by Gail Barrett
So she’d noticed his name on the cover sheet. He couldn’t feign ignorance now. “Just checking the records for a case.”
She frowned, her ice-blue eyes nearly level with his. “Which case is that?”
Parker hesitated. Technically, he didn’t have to answer. Even though she outranked him, Lieutenant Lewis worked in the Criminal Intelligence Section and wasn’t in his chain of command. But she was smart. She’d sniff out any deception fast. Better to sprinkle in enough truth to allay suspicions—and lend his answer legitimacy in case she checked.
“Susie Smith.”
“The kid they found in the Inner Harbor?”
“Right. She was from Emmitsburg. I’m checking the deaths in that general area during the past few years to see if they’re related.”
She arched a brow. She wasn’t buying it—and he didn’t blame her. The connection was ludicrous at best. And this woman was nobody’s fool. Even Hoffman knew better than to take her on.
But he had no choice but to brazen it out. He held out his hand for the file. “Do you mind?” he asked.
She hesitated, obviously reluctant to give it up, then she slapped it into his hand. Parker tucked it under his arm, giving her what he hoped was a civil nod.
He didn’t dislike Terry Lewis, exactly. He probably would have admired her if she hadn’t tried to bring him down. She’d simply been doing her job, conducting an investigation into a towing scam in the traffic unit when she’d stumbled on an even more serious plot. Defying warnings from her fellow officers, she’d persevered, bucking the hallowed Blue Code of Silence to uncover the truth, that his father had extorted payments from prostitutes and drug dealers—a revelation that had rocked the force.
But then she’d turned her suspicions toward him.
And, suddenly, the irony struck him hard. After all those years obeying the rules, after all those years trying to show that he wasn’t the criminal she believed, he was finally proving her right.
Without a word, he exited the room. Then he strode down the corridor to the stairwell, feeling her eyes boring into his back. Perfect. He’d managed to get a copy of the dead girl’s file. But he’d tipped off Terry “The Terror” Lewis.
He hoped it was worth the cost.
* * *
“This had better be worth it,” he muttered an hour later as he slid into the seat across from Brynn. He’d arranged to meet her at a fast-food restaurant far enough from police headquarters to avoid running into anyone he knew.
“Problem?” She tilted her head to meet his eyes.
“No.” Not yet.
“Then you got the file?”
“I got it.” But at what price? Trying not to dwell on the potential fallout, he set the folder on the table and opened it to the top page.
She leaned across the booth to see. Her hair swung loose, strands a deep, rich shade of chestnut mingling with the brighter red. And despite his vow to keep his distance, her beauty swamped his senses; the subtle, feminine scent of her seeping into his blood. His gaze dropped to her sensual lips, the elegant line of her slender throat, then back to her glorious hair. He curled his hands, the urge to plunge them through that thick mass hard to resist.
She turned her head, and her gaze collided with his. Her eyes turned wide and dark. Her breath made an audible hitch, propelling his pulse into a sprint. So she wasn’t immune. So she felt the chemistry zinging between them—no matter how inappropriate it was.
He jerked his gaze back to the file and frowned. It didn’t matter what she felt. Having an affair with her would be nuts. He’d already jeopardized his career by accessing the deceased girl’s file. He wasn’t about to compound his mistakes by getting involved with a potential suspect, too.
No matter how intriguing she was.
“Here’s the initial incident report,” he said, his voice brusque. “She was reported missing at 7:00 a.m. They searched the grounds, and a staff member discovered her body by the old Forest Service lookout tower at ten. The paramedics arrived at 10:35.”
“That seems slow.” She kept her eyes averted, but pink patches flagged her cheeks.
“The camp’s in the mountains, in an isolated area.” He checked the report. “The ambulance came from Emmitsburg. That’s the nearest place. But it wouldn’t have made a difference either way. She was already dead.”
