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PROLOGUE
Tuesday, August 15, 1992, 1:00 a.m.
Richmond, VA
“I should have been a Boy Scout,” he said as he secured the cord into a square knot between the woman’s small breasts. Standing back, he admired the slender red ropes wrapped in a figure-eight pattern around her torso.
As she watched him with nervous anticipation, he reached for the noose dangling above her, slipped it around her neck, and secured it tight until she coughed and gasped for air. He lifted his gaze to the woman’s sharp blue eyes. There was panic now. Still a faint desire to please. Confusion. Fear.
Good.
“This is pretend, right?” she rasped.
“I’m not playing, Rene,” he said. He softly caressed the underside of her chin.
“You said it would be fun.” Rene had been too proud to ask questions up until this point. She was streetwise, savvy; she didn’t want to show weakness. But now, her fears had gotten the better of her.
“You aren’t having fun?” he teased.
She closed her eyes and shook her head slowly as she tried to move her arms, now twisted and bound behind her back. “No.”
He traced his index finger around her erect nipples. “No? Do you want to stop?”
“Yes.”
He kissed her on the lips. “I don’t want to stop.”
Her eyes widened, curious and worried. “You paid for an hour. You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”
He shrugged as he stepped back. “I lied. You’re going to be here much longer. And it’s going to hurt.”
Alarm magnified uncertainty in her eyes. “Tell me you don’t mean it. Tell me this is part of the game.” When he didn’t do either, she said, “Stop. I don’t want to do this anymore. You said you’d stop if I asked.”
“You said you wanted a walk on the wild side,” he said. “And we’re just getting started.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Sorry, darling. No stopping now,” he said, his face inches from hers. “We have to play this game to the end. You see, this isn’t about your suffering or my fun. It’s about sending a message.”
Her nostrils flared as she pulled in a breath. “Message? What message?”
“You’re going to teach everyone about loyalty.”
“No one cares what I have to say.”
“You won’t be speaking in words. Your body will be talking. And the right people will understand the significance.”
“What people? The people I know don’t matter.”
“That’s not true. What about the people you shared all your secrets with?” he prompted.
“What secrets?”
“You’ve seen things you knew you shouldn’t have discussed. And yet you did.”
Her eyes watered as understanding bloomed. “I didn’t talk to anyone.”
He brushed a lock of brown hair from her eyes. “A little late for lying now, don’t you think?”
She closed her eyes. “I didn’t tell.”
“You told enough.” He reached for a rag.
Terror glinting in her eyes, she opened her mouth to scream, but he was ready with the balled rag as well as a strip of duct tape. She gagged as she glanced toward the shadows by the warehouse door where the red light of a video camera glowed.
“No one’s coming,” he said. “No one is going to help you.”
He pressed the tape over her mouth and sealed her lips closed. Soft whimpers rose in her throat as Rene violently shook her head and strained against her bindings. He watched her struggle for a minute until she slumped forward, winded and light-headed from the bindings and gag that restricted her breathing.
“The more you fight, the tighter the ropes get.” He moved behind the woman, drawing a fingertip along her bare shoulder. She flinched. Her breathing grew faster.
A sob rumbled deep in her throat. She shook her head, and the ropes tightened around her neck, forcing her to relax into a slump.
When she slowly and carefully raised her head again, his face was inches away. “I’m your whole world. I control everything. Should I end it now? Or prolong it?”
Her brows rose, but she’d already learned not to move or th
e ropes would punish.
“How much pain should I dole out? It’s all mine to decide.” He sucked in a breath; his power over her vitalized him. “This is such an exciting, heady rush in a world that can make a man feel powerless and unworthy.”
Tears glistened in her eyes.
He tugged on the rope above her head, testing the steadfastness of the beam above. “We don’t want the beam breaking under your weight. The whole point is to suspend you. It’s supposed to take time.”
She strained against her bindings as a scream caught in her throat.
He wound his fingers through her thick hair and tugged her head back so that they both could see the rafter above. “It took me time to find this place. I needed space and privacy. The beams look strong, but it never hurts to be careful.”
