The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1)

by Mary Burton

  Ten minutes later Hanna sat at the table. “I hate breakfast.”

  Riley set scrambled eggs in front of her. “Think of it as a late dinner.”

  Hanna stabbed an egg and ate.

  “What’s on the docket today?” Riley asked.

  “Math test.”

  “Ready?”

  “Yes. School is boring.”

  “It’s the ticket to your future.”

  “The classes are too easy.”

  “Maybe you’re too smart.” The kid was gifted, often outpacing her classmates and some of her teachers.

  Hanna’s morning frown softened with the compliment.

  Fifteen minutes later Hanna was out the door as her ride pulled in the driveway. Hanna tossed Riley a wave and slid into the backseat of the van.

  As the van drove off, a car parked a half block away headed toward the house. Eyes narrowed, Riley watched as it pulled into her driveway. Her hand slid to the SIG already on her hip.

  Eddie Potter rose out of the car. “Trooper. Looks like I caught you heading out. Figured you’d take it easy on your day off.”

  “Mr. Potter. You know my schedule and you tracked me to my home.” Not illegal but an invasion.

  “I understand you identified the girl murdered near here.”

  She hesitated, wondering if he was telling her the truth. “No comment.”

  “Her name is Vicky Gilbert,” he said.

  Her spine stiffened as she wondered who was feeding him information. Barrett? Sharp? And why hadn’t she gotten a call? “I can’t comment, Mr. Potter. Contact the public information officer for state police.”

  “I’ll be running the story about the girl at the midday and evening news slots. It won’t be long. Maybe a minute. If I could interview you, it would get more airtime.”

  “No.”

  “I’d like your take on the human trafficking angle. The story might raise awareness.”

  “Talk to the public information officer. She’ll call me with an interview time.”

  “Can’t we cut the red tape?”

  “No.”

  “Does this murder bother you because you once ran away from home?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I did a little digging into your past. A friend told me you’re from New Orleans and you ran away from home.” As her scowl deepened, his grin widened. “Curious by nature. And in today’s dicey world of journalism, you need to be willing to hit a nerve.”

  “How about you give me your friend’s name? I’d like to have a chat with him.”

  “I’m not willing to throw this guy under the bus. Wouldn’t be fair. Just doing my job. It’s in the DNA.”

  She wondered what else he’d dug up, but she refused to open that can of worms. Shit. She didn’t need anyone digging into her past. “Get off my property.”

  “If you don’t help me write the story, I’ll come up with my own angle.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Potter.”

  Bowman’s drive into Washington, DC, took less than two hours, plus another thirty minutes before he found himself at the end of a cul-de-sac ringed with three old brick homes. He checked the address and parked in the driveway. Out of his car, he tugged on his jacket as a warm wind blew through the thick oaks. The faint scent of boxwoods wafted, hinting of old money and power.

  Riley’s stepfather, William Charles, was based in New Orleans, but as it turned out, he spent a great deal of time in Washington, DC, as a lobbyist. Charles could trace his roots back to the Revolutionary War, and he attended Columbia, earning a law degree in spite of mediocre grades. He joined his father’s law firm and spent most of his career shuttling between New Orleans and DC. Riley’s mother had been a newly divorced mother of a two-year-old daughter when she’d joined the Charles law firm as a secretary. She’d quickly caught Charles’s eye, and the two were married the following year.

  Bowman walked up the front steps and rang the bell.

  The faint click of heels echoed in the house and, after a slight hesitation, the door opened. Standing before him was a tall, dark-haired woman in her early thirties. Her build was slim, and she had a look similar to Riley’s.

  “May I help you?” No hint of warmth in her voice.

  “My name is Clay Bowman. I’m with Shield Security and investigating an old criminal case. I’m here to see Mr. Charles.”

  “Mr. Charles isn’t here.”

  The tech guy at Shield Security, Garrett Andrews, wasn’t the easiest to work with, but he was damn good at his job. And according to Andrews’s monitoring of Charles’s cell phone, the man was here, now. “Tell Mr. Charles this is about his stepdaughter, Riley Tatum.”

  Manicured fingers curled into a fist. “I don’t know her.”

  “He does. Tell him.”

  “Look, Mr. Bowman, I don’t know what you’re selling, but my husband has not seen his stepdaughter in a dozen years.”

  “Audrey,” a deep voice said from a side room. “Show him in.”

  “Of course, William.” Audrey, not happy about being overridden, forced a smile. “Please come in.”

  He stepped inside and turned toward the sound of the voice. He entered the library as a tall, thin man rose from a seat. He had sharp gray eyes, a nose that hooked like a beak, and neatly cut white hair that thinned at the top. A hand-tailored white shirt with crisp edges matched the creases of his dark trousers. “You’re here to tell me about Riley?”

  “I’m here to talk about a case that involved a man we came to call the Shark. He killed four girls in New Orleans. Only one victim, his last, escaped.”

  Charles tugged at starched cuffs. “Again, what does this have to do with me or my stepdaughter?”

  “I believe the last victim was your stepdaughter.”

  The annoyance in his eyes mellowed a fraction. “Riley escaped a serial killer? I never heard about that.”

