The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1)

by Mary Burton

  Martin looked up, his gaze settling on Bowman. “I need you both to sign my log so I know who was at my crime scene. Don’t want it turning into a circus.”

  Bowman picked up the clipboard holding the sheet and signed his name and phone number. His bold handwriting bored into the paper. He handed the pen and paper to Riley, who quickly signed her name under his.

  A scan of the room didn’t reveal much at first glance. The bed was made, the curtains drawn. In the bathroom, the toothbrush, toothpaste, and other toiletries were lined up in a neat row.

  “I noticed a “Do Not Disturb” tag on the door,” Riley said.

  Sharp straightened. “He didn’t want the maid in his room. He wasn’t scheduled to check out for another three days, so the staff left the room alone.”

  “Can’t blame the guy for no maid,” Bowman said. “I traveled a great deal and always declined the cleaning service. Never liked strangers in my space.”

  Riley’s budget had never allowed for much travel. All her extra money went first to her college education, then the house, and now Hanna. “I guess you’ve seen about all the world there is to see.”

  “Basically. What about you?”

  “I’ve seen New Orleans and Virginia.”

  “You’re still young.”

  But Riley’s budget would be tight until Hanna graduated college. “That’s true.”

  “He didn’t spend much time here,” Bowman said, looking in the closet where a dark suit and three dress shirts hung. On the floor by the bed sat a pair of shiny Italian loafers.

  “Those shoes set him back a grand and the suits twice that,” she said.

  “How do you know?” Agent Sharp asked.

  She touched the soft fabric and glanced at the label. Armani. “Take my word. When we found him, he was wearing gold cuff links, a gold chain around his neck, and a diamond pinky ring.”

  “Guy rolls large,” Sharp said.

  “Part of the image,” Bowman added.

  She moved toward the windows and opened the curtains. It was a view of the parking lot. Not exciting.

  “We found a rental car receipt in his pocket,” Sharp said. “I called the company, and they’re going to track its location via GPS. When they find the car, they’ll contact me.” His phone rang, and frowning, he said, “I have to take this. Be right back.”

  Riley moved to the desk, where she spotted a hotel writing pad. The imprint of letters caught in the light prompted her to grab a pencil and shadow the page. The words Round Six appeared. Round Six. The DVD sent to her had said Round Five.

  With her phone she snapped a picture of the pad and asked Martin to bag it in a plastic evidence bag. She moved to the nightstand, opened the drawer, and found a Bible. She lifted the Bible and thumbed through the pages, knowing if she were a gambler, this would be the spot where she’d hide something. Finding nothing, she moved to a black leather bag. In one side pocket she found a few zip-top plastic bags, and in another a few rumpled tissues. If this guy had anything of value, he was wearing it when he died.

  “Lewis has a record,” Bowman said. “No surprise there. Embezzlement and a couple of domestic abuse charges.”

  “How do you know this?” Riley asked.

  “Our computer guy at Shield.”

  “Of course,” Riley said. “Who filed the abuse complaints?”

  “His ex-girlfriend. In her statement she claimed he tried to kill her. But when it came down to it, she wouldn’t actually file the charges.”

  “Where was this?” Riley asked.

  “Las Vegas. The ex-girlfriend worked as a dealer in one of the big casinos. That was three years ago, and since then he got married and his record has been clean.”

  “Or he’s smarter,” Riley said.

  Bowman nodded. “Once you get a warrant and have a look at his financials, you’ll find he had a lot of debt.”

  “Computer guy whisper that fact in your ear?” she asked.

  Bowman shrugged. “You’ll find out when you see the records.”

  Riley knew she’d be back in uniform tomorrow and her active time in this investigation would be limited. Pushing aside regret, she looked under the bed and behind the curtains. Finding nothing, she moved to the bathroom. Her first stop was the toilet, where she lifted the tank lid. Taped to the underside of the lid was a zip-top bag crammed with cash. “Who says those stings with vice never taught me anything.”