He waited while Brynn finished reading, still struggling to keep his gaze from her. Then he continued paging through the report—the interviews with the other children, statements from the counselors, the psychologist’s assessment of her mental state.
A picture gradually emerged. Erin Walker had gone to bed at 9:00 p.m., the official lights-out time. She’d been in her cabin an hour later, presumably asleep, when the counselor had conducted her nightly rounds. No one had guessed her plans. No one had seen her leave her bed. No one had even missed her until reveille the following day. She’d been quiet in the days preceding her disappearance, but her behavior hadn’t raised any flags. In fact, she’d been making progress—staying off drugs, participating in the camp activities, cooperating with the other kids.
Parker turned to the photos next. The first shot showed the historic lookout tower in a clearing amid the trees. Next came a close-up of the dead child’s body—her skull bashed, her neck at an unnatural angle, the ground around her saturated with blood.
His stomach pitching badly, he spared a glance at Brynn. Every trace of color had fled her face. “Are you all right?”
She swallowed visibly, her eyes huge in her bloodless face. “It’s not easy to look at.”
“Death never is.” The wooden tower was ninety feet high, and the girl’s small body bore the results of her fall. “It’s worse when you know the person. The photos I saw of my brother...” He shook his head, not wanting to revisit the horror of Tommy’s death. But those crime scene photos still plagued his nightmares, even after all this time. Not to mention the gruesome memories of his father’s death.
Brynn’s gaze connected with his. And the compassion in her eyes caused a sliver of warmth to unfurl in his chest. She’d cared about his brother—which begged the question: What role did she have in his death?
But they would discuss Tommy soon enough. He had to fulfill his part of the bargain first.
Steering his mind back to Erin Walker, he flipped to the next photo. Even though he’d braced himself, the close-up view made his stomach clench. How much worse would this be for Brynn?
“You said you met this girl on the streets?” he asked, hoping to distract her from the gore.
“That’s right.”
“Any idea why she ran away?”
Her face still chalky, she managed a shrug. “The same reason they all do, I guess. They’re desperate. Some are neglected or abused. Or their parents have started a second family and don’t want them around. Or sometimes they’ve made a mistake—committed a crime or gotten pregnant—and they’re afraid their parents will go berserk. In Erin’s case, she used drugs.”
“Like Tommy.”
“Yes, like Tommy.” Sympathy softened her eyes. “They’re confused, angry, ashamed. They can’t control their feelings and don’t know how to repair the damage they’ve done. And they don’t think anyone will help.”
Guilt fisted in Parker’s throat. He shifted his gaze to the plate-glass window and stared unseeing at the afternoon rush-hour traffic whizzing past. He and Tommy hadn’t been close. The five-year gap in their ages had kept them apart. When he’d gone off to college, his brother had still been in junior high. But to think that Tommy preferred the violence of street life to asking him for help...
“I tried to help him,” Parker said, his voice low. “I took him to counselors, enrolled him in programs. But nothing worked.” Their battles had only grown more heated until his brother had split for good.
“It’s hard to reach an addict. The chemicals change how they think. I tried to help Erin, too. But in the end I only made things worse.”
“How do
you figure that?”
Her eyes turned pained. “I convinced her to go to a shelter, a place I know for teenage girls. She was there for a couple of days, and then her parents picked her up. I thought I’d done the right thing. She told me she wanted to get clean. And her parents had the resources to help her. They got her into that expensive camp.”
“You don’t think you caused her death?”
A bleak look filled her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, then shook her head. “Maybe not directly. But she’d probably be alive right now if I hadn’t persuaded her to go home.”
He could relate to that. How many times had he second-guessed himself, wishing he’d done something—anything—different with Tommy, something that might have saved his brother’s life?
His gaze stayed on hers. And something shifted inside him, like a long-locked door creaking open to admit the light. And he knew that she understood. She carried the same burden of guilt, the same unending remorse.
