by Gail Barrett
Oh, God. She’d totally mucked this up. Feeling miserable and confused, she tried again. “Parker, I—”
“Help yourself to a shower. I’ll put the coffee on. After breakfast we can head to the library and find that film.” Not bothering to glance her way, he pulled on his faded jeans, grabbed a T-shirt from the drawer and left the room. Several seconds later, a cupboard in the kitchen slammed.
Her belly churning, feeling as if she’d just made a huge mistake, Brynn stared at the empty hall. She wanted to call him back. She wanted to forget the world, forget the killers dogging her steps and hold on to this precious thing growing between them before she lost it for good.
But she couldn’t chance it. The fear was too ingrained, the price of betrayal too high.
Buffeted by regrets, she climbed from the bed and gathered her scattered clothes. She’d healed physically from her stepfather’s attacks long ago. And while it had taken years in counseling, years working to put the victimization behind her, she’d also recovered enough to finally find pleasure in sex. Casual sex. As long as she stayed detached, as long as she stayed in control and distanced herself emotionally from the encounters, she could enjoy her body’s demands.
But trusting someone was different. It made her far too vulnerable. And having a relationship with a cop...
She dragged herself into the bathroom, then sagged back against the door. It was impossible. She’d had to end the affair. She couldn’t let her desires blind her to danger with so many lives at stake.
Feeling thoroughly weary, she set the showerhead to its strongest setting and turned it on. Then she stepped beneath the spray, counting on the pummeling water to banish her doubts. She’d done the right thing. She hadn’t made a mistake. She’d had to cool things with Parker before he got too close and she did something she’d regret.
So why did she want to cry?
* * *
The problem with reality, Parker decided as he set two coffee mugs on the kitchen counter, was that every time he tried to ignore it, it came back to bite him in his sorry ass.
He never should have let last night happen. Making love to Brynn had been foolhardy at best, morally wrong at worst, given that he’d concealed the truth from her. She still didn’t know that her stepfather had ordered Parker to bring her in, a revelation that would destroy her trust.
Thank God she’d wanted to end it, even if her rejection had stung his pride. Bad enough that he’d let down his guard last night. He didn’t need to compound the problem by prolonging the affair.
Even if it had been the best sex of his life.
She strolled into the kitchen a second later, grabbed her camera from her backpack and started fiddling with the lens. Parker dumped silverware beside the mugs, vowing to keep his distance and let reason dictate his actions for once. But her fresh, soapy scent flooded the room, bombarding him with erotic memories—the tempting texture of her skin, the ripe fullness of her naked breasts, the soft moans she’d made as he’d filled her, her nipples pebbling and pouting for his touch.
His blood rushed south. A sweat broke out on his brow. And despite his vow to resist her, it took every ounce of effort he possessed not to haul her into his arms and plunge so deeply and thoroughly inside her that he’d brand her as forever his.
He tried to clear the gravel from his voice. “Coffee?”
“Thanks.” Still clutching the camera, she inched closer to his side. “Listen, Parker, about last night...”
“Forget it.” He didn’t want to do a detailed postmortem, not in his current state. Struggling to appear unaffected, he made himself meet her gaze. But the uncertainty in her eyes did him in. Right or wrong, stupid or wise, Brynn affected him in ways he’d never expected. This wasn’t just sex anymore; it wasn’t just a release of physical needs. She meant something to him now, something important.
Something he sure as hell didn’t want to name.
Needing to reassure her, he moved in close. Then he reached out and cupped her face, gazing into those gorgeous eyes. “You were right to cool things off. We need to concentrate on solving this case.”
“It’s just...I don’t want you to be angry.”
“I’m not.” He tucked her silky hair behind her ear, felt her quiver beneath his touch. “Let’s focus on finding those negatives, all right? We can sort out the other stuff later on.”
She searched his eyes. “All right.” Her mouth wobbled into a smile.
He curved his hand, giving her neck a gentle squeeze, then made himself step away. But he realized he was doomed. Brynn had gotten to him. He couldn’t bear to hurt her, couldn’t bring himself to tell her about her stepfather and put that disillusionment back into her eyes.
But deception always came at a cost. And someday soon he’d have to pay the price.
