Page 50 of Another Girl Lost

“She hooks up with Jeremy Dillon once in a while.”

“The drug dealer?” Jeremy was well known in the department. He moved a lot of drugs but so far had avoided jail time.

“Yeah.”

“That where she gets her drugs now?”

The woman shifted. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t care about the drugs. I’m trying to find Tiffany. She’s a witness in a key case.”

She shoved out a breath. “Like I told Scarlett. Check out Jeremy.”

“I’d like to see Tiffany’s room.”

The woman hesitated. “My roommate, Stephanie, is still asleep.”

“I promise to be quiet.” He edged over the threshold. Whatever he noticed lying around the apartment was admissible in court. He couldn’t open doors or closets without her permission or a warrant, but he was amazed what people left lying about.

“Do you have a warrant?” Bonnie asked.

“I can get one, Bonnie.” Likely not true, but she didn’t know that. “If you let me look at Tiffany’s room now, I’ll turn a blind eye to anything not related to finding her.”

She shoved out a breath. “How can I trust you?”

Dawson wanted to tell her she couldn’t. He wasn’t here to make her life better. “I’m not here to bust anyone on drugs. Like I said, it’s the least of my concerns.”

“Or anything else?”

He regarded her. He didn’t have the patience to return to his car and run a check. “Are there weapons in the house?”

“No. But my boyfriend sometimes drops off stuff here.”

“What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

Her face tightened. “Why do you care?”

“Anyone who interacted with Tiffany matters to me.”

“Jeff’s been out of town for a couple of months. He’ll be back soon, and he’ll want to pick up his stuff.”

“Then Jeff doesn’t matter.” Dawson didn’t know what kind of fish he was letting go, but he wanted to see Tiffany’s room.

“Okay.” Bonnie turned, and he followed her into the dimly lit apartment. The living room was furnished with a few worn love seats, a coffee table covered with pizza boxes, ashtrays, and a bong. The place had a funky smell, and he wondered when they’d last cracked a window.

She opened the bedroom door to a small room furnished with a twin bed. The sheets were rumpled, and the bed was covered with cast-off clothes, as if she’d been trying on outfits and then discarding them.

He pulled on latex gloves and moved to a box crate that doubled as a nightstand. He saw a full ashtray, loose cigarettes, a blunt, and a warm half-full can of soda. “Any bad breakups?”

She leaned against the doorjamb, folding her arms over her chest. “They all were. She didn’t make the best choices.”

He turned toward a small dressing table covered with makeup, brushes, and curling irons. There was a square-shaped mirror with necklaces hanging off one corner and scarves off the other.

On a side table were stacks of bills, junk mail, and notices to pay. “She was behind on her bills.”

“Who isn’t?”

“What kind of car does she drive?”

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