The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1) (4 page)

“Hooking.”

He shook his head. “Girls like this don’t fare well.”

It had been four weeks since she’d seen this girl vanish into the motor home. She’d been ready to knock on the door and demand to see her. Then the call came from dispatch and she’d been pulled away. What would have happened if she’d been at the scene just another ten minutes? Would she have had time to check IDs and find out where the girl really belonged? “No, they do not.”

Martin leaned in and checked the victim’s front and back pockets. He retrieved a crumpled dollar bill, a stick of gum, and two condoms. “We might find ID in the backpack.”

As he drew closer and studied the ligature marks on the neck, he said, “There’s a tattoo on the back of her neck. There’s an extra pair of gloves on my worktable over there. Put them on and you can have a look.”

She moved to the table, noting the neatly organized bags, cameras, and sketch pads. Martin insisted on organization. She plucked a fresh pair of latex gloves from the box and pulled them onto her hands.

As she moved toward Martin, he lifted the curtain of hair off the neck. Above the ligature mark were the initials
JC
. The letters were crudely written, the dark ink thick and uneven. She knew them for what they were.
JC.
“Jax Carter’s brand.”

“The man you arrested?” Martin asked.

“I knew he controlled several girls. He put one in the hospital with broken bones, but he wouldn’t tell me where the other girls were. I’ll bet money the motor home I saw this girl vanish into belonged to him.”

“Heard he spent the night cuffed to a tree,” Martin said.

“The deputies were only an hour behind me.”

Martin’s dark eyes danced with amusement. “I heard they weren’t in a real rush.”

“Safety first. Didn’t want anyone twisting an ankle.”

The humor faded from his gaze as he shifted his attention back to the body. “Well, then he couldn’t have killed this girl.”

Riley agreed. “But he has a girlfriend named Darla Johnson. I pulled up her arrest record. She looks strong enough to have done it.”

“How many girls does he have?”

“It’s a guess, but I’d say two or three at a time. I stopped by the hospital to talk to the kid Jax beat up, but she’s still out of it. Broken ribs and heroin withdrawal. It’ll be a few days before she can talk.”

Martin scowled. “That kid has a long road ahead of her.”

“Police got a look at her cell phone,” Riley said. “There’re quite a few texts between Jax and the girl.”

“Not a big surprise.”

“No, it’s not,” Riley said. “I’d have waited, but the media arrived outside the hospital.”

“I know you. You’ll see her soon and get some answers.”

“I will.” Riley studied the victim’s sightless gaze. A ring of purple bruises wrapped around her neck like a morbid piece of jewelry. Reaching for her phone, she snapped a picture of the girl’s face.

“Who’s investigating the murder?” Martin asked.

“I don’t know if it’s been assigned yet, but I bet the investigation gets tossed to state police. This case reaches beyond the county’s jurisdiction, and no one is going to want an unsolved homicide before a big concert brings in lots of people and money.”

Martin raised the camera as he snapped more pictures of the victim. High cheekbones tapered into parted full lips. Her peasant top rode up, exposing a narrow waist and the underside of full breasts. The jeans were a standard variety, not designer, but they looked new and clean. She wore no shoes, but her toenails were freshly painted a bright red, like her fingernails.

As Riley knelt next to the girl’s face, a bone-deep sadness settled. “So damn young,” she said, more to herself. A few more minutes and maybe she could have saved her.

Martin clicked through the last few camera images, studying them. “At her age I was more worried about passing my final chemistry exam or making sure I had a date on Saturday night.”

Riley had worried over her share of tests, but dates had been a low priority after her mother died and her stepfather’s ogling turned hungry.

In the days after the funeral, she’d hear him pacing in front of her door as if mustering his courage. When he finally burst into the room and moved toward her, she curled her fingers into a fist and punched him. He swore, cupping his bloodied nose as he retreated. Terrified, she slammed her door and pushed her dresser in front of it. And when he tried the knob and couldn’t get in, he pounded on her door, demanding she let him inside.
“You’re like your mother. Selfish, cold. Never good enough.”

When her stepfather left for work the next day, she shoved clothes and whatever cash she could find into a backpack and left. Her plan was to get a job in one of the New Orleans diners or restaurants and find a new place to live. She was convinced any life was better than hers. However, like most kids who took to the streets, she underestimated the monsters lurking by the abyss.

Riley had sugarcoated her teen years when she’d met with Hanna’s social worker. She had never lied but a lot went unsaid.

