“I’m Mr. Delany,” he said. “May I help you?”
She smiled as her mother had once taught her. Polite, but not too friendly. “A friend of mine bought a beautiful dress here and I loved it. I was hoping you might have something similar.”
“Most of our items are one of a kind. And very expensive.”
She held her ground and reached for her phone. “Maybe if I showed you a picture.”
“Of course.”
“The dress is yellow. The skirt is covered in lace. Very delicate.” She glanced at her fingers. Her nails were short, shorn to a practical length, but not the manicured look ideal for this environment.
“I know the dress. I sold the only three we had in stock.”
“You did?”
“To one customer.”
“Does this customer have a name?”
He studied her, catching a hardening edge in her tone. “Why does that matter?”
“You’re out of stock. He has three. Maybe he’ll sell me one.”
Carefully, he shook his head. “Maybe you should speak to our head of security.”
“Why? Does he manage your dress inventory?”
“No, he deals with the police.”
“What makes you think I’m police?”
A brow arched as he pressed a button by the register. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“While we wait, can you tell me about the dress?”
“When security arrives.”
Seconds later a tall, broad-shouldered man came into the shop. He looked as out of place as Riley did around the fine, frilly pieces.
The security guard took one look at her and asked, “Officer, what can I do for you?”
Riley smiled and pulled the picture of Kevin Lewis. She showed it to the guard. “Has this gentleman been in to buy a yellow dress?”
The guard shifted his gaze to the image. “We guard the privacy of our customers closely.”
“This gentleman is on a slab at the morgue now. He’s a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“I haven’t seen him.” The guard nodded to Mr. Delany, who then leaned forward and peeked at the picture. “I remember him.”
“He must have bought the dress here,” Riley said. “This is the only store in a hundred miles that sells this label.”
The guard nodded again to Mr. Delany.
Mr. Delany knitted his fingers. Buffed nails glistened in the soft light. “The gentleman was very specific about the color. He also said the dress had to be the best.”
“How did he pay for it?”
“Cash. That’s part of the reason he stuck in my mind. We see cash when someone wants to hide a purchase.”
“Did he say who the dress was for?”
“Said it was for his daughter. She had a big party. He wasn’t sure about her size, so he purchased all three. We didn’t talk much. He saw the three dresses, asked me to box them up, and paid for his purchase. He was here ten minutes.” He glanced at the guard. “I’d bet a month’s commission the dress was not for his daughter.”
“What day was this?”
“Last Friday. Right before closing.”
“Was anyone with him?”
“He was alone.”
“Has anyone else ordered a similar dress?”
“No.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Saturday, September 17, 3:15 p.m.
Bowman sat in his SUV across from the youth emergency shelter, waiting for Duke Spence to arrive. According to a call to the man’s office, he would return to the shelter around three. He checked his watch. A red truck, beat up and dented, pulled into a parking space and an older man got out. He had shoulder-length gray hair tied at the nape of his neck and wore a dark T-shirt that tightened around strong, still-taut, tattooed arms. Faded jeans had seen better days, as had the scuffed brown boots.
After hearing Riley’s story today, Bowman had dug into Duke’s past. It might have been a coincidence that she’d landed in this man’s backyard, but he never assumed. Serendipity was for fairy tales and fools.
Duke Spence had a checkered past, starting his career as a gambler in Vegas. He’d spent the better part of his twenties and thirties winning some and losing more until he’d ended up owing too much to the wrong guy. He had the piss beaten out of him on a side street in Las Vegas. Call it the fear of God, but that beating by all accounts had turned him around. Twenty years ago he married a cocktail waitress and they moved to Virginia. A year later they opened the shelter. He’d stayed clean since. He and his wife were model citizens, giving back to the community.
Bowman stepped out of his SUV. “Mr. Spence.”
Duke paused and turned at the sound of the baritone voice. His head cocked. “Do I know you?”
Bowman pulled off his sunglasses. “Clay Bowman. I’m with Shield Security.”
“You look like a fed.”
“I was. Retired now.”
Duke squared up and took a step toward Bowman. Not intimidated, he said, “What can I do for you, Mr. Bowman?”
“I have a few questions about Riley Tatum.”
Duke’s jaw tightened. “If you have questions about Riley, ask Riley.”
“I’ve talked to Riley, and now I’m talking to you. This is about a recent murder she responded to.”
“The dead girl.”
“That’s right.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“You were the first person who saw Riley when she arrived here twelve years ago.”
“Barking up the wrong tree, pal. Talk to Riley.” He turned and walked toward the restaurant.
Without raising his voice, Bowman said, “I believe someone tried to kill Riley in New Orleans and now he’s back.”
Duke paused, hesitating before he turned. “Riley would have told me if anything like that happened to her.”
“There was a case I worked when I was with the bureau. We called him the Shark. Killed four girls.”
“Riley never said anything about anyone trying to kill her. Ever.”
“I believe she was drugged. Her memory was nearly wiped. But she knew something bad had happened.”
“She tell you that?”
“The memories are stirring,” he offered, much like a fisherman dangling bait in the water.
Duke, flexing his fingers, approached Bowman. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. If Riley was having any bad memories and going to talk to anyone about it, she would be talking to me. I’m family. She’s like a daughter to me.”
The intensity behind Duke’s tone suggested the truth. But Duke had been a gambler and the smart ones could bluff with the best. “Then help me protect her.”
Duke shook his head. “I don’t know you. You show up out of nowhere and ask me about a person I care about? I’m not telling you squat.”
Was this righteous loyalty to Riley for real or for show? “This killer strangled four young girls who looked like Riley. He’s killed a young girl in Virginia days ago.”
“I saw it in the news, but they barely gave the story more than a thirty-second spot. How do you know Riley is connected?”
“The body was staged in Riley’s patrol area. She was the officer on duty who responded to the call. The dead girl looks like the other victims, who all look like Riley.”
“Her looks aren’t that distinctive, Mr. Bowman. And she’s dealt with all kinds of nastiness on the road. She’s a cop.”
“There were playing cards in this victim’s back pocket just as there were in the New Orleans victims’ pockets.”