The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1)

by Mary Burton

  “Where are you?” The deep southern drawl leaked over the line. He was tall, a mountain of a man who smiled little and was terrible at small talk. But he was one of the best investigators in the mid-Atlantic.

  “I’m in Ashland.”

  “I spoke to Barrett,” Sharp said. “Virginia State Police is now officially assisting the sheriff’s office with the investigation.”

  “Good.” To the media, the sheriff’s office would take center stage, but behind the scenes, state police would actually handle the bulk of the investigation.

  “I’ve spoken to Martin. He says you think Jax Carter is connected to the killing.”

  “His initials are tattooed on her body.”

  “He has an alibi for last night,” Sharp said.

  “Carter has a girlfriend, Darla Johnson. I’m not sure where she was last night, but you should talk to her.”

  A pause. “Okay. I’ll run her name and see what pops. I’m on my way to the hospital to talk to Carter. Care to join me?”

  “You bet I would.”

  “Thought you might like to see this case through. That big arrest in the woods earned you the right.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “The medical examiner has our Jane Doe on deck for tomorrow morning at ten. You can observe if you have time.”

  “I have time off. That works well.”

  “Good. I’m headed to the hospital. See you soon.”

  “Will do.” She rang off and checked her watch. There was still time to drop Cooper off at home.

  She swung by her house, a small one-level brick rancher, which she’d painted white last year. She did a good job of keeping the yard cut and edged. However, the flower garden Hanna had wanted to plant before the social services visit had died within weeks because both forgot to water it.

  She’d bought the house six years ago, scraping together the financing by working extra patrol shifts and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. The place barely took up fifteen hundred square feet, and it still needed work on the bathrooms and kitchen. Before Hanna, there’d been some money for extra projects. Now the best she could afford was a rewire of a secondhand lamp. The rest would have to wait until, well, until the kid was out of college.

  After a quick walk with the dog, she opened the front door and let Cooper pass. Inside, a bedroom on the right and one on the left flanked a large family room furnished with pieces she’d found at flea markets and hand-me-downs from Duke. Not high design but clean and functional.

  Cooper padded across the hardwood floor into the kitchen, and she opened his crate. He drank water from his bowl, then settled on his blankets with his chew toys.

  The kitchen was retro with a black-and-white-checkered floor, white appliances, and a Formica countertop. The cabinets were original to the house, though she’d updated them with a coat of white paint and new hinges and pulls. The kitchen was in need of a redo, but like everything else that was serviceable, it would have to wait.

  “I’ll be back soon, Cooper.”

  The dog closed his eyes.

  She texted Hanna, asking her to walk him when she arrived home, and headed south to Richmond and the state university hospital located in the city center. She parked and found her way to the lockdown floor where the prisoners were housed. Nurses checked her badge and credentials, and she was escorted through a set of locked doors to wait outside a room.

  She heard the blare of a television broadcasting a game show coming from inside. Heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, and she turned to see Agent Sharp approaching. Hair cropped short, he wore a simple black suit, white shirt, red tie, and his badge clipped to a belt that circled a fit waist. He carried a black vinyl notepad holder in his right hand, and with each long stride, his jacket billowed enough to offer glimpses of his sidearm.

  “Trooper. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Thanks for the invite.”

  Not bothering to knock on the hospital door, he entered the room. She followed.

  Carter lay in a large bed, his right hand cuffed to the metal railing. He wore a hospital gown, and in front of him was a lunch tray consisting of what looked like meatloaf, mashed potatoes, bread, and cake.

  He was about to shove a spoonful of potatoes in his mouth when he saw them. “If it isn’t Trooper Tatum. Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Agent Sharp with the Virginia State Police, Mr. Carter.”

  Sharp’s gaze wandered from the food to the television. “It looks like they’re treating you well.”

  Carter dropped the spoon back on his plate. “Not my idea of fun, but it beats hugging a tree all night.”

  So he was sticking with his story about his night on the mountain.