Squad car lights flashed on the trees, drawing her gaze over her shoulder. Sheriff Bobby Barrett’s black SUV parked behind Deputy DuPont’s vehicle, carving a spot out of the mud and gravel.

Sheriff Barrett stood close to six feet. Twenty-five years separated him from his training days, and though time had swapped muscle for bulk, he retained his determined jock gait that telegraphed to the world to stand clear.

“The party has started,” Martin said.

“What, I don’t count?” Riley asked.

“You’re a baby in the eyes of the area sheriffs’ offices. Ol’ Bobby is the king of it all. Tell me you’ve had your shots. I hear he bites.”

Rising, Riley dusted the dirt from her hands. “I bite back.”

Martin shook his head. “Now that, I’d like to see.”

Sheriff Barrett paused to talk to DuPont, and the two exchanged a hearty handshake along with a couple of easy smiles. However, Sheriff Barrett’s smile vanished when he glanced past DuPont and saw her.

Refusing to look away, she pulled a brand-new small spiral notebook from her back pocket. She filled dozens of notebooks like this one each year.

She watched as DuPont raised the tape for Sheriff Barrett and smiled, easy and relaxed. The sheriff’s long strides cut through the weeds, which she imagined magically parted for the guy who had been the sheriff for two decades.

“To what do we owe the honor of the state police?” the sheriff asked.

“Received a call from Russell Hudson. He found a body,” Riley said.

“Where’s Russ?” the sheriff asked.

“In his car. He’s not happy about staying.”

“Ah hell, there’s no need to hold him.” He turned and ordered DuPont to send Russ home. “We can find him anytime we need. And I know he sure didn’t kill this girl.”

Riley watched as DuPont hustled over to Russ’s truck and gave him the good news. The man nodded, tossed her a glare, and drove off.

“So do we know the victim’s identity?” Sheriff Barrett asked.

“No ID,” Riley said. “But I crossed paths with her about four weeks ago. I didn’t get a name, but she was hanging out with Jax Carter. My dog also found a backpack about fifty yards north.”

“She’s not from this area, or if she is, she’s new,” Barrett said.

She showed the sheriff the girl’s tattoo and gave him the update on Jax.

“So she’s a hooker,” Sheriff Barrett concluded.

“She’s a kid.”

Hearing the anger humming under her tone, he planted thick fingers on his gun belt. “Don’t you got bigger fish to fry?”

Contempt scraped the underside of her skin. If this victim’s daddy were rich or gave a damn, this place would be covered with cops. “Not right now.”

“My money says she’s a hooker working the I-95 truck stops. With a concert that’s supposed to bring in several thousand people, it makes sense that the traffickers like Carter would be moving girls into the area.” The case was hours old and Barrett already sounded tired.

“We might learn more when we run her prints through AFIS,” Riley said. The Automated Fingerprint Information System maintained fingerprints from a variety of sources, including arrests, employment, and background checks.

“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.

“We don’t get many murders in this county, but always stings more when they’re young. I never get used to it.”

“Once I have the scene processed,” Martin said, “I’ll let you know if we find anything else.”

“Sounds good,” Sheriff Barrett said.

Riley was puzzled by the body’s position. “The killer took the time to pose her sitting up as if she were resting. She’s also fully dressed. He could have abused the body, but he didn’t. And her face was turned downward, so her eyes didn’t look up at him.”

“That’s one way of looking at it, I guess,” the sheriff said. “Or they could have been doing drugs or having sex and it went sideways.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He strangles her, which is a very personal way of killing someone, but then he feels bad enough not to dump her body like a bag of trash.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sheriff Barrett glanced back toward the interstate ramp. “The killer could have disposed of her body and been back on his way north or south in a matter of minutes.”

“He could be three states away by now.”

“Martin, any tire tracks?” the sheriff asked.

“Not in the field, but there are fresh ones on the side of the road just beyond Hudson’s truck. I’ve dropped flags to preserve them. There are plenty of footprints, though. Someone walked around the body several times. Could have been Hudson, since the impressions were made by work boots, which I am assuming he’s wearing.”

“He is,” Riley confirmed.

“I’ll need impressions of Hudson’s boots.”

“I’ll swing by his place and get them,” Sheriff Barrett countered.

“Judging by the size of the footprints, I’d say a man’s ten or eleven,” Martin said.

“We should be able to clear Hudson as soon as I get his impressions,” Sheriff Barrett said.

“A DNA swab wouldn’t hurt,” Martin added.

“Sure.” The sheriff rolled his head from side to side. “Trooper, any other thoughts?”

