Chapter Twenty-Five DAWSON

Chapter Twenty-Five

D AWSON

Tuesday, July 16, 2024

1:30 p.m.

Dawson had identified the convenience store where the burner phone used to call in Sandra Taylor’s body had been purchased. It was a small place, located in the east end of Norfolk, did a lot of neighborhood transactions, and the security cameras weren’t working. The buyer had bought five phones on a busy Friday night. Whoever picked this place had made a smart move. Only one of the five phones had been activated.

Dawson wondered when or if the other phones would be activated as he parked in front of Jeremy Dillon’s house and paused to stare at the crumbling brick, tilting front porch, and broken windows. Jeremy was Tiffany Patterson’s drug dealer, and he had operated out of this house for almost a year. Jeremy kept a low profile but was known to the cops in the area. As the pattern went, there’d be a police raid and Jeremy would make bail and set up shop somewhere else. The guy had nine lives, surviving five or six stints in prison, drive-by shootings, and countless up-and-coming drug dealers who wanted to take over his business.

This area had once been a decent working-class neighborhood, but the economy and rising crime had driven out those families. Areas like this reminded him how fast life could go sideways.

A dark sedan pulled in behind his, and in the rearview mirror he watched Margo get out of her vehicle. Dark slacks and a sleeveless blouse skimmed her fit figure. Boots and a detective’s badge clipped to her waistband finished the look.

Dawson got out of his car, adjusted his sunglasses, and did his best to look at ease even as tension rippled through him. His right hand rested close to his weapon. “Have any trouble finding this place?”

“No. I have a stunning sense of direction.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Why are we here?” Margo asked.

“The call that led you to take a sledgehammer to that wall came from here.”

“Interesting.”

“Jeremy Dillon isn’t the public servant type. But he or someone familiar with this place made the call from this location.”

“Who do you know who hangs out here?” she asked.

“Tiffany Patterson.”

“Ah, Tiffany. Linked to Tanner Reed, Scarlett Crosby, and by a few degrees of separation, Sandra Taylor.”

As they approached the porch, he spotted a young man sitting on a rusted glider. He wore threadbare jeans, a white shirt that rode up on his big belly, and no shoes. His eyes were closed and his mouth agape.

Dawson recognized him. Marco. He’d been in and out of the system since he was fourteen. Dawson had busted him a few times himself. He pressed his fingertips to the man’s cool skin. A heart thumped faintly.

“I hear someone calling for help,” Margo said.

“Me too.” Even if he hadn’t heard anything, no one could prove otherwise.

Fingers tightening around the grip of his weapon, Dawson waited for Margo to position herself to the right of the door before he opened it.

The inside was dimly lit, and the air was thick with smoke and the scent of unwashed bodies. There was an old, stained cloth plaid couch in the center of the room and a couple of metal chairs. Three people sat on the floor. All thin, heavily lidded eyes, bodies limp.

When Dawson had first joined the force, he’d thought he could make a difference in so many lives. And he’d done some good, but he’d since learned there were too many lost souls.

“Jeremy is always in the kitchen,” he said. “It’s his office.”

“Heart of the house, right?” Margo asked.

Dawson crossed the thin green carpet and rounded a corner. Jeremy was sitting at the kitchen table with one of his lieutenants leaning against an avocado-green stove.

Jeremy, a large man with a thinning goatee, grinned when he saw Dawson and then Margo. “Been a while, Detective. Heard you had a rough time of it this winter.”

“We all got shit, right?” He’d told Margo more about himself than he had most, but there were still plenty of secrets.

Jeremy whistled. “Some more than others. You still have the edge? I hear getting benched for a few months rattled you.”

“You can press and find out,” Dawson said.

Jeremy smirked, shaking his head. “Not today. Maybe some other time.” There were no drugs on the table. But Jeremy always kept the space in front of him clean. The drugs were either in the refrigerator or the oven. Place your order, pay, and the goods materialized.

“What can I do for you, Detective?” Jeremy asked.

“Remember Tiffany Patterson? Late twenties, bright-red hair.”

“I might. Why are you asking?”

“I’m trying to find her. She might have information on a case I’m working.” There was no code of conduct that dictated truth or full stories.

“What kind of case?” Jeremy asked.

“She’s an addict,” Dawson said. “The usual. When’s the last time she was here?”

“It’s been a few weeks, I think. I don’t keep up with my clients.”

