“It is. So please be careful when you’re running around town.”
“I know. I know,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Situational awareness.”
“I mean it.”
Hanna straightened. “I know.”
“Good.” Riley rose. “Homework?”
“Just a little.”
“Get it done while I do a little computer work.”
“Fine.”
Riley cleaned the dishes and sat on the couch with her laptop. Cooper settled at her feet, chewing his favorite red rubber ring.
She typed in the particulars of this murder case into Google. Strangulation. Young female. Playing cards.
Not surprisingly, nothing came up.
It would be easy to chock up Jane Doe’s murder to an angry pimp or a crazed john. Girls like that died all the time without much notice. But this kid’s death wasn’t typical.
Her index finger lightly tapped the side of the keyboard. She wanted to believe this case was random. But she learned a long time ago the universe didn’t care about her wants and needs.
She typed New Orleans and the year she’d left the Big Easy for good.
For a long moment her finger hovered over the “Enter” button. What would Sharp say if he knew about her set of cards? Would he see a connection or tell her she was worried over nothing? Shit. Either way, he’d pull her off the case. And what if social services got wind of this? She couldn’t let either outcome happen. She pressed “Enter” and sat back as the adrenaline rushed through her body.
An icon on the screen swirled. But there were no matches in the search results.
She looks like you.
Riley shook off Sheriff Barrett’s words and shut off the computer.
Kevin sat in the dark, swirling the amber scotch in a crystal glass. The ice clinked again and again, slowly melting and diluting the twenty-year-old liquor.
His losing streak had stalked him for a year and had taken a toll on his reputation. His ribs still ached from the beating he’d received ten days ago from the Vegas thugs who were looking for a couple hundred thousand dollars paid in full.
Then he heard about the life-and-death game, which hadn’t been played in years. He thought he’d found his way back into the big leagues. The Shark spotted any challenger ten-to-one odds if they brought a very specific kind of girl to the game. Kevin had twenty grand left to his name, but he had the potential of turning that into two hundred grand. That would have been enough to pay off his debts with a healthy bonus to the girl.
The girl, his stake in the game, had been easy to find. Vicky cost him two grand and he promised her pimp he would return her within twenty-four hours. He was certain when they left the diner he’d win, and in the end he’d help her get free of the life.
The game began well enough. He won several of the opening hands. The wins emboldened him, and when the final hand was dealt, he was already thinking beyond the game to his new fortune. In his mind, he was on the verge of saving himself and the girl.
When the last card had turned, and he was looking at four queens, he was certain the Shark couldn’t pull out a full house. What were the odds? But then the Shark’s last card turned. A king.
The Shark had won.
He had lost.
Rising now, Kevin stared into his glass of scotch, then gulped the contents. He savored the familiar burn as it trickled down his throat.
The image of Vicky’s face flashed in his mind. Her blue eyes were desperate and pleading as she gasped for the air he was slowly cutting off.
He thought once he placed her in the field as instructed with the cards tucked in her pocket that he could move on with his life. He’d lost considerable fortunes at poker plenty of times but had recovered. He had enough money to vanish. He should cut his losses.
He rose, grimacing as his bruised ribs pinched. So why was he still in town? Why couldn’t he forget that girl? And why did losing to the old man continue to dig at his pride?
CHAPTER SIX
Wednesday, September 14, 6:00 p.m.
Clay Bowman’s computer dinged, signaling a message from his boss, Joshua Shield. He reached for the fresh cup of coffee and sipped as he read the e-mail’s subject line: Riley Tatum. His interest sharpened as he scanned the details of a murder scene she’d responded to yesterday.
“Have you had a chance to read the e-mail?”
Bowman looked up to see Shield standing in his doorway. The man had been an FBI agent for twenty-five years, joining at age twenty-seven after five years in the marines. Over the years, the challenge of the investigative work crumbled under the bureau’s politics, so ten years ago, when he was on the verge of a huge promotion, he walked away and founded Shield Security. The company quickly earned a solid reputation and proved to all he’d not lost his mind but had made a solid choice. He’d grown the company to twenty-five employees in the last few years.
Shield, like Bowman’s father, Zeb, had graduated from the Virginia Military Institute and had always had an interest in the younger Bowman’s career. When Bowman left the bureau last month, Shield had been ready with this job offer.
Bowman rose. “You sent it less than a minute ago.”
“And your point is?”
Bowman smiled. “Why don’t you fill me in on the details?”
“Riley Tatum is an accomplished Virginia state trooper. She’s one of the best trackers in the region.”
“That’s not what caught your eye, is it? It has something to do with this murder scene she responded to yesterday.”
Shield moved into Bowman’s bare office that had yet to reflect any personality and sat in one of the matching chairs in front of the desk. There were boxes filled with diplomas lined along the wall, two mugs, and a group picture of five men who’d graduated from the Virginia Military Institute with Bowman seventeen years ago. But he’d yet to put anything up. He had been on the move for six years, not settling anywhere since his wife died. Joining Shield Security was a big move for him. It meant learning new patterns. New habits. Accepting that he was home.
“Remember when we worked the Shark case together in the New Orleans bureau twelve years ago?”
Bowman sat. He remembered the case. He had been in New Orleans about eighteen months when bodies of young runaways were discovered strangled with playing cards in their pockets. He and Karen had loved the city and were making a lot of good memories. He and Shield were about six months into the case when Bowman had been relocated to the LA bureau office. A few years later, Karen had gotten sick with pancreatic cancer and he’d transferred to Hostage Rescue Team. The Shark fell off his radar. “How does the Shark relate to Riley Tatum?”
“A buddy of mine at the Virginia State Police sent me a file on a body found yesterday,” Shield said. “Young runaway, strangled, with playing cards in her back pocket. Just like the Shark.”
Interest stirred in Bowman. “That’s an FBI case; I thought you left the bureau behind.”