“The victim is thin, so she wouldn’t have been hard to carry,” Riley said. Had he slung her over his shoulder or carried her in his arms? Both images, one suggesting disinterest and the other care, bothered her. She shook both off. As a cop, it was better to focus on facts rather than feelings. Easy enough during the daylight, but at night those denied emotions robbed her of sleep. “Can you tell if she died here?”

Martin examined the victim’s back and side. The victim’s right side was stippled with dark blue as if bruised. “When she died and her heart stopped, she was on her side. Likely stayed that way for a while—gave the blood time to settle. If she’d died here, like this, the blood would have settled in her hands and the bottom half of her legs. My guess is she died somewhere else.”

“Gambling’s not legal in this state,” Sheriff Barrett observed as he studied the cards.

“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Private games go on all the time,” Riley said. “The big players don’t fuss with public venues.”

“High stakes. In a fancy backroom game. Sounds far-fetched,” he said, more to himself.

Riley blinked, remembering her stepfather had been a high roller who couldn’t stay away from the tables. “These guys play with the best cards, and they hire the prettiest girls to serve them drinks and keep their mouth shut about what they see.”

The sheriff’s head cocked slightly as he studied her. “You pick all that up while on patrol?”

“I pay attention.”

“All right,” he said after a pause. “Keep me updated. I’ll contact criminal investigations with the state and turn the case over to them.”

“Sounds good.”

Sheriff Barrett crossed the field, shook DuPont’s hand, climbed in his car, and left.

“Are you okay, Riley?” Martin asked. “You look a little pale.”

She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Still worn out a little from yesterday. I’ll be fine.”

“Sure? Hell, you look like someone walked on your grave.”

His concern pricked at her pride. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Mr. Drama.” A deadpan tone made the statement laughable.

“I can see that.” Riley grinned, hoping to break the tension coiling inside her.

But the levity was fleeting. If not for the cards, she would have theorized that a john or one of Jax’s friends had killed the girl. It was the most plausible conclusion. If not for the cards.

“Seriously, you okay?” Martin studied her like he would one of his crime scenes. “You ain’t gonna faint on me, are you?”

She mustered another smile. “Hell, no.”

“Thank God.”

The crunch of gravel under tires had her turning to spot a television news van rolling up on the other side of the highway across from the spot Sheriff Barrett had vacated.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Riley said.

“Good news travels fast.”

“He’s not here for this case. He’s here for me. I saw him at the park yesterday, and he was at the hospital this morning.”

“He wants to talk to the woman of the hour.”

“Unfortunately. And thanks to the sheriff’s perfect timing, I’m not going to be able to sneak away.”

“Maybe DuPont will talk to him and run interference.”

“DuPont isn’t going to do me a favor.”

“You handled the media well enough yesterday after the Carter arrest,” Martin said.

“I didn’t say a whole lot.”

“Exactly. The less said the better.”

“Even then, think twice.”

The cards still playing on her mind, she moved back toward the road where DuPont and the other deputies stood, arms crossed, faces grim. In no mood to deal, she moved past them with a quick nod, knowing it would not serve her well to quip with a deputy while the media was close. Keeping her gaze trained ahead, she adjusted her sunglasses. “Have a good one.”

No response followed as she approached her car and opened the backseat door to allow Cooper to jump inside. She switched on the engine and the air-conditioning.

The reporter, Eddie Potter, was a guy in his late forties who favored blue button-down shirts and khakis that hung loosely on his trim frame. He crossed toward her.

“Trooper!” he shouted, waving his hand. Behind him, an older, sturdy man unloaded the camera, and though he didn’t stroll, he didn’t race like the reporter. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you again this morning when they arrested Carter.”

She settled Cooper in the backseat and closed the car door. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Eddie Potter. I’m with local news.”

“Yes, sir. I remember you from yesterday.”

“Hell of a trek into the woods you made yesterday and a ballsy arrest.” He glanced toward the backseat of her SUV. “That the famous Cooper?”

She moved to the right, blocking his view of the dog. “That’s Cooper.”

“I did a little digging. Human trafficking is your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Bad choice of words. Your
cause
. Is that why you were determined to get Carter? We’ve all seen the video of him hitting that girl. Brutal.”

“I can’t comment.”

Potter clicked the end of his pen several times. “You’re interesting. I could do a whole profile on you.”

She didn’t want anyone digging into her life, especially with Hanna’s adoption pending.

Deputy DuPont moved forward, his look more curious than threatening as he asked, “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Potter is curious about your crime scene,” Riley said. “Do you have anything to add?”

