He dusted each frame off with his fingers and set them on the credenza behind his desk. Hardly staking a claim on this place, but it was a start.
On the pile of papers in an in-box that grew by the hour was a memo detailing a trip to Houston where he was set to review security for an oil company. Another memo mentioned a trip to Kansas City. More security and a threat assessment. The billable hours on both cases would ultimately earn the company close to a quarter of a million dollars, yet Shield had pulled him off them to catch the Shark.
A knock on his door had him turning. Shield moved into the office, his gait slightly uneven as if his back bothered him. “I’ll have someone in maintenance hang up those pictures.”
“No need. I’ll get around to it.”
“I remember your last field office in Kansas City. Not a picture up on the wall.”
“Never made sense. Why mark up a wall when I wasn’t staying long?”
“Kansas City was a temporary assignment, but this time you aren’t moving on. This is your last stop. I expect you to be running this show one day.”
He’d committed to work for Shield for two years. To anchor himself beyond that would take serious soul searching.
“So how did it go with Tatum?” Shield asked.
“She knows more than she’s saying, that’s clear. When I mentioned the playing cards, I hit a nerve.” He’d learned the best intelligence didn’t always come from what people said, but what they didn’t say. “The latest victim was identified. Vicky Gilbert. The girl hooked up with a guy named Jax Carter, and he sold her to one of the gamblers.”
“Word arrived that another body was found near the Gilbert body. A male. His wallet identified him as Kevin Lewis.”
Bowman tilted his head toward the older man and grinned. “You haven’t lost a step.”
“Pays to have friends. What do you think of Tatum?”
“She’s sharp. Wants this case solved. She’s driven, just like she was at Quantico.”
Shield never showed surprise, making it hard to gauge his reactions. “So what do you suggest, Clay? The cops won’t catch him.”
“You sound sure.”
“I’m one of the best and I’ve never caught him even after he sent me his trophy pictures.”
“How do you know he sent them?”
“The Shark is a guy who loves high-stakes games. If he thinks he’s getting too far ahead of me, what better way to keep the juices going than to send me the pictures.”
“But the Shark is not perfect. Serial killers kill again when there are stressors in their life. Bad health. Money. Death in the family. Job loss. All are hard to deal with for a normal person, but for a guy like the Shark, it’s the perfect trigger for murder.”
“Logical, or it simply bothered him that Riley slipped through his fingers.”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever the Shark’s reason, stay close to her. She’s the key.”
“I see a couple of memos on my desk from Houston.”
“It can wait. All of them can wait. This case has stuck in my craw for twelve years and now I have a chance to nail him. Solve this case and I’ll give you the whole damn company tomorrow.”
Riley delivered the cards to Sharp, oddly grateful to turn them over to someone else.
“This is all you have?” he asked.
“Just the cards. I can’t tell you how I got them or who gave them to me. I just know they were in my pocket when I got to Richmond.”
“And you have no memories?”
“Sometimes the scent of cigars makes me feel tense. Occasionally dreams. But there is nothing I can grab on to, and believe me, I’ve tried.”
“I’ll have these dusted.”
“I did that eight years ago. They were wiped clean.”
“So all we know right now is that your cards look like the ones in Gilbert’s backpack.”
“Yes.”
“All right.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
Bowman went to the parole board offices after he left Shield headquarters. Fluorescent lights buzzed as he moved down the building’s main hallway to the door at the end. He knocked.
A heavyset man with gray hair looked up from an outdated computer. “Yes.”
“Ken Trice?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Clay Bowman with Shield Security. My boss, Joshua Shield, called about Darla.”
“Right.” He clicked a couple of computer keys and read the screen. “A nasty lady, if I do say so myself. Why are you looking for her?”
“She and her boyfriend are believed to be selling girls.”
“Is this about the girl strangled and dumped north of the city?”
“She’s the one. I think Darla and Carter recruited the victim and then sold her to another guy.”
“Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Any idea where I can find her?”
“She lists her mother’s address as her residence.” He rattled off an address south of the city. “You know the place?”
“I can find it.”
Bowman left his card with the man and made his way back to his SUV. He dialed Riley’s number. She picked up on the second ring.
“Bowman, why are you calling me?”
The snap of annoyance in her voice was about what he expected. “How would you like to go on a little field trip with me?”
“What kind of field trip?” she said carefully.
“I have the address of Darla Johnson’s mother. Want to tag along?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Leaving the state police offices now.”
“Stay there and I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“You can just give me her address.”
Seconds ticked as she waited for his response. Finally she yielded. “Fine. I’ll wait.”
Twenty minutes later Bowman found Riley and Cooper in her SUV. He parked and as he approached her vehicle, she unlocked the doors. He slid into the passenger seat. As he read off the address for her to plug into the GPS, she tossed him a curious look.
Checking her rearview mirror at an alert Cooper, she pulled into traffic and headed south. “Why are you including me?”
“Because we are a team.”
“We are not a team.”
“Yes, we are. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”
“Right.”
He studied her profile. “You seem tense.”
“I’m always tense.”
“More so than usual.”
“A lot on my mind.”
“Care to share?”
She looked over at him and he thought for a moment she’d tell him, but she only shrugged. “Nothing important.”
Fifteen minutes later they found themselves in front of a small brick rancher. The front lawn could have used a mowing a month ago, but the house itself looked fairly well kept. Riley left the AC running and stepped out, waiting for Bowman to join her. Locking the door, she laid her hand on her gun as they moved to the front door decorated with a welcome wreath. Glancing in the bushes on his left and right, Bowman rang the bell and stepped aside. Inside, a television buzzed.
The front door jerked opened to a short, stout woman who wore jeans and a green collared shirt from one of the local grocery store chains. Her narrowing gaze darted between the two of them as she folded her arms. It was obvious she had been through this before. “Darla ain’t here. I haven’t seen her in a couple of weeks.”
“Why do you think we’re looking for Darla?” Bowman asked.
Her nose wrinkled. “You two are cops. Why else would you be here?”
“Your name is Betsy Smith and you’re Darla Johnson’s mother?” he asked.
“That’s right. But I ain’t seen her.”
“Has she called, texted, or e-mailed?”
“Nothing from her. But she owes me money, so I’m