Fatal Exposure

by Gail Barrett

  His heart racing, he scrutinized the violent scene. Chambers knelt in the center of the patio. Across the patio and facing the camera stood a young man holding a gun.

  “Zoom in on that guy,” Parker said, shifting forward.

  A second later the gang member took up the screen. He was tall, thin, Caucasian, in his late teens or early twenties with crosses tattooed on his cheek and neck. Parker studied his long, thin face, thinking something about him looked familiar, but he’d be damned if he knew what.

  “Can you copy this part of the picture and email it to me?” he asked. “I want to send it to my supervisor and see if he can identify this guy.”

  “Sure. I’ll crop it and copy it to a separate file.”

  Parker turned his attention to the other gang member, but he was standing behind a pillar, hidden from view. Only the barrel of his gun appeared on film.

  “Did you see who fired the shot?” he asked Brynn.

  She shook her head. “I think it was the other guy, the one we can’t see. But it happened so fast....”

  “I’ll check the case file, find out the angle of the shot.” Then they could pinpoint the shooter for sure. “Can you get a close-up of the victim? I want to see what’s binding his hands.”

  Brynn expanded the shot to full screen, then closed in on the kneeling man. Parker couldn’t tell exactly, given the angle of his body, but something metallic seemed to bind his wrists.

  “Those could be metal handcuffs,” he said, sitting back.

  “The kind the police use?”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean a cop was involved. Even back then you could buy handcuffs in pawn shops and surplus stores.”

  But it didn’t rule police involvement out.

  “That’s the end of the film,” she said, her eyes on the screen again. “I developed the film after I took that shot.”

  After Tommy died.

  The words hung unspoken between them. And for the first time, Parker could imagine the scene—a terrified young girl hiding in the shadows as cold-blooded killers executed that helpless man.

  And then they’d turned their guns on her.

  His emotions in sudden turmoil, he looked away. All these years he’d blamed Brynn for Tommy’s death. Witnesses had seen her running from the warehouse, convincing him she’d been involved. But now, after seeing that photo, he could imagine her absolute panic as she’d fled the scene, trying desperately to protect her friends and survive.

  Instead, she’d seen Tommy die.

  He inhaled again, trying to block the gruesome images that sprang to mind. But he’d seen his brother’s crime scene photos. He knew what had happened next.

  And, frankly, there was no way he could blame her for Tommy’s death. In her case he would have done the same.

  “Go ahead and email me that shot,” he said, trying to steady his voice. “If we’re lucky, someone will recognize him. Send me the uncropped version, too. I’ll forward it to Forensics, see if they can work their magic on it and get more clues.”

  Brynn got to work with a nod. As soon as the cropped shot showed up on his cell phone, Parker deleted the header and forwarded it to Delgado, not wanting him to know that Brynn was involved. Then, still struggling to come to grips with what he’d learned, he punched in his supervisor’s number and rose.

  “Where are you?” Delgado demanded when he answered the phone. “Colonel Hoffman’s been asking for you.”

  Parker shot Brynn a glance, hoping she hadn’t heard. To be safe, he walked across the nearly deserted coffee shop to the plate-glass window and peered out at the parking lot. “Over by Carroll Park, following a lead. I’ll call him right away. But I need some information first. I just emailed you a photo of a gang member with cross tattoos on his cheek and neck. It was taken near Orleans Street fifteen years ago. Can you take a look, see if you can identify him?”

  “Hold on.” Parker gazed at the street as he waited, watching the traffic zip past. A couple minutes later Delgado came back on the line. “That’s Dustin Alexander. He belonged to a gang called the City of the Dead. They were a small group, mostly Caucasian. They operated mainly around the Inner Harbor.”

  That fit. “Doing what?”

  “Mostly drugs. They controlled the heroin coming in from South America. Baltimore was their East Coast distribution point.”

  “They still exist?”

  “No. They disbanded about ten years ago when the New York gangs started moving in. Most of their members were dead by then.”

