Her Second Death (Bree Taggert #0.5) (3)

“Looks like someone approaching from the south.” The guard shook his head. “He’s staying in the shadow of the truck.” He froze the video and zoomed in on the figure.

The second suspect appeared to be male due to his general size and build. He turned, and Bree could see his profile. “Stop! Can you print that as well?”

“Sure.” The guard clicked the mouse again, then returned to fast-forwarding the video. No one else appeared. He made a copy of the entire video and downloaded it onto a thumb drive.

She stuck the thumb drive in her pocket. “Thanks.”

“Good luck.”

She left the building. Outside, she walked up and down the sidewalk but spotted no additional surveillance cameras, then headed back to the Ford. The ME was leaning into the vehicle. His assistant manned a camera.

Romano turned as Bree crossed the street. “Witness didn’t see anything. He works on the loading dock. Saw the body when he was walking from the bus stop to the warehouse.” She paused. “No luck with the canvass. Everyone on the block was sleeping soundly all night long.” Sarcasm rang in her voice.

Bree called bullshit, but what could you do? She summarized what she’d seen on the surveillance video and showed Romano the printed photo of suspect number two.

“Let’s get a copy distributed to the uniforms. We can check with the Gun Violence Task Force too. If he’s a local gang member, someone will recognize him.”

The Gun Violence Task Force was a joint effort with the attorney general, the Philly PD, state police, and the ATF.

“Suspect number one looks smaller, but we only have a back-of-the-head picture,” Bree said. “The video does give us a window for potential time of death.” She pointed to the time stamps on the two pictures. “Tyson arrives a little after one a.m. Both suspects are seen on the video between 1:11 and 1:30 a.m.”

“It’s a start.”

Bree stabbed at the photos. “Either one of these suspects could have arrived in the Ford with Tyson . . .”

“Or were waiting for Tyson here.” Romano finished Bree’s thought.

“We can’t say for certain that no one else was there,” Bree added. “Too much of the camera view is blocked.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Bree agreed. “Fuck.”

The ME had a body like Santa. He pulled out of the Ford’s interior. “No rigor yet. Livor mortis isn’t fixed yet either. Cold would slow decomp, but he’s relatively fresh. Died very early this morning.” He closed his eyes and his jowly face screwed up as he did the mental math. “Six to eight hours ago, roughly between midnight and two a.m.”

Which matched the times on the surveillance video.

“Detective Romano?” Reilly called. “CSU is here.”

As soon as the ME removed the body, the crime scene unit would take over.

“Do we have a next of kin for the victim?” Romano asked.

Reilly nodded. “He’s married to Kelly Tyson.”

“Let’s go notify Mrs. Tyson.” Romano turned back toward their vehicle. Once behind the wheel, she rubbed her palms together, then pulled a pair of leather gloves from her pocket and tugged them on.

In the passenger seat, Bree blew on her freezing hands.

Romano peeled away from the curb.

“Wasn’t a robbery.” Bree rolled the facts around in her head. “They left cash in Tyson’s wallet. Also, they didn’t take the car. Drug deal gone sour?”

“We have no idea what happened, other than a guy got shot.”

“You don’t like any of those theories?” Bree asked.

Romano shot her a direct look. “I like evidence, not theories.”

Bree could have run the mile to the victim’s residence faster than they drove in morning rush-hour traffic. Romano pulled to the curb in front of a block of rowhomes that directly fronted the sidewalk. They stepped out of the vehicle.

Bree studied the crumbling brick facade. Thick utility wires hung overhead. She scanned the doors for numbers. “Looks like she rents the basement apartment.”

Cracked concrete steps led to the lower unit. A freshly painted robin’s-egg-blue front door made the rest of the block look older and more worn. They went down, and Bree knocked on the door. She heard footsteps on the other side. A curtain shifted in the window next to the door. A few seconds later, the door opened, and a young woman eyed them with suspicion.

According to Kelly Tyson’s motor vehicle records, she was twenty-three years old, but she could have passed for early thirties. She was tall and bony, with sallow skin that said she didn’t get outside much. Her shoulder-length blonde hair sported three inches of dark roots. Worry lines etched the corners of her mouth and eyes.

“We’re Detectives Taggert and Romano.” Bree opened her badge wallet and turned it toward the young woman. “Are you Kelly Tyson?” she asked, even though the woman matched her driver’s license photo.

Nodding, Mrs. Tyson crossed her arms and chewed on her thumbnail. Her fingernails were bitten far below the quick, and her cuticles looked like they’d been through a meat grinder. In a heavy sweatshirt and yoga pants, she shivered in the doorway.

“Are you married to James Tyson?” Romano asked.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t live here anymore.” Mrs. Tyson stepped back and grabbed the door, preparing to close it.