Bowman crept up to the man, his gun drawn. He pressed two fingertips to the man’s neck. “He’s dead.”
“Why the hell would he come all the way up here? Look at his clothes and shoes. And those buffed nails. This is the last place a guy like this would come.”
“There’s a note in his front breast pocket.”
“Let me get it.” She handed him Cooper’s tracking line while pulling latex gloves from her side pocket and tugging them on. Using her fingertips, she pulled out the white folded paper. A playing card flittered out to the ground.
For a moment, she didn’t breathe as she stared at it. Carefully, she picked it up and turned it over.
It was the queen of hearts, and written on it were scrawled words that read, I win. You lose.
Bowman muttered an oath. Hand on his Beretta M9, he searched the woods around them. “That’s the Shark’s brand of cards.”
“And he’s talking directly to me.”
Wind whispered through the trees. “We’re chasing a killer who likes to play games.”
Fear tightened her gut. “He wins. I lose.”
“After we get off the mountain, I want you to go directly to Shield Security.”
“Why?”
“For once, don’t question. Do.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Wednesday, September 21, 6:00 p.m.
After they came out of the woods, Bowman followed her home. While she changed, he searched her house and around it, confirming no one had left a package or broken in. After she walked Cooper, they each got back in their SUVs and she followed him to the Shield Security offices.
Bowman stopped at the security entrance, showed his ID, and spoke to the guard. When Riley approached, the guard waved her through.
She drove up the winding road bracketed by thick trees, passing tall light posts outfitted with cameras. Probably infrared coupled with motion detection. State-of-the-art equipment. No other buildings lined the road, and she’d heard that Shield had purchased a couple of hundred acres. Not a cheap or easy purchase this close to Quantico and the DC area.
At the end of the road, a five-story building stretched along the landscape like a long, sleek animal. The front of the dark building was covered in smoked glass.
She parked and grabbed Cooper’s long leash. Clay scanned her carefully, pausing on her freshly scrubbed face and the waves of brown hair draping her shoulders. His expression was neutral and impossible to read, but if she were standing in his shoes, she’d be making associations with the dead girl.
“I called ahead. They are waiting for you upstairs.”
“Who’s waiting?”
“The IT guy.”
“Is this about the video?”
“You’ll see.”
As they made their way up the elevator and along the carpeted hallway, she was again made aware of his height. Most men his size had a tendency to lumber, but not him. He moved with an easy grace more like a wide receiver than a linebacker.
He held open a tinted-glass door for her as she entered. The computer room, as he called it, looked like something out of a science fiction movie. The state patrol had good equipment, but Shield must have an unlimited budget. Joshua Shield was clearly in this business to win first, profit second.
Shield moved toward her. He wore a light-blue shirt, red tie, and charcoal-gray suit pants. No jacket, which was likely his idea of casual.
“Trooper Tatum,” he said, extending his hand. “Good to see you again.”
She accepted it, noting restraint in his firm grip. “Mr. Shield. Pleasure to see you.” He didn’t hide his scrutiny as he studied her with a precision that logged every detail of her face. She found the cool calculation terrifying. “I understand you have some details about the video.”
Instead of answering, he sidestepped by saying, “Would you like anything to eat or drink?”
Riley wasn’t here to eat. “No, thank you. If you don’t mind, the video.”
He studied her an extra beat. “Thank you for sharing it. That took courage.”
“If not for Vicky Gilbert, I wouldn’t have. Not the kind of digital footage I want any of my colleagues in the police department to see.”
“Strictly confidential,” he said.
Shield led them into another room with a bank of computers and large screens spanning the walls. At the center sat a large man. His hands were as large as Bowman’s, but they moved with a fast-paced dexterity as if he’d been on a keyboard since before he could walk.
Bowman laid his hand on the man’s shoulder, and he turned to study Riley with the same cold efficiency as Shield.
“This is Garrett Andrews,” Bowman said. “He is . . . what’s your title, Garrett?”
“I’m the tech guy,” he said, rising to extend his hand. Another firm handshake and eyes that missed very little.
She noted the scars on his hands but kept her eye contact. “I understand you learned something new.”
“I did. My findings may upset you.”