  “What happened to the guy in the photo, Dustin Alexander?”

  “I’ll look it up.” Delgado went off the line again. As the minutes stretched, Parker glanced at Brynn, then scanned the other patrons in the café—an elderly man reading a newspaper, a teenage girl chatting on her cell phone, the college-age barista behind the counter arranging muffins in a case.

  “Sorry,” Delgado said. “It took me a minute to find the record. He was killed in 2002 by a rival gang.”

  “This gang, City of the Dead. Who was their leader?”

  “Nobody knows. They were a tight-lipped group. We never found out, and believe me, we tried.”

  Parker mulled that over. “You said some of them survived?”

  “A few. We think they got absorbed into the Ridgewood gang.”

  Parker caught his breath. That was the gang with the snake tattoo—the gang that had killed Jamie, the gang that had attacked Brynn’s agent, the gang that was after Brynn. “Tell me about them.”

  “The Ridgewood gang? They started off as a subset of the Bloods. They took over the C.D.’s heroin route.”

  “So they deal drugs?”

  “Drugs, weapons. They’re allied with a South American cartel. The leader of their Baltimore operations is Markus Jenkins, the guy they released from prison by mistake last week.”

  Parker went still. This complicated mess was starting to make sense. If Tommy’s killer—the guy behind the pillar—had survived and now belonged to this Ridgewood gang...it would explain why they were after Brynn.

  “Why do you want to know?” Delgado asked.

  It was Parker’s turn to stall. He couldn’t tell Delgado the truth. His supervisor would yank him off the case. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in when I get back. But I have another question first. It’s about a symbol I saw on a runaway’s necklace. Multiple hearts, one inside the other. Any idea what it means?”

  “Not offhand. Hold on while I check with vice.”

  Parker stared out the window, surprised that Delgado would take the time. Normally his supervisor would make some cutting remark accusing Parker of being lazy and hang up.

  Switching Delgado to hold, he used the time to check his missed calls. He was stunned to discover that Guerrero, who had the next cube over in the cold case squad, had tried to reach him seven times in the past two hours. Frowning, he phoned him back.

  “For God’s sake,” Guerrero exploded. “Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

  Parker frowned. “I was busy.” He’d turned off his phone in the library and hadn’t switched it back. “I thought you were still on leave.”

  “Delgado called me in early.” He lowered his voice. “Christ, McCall. Do you have any idea of the mess you’re in? Colonel Hoffman got a tip that you’re dealing drugs.”

  “What?”

  “They’re tracking you on your GPS. Delgado just pinpointed your location. He’s sending the SWAT team out to bring you in.”

  “The SWAT team? Are you nuts?” Parker gave his head a hard shake, sure that he’d misunderstood. “That’s crazy.”

  “They’re nearly there. I don’t know what the hell you’re up to...”

  A squad car careened into the lot. Parker gaped out the window, adrenaline pumping through him as two more unmarked police cars followed suit. The cars screeched to a halt, and officers boiled out, donning their bulletproof gear.

  Swearing, he spun around, lobbed his cell phone—with its GPS—into a trash
can, then bolted back toward Brynn. He had to get her to safety fast, before all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 11

  Still unable to believe that someone—maybe even Delgado—had set him up, Parker charged across the room toward Brynn. What the hell was going on here? Hoffman had asked him to find his stepdaughter—and now he was trying to bring him in?

  He pulled his Glock from his back holster. “Police! Get down!” he shouted at the customers. They screamed and dove to the floor. Taking in the situation in an instant, Brynn leaped up and grabbed her supplies, then darted behind the counter. Parker hurried to catch up.

  They were outnumbered, out-armed. The police would surround the building. They’d block the exits and roads. To have any chance at escaping, they had to get out now, before the cops realized they’d been tipped off.

  He lunged behind the counter, then raced down the hall after Brynn. The barista cowered in the corner of the rear office, his face a pasty white. “Don’t shoot!” he cried, raising his hands.

