by Mary Burton
“I’m Mr. Delany,” he said. “May I help you?”
She smiled as her mother had once taught her. Polite, but not too friendly. “A friend of mine bought a beautiful dress here and I loved it. I was hoping you might have something similar.”
“Most of our items are one of a kind. And very expensive.”
She held her ground and reached for her phone. “Maybe if I showed you a picture.”
“Of course.”
“The dress is yellow. The skirt is covered in lace. Very delicate.” She glanced at her fingers. Her nails were short, shorn to a practical length, but not the manicured look ideal for this environment.
“I know the dress. I sold the only three we had in stock.”
“You did?”
“To one customer.”
“Does this customer have a name?”
He studied her, catching a hardening edge in her tone. “Why does that matter?”
“You’re out of stock. He has three. Maybe he’ll sell me one.”
Carefully, he shook his head. “Maybe you should speak to our head of security.”
“Why? Does he manage your dress inventory?”
“No, he deals with the police.”
“What makes you think I’m police?”
A brow arched as he pressed a button by the register. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“While we wait, can you tell me about the dress?”
“When security arrives.”
Seconds later a tall, broad-shouldered man came into the shop. He looked as out of place as Riley did around the fine, frilly pieces.
The security guard took one look at her and asked, “Officer, what can I do for you?”
Riley smiled and pulled the picture of Kevin Lewis. She showed it to the guard. “Has this gentleman been in to buy a yellow dress?”
The guard shifted his gaze to the image. “We guard the privacy of our customers closely.”
“This gentleman is on a slab at the morgue now. He’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“I haven’t seen him.” The guard nodded to Mr. Delany, who then leaned forward and peeked at the picture. “I remember him.”
“He must have bought the dress here,” Riley said. “This is the only store in a hundred miles that sells this label.”
The guard nodded again to Mr. Delany.
Mr. Delany knitted his fingers. Buffed nails glistened in the soft light. “The gentleman was very specific about the color. He also said the dress had to be the best.”
“How did he pay for it?”
“Cash. That’s part of the reason he stuck in my mind. We see cash when someone wants to hide a purchase.”
“Did he say who the dress was for?”
“Said it was for his daughter. She had a big party. He wasn’t sure about her size, so he purchased all three. We didn’t talk much. He saw the three dresses, asked me to box them up, and paid for his purchase. He was here ten minutes.” He glanced at the guard. “I’d bet a month’s commission the dress was not for his daughter.”
“What day was this?”
“Last Friday. Right before closing.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“He was alone.”
“Has anyone else ordered a similar dress?”
“No.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, September 17, 3:15 p.m.
Bowman sat in his SUV across from the youth emergency shelter, waiting for Duke Spence to arrive. According to a call to the man’s office, he would return to the shelter around three. He checked his watch. A red truck, beat up and dented, pulled into a parking space and an older man got out. He had shoulder-length gray hair tied at the nape of his neck and wore a dark T-shirt that tightened around strong, still-taut, tattooed arms. Faded jeans had seen better days, as had the scuffed brown boots.
After hearing Riley’s story today, Bowman had dug into Duke’s past. It might have been a coincidence that she’d landed in this man’s backyard, but he never assumed. Serendipity was for fairy tales and fools.
Duke Spence had a checkered past, starting his career as a gambler in Vegas. He’d spent the better part of his twenties and thirties winning some and losing more until he’d ended up owing too much to the wrong guy. He had the piss beaten out of him on a side street in Las Vegas. Call it the fear of God, but that beating by all accounts had turned him around. Twenty years ago he married a cocktail waitress and they moved to Virginia. A year later they opened the shelter. He’d stayed clean since. He and his wife were model citizens, giving back to the community.
Bowman stepped out of his SUV. “Mr. Spence.”
Duke paused and turned at the sound of the baritone voice. His head cocked. “Do I know you?”
Bowman pulled off his sunglasses. “Clay Bowman. I’m with Shield Security.”
“You look like a fed.”
“I was. Retired now.”
Duke squared up and took a step toward Bowman. Not intimidated, he said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Bowman?”
“I have a few questions about Riley Tatum.”
Duke’s jaw tightened. “If you have questions about Riley, ask Riley.”
“I’ve talked to Riley, and now I’m talking to you. This is about a recent murder she responded to.”
“The dead girl.”
“That’s right.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“You were the first person who saw Riley when she arrived here twelve years ago.”
“Barking up the wrong tree, pal. Talk to Riley.” He turned and walked toward the restaurant.
Without raising his voice, Bowman said, “I believe someone tried to kill Riley in New Orleans and now he’s back.”
Duke paused, hesitating before he turned. “Riley would have told me if anything like that happened to her.”
“There was a case I worked when I was with the bureau. We called him the Shark. Killed four girls.”
“Riley never said anything about anyone trying to kill her. Ever.”
“I believe she was drugged. Her memory was nearly wiped. But she knew something bad had happened.”
“She tell you that?”
“The memories are stirring,” he offered, much like a fisherman dangling bait in the water.
