Fatal Exposure (12 page)

And considering the price her photographs now commanded, she’d more than repaid him for any supplies.

But as Parker accompanied her down the hall to the Fine Arts room, he couldn’t shake his growing unease. Because the truth was, the more he learned about Brynn, the less he believed the Colonel’s claim that she was mentally unhinged. On the contrary, he admired her. She’d managed to survive despite formidable odds.

But if she didn’t have psychological problems, if she wasn’t the lying manipulator his boss claimed, why had he asked Parker to bring her in?

Not sure he liked the conclusions he was beginning to draw, Parker set that problem aside. He’d think about Brynn and her stepfather later, after they’d found that film.

“This way,” she said, her voice low.

Parker nodded to the librarian manning the Fine Arts desk, then followed Brynn down the carpeted aisle past multiple stacks of books. On the back wall was a built-in cabinet, consisting of dozens of narrow drawers.

“This is it,” she said, coming to a stop.

“You put them here? In this cabinet?”

“It’s where they store their sheet music. I was afraid to put the negatives inside a book in case it got checked out. I was looking for someplace permanent where they wouldn’t be disturbed. So I decided to hide them behind a drawer.”

Admiring her logic, Parker surveyed the wooden drawers. “I don’t suppose you remember which one?”

“Not exactly. I know it was close to the floor. I didn’t think anyone would notice it if I put them down low.”

She knelt on the rug and opened a drawer while Parker did the same. Both drawers were empty. Brynn frowned. “It looks like they moved the music. I hope they didn’t inspect the cabinet and look behind the drawers.”

She removed the drawer and set it aside, then peered into the empty space. She reached in and felt around, then put the drawer back in. “They’re in an envelope. I was going to tape it to the bottom of a drawer, but I noticed that part of the panel on the wall was loose, right where two sections joined. So I slipped the envelope inside the loose part, with just the edge sticking out.”

“Good thinking. Tape probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.”

He started on the row above her, removing the drawers, checking for signs of an envelope, feeling the back panel for give. The minutes ticked quietly by. A few curious patrons strolled past, but no one questioned them.

Parker’s thoughts wandered back to the case—the missing necklace and photos, Erin Walker’s death, the murdered prostitute. But despite his attempts to connect them, the clues still didn’t make sense. He needed to call his supervisor, Sergeant Delgado. As much as the man annoyed him, he had worked in the gang unit. Parker needed to find out what he knew—before their time ran out and that gang caught up.

“Parker.” Her urgent whisper drew his gaze. Excitement brimmed in her eyes. “I found it!”

He closed his drawer and knelt beside her. His anticipation mounting, he watched as she reached into the cabinet and pulled out a yellowed, business-size envelope. She flipped it over and broke the seal, then took out a handful of plastic sleeves, the negatives still inside.

His heart skidded hard. He suddenly found it hard to breathe.
At last.
He could see what had happened in that warehouse the day that Tommy had died.

“I’m not sure how much they’re going to tell us,” she cautioned.

But he finally had a chance to find out.

* * *

It took a while, but they finally located a photography shop near Carroll Park that had a professional-grade drum scanner, which Brynn insisted they needed to get the highest resolution to view the film. Parker flashed his badge to ensure priority treatment from the manager and forestall questions about any violent images the film contained.

A short time later, Parker sat inside a coffee shop in a partially boarded-up strip mall, drumming his fingers on the table while Brynn set up her laptop and inserted the CD.
This is it.
He was finally going to find out why Tommy had lost his life.

Brynn transferred the digitalized files into Photoshop and pulled the first shot up. Parker hunched forward, not sure what to expect. But two teenage girls filled the screen. The one on the left looked Middle Eastern. She had straight black hair, exotic eyes, a breathtakingly beautiful face. The other girl was softer, still pretty, but less intimidating with her thick hair piled in a messy knot atop her head. He couldn’t tell her hair color from the black-and-white photo, but guessed she was a brunette. “Are those your friends?”

Brynn gave him a nod. “The one on the left is Nadira—Nadine. She’s a plastic surgeon in New York now. The other one is Haley. She runs a teen shelter in D.C.”

She scrolled through several shots—Haley smiling and cuddling a kitten, Nadira taking shelter in a doorway to escape the rain. But despite their smiles for the camera, their eyes looked wounded and stark. Brynn had captured the essence of her subjects even then.

Then Tommy’s face appeared on the screen, and Parker’s heart stumbled to a halt. He took in his brother’s gaunt cheeks, the shaggy hair flopping over his brows, the dark circles underscoring his spiritless eyes. He’d been so young. So addicted. So lost.

Trying hard to swallow, Parker stared at the screen as Brynn paged slowly through the shots—Tommy clowning around with Brynn. Tommy sprawled on the ground amid a pile of trash. Tommy slumped against a wall, his eyes wasted, looking weary beyond his years.

Unable to bear it, Parker squeezed the bridge of his nose, a burn forming behind his eyes. If only he could have saved him...

“I’m sorry,” Brynn whispered. “I shouldn’t—”

“No.” He let out an uneven breath. “I want to see them.” These were the final images of his brother’s life.

A terrible pressure crushing his chest, he forced himself to watch as more images of his brother marched across the screen. Tommy laughing at the camera. Tommy feeding a stray dog. Tommy shooting up in a flophouse, his eyes tormented, enslaved by addictions he couldn’t defeat.

And Brynn hadn’t held back. She’d showed the harsh reality of Tommy’s life—no matter how much it tortured him to see.

Parker scrubbed his face, grief welling up inside him, the pain too sharp too endure. But Brynn reached out and touched his hand. And the warmth of her skin was like a lifeline, enabling him to hang on.

“Are you all right?” she asked in a soft voice.

It took him a moment to answer. “Not really.”

“That’s the last shot I have of him.”

Which seemed to make it worse.

Releasing Parker’s hand, she hurried through the rest of the photos—shots of unknown kids this time. Grateful for the reprieve, Parker struggled to compose himself and ease the brutal tightness that had a stranglehold on his throat.

Then a warehouse appeared on the screen. “This is it,” she said, her voice low.

Parker tensed, his gaze glued to the screen. Brynn continued clicking through the shots, and despite the inconsistent exposure, he could see the effect she’d been trying to create. She used the shadows to highlight subtle details, making even cracked paint seem alive. And while the photos were rough, her technique not yet refined, her talent was evident in every shot.

Then a dark, blurry image came on the screen. Parker frowned, trying to make sense of the picture, but he could barely make out any forms. “What’s that?”

“You’ll see.” Her brows knitted, Brynn began manipulating the picture, increasing the contrast, sharpening the focus, using the toning tool to lighten the shot, until the image of a kneeling man took shape on the screen.

“Allen Chambers,” Parker murmured. The heroin addict the City of the Dead gang had executed that day.

Then he blinked, his brain catching up with his eyes.
Hell.
Chambers wasn’t only kneeling; he was falling backward. She’d snapped the shutter at the exact moment he’d been shot.

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?”