The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1)

by Mary Burton

  Neither spoke as they moved into the kitchen that dated back to the seventies. An inspection of appliances told her this room would also need massive work. But there was the morning light and a tremendous view of rolling green fields.

  She walked to a large picture window that offered a stunning view of the river. This alone would be reason enough to buy the house. “How’d you find this place?”

  “Out driving one day and saw the ‘For Sale’ sign.”

  “I suppose it fits. You strike me as a traditional kind of guy.”

  Lines at the corners of his eyes creased when he smiled. “And you’re not traditional?”

  “I might have been born into it, but it didn’t take.” Despite her upbringing, she’d never imagined herself living in a house like this one. She reached in her bag and pulled the DVD out. “I’m not sure why I’m trusting you with this.”

  “Why are you?” His body was relaxed, but tension hummed behind the words.

  “You might be my best chance to solve this.”

  She handed him the DVD, which she’d dropped into a zip-top bag. His fingers barely brushed hers as he accepted it.

  He hesitated before he touched the disc. “Should I wear gloves?”

  “My prints are all over the exterior package, but I put on gloves before I touched the DVD case and disc.”

  He put on latex gloves without a word, moved to a DVD player, carefully inserted the video, and hit “Play.” Slowly he stepped back and stood next to Riley.

  Instinctively, she tensed, bracing for the image and his reaction. She feared he’d see her as a victim. She feared he’d treat her differently. And she wanted no one’s pity. Especially Bowman’s.

  Her image appeared. Behind her were the cream-colored drapes, thick carpet, and a Queen Anne table overlooking a glittering skyline. Music played soft and delicate in the background.

  Folding her arms over her chest, Riley forced herself to breathe as she watched Bowman’s jaw clench. He flexed the fingers on his right hand as if he wanted to punch the screen.

  He hit “Replay” and watched the recording again.

  When the camera moved closer to the chair and focused on her tied hands, Bowman looked away from the screen and studied her reaction. “When did this arrive?”

  “Last night.” She nodded. “Watch.”

  Old hands reached for the girl’s chin; her dark hair fell back, and looking at the camera was a seventeen-year-old Riley.

  He paused the frame and stepped closer to the screen. For a long moment he said nothing.

  Riley chewed the inside of her cheek, clamping down the rise of fear and nausea that rushed her each time she saw this. The young girl in the video moaned. She forced herself not to hear. Her throat tightened.

  “How did you receive this?” Bowman demanded.

  “It was waiting on the front porch of my home.”

  “You found it?”

  “No, Hanna did yesterday.”

  “Did Hanna open the package?”

  “No. She left it on the kitchen table for me with a note.”

  “You’re sure she didn’t see the video?”

  “Yes. The package was undisturbed, and when she came home, she was her normal self. Nothing out of the ordinary for a teenage girl.”

  “Do any of your neighbors have security cameras around their houses?”

  “Not that kind of neighborhood. Working-class folks don’t have that kind of money. But I made a point to check for cameras along the block this morning when I walked Cooper.”

  “Did you talk to your neighbors? Did anyone see anything?”

  “No. But I can follow up today.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “But these are my neighbors.”

  “I’m impartial. Better from me. I’ll find a way to leave you out of it. Any memories of how you landed in that room?”

  “I have no idea. I have seven missing days. I was accepting something to drink one minute, and the next I was stumbling off the bus in Richmond a thousand miles away.”

  “And you gave the cards to Sharp?”

  “Yes. But I took pictures of them.” She scrolled through her phone and showed him the spread.

  “A royal flush? There are four possible royal flushes out of 2.6 million possible hands. To say you were lucky would be a huge understatement.”

  “I knew it was good. Didn’t know it was that rare.”

  He studied the photos she’d taken of the back of the cards. “Just like the ones we found on the victims in New Orleans, except no writing on yours.”

