The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1)

by Mary Burton

  When Mr. Gilbert did not answer, Sharp reached in his pocket for a stick of gum as if he had all the time in the world. “Is pinning down the date you last saw Vicky a tough question?”

  “No. It’s not. Let me go inside and get my wife. Bonnie knows our daughter better than I do.”

  Mr. Gilbert opened the front door, and the three of them entered the foyer. “Bonnie! Can you come downstairs?”

  “What do you want?” she shouted back from an unseen room on the second floor.

  “There are a couple of cops here who have questions about Vicky.”

  “Vicky?” Footsteps hurried across the upstairs hallway.

  Mrs. Gilbert rounded the corner. Heavyset, she wore jeans and a sweatshirt and her hair pulled up in a ponytail. Despite the puffy contours of her face, there were hints of a resemblance to Vicky.

  Bonnie wiped her hands on a rag as she descended the stairs, pausing several steps short of the bottom. “What’s this about?”

  “Wasn’t it last week when we saw her?” Gilbert offered.

  Riley’s bullshit meter always worked well. Some of the officers in patrol called it her superpower. The human lie detector, others said. But it didn’t take a superpower or much police work to know Mr. Gilbert was lying.

  Mrs. Gilbert kept wiping her hands as if she would never really be able to get them clean. “Is she okay? I’m worried about her.”

  “When did Vicky run away?” Sharp asked.

  “Hold on,” Mr. Gilbert said. “I never used the words run away. She became upset with us and moved in with a friend to cool off.”

  “That’s running away, Mr. Gilbert,” Riley said.

  “You have to be underage to run away,” Mr. Gilbert countered. “She turned eighteen a week ago.”

  “That absolves you of a legal responsibility, but what about a moral obligation?” Riley couldn’t hide the annoyance burning under her tone.

  Mr. Gilbert advanced a step, but Sharp edged forward, blocking his path. “Mrs. Gilbert, when did Vicky move out?”

  “She didn’t run away. She went to stay with friends. She texted me several times a week and checked in. I knew where she was staying.”

  “How long has she been gone?” Sharp asked.

  “I’m not sure. But not long.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Not exactly. No.”

  Sharp studied the slightly frayed tip of his red tie before locking his gaze on her. “Who was she staying with last?”

  “I’m not sure,” Bonnie said. “She has many friends and it’s hard to keep up. But she and Rebecca are very close.”

  “When did she start staying with friends, Mrs. Gilbert?”

  The woman hesitated. “About five weeks ago.”

  Mr. Gilbert expelled a breath, cursing as he ran a hand through his hair. “Vicky didn’t like the house rules. She wanted to do what she wanted. She wasn’t interested in school. And then she was arrested for stealing.”

  “She’s a senior in high school?” Riley asked.

  “She was supposed to start her senior year, but the first days of school didn’t go well,” her mother offered.

  They were retelling Riley’s life, she thought. “Did you only fight about school or the arrest?”

  “She was upset,” Mrs. Gilbert said, glancing at her husband. Tears welled in her eyes. “She gets very upset sometimes. We took her to doctors, trying to figure out why she became anxious. It was exhausting. When she left, it was nice to have peace in the house.”

  “Was she on medication?” Riley asked.

  “Mood stabilizers,” Mr. Gilbert said. “But she never stayed on them long enough for the drugs to really work. She didn’t like feeling fuzzy, as she put it.”

  “Where’s my daughter?” Mrs. Gilbert asked. “I want to see her. She’s gotten into trouble again, hasn’t she?”

  Riley glanced at Sharp, and when he nodded she kept her voice steady. “Mrs. Gilbert, your daughter is dead. She was found along I-95 north of here.”

  Chapped hands rose to the woman’s lips as she stifled a cry. “There must be some kind of mistake.”

  “We identified her using fingerprints on file with the Chesterfield Police Department.”

  Sharp watched them both carefully, his expression showing no signs of emotion. “There’s no mistake.”

  Mr. Gilbert sucked in a breath like a boxer who’d taken a shot to the gut. “How did she die?”

