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 upholstered 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.”