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