  Parker skidded to a stop and glanced around the small room, searching for a way to escape. The door to the alley was out. The police would block that first. “Is there another exit?” he demanded, flashing his badge.

  The barista’s eyes were wild, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his gangly throat. “N-no.”

  Parker swore and whirled around. There had to be another way out. He refused to surrender until he knew what this was about.

  “What’s in here?” Brynn asked, pointing to a door half-buried behind a stack of supplies.

  The barista shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Parker frowned at the door. It was in the common wall connecting the buildings. If there was a chance it led next door...

  He pushed through a stack of boxes and yanked on the knob, but it was locked. “Get the key,” he told the barista. He just hoped it wasn’t a closet, or they were screwed.

  The barista ran to the desk while Parker hurled the boxes aside. The kid tossed him the key, and Parker unlocked the door. Not a closet. Relief spiraling through him, he turned to the barista again. “Come on.”

  “Wh-what?” The kid’s eyes nearly bugged from his face.

  “I said, come on. Through here.” He waved his gun, and the terrified barista rushed to comply. Parker followed Brynn through the door and secured it from the other side.

  Knowing he’d only bought seconds, he scanned the unlit room. Dust covered the floor. The air smelled stale from disuse. Stray pieces of furniture hulked in the shadows, like ships in a mothball fleet.

  “Upstairs,” Brynn urged and took off running.

  “You stay here,” Parker told the barista. “Just sit tight and you won’t get hurt. And whatever you do, don’t call the police.”

  Hoping the kid would obey him, he bounded after Brynn up a flight of stairs. When they reached the top, he paused again. Faint light slanted through the filthy windows, revealing dust motes hanging in the air.

  “There’s a balcony next door,” Brynn said, peering out the rear window. “Part of the old fire escape. It might be another way out.” She pulled on the window frame, but it didn’t budge.

  Parker hurried to help her. A car door slammed near the building. In the distance a siren wailed, and nerves coiled deep in his gut. Their time had nearly run out.

  “Stand back.” He positioned himself under the window. Putting all his force behind it, he heaved on the warped wooden frame. He grunted and strained, sweat beading on his face, until it finally gave way and slid up. They both looked out.

  Police cars blocked the ends of the alley. If they hoped to get away, they had to move now, before the SWAT team arrived on the scene. But the only thing under their window was a narrow, metal platform leading to nowhere. The neighbor’s balcony was yards away.

  Parker’s hopes tanked along with their options. They were trapped, all right. He just wished to hell he could figure out why.

  “Look.” Brynn pointed to a delivery van parked beneath the neighboring balcony. “If we can get on top of that truck, we can sneak over to the Dumpster and climb over the wall.”

  Parker sliced his gaze from the truck in question to the Dumpster bordering the alley’s cement wall. It offered a way to escape, all right—assuming they could reach the truck.

  “We can’t jump that far.” They’d break their legs or worse.

  “We don’t have to. Part of the fire escape’s still there.” She pointed to the half dozen metal steps dangling off the neighbor’s balcony. But the steps still ended an ungodly distance from the truck. And even to get to the balcony, they’d have to jump several treacherous yards through the empty air.

  Shouts came from the unit beside them. The cops had entered the building. In minutes, they’d breach the door. Parker tensed, unwilling to risk Brynn’s safety, but he couldn’t see another choice.

  Not waiting for an answer, Brynn hiked her knapsack onto her shoulder and scrambled over the sill. She paused for a moment on the platform, then leaped through the air like a flying squirrel, aiming for the neighbor’s balcony.

  She missed.

  Parker’s heart stopped dead. Powerless to help her, he watched in absolute terror as she tumbled toward the ground. But at the last second, she caught the edge of the balcony’s railing one-handed and miraculously held on, not quite muffling her shriek of pain.

  His pulse wild, Parker followed her out the window and jumped. He grabbed hold of the railing as Brynn worked her way around the balcony to the steps. She climbed down the truncated ladder and dangled off the end, agony racking her face. Then she let go, landing on the truck with a solid thud.

