Midnight Fear

by Leslie Tentler

  He knew his family wouldn’t want to lose him. Nor would Caitlyn, he believed.

  If I’m ill again, just keep her safe.

  She protested sleepily as he gathered her back into his arms, needing to keep the warm silk of her skin against his body. Resolution settled over him. Tomorrow, he would call and make the appointment. He would deal with whatever he had to.

  The sterling silver flask was engraved with Hal Feingold’s initials. It had been a going-away gift from the newspaper, given to him on his last day of work. At times, Hal admitted he missed the thrill of the investigative reporter’s hunt—meeting unnamed sources in seedy bars, following leads, conducting surveillance. Hunkered inside his Lexus across from Reid Novak’s apartment, he was reminded of the good old days.

  Hal tipped the flask and took another sip of the aged, triple malt Scotch. He felt its delicious, slow burn down his throat and into his gut. It was exactly the kind of night in which one needed fortification. It was rainy, cold—hell, it had been that kind of day. He’d attended the graveside service for Bliss Harper, standing discreetly for more than an hour among the throngs of mourners as the skies poured down. But he hadn’t been there to pay his respects to the Harper family, not really.

  Instead, his focus had been on Caitlyn Cahill.

  An idea had been taking seed inside Hal’s head for several days now. One that was time-tested and could be described in two little words.

  Sex sells.

  He’d seen her with Reid Novak for the first time outside her mother’s nursing facility, then again today at the funeral. Novak had once again been protective and attentive to her. Overly so. There was a sense of real familiarity between them. A single question had become his latest obsession. Was it possible they had carried on an affair during the first Capital Killer investigation?

  If not, one thing was for certain; they were having one now. He’d had to call in a favor to get Novak’s home address, but a few hours waiting outside his apartment had confirmed his hunch.

  He’d seen them kissing in the feeble glow of the streetlight. Caitlyn had clung to him as he unlocked the door. The interior lights had never even come on. Hal felt aroused at the idea of what was going on inside. He took another sip from the flask, his mind whirling with dirty possibilities. This new angle—a sexual relationship between the sister of the Capital Killer and the man who’d been tasked with bringing him down—could add the scandal and spice to help his book ascend the coveted bestseller list.

  At the least, the revelation could force Caitlyn Cahill’s cooperation. He wondered what information she might share with him in order to keep her liaison with Novak out of the book. Blackmail would be so much easier than breaking into her house as he’d done a while back. He’d been looking for a journal—anything—that might give him personal insight into the Cahill family’s difficulties, but it had been a dry haul. Not to mention a crazy stunt on his part. Hal smiled to himself. Never let it be said he wasn’t willing to go out on a limb for a good story.

  Figuring he’d seen all he was going to, he had one last nip, returned the flask to his coat pocket and prepared to start the car’s engine. But his hand froze on the ignition switch.

  A man emerged from the shadows near the stairs leading up to the apartment. How long had he been there? Hal watched, curious, as he climbed the steps. He stood outside the door as if he were trying to eavesdrop.

  As if he were considering a home invasion.

  The man’s back was to him. He bent to place something on the doormat. Reaching to the glove box, Hal fumbled for the pair