Duke, flexing his fingers, approached Bowman. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. If Riley was having any bad memories and going to talk to anyone about it, she would be talking to me. I’m family. She’s like a daughter to me.”
The intensity behind Duke’s tone suggested the truth. But Duke had been a gambler and the smart ones could bluff with the best. “Then help me protect her.”
Duke shook his head. “I don’t know you. You show up out of nowhere and ask me about a person I care about? I’m not telling you squat.”
Was this righteous loyalty to Riley for real or for show? “This killer strangled four young girls who looked like Riley. He’s killed a young girl in Virginia days ago.”
“I saw it in the news, but they barely gave the story more than a thirty-second spot. How do you know Riley is connected?”
“The body was staged in Riley’s patrol area. She was the officer on duty who responded to the call. The dead girl looks like the other victims, who all look like Riley.”
“Her looks aren’t that distinctive, Mr. Bowman. And she’s dealt with all kinds of nastiness on the road. She’s a cop.”
“There were playing cards in this victim’s back pocket just as there were in the New Orleans victims’ pockets.”
“Okay.” Duke drew out the word. “Still not convinced of a connection. You’re reaching.”
Instead of answering, Bowman shifted tactics. He wasn’t ready to share everything yet. “You used to gamble.”
“Is that what this is about? I gambled, so now I’m connected to a killer who has a thing for sticking cards in dead girls’ pockets?”
“You were a gambler for a couple of decades. Th
at’s a dark world and a lot of bad things happen in it.”
“They do. And I saw a lot of it. Hell, there were things I did in those days that I’m not proud of and don’t want my wife to ever find out about. But it’s behind me. Has been for twenty years.”
“You consider yourself an addict?”
“I sure do. That’s why I stay the hell away from anything like gambling. No bet is a good bet for me.”
“Ever hear of a gambler—a whale—that required a human stake to get in his game?”
Duke met Bowman’s gaze as if he held the winning hand. “Hell, no. I lost a lot of money, but I never played for anybody’s life.”
Winners knew how to bluff with a losing hand. “A winner would’ve received a huge payout.”
“Like I said, I haven’t played in over twenty years. Not even a scratch card.”
“Know anyone I could talk to that does know that world?”
“I got nothing. No contacts. No ties. Now, do me a favor and get the hell out of here.”
Bowman’s gaze didn’t waver. “If I find out you’re lying to me, I’ll bury you.”
It was six thirty when Riley pushed through the front door. She’d been on her feet for nearly fifteen hours. That was nowhere near a first in her career, but that didn’t stop her from feeling dog-ass tired.
Before she could examine the package on the kitchen table, Cooper barked in his crate and she opened the door. He barked again, demanding she rub his ears. As she dropped her purse and hooked his leash, she saw the note.
Hound walked one hour ago. I’m at triathlon practice. (Swimming, yuck.) Home by seven or eight.
Hanna
P.S. A package arrived for you.
With Cooper tugging on the line, she kicked off her work shoes and slid her feet into her running shoes. Cooper’s walk took less than fifteen minutes before they were back inside, and her attention turned to the package Hanna had mentioned in her note.
The box was the size of a shoe box and wrapped in brown paper. There was no postage or any shipping company information. And Hanna’s quick note did nothing to help with the mystery. She reached in her back pocket and texted Hanna, confirming her ETA.
Seconds later: Twenty minutes.
Who sent the package?
Don’t know. Was sitting on front porch when I came by the house.
She stared at the box, frowning. She didn’t like surprises. Thanks. See you in twenty.
She moved to the fridge and grabbed a diet soda. Popping the top, she turned back toward the box. She unclipped her gun and set it in a lockbox on top of the refrigerator.
Picking up the package, she shook it gently. It wasn’t her birthday. Duke would have texted her if he were sending over something. And seeing as her dating skills had atrophied, it wasn’t from any secret admirer. Or Bowman.
As Cooper settled on his dog bed by the couch, she sat and dug her fingernail under the tape securing the end. She ripped open the tape and pulled the paper apart, revealing a simple brown box. No label. Plain. She hesitated. It was likely nothing special. Still, she retrieved latex gloves and slipped them on her hands.
Lifting the lid, she moved slowly as if she half expected a snake to jump out. Instead, she found a DVD in a case nestled in a bed of white tissue.
She lifted the DVD and removed it from its case. The disk was neatly marked with a white label reading “Round Five.”
Holding up the DVD, she checked the back for any identification, but there was none. She moved to a small TV. She didn’t have cable, and on the rare times she watched television, she streamed it live through her computer. But inserting a strange DVD into her computer was not an option, so she popped it into the old DVD player and switched on the television. The image was gray and grainy, and for a ten-second count she saw nothing. She leaned forward, ready to switch off the television, when the image of a room came into focus. It was a nice room. Thick, lush carpet, cream drapes in the background that pooled at the bottom. The camera panned toward a chair. Slowly the cameraman moved around it.
She hit “Pause,” her heart hammering so hard she thought it would crack her sternum. Memories, distant and forgotten, moved and stretched as if they had slumbered for too long a time.