  “You’ve made a mistake,” Mrs. Gilbert said again. She made no move toward her husband. “Vicky isn’t dead. She’s staying with friends.”

  As much as Riley believed this murder was connected to a bigger case, she couldn’t rule out that someone who knew the girl well had killed her. In over 70 percent of homicide cases involving a female victim, the killer was a loved one.

  “We found her about fifty miles north of here,” Riley said. In the middle of the night, without traffic, the trip would’ve taken less than an hour. Maybe her father had a chance to win big money in a poker game. Maybe he was tired of Vicky’s outbursts.

  “Vicky isn’t dead,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “I texted her two days ago.”

  “Two days?” Riley noted the time in her book. Mrs. Gilbert might have received a text from Vicky’s phone, but that didn’t mean Vicky had sent it.

  “Maybe it was four days. But she told me she was fine. She told me she had a lead on a good job.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “In a bar.”

  “Did she give you a name of the bar, a boss, or a coworker?” Sharp asked.

  “No,” Mr. Gilbert said. “I think I need to call our attorney.”

  “Mr. Gilbert, there’s no need for an attorney now,” Sharp said. “We’re simply gathering as many facts as we can so we can solve your daughter’s murder. No one is going to get busted today for a kid running away or working in a bar.”

  Mr. Gilbert’s grip tightened on his cell. “I’m calling our lawyer.”

  “Richard. Please.” Mrs. Gilbert’s voice cracked. “This is Vicky.”

  “Who has once again pulled us into a mess.” He turned from them all and dialed a number.

  As her husband spoke into the phone, Mrs. Gilbert said to Riley, “She said it was good, honest work. I worried about the drinking, but she said that wouldn’t be a problem. She said they were sending her to get her hair and nails done. She was going to be a greeter. She was really excited.”

  Vicky’s nails and hair were done, meaning the kid wove the lies with some truth. “Did she say where they were taking her to get fixed up?”

  “A beauty salon, I guess. She didn’t say where.”

  “And that was the last time you had contact with her?” Riley asked.

  “Yes. That was the last time she responded back to me.” Tears welled in her eyes as if the news had finally taken root. “I text her every day. I’m always checking up on her. Sometimes she answers and sometimes she doesn’t.”

  Riley kept her voice soft as if they were two friends having a chat. “What can you tell me about her life? Did the texts give you a clue?”

  “She said she and her friends went to parties.”

  “Friends have names.”

  “Jo-Jo was one name she mentioned. Another was Cassie. She said they were all pals. Looked out for each other.”

  Riley glanced at Sharp, who was paying close attention. “Did your daughter have any tattoos?”

  “A butterfly and a star.” She dropped her voice a notch. “When she showed them to me, I told her not to tell her dad.”

  “What about the initials JC on the back of her neck?”

  “She didn’t have a tattoo like that.” Hope glistened. “Do you think you’ve made a mistake because my Vicky didn’t have a JC tattoo on her neck?”

  “We have it right, ma’am,” she said. “The tattoo is new. Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “She dated a boy named Jax. Do you think it was his initials?”

  “I think JC was her pimp,�
�� Riley said. “I think he marked her as his own.”

  Mrs. Gilbert wiped away a tear from her cheek as it spilled. “That’s not my daughter. She wouldn’t have sold herself like that.”

  “Our daughter,” Mr. Gilbert said, shutting off his phone, “was a free spirit. She did as she pleased. If you have questions, you should talk to her boyfriend. Jax Carter.”

  “He works in Richmond tending bar,” Mrs. Gilbert said. “I have his phone number.” She moved into a side room where she retrieved her phone from her purse. She scrolled through the numbers, and when she found Jax’s, she rattled off the number. “He’s older than her, but Vicky really liked him. And he wouldn’t put her on the streets like you said.”

  “Is he the friend she was living with?” Sharp asked.

  “Sometimes. But not all the time. They fought from time to time.”

  Sharp’s jaw clenched. “How did Vicky break her arm?”

