Her chest rose as she pulled in a slow, measured breath. “Not polite to stalk, Bowman.”

“We need to talk.”

“What can I do for you, Bowman?”

“I want to talk to you about the Gilbert case.”

She glanced past him at his car, again calculating. He suspected she’d just shove him deeper into the doghouse. “Why?”

“Did you find playing cards with the body?”

Eyes narrowing, she stilled. “Playing cards?”

“We can stand here all day and second-guess each other or we can find a place to talk. I might be able to help you with this case.”

“I don’t need your help, Mr. Bowman. I’m pretty good at figuring these kinds of things out on my own.”

“I was a help in the woods.”

“I’ll give you that. But this isn’t the woods. Nor is it Quantico. We’re not a team.”

He should have guessed she’d not forgotten a damn thing. “This case is bigger than you think. You’re in danger.”

“Murder’s always pretty big, Bowman.”

This close, he was struck by her looks. Thick dark hair that he knew was soft to the touch. Keen green eyes. Cut cheekbones. Beautiful. And she possessed a confidence that still appealed. “Is the case important to you because it hits close to home?”

“There’s a dead young girl lying on a slab in the state morgue, Mr. Bowman. That’s why it’s important to me.”

“I know you were a runaway when you were seventeen.”

Her eyes narrowed as if he’d jabbed a raw nerve. “You’ve mixed me up with someone else.”

“I haven’t.”

Hands hitched on her hips, she tapped her finger against her belt. “You’re headed down a rabbit hole.”

A woman passed by and glanced at the two of them, her gaze alight with curiosity. Bowman, aware he was leaning toward Riley, straightened and tossed the woman a sideways glare, his frown deepening, until she looked away. “I’m not having this conversation here. And I know you don’t want to have this chat in your office with your supervisor listening. My guess is that no one knows what happened to you.”

Tension vibrated around her.

“There’s a restaurant in town. Latrobe’s. You know the place?”

“I know it.” And with no hint of shame, “It’s on your nickel.”

“See you there in thirty minutes.”

She studied him as he drove off. She didn’t like or trust him. That was crystal clear.

When they arrived at the small restaurant, it was past five thirty. Patrons would file in during the next half hour, but for now they had the place mostly to themselves.

He chose a curved booth in the back. As the waiter pulled out the table, Riley gracefully slid into the booth. She smelled of soap, no heavy perfume. No makeup covered her smooth skin. The brief time they’d been together, she never talked about her past, and he had been so wrapped up in his own that he’d never asked. Now he was deeply curious.

He edged into the booth until his back was to the wall. This tactical choice put him a foot from her, but he wasn’t worried about invading her space. She could have moved to her left, but like most cops, she wouldn’t expose her back to the door.

“How’s Cooper?” he asked.

“You didn’t bring me here to talk about my dog, did you?”

“No, but I do like Cooper.”

“What exactly do you do for Shield Security? How does tracking fugitives and serial killers fit into the job description?”

The waiter returned to fill their water glasses and leave two menus behind. When he was out of earshot, Bowman carefully unrolled his napkin. “Mr. Shield assigns duties on an as-needed basis.”

She smoothed a small wrinkle in the tablecloth. “Just like that, he hires you to handle special projects.”

“Our families have a history.” His tone said he wasn’t ready to discuss it further. He scanned the menu and zeroed in on the tenderloin. “I’m starving for a steak. Are you hungry?”

“Sure. I could eat.”

When the waiter returned, he took their orders. Riley closed her menu and chose the steak as well.

“I thought women just ate salads,” Bowman said.

“Hungry, angry women eat salads.” She laid her napkin on her lap. “I also eat real food. Bowman, tell me about Shield Security. Not much press gets out about that company.”

“Feel free to call me Clay.”

“No.”

“We passed being strangers a long time ago.”

Slowly, she shook her head. “Let’s keep it professional this time.”

He nodded. “Shield is based near Quantico. We handle mostly high-end problems that our clients need dealt with quickly and quietly.”