Sitting straighter, she hit “Play” and watched as the image slid around the tall chair. From this angle, the cameraman shot from above, enough to see that someone sat in it. Long brown hair. Female. The photographer panned around the room, lowered the camera, and shot directly toward the girl, whose head slumped, dark hair draped over her face.
Riley turned up the volume and leaned closer. She glanced behind her at the clock and noted that Hanna would be home soon. Whatever was on this disc was not good. Hanna would never see it.
She leaned toward the image, studying every detail. The female’s wrists were bound to the arms of the chair. Vicky too had marks on her wrists. This girl on the television wore a lovely yellow dress that hugged her narrow waist and skimmed her calves. Like Vicky. She wore a gold locket around her neck. Like Vicky.
She then remembered the car she’d spotted while she was running the other day. Was the driver Vicky’s killer and had he sent this to her?
On the video, a man’s hand entered the right side of the screen. His fingers were long, the nails buffed, but rough skin and deep veins suggested he was older. He traced a finger slowly along the girl’s hair, and then reached for her chin. Gently, he lifted her head back until the hair fell away from her pale, angled face.
The girl in the chair wasn’t Vicky.
“Shit! It’s me.”
Blood rushed from her head and her heart pounded. Oh my God! Tears burned her eyes, and she thought about the cards and the missing days from her life. Seconds ticked as she stared until the image ended and there was gray static.
A car pulled in the driveway as she tried to process what she saw. A car door slammed.
Wiping away a tear, Riley shut off the television. She ejected the disc and with trembling hands, replaced it in the case and shoved it in her purse. Moving fast, she scooped up the box, hurried to her room and laid it on the floor under her bed. She stripped off her gloves and threw them beside the box. Later, she’d dust the box for prints.
Standing, she smoothed her hands over her jeans, dug deep, and pulled up a smile that she hoped warmed her face. “Hanna!”
“How was your day in investigator land?” She dropped her gym bag to the floor and kicked off her shoes.
“I’m not an investigator.”
“Bet that didn’t stop you from asking questions.”
“True.” Riley moved into the kitchen and retrieved her cell out of her back pocket. Fingers poised over the keypad, she was grateful her hands had stopped trembling. “How about pizza? I can order it right now.”
“That would be great. I ate at Duke’s, but that was around four.”
“No worries. I could use a few slices myself.” Her brain on automatic, she called in the pizza, pepperoni with extra cheese. Not Riley’s favorite, but Hanna loved it and it was easy enough for her to pick off the pepperoni and scrape off most of the cheese.
She reached in the fridge and handed Hanna a flavored water.
“You okay?” Hanna asked.
“Just a little tired. Wondering why you like this water. If you were going for chemicals, go all out and get the diet soda.”
Hanna rolled her eyes. “It’s more healthy because it has vitamins in it.”
“As long as you like it.” The flavored water was one of the few things she could do to spoil the kid, so she picked up a couple of cases whenever they were on sale.
“Catch any bad guys?” Hanna asked.
Riley laughed, doing her best not to look upset. “At least eight.”
“Only eight? Ahh, don’t feel too bad.”
Her heart slowed, but her nerves were on edge. “Better luck tomorrow.”
“When do you get back on patrol?”
“Tuesday.”
Ha
nna held up her vitamin water. “Here’s to catching bad guys.”
Riley’s poker-face grin hid her swirling thoughts, which shifted back to the image of her own seventeen-year-old face. Eyes barely open, her mouth pouty and slack-jawed, her long hair threaded through the hands of a stranger. The DVD was a link to the missing days of her life and a calling card from the Shark.
She nodded as Hanna prattled on about her day. They talked about the college applications over pizza. All normal. And yet the images burned in her mind. The past was not dead and buried as she had hoped.
It was past ten when she took Cooper on his final walk, crated him, and fell into bed. As much as she needed sleep, she couldn’t erase the DVD images from her mind. Quietly, she got up and shoved the DVD into her computer. With earbuds jammed in her ears, she watched the images again.
The man shooting the video was also the one who’d held her face and tipped it up to the camera. He murmured something softly in the background, but it wasn’t loud enough for her to understand, even after she cranked up the volume. In the background she detected the sound of a guitar playing softly. Behind her image, the cream-colored curtains opened onto a clear night sky, and if she wasn’t mistaken, she could see the view from the big casino that overlooked New Orleans. By the fourth time through the images, she didn’t flinch when the man took her face in his hands and tipped her head back. She knew he wouldn’t do anything more to her. She knew the recording would run out and there’d be no video image of what had happened next.
By one in the morning, she shut off the computer. Four hours of sleep last night was manageable, but compound that with another short night and it would all soon catch up with her. She needed to stay sharp. Especially now that the Shark was coming for her.
She thought of taking this DVD to Agent Sharp, but it was one thing to give him five playing cards and another to hand over video evidence of a helpless Riley. God only knew how many investigators would gawk at it. But she couldn’t just sit on this evidence.
Thoughts skittered to Bowman and Shield, who’d been linked to this case for as long as she had. All she knew about Shield Security was what Bowman had told her, and that wasn’t saying much.