  Mrs. Gilbert twisted her fingers around her wrist as she looked at her husband.

  “The fracture is a spiral shape,” Riley said. “You get those kind of breaks when someone twists your arm.”

  “I never hurt her,” Mr. Gilbert said.

  “No one said you did,” Sharp countered while continuing to study Mrs. Gilbert’s face.

  “Ask her boyfriend,” Mr. Gilbert said.

  “How long have they been dating?” Riley looked at the mother.

  She glanced at her husband and then tipped her chin up a notch. “About six months.”

  “Do you think he did it?”

  “He must have.”

  “Well, this break goes back a few years,” Sharp said in a calm tone. “She would’ve been about fourteen when it occurred.”

  Mr. Gilbert drew in a breath. Bonnie stood beside him but kept distance between them. “She was an active kid. She fell a lot. That doesn’t mean we hurt her. And that’s all I’m going to say. We aren’t answering any more questions until our attorney calls us back.”

  Riley closed her book as she glanced at Sharp.

  Slowly, Sharp pulled a card from his pocket and held it out to Mr. Gilbert. He didn’t take it. Sharp laid it on an entry table. “This is only the beginning, Mr. Gilbert.”

  “We won’t be talking to you again unless our attorney is present,” he said.

  “Well, sir, that’s your choice, but I can promise if I find out you’re responsible in any way, I won’t be nice next time,” Sharp said.

  “That a threat?”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Thursday, September 15, noon

  When Bowman was in the bureau, there’d been rules to follow. But now that he was out, the old standard operating procedure didn’t apply. His intention wasn’t to break the law, but he knew how to bend anything to its breaking point.

  Back from Washington, DC, he glanced at the text from Shield’s contact in the state police. The female victim had been identified and the connection to his tree-hugging pal, Jax Carter, was established. Bowman made his way along the hospital hallway, already knowing Carter’s room number. He wasn’t interested in dealing with attorneys or Miranda rights. He simply wanted to have a chat with the man who had last sold Vicky Gilbert.

  The room was dark when Bowman entered and Carter was lying on his back, his eyes closed. Sleeping like a baby. Bowman unplugged the call button and settled in the chair next to Jax. For a long moment he simply stared. He wondered if a guy like Jax had lured Riley into the poker game twelve years ago. Had she been drugged and sold as well? He lightly pressed his finger into Carter’s wound.

  “Jax Carter.”

  Carter’s eyes popped open, his gaze searching wildly. When he saw Bowman in the chair, Jax recoiled like a cat. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I can find you anytime.”

  Paling at the sound of the familiar voice, Carter reached for the buzzer and pressed it. Nothing happened.

  “It’s just you and me now,” Bowman said, rising.

  Carter sat up in bed, trying to put distance between them. “What do you want?”

  “I want to know who you sold Vicky Gilbert to.”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  Bowman’s teeth bared into a very unfriendly smile. He gently laid his hand on Carter’s leg. “Sure you do. You’ve been selling her for the last couple of weeks.”

  Carter hissed. “I didn’t—”

  Bowman barely squeezed. “Who did you sell her to last?”

  “I didn’t hurt that girl. She was alive and well the last time I saw her. Back off!”

  Bowman’s fingers tightened on Carter’s leg. “You sure you don’t want to talk?”

  Carter’s face turned white. “Just let go.”

  Bowman released his grip but let his hand rest on the leg.

  “Not saying that I sold her, but there was a guy. Lewis. Kevin Lewis. He was looking to party with a girl who had Vicky’s look.”

  “What kind of look did he want?”

  Carter shifted, trying to move his leg out of Bowman’s reach but only managing to scoot over a couple of inches. “Dark hair. Young. Fresh. Like her.”

  “Why did he want her?”

  “I don’t ask.”

  “What happened when he didn’t bring her back?”

  “I went looking for her. The girl had real potential.”

  “A moneymaker,” he coaxed.

  “That’s right.”

  “She’d not worked the streets before?”

  “Not really. But she was starting to make serious money.”

