to take them. It was a reflex. That’s why they ended up blurred and underexposed. But I wanted to help the police catch the killer, so I made prints.”
“You took photos,” Parker repeated, sounding incredulous. “And you mailed them to the police?”
“Right. I’d been doing odd jobs at a photography store on Charles Street for a while part-time. I’d figured out the code for their alarm system, so I snuck inside that night and developed the film. I wrote Tommy’s name on the back of the pictures and sent them to the police. I figured someone would know what to do with them and get them to the right place.”
Parker still looked thunderstruck. “They weren’t in Tommy’s file.”
“Maybe they were in the other guy’s file—Allen Chambers, the one they executed.”
He shook his head. “I followed that case. His body was found near Tommy’s, so they assumed the deaths were linked. I would have known if they had evidence like that.”
“But...that doesn’t make sense. I thought for sure they’d get there.” It was the only thing that had assuaged her guilt, believing she’d provided the police with evidence—imperfect though it was.
“So if you never saw them, where did they go?” she asked.
“Good question.”
“They were out of focus and dark. You could sort of see that one guy, but that was it. Maybe the police figured they were worthless and threw them out.”
“Not a chance. They would have run them for prints, probably sent them to forensics to see if they could clean them up. They’d never toss evidence like that out.”
“So what are you saying? That someone kept them out of the file on purpose?”
Parker’s mouth turned grim. “It’s a possibility.”
“But that means...” If a cop had destroyed those photos... Her heart beat faster. A chill snaked through her blood, sending prickles slithering over her spine. All this time, she’d believed she had two dangerous enemies, two men who wanted her dead—her stepfather and Tommy’s killer. But what if she didn’t? What if the two men were the same?
Parker’s gaze connected with hers, the stunned realization in his eyes mirroring hers. There was only one reason the police would have destroyed that evidence. A cop must have been involved in his brother’s killing.
And her stepfather had worked in Homicide at the time....
Chapter 9
Parker stared out his condo window at the gathering night.
A cop might have killed his brother. Someone he’d worked with. Someone he respected and trusted. Someone he might even work with now. A coldhearted murderer could be masquerading on the police force, a man who’d violated his vow to protect and defend the innocent, sullying the integrity and responsibility of the badge. A man who defied everything Parker believed in—honor, justice, truth.
And he might have worked in the homicide unit at the time of Tommy’s death, destroying evidence, compromising his brother’s investigation, committing any number of other crimes.
Still not willing to believe it, Parker braced his forearm on the glass and struggled to marshal his thoughts. He knew better than to rush to conclusions; he had to stay objective and let the evidence build his case. There might be a logical explanation why those photos had disappeared, one that didn’t implicate a cop.
But what the hell it was, he didn’t know.
He turned his head toward Brynn. “You’re sure you sent those photos to the police?”
Her eyes troubled, she gave him a nod. “I looked up the address in a phone book—the Baltimore Police Department on East Fayette Street. Then I went to the post office and bought a bunch of stamps from the machine. I’m sure it was enough.”
So those photos must have reached the department. And someone had either mislaid or destroyed them. The queasy feeling inside him grew. “Did you keep a copy?”
“No, but I hid the negatives. I wanted Haley and Nadine to be able to find them if something happened to me.”
His pulse began to race. “So they still exist?”
“Hopefully.”
“Where did you hide them?”
She hesitated a beat. Her distrust stung, but he understood her reluctance to speak. Someone could be trying to kill her to keep that evidence from coming to light. And it appeared to be a cop.
“In the Central Library,” she finally said. “The Enoch Pratt Library on Cathedral Street. I used to go there a lot to study their photography books.”
He glanced at his watch. “They’ll be closed by now. We’ll have to look for them tomorrow.”
“They might not be there,” she cautioned. “It has been fifteen years.”
But if those negatives still