Suddenly, his mind flashed back to the image of that scrawny girl standing beside his brother, and he wondered again what had driven her from home.
He tamped down on the question hard. He didn’t need to know Brynn’s life story. He didn’t need to forge a connection with her. And he definitely couldn’t afford to desire her, not when she could be a suspect in his brother’s death.
Although he was beginning to have doubts about that.
Alarmed, he jerked his gaze back to the file. What was he thinking? He was breaking the fundamental rule of police work, letting her get to him. He had to keep his distance, hold on to his objectivity to find out the truth about Tommy’s death.
“Here’s the autopsy,” he said. Still appalled at the direction of his thoughts, he checked the diagnosis at the top. “She died of blunt force trauma, consistent with falling from that tower. The toxicology studies show she’d taken meth.”
Keeping his gaze fastened on the file, he skimmed the various sections of the report—the internal and external exams, the degree of rigor mortis, the evidence taken from the scene.
“Who did the autopsy?” Brynn asked.
“The State Medical Examiner in Baltimore. That’s standard procedure in a case like this.”
“I didn’t see anything about sexual activity.”
“She was twelve.”
“And she’d spent time on the streets.”
True enough. And runaways rarely stayed innocent for long. He flipped back to the internal exam, then checked the diagnosis again. “Here it is. She had scarring consistent with sexual activity. But there was nothing to suggest it was recent—no semen present, no abrasions or inflammation that would indicate a rape.”
He spread his hands. “The cause seems obvious. She was a drug user with meth in her system, and she either jumped or fell from that tower.”
But Brynn didn’t look convinced. “You mind if I look at the file again?”
“Go ahead.” He slid the folder her way. “But there’s no evidence to suggest foul play—no bruising on her neck, no signs of any force. No other footprints around the tower. The surveillance camera was down that night, but even so, the case looks cut-and-dried.”
“She swore she was getting off drugs.”
“So she had a relapse. It wouldn’t be the first time an addict did that.”
“I know. But I still have a feeling...” Pulling the folder closer, she began leafing through the pages again, her delicate brows drawn down.
He understood her reluctance to accept the truth. It was always easier to blame someone else than live with relentless guilt. But unless she had evidence she wasn’t revealing, her suspicions had no basis in actual fact.
Suddenly, she sat upright. He snapped his gaze to hers. “What is it?”
It took her a moment to answer. She thumbed back through the photos again, nibbling her bottom lip. Then she slid a photo toward him. “Did you see this?”
Parker focused on the dead girl’s face. Around her neck she wore a necklace, a silver disk on a matching chain. On it was a design—hearts within a heart. “What about it?”
“It’s not in all the photos for one thing.” She flipped back through several shots. Sure enough, in every other photo, her neck was bare—a detail he couldn’t believe he’d missed.
“Maybe it fell off when they moved her.”
“It isn’t mentioned in the report. It isn’t listed with her personal effects.”
He frowned at that. “You think someone stole it?”
“I don’t know. Why would they? It doesn’t look valuable enough.”
True. It looked like costume jewelry, something a young girl would wear. “Maybe one of her friends kept it as a memento.”
“What friends? She didn’t have any, according to those reports. And that design.” She went back to the necklace again. “See how irregular it is? The lines aren’t even straight. It looks as if she engraved it herself.”
“Maybe she did. Maybe she made it at the camp.”
“Maybe.” Heavy doubt laced her voice. “But I’ve seen something like it before....”
She pulled her laptop from her backpack, placed it on the table and turned it on. Then she opened a folder in her portfolio and started browsing through various shots.
Parker returned to the Walker girl’s file and carefully reread the reports, but Brynn was right. There was no mention of the missing necklace. So where had it gone—and why?
Still not sure it mattered, he switched his attention to Brynn’s computer as she searched her files. Faces paraded past, hundreds of poignant faces of emaciated, runaway kids. Everyone looked tormented. Everyone looked lost. Everyone had that unnerving cynicism in his waiflike eyes.
