“So you say.”
He was trying to help her. Instead, she was cool as a cucumber and he was getting annoyed. He didn’t appreciate the knock on his integrity. “There’re going to be more bodies, Trooper. In his killing year there were four bodies.” He balled up his napkin and placed it on the table. “It’s too bad that another girl will have to die before you see the light and tell me what you know.” He reached in his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you change your mind, please call me.”
Her chest rose and fell. She glared at him while sliding out of the booth and grabbed her purse. She left his card behind. She moved with a steady precision that had him watching the sway of her hips. “I know you’re the one, Riley. I know it.”
When Riley slid into her SUV, the seat’s warmth seeped into her skin but didn’t quite chase the chill from her body. She didn’t have any real memory of what had happened to her in New Orleans, but Bowman was right, she needed to tell.
With a trembling hand, she checked her messages and realized Dr. Kincaid had called. En route home to walk Cooper and check in on Hanna, she called the medical examiner and was sent to voice mail. “Dr. Kincaid, this is Trooper Tatum calling you back.”
As she hung up the phone, it rang, displaying Dakota Sharp’s name. “Agent Sharp.”
“Where are you?”
“About home. What’s up?”
“I’ve a body that might be of interest to you.”
Her breath stilled. “Why’s that?”
“He has poker chips in his pockets, and his suit reminds me of a fancy gambler.”
“Give me the address.”
When he shared the location, she didn’t need to plug it into her GPS. It was five miles from her home and close to where they’d found Vicky. She drove fifteen miles north and took the exit she took every night to go home. She wound along the back road until she spotted the flash of cop car lights in the distance. Parking behind Dakota’s vehicle, Riley stepped out and moved toward the tape where Agent Sharp and Sheriff Barrett stood.
“Had an interesting visitor. From Shield Security,” she said.
“I’ve heard of them,” Barrett said. “Firm near Quantico.”
“What’re they doing here?” Sharp asked.
She held his gaze. She knew Sharp was a straight shooter, and at this point she had to trust someone. “The Gilbert case landed on Shield’s radar.”
“Okay.”
“Joshua Shield, the firm’s CEO, used to be FBI. When he was with the bureau, he investigated a string of cases similar to our murder. They called the killer the Shark.”
Sharp didn’t speak for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “Shield sends a guy. Why go to you?”
“Lucky, I guess. The guy who paid me a visit is Clay Bowman. He was picking my brain on the case.” She held up her hand as he readied to argue. “And I didn’t give him anything on Vicky Gilbert. This is your active investigation, and I’m not that green.”
Sharp looked dubious. “Did he offer up any help?”
“He did. I refused it.”
“Why’d you say no?”
“Nothing’s free.” She shielded her eyes against the setting sun as she stared over the billowing yellow crime scene tape toward the technicians photographing the body next to a dumpster. “This killer, the Shark, is apparently a ghost. Blew into New Orleans, killed four girls, and was gone within a couple of weeks.”
“They call him the Shark? As in a high-stakes card player?” Sharp confirmed.
“Yep.”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Sharp asked. “We aren’t exactly a hotbed of gambling.”
“Private games aren’t just in Las Vegas and Atlantic City,” Riley said.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Her chest tightened. “I’m from New Orleans. When I was a teenager, it wasn’t good in my home. I ran away.”
Silent at first, he stared at her. “What are you saying?”
“Bowman said we’d see more bodies in the next few weeks if we don’t catch this guy,” she said. Bowman’s words weighed heavily on her shoulders. She had been glib with him, but to think she was the reason that young girl had died made her sick.
“Keep talking.”
It was confession time, so better to spit it all out. “I have a gap of several missing days while I was in New Orleans. When I woke up I was in Virginia, and shoved in my back pocket was a set of cards like the one we found on Vicky. My hand was a royal flush and nothing was written on them.”
Sharp sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I didn’t want to be associated with the victim. I’m days away from finalizing Hanna’s adoption.”
“Where are the cards?”
“At my house.”
“I want them.”
“Right. Of course.” She looked at him. “If I could recall any detail I thought would really help, I’d have told you sooner.”
“Get me the cards by tomorrow morning.”
“Please, don’t pull me off the case.”
A muscle pulsed in Sharp’s jaw. Without giving her an answer, he nodded toward the yellow tape. “According to this victim’s driver’s license, his name is Kevin Lewis.”
“Kevin?”
“He has a couple of hundred dollars shoved in his wallet and a diamond ring on his hand.”
“So not a robbery.”
Sharp pulled his sunglasses off and bit on the end of an earpiece that looked half-eaten with worry. “If it were, the killer was after something entirely different. The ring and cash might have been small change in comparison.”
“Can I have a look?” She half expected him to say no.
“Suit yourself.”
Riley accepted latex gloves from Sharp, and tugging them on, ducked under the tape to move closer as he trailed behind her. Martin, the forensic investigator, was sketching out the scene on a large white pad of paper. “Martin, what do you have?”
Martin labeled something on his sketch before he looked up. “Kevin Lewis. Fifty-one years old and from Las Vegas. I count at least a half-dozen bullet wounds.”
She knelt by the body. Lifting his hand, she noted it was just stiffening with rigor mortis. The nails were buffed, but the tips on his right hand were stained with nicotine. The diamond in the ring was at least a carat. “He’s not been dead all that long.”
“Less than six hours.”
His face was ghost white under three or four days’ worth of beard. Streaks of silver hair feathered around his temples. Hints of an expensive aftershave still lingered on his clothes. An old scar etched his left cheek. A gold earring winked from his left earlobe.
His black pants were tailored and made to fit the guy’s toned frame. The belt with a stylish silver buckle looked expensive, as did the white shirt now stained with multiple blooms of blood in the center of his chest. She could imagine him sitting at a poker table, a cigar or cigarette hanging from his mouth as he fanned his cards.
“Martin, can I move the victim?” Riley asked.