  “I hear you have a court date in a couple of days,” Sharp said.

  Carter grinned, a gold tooth winking in the fluorescent light. “So they tell me.” He leaned back, staring at Riley. “Did you miss me, Trooper Tatum?”

  Sharp nodded toward her, giving her the go-ahead to ask the questions.

  “I ran across one of your girls,” she said. “Pretty. Dark hair.”

  He arched a brow. “Girls? I don’t know what you mean.”

  “One of the girls you and Darla pimp along I-95. She worked out of that camper you drive around.”

  His smile was wide, the proverbial Cheshire cat. “Don’t know about that.”

  “This isn’t the girl you put in the hospital. But another one.”

  He shifted, pushing his tray away. His smug smile faded. “What’s she saying about me?”

  “What do you think she’s saying about you?” Riley asked.

  “How the fuck would I know?” His agitation suggested he really was worried about what the girl would say. He believed at least one of his girls was still alive.

  “Turns out, she’s not said much,” Sharp said, watching him closely. “She’s dead.”

  Carter sat forward quickly, and a grimace proved the movement irritated his leg. “Who’s dead?”

  “The young girl I saw get into your motor home about a month ago,” Riley said.

  “We’re running her prints,” Sharp said. “Shouldn’t be more than a few hours before we have her name. You can save us some time and give us a name.”

  Carter folded his arms over his chest, revealing a large snake tattoo that coiled around his forearm. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t know?” Sharp asked.

  “Lots of girls on the streets like what they see when they see Jax Carter. Got all kinds of dates coming and going.”

  Riley showed him the picture on her phone. “Look familiar?”

  Barely glancing at the photo, he shook his head. “Nope.”

  “If you don’t remember, the girl you beat up will,” Riley said. “Is this girl the reason you beat Jo-Jo so badly? Was Jo-Jo asking too many questions about her?”

  Carter was silent, but frowned at the mention of Jo-Jo’s name.

  “Jo-Jo’s healing nicely by the way,” Riley said, playing along as if she had more information than she really did.

  “She’s next on our list of people to talk to,” Sharp added. “She’ll tell us the girl’s name.”

  Carter tapped a finger on the small bed table. “There’s always girls hanging around at the truck stop near Fredericksburg. They was always asking for money or a cigarette, but I don’t know no names.”

  She’d bet money he not only knew the girl well but also kept very close tabs on her whereabouts. Many of the working girls on the streets received a text every thirty minutes from their pimp, who expected an immediate response. Tardiness led to consequences. When cops had found Carter’s car at the rest stop, there were several phones on the floor. Those records might help.

  “You don’t remember?” Riley asked. “I could swear I saw her getting into your motor home a month ago.”

  A half smile pulled at the edge of his lips. “Nope.”

  “All right. Maybe Jo-Jo will remember when y
ou saw this girl last.”

  He shifted, again tugging at the wound in his leg. He cursed and settled back, muttering, “Jo-Jo don’t remember shit because she don’t know nothing. I can promise you that.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Sharp said.

  “I’m sure.”

  Images of the girl lying dead in the field and the video of Jo-Jo’s beating stoked anger, but she kept it in check. “Jo-Jo’s not under your control right now, Jax. She’s getting rest and good meals and healing. Drugs are leaving her system. No telling what a girl will say given a little encouragement from someone who actually cares about her.”

  “You’re bluffing, bitch.”

  “Am I?” She moved forward a step, leaning against his leg. He hissed in a breath. “You think she won’t talk? She’s already started.”

  He shifted in the bed, turning a shade paler when he pulled his leg away from her. “Fuck you.”

  “I like it when you cuss,” Riley said. “Confirms I’ve gotten under your skin.”

  Carter opened his mouth to speak but stopped.

  “Rest up, Jax,” Sharp said. “I don’t think you’ll get as much sleep in prison.”

  Carter shook his head. “I ain’t going to prison.”

  “You keep telling yourself that,” Riley said.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Wednesday, September 14, 9:45 a.m.

