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. That’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.