  “You worked vice?”

  “In a miniskirt, halter top, and thigh-high boots. I stood on the street corner in April and lured johns to a hotel room. Loved the look on their faces when the deputies came busting out of the bathroom.”

  Bowman stared at her as if trying to picture the image. Interest sparked.

  She arched a brow. “I can promise you, it wasn’t that exciting.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  She called out to Martin and as he took photographs, she opened the bag and carefully spread the contents out on the bathroom counter. “The top few bills are hundreds, but after that, it’s a few twenties and lots of ones. Looks good on the surface.”

  She pulled out a small black velvet bag and worked her finger into the drawstring. She removed a large gold coin. “What the hell?”

  Bowman leaned closer. “It’s not currency.”

  “No. Not currency.” But the coin was perfectly formed. One side was smooth, and on the other was an embossed number six. “Six. Round Six?” She showed him the picture she’d just snapped of the notepad.

  Martin glanced in his viewfinder. “I need another memory card. Don’t touch anything.”

  “May I?” Bowman said, reaching for her phone.

  She handed it to him.

  “I’m texting it to my IT guy.”

  “Sure.”

  He typed a few quick numbers and as the image whooshed away, he handed her the phone back. “You were round five. The first games were in New Orleans and the sixth and seventh games were here.”

  Four previous victims. Her. Vicky. And possibly Cassie. “Do you think he only kills after winning a poker game?”

  “I don’t know. A man like him gets a taste for killing. He could very well have other scenarios that give him permission to kill.”

  There were so many runaways. Dozens could go missing and no one might notice. She dug into the dazed memories surrounding her missing days, searching for references to the number five. But she couldn’t remember anything.

  “Maybe forensics can pull a print.”

  “If they do, it will likely be Lewis’s.”

  Bowman scanned the perfectly scrubbed bathroom and looked at the room again. “My guess is you’ll only find traces of Lewis in the room. Lewis might not have been careful, but whoever is sponsoring this game covers his tracks.”

  Sharp returned, whistling when he saw the spread of cash. “Where would you hold a game like that?”

  “Somewhere nice,” Riley said, almost to herself. “A big private home. Jo-Jo said Vicky was going somewhere twenty or so miles west.”

  “We’ve plenty of houses like that in western Virginia,” Sharp said. His cell buzzed again and a glance at the display had him rolling his eyes. “I can’t complete a thought without getting interrupted.”

  When he was gone, Bowman spoke in a low voice. “The Shark’s here because of you and Shield.”

  “Why Shield?”

  “In New Orleans he sent Shield pictures of you and the girls he killed. You are the prize. Shield is the challenger.”

  “Is this all because he lost a damn hand of cards?”

  “He loves a challenge and winning. Control is clearly a number-one priority for him. He lost you once, so now he’s going for you again, and he wants to make sure Shield knows it.”

  “Damn.”

  “This time, he’s also playing against Shield’s brain and mine. It’s beyond card games now.”

  “In New Orleans, did the forensic evidence suggest multiple killers?”

  “We
found the same DNA on each victim, which suggests one man did all the killing,” Bowman said.

  “So why does he want to share now? Why have Lewis kill Vicky?” Riley asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Shark covers his tracks so damn well. I’m beginning to think there’re no trails to this psychopath.”

  “There is one trail. You.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Tuesday, September 20, 8:00 a.m.

  Riley had been back in uniform and in the patrol vehicle with Cooper for less than an hour when the call came that Lewis’s rental car had been found. Dispatch radioed in the report from a man who had spotted it parked at a country church at the western edge of the county.

  Riley drove to the site and found the church at the intersection of two secondary roads. The abandoned church was a small building, painted with a graying white and sporting a tilting spire on a patchy roof. Several of the windows were broken and patched with plastic and duct tape. The grass around the building and a half-dozen worn headstones in a small graveyard had been recently cut. Time had long since passed this place by.