Good cops could put distance between themselves and death, tragedy, or whatever it was that stood in the way of them doing their job. Later, when they were alone, the fear, guilt, suppressed shame, or revulsion bubbled up. Most cops figured out how to deal with it. Some talked to a buddy. Others drank. Riley simply ran until her body was drenched in sweat and endorphins. Only then would the demons be temporarily calmed. “This tape isn’t personal. It’s evidence.”
“Good.” He turned back to his keyboard and typed. The video popped up on multiple screens. Riley kept her gaze steady, aware that Bowman was watching her reaction. She would not give him or anyone the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.
Andrews enlarged the image. “I’ve been over this tape several more times since I last spoke to Bowman. Basically, I have since been able to isolate several images in the video that confirmed that this was indeed shot in New Orleans. Note the mirror on the right. There’s a faint reflection. Enlarge that and I find the outline of a building that matches a profile of a building in the French Quarter.”
She leaned in, amazed at the sharp detail of the image. She had missed the reflection altogether during all her viewings. “So what’s this building?”
“I obtained real estate records from the city planning office from twelve years ago. After a search, I found the building in the mirror and the one across from it—your hotel. I’m certain you were held in the Duval Hotel on the top floor.”
Bowman met her gaze. “I called a contact in New Orleans. He checked out the property.”
It didn’t sit well that he was investigating without her input. Her back teeth clenched. “You hadn’t mentioned that.”
If he picked up on her annoyance, he didn’t care. “I can’t afford to have the Shark’s people spot you near the hotel.”
It took effort for her to back away from the anger and focus on the facts. Finally, she asked, “What did you find out about the hotel?”
“It has been owned by a shell corporation for the last eighteen years. Its penthouse is rented out on a monthly basis to high-level executives. We’re now peeling through the layers of detail.”
“Who was renting it during the time the video was made?”
“Records were lost,” Andrews said. “Hurricane Katrina caused a massive power surge and fried the hotel’s data banks.”
“Damn,” she said.
“The loss is unfortunate,” Andrews said.
The lead had gone cold, which left only her. “I’m still the center of this storm.”
Bowman nodded. “You are.”
Impatience disturbed her. “Then do me a favor: keep me in the loop.”
Silent, Bowman studied her.
“I don’t want to be the last to know whatever you all discover.” She didn’t try to summon a smile. “I’m coming to this openhanded, which isn’t easy for me. You investigate a scene, I’d like to know before a site visit, not after.”
“If it makes sense logistically, I will. In
this case, it did not.”
“This cannot be a one-way street when it comes to information.”
A muscle ticked in Bowman’s jaw, but he nodded. “Understood.”
“What else did you find out about the video?” she asked.
Andrews cleared his throat. “I believe three other people are in the room.”
“How can you tell?” she asked.
“There’s the man who takes your face in his hands, another with a cord in his hands, and the third is holding the camera. You can tell by the image that it’s not stationary, but moving.”
Riley was silent. How many people had witnessed her degradation firsthand?
Andrews pointed to the screen. “The man who takes your face in his hands is wearing a ring.”
“I noticed that,” she said. “It has a V shape.”
“It’s custom. I’ve not been able to trace it to any family, school, or society. Judging by the veins and skin, he was in his early fifties when this was shot.”
“So we’re looking for a man in his midseventies?”
“If he’s still a player in the game,” Andrews said.
“What do you know about the man holding the cord?”
“He’s younger. Maybe early forties, and his body language suggests he’s not enjoying this. His hands have a slight tremble and he flexes his fingers, in relief I think, when the old man turns and leaves.”
“Even if other players were present, there’d be no incentive to speak to the police because they’re accessories to murder,” Shield said. “And there were four gamblers found dead in Vegas about eleven years ago. No one ever connected their deaths to the girls, but now I’m not so sure.”
“Is New Orleans the only place these men played before now?” Riley asked.
“We don’t know,” Bowman said. “They chose girls who fall off the radar easily. The mistake they made in New Orleans was killing four girls within a couple of weeks. Over the top, even for that city.”
Riley swallowed. “And no one else survived?”
“None we’ve been able to track,” Bowman said.
The weight of the young girls’ murders settled squarely on her shoulders. “Why all the games? Why not just kill me?”
“According to my informant, this guy likes games,” Shield said. “He bores easily, like a cat toying with a mouse. He lost you twelve years ago, and now he’s determined to enjoy the kill this time.”