“Such as?”

He traced a path through the condensation of his glass. “Discretion is a big part of our appeal. But we generally find missing things or people.”

“Nothing illegal.”

“Nothing unethical.”

She didn’t press that point. “I’m guessing Shield Security is doing well judging by the suit.”

“It’s rewarding. By the way, you dress well.”

She arched a brow. “Stop, you’re going to make me blush.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “We appreciate your discretion on the Carter arrest.”

“If you hadn’t asked for silence, I would’ve given you credit. You passed up a lot of publicity.”

“Which is exactly what we never want.”

Small gold earrings dangled from her ears. He remembered she’d been wearing them during their night together five years ago. “So, if you’re doing so well and making money hand over fist, what’re you doing on my case?”

He sipped his water, allowing the ice-cold liquid to cool his throat. “My boss, Joshua Shield, and I were both with the FBI twelve years ago and assigned to New Orleans. We investigated a series of murders. Four young women were strangled and their bodies left in plain sight in the space of weeks.”

Sitting back, she folded her arms. Her expression was blank, as if waiting for the punch line. “Not following.”

He realized she didn’t know about the four women. “At each murder scene the detectives found five playing cards. They all were hands from a five-card stud poker game. Three were definitely losing hands. One wasn’t terrible, but likely not good enough to win. And in handwritten black ink, Loser was scrawled on each.”

Carefully, she leaned forward and tapped a fingertip on the side of her glass. “Like my victim.”

“Exactly.”

“Was the handwriting the same on the cards?”

“Same word but each set appeared to be written by a different person.”

“You said this guy killed four girls. And let me guess, they all had a similar look. Like Vicky.”

“And like you, which you already know.”

She didn’t respond.

He sat back, tugging o

n the cuffs of his shirt. “Shield and I spent endless hours poring over evidence looking for this killer.”

“What did you find?”

“No forensic data. This killer, who became known as the Shark, is a ghost. He’s smart and knows how to cover his tracks. We never released the information about the five cards to anyone outside the case. No one in law enforcement would’ve picked up on the fact that those cases were connected to the Gilbert case.”

“Who says we’ve connected our case to your cases?”

He tugged the notebook from his breast pocket and carefully flipped through pages until he found the one he wanted. He wasn’t ready to play his trump card yet. “You’re smart, but your high school grades were average. Cs and Bs. SAT scores placed you in the top 5 percent, yet your schoolwork was lackluster.”

“A teenager with a bad attitude about school isn’t new or unique.”

The waiter arrived with a basket of bread and a small dish of herb butter. Bowman offered the basket to her first and was surprised to see her take a roll. His late wife had never eaten bread. She never ate steak.

Riley tore her roll in half and buttered both sides. She took a bite and Bowman found himself glad to see her eat. He set a roll on his plate but did not touch it. “That kind of disparity between grades and tests always makes me curious. So I did a little more checking on you.”

“Must have been a real slow morning for you, Bowman. Most people have better things to do than poke around in my boring life.”

Impatience hummed under her words. She wanted him to circle back to the original thread of questioning. But he was in no rush to deliver. Getting this woman to talk or open up would not be easy. Too many layers of ice. “You’re not curious about what I found?”

“I lived it, remember?” Again, her expression remained blank and showed no sign of reaction. She should have been a poker player. “Okay, let me have it. What did you find out about me?”

The southern drawl sugarcoated the words, but he suspected underneath lurked a screw you. She didn’t like him running this show. And though he sensed she itched to tell him to spit it out, she wouldn’t. Control was too important to Trooper Tatum.

“You come from a very wealthy family. After high school you moved to Virginia and worked at Duke’s diner while taking classes at the community college. When you turned twenty-two, you entered the state police academy. Most would consider that a very unexpected move for a girl who had her debut in New Orleans society.”

Tags: Mary Burton The Forgotten Files Thriller
Source: readsnovelonline.net