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.
“He’s clear, have at it.”
She rolled him on his side and noted the bullets didn’t exit his back. Likely a .22 caliber using hollow-point bullets. Nasty bullets create maximum damage.
Pulling up his shirt from his waistband, she studied the skin on his back. Clean. She rolled him back and looked at his belly. Clean. She lifted his pants leg. His ankle and foot were blue, like they were bruised.
“He wasn’t killed here.”
She ran her hands through his hair and found no blood or signs of trauma. Garden-variety shooting. This kind of thing happened to gamblers when they ended up on the wrong side of a bet they couldn’t pay back.
Agent Sharp watched as she began checking his pockets. But other than a half-chewed pack of gum and a rubber band, his back pockets were clean.
“You have his wallet, you said?”
Sharp handed the now-bagged wallet to her. “Nothing remarkable.”
She accepted the bag and held it up. The wallet was fine leather, likely Italian. This guy knew how to dress the part of success. “I can run a background check.”
“Isn’t this your day off?”
“I want this case solved.”
“Thanks, but I got it from here. Your job is to get me those cards.”
“Right.”
“By the way, I received a call from Carter’s attorney today. He has a bail hearing tomorrow, and there’s a good chance he’ll post it.”
“What about Jo-Jo, the girl Jax beat up? She’s still in bad shape. She can’t defend herself if he decides to make trouble.”
“She’s in a lockdown ward at the hospital with a no-visitor mandate.”
“But no armed guard.”
“No.”
“Damn it.”
Riley now reached in the victim’s front left pocket and pulled out a rabbit’s foot. “Gamblers do like their good-luck charms.”
“Even the best ones have their quirks.”
Martin handed Riley an evidence bag. “Put it in there and I’ll mark it.”
Riley dropped the rabbit’s foot in the bag and handed it over. She searched the front right pocket and found a gold money clip holding several twenty-dollar bills and a pack of matches that read Casino.
“These pants set him back at least a grand.” She ran a gloved finger along the stitching. “This is some nice work. Hand tailored.”
“You’re the first trooper I met who knows hand tailoring,” Sharp said.
“I do have my talents.”
“Don’t tell me you grew up with a silver spoon?”
“I had a stepfather who liked to dress well.”
“Today is the first time you’ve mentioned family.”
“We aren’t family.” She’d seen Lewis’s kind in New Orleans coming in and out of the casinos. “Kevin here thought of himself as a high roller.”
“Lady Luck didn’t agree.”
“We find a victim with playing cards on her body and a guy who looks like a high-stakes gambler. Not a coincidence,” she said.
“Shield’s theory of the Shark fits a little too well into this scenario,” Sharp said.
“Yeah.” Tension knotted her chest. She did not want Bowman or Shield to be right. She did not want to be connected to this case.
Sharp pulled a stick of gum from his pocket. “A down-on-his-luck gambler will do whatever it takes to get back on top. He has his lucky rabbit’s foot and believes he can beat a high roller like the Shark, win big, and then what? Release the girl and scoop up the cash? Or just another creep playing with someone’s life for his own ego?”
The theory struck too close to home for Riley. “Both are viable theories.”
Sharp stared at the body, a faint look of disgust darkening his eyes. “If Bowman offers any more words of wisdom, b
e sure to share. I’m territorial, but I’ll take whatever information I can get if it means no more dead girls in my jurisdiction.”
“I’ll keep looking for Darla.”
“Bring me those cards in the morning.”
CHAPTER TEN
Friday, September 16, 7:00 a.m.
If anyone ever made it past the first checkpoint of Shield Security or the second guard station positioned at the end of the long access road, they’d find a three-story nondescript building. Its rectangular shape was nothing remarkable and could have been the headquarters of Any Company USA. Glass reflective windows allowed no one to see inside and there were no shrubs or trees around the building, negating possible hiding places. An entrance in the front required the swipe of a security card.
Bowman entered the offices, showing his identification to the guard at the front desk and riding the sleek elevators to the top floor. He made his way to his office, glancing toward the unpacked boxes and pictures yet to be hung.
He’d officially been here five days, signed a two-year contract—but he still hesitated to make any permanent claim on the office space. In the bureau, he’d moved around a lot, assigned to a new field office every couple of years. And for most of that time, he was working a case, sometimes weeks at a time while living out of a suitcase.
His wife, Karen, had been the anchor in his life. She took it all in stride. An artist, she always found a way to make their newest apartment a home. Since her death, he’d not been able to attach permanence to any subsequent place in which he stayed.
As he walked into his office and switched on the light, he glanced at the box of photos to his left. He’d moved the box from office to office over the last six years but never unpacked it.
Now, for some unknown reason, he reached into the box and pulled out two pictures. One was of Karen taken on the beach at sunset right after they met. The other was of him and his roommates at the Virginia Military Institute nearly two decades ago. The image captured the four young graduates standing in front of Jackson Arch. Their arms were linked and all were grinning, knowing they had bright futures. Bowman was headed to the FBI training facility in Quantico. The tall, thin guy on the right, Jacob Taggart, was a commissioned army officer. The guy on his immediate left, a sturdy Texan named Rafe Murdock, was slated to take his marine commission. And the last guy, Gavin Loch, chose medical school.