boring.”
“It’s the ticket to your future.”
“The classes are too easy.”
“Maybe you’re too smart.” The kid was gifted, often outpacing her classmates and some of her teachers.
Hanna’s morning frown softened with the compliment.
Fifteen minutes later Hanna was out the door as her ride pulled in the driveway. Hanna tossed Riley a wave and slid into the backseat of the van.
As the van drove off, a car parked a half block away headed toward the house. Eyes narrowed, Riley watched as it pulled into her driveway. Her hand slid to the SIG already on her hip.
Eddie Potter rose out of the car. “Trooper. Looks like I caught you heading out. Figured you’d take it easy on your day off.”
“Mr. Potter. You know my schedule and you tracked me to my home.” Not illegal but an invasion.
“I understand you identified the girl murdered near here.”
She hesitated, wondering if he was telling her the truth. “No comment.”
“Her name is Vicky Gilbert,” he said.
Her spine stiffened as she wondered who was feeding him information. Barrett? Sharp? And why hadn’t she gotten a call? “I can’t comment, Mr. Potter. Contact the public information officer for state police.”
“I’ll be running the story about the girl at the midday and evening news slots. It won’t be long. Maybe a minute. If I could interview you, it would get more airtime.”
“No.”
“I’d like your take on the human trafficking angle. The story might raise awareness.”
“Talk to the public information officer. She’ll call me with an interview time.”
“Can’t we cut the red tape?”
“No.”
“Does this murder bother you because you once ran away from home?”
“Excuse me?”
“I did a little digging into your past. A friend told me you’re from New Orleans and you ran away from home.” As her scowl deepened, his grin widened. “Curious by nature. And in today’s dicey world of journalism, you need to be willing to hit a nerve.”
“How about you give me your friend’s name? I’d like to have a chat with him.”
“I’m not willing to throw this guy under the bus. Wouldn’t be fair. Just doing my job. It’s in the DNA.”
She wondered what else he’d dug up, but she refused to open that can of worms. Shit. She didn’t need anyone digging into her past. “Get off my property.”
“If you don’t help me write the story, I’ll come up with my own angle.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Potter.”
Bowman’s drive into Washington, DC, took less than two hours, plus another thirty minutes before he found himself at the end of a cul-de-sac ringed with three old brick homes. He checked the address and parked in the driveway. Out of his car, he tugged on his jacket as a warm wind blew through the thick oaks. The faint scent of boxwoods wafted, hinting of old money and power.
Riley’s stepfather, William Charles, was based in New Orleans, but as it turned out, he spent a great deal of time in Washington, DC, as a lobbyist. Charles could trace his roots back to the Revolutionary War, and he attended Columbia, earning a law degree in spite of mediocre grades. He joined his father’s law firm and spent most of his career shuttling between New Orleans and DC. Riley’s mother had been a newly divorced mother of a two-year-old daughter when she’d joined the Charles law firm as a secretary. She’d quickly caught Charles’s eye, and the two were married the following year.
Bowman walked up the front steps and rang the bell.
The faint click of heels echoed in the house and, after a slight hesitation, the door opened. Standing before him was a tall, dark-haired woman in her early thirties. Her build was slim, and she had a look similar to Riley’s.
“May I help you?” No hint of warmth in her voice.
“My name is Clay Bowman. I’m with Shield Security and investigating an old criminal case. I’m here to see Mr. Charles.”
“Mr. Charles isn’t here.”
The tech guy at Shield Security, Garrett
“It’s the ticket to your future.”
“The classes are too easy.”
“Maybe you’re too smart.” The kid was gifted, often outpacing her classmates and some of her teachers.
Hanna’s morning frown softened with the compliment.
Fifteen minutes later Hanna was out the door as her ride pulled in the driveway. Hanna tossed Riley a wave and slid into the backseat of the van.
As the van drove off, a car parked a half block away headed toward the house. Eyes narrowed, Riley watched as it pulled into her driveway. Her hand slid to the SIG already on her hip.
Eddie Potter rose out of the car. “Trooper. Looks like I caught you heading out. Figured you’d take it easy on your day off.”
“Mr. Potter. You know my schedule and you tracked me to my home.” Not illegal but an invasion.
“I understand you identified the girl murdered near here.”
She hesitated, wondering if he was telling her the truth. “No comment.”
“Her name is Vicky Gilbert,” he said.
Her spine stiffened as she wondered who was feeding him information. Barrett? Sharp? And why hadn’t she gotten a call? “I can’t comment, Mr. Potter. Contact the public information officer for state police.”
“I’ll be running the story about the girl at the midday and evening news slots. It won’t be long. Maybe a minute. If I could interview you, it would get more airtime.”
“No.”
“I’d like your take on the human trafficking angle. The story might raise awareness.”
“Talk to the public information officer. She’ll call me with an interview time.”
“Can’t we cut the red tape?”
“No.”
“Does this murder bother you because you once ran away from home?”
“Excuse me?”
“I did a little digging into your past. A friend told me you’re from New Orleans and you ran away from home.” As her scowl deepened, his grin widened. “Curious by nature. And in today’s dicey world of journalism, you need to be willing to hit a nerve.”
“How about you give me your friend’s name? I’d like to have a chat with him.”
“I’m not willing to throw this guy under the bus. Wouldn’t be fair. Just doing my job. It’s in the DNA.”
She wondered what else he’d dug up, but she refused to open that can of worms. Shit. She didn’t need anyone digging into her past. “Get off my property.”
“If you don’t help me write the story, I’ll come up with my own angle.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Potter.”
Bowman’s drive into Washington, DC, took less than two hours, plus another thirty minutes before he found himself at the end of a cul-de-sac ringed with three old brick homes. He checked the address and parked in the driveway. Out of his car, he tugged on his jacket as a warm wind blew through the thick oaks. The faint scent of boxwoods wafted, hinting of old money and power.
Riley’s stepfather, William Charles, was based in New Orleans, but as it turned out, he spent a great deal of time in Washington, DC, as a lobbyist. Charles could trace his roots back to the Revolutionary War, and he attended Columbia, earning a law degree in spite of mediocre grades. He joined his father’s law firm and spent most of his career shuttling between New Orleans and DC. Riley’s mother had been a newly divorced mother of a two-year-old daughter when she’d joined the Charles law firm as a secretary. She’d quickly caught Charles’s eye, and the two were married the following year.
Bowman walked up the front steps and rang the bell.
The faint click of heels echoed in the house and, after a slight hesitation, the door opened. Standing before him was a tall, dark-haired woman in her early thirties. Her build was slim, and she had a look similar to Riley’s.
“May I help you?” No hint of warmth in her voice.
“My name is Clay Bowman. I’m with Shield Security and investigating an old criminal case. I’m here to see Mr. Charles.”
“Mr. Charles isn’t here.”
The tech guy at Shield Security, Garrett
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