  Parker didn’t hesitate. The police were only seconds behind them. The SWAT team would soon arrive. He hurried down the ladder and dropped onto the truck beside her, the impact jolting his legs.

  By the time he regained his feet, Brynn had already leaped off the truck and raced to the Dumpster. As he followed suit, she scurried up the metal container and disappeared over the wall. Admiring her speed and courage, he rushed to follow suit.

  “Stop, police!” an officer shouted as Parker made it to the top of the wall. His energy surging, he dove over the edge just as a shot rang out.

  “Hurry,” Brynn called, and he jumped up, another burst of adrenaline powering his steps. Then he sprinted after her through the alley and across a parking lot. They ran through a park, exiting on a side street, and raced down another block. Still in the lead, Brynn forged a course through the city, covering the distance with surprising speed. And with every passing block, his respect for her increased. She was fast, determined, smart. She refused to let her injury slow her down, even though her shoulder had to ache. No wonder she’d eluded the authorities for years.

  Thirty minutes later, when the café was miles behind them, she finally slowed to a walk. Then she leaned against the side of a building, gasping and heaving for breath.

  “You okay?” he asked, his own lungs fiery from the frenzied flight.

  Wincing, she pushed her tangled hair from her flushed face. “My shoulder hurts.”

  Still panting, Parker scowled, the heart-stopping image of her near miss emblazoned in his mind. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Her chin came up. “It was the only way out.”

  She was right. But knowing that did nothing to calm his nerves. The sight of her plummeting from that balcony had aged him twenty years.

  But he couldn’t think of that now. They still had the cops on their heels. He glanced around to get his bearings, then pushed away from the wall. “Come on. I know a hotel near here where we can rest. And we’ll get some ice for your arm.”

  “All right.” Clutching her injured shoulder, she started to walk again.

  But as they headed down the street, the enormity of their predicament began to sink in. Hoffman was after him. But why? Parker didn’t believe that drug-selling rumor for a minute. He’d spent too many years acting like a choir boy for Hoffman to believe that crap.

/>   Was this about Brynn? But Parker had told his boss he’d found her. So why hadn’t he waited for him to bring her in? Didn’t the Colonel trust him?

  Or was something more sinister going on?

  He didn’t know. But he couldn’t stop the terrible sense of betrayal congealing his heart. All his life, he’d dreamed of becoming a cop. He’d worked his butt off to make it happen. He’d worn his badge with pride. Even his father’s corruption scandal hadn’t diminished his confidence in the integrity of the force.

  But now... He couldn’t trust his fellow officers. He doubted everything he’d once believed. Because suddenly, this case had nothing to do with justice, nothing to do with the C.I.D. chief wanting to help his troubled stepdaughter. Something bigger was going on here. Something deadly. Something he had to figure out fast.

  But whoever their enemies were, they’d just made a major mistake. They’d made this war personal.

  And Parker would fight to win.

  * * *

  Brynn peeked out the curtain of their hotel room an hour later, still too wired to relax. Her stepfather had tracked her down. He’d set the police on their trail. Thanks to Parker’s quick thinking, they’d escaped—this time. But what if their luck didn’t hold?

  She rubbed her throbbing shoulder, decades of self-preservation clamoring at her to flee. She had money. She could fly to Europe or Asia, hide out on a distant island, change her identity one more time.

  But this had gone too far. Innocent people were dying because of her. She couldn’t run anymore. She had to stay and fight back.

  Nerves still jangling from their narrow escape, she let go of the drapery and turned to Parker. He sat at the corner desk, connecting her laptop to the hotel’s WiFi. She skimmed the rigid cast of his profile, the angry jut of his chiseled jaw, and more guilt stacked up inside. She’d dragged him into this mess. He’d only wanted to find his brother’s killer, and now he was in danger, too. But how could she get him out?

  Struggling to find a solution, she perched on the edge of the king-size bed. Pain sizzled down her badly wrenched shoulder, and she bit down hard on a moan.