siren abruptly cut off. Torn by conflicting emotions, Brynn dithered over what to do. She couldn’t abandon Joan, not after her agent had worked tirelessly to safeguard her. But neither could she stay and let the authorities find her here.

  “Hurry...”

  “All right,” she agreed. “I’m going. But I’ll call you later at the hospital. And I’m hiring you a bodyguard. I’m going to make sure you stay safe.”

  Voices filled the house. Footsteps hammered on the stairs. Her pulse accelerating, Brynn grabbed hold of her backpack and rose, then glanced around the room. The house had to have a servant’s staircase. All these historic places did. Spotting a likely cupboard beneath the eaves, she rushed around the bed, flung the small door open and stepped inside. Then she felt her way down the unlit staircase, a steep, narrow passage with shallow treads. Seconds later, she emerged in the office behind the kitchen and exited the house through the alley door.