DuPont shifted his weight and hitched his hands on his belt. “No comment.”

Riley opened the car door, sliding into her seat and taking time to click her belt in place. “Have a nice day, Mr. Potter.”

Putting the car in drive, she gave DuPont a wave and drove south back toward Richmond. Prints would be run and there would be an autopsy, but that likely wouldn’t happen until tomorrow.

The rolling landscape was dotted with tall oaks and thick grass, and the North Anna River swept past. Fields quickly gave way to exit signs promising fast food, gas, and lodging. She took the Ashland exit and drove past strip malls toward the city’s historic center. She lived in an old house near the train tracks that cut through the heart of the small town. But instead of turning toward her home, she went left to the town’s center.

Cooper looked out the window, wagging his tail at the sight of the familiar streets.

“Sorry, Cooper, we aren’t going home yet. Need to stop by Duke’s.”

She drove to a three-story converted warehouse nestled off the road near an open field. A red neon sign above the front door read “Duke’s.” On the aged brick were the faded letters hinting to the building’s first years as a grain warehouse.

The parking lot was in need of paving—a project Duke kept swearing he’d tackle as soon as he won the lottery. Even though Duke joked about winning the lottery, he never played it. There was enough risk these days running a restaurant in a soft economy.

Out of her SUV, Riley hooked the tracking line to Cooper’s collar and took him for a quick walk in the woods by the lot before putting him back in and cranking the AC. “Be right back.”

She locked the door with the keyless entry and moved across the lot, her boots crunching gravel with each impatient step. Pushing through the door, she was greeted by the spicy scents of barbecue, fried potatoes, and at least five different kinds of pies.

Duke Spence opened Duke’s
twenty years ago when he moved to Ashland after years of working the blackjack tables in Las Vegas. He said he once received a vision from God when he woke up in a back alley battered and bruised. God told him to get his act together and open a place where people could get good, affordable food. He said he never played another hand of poker and moved back east the next day.

When Riley was seventeen, living in Duke’s shelter and in need of a job, Duke gave one to her. When he offered her a spare room on the restaurant’s second floor if she enrolled in high school, she refused. In those days, she didn’t trust anyone. But in the coming weeks, he never pressed or gave her a reason to be afraid. So she asked if the deal was still on the table. They shook on it.

During the first nights living above the restaurant, she pushed the dresser in front of her door. It took another two weeks before she really fell into a deep sleep. He never said more than two words to her until her report card arrived. To say she blew it out of the park in terms of grades would have been a lie. Duke studied the paper closely and told her to get her grades up. He didn’t threaten or cajole, but spoke to her like an adult. And she listened. Her grades improved, and she ended up living in that upstairs room for four years while working her way through community college and then the police academy.

Inside Duke’s restaurant, Riley grinned at the kid behind the front register, Hanna Rogers, her soon-to-be daughter. Five years ago, Riley was working patrol when she stopped a white van with a busted taillight on the interstate. A couple of muscle-bound guys were in the front seat, and in the back, three young girls. One was Hanna.

Riley knew immediately the kid was underage, and when neither of the drivers could prove their relation to her, she called in for backup. All the girls were under eighteen. A background check told Riley that Hanna would not be going home. The kid’s father was in prison, and the mother was a heroin addict living with a convicted child molester. She wasn’t sure why, but she made the offer to foster the then-twelve-year-old girl. Hanna accepted, saying, “Until something better comes along.” Riley hadn’t argued, knowing the kid was all bluff and terrified.

Two weeks ago, Riley had filed adoption papers, which would officially make Hanna her daughter. The move didn’t make sense to some, seeing as Hanna was close to eighteen, but it was important for both to have a real family. Neither wanted to mess the adoption up.

“Riley,” Hanna said. “You look official.”

Riley grinned. “Need to look the part.”

“Oh, you totally do, Trooper Tatum. Caught any bad guys today?” Hanna reached for a set of silverware and rolled a paper napkin around them. If Riley had a nickel for all the silverware she had rolled when she lived above Duke’s, she’d have the money to send Hanna to college free and clear.

“No bad guys yet. Give me until dinnertime.”

Hanna glanced at the large round clock on the wall. “Coop in the car?”

“Yeah, doing what he does best. Sleeping.”

“You’re a little early for dinner.”

“Didn’t come to eat. Questions for Duke.”

“About a case?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“No, it’s very routine.”

“Too bad. I think he could use a little excitement. He’s in the back adding numbers and grumbling.”