Edge of Midnight

by Leslie Tentler

  “What were you getting at with the second blood type in the car being a transfer?” Cameron asked as he and Eric traveled through the busy JSO lobby a short time later. Although it was still April, heat hit them in a muggy wave as they pushed through glass doors that led to the building’s plaza, then headed west toward the multilevel garage where they had both parked.

  “During the Maryland investigation we were able to pick up sounds of two women at once on the recordings.” Eric loosened his tie as he walked. “The first woman—the one being intentionally recorded—was in the foreground. But the AV techs also isolated the sound of a second female in the background on each audio, although the voice was muffled, probably due to a gag.”

  Cameron stopped, halting Eric, as well. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  He looked out across the water. Jacksonville was known as The River City, and an expanse of the St. Johns that ran through the heart of the downtown was visible from where they stood. He worked to lay out the theory as impassively as possible. “It’s believed the unsub kept two women captive at once. He’d make the newer abductee watch as he killed the woman he’d taken earlier, as a show of power. Then when he brought another woman in, it would be that abductee’s turn to die.”

  “Like a revolving door,” Cameron said bleakly. “So you think both women are already dead—that Cissy Cox watched Pauline Berger die, and in turn Mia Hale witnessed Cissy Cox’s execution before she escaped? That’s why she had Ms. Cox’s blood on her?”

  Eric thought of the families still holding out hope their loved ones might return home. “Yeah, that’s what I think.”

  Cameron’s eyes darkened. He started to say something, but the electronic buzz of his cell phone interrupted him. He looked at the device. “It’s Lanie. I need to take this.”

  He stepped a few feet away, talking to his wife about an obstetric appointment. When he closed the phone a minute later, he said, “Lanie says to tell you hello. And that she’s expecting you for dinner tomorrow night. We’d do it tonight but it’s her dad’s sixtieth birthday.”

  Eric nodded his understanding. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment?”

  “It’s a routine sonogram. The office called and asked if we could come in early. At four.”

  “Go,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. It was nearly three already. “Lanie needs you. I can handle some things on my own. For starters, I’m going to San Marco to see if I can speak with Ms. Hale today.”

  “We can schedule a formal meeting with her tomorrow, after we meet with the rest of the team. Why don’t you get settled in at the rental?”

  “I don’t want to wait.”

  Cameron took out one of his business cards from the Florida Bureau, upon which Mia Hale’s address and phone number were written. He handed it to Eric.

  “The recordings…” He sounded uncertain, as if he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know the answer. “Did you receive one of Rebecca?”

  Eric fished in his pocket for his car keys. He thought of the days and weeks he’d waited, both dreading and needing to hear her voice a final time. He didn’t look at Cameron as he answered.

  “It was the only one that never came.”

  Allan Levi entered the fastidiously neat ranch house.

  “Mother? I’m home,” he called, closing the front door behind him. He noticed the interior was too warm, which wasn’t surprising since Gladys was always claiming to be cold and tampering with the thermostat. At least her frugality kept the air-conditioning bills low. Carrying the white paper bag with Walker’s Pharmacy printed on its side, he followed the television noise until he found her sitting at the kitchen table. Her gaunt frame wrapped in a floral housecoat, she was watching the small set on the counter, which she seemed to favor over the larger one in the living room.

  “There you are.” Allan bent to kiss the top of her gray head, catching a whiff of baby powder and White Shoulders cologne. He ignored the low warning growl of Puddles, her arthritic Chihuahua, who was curled into a dog bed on the floor nearby.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back,” she accused. Her eyes remained glued to a religious talk show. “You’ve left me alone all day.”

  “You’ve been on your own for three hours,” he corrected. “I had some errands to run. I told you that, remember?”

  “Did you get my medicine?”

  He gave the bag a shake so the plastic pill vials rattled inside it.

  “Humph. Took you long enough.”

  “I went into the city to get a television for repair. They’re paying fifty extra for pickup and delivery.”

  Allan moved to the sink and washed his hands, taking care to scrub under his fingernails with a small, stiff-bristled brush before drying off with a paper towel. Then he sat in the chair across from Gladys. Depositing the bag’s contents onto the table, he began the process of placing pills and capsules into the lidded, plastic case that helped him keep up with which medications she had to take and when. There were morning, noon and evening compartments for every day of the week. It was tedious, but he didn’t mind the task so much. In fact, he rather enjoyed the order of it.

  One red, one blue, one pink.

  As he worked, he noticed Gladys had rolled her mobile oxygen canister into the kitchen. The tubing and cannula hung around her flaccid throat like a necklace, however, unused. His eyes slid to the counter. An ashtray sat next to the sink. “Have you been smoking again, Mother?”

  “Shush,” she said irritably, waving him off. “I can’t hear my program.”

  “I didn’t move all the way back down here to watch you blow yourself up.” Allan frowned. He would have to talk to the cleaning woman—he knew it was that dirty Mexican whore sneaking cigarettes to her and at probably quite a profit. Normally, it would be enough to send him into a rage, but he reminded himself he had a lot for which to be thankful.