“When she was here, did she linger?” Margo asked.

Jeremy splayed his fingers to admire several gold rings. “She knows some of the guys. She hangs around sometimes to chat folks up. She loves to talk.”

“Does she have clients that come and go from here?” Margo asked.

“I’m not her daddy.”

“Can you give me names of her regulars?” Dawson asked.

“She don’t work for me.”

“You know what happens in your house and block, Jeremy,” Dawson said carefully. “You always have. Was she acting differently?”

“She’s always strung tight, but yeah, she might’ve been more on edge lately. But I didn’t mess in her business. As long as she has cash, I don’t care.”

“You sleep with her?” Margo asked.

Jeremy shifted his gaze to her, allowing it to slide over her body.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Margo took a slight step forward.

“You a mind reader?” Jeremy asked.

“I know body language well,” she said easily. “Yours is screaming that you slept with her. And you might know more about her than you’re saying.”

He tugged at his pants and sat a little straighter. “What if I did? It was consensual.”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t,” she said. “She’s a pretty woman. Held it together, considering. But if she were connected to a murder, that might implicate you as well.”

“What’s she saying about me?” Jeremy demanded.

Shrugging, Dawson let the lie roll off his tongue. “She’s made some suggestions that you have a temper.”

He laughed. “Now that’s a lie. I love everybody. Enemies are bad for business.”

Dawson opened his phone and found a picture of Sandra Taylor. “You remember her?”

Jeremy sighed and looked at the picture. “No.”

Dawson swiped to Scarlett Crosby’s image. “What about her?”

Jeremy yawned and then looked at the picture. Recognition flickered. “Her, I do know. Came looking for Tiffany a couple of weeks ago.”

Dawson flipped through his notes on the 9-1-1 call. “July 2?”

“That’s exactly right,” Jeremy said.

“That’s a hell of a memory,” Margo said. “I can barely remember yesterday, let alone two weeks ago.”

“I remember the date because it was my birthday. I’m about to blow out the candles when I hear two bitches going at it in the backyard. Nothing worse than hearing a chick fight.”

“What were they fighting about?” Dawson asked.

“Scarlett wanted Tiffany to leave. Tiffany refused. Started screaming that Scarlett wanted to kidnap her. She thought she was going to finish the job the Basement Guy started a long time ago.”

“Tanner Reed?”

“That him?” Jeremy asked.

“That’s right,” Dawson said.

“Yeah, she thought Basement Guy had sent Scarlett to get her.”

“Tanner Reed is dead.”

“Tell that to Tiffany. When she’s really messed up, she sees that fucker.”

“Why’s she so rattled?” Margo asked. “She was never kidnapped.”

“She knew the guy before all the shit went down. Used to come in the diner, and he liked to flirt with her. She said once or twice she thought he was hot and would’ve gone out with him if his girlfriend weren’t hovering so close.”

“Girlfriend?” Dawson flipped pages. “Lynn Yeats.”

“I don’t know. Ask Tiffany.”

“I will if I can find her,” Dawson said.

Jeremy reached in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit up. “Good luck getting a straight answer out of her.”

“If anyone else talks about Tiffany, you’ll let me know, right?” Dawson asked.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. I like to maintain a good relationship with the police.”

A rail-thin guy with shoulder-length hair came into the kitchen, and Dawson shifted to the right, his hand tightening on the grip of his weapon. Steps behind the man was a pale redheaded woman. When she looked up, Dawson almost laughed. He’d take lucky over smart any day of the week. “Tiffany Patterson.”

“Speak of the devil,” Margo said.

Tiffany tensed and stepped back. “Leave me alone.”

As she ran toward the front door, he dashed after her and grabbed her arm. “Hold up, Tiffany!”

She whirled around, her eyes wide. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m a cop.” He tightened his fingers.

She twisted her arm, trying to free herself from his grip. “You’re hurting me.”

He relaxed his fingers but didn’t release her as he guided her outside to the front lawn. “Do you visit Jeremy a lot, Tiffany?”

“No.”

Dawson cleared his throat. “I’ll arrest you and pull your record. Save me the time and the paperwork.”

She scratched the side of her head. “I haven’t been here for a while. I was settling a bill with Jeremy.”

Dawson shook his head. “I want to ask you a few questions about Scarlett Crosby.”

“Ask her,” she said, nodding to Margo. “She met her today.”

Dawson looked at Margo, who showed no signs of stress. “That true?”