  After Hanna left for school, Riley spent an hour visiting the youth shelter, talking to street girls who might know Darla. Several of the girls had been off the streets for months and had severed all their connections. And the two newest girls, who’d moved in midsummer, had never crossed paths with Darla.

  Riley handed out business cards to all the girls and told them to call day or night if they needed anything. The girls had been leery of her, many disappointed by family and friends before, so she wasn’t holding out a lot of hope as she left the shelter and crossed the parking lot to her car. While driving to the state medical examiner’s office in Richmond, a call to the hospital told her Jo-Jo was barely awake and still in no shape to answer questions.

  Now, dressed in black slacks, white blouse, dark jacket, and low-heeled boots, Riley arrived at the medical examiner’s office just before ten. She parked on a side street and then hurried to the Marshall Street entrance, pushing through the front doors and stopping at the front desk to show her badge.

  The receptionist, an African American woman in her fifties, glanced up. “Who you here for?”

  “A Jane Doe brought in yesterday. Brown hair, young. Teenager. Caucasian.”

  “Right. I heard about that one.” She reached for a stack of papers and clipped them together. “She was brought in from up north. Who’s the lead?”

  “Agent Dakota Sharp.”

  “He’s a hard-ass.” Grinning, the woman shook her head. “A skinny little girl like you, well, he’ll eat you right up if you aren’t careful.”

  Riley smiled. “I’m all gristle. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Well, good for you, baby doll.” She handed Riley a visitor’s pass.

  “Thanks.”

  Riley stepped into the elevator and rode it to the lower level. The doors opened to a tiled hallway, fluorescent lights, and the smell of strong chemicals. Squaring her shoulders, she kept her pace steady and clipped. She had this under control. She did. Granted, she’d never witnessed a body being cracked open and taken apart by a doctor, but like any challenge, she’d figure it out. She hoped her stomach played along.

  She pushed through the double metal doors and found herself facing a long stainless-steel counter outfitted with a sink and a hose attachment in the center. Angled next to the counter was a gurney carrying a body covered by a white sheet. Above the table were several adjustable lamps and a microphone ready for the doctor to dictate notes.

  The room’s air was heavy with an unnatural smell that coiled inside Riley’s stomach. She pulled back her shoulders to ward off a gag reflex.

  “Trooper Tatum, correct?”

  So focused on the draped body, she didn’t notice the woman enter from a side door. Automatically, she extended her hand. “Dr. Kincaid?”

  “Yes. Agent Sharp said you’d be here.”

  Dr. Kincaid was tall and lean and in her midthirties. Under a white lab coat she wore simple khaki pants and a navy-blue blouse. Long dark hair feathered into lighter ends and curled around her angled face. A honey-olive skin tone accentuated her perceptive green eyes. Other than a trace of gloss on her lips and shadowing around her eyes, she wore little makeup. A gold chain looped through a gold ring, encircling her neck. The ring was wide, like a man’s, and Riley bet it was a wedding band.

  Dr. Kincaid regarded her closely. “We haven’t worked together before.”

  “That would be correct. I’m a trooper, so I don’t usually follow a case this far.”

  “Well, welcome.”

  The doors opened to Sharp, who looked tense and annoyed. Notebook in hand, he strode toward them. “Tatum.”

  “Agent,” Dr. Kincaid said. “I’m running a little behind. Let me change into scrubs and we can get started.”

  “Sure.”

  The doctor vanished through a side door as a lab assistant pushed through another door. “Agent Sharp I know, but you, I don’t. I’m Ken Matthews.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ken,” Riley said, taking his hand.

  He eyed her closely. “You have a slight pasty look. You a virgin?”

  “Excuse me?” Riley asked.

  Sharp lifted a brow, grinned, but had the good sense not to comment.

  Matthews chuckled. “First time to the show?”

  “Yep.” Don’t deny or apologize for the obvious. Acknowledge it and move on.

  “I bet you do fine.”

