Maybe Reynaldo would just let her scream.
“Where’s the bed?” Dana asked. “And the shower?”
“Sit,” he said, pointing to the chair.
He had tied Number Three down with rope and trapped whatever hand he was cutting in the large vise on the tool table. Number Three had started to resist when he first saw the ropes, but Reynaldo had silenced him with the gun. He could do that again here, he supposed, but Dana seemed more pliant. Still, once the cutting began, he would need restraints.
“Sit,” he said again.
Dana immediately sat in the chair.
Reynaldo opened the bottom tool drawer and pulled out the tying rope. He wasn’t good at knots, but if you stayed near your victim and if you wrapped it enough times around, you didn’t have to be.
“What’s that for?” Dana asked.
“I need to make up your bed. I can’t risk you running off while I do that.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Sit still.”
When he wrapped the rope around her chest, Dana started to cry. But she didn’t resist. He wasn’t sure if that pleased or disappointed him. Reynaldo was about to do a second go around, when he heard the familiar whimper.
Bo.
Reynaldo looked up. Bo was standing right outside the barn door, looking at his master with sad eyes.
“Go,” Reynaldo said.
Bo didn’t move. He whimpered some more.
“Go. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
The dog started pawing the ground and looked toward his bed. Reynaldo should have anticipated this. Bo liked his bed. He liked the barn, especially when Reynaldo was here. The only time Reynaldo had locked Bo out was when he was working on Number Three. Bo hadn’t liked that—not the part about sawing the man’s fingers off; Bo cared only about Reynaldo—but he was upset at being locked away from both his bed and his master.
For days afterward, Bo would sniff where the blood had spilled.
Reynaldo rose and moved toward the barn door. He gave the dog a quick scratch behind the ears and said, “Sorry, boy. I need you to stay outside.” He backed the dog away from the doorway and got ready to close it. Bo started toward him.
“Sit,” Reynaldo said sternly.
The dog obeyed.
Reynaldo’s hand had just taken hold of the handle on the barn door when he felt something crash into the back of his head. The blow knocked Reynaldo to his knees. His head vibrated like a tuning fork. He looked up and saw Dana holding the metal chair. She reared back and with a guttural scream swung it at his face.
Reynaldo ducked just in time, the chair flying over him. He could hear Bo starting to bark out of concern. Reynaldo reached up, grabbed the chair, and pulled it away from her.
Dana ran.
Reynaldo was still on his knees. He tried to get up, but his head reeled in protest. He dropped back down. Bo was there now, licking his face. It gave him strength. He made his way to his feet, pulled out his gun, and ran outside. He looked to the right. No sign of her. He looked to the left. Again nothing.
He spun to the back just as Dana disappeared into the woods. Reynaldo raised his gun, fired, and ran after her.
• • •
Titus had been so careful.
The setup for what he considered to be the perfect crime didn’t come just with a cry of “Eureka!” It had been the result of evolution, survival of the fittest—an idea that evolved from all the other career dealings in his lifetime. It combined love and sex and romance and longing. It was primitive in its instinct and modern in its execution.
It was perfect.
Or at least, it had been.
Titus had seen small-time hustlers think small-time. They’d put ads up for sex on websites, make a date with a guy, and then roll him for chump change.
No, that wouldn’t do.
Titus had gathered all of his past operations—prostitution, extortion, scams, identity theft—and taken them to the next level. First, he created the perfect fake online profiles. How? There were several ways. Dmitry helped him find “dead,” “deleted,” or inactive social media accounts on sites like Facebook or even MySpace—people who had created a page, thrown up a few photographs, and then never used it. Most of the ones he ended up using were from canceled accounts.
Take Ron Kochman, for example. According to the cache, his account had been set up and then deleted two weeks later. That was ideal. Take Vanessa Moreau. They had found her bikini portfolio on a casting site called Mucho Models. Not only had Vanessa not updated her account in three years, but when a fictional magazine tried to “book” her for a job, Titus got no reply.
In short, both were dead accounts.
That was step one.
Once Titus had located potential IDs he could exploit, he ran a more thorough online search because any potential suitor would do that. It was the norm nowadays. If you met someone online—or even in person—you Googled them, especially if they were potential suitors. That was why a completely fake identity wouldn’t really work. You’d be able to sniff it out in a Google search. But if the person was real and just unreachable . . .
Bingo.
There was virtually nothing on Ron Kochman online, though in that case, Titus had still had “Ron” be “cautious” and call himself Jack. It worked well. The same was true of Vanessa Moreau. After a ton of extra research—which the average person would never be able to muster without hiring a private eye—Titus had found out that Vanessa Moreau was just a professional name, that she was really Nancy Josephson and was now married with two kids and lived in Bristol, England.
The next important criterion was looks.
Vanessa, he had figured, would be a problem. She was simply too attractive in a pinup-model type way. Men would be suspicious. But, as Titus would have learned during his days in prostitution, men are also dumb when it comes to the female sex. They all have this misguided belief that they are somehow God’s gift to women. Gerard Remington had even waxed on to Vanessa about how superior specimens—him in terms of brains, her in terms of looks—should naturally gravitate toward each other.
“Special people find one another,” Gerard had argued. “They procreate and thus enhance the species.”
Yes, he had said that. For real.
Ron Kochman had been a perfect and rare find. Normally, to be on the absolute safest side, Titus used each profile to nab only one target. After that, he deleted the ID and started using another. But locating ideal identities—people who had some online presence but couldn’t be found—was difficult. Kochman had also had the look and age he wanted. Wealthy women would be suspicious of someone too young and figure that they were perversely into cougars or after their money. They would have less interest in being romantic with someone too old.
Kochman was both a widower (women loved those) and “real world” handsome. Even in photographs, he looked like a nice guy—relaxed, confident, comfortable in his own skin, nice eyes, an endearing smile that drew you in.
Women fell for him hard.
From there, the planning was pretty simple. Titus took the photographs he’d harvested from their old Facebook or Mucho Model or whatever accounts and put them on various online dating services. He kept the profiles simple and clean. When you do this often enough, you learn all the tricks. He was never lecherous toward the women or overly sexual to the men. Titus thought that the communications—the seduction—was his forte. He listened to his suitors, truly listened, and responded to their needs. This was his strength, going back to the days of reading the young girls at the Port Authority. He never oversold himself. He kept far away from “personal ad” speak. He showed his personality (his comments, for example, were lightly self-deprecating) rather than told it (“I’m really funny and caring”).
Titus never asked for personal information, though once the communications began, the target always gave him enough. Once he knew the name or address or other key information he would have Dmitry run a full check on them and try to figure out a net worth. If they didn’t reach high six figures, there was no reason to continue the flirtation. If they had a ton of family ties and would be missed, that was also reason to bail.