“Makes sense,” he said.
“Wouldn’t hurt for me to hit the hangouts where the runaways gather as I’m patrolling today.” Someone always knew something, and it was simply a matter of finding the right person. The faster she moved, the better her chances of unearthing a lead before it went cold.
He shrugged as if his mind had already shifted to more important cases. “I won’t say no. You’ll keep me posted.”
“Of course.”
Martin straightened. “Let’s have a look at the backpack.”
Martin planted a number next to the backpack. Next he documented the item first in a sketch, then with more pictures. “Sheriff, you can open the backpack now.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Let Tatum do the honors. She was first at the scene.”
Riley unzipped the bag and examined the contents: a water bottle on top of worn jeans, a sweatshirt smelling of sweat and dirt, athletic shoes slightly worn on the bottom, a yellow dress, heels, and a toothbrush wrapped in a plastic bag.
Sheriff Barrett tugged off his glasses and leaned closer. The lines around his eyes and mouth deepened as he frowned. “ID?”
“Not in the bag,” she said.
In a side pocket she found several crumpled one-dollar bills and a pamphlet for a youth emergency shelter she recognized.
Sheriff Barrett rested a hand on his holstered gun. “Trooper, what’s the backpack tell you about her?”
“The bag suggests she’s been moving around,” Riley said. “She’s thin, likely underfed by Jax, so she’s been with him at least a month. But the pedicure looks fresh and professional. Most pimps like Jax don’t make that kind of investment. Girls like her are lucky to get a shower and fed.”
Martin straightened and lowered his camera, bending backward to stretch his back.
“I see the pamphlet is for Duke Spence’s shelter,” Sheriff Barrett said. “Spence is always handing out flyers at the truck stops, malls, and city streets.” He looked at the victim. “There was something about that girl I couldn’t put my finger on until now. She looks a little like you, Trooper.”
Riley, grateful for the protection of her sunglasses, delayed her comment until her annoyance passed. “Not even close.”
The sheriff shrugged. “Not saying that to rattle your cage, Tatum. I mean it.”
Not convinced his intentions were sincere, she didn’t look at the body. “Dark hair and tanned skin. That’s about all we share.”
Sheriff Barrett stared at the dead girl’s face a long moment. “Hell, Tatum, she could be your sister.”
His words burrowed under her skin and he knew it. Cops were always searching for weakness within their ranks, and she’d absorbed her share of hazing when she first rode patrol. With cops, the teasing never really stopped.
Grinning with satisfaction, he checked a worn black Timex watch. “When will the body be transported to the medical examiner’s office?” he asked.
“About an hour,” Martin said. “Team is on the way.”
Eight years of working patrol had introduced her to death multiple times. Car accidents, shootings, domestic fights. Still, heaviness settled in Riley’s chest as she struggled to remember the girl alive. No one deserved this.
Kids from the streets were invisible to most. Faceless. Nameless. Most of the politicians didn’t care if a homeless kid, here or there, vanished. This girl’s death would soon fall off the radar.
“Riley,” Martin said. “Open the side pouch of the backpack while I photograph it.”
Riley squatted and unzipped the pocket. She held the flap open while the camera snapped.
“Go ahead and remove the contents of the bag,” Martin said.
She reached in and pulled out five playing cards, which she fanned. Thick paper stock. The face of each card was smooth, but carefully detailed. Tension rippled up her arm, and when she turned the cards over and stared at the ornate scroll pattern on the backing, her breath caught. The word Loser was written in bold black lettering on the back of each card. “A three of spades, a two of diamonds, a five of clubs, a four of hearts, and a king of diamonds.”
The cards struck an unwelcome chord she thought long buried from a case dating back twelve years. As her heart kicked into gear, Riley was careful to keep her expression neutral as she bagged each one and handed them to Sheriff Barrett.
“If she was playing poker,” Sheriff Barrett said, “she would’ve been a loser. She was holding about the worst possible hand.”
“The deck of cards to a serious player is critical,” Riley said.
“You a card player?” Sheriff Barrett sounded amused.
“Stepfather was a big gambler. According to him there were good cards and bad cards.”
Sheriff Barrett shrugged. “They’re all good. Depends on the combination you need.”
The heat of the day faded; the sound of traffic on the main road vanished.
When she’d run away, street life was far tougher than she’d imagined. She quickly ran out of money and within days was so hungry. When a church volunteer had offered her bottled water, she’d taken it gladly. That was the last thing she remembered. She lost seven days.
At the end of those missing days when she’d crawled free of a void, she could barely focus, her system loaded with some narcotic cocktail. But one of her first memories was of finding five playing cards in her back pocket. Same deck as these, different spread. But there were no words scrawled on her cards.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, September 13, 3:00 p.m.
Riley stood in the field staring at the cards, burrowing into those lost days in her past, trying to remember any detail.
“Riley?”
She glanced up at the sheriff. “Yeah.”
The lines around his eyes deepened. “You see something?”
She tore her gaze from the cards. “I thought I did, but no.”
“You sure?” Sheriff Barrett had been a cop too long not to sense tension or smell an evasion.
“I thought they reminded me of an old case I came across a couple of years ago.” Lies worked best when you kept the details scant and threaded in the truth when possible. “But I was wrong.” She handed the cards back to him.
The sheriff held the plastic bag up to the light and glared at the cards as if searching for what she might have seen. “Where do you think they came from?”
Keeping her voice steady when she spoke, she said, “These are professional-grade cards. They don’t come cheap.”
“And the word Loser?”
“I don’t know.” The crisp lines of the white-and-black baroque were more likely linked to a high-stakes private game. She studied the delicate pattern.
“You sure?” Sheriff Barrett asked.
She looked toward the victim again, studying the color of her hair, the long, lean limbs, and the tapered hands. “Nothing catches my eye yet.”
“Trooper, you’re studying that face mighty hard,” the sheriff said.
Riley straightened but made no comment.