It’s Kat.
Her body felt cold. She, Kat, had told him her name. He hadn’t said it first. He started referring to her as Kat, as though he knew her, after she had already told him her name.
Something was wrong.
Something was very, very wrong with Dana Phelps and Gerard Remington and Jeff Raynes aka Ron Kochman. She couldn’t prove it yet, but three people had disappeared.
Or two anyway. Gerard and Dana. As for Jeff . . .
One way to find out. She slid into the Ferrari and started it up. She wasn’t going back to New York City. Not yet. She was going back to Ron Kochman’s house. She would knock down his goddamn door if she had to, but she was going to learn the truth one way or the other.
When Kat turned back onto Deforest Street, the same two vehicles were in the driveway. She pulled her car right behind them and slammed the stick into park. As she reached for the door handle, her cell phone rang.
It was Chaz.
“Hello?”
“Martha Paquet went away last night for a weekend getaway. No one has seen her since.”
? ? ?
Titus thanked Dana for her cooperation.
“When can I go home?” she asked.
“Tomorrow, if all goes well. In the meantime, Reynaldo here is going to let you sleep in the guest quarters in the barn. There’s a shower and a bed. I think you’ll find it more comfortable.”
Dana had the shakes, but she still managed to say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. You can go now.”
“I won’t say a word,” she said. “You can trust me.”
“I know. I do.”
Dana trudged toward the door as though walking through deep mud. Reynaldo waited for her. The moment the door closed behind them, Dmitry coughed into his fist and said, “Uh, we got a problem.”
Titus’s gaze snapped toward him. They never had a problem. Not ever.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’re getting e-mails.”
Once they got the passwords, Dmitry set it up so all the e-mail accounts for all their guests would be forwarded to him. This way they could monitor and even answer e-mails from concerned family or friends.
“From?”
“Martha Paquet’s sister. I guess she’s been calling the cell phone too.”
“What do the e-mails say?”
Dmitry looked up. He pushed his glasses up his nose with his pointer finger. “It says that a New York City police detective called and asked where Martha was. The cop seemed worried when she said she’d gone away with her boyfriend.”
A blinding bolt of anger crashed through Titus.
Kat.
The balance of his internal cost-benefit analysis—kill or not kill—had now tilted to one side.
Titus grabbed his keys and hurried for the door. “E-mail back to the sister that you’re fine and having a great time and will be home tomorrow. If any other communications come in, call me on my cell phone.”
“Where are you going?”
“To New York City.”
? ? ?
Kat pounded on the front door. She looked through the pebbled glass for movement again. She saw none. The old man had to be home. She had been here, what, an hour ago? Both cars were there. She knocked some more.
No answer.
The old man had told her to get off his property. His. So Ron or Jeff might not be the owner. The old man was. Maybe Jeff and his daughter, Melinda, rented space. She could easily find the old man’s name in the records, but really, what would that do?
Chaz was supposed to notify the FBI about this case now, though again, they still didn’t have much. Adults are allowed to be out of touch for a day or two. She hoped the circumstantial consistencies would give the case some urgency, but she wasn’t sure. Dana Phelps had actually spoken to both her son and her financial adviser. Martha Paquet could just be holed up in bed with her new lover.
Except for one thing: Both women were supposedly away with the same man.
She circled the house, trying to peer into the windows, but the shades were drawn. She found the old man in the backyard on a chaise lounge. He was reading a paperback by Parnell Hall, gripping the book as though it were trying to run away.
Kat said, “Hello?”
The old man sat up, startled. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I knocked on the door.”
“What do you want?”
“Where is Jeff?”
He sat up. “I don’t know anybody by that name.”
She didn’t believe him. “Where is Ron Kochman?”
“I told you. He’s not here.”
Kat moved to the chaise, looming above him. “Two women are missing.”
“What?”
“Two women met him online. Both of them are now missing.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me where he is.”
He said nothing.
“I will call the cops. I will call the FBI. I will call the media.”
The old man’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”
Kat bent so that her face was inches from his. “Try me. I will tell everyone I know that Ron Kochman used to be a guy named Jeff Raynes.”
The old man just sat there.
“Where is he?”
The old man said nothing.
She almost reached for her gun but stopped herself. This time she shouted, “Where is he?”
“Leave him alone.”
Kat gasped at the sound of the voice. Her head turned toward the house. The screen door opened. Kat felt her knees buckle. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
Jeff stepped out of the house and spread his arms. “I’m right here, Kat.”