  For starters, there could be law enforcement crawling all over the place right now.

  He placed the last capsule into its proper slot.

  “I’m going to my workshop,” he announced, referring to the cinder-block building in back of the property, nestled among the tall pines.

  “You spend too much time out there,” Gladys criticized as he rose from the table. She finally looked at him, her watery blue eyes narrowing suspiciously in her lined face. From his vantage point, the droop to the right side of her mouth was clearly visible, a result of the stroke she’d suffered three years ago.

  “I need to get started on that television—”

  “Boy like you, with an expensive college degree I paid for.” She shook her head, fretful. “And here you are. No wife or kids and not much of a job, if you ask me. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.’”

  He felt his face heat. “I do work, Mother. I’m self-employed. And I take care of you now, too. That’s a job in itself. I’ll be back at five to make you dinner. We’ll have spaghetti with meat sauce—how does that sound?”

  Gladys remained sullenly silent. The Chihuahua growled again as Allan left through the kitchen’s screened door. He slunk across the backyard and onto the beaten path through the copse of trees. The skeletal remains of a car went unnoticed. He had much to think about.

  It had been two days of uncertainty, but he’d finally begun to relax. No one was coming. According to her own newspaper, she remembered nothing at all. The potent drugs used to make her manageable and compliant had provided the very fortunate ancillary effect of erasing her mind. Allan ran again through his mental checklist, trying to figure out where he had been remiss. What careless blunder he’d made that allowed her to escape.

  She had been so special to him, too.

  Reaching the cinder-block building, he unlocked the door with his key, flipping on the overhead light as he went inside. Unoccupied. The redhead was rightfully gone, but she should still be here.

  He’d first noticed her name bylining the articles on the missing women. His girls. Then a column had run that included her pho
to. He took a clipped copy from a drawer in his workbench and studied it. The window-box air conditioner behind him hummed. Here, he kept things as cool as he liked.

  She was older now, of course. But even after all these years he had still recognized her. What were the chances he’d found her? And that she was a reporter, covering his…work. He didn’t believe in coincidence. It was almost as if it were meant to be.

  Allan’s inner voice—the voice of reason—spoke.

  She got away and you got lucky. It’s too dangerous. You have to forget about her now.

  Pick someone else.

  He’d gotten rusty, that was all. Too much time spent trying to keep a low profile, until his darker urges had finally won out. No more Mr. Sloppy, he admonished himself.

  The morning’s paper had said the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit was being called in. That couldn’t be helped now and truth be told, it made Allan feel important.

  His lips formed a thin smile as he thought of Special Agent Eric Macfarlane and the bond they had shared.

  3

  For the first time in days, Mia felt somewhat at ease. Will had been right—the trip out had done her a world of good. Returning home, she sat in the passenger side of his Porsche convertible, feeling the warm breeze whipping her new, shorter hair. It was a blunt cut, just off her shoulders and about eight inches shorter than her usual style.

  “A good haircut is better than Xanax,” Will proclaimed, briefly studying her through the dark tint of his sunglasses as he drove.

  “Thanks for lunch…and for everything else.”

  He shrugged. “I’m just using you to assist in my procrastination.”

  “The new book?”

  “I missed my deadline. Again.” He smiled, his dimples deepening. He and Justin had kept Mia entertained at lunch with their hilarious and at times ribald stories, and afterward the three of them had strolled along the scenic Riverwalk among the tourists and joggers until Justin had to leave for a meeting. It had been a distraction technique, she knew, but she deeply appreciated the effort.

  “What happened to you this week, Mia…a lot of people wouldn’t be able to get past it.” He sounded serious for the first time since they’d headed out.

  She sighed. “I just need things to get back to normal, that’s all.”

  “What you need is a break from what you consider normal—writing about people inflicting violence on one another.” He shook his head, his fingers loosely gripping the steering wheel. “Why don’t you take some time off from all that? And I mean more than a few days—a real sabbatical. You’ve got Grayson Miller wrapped around your finger. He’d break his neck giving it to you, and with a paycheck, probably. I don’t care what kind of shape the newspaper industry’s in.”

  When Mia looked at him, he added, “You do know he’s in love with you, right?”

  She watched the scenery pass by, not wanting to think about Grayson in that way.

  They entered San Marco Square with its endless supply of art galleries and cafés. Everywhere, people were milling about on the narrow, tree-shaded sidewalks. Traveling past the renowned giant statue of the three lions at the square’s main intersection, they took a right and headed onto one of the side streets. San Marco was a diverse community, with multifamily apartment buildings and quaint, two-bedroom bungalows interspersed with enormous riverside mansions. Will and Justin had renovated a large, Tuscan-style manor on Alhambra Avenue accented by a terra-cotta, barrel-tile roof and graceful stucco staircases on the exterior. The former single-family residence now consisted of separate units on the main, second and third floors. Mia rented the midlevel unit and there was another tenant on top.

  Parking in front of the building, they had just climbed from the convertible when a dark sedan pulled into the circular driveway behind them. A man in suit pants, a dress shirt and tie emerged. He was tall, even-featured and clean cut, somewhere in his mid-thirties, and Mia immediately summed him up as law enforcement. Her impression of him was confirmed when she saw the gun holstered at his waist.

