The Shark (The Forgotten Files 1)

“Seriously, you okay?” Martin studied her like he would one of his crime scenes. “You ain’t gonna faint on me, are you?”

She mustered another smile. “Hell, no.”

“Thank God.”

The crunch of gravel under tires had her turning to spot a television news van rolling up on the other side of the highway across from the spot Sheriff Barrett had vacated.

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Riley said.

“Good news travels fast.”

“He’s not here for this case. He’s here for me. I saw him at the park yesterday, and he was at the hospital this morning.”

“He wants to talk to the woman of the hour.”

“Unfortunately. And thanks to the sheriff’s perfect timing, I’m not going to be able to sneak away.”

“Maybe DuPont will talk to him and run interference.”

“DuPont isn’t going to do me a favor.”

“You handled the media well enough yesterday after the Carter arrest,” Martin said.

“I didn’t say a whole lot.”

“Exactly. The less said the better.”

“Even then, think twice.”

The cards still playing on her mind, she moved back toward the road where DuPont and the other deputies stood, arms crossed, faces grim. In no mood to deal, she moved past them with a quick nod, knowing it would not serve her well to quip with a deputy while the media was close. Keeping her gaze trained ahead, she adjusted her sunglasses. “Have a good one.”

No response followed as she approached her car and opened the backseat door to allow Cooper to jump inside. She switched on the engine and the air-conditioning.

The reporter, Eddie Potter, was a guy in his late forties who favored blue button-down shirts and khakis that hung loosely on his trim frame. He crossed toward her.

“Trooper!” he shouted, waving his hand. Behind him, an older, sturdy man unloaded the camera, and though he didn’t stroll, he didn’t race like the reporter. “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you again this morning when they arrested Carter.”

She settled Cooper in the backseat and closed the car door. “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Eddie Potter. I’m with local news.”

“Yes, sir. I remember you from yesterday.”

“Hell of a trek into the woods you made yesterday and a ballsy arrest.” He glanced toward the backseat of her SUV. “That the famous Cooper?”

She moved to the right, blocking his view of the dog. “That’s Cooper.”

“I did a little digging. Human trafficking is your thing.”

“My thing?”

“Bad choice of words. Your cause. Is that why you were determined to get Carter? We’ve all seen the video of him hitting that girl. Brutal.”

“I can’t comment.”

Potter clicked the end of his pen several times. “You’re interesting. I could do a whole profile on you.”

She didn’t want anyone digging into her life, especially with Hanna’s adoption pending.

Deputy DuPont moved forward, his look more curious than threatening as he asked, “Can I help you?”

“Mr. Potter is curious about your crime scene,” Riley said. “Do you have anything to add?”

DuPont shifted his weight and hitched his hands on his belt. “No comment.”

Riley opened the car door, sliding into her seat and taking time to click her belt in place. “Have a nice day, Mr. Potter.”

Putting the car in drive, she gave DuPont a wave and drove south back toward Richmond. Prints would be run and there would be an autopsy, but that likely wouldn’t happen until tomorrow.

The rolling landscape was dotted with tall oaks and thick grass, and the North Anna River swept past. Fields quickly gave way to exit signs promising fast food, gas, and lodging. She took the Ashland exit and drove past strip malls toward the city’s historic center. She lived in an old house near the train tracks that cut through the heart of the small town. But instead of turning toward her home, she went left to the town’s center.

Cooper looked out the window, wagging his tail at the sight of the familiar streets.

“Sorry, Cooper, we aren’t going home yet. Need to stop by Duke’s.”

She drove to a three-story converted warehouse nestled off the road near an open field. A red neon sign above the front door read “Duke’s.” On the aged brick were the faded letters hinting to the building’s first years as a grain warehouse.

The parking lot was in need of paving—a project Duke kept swearing he’d tackle as soon as he won the lottery. Even though Duke joked about winning the lottery, he never played it. There was enough risk these days running a restaurant in a soft economy.

Out of her SUV, Riley hooked the tracking line to Cooper’s collar and took him for a quick walk in the woods by the lot before putting him back in and cranking the AC. “Be right back.”

She locked the door with the keyless entry and moved across the lot, her boots crunching gravel with each impatient step. Pushing through the door, she was greeted by the spicy scents of barbecue, fried potatoes, and at least five different kinds of pies.

Duke Spence opened Duke’s twenty years ago when he moved to Ashland after years of working the blackjack tables in Las Vegas. He said he once received a vision from God when he woke up in a back alley battered and bruised. God told him to get his act together and open a place where people could get good, affordable food. He said he never played another hand of poker and moved back east the next day.

When Riley was seventeen, living in Duke’s shelter and in need of a job, Duke gave one to her. When he offered her a spare room on the restaurant’s second floor if she enrolled in high school, she refused. In those days, she didn’t trust anyone. But in the coming weeks, he never pressed or gave her a reason to be afraid. So she asked if the deal was still on the table. They shook on it.

During the first nights living above the restaurant, she pushed the dresser in front of her door. It took another two weeks before she really fell into a deep sleep. He never said more than two words to her until her report card arrived. To say she blew it out of the park in terms of grades would have been a lie. Duke studied the paper closely and told her to get her grades up. He didn’t threaten or cajole, but spoke to her like an adult. And she listened. Her grades improved, and she ended up living in that upstairs room for four years while working her way through community college and then the police academy.

Inside Duke’s restaurant, Riley grinned at the kid behind the front register, Hanna Rogers, her soon-to-be daughter. Five years ago, Riley was working patrol when she stopped a white van with a busted taillight on the interstate. A couple of muscle-bound guys were in the front seat, and in the back, three young girls. One was Hanna.

Riley knew immediately the kid was underage, and when neither of the drivers could prove their relation to her, she called in for backup. All the girls were under eighteen. A background check told Riley that Hanna would not be going home. The kid’s father was in prison, and the mother was a heroin addict living with a convicted child molester. She wasn’t sure why, but she made the offer to foster the then-twelve-year-old girl. Hanna accepted, saying, “Until something better comes along.” Riley hadn’t argued, knowing the kid was all bluff and terrified.

Two weeks ago, Riley had filed adoption papers, which would officially make Hanna her daughter. The move didn’t make sense to some, seeing as Hanna was close to eighteen, but it was important for both to have a real family. Neither wanted to mess the adoption up.

“Riley,” Hanna said. “You look official.”

Riley grinned. “Need to look the part.”

“Oh, you totally do, Trooper Tatum. Caught any bad guys today?” Hanna reached for a set of silverware and rolled a paper napkin around them. If Riley had a nickel for all the silverware she had rolled when she lived above Duke’s, she’d have the money to send Hanna to college free and clear.

“No bad guys y

et. Give me until dinnertime.”

Hanna glanced at the large round clock on the wall. “Coop in the car?”

“Yeah, doing what he does best. Sleeping.”

“You’re a little early for dinner.”

“Didn’t come to eat. Questions for Duke.”

“About a case?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“No, it’s very routine.”

“Too bad. I think he could use a little excitement. He’s in the back adding numbers and grumbling.”

“How much is he grumbling?”

“Said Satan invented numbers to torture humans.”

She arched a brow. “That bad?” His bark was worse than his bite.

Hanna shook her head. “It’s the worst I’ve seen him in a while.”

“Must be quarterly taxes. He hates those. What time do you get off today?”

“Six.”

“How are the applications going?”

“Slow.” She grimaced. “They want me to write all these essays about my life, but each time I do, it sounds all wrong.”

“Why wrong?”