  “Like the ones I found in Vicky Gilbert’s backpack.” She tumbled through the facts of the Gilbert case as Bowman viewed the pictures. “Vicky and I share similarities. Runaways, but neither of us had been on the streets long. We do look alike. I didn’t realize how much until I saw the video. I’d forgotten how long my hair used to be.”

  “You haven’t changed that much.”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “Please don’t say that in public. Looking like a teenager doesn’t help my badass image unless I’m going undercover at the local high school.”

  “Understood.”

  Energy buzzed in her body, creating a wave of panic. “I thought it was all behind me. But the Shark is circling back, isn’t he?”

  “You’re not alone in this, Riley.”

  Her gaze shot up, searching for some kind of resolution. “It’s ironic I track fugitives and now I’m on the receiving end.”

  “You aren’t prey.”

  Tears threatened, which only stoked her anger. “The hell I’m not.”

  He closed the gap and laid a hand on her arm. More energy surged up, but this time it didn’t snap and burn. It tingled. In a good way.

  Slowly, she pulled her arm away, knowing she didn’t need to complicate what was already pretty damn complicated. Though she’d broken the connection, he didn’t back away.

  Her phone hummed so she checked the screen, grateful for the interruption.

  Sandy had sent her a text.

  Cassie is missing.

  Riley typed: How long?

  Since last night. She texts me every hour.

  Frowning, she pictured the young runaway girl she’d met at the truck stop a few days ago. She looked up from the phone and found Bowman’s gaze full of questions.

  “Homicide?”

  “I hope not. I interviewed a couple of the runaways when I was looking for Darla. Sandy and Cassie. Sandy says Cassie is missing.”

  “Does she fit the profile?”

  “No. She has blond hair. Small. ID says eighteen but I doubt it.” She texted Sandy for details. “Sandy says that Darla cut a deal with Tony for the girl.”

  His chest rose and fell with a sigh. “She’s blond.”

  “That’s fixed with a bottle of hair dye,” she said. “Darla already had a connection to this network. I need to find Sandy and find out what’s going on.”

  “I’ll back you up.”

  She shook her head. “No thanks, I have this.”

  “Did you note the lack of a question mark at the end of my statement?”

  “Jesus, Bowman, you helped me out on the mountain. And now, on the streets?”

  “Technically, it’s your day off. If anyone were wondering, we could simply say we were out for a stroll.”

  That prompted a laugh. “That’s the last thing anyone would picture us doing.”

  “I can’t control what they believe.” He tapped his finger on the DVD case. “Can I keep this? I have a tech guy who can analyze it. He can separate out background sounds, reflected images, and do things you and I couldn’t imagine.”

  She’d laid bare her darkest secret to him without knowing much about him. It wasn’t like her to be open, but urgency tilting toward desperation had forced her hand. The frozen image of her drugged face stared back. “That cannot go public. None of your buddies at the FBI, CIA, or anywhere else can see it.”

  “Just my people will see it. They are a
lways discreet.”

  She cringed. “I might regret this, but fine. Keep it. But if you find anything that will help Sharp’s murder investigation, I want you to give it to him.”

  “Of course.”

  Rising, she drew in a breath. Cooper stood, looking up at her and waiting for his next order. She took a small step back, folding her arms. “I don’t like having it in my house anyway.”

  Bowman followed her to the door, opening it for her. “Payback for this killer is coming, Riley. Just a little more time.”

  “I hope so.”

  Floorboards creaked as he shifted his weight. “I’ll be there.”

  She looked up at him. “I’m betting a lot on that.”

  “Where are you going to meet Sandy?”

  “There’s a truck stop off the interstate where a lot of the girls are working now.” She gave Bowman the location.

  “I’m five minutes behind you.”

  “You were an hour behind me in the woods and caught up. How’d you do that?”

  “I was motivated.”

  “Why were you there at all?”

  A smile tugged the edge of his lips. “Civic duty.”

  “Does Shield Security do these things often?”

  “From time to time.”