  “This attack would’ve happened twelve years ago, shortly after she ran away from home.”

  The tension around Charles coiled like a snake. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Riley never told me about any kind of attack.”

  “As I understand, you two didn’t have any contact after that point, correct?”

  “What’re you getting at?”

  “I’m trying to find a killer who chooses girls that look very much like Riley.” As he spoke he shifted his gaze to Audrey. Her expression reflected a superficial shock.

  “I wouldn’t know anything about murdered girls,” Charles said.

  “That would have been the summer your wife died.”

  “Don’t bring my late wife into this.”

  “She was Riley’s mother.”

  “Yes. They were very close.”

  “What kind of relationship did you have with Riley?” Bowman asked.

  “I became her stepfather when she was nearly three. She was more like a real daughter to me than a stepchild.”

  “So you two were close?”

  “Did she send you to talk to me? What’s this about?” Charles countered.

  “You are the only link I have to her past in New Orleans.”

  “I’m not going to talk about her to a rent-a-cop.”

  Bowman bared his teeth into a grin. “Did you know Riley has lived in Virginia for the past twelve years?”

  “You need to leave.” Charles shifted under Bowman’s hard gaze. “I was always good to her. I treated her like she was my own child. It wasn’t my fault that Riley could be difficult to manage and ungrateful.”

  “Why did she run away?”

  “She didn’t—”

  “I know she ran away.”

  “Run away is a harsh term. It’s very dramatic, like her.” He stiffened. “Basically, she didn’t like the house rules. Her mother and I expected her to accomplish a lot. When her mother died, she stopped caring. And I think if you have any other questions, you may take them up with my attorney.”

  “I didn’t realize there was a need for attorneys.”

>   “I’m not a fool.”

  “You have a reputation as a gambler. You’ve had years when you’ve lost heavily.”

  “You don’t have access to that kind of information.”

  He didn’t, but the man’s defensive tone told Bowman he’d been right. “Were you ever in a high-stakes game that involved runaway girls?”

  Charles’s face whitened. “I don’t know what you are talking about. And now I must insist you leave.” He moved toward the door.

  “If you were losing big and you had a chance to win it all back, would you have staked Riley’s life on a bet?”

  “Get out.”

  In no rush to follow orders, Bowman took a moment to survey the room. Noted the large portrait of the woman hanging above the fireplace. Her hair was dark, cascading around her shoulders. Her green eyes held a hint of amusement, as if she knew a secret.

  “That’s a nice portrait of Riley’s mother.”

  Charles bristled.

  “Riley looks just like her.”

  Charles fisted his fingers but said nothing.

  “Nice that you still honor your first wife.”

  “I loved her very much, and I can’t toss the portrait away just because she’s gone.”

  Audrey’s body tensed with anger, but she stayed silent.

  “I do understand that,” Bowman said with real honesty. “How did she pass away?”

  “Cancer.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Must have been hard on Riley.”

  “She was a difficult kid before her mother’s death. Afterward, she became impossible. She ran away before I could throw her out. And if she’s in trouble, then she brought it on herself.”

  “Staking her life in a high-stakes game would kill two birds with one stone. Troubled teen gone. Debt wiped free.”

  “Leave or I’m calling the cops.”

  “Count on me returning if I have more questions.”

  “You don’t know who you’re harassing or you would be afraid.”

  “I could say the same to you, Mr. Charles.”

  Bowman stepped outside as Charles slammed the door behind him. Tugging on his white cuffs, he moved down the steps at a leisurely pace.

  His relationship with Riley was complicated, and when he would tell her about this visit, it would become contentious. But he was back in her life and he’d do what it took to protect her.

  “Yes, we did get a hit on Jane Doe’s prints. Who told you?” Dakota Sharp’s graveled voice rattled over his shoulder at Riley as she raced to catch up to him, crossing the Virginia State Police parking lot toward the building’s front entrance.

  “Eddie Potter, the reporter,” she said. “He has friends in the department, I suppose.”

  His scowl deepened. “Where did you see him?”

  “He came to my house this morning.”

  Sharp muttered a curse. “That’s not good.”

  “I can take care of Potter and myself. Who’s the victim?”

  “Her name is Vicky Gilbert.”

  So Potter was right. “How did you identify her?”

  “Isn’t this your day off?”

  “I can’t take days off and do nothing. My kid is in school all day, and I can train Cooper and clean house only so much before I go insane.”

  A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “There must be something else you can be doing other than chasing me.”

  “Actually, there isn’t. This case is under my skin.”

  He paused and studied her, his expression partly amused but mostly annoyed. “Vicky Gilbert was arrested last year for theft in Chesterfield, Virginia. She and a few friends decided to steal some dresses from a shop in the mall. Her mother paid the store for the stolen items and charges were dropped.”

  “Charges went away, but the problems did not.”

  “Exactly.” He pried the lid off the to-go coffee cup and sipped. “Could be any number of reasons on the menu: drugs, abuse, the call to adventure. I’ve heard all the reasons.”

  Riley pulled off her sunglasses, fingering a worn earpiece. “You said her family is in Chesterfield?”