And once again, Brynn’s amazing talent leaped from the screen, the juxtaposition of innocence and despair wrenching the viewer like a primal scream.
No, it was more than talent, he decided. She had the rare ability to erase the distance between the subject and herself. She knew these kids. She was these kids. Their lives had been her own.
Which revealed more about her than she probably knew.
Brynn paused. “Here. Take a look at this.”
Leaning even closer, he studied the photograph she’d brought up. It showed a young girl standing in a row house doorway, her tight top and skimpy shorts emphasizing the stark angles of her sticklike frame. Heavy black makeup rimmed her drugged-out eyes, giving the impression of a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes.
But this wasn’t a game. This girl lived a hellish existence, enduring unspeakable acts of depravity to survive.
And she wore the same type of silver necklace with that same multiple-heart design.
“Her name’s Jamie,” Brynn said, enlarging the shot. “I met her a couple of months ago near Ridgewood Avenue.”
Parker scrutinized the necklace. The engraving on this one looked as amateurish as the first. “What do you think it means?”
“Maybe nothing,” she admitted. “It just strikes me as odd that two runaway girls, both drug addicts, are wearing the same hand-engraved necklace. Now one of them is dead—and her necklace has disappeared.”
“You think they both went to that camp?”
“Maybe.” But her skeptical tone belied her words.
“You think someone killed Erin Walker there?”
“I don’t know.”
But she suspected foul play. At the C.I.D. chief’s camp. An allegation that could create a firestorm and torpedo the Colonel’s career.
Not to mention his.
And unless he missed his guess, her doubts didn’t only spring from the missing necklace. She had another reason she wanted to pursue this case, something she didn’t want to divulge. But exactly what that could be, he didn’t know.
“I just want to find out for sure,” she added.
“How?”
“Ask this girl, Jamie, where she got her necklace to start with.”
Parker sat back and rubbed his jaw, mulling over wh
at to do. He didn’t have to help her. He’d fulfilled his part of the bargain and shown her the Walker girl’s file. There was no reason to drag this out, no reason for him to stay involved.
Except that necklace had disappeared. That kid had died at his boss’s camp. And she had meth in her system, despite having sworn off drugs. None of which proved any wrongdoing. None of which was necessarily suspicious or pointed to any crime.
But Brynn was right. Something about this case felt off. His instincts were clamoring hard. And it was his duty to investigate a murder—even if it cost him his job.
“All right. I’ll go with you,” he decided, hoping he wouldn’t regret it. Brynn was dragging him into this case deeper, leading him down a path he might lament.
But he couldn’t back out yet.
* * *
A short time later, they parked in the alley behind a flophouse near the intersection of Ridgewood Avenue and Garrison Boulevard where the young prostitute plied her trade. His weapon drawn, Parker took the lead through the basement entrance, picking his way over tarps and sheets of plywood to the stairs.
“Police!” he shouted, heading up the musty, unlit staircase to the lower floor. No answer. His heart thudding hard, he called out again. “Police! I’m coming through the door!”
His gut tense, every sense alert for danger, he stepped into the trash-strewn hallway and aimed his gun around. Damn, but he hated dealing with junkies. They’d jump him or stab him with a needle before he could even blink.
A muffled sound came from a nearby room. Bingo. “I know you’re in there. I want to see your hands. Have them up where I can see them. Now I’m coming in.”
He waited a beat, giving the occupants a chance to get their hands up, then kicked open the door and stepped inside. A young girl huddled on the floor atop a threadbare blanket. Her scrawny arms were scabbed, her legs swollen from shooting heroin through her toes. She appeared to be alone.
To be sure, he scanned the room, taking in the spray-painted walls, the bottles and needles littering the floor—evidence that the action picked up as the sun went down. Smells he didn’t care to identify assaulted his nose. “Is anyone else here?”
She gave him a sullen look. “No.”