  “Why this case?” she asked.

  “Lucky for you, I suppose.”

  “Luck?” She opened the door. “No such thing. How long has Shield known about me?”

  He hesitated, considered her. “He saw you on the news a couple of years ago. He thought you were the fifth victim. He did a little digging and found out you were from New Orleans. He’s kept an eye on you ever since.”

  “My guardian angel.”

  Bowman’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “He’s determined to solve this case, and you’re a part of it.”

  The notion that Mr. Shield had been watching her like the Shark was unsettling. “I need to get back into town.”

  “After you.”

  She got in her SUV, glanced back at Cooper, and headed toward town. Several times during the half-hour drive, she looked in the rearview mirror expecting to see him trailing behind her, but when she looked he was never there.

  When she pulled up to the diner near the bus station, she spotted Sandy. She was leaning against a van, her hands hovering close to a warm cup of coffee, clearly waiting for her next date. There was no sign of Darla, but people like her didn’t need to be physically close to control their girls. The pimps were good at manipulating their prostitutes with drugs, threats to their families, beatings, and sleep deprivation. Most girls simply followed orders sent via text without question.

  The girl shoved her hands in her pockets and stomped her feet as if trying to stay awake. No doubt she’d not slept well in a while.

  “Be right back, Coop.” Out of the car, Riley crossed the graveled lot in long strides.

  Sandy looked up, her face a mask of composure. “I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

  “Sorry. Traffic.”

  The girl looked around, then pushed away from the van. “Feels good to rest. My feet are killing me.”

  “Want to go inside? I’ll buy you a meal and you can sit.”

  “Tempting, but that wouldn’t be the smartest move.”

  “When is the last time you ate a real meal?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is Tony around?”

  She grabbed her cell phone from her pocket. “He’s always texting.”

  “Can you eat and respond to texts?”

  “Sure.”

  “So take fifteen minutes.”

  “Okay. Let’s go inside. Can I have eggs and pancakes?”

  “You bet.” A glance toward her vehicle showed a dark SUV parked beside her. A shadow passed across the front windshield, making it hard to see inside, but she knew it was Bowman because the hair on the back of her neck was standing up.

  Riley and Sandy crossed the lot into the small diner that smelled of fried eggs, bacon, and grease. The floors dated back fifty years and the counter was a throwback to Happy Days. A guy slinging hash at a well-seasoned grill turned, glanced at Riley, and nodded to the “Seat Yourself” sign. She chose a booth close to the back and sat in the seat against the wall. Sandy slid in across from her.

  The dude behind the counter raised his spatula. “You can’t sit and just drink hot water.”

  Riley raised her hand. “I’m buying.”

  The cook glared at Sandy. “No hot water.”

  Sandy hunkered lower in her jacket as the few people in the diner stared while a heavyset waitress with a coffeepot turned over the two stoneware mugs and filled each with fresh brew.

  Sandy didn’t glance at the menu. “The number one.”

  The waitress arched a painted-on brow. “That’s a lot of food.”

  “I’ll eat it.” Bracelets rattled on Sandy’s wrist as she reached for the sugar and dumped in a few teaspoons before she splashed in milk.

  Riley realized the kid had ordered a stack of pancakes as well as bacon and three scrambled eggs with toast. “I’ll have a bagel.”

  “Sure.”

  When the waitress left, Sandy leaned forward. “The cook can be a jerk, but he makes great eggs. Whenever I have extra change I eat here. Coffee is unlimited. Amazing how long you can go on coffee.”

  “And hot water.”

  “With ketchup, it’s a soup.” She drummed her fingers on the greasy table and snuck a glance toward the waitress. “You can play that card once here. Nico, the cook, doesn’t like it.”

  “I’ll bet.” She traced the edge of her cup. “What’s going on with Cassie?”

  “I haven’t seen her in over a day.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “For her, yes. She likes to check in with me. And Tony is freaking out. He’s looking for Darla now. Wants to know where Darla took his merchandise.”