  Out of the car, she hooked Cooper’s line, donned gloves, and unfastened the strap holding her gun in its holster. She approached the car, a black Lexus covered in mud and peppered with bullet holes. The tires had been sliced and the windows smashed.

  She allowed Cooper to sniff around the scene. Leaning in, she peered through one of the broken windows and spotted the keys in the ignition. The car matched the description of Lewis’s rental car.

  “Shame to waste such a good car,” she said.

  Blood splattered on the windshield and soaked the driver’s seat. On the floor there were a half-dozen diet soda cans and an empty box of no-sleep pills. She popped the trunk release. Moving slowly to the back, she watched Cooper as he sniffed. The trunk was empty.

  The door to the church opened, Cooper tensed, and she turned to see an old man shuffling toward her. She recognized him. He was Russell Hudson, the man who had found Vicky’s body.

  “About time the cops came out,” he said.

  “Mr. Hudson, you called this in?”

  Hudson moved to within feet of her, making no effort to hide his curiosity as his gaze scanned her body. “Yeah. I called it. You ever find out who killed that girl? I still haven’t been able to get on that field and cut the grass. The music festival promoter is calling me daily, asking about the case.”

  “We’re working on it.”

  “Working on it doesn’t get you off my land or get my work done. The promoter is talking about suing me for breach of contract.”

  Riley didn’t rise to his anger. “Mr. Hudson, this car matches the description of her killer’s car. It’s an odd coincidence that you made the call both times.”

  Hudson’s assessing gaze catalogued her from head to toe before he shook his head. “You think it’s fun for me to take time out of my day to deal with this kind of thing?”

  “An odd coincidence.”

  “All I know is that it’s one more problem for me to handle.”

  “When did you first see the car?” Riley asked.

  “This morning. Came by the church to check on a few things.”

  “The church has been closed for years.”

  “We get homeless people and the occasional teenager setting up shop inside. I chase ’em off.”

  “You see anyone when you arrived?”

  “Nope. Just the car.”

  “And the car looked like this?”

  “You mean, shot to hell? Yeah. Like that. Whoever got ahold of it had their fun and dumped it on me to clean up.”

  “You live in the area, right?” she asked.

  “Up the road a few miles.”

  “And you didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Nope, didn’t see anyone. And I’m around a lot. I know my land.”

  Either this man knew more than he was saying or someone was baiting her, dropping clues like bread crumbs to lure her toward something. “Judging by the holes in the side of the car, multiple shots were fired. Did you hear any gunfire?”

  “Nope. Didn’t hear a sound. I reckon they shot it up and then parked it here.” He shrugged thin shoulders, and she noticed the deep veins in his hands and the sallow complexion of his skin. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Trooper Riley Tatum.”

  “Riley Tatum.” He said her name as if testing. A lot of the old guys didn’t see her as a cop or take her all that seriously. “Pleasure to meet you again.”

  “Yes, sir. How can I reach you if I have more questions?”

  “I have a phone but no answering machine right now. Tired of the phone calls from the press and anyone else who has a gripe with me.”

  “No way to leave a message?”

  “If I’m there, I’m there. If I’m gone, try again.”

  “Do me a favor and stay right here.” She called dispatch and requested a second car.

  “I’ve things to do.”

  “Yes, sir. Please stay where you are.” Within three minutes a sheriff’s deputy patrol car pulled onto the scene. She spoke to the deputy and explained the situation.

  “My dog and I are going to walk the area and see if we pick up a scent.” With the deputy and Hudson standing by, they moved around the car, Cooper dropping his nose to the ground and sniffing. The dog pulled Riley along the edges of the parking lot and then toward the woods. They were fifteen feet into the brush when she heard the rustle of branches. Cooper tensed and raised his head. “What is it, Cooper?”