* * *
The central branch of the Enoch Pratt Free Library was in a massive, three-story building in downtown Baltimore, just blocks from the Inner Harbor. Still trying to corral his feelings, Parker left his pickup truck in an hourly garage a block away and followed Brynn down the stairwell to the street. Then he walked with her toward the library, trying not to notice how the cold breeze tousled her shiny hair, the way her snug jeans molded her thighs.
Or how right she felt by his side.
Stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets, he stopped at the crosswalk at Cathedral Street and waited for the light to change. “Why did you hide the negatives here?” he asked, determined to exert some mental discipline and keep his mind on task.
She didn’t answer at first. A trash truck barreled past. The flags atop the library snapped in the gusting wind. Several homeless men loitered near the book drop, smoking cigarettes while they waited for the library to unlock its doors.
“I used to hang out near here,” she said when the light changed and they started across the street. “One day I was walking past the library and noticed a display they had.” She nodded toward the tall, rectangular windows gracing the building’s facade. “They were showcasing the work of A. Aubrey Bodine, the famous photojournalist. Those pictures blew me away. The way he used texture and light...” A note of awe filled her voice. “I had to go inside. I came here all the time after that to study his work. I read all the photography books I could, trying to improve my craft. I didn’t have much money, so I couldn’t afford to waste film. I figured the more I learned, the fewer mistakes I’d make.”
Parker watched her speak, mesmerized by the passion in her voice, the way her eyes lit up as she discussed her work.
He’d never met anyone so intriguing in his life.
As if realizing she’d gone off on a tangent, she shot him a rueful smile. “Anyhow, I spent a lot of time here, back in the stacks.”
“Did you always want to be a photographer?”
She nodded. “It was a way to stay connected to my father at first. Taking photos helped keep him alive in my mind. And then...it consumed me. It became part of who I was, something I had to do. And when I started winning contests and showing my work...”
“How did that happen? It couldn’t have been easy on the run.”
“My friends showed my work to a gallery owner in San Francisco. That’s where we were living at the time. He suggested I get an agent, so I did.” She shrugged. “My agent helped me a lot after that.”
Mulling that over, Parker walked with her to the entrance just as people started filing inside. He hung back, letting her precede him through the turnstiles, then stopped in the central hall.
The place was impressive, he had to admit. A huge glass ceiling soared several stories above him. Spotless terrazzo floors gleamed in the brilliant light. Rectangular marble columns formed a loggia around the periphery, while in the center sat a large information desk flanked by potted trees.
“It’s changed,” Brynn said with a frown. She motioned toward a glassed-off section to one side. “That used to be the newspaper room. I just hope they haven’t remodeled upstairs.
“I did
n’t dare hide the negatives outside,” she continued, leading the way around the elevators to the stairs. “The weather would have ruined them. This was the only place I could think of where they might be safe.”
Parker slid her a glance as they started up the staircase, curious about how she’d gotten by. “Where did you get your film? You couldn’t have had much money.”
“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you mean.” Her voice turned defensive now. “There was a photography store on Charles Street, not far from here. I used to search their trash at night to see if they’d thrown away any supplies. One night the owner caught me. Mr. Fowler. He was a crotchety old guy and scared me half to death, but he was a marshmallow inside.” A smile ghosted across her face and warmed her eyes.
“He took pity on me when he realized how badly I wanted to learn. He let me sweep floors and do odd jobs in return for film and darkroom supplies. And he taught me what he knew.”
Parker gazed at her face, attuned to the quirk of her brow, the way she scrunched her nose when she thought, the mesmerizing fullness of her soft lips.
He was doomed, all right. Last night had demolished any impartiality he’d had. Even more alarming, he didn’t seem to care.
“That’s where I developed the pictures I took at the warehouse,” she added, heading up another flight of stairs. “I’d watched him open the store and knew the code for his alarm, so I snuck inside that night and developed the film. The next morning, as soon as the library opened, I hid the negatives here. Then I mailed the prints to the police and left town.”
They reached the top of the stairs. She paused, a shadow flickering through her eyes. “I’ve always felt bad about that, that I left without saying goodbye after all he’d done for me. But I couldn’t drag him into my mess.”
Parker’s heart rolled, impressed like hell that she’d tried to protect her friends while her life was on the line. “You ever talk to him again?”
She shook her head. “He’s retired now. His nephew took over the shop. But I stopped by a few years ago and left him a package with some of my original prints.” Another smile crinkled her eyes. “I’m sure he already knew who I was, though. He would have recognized my technique.”
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 l
ife.
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.
