Fifteen minutes later, her still-moist hair was twisted into a bun at the base of her head and she’d dressed in slim brown slacks, a white shirt, and a blazer. She was cooking eggs and toast when she heard Hanna stumble out of her room and into the shower.
“Shake a leg, kid,” she shouted as she glanced at the clock on the stove. “Your ride will be here in twenty minutes.”
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.”