Her Second Death (Bree Taggert #0.5) (7)

“You have to stay behind the barriers, Mr. Tyson,” Romano said.

He didn’t promise, just turned left on the sidewalk and got into a battered pickup truck.

Standing in the wind, Bree blinked as a second flashback hit. Bree, her little sister, and her baby brother hiding under a porch on a winter night long ago. Fear crawled up her throat just as it had that night. A gunshot blasted. Bree flinched.

“Hey, you OK?” Romano paused and stared at Bree over the roof of the vehicle.

“Sure. Just thinking.” Embarrassed, Bree slid into the passenger seat.

She and her siblings had survived their abusive father and traumatic childhood, but they’d been left with scars, both physical and emotional. Had Lena seen her father killed? How would she cope?

“About what?”

“You know my background.” Bree was convinced almost everyone on the Philly PD knew that at the age of eight, she’d hidden her siblings under their porch while their father shot their mother and then himself.

“I do,” Romano said. “Will it affect your job performance?”

“No.”

“Then it doesn’t matter.” Romano glanced sideways at her. “Can’t pick your family.”

Except Bree understood childhood trauma. She could put herself in a frightened child’s place all too well. Normally, she tried not to think about it, but today she might have to.

“Let’s take a fresh look at the surveillance footage.” Bree pulled out her phone. “I don’t see a kid leaving with the suspect. I don’t see a kid at all.”

Romano leaned across the front seat and squinted at the screen. “You can’t see into the back seat of the vehicle, and there are plenty of shadows.” She started the engine and drove back to the scene, parking behind a K-9 unit.

The handler was working his big German shepherd around the vehicle. They got out of the car and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Romano approached Officer Reilly. “Any luck with the dog?”

Watching the dog, Bree hung back. Sweat dripped down her back. Though the bite scar on her shoulder was more than twenty-five years old, it itched. She knew the symptom was psychological, but she couldn’t stop it. She knew what it was like to have a big dog’s teeth sink into your flesh. But she was at no risk from this dog. He was a well-trained K-9. If Lena was nearby, the dog would find her.

Unless Lena was afraid of dogs . . .

Reilly shook his head. “The dog isn’t picking up a trail. He keeps going back to the vehicle.”

Romano walked back to Bree. “Did you hear?”

Bree nodded. “So, Lena probably didn’t walk away from the Ford. Either she wasn’t in the car last night, or she left by vehicle.”

She could be anywhere.

Romano moved away to answer a call. Bree checked the time. Almost ten o’clock. The child had been missing for at least nine hours.

Romano hurried back and waved toward their vehicle. “We’ve got a lead. A thumbprint from the Ford. Belongs to Dillon Brown, a suspected drug dealer. He’s currently out on parole after serving six months on a narcotics possession charge.”

Bree compared the surveillance photo with Dillon Brown’s driver’s license picture. “Looks like him. Maybe he was James’s supplier.”

Bree rushed to the passenger seat.

Romano slid behind the wheel. “BOLO already went out looking for Brown.”

Maybe Dillon was also the killer.





CHAPTER THREE


In the passenger seat of their unmarked car, Bree reviewed Dillon Brown’s criminal record and studied his photo. He was short, with unkempt brown hair and a bushy beard. “He drives a 2002 F-150. No evidence of gang affiliation, though it’s always possible.”

“Reilly said Brown is small-time scum.” Romano started the engine.

Based on the exigent circumstances, they’d already performed a warrantless search of Dillon’s apartment. They’d found plenty of weed—which they ignored—but no gun and no child.

“Does he have a job?” Romano asked.

Bree checked her notes from her phone conversation with his parole officer. “Dillon works at Brown’s Building Supply, which is owned by his father.” She read off an address on Front Street.

Romano cruised past St. Christopher’s Hospital for Children and the Ronald McDonald House. A few blocks farther north, two big chain-link gates marked the entrance to Brown’s Building Supply. She drove through and headed for the office, a small cinder block building painted white. The parking lot was surprisingly full of vehicles.

“There.” Bree pointed to a white pickup. “That looks like his ride.”

Romano drove past it, slowly.

Bree confirmed the license plate. “That’s Dillon’s.”

“Then he’s here.” Romano parked.

A blue warehouse the size of a big-box store loomed behind the office. The double doors were open, and Bree could see rows of lumber and other materials. They got out and went into the small building.

The office smelled like sawdust and mold. Decor leaned to the 1970s.

“Can I help you?” A dark-haired woman in her midfifties sat at an old metal desk.

“We’re looking for Dillon Brown.” Romano showed her badge.