  “Who introduced you to her?”

  “My girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  Carter didn’t hesitate. “Darla Johnson.”

  Bowman sensed Carter was willing to throw his grandmother to the wolves if it diverted some of the heat off him. “How did Darla meet her?”

  “I don’t know. Online, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “She’s always on her phone checking out social media and shit.”

  “Reaching out to girls like Vicky. Lonely girls. Lost girls.”

  Carter shifted. “I don’t know. Ask Darla.”

  “What does Darla say to the girls?”

  “You’d have to ask her.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She moves around.”

  “In a car? A camper? How does she get around?”

  “We have a motor home. We like to stay on the move.”

  “What’s it look like, Jax?”

  “White. Midsized.”

  “Tell me all that you know about Darla.”

  “She has a rap sheet. Been busted a couple of times for drugs. Five foot four. Round hips. Blond hair.”

  Bowman’s gaze dropped to Carter’s thigh. “That knife wound must be hurting now. I hear you took over fifty stitches. That little girl cut you good.”

  Carter shifted, his eyes darkening. “That’s between me and her.”

  Outside a cart rattled past, reminding him that this was not the time or place. “Not anymore. I’m in the mix now. Leave her alone.”

  “Or what?”

  Bowman squeezed again. “Do you really want to find out?”

  Carter hissed in a breath. “No!”

  A short knock on the door had Bowman backing away from the bed as a nurse entered. He lowered his voice. “See you soon.”

  Vicky’s short, troubled life weighed heavily on Riley as she walked into the small coffee shop near the police station after she dropped off Sharp. A bell overhead jingled as she glanced toward a television behind the bar and spotted Eddie Potter’s face. The sound wasn’t on, but she could see he was interviewing an older, well-dressed man in the field where Vicky’s body had been found. The caption under the old man’s face read, Cain Duncan, festival and concert promoter with Byline Entertainment.

  A young, thin man behind the counter glanced up from the stainless-steel pitcher he was filling with freshly steamed mi
lk. “Riley. Triple espresso?”

  “Perfect.”

  “So, you and Cooper catch any bad guys today?”

  “Too many to count,” she said.

  He grinned. “Coffee’s on the house today.”

  “Why?”

  “Appreciate what you do.”

  “Thanks.” She dropped a few bucks in the tip jar. As she settled into a chair, the door opened and she spotted a tall man glancing at the menu above. Though his back was to her, she could see he was fit and radiated an energy that was hard to miss.

  Going through the motions, she thought as she tore the sugar packets and dumped both into her coffee. As she savored the combination of bitter and sweet, she glanced a second time at the man ordering a plain black coffee. Short dark hair cut neatly. Nicely dressed. In fact, the jacket was top-of-the-line and fit his broad shoulders well. His eyes remained forward, didn’t cut in her direction—but she sensed he knew exactly what was happening around him.

  By her guess, he was a fed. Had the look. And they had their share of feds here, so she didn’t pay too much attention to them. She thought about the pitch she’d made to Sharp about ViCAP. No way the wheels of progress moved that fast.

  She tugged her notebook from her pocket and flipped through the paltry notes from her interview with Vicky’s parents. Father was an ass, and she wasn’t sure if that was his constant state or if he was overwhelmed and in shock. Mom was in full-blown grief and juggling a load of guilt on top of it. She wasn’t sure if Vicky’s problems were of her parents’ making or stirred up by her own mental health issues. Either way, the kid had landed on the street.

  “Thank you.” The deep timbre of the man’s voice drew her attention as he dropped his change, not just coins but also bills, into the tip jar. He didn’t bother with sugar or milk before he turned.

  She froze, her cup centimeters below her lips as she looked at him. He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome. The profile was too rough around the edges, as if parts had been bruised or broken before. Shit. Clay Bowman.

  He took a seat two spaces from her. Long fingers tapped the side of his coffee cup as he fished a cell from his breast pocket.

  Riley sipped her coffee, her comfort level plummeting. Clay f-ing Bowman. The last guy she needed or wanted to see again.