The Shark (The Forgotten Files 1)
Eight years of working patrol had introduced her to death multiple times. Car accidents, shootings, domestic fights. Still, heaviness settled in Riley’s chest as she struggled to remember the girl alive. No one deserved this.
Kids from the streets were invisible to most. Faceless. Nameless. Most of the politicians didn’t care if a homeless kid, here or there, vanished. This girl’s death would soon fall off the radar.
“Riley,” Martin said. “Open the side pouch of the backpack while I photograph it.”
Riley squatted and unzipped the pocket. She held the flap open while the camera snapped.
“Go ahead and remove the contents of the bag,” Martin said.
She reached in and pulled out five playing cards, which she fanned. Thick paper stock. The face of each card was smooth, but carefully detailed. Tension rippled up her arm, and when she turned the cards over and stared at the ornate scroll pattern on the backing, her breath caught. The word Loser was written in bold black lettering on the back of each card. “A three of spades, a two of diamonds, a five of clubs, a four of hearts, and a king of diamonds.”
The cards struck an unwelcome chord she thought long buried from a case dating back twelve years. As her heart kicked into gear, Riley was careful to keep her expression neutral as she bagged each one and handed them to Sheriff Barrett.
“If she was playing poker,” Sheriff Barrett said, “she would’ve been a loser. She was holding about the worst possible hand.”
“The deck of cards to a serious player is critical,” Riley said.
“You a card player?” Sheriff Barrett sounded amused.
“Stepfather was a big gambler. According to him there were good cards and bad cards.”
Sheriff Barrett shrugged. “They’re all good. Depends on the combination you need.”
The heat of the day faded; the sound of traffic on the main road vanished.
When she’d run away, street life was far tougher than she’d imagined. She quickly ran out of money and within days was so hungry. When a church volunteer had offered her bottled water, she’d taken it gladly. That was the last thing she remembered. She lost seven days.
At the end of those missing days when she’d crawled free of a void, she could barely focus, her system loaded with some narcotic cocktail. But one of her first memories was of finding five playing cards in her back pocket. Same deck as these, different spread. But there were no words scrawled on her cards.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tuesday, September 13, 3:00 p.m.
Riley stood in the field staring at the cards, burrowing into those lost days in her past, trying to remember any detail.
“Riley?”
She glanced up at the sheriff. “Yeah.”
The lines around his eyes deepened. “You see something?”
She tore her gaze from the cards. “I thought I did, but no.”
“You sure?” Sheriff Barrett had been a cop too long not to sense tension or smell an evasion.
“I thought they reminded me of an old case I came across a couple of years ago.” Lies worked best when you kept the details scant and threaded in the truth when possible. “But I was wrong.” She handed the cards back to him.
The sheriff held the plastic bag up to the light and glared at the cards as if searching for what she might have seen. “Where do you think they came from?”
Keeping her voice steady when she spoke, she said, “These are professional-grade cards. They don’t come cheap.”
“And the word Loser?”
“I don’t know.” The crisp lines of the white-and-black baroque were more likely linked to a high-stakes private game. She studied the delicate pattern.
“You sure?” Sheriff Barrett asked.
She looked toward the victim again, studying the color of her hair, the long, lean limbs, and the tapered hands. “Nothing catches my eye yet.”
“Trooper, you’re studying that face mighty hard,” the sheriff said.
Riley straightened but made no comment.
“We don’t get many murders in this county, but always stings more when they’re young. I never get used to it.”
“Once I have the scene processed,” Martin said, “I’ll let you know if we find anything else.”
“Sounds good,” Sheriff Barrett said.
Riley was puzzled by the body’s position. “The killer took the time to pose her sitting up as if she were resting. She’s also fully dressed. He could have abused the body, but he didn’t. And her face was turned downward, so her eyes didn’t look up at him.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, I guess,” the sheriff said. “Or they could have been doing drugs or having sex and it went sideways.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He strangles her, which is a very personal way of killing someone, but then he feels bad enough not to dump her body like a bag of trash.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sheriff Barrett glanced back toward the interstate ramp. “The killer could have disposed of her body and been back on his way north or south in a matter of minutes.”
“He could be three states away by now.”
“Martin, any tire tracks?” the sheriff asked.
“Not in the field, but there are fresh ones on the side of the road just beyond Hudson’s truck. I’ve dropped flags to preserve them. There are plenty of footprints, though. Someone walked around the body several times. Could have been Hudson, since the impressions were made by work boots, which I am assuming he’s wearing.”
“He is,” Riley confirmed.
“I’ll need impressions of Hudson’s boots.”
“I’ll swing by his place and get them,” Sheriff Barrett countered.
“Judging by the size of the footprints, I’d say a man’s ten or eleven,” Martin said.
“We should be able to clear Hudson as soon as I get his impressions,” Sheriff Barrett said.
“A DNA swab wouldn’t hurt,” Martin added.
“Sure.” The sheriff rolled his head from side to side. “Trooper, any other thoughts?”
“The victim is thin, so she wouldn’t have been hard to carry,” Riley said. Had he slung her over his shoulder or carried her in his arms? Both images, one suggesting disinterest and the other care, bothered her. She shook
both off. As a cop, it was better to focus on facts rather than feelings. Easy enough during the daylight, but at night those denied emotions robbed her of sleep. “Can you tell if she died here?”
Martin examined the victim’s back and side. The victim’s right side was stippled with dark blue as if bruised. “When she died and her heart stopped, she was on her side. Likely stayed that way for a while—gave the blood time to settle. If she’d died here, like this, the blood would have settled in her hands and the bottom half of her legs. My guess is she died somewhere else.”
“Gambling’s not legal in this state,” Sheriff Barrett observed as he studied the cards.
“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Private games go on all the time,” Riley said. “The big players don’t fuss with public venues.”
“High stakes. In a fancy backroom game. Sounds far-fetched,” he said, more to himself.
Riley blinked, remembering her stepfather had been a high roller who couldn’t stay away from the tables. “These guys play with the best cards, and they hire the prettiest girls to serve them drinks and keep their mouth shut about what they see.”
The sheriff’s head cocked slightly as he studied her. “You pick all that up while on patrol?”
“I pay attention.”
“All right,” he said after a pause. “Keep me updated. I’ll contact criminal investigations with the state and turn the case over to them.”
“Sounds good.”
Sheriff Barrett crossed the field, shook DuPont’s hand, climbed in his car, and left.
“Are you okay, Riley?” Martin asked. “You look a little pale.”
She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Still worn out a little from yesterday. I’ll be fine.”
“Sure? Hell, you look like someone walked on your grave.”
His concern pricked at her pride. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Mr. Drama.” A deadpan tone made the statement laughable.
“I can see that.” Riley grinned, hoping to break the tension coiling inside her.
But the levity was fleeting. If not for the cards, she would have theorized that a john or one of Jax’s friends had killed the girl. It was the most plausible conclusion. If not for the cards.