Page 86 of Another Girl Lost

“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.”

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