  “Solid middle class from what I can tell.”

  “And we both know that bad things never happen in solid middle-class families.”

  He grunted. “You’re too young to be cynical, Trooper.”

  “I see the world for what it is.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Dark and scary. Do you have the address?”

  “Yeah. I was planning to pay them a visit as soon as I checked in with my chief.”

  “I’d like to tag along. I’ll have a different perspective than you, Agent Sharp. I work with runaways. I can help you. And maybe if I can find out who killed Vicky, I can put away Carter for the rest of his life.” She was like a dog with a bone. “Have you found Darla Johnson? She’s Jax Carter’s girlfriend.”

  “We’re on the lookout for her.”

  “Have Vicky’s parents called in a missing persons report yet on their daughter?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you find that odd?”

  “I learned a long time ago that there’re all kinds of dysfunctional families out there.”

  “They are either glad she’s gone or think she’ll come back.” She calculated the time it would take to cut through the rush-hour traffic. The twenty-mile trip would take an hour tops. “If I come along, I’ll drive and you can get some work done.”

  A sigh shuddered through him, making him look older than his thirty-seven years. “Pull your vehicle around in a half hour.”

  “See you then.” She turned to leave and then snapped her fingers, remembering. “You aren’t allergic to dogs, are you?”

  “What?”

  “Cooper’s along for the ride.”

  He shook his head. “Why not? The more the merrier.” Exactly a half hour later Sharp returned and slid into the passenger seat. As she pulled out of the lot, he tensed. Sharp wasn’t accustomed to riding shotgun.

  As they drove in silence, she thought about the playing cards hidden in her house. A thousand miles and a dozen years separated her and the day someone had given her those cards. She had no forensic evidence or memories she could attach to the cards. And with Hanna’s adoption looming, just the suggestion of a link to a serial killer could derail the final judgment. Still, the cards couldn’t be ignored.

  “Have you considered entering the murder in ViCAP?” she asked.

  “The FBI database? Why?”

  “The playing cards found with the victim are distinctive. The handwritten word Loser on each is a signature.”

  He cursed under his breath. “Don’t make this more than it is.”

  Gripping the wheel, she pulled herself up a little straighter. “I disagree. They have a distinctive look. I bet they’re custom made. It’s worth a shot.”

  “Anything federal amounts to a shit-ton of paperwork.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  He groaned and rubbed his eyes. “You don’t want to deal with the feds.”

  “You don’t like the feds?”

  “We’ve crossed swords before.”

  “But it’s the only hard evidence we have at the moment,” she coaxed. “You’ve got to admit the cards are different.”

  He tensed as she sped up to merge into highway traffic. “The cards are unique.”

  “Like I said, I can help.”

  He glanced at her, eyebrow raised as if searching. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  If a lead didn’t pop with ViCAP, she would tell him the truth. But right now she was betting the database could give him more than she could. “I know the cards are the key.”

  “I’ll look into ViCAP. Right now, I want to talk to the victim’s parents.”

  She loosened her grip on the wheel. “Sure.”

  Thirty minutes later GPS directed them to a tree-lined street in western Chesterfield County. The acre lots were large for the county and the houses at least three thousand s
quare feet, both indicators that this area was definitely upper middle class.

  She parked in front of the tall brick colonial with neatly trimmed hedges in a freshly mulched bed out front. The driveway was aggregate, the landscaping professional.

  “Does the dog need walking?”

  “He’s good for now, but we’ll hit a rest stop on the way home.”

  She left the SUV on, the engine and air-conditioning running. “What do I do?”

  He grunted. “When we get inside, don’t say a word. Let me do the talking,” Sharp said. “No offense, Trooper, but without your uniform we look like ‘take your daughter to work’ day.”

  “We don’t.”

  “You do look young.”

  As they got out, a man dressed in a dark suit stepped out the front door. Grinning, he had a cell phone pressed to his ear and a briefcase in hand. Smooth white teeth flashed as his polished wing tips caught the morning sun. He paused midstride when he saw them approach. The smile vanished as he spoke into the phone before hanging up.

  If Dakota Sharp’s haircut and stance didn’t give him away as a cop, the dark suit did.

  Sharp reached for his badge while maintaining eye contact. “Richard Gilbert?”

  The man stopped, jangling his car keys in his hand. A thick aftershave scent wafted around him as if he’d just slapped it on his cheeks. “That’s right.”

  “My name is Agent Dakota Sharp, and this is Trooper Riley Tatum. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter, Vicky.”

  The man studied Sharp’s badge. “What has Vicky done? Has she stolen again?” Manicured fingers closed around the keys.

  “No, sir, we don’t believe she’s stolen anything,” Sharp said as he hooked the badge back on his belt. “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “It’s been a month since she took off. She was mad at her mother and me when we grounded her after her last brush with the law. She’s living with one of her friends.”

  “Friend got a name?” Sharp asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  Riley fished her notebook from her back pocket. “By the looks of her, I’d say she’s been living on the streets during that time.”

  Sharp cast a sideways glance toward Riley, but he let the comment slide. Neither mentioned homicide because people usually clammed up when they heard the h word.