  The dog sniffed the air. She listened, her hand slowly sliding to the grip of her weapon. She spotted a mound of leaves, and as she moved closer, she saw the pale fingers jutting out from the pile. Carefully, she knelt and brushed away the thin layer of leaves. Lying beneath was Cassie’s pale body.

  Bowman pushed through the doors of the tech department and strode toward the large corner office of Garrett Andrews. In his late thirties, Andrews had been a Special Forces operative with Delta serving fifteen years on active duty before an IED exploded under his Humvee. The blast killed three of the four men in his unit. Garrett sustained burns over his back, and the doctors dug shrapnel and bone fragments from his body that left much of his arms and legs scarred. When he awoke in the hospital three days later, Shield, who’d only known him by reputation, was at his bedside. He offered Andrews a job at Shield Security. Andrews showed up eight weeks later and began helping with tech support.

  “Find anything on the video?” Bowman asked.

  Andrews sat at a desk that faced away from the window and toward a bank of ten computer screens. He didn’t bother glancing up from them as a vague look of annoyance crossed his sharp features. “You gave the video to me yesterday.”

  “That’s twenty-four hours ago. With your talents, that should be plenty for you.” Andrews had triple majored in college, balancing an engineering degree with ones in mathematics and philosophy. He’d always amazed his roommates with his ability to recall every detail he read the first time through. His idea of studying for tests was skimming the textbook and getting to bed early.

  Andrews grunted and reached under a pile of papers for the DVD. He pushed it into a computer and the image of Riley appeared on the screen.

  Bowman squared his shoulders, sliding his hand into his pocket. Fingertips brushed the knife he always carried. He studied Riley’s narrow face, more disturbed than he should be by an image taken over a dozen years ago.

  “You said she’s a cop now?” Andrews asked.

  “That’s right. Eight years.”

  Andrews sat back in his chair, folding scarred arms over his chest. “I haven’t pinned the exact location. The painting on the wall does look like a Matisse, though I seriously doubt it is real.”

  “I know next to nothing about art, but I know that name. How do you know it’s fake?”

  “If it were real, it would be one of his lesser-known works, and even then it would b
e worth millions. Not likely to be hanging on a wall.”

  “Based on what Shield’s informant told him, the Shark is wealthy.”

  “The furnishings in this room appear to be top grade.” Andrews tapped a few keys on his computer, responding to a message that had nothing to do with their conversation. “I’ve isolated sounds in your tape. There’s Mozart playing in the background and what sounds like someone clicking their fingers.”

  “Clicking their fingers?”

  Andrews raised his hand and snapped. “Like that. A nervous habit, perhaps. Shadows on the walls suggest there are at least two other people in the room.” Andrews advanced the video and they both heard gruff words spoken. The voice was male.

  “He’s hard to understand,” Bowman said.

  “There are two distinct voices. They don’t sound young but aren’t old. The one with the deeper voice is telling Riley she’s lucky. He doesn’t sound happy.”

  “Given the batting average for this guy, that’s an understatement,” Bowman said. “What about accents?”

  “Neither had distinct speech patterns.” Andrews held one side of a headset to his ear. “The men are talking about the winning player choosing if she lives or dies. The decision is made that Riley will live.”

  “Why let her live?”

  “Riley was heavily drugged. In fact, judging by her pale skin and the way her eyes were turned back in her head, I wonder if they almost overdosed her. She wouldn’t have remembered anything.”

  Bowman stopped the recording and studied her. “I see a faint bruise on her cheek. Knowing her, she resisted at some point.”

  “Maybe. I see no other major physical issues. That doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”

  Tension gripped in his gut. “Right.”

  Andrews sat back, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. “So this prick left the DVD at her house?”

  Bowman swallowed his anger, knowing he’d channel it when the time came. “He did.”

  “You say that like it really pisses you off.”

  “It does.”

  “We’ve not worked a case before, but word is you have ice water in your veins.”