Her Second Death: A Short Story (Bree Taggert) by Melinda Leigh

Author:Melinda Leigh [Leigh, Melinda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amazon Original Stories
Published: 2021-12-06T16:00:00+00:00

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.

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.

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