Fatal Exposure (5 page)

“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 what 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.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

Still watching for sudden moves, Parker kicked aside her purse. Her mild-mannered appearance didn’t fool him. He’d seen far meeker junkies than this kid suddenly snap. “Keep your hands in your lap,” he warned.

Brynn pushed past him into the room. Ignoring the potential danger, she went to the girl’s side, clutching a grease-soaked fast-food bag. His nerves still edgy, Parker reluctantly lowered his gun.

But as hesitant as he was to pursue this case, he couldn’t help but admire Brynn. She’d charged down the street, ignoring the thugs hanging out in the shadows as she scoured the boarded-up row houses for the teenage girl. And she had the uncanny ability to blend in. In the newspaper she’d looked like a wealthy shopper strolling through the upscale shops. Now she looked younger, scruffier, almost like a street kid herself in her sneakers and faded jeans.

“Hey, Jamie. Remember me?” Brynn asked.

The teenager blinked at Brynn. “Yeah. You’re that photographer.”

“That’s right.” Brynn handed her the bag of food.

Her eyes bloodshot, the teenager propped herself against the wall. She tore open the bag, then pulled out a fistful of French fries and crammed them into her mouth.

Parker turned his head to hide his distaste. Not that her hunger shocked him. During the months he’d searched for Tommy, he’d spent time questioning the prostitutes who worked the streets. He understood the desperation and addictions that drove them, the terror that chained them to their vicious pimps—even when it cost them their lives.

But that didn’t make their suffering any easier to take, especially in a girl this young.

And he wondered how Brynn could stand it, documenting this horror every day. But that was the point, he realized, his respect for her rising even more. She knew that most people went about their lives ignoring anything that disturbed their peace. They didn’t want to see the misery lurking in the shadows, the ugly reality these runaways faced. But her photos ripped them out of that complacency, refusing to let them turn their backs on these abandoned kids.

“I need to ask you something,” Brynn said to Jamie. “It’s about that necklace you had. The one with the hearts.”

Not bothering to look up, the girl continued to scarf down the fries.

“Do you still have it?” Brynn asked.

Jamie touched her neck, then shrugged. “Nope.” She tore the wrapper from the hamburger and took a bite.

“Do you remember where you got it?”

Her gaze flew to Brynn’s. “I didn’t steal it.”

“I know that,” Brynn said, her tone soothing. “It’s just...I wanted to get one like it, but it looked handmade. I thought maybe you’d remember where you got it.”

The teenager continued eating, but the wariness didn’t leave her eyes. “A friend gave it to me.”

“What friend?”

Jamie took another bite. “A girl I know.”

“Any chance she went to a place called High Rock Camp?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you find out?”

“Maybe,” she said around another mouthful of food.

Parker hesitated. He hated giving money to junkies, knowing they’d only spend it on drugs. But he needed to ensure her help. And maybe it would keep her from turning a trick. He pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his wallet and held it out. “We’d really like to find out where you got it.”

Jamie shot him a startled glance, as if she’d forgotten he was there. Then she quickly sized him up, her gaze far too worldly for her tender years. Parker curled his lip, revolted at the thought of the depravity this girl endured.

She reached up and snatched the bill. It disappeared into her blouse. “All right.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow afternoon,” Brynn said. “Does that give you enough time to find her and ask?”

Polishing off her burger, Jamie let out a muffled grunt. Then she turned her attention to her milkshake, sucking furiously on the straw.

Catching his eye, Brynn motioned for him to wait. She opened a side pocket on her backpack and pulled out a business card. “Listen, Jamie. A friend of mine runs this shelter for girls in D.C. Always Home. We’d like to take you there.”

“I don’t need help.”

“It’s a safe place. She has beds, food...” When the girl didn’t answer, she sighed. “Keep the card anyway, in case you change your mind. She’ll even send someone to pick you up. And if you don’t need it, you might know someone who does.”

Jamie took the card with a shrug. She slipped it into her pocket, then continued drinking her shake.

Turning, Brynn signaled for them to leave. Realizing the girl would only come back if he tried to evict her, Parker decided to forget it and led the way down the stairs. “Any chance she was telling the truth?” he asked when they’d reached the alley again.

Brynn swung her knapsack onto her shoulder and made a face. “I don’t know. Maybe. You never know with an addict.”

He slanted her a glance as they started walking toward the corner, their feet crunching over broken glass. The sun dipping behind the buildings added shimmers to her fiery hair, enveloping her in a glow. “You seem to know a lot about drug addicts.”

“I wasn’t a user, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve just dealt with them on the streets.”

Which once again brought up the question—why had she fled her home? Before their partnership ended, he was going to learn what made this woman tick.

“Is that how you met my brother?” he asked instead. “On the streets?”

She nodded. “A guy was hassling us. Tommy intervened.”

“Us?”

She squinted into the waning sunshine. A car rumbled past on the nearby street, the deep drum of its subwoofers vibrating his chest.

“Two girls I knew,” she finally said. “We hung out together near the Inner Harbor. Tommy became our protector. He watched out for us when he could.”

“You’re saying he helped you?”

She came to a stop. Tilting back her head, she met his eyes. “Why are you so surprised? He was a good guy, Parker. He had problems, and he made plenty of mistakes, but he was still a good man at heart. You should be proud.”

Proud?
Parker shook his head, trying to reconcile this version of his brother with the defiant teenager who’d run away from home. “I don’t know. He’d changed so much toward the end. I hardly knew him anymore.”

“That was the drugs. Addicts become obsessed. If you threaten their addiction, they lash out. But he admired you, Parker. He mentioned you sometimes.”

His heart wobbled hard. He struggled to draw a breath, his chest suddenly too tight. The year after his father died had been pure hell—coping with his father’s treachery, dealing with Tommy’s addiction. All they’d done was fight. He’d figured that Tommy despised him, that he’d lumped him in with his father, considering the accusations he’d hurled his way.

“Helping a runaway isn’t easy.” Her voice was gentler now. “You can only do so much. After that, it’s up to them.”

Still grappling with his emotions, he met her eyes. And despite his vow to keep his distance, her understanding reeled him in. Tempting. Soothing. Making him ache to pull her closer and bask in her healing warmth.

Making him realize exactly how many years he’d felt alone.

His cell phone chimed. Returning to reality, he struggled to clear his head. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he stay objective around Brynn? He was falling under her spell, breaking the most basic rule of law enforcement and letting her get to him.

And he
never
got involved with a suspect. He never even dated a woman connected to the force. He kept his private life completely separate, what little there’d been of it these past few years.

His phone rang again. Grateful for the distraction, he pulled it from his jacket pocket and checked the screen. Delgado had sent him a text message. His pulse quickened as he pulled it up.

Donut break’s over. Get back here ASAP. The Colonel’s pissed.

He muttered a curse. Lieutenant Lewis must have contacted Colonel Hoffman and revealed that he’d requested a copy of the Walker girl’s file.

“Is something wrong?” Brynn asked.

Wrong? He’d just been caught in a lie. His job could be on the line. “I need to get back to the office.”

“I’ve got things I need to do, too,” she said quickly. “Why don’t we meet again tomorrow afternoon?”