  Walking toward them, he presented his shield. “Ms. Hale?”

  She felt a lump form in her throat. “Yes?”

  “I’m Special Agent Eric Macfarlane. I’m with the FBI.”

  Self-consciously, she smoothed her windblown hair, her instincts speaking to her. “You’re part of the VCU the paper mentioned this morning.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” As he neared, he removed his sunglasses. His eyes were an unusual, moss-green color and reflected intelligence. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

  The ease she’d felt during the afternoon began to ebb. With a faint nod, she made the necessary introduction. “Agent Macfarlane, this is Will Dvorak, my neighbor and landlord.”

  “And friend,” he emphasized, a measure of protection in his voice. The men shook hands.

  “Will Dvorak? The writer?”

  “I’m surprised, Agent.” Will was often recognized for his humorous and sometimes poignant essays on his awkward childhood and adolescence. His last book had been on the bestseller lists. “I wouldn’t peg you for the type who’d read me. You’re a little too butch.”

  Agent Macfarlane revealed straight, white teeth and a perfect smile. “My reading list is pretty diverse.”

  After another few moments of small talk, Will seemed satisfied she was in good hands. “Well, I’ve put it off long enough. I’m going inside to face the last twenty pages of my draft. Mia, sweetheart, if you need anything…”

  “Thanks, Will.” She waited as he retreated through the courtyard to his apartment on the ground level before returning her attention to Agent Macfarlane. “I’ve already spoken with one of the local agents, as well as detectives from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. I’m afraid there’s not a lot more I can tell you.”

  “I’ve been briefed on the situation. And I’m aware of your memory loss.” His eyes fell briefly to her bandaged fingers. “How are you, Ms. Hale?”

  “I’m…fine.”

  His gaze was discerning. “You’re a very lucky young woman.”

  “Compared to the other two women who were abducted, I would agree,” she answered somberly, feeling a trickle of perspiration at her nape. It was a hot afternoon, especially for so early in the season. “We can go up to my apartment and talk in the air-conditioning, if you’d like.”

  He followed her upstairs. Mia wore cropped cargo pants and a bare tank top, her outfit exceedingly casual compared to his businesslike attire. Unlocking the door to her apartment and disarming the security system, she dropped her keys and purse on a table in the foyer as he closed the door behind them. “Could I get you something to drink?”

  “Water would be nice. Thank you.”

  From the kitchen, Mia could see him in the living room. He stood with his hands on his lean hips, looking around at her furnishings and the expanse of green park that was visible from the balcony.

  “You have a nice place, Ms. Hale,” he said as she approached and handed him the glass, ice cubes tinkling inside it.

  “Please, call me Mia. And it’s a fringe benefit of attending college with the building’s owner. Will and his partner, Justin, rent to me for a steal.”

  “You and Mr. Dvorak are both writers—that’s interesting.”

  “We met at the University of Florida, but Will ended up going the more creative route.” Indoors, Agent Macfarlane’s eyes were even more striking than she’d first realized, the mossy irises rimmed in black and accentuated by thick, sable lashes. His skin was golden-toned, his short brown hair nearly light enough to be considered dark blond. She indicated the couch.

  “Please have a seat.” Once he’d done so, she settled onto a nearby side chair.

  He took a sip from the glass, then sat it on a coaster on the cocktail table in front of him. “I understand you’d been covering the recent abductions.”

  The irony of it washed through her all over again. Mia worked to keep emotion from her voice.

  “I wrote two arti
cles. One ran after Pauline Berger’s disappearance a week ago. The second one ran right after Cissy Cox went missing. It was the same day that I…” She paused, twisting her hands together and placing them in her lap before completing her statement. “That I went missing, too.”

  “And your second article speculated on a connection between the disappearances?”

  When she nodded, he asked, “Based on what?”

  “Well, for starters, both women had family and friends, they led normal lives. They weren’t engaged in any at-risk behavior such as prostitution or drug use, nor did they have any history of mental illness or previous unexplained disappearances.” Mia looked briefly at her bandaged fingers. “Detective Scofield at the JSO also indicated that neither of the women’s significant others were being considered as suspects. Two women like that, in the same metro area…they don’t just simply vanish in isolated incidents so closely together.”

  His evaluating gaze remained steadfast. “And you have no idea how you ended up in a stolen vehicle?”

  She shook her head, wishing she had the answer. “No. I woke up inside it next to the beach. That’s all I know.”

  “The car was hot-wired. Do you think you could’ve done that?”

  Her lips parted slightly, the unexpected question catching her off guard. She chose not to answer and instead stood and slowly paced the room before turning to face him again.

  “You asked me how I am, Agent Macfarlane. The truth is…I’m having a hard time. I’m not used to being on the other side of all this. The one being asked questions.” She swallowed. “I also don’t understand why I’m the one standing here talking to you while those two other women…they’re still…”

  Mia briefly closed her eyes, her words trailing away. She was vaguely aware that he’d gotten up from the couch and moved to where she stood.