“I did meet Scarlett. She lives across the street from my new apartment. She scolded me for giving Tiffany money. Said she’d use it on drugs. Small world.”

“What was Tiffany doing at Scarlett’s?” Dawson asked.

“Trolling for dollars, I imagine,” Margo said.

Tiffany jerked. “Leave me alone!”

Annoyance snapped through Dawson. “Answer a few questions and I will.”

Margo smiled. “We’ll be gone in no time if you just cooperate.”

“Fine. What?”

“What do you know about Sandra Taylor?” Dawson asked.

Tiffany’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

He deliberately softened his tone. “You went to high school with her. She was a year behind you. She also worked at Mike’s.”

She shook her head. “High school was a million years ago.”

He pulled up a picture of Sandra on his phone. “This is from the yearbook.”

Tiffany studied the picture. “Yeah. She wanted to be a cheerleader.”

“Doesn’t say that in the yearbook.” How many other dreams had Sandy had that died with her?

“She told me that when we were in between shifts. She had big dreams, or some shit like that. And I don’t know what happened to her,” Tiffany said. “Why do you care?”

“I think she was Tanner Reed’s first victim,” Dawson said. “I think he killed her.”

Tiffany’s face paled as she shook her head. “I don’t know about that.”

“If you hung out with her during your breaks at Mike’s, you must have liked her,” Margo said.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Did she think Tanner was cute?” Margo asked.

“We all did.”

“Didn’t he have a girlfriend?” Margo asked.

“Yeah. Sour-faced bitch.” Tiffany’s eyes blinked very slowly, and Dawson knew whatever she’d taken was kicking in. He reached for his cuffs.

“What are you doing?” Tiffany asked.

He clasped a cuff on one wrist. “You’re intoxicated. And we are in public.” He read her the Miranda rights.

“I’m not high!”

“I disagree.”

“You’re a cop, not a social worker.” Tiffany tried to pull free.

He held her arm, amazed that she had a strong pull. “In this moment, I feel more like a social worker. When you sober up, we’ll talk again.”

“Is this a shakedown? What do I have to do to get out of this?”

“Nothing.”

“You want to know more about Scarlett?” she challenged. “She’s been my new best friend for the last couple of years.”

“How did something like that happen?” Margo asked.

“She feels bad. And I let her. She used to give me money—now she just gives me food.”

He walked Tiffany toward his car and opened the back seat door. “You been playing her?”

“Sure. We all need an angle.”

“When she showed up here two weeks ago, what did she want?”

“Got on my ass about getting high.”

“She make any calls?” Margo asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What does maybe mean?” Dawson asked.

“I don’t know. She could’ve made a call. There was a lot going on.”

Calling from a location like this was smart. With no cameras, a good defense attorney could argue any number of people could’ve placed the call. “Okay.”

Tiffany leaned toward Dawson, bloodshot eyes wide with drugs and fear. “Scarlett’s got a portrait in her warehouse. It’s weird.”

“What’s it a portrait of?”

“Some girl. Bizarre. Dark curly hair. Pale skin.”

Sounded like Scarlett’s description of Della. “Did Scarlett say who it was?”

“No.”

“Why were you at her place?” Margo asked.

“I needed money. Thanks for that, by the way.”

He put his hand on Tiffany’s head and guided her into the back seat. He’d be doing paperwork for an hour. “We’ll talk tomorrow. I’ll wait until you sober up.”

When he tried to close the door, she balked. “I don’t want to be put in a box.”

“You’ll be in a holding cell.”

“I don’t want to be locked up.”

Dawson closed the door and looked at Margo. “Sounds like you were busy today.”

“I was measuring for curtains at my new place,” Margo quipped.

“Which happens to be right across from Scarlett Crosby.”

“Didn’t realize Scarlett Crosby lived in a no-go zone.”

“She doesn’t. But it’s usually not that small of a world.”

“I’m having drinks with her tonight,” she said. “Have any questions you want me to ask?”

Could any of Margo’s conversations with Scarlett be used in court one day? A good lawyer would get them thrown out, citing entrapment. But he didn’t care. He wanted answers. “You move fast.”

A brow arched. “You just noticed?”

“Keep me posted on the conversation.”

“Of course.”

Trust with a partner took time, and he and Margo didn’t have much history. She’d slid into his personal life and his work world so easily. And if life had taught him anything, it was to be suspicious of easy.