  “No sign of Darla?” Riley asked.

  “No. She’s hiding out.”

  “Do you have any pictures of Cassie?”

  “No.”

  “This guy I’m looking for likes dark hair.”

  Sandy’s eyes narrowed. “Cassie said Darla wanted to color her hair dark.”

  From what she’d heard about Darla, the woman was resourceful. If a buyer wanted a brunette and she didn’t have a girl that fit the bill, she’d make one. “Did she say who the john was?”

  “I asked Tony. He said the guy was rich and would show her a good time. Said not to worry.” She shook her head. “When Tony says not to worry, I do.”

  The waitress arrived with Riley’s bagel. “The other gal’s order will be right up.”

  “Thanks.” Riley looked at the girl’s gaunt face. She pushed the bagel toward Sandy. “I’m not hungry. Why don’t you snack on this while you wait for your meal.”

  “I won’t say no.” Sandy bit into half of the bagel and shoved the other half in her pocket.

  “Where’s Cassie from?”

  “Western part of the state, I think. Some little hick town. Figured she’d come to the big city, get a job, and her life would get on track.”

  “That didn’t work out well, did it?”

  “No.”

  “Drugs?”

  “She didn’t want to at first, but Tony kept pushing. It’s not out of control, but . . . close.” Sandy sniffed. “She can’t handle the drugs or streets like me.”

  Riley studied the dark circles under the girl’s sunken eyes. She wasn’t really handling it either. This life was simply killing her more slowly. “How much longer can you handle it?”

  The waitress arrived at the table with Sandy’s food, and she didn’t speak for several minutes while she inhaled the feast.

  “Darla drives a motor home,” Sandy said.

  “Know any places she likes to park it?”

  “There’s an old motel about twenty miles east. Has lots of rooms not connected.”

  “Cottage-style?”

  “Yeah.”<
br />
  “Okay.” Riley glanced out the window and saw Bowman standing by his car. Even from this distance, she could see him watching them.

  “No one will testify against him or Darla. They’re too afraid.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m not planning on sticking around. I don’t want to end up dead.”

  “They won’t let you leave.”

  “I’m not going to ask for permission.” She looked toward the door as if she suddenly thought Tony might be watching.

  “If you want to get out, I can help.”

  “I’ve pushed luck enough as it is.” Sandy mopped up the syrup on her plate with the last bit of pancake and ate it. As she swallowed, her phone buzzed and she tugged it from her pocket before the second ring. “I need to go.”

  “I can help you, Sandy.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said, sliding from the booth. “Just find Cassie. She has a chance to get out.”

  Riley slid to the edge of the booth, pulled another business card from her back pocket, and pressed it into Sandy’s hand. “Just in case.”

  “I have your number.”

  “Then give it to another girl who needs help.”

  “You lived on the streets, didn’t you?”

  Riley dug a twenty out of her pocket, set it on the table, and placed her untouched coffee cup on top of it. “What makes you say that?”

  “A vibe. Like you get what it’s like. No judgment in your eyes.”

  “I’ve been a cop for eight years. I’ve seen my share.”

  “A lot of cops see.” She texted a message on her cell phone. “Few understand.”

  “Lucky, I guess.”

  “See you around, Lucky.”

  Riley watched the girl push through the front door and cross the lot outside. She moved toward a dark truck, spoke to the driver, and climbed inside the cab.

  Never in Riley’s career had she wanted to see two people behind bars more than she did Darla and Jax. Jo-Jo might not ever testify against Jax, but he’d broken enough laws, including evading the police and possession of drugs in his car, to get him some time in prison. A prison sentence would give her the time to build a human trafficking case against him.

  Outside, she walked toward the parking lot, watching as Bowman stepped away from his vehicle. He wore a dark sports coat over his white shirt and dark pants, but when a flap of wind caught the edges of the jacket, she glimpsed the weapon at his side.