He felt her relax and he slowly moved inside her. When she grew wetter, he pushed deeper. She arched back and for a moment he forgot about everything but her.
Now, turning from the window, he moved toward a couch, which was the lone piece of furniture he’d ordered. No sense furnishing a house that would soon see construction crews.
When his wife died, he’d not kept any of the furniture they shared, unable to deal with the grief he attached to everything she’d collected over the years. So he’d given it all away and moved into a furnished studio apartment until his next assignment. He’d lived out of a suitcase for the next few years.
Fatigue tightening his muscles, he moved back to the computer and opened the file marked Elizabeth Riley Tatum. Sipping scotch, he picked up the picture taken of her when she was a junior in high school. She stared directly into the camera, forcing a smile, her long dark hair flowing around her shoulders. In the next image she wore a fancy dress and held a bouquet of flowers. The dress fit her body well and clearly a lot of time had gone into making it, but it didn’t look like something she would have picked for herself. When he studied her face, he could see that she was uncomfortable. She reminded him of a fashion model with no expression. Like the dress, the name Elizabeth didn’t suit her well. Too proper. Too fussy. Riley fit her better.
She’d done substandard work in high school, making Cs and some Bs. She had been on the tennis team and played local tournaments. By all appearances, she was the perfect society girl. Then her mother died, and within a week she ran away from home, vanished for seven days, and found herself in Virginia. There were no police records of her leaving home. But a stepfather like Riley’s wouldn’t want the world knowing what had happened in his house.
He tapped his finger on the side of the glass and flipped through the files until he had her stepfather’s profile in front of him. He’d instantly disliked William Charles and knew he was hiding secrets. Shield said he was a gambler, but Bowman sensed there was more. So he started digging.
William Charles, age sixty-five, had come from old money and worked as a lawyer in New Orleans. He enjoyed a thriving practice and a solid reputation as a corporate attorney, splitting his time between New Orleans and Washington, DC. Eight years ago he married a woman twenty-five years his junior. The lovely look-alike of his first wife.
Bowman had to excavate deep into the computer files before he found a New Orleans police report for Charles, who had been picked up for solicitation fifteen years ago.
He reached for his phone. It took three calls and a promise of a big favor before he finally got through to the officer who’d arrested William Charles.
“Who is this?” The officer’s graveled voice fired the question as if he faced an assailant.
“This is Clay Bowman. I work with Shield Security in Virginia.”
“That supposed to mean something?”
“It means enough to your boss, Lieutenant Randy Mills. He gave me this number.”
In the background he heard the click of a light. “Okay, Mr. Bowman. What do you want?”
“I’m digging into an arrest you made fifteen years ago.”
The officer chuckled. “That’s a hell of a long time ago.”
“I know. But this guy was fairly prominent. His name is William Charles.”
A long pause followed. “I remember him. Bigwig. A real charmer.”
“I’m interested in his history.”
Silence.
“And?” Bowman prompted.
“He was picked up in a sting operation. The powers that be at the time were going after the johns. The program didn’t last very long. They scooped up a few too many big fish in their nets.”
“Including Charles.”
“He was one of several that were caught with an underage prostitute.”
“No charges were filed.”
“None. And the girl in question vanished a few days after the incident. Some say he paid her off, whereas others think maybe she’s at the bottom of Lake Pontchartrain. No proof either way.”
Fifteen years ago, Charles’s wife would have been ill and Riley close to sixteen. “No one ever took a statement from the prostitute?”
“If they did, the report vanished along with her,” the officer continued. “Word is he was a regular. He liked the younger girls. He was particular about what he wanted. Dark hair, I recall.”
Like his wife. Like Riley. “Any other reports against him?”
“None. As far as his records are concerned, he was a choirboy who had a minor fall from grace.”
“Right.”
A chair squeaked as if he leaned forward. “But don’t let that fool you. Guys like him don’t quit. They adapt.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Sunday, September 18, 7:15 a.m.
Riley had slept very little last night. Her head buzzed with images from the video as she paced her kitchen and waited for the sun to rise. As soon as Hanna was off to her morning training run, she would contact Bowman.
He picked up on the first ring. “Riley.”
“We need to talk.”
“Okay. I can meet you.” He sounded alert, focused.
“How about Duke’s?”
“When?”
“An hour?”
“Done. Are you okay?”
“Just be on time.”
She grabbed Cooper’s leash and took him for a quick walk. As they moved toward the street, a dark-blue car was parked in front of her house. She slowed her pace, absently checking the gun holstered on her hip under her shirt. When the back car door opened, she unsnapped the holster’s guard and settled her hand on the gun’s grip.
An older, thin man rose out of the car, tugging off sunglasses as he turned. She took a step back, releasing the gun as her heart hammered in her chest.
“William?”
He stopped and studied her. “You look well, Riley.”
“What do you want?” She thought about the video. Was he playing a game with her?
“Curious about you.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m alive and well. Now leave.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who is Clay Bowman?”
“Excuse me?”
“He came to see me. Asked questions about you.”
She refused to let him see her surprise or anger. “And what did you tell him?”
“The truth. You were a difficult child.”
Riley flexed her fingers, her annoyance at Bowman consumed by old angers toward this old man. She took a step toward him. “Did you also tell him how you made a move on me? How you wanted to play house?”
He raised his chin. “You clearly do not remember what was the truth.”
“And that was what? That you were the noble stepfather who only had my best interests at heart?”
“That is true, Riley. I only wanted the best for you.”
She could rail and shout and call him a liar, but what difference would it make? He was a creep. Always would be. And nothing she said would change that. “There was a car following me a few days ago. Was it you?”
Confusion glistened in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been to my house before,” she pressed.
“No.”