He released her head and moved to the rope lashed to a structural support pillar. He unknotted it and yanked once. Immediately she rose up on toes with nails painted a bright crimson. She was small-boned and petite. Lifting her was easier than he expected. She struggled to replant her weight back on the ground. Another tug on the rope and those pretty toes would flitter free.
A deep moan rumbled in her chest as she increased her struggles. The rope tightened. She gagged.
Groaning, she shook her head. A renewed bid for freedom tightened the noose around her neck and cut off most of her air. Shock and desperation widened her eyes. Her nostrils flared and her breasts heaved as she pulled in precious little oxygen.
Grinning, he yanked until she was suspended two feet off the ground. He wound the rope around the bracket screwed into the pillar. “Be a good girl, and you might live a little longer. It’s up to you.”
Tears dropped from her eyes as she mewed like a dying animal caught in a snare.
“I knew this was going to be interesting, but I had no idea I’d feel so euphoric.” His skin tingled, and his erection was rock hard.
Her kicks slowed. Breath gurgled in her chest.
“You’re as light as a feather,” he said. “Might take the bindings a little longer to do their job, but I’m in no rush. I’ve all night.”
As he stood back, he had to admire his work. He’d studied the knots carefully for months, practicing first on himself and then on women willing to surrender control.
Her eyes closed, and her body twitched. He counted to three, then lowered the rope until her feet touched the ground. She slumped forward and gasped. She hadn’t suffered enough yet.
But she would.
Her betrayal had earned her a slow death.
He moved to his duffel bag, fished out a sandwich, and took a seat on an old bench across from her. Carefully he peeled back the wax wrap, excited at the prospect of eating his meal.
He studied the thinly sliced pieces of roast beef and white American cheese with mustard pressed between two slices of homemade bread. “I could tell you the secret to making a great sandwich, but this is a lesson about keeping secrets, isn’t it?”
Rene struggled to turn her neck to loosen the tension and allow more air down her windpipe, but the ropes held her head in place. Panicked, she looked up at him.
He finished off the first half of his sandwich and wiped the crumbs from his fingers with a paper napkin. Carefully he bit into the second half. By the time he ate the last morsel and balled up the wax paper, Rene had regained some of her senses.
He shoved his trash back in his duffel. He stood and walked up to her, stopping inches short of touching her. “You know why I’m doing this, don’t you? You do understand that you deserve this, right?”
She shook her head as tears filled her eyes. Her nostrils flared, starving for morsels of air.
“Nobody likes a snitch,” he said.
“Nobody,” a voice whispered in the shadows.
Rene tried to shake her head no.
“Say what you want,” he said. “But you know I’m right. You were given trust, and you squandered it.”
He pulled on the end of the rope again. Her feet rose above the cement floor, and this time, when he tied off the rope, she was suspended three feet above the ground. She struggled, kicking her feet as the rope cut off the air to her lungs. Soon her eyes rolled back in her head.
He waited, then again lowered her to the ground, giving her a bit more time to recover. He repeated this a half-dozen more times before he tied the rope off for good. Her rising chest and twitching limbs stilled. He left her hanging.
He checked his watch. After fifteen minutes, he said, “I think a bit more time. Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Yes,” whispered the voice.
“Yes, what?”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“You got all this on tape?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
The shadow in the corner shifted, and he knew today’s lesson in loyalty had been heeded.
Five minutes later, he moved behind Rene and pressed his fingertips to her wrist. No pulse. Her feet were turning dark purple, a sign her heart no longer functioned and blood was settling in the lowest parts of her body.
“You can shut off the video camera now. This should be enough proof.”
CHAPTER ONE
Sunday, October 29, present day, 11:01 p.m.
Richmond, VA
Flashing lights from the patrol cars and fire engine made it easy for City of Richmond detective Tobias Novak to find the Church Hill murder scene. He parallel parked at the end of the block, climbed out of his SUV into the bitter cold, and burrowed deeper into his overcoat as he made his way up the brick sidewalk past century-old row houses, some looking every bit their age.
