However, both men would do whatever it took to catch the Shark.
Bowman had also traced the dress found in Vicky Gilbert’s backpack to the posh Richmond hotel. Calling in a few favors, he soon found himself standing in the security office viewing twenty-plus monitors of the marble lobby.
“What days of footage do you want?” the young man asked.
“Pull last week.”
“You want the cameras in the lobby?”
“I’m interested in the cameras covering the dress shop.”
“We had a cop in here today asking the same question. What’s with the shop?”
He checked his own surprise. “Pull up the footage of the cop.”
A tap of several keys and he was watching Riley entering the dress shop, her hair loose around her shoulders. She moved with a straight-backed posture that telegraphed purpose. She’d barely spoken to the counter clerk when a thick-necked guy wearing a security jacket entered the store. Her tight expression was directed toward the security guard and conveyed annoyance. No doubt the guard had been dispatched to keep her on a short leash.
Bowman watched the security guard move to the front desk, where he stood staring at her ass as she left. He’d done some of that himself. But as he watched this guy ogle Riley, annoyance flared. “Send me copies of the last three weeks.”
Tapping keys clicked behind him and when he heard, “Mr. Bowman,” he turned to find the young guy holding out a flash drive for him. “I can’t send it to you without leaving a trail. No one is likely to notice this copy.”
Bowman pocketed the drive. “Thanks.”
The guy slid nervous hands into his pockets, chewing on his lip as he glanced toward the door. “This makes me even with Shield?”
“Yes, it does.”
Relief relaxed his shoulders. “Thanks.”
Bowman left the security office and made his way out the back service exit. In his SUV he started the engine, knowing full damn well that this video would not be admissible in a court of law. But he wasn’t worried about the court system anymore. He didn’t care about paperwork, or the right channels or procedure. This was about seeing justice done. No more playing by the rules.
Bowman drove back to his house, on the eastern edge of King George County. Away from the congestion near I-95, the strip malls, and the subdivisions, the rolling land was lush and green. The two-story white antebellum house had been built over 150 years ago at the dawn of the Civil War. There was a lone rocking chair on the wide front porch supported by thick round columns. Tall windows, flanking the wide front door, stretched from the porch floor to the ceiling. There was a huge oak tree towering to the right with long-reaching branches covering the roofline. The realtor who’d sold him the property said Union soldiers had been hung from that tree and their ghosts now haunted the house. The idea of a few ghosts appealed to him.
The last major renovation had been in the seventies, and now he was tackling the job of bringing it into the twenty-first century. During the long stakeouts when there had been a sleeping bag for a bed and MREs, he said when he finally settled he’d remodel an old house. Well, now he was about to put his money where his mouth was.
Tugging off his tie, he flipped on lights. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair in the kitchen. From the counter he grabbed a glass and a bottle of scotch. Filling three fingers’ worth, he sipped as he opened the laptop on the table.
A full moon hung over the fields, casting a soft glow. The night was always his favorite time, when the clatter of the day was silent and he could think uninterrupted. His wife had been a night owl, and she would often wait up for him. They’d laugh. Talk. Make love. This had been their time. He closed his eyes and tried to picture Karen. He was able to capture the soft outline of her face and the way her blond hair skimmed her shoulders, but he couldn’t see the smaller details of her features anymore. Time was stealing them bit by bit. He tried to concentrate on his late wife’s smile, but instead of seeing Karen, he saw Riley. No soft lines on her. No easy smiles. She was all gristle and grit. Karen had been easy to love. But not Riley. She would make any man in her life fight for every bit of ground.
The first time with Riley hadn’t been polite or tentative. In his motel room, he had turned her toward a bureau and shoved her hips toward him. He remembered how she glanced up, surprise flickering in her eyes as she stared back at him in the mirror. Then she smiled and unfastened the snap on her pants. He ran his hands over her smooth hips. A dozen sensations he’d thought dead forever had fired to life. He kissed her on the back of her neck, inhaling her scent as his hand cupped her breast and teased her nipple to a hard peak. She hissed in a breath and dropped her head back toward him, her long soft hair brushing his cheek. Hard and ready, he unzipped his pants, positioned himself at her moist entrance, and rubbed against her. She moaned. Unable to hold back anymore, he pushed into her.
She was tense, so tight, and for a moment didn’t move.
He raised his gaze to the mirror and met hers. “Are you okay?”
“It’s been a while.”
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?”