“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.
The woman sighed and didn’t even look at the badge. “What’s he done?”
“We just need to speak to him.” Romano put her badge away. “It’s important.”
“The little jerk is in the warehouse.” The receptionist gestured vaguely toward the wall facing the warehouse. “He drives a forklift.”
“Thank you.” Romano spun on her heel.
“Good luck.” The woman returned her fingers to her keyboard.
Bree and Romano left the office.
Outside, Bree asked, “Do you think she’s calling him?”
“She didn’t seem to be a fan.” Romano quickened her pace and they hurried to the open warehouse doors.
They stepped onto the cold concrete. Workers were loading lumber onto a flatbed truck. They followed the beeping of heavy equipment down an aisle until they spotted a forklift at the other end.
Bree recognized Dillon. “That’s him.”
Unfortunately, Dillon pegged them as cops from twenty yards away. He leaped down from his forklift and sprinted for the back door.
Bree dashed after him. “Stop! Police!”
He glanced over his shoulder, but he didn’t slow down—not that Bree expected him to. She cranked up the speed.
Clearly, Dillon didn’t get up every morning and run five miles like Bree did. She gained on him quickly. He shot her another panicked look, then wrapped a hand around the back doorframe and used the motion to make a hard right on his way through it.
Two seconds later, Bree burst through the opening into a weedy, wet field. She shouted “Police!” one more time, then saved her breath for running.
The ground squished under her boots as she raced across the dormant grass to a gravel lane. He jumped a fence and raced down an alley. Bree vaulted the fence and kept after him.
In three more strides, she’d almost caught up to Dillon. Just ahead, he obviously heard her because he suddenly stopped, spun, and pulled a knife from his back pocket. His face was flushed and moist. Waving the knife at her, he panted. “Get away.”
“Drop it!” She slid to a stop and drew her service weapon. “I’m a cop.” Cold air pumped in and out of her lungs like bellows. In her peripheral vision, she saw industrial buildings, no windows.
No help.
She wasn’t as out of breath as he was, but the hard sprint had left her winded. “I’m going to get my badge out.”
“I don’t give a fuck about your badge,” he yelled, fighting to catch his breath. “I can tell you’re a cop.”
Bree’s pulse hammered in her ears. She kept her gun aimed at Dillon. “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?”
He wheezed and gulped. “I know why you’re here!”
She waited.
“I didn’t do it!” Color flooded his face. He talked with his hands, the knife waving as he gestured.
Bree didn’t want to shoot him. “Do what?”
“Kill James.” His voice cracked.
“OK.” Bree kept her voice calm. “Drop the knife, and you can tell me everything.”
“No!” He held the knife up and slashed the air between them.
Bree wished she carried a Taser. She didn’t want to shoot him.
An engine roared, and the Crown Vic came hurtling down the alley. It screeched to a stop inches from Dillon. He spun, but Romano opened the car door, smacking Dillon with it and knocking him off his feet.
Dillon’s knife went flying, and he face-planted on the asphalt.
Romano stepped out and drew her weapon. “Get on your knees. Hands on top of your head.”
Dillon obeyed.
Bree moved forward and cuffed his hands behind his back. She hauled him to his feet, turned him around, and pressed his back against their vehicle.
“What are you arresting me for?” he whined.
Romano gave him an exasperated look. “Your apartment is full of weed. You’re on parole. You’re carrying a concealed weapon, and you just brandished it at a police officer. That’s at least three felonies.”
He shook his head hard. His eyes were bright with fury. “You can’t send me back to jail. It was just some weed. Fucking cops. You’re out to get everyone.”
“I can’t make any promises,” Bree said. “But personally, I don’t care about your weed. I’m trying to find James’s kid. Where is she?”
“What kid?” Dillon tilted his head.
Bree watched his eyes. “The little girl who was with James.”
“There was no kid.” He didn’t blink or look away. His gaze was full of genuine confusion.
“No kid in the back seat?” Romano asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” Dillon gave them an exaggerated shrug. “I would have noticed a kid. Please, you can’t send me back to jail.”
“Tell us what you saw.” Bree leveled him with a gaze. “No bullshit. You tell us everything.”
“James wanted to buy some weed. Just a little. He was trying hard to stay off the Oxy. He thought a little weed might smooth him out. His old lady gave him shit constantly. She’s a crazy bitch.” His head shook slowly. “You don’t know.”
“Where were you supposed to meet him?” Bree hurried him along.
He gave the street where they’d found the Ford and James’s body. “Near the warehouse.”
Romano rolled a wrap it up hand in the air.
“We were supposed to meet at one. I saw his car. The window was down.” His mouth flattened. “But when I went up to the window, James was dead.”
“You’re sure he was dead?” Bree asked.
Dillon paled. “His brain was splattered inside of the car.”
“And you’re sure there was no kid inside?” Romano pressed.
“I’m sure.” He nodded.
Romano put him in the back of the car. Bree grabbed an evidence bag and picked up the knife.
“Hey, I thought you were going to let me go if I told you everything.” He sounded indignant.