From what Deacon could tell, Warren picked women who were younger, maybe newly on their own, and much more impressionable. Not women who were more seasoned against assholes like him, but who would more than likely buy into his bullshit without a lot of hassle.
Warren was also the type of man who ended up being a “hard lesson learned” for those ladies. One they would vow never to make again. He took pleasure out of teaching women that lesson, both financially and physically.
From the rap sheet Deacon read, the man was always on the move. Once he hit a victim in one area, he moved to the next. He had no roots, no hometown. No base to go back to. He could move anywhere to find his next target. Deacon couldn’t find any close relatives, except a father who was in a federal prison out in Oregon. And the man had been there for a long time, since Warren was a kid. Deacon found out Warren’s father had murdered his mother. Afterward, no one came forward to claim the four-year-old and he ended up in foster home after foster home.
Having a shitty home life wasn’t any excuse for what the man did to women.
Deacon saw pictures of Warren’s latest victim, which were taken at the hospital. Reilly Porter’s beat-down had been brutal. Clicking through the evidence photos attached to the email Bianchi sent had made him grind his molars until they almost cracked. His hands clenched so tightly into fists, his fingers had locked up.
He only needed a few minutes alone with Warren to teach him a lesson.
The only picture of Reilly where her face wasn’t distorted from bruising and swelling, possibly even broken bones, was a driver’s license photo. He did a few social media searches and couldn’t come up with anything online. It seemed she had deleted all her public profiles. Deacon didn’t blame her if the crazy motherfucker was looking for her.
The victim was smart to leave where she’d been living and working to disappear. Online and offline. However, it wasn’t fair to Reilly that she had to hide because of this asshole.
So, Deacon was determined to snag the fucker. Plus, twenty-five percent was a nice chunk of change. How that fucker came up with the ten percent plus fees Bianchi charged Warren to bail him out on a million-dollar bond, Deacon needed only one guess.
Another woman Warren conned.
Because he doubted Warren had that kind of cash lying around, nor did he have any assets for collateral. No, this was the type of guy who always used someone else’s money. Another unsuspecting victim, who would eventually find herself financially devastated.
He had to assume for a man to do this on a regular basis, Warren had mommy issues.
As Deacon glanced up the paved driveway that disappeared up the mountain and into the woods, a chill shot down his spine. He knew in his head the driveway did not lead up to the Shirley compound, but it still felt too much like déjà vu.
That night up on that mountain last November was a night he did not want to relive any time soon. Or ever. It left invisible scars on most of them.
His problem right now was that he couldn’t simply head up to the address Bianchi gave him. Only one mailbox stood where the road met the driveway, which meant only one residence was at the top.
That also meant he couldn’t watch the house from a distance, which was his original plan. Now he had to come up with another tactic, other than setting up camp in the woods. Because that was not happening for twenty-five percent.
And, as it was early April, the weather could go either way. A snow storm one day and a warm spring day the next. During this time of the year, Mother Nature tended to be bipolar. Which was one reason he was parked along the road in his Ford F250 pickup instead of sitting on his sweet Harley Low Rider S.
He rolled down the driver’s side window, put his binoculars to his eyes and peered up through the trees, which had already started to bud.
“Christ,” he grumbled. He still couldn’t see shit. Whoever owned the house at the top wanted privacy. Which was also evident by the two stone pillars at the bottom that were connected with an electric gate.
Not to mention, the nice “no trespassing” sign. Not the plastic red and white one purchased at the local hardware store for about a buck. This sign was carved out of wood and expertly stained. A high-class way to say “keep the fuck out.”
Whoever lived up there had some scratch because he doubted a double-wide was parked at the top. Simply paving the length of that driveway alone would cost more than one of those tornado traps.