It was his evening off, and he was not happy about leaving behind a warm bed and the woman in it. Blame it on the lunar cycle or Halloween week, but the dispatcher had every on-duty detective already committed. He was needed.
A uniformed officer stood by the strip of yellow crime-scene tape tied to a wrought-iron fence encircling the small front yard. A “Rice Renovation” sign was planted in a bed of overgrown weeds. He’d seen the company’s signs around the old Church Hill and Fan District neighborhoods and knew similar companies were buying and remodeling these vacant old homes for empty nesters hungry to move back into the city.
The uniformed officer was lean, muscular, and in his early twenties. “Detective Novak,” the officer said as he raised the tape.
“What do we have?” Novak asked.
The officer shifted his feet and rubbed his hands together to chase away the night chill. “Neighbor across the street spotted a fire on the first floor and called it in. Crews put it out in fifteen minutes. It appears electrical, but they’re calling in the arson investigator. The house’s new owner was alerted. You received the call when they found the body in the basement.”
Novak blew warm air on his cold fingers. “Is the death related to the fire?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“How can you tell?”
“You’ll have to see it for yourself, sir.”
Novak stared up at the peeling gray-white paint of the early twentieth-century row house. The wide front porch had rotted in several places, a section of the portico roof had collapsed, and two of the four floor-to-ceiling windows were broken. Six faded “No Trespassing” signs were nailed across the front of the house.
“Who’s inside now?” Novak asked.
“Another uniformed officer, and the forensic technician has been on scene for nearly an hour.”
Across the street, a couple of dog walkers huddled close as they stared at the scene. At least there were no television news crews, so he might have more time before this went public.
Novak climbed the front steps, crossed the rotted porch, and entered the foyer. He’d been in countless city houses like this before. Called shotgun houses, the homes were built with a staircase on the left, a long hallway leading to the back, and two rooms on the right.
The front room was dark, filled with trash and several stained pieces of upho
lstered furniture. The pungent scent of smoke grew stronger as he moved closer to the adjoining room, which was blackened from smoke and flames. Jagged burn marks originated at an outlet and crawled up the wall. Water dripped from already-peeling wallpaper.
Under the scent of charred wood lurked hints of mildew, dust, and urine, but no signs of human decay. The cold snap would have slowed decomposition, but there was still generally some smell of death.
Temporary lighting set up in the kitchen illuminated the hallway, which was filled with more rubbish and fallen ceiling plaster. In the kitchen, a set of dark cabinets dating back a half century hung over a filthy porcelain sink filled with trash. The black-and-white linoleum on the floor peeled and buckled in several spots.
Noise echoed up from the basement and pulled him toward the open door that led to a wooden set of rickety stairs. He climbed down into the basement.
The ceiling and ductwork were low and only inches higher than his six-foot-three frame. In the far right corner, he found the uniformed officer and a forensic technician who was aiming her camera into a small room.
Novak moved toward the tech. In her midtwenties, Natasha Warner was short and slender with dark hair pulled into a ponytail. He’d worked scenes with her before and knew she was sharp and ambitious and cut no corners. Novak fished latex gloves from his pocket and worked his large hands inside them.
“Officer Warner,” Novak said.
Natasha turned and lowered her camera from her angular face. “Detective Novak.”
Novak nodded before stepping past her into the small room. The air was dry, but there was no scent of rotting flesh. “Natasha, what do you have?”
Her gaze sparked with keen curiosity. “A woman who was locked in this room, which was probably a root cellar at one time. By the looks of her clothes, I’d say she’s been here around twenty-five years.”
“Twenty-five years?” Novak pulled dark-rimmed glasses from his pocket and slid them on as he accepted a flashlight from Natasha. “Were you born twenty-five years ago?”
Natasha glanced in her viewfinder. “Barely. You?”
“Very funny,” he said. The forensic technician looked like a kid. Natasha Warner couldn’t have been much older than his daughter. Frequent workouts kept Novak’s body trim, but the glasses and the flecks of gray at his temples gave away his approaching forty-second birthday.