  “There’re gowns in the locker over there,” Ken said. “It’s a good idea if you put one on. You can also stow your purse and grab a barf bag if you need one.”

  Sharp moved toward the lockers and shrugged off his jacket. Without a word, he reached for a gown and slid his arms into it.

  “Right. Sure.” Riley turned from the table, glad to have it out of her line of sight. As she crossed to the locker and removed her jacket and slipped on a gown, a saw buzzed behind her. She flinched and glanced at the paper barf bags.

  “Breathe,” Sharp said. “Ken’s trying to rattle you.”

  “Right.” Her stomach turned at the thought of the saw cutting into flesh, but she left the bag behind.

  She and Sharp were in gowns by the time Dr. Kincaid emerged, dressed in scrubs, her dark hair pinned under a surgical cap. At the instrument table, she unwrapped a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on over her slender fingers with practiced ease.

  Turning, she moved toward the table with a steady, determined gait. “If you have questions, ask. We’re gathering evidence.”

  “Sure.” Questions were sometimes tricky. The benefit of an answer didn’t always outweigh telegraphing the questioner’s ignorance.

  Dr. Kincaid removed the sheet and held up a pale hand. “She has a fresh manicure and pedicure.”

  The victim’s hands were long, slim, and graceful. They were suited for playing a piano. Instead, Riley pictured those fingers picking through trash like many runaways did.

  Sharp pulled on latex gloves, knitting his fingers together and working the slack from his gloves. He glared at Riley, studying her closely. “You good with this?”

  “Never better.”

  Riley, drawn by curiosity, moved closer, inspecting the victim’s now-cleaned face. Without makeup, the victim looked years younger. Eighteen, tops. Pierced ears, twice on the left. A small mole on her right cheek. A thin, inch-long white scar crossed the upper-left side of her forehead.

  “Just a kid,” Sharp said.

  “No missing persons report on her yet?” Riley asked.

  “None,” he said.

  “I stopped at the youth shelter this morning,” Riley said. “No one knew her, but I’ll ke
ep trying.”

  “I’ve requested Jax Carter’s phone records. Assuming she worked for him, we should find a connection.”

  Dr. Kincaid said her name into the microphone and stated the date and time along with the list of the four people in attendance for the autopsy. She leaned toward the body, studying the slim rings of bruises around the girl’s neck. “Exterior exam suggests strangulation. Ken, do you have X-rays for me?”

  “Sure do, doc.” He turned and pushed two X-ray slides up onto a light box and switched it on.

  The doctor turned, and as she examined the image, traced a horseshoe-shaped bone in the center of the victim’s neck. “Broken hyoid bone.” Returning to the table, she said, “There’re two rings of bruises on her neck.”

  Riley studied the bands of purple marks. “He wrapped a rope around her neck, squeezed, and then stopped?”

  “Stopped, screwed up his courage, and started again,” Sharp said. “Not all killers do clean work. Strangulation takes time and steady pressure. It’s a very personal way of killing.”

  Dr. Kincaid pulled the sheet back farther and revealed the girl’s too-thin nude body. In the twenty-four hours since the body was found, the chemicals triggering rigor mortis had eased. She now lay flat.

  Lifting the right arm, Dr. Kincaid inspected it. “I don’t see needle marks, but there’s some bruising by the upper-right forearm.” Moving to the other side, she noted a heart-shaped tattoo on the girl’s right thigh and the crudely written letters JC on the back of her neck.

  With slow precision the doctor moved up the left side of the body, indicating the presence of more bruises on the left hip and left arm, along with a fresh needle mark in the central vein at the elbow.

  “There are no signs of scarring from old puncture wounds. However, there is faint scarring on her wrist. Crisscross pattern. None of the marks were enough to kill. It could have been a suicide attempt or she might have been cutting herself.”

  “The physical pain distracts from the mental turmoil,” Riley said.

  “So I’ve heard,” Dr. Kincaid said.

  “You’ll run a toxicological screen?” Riley asked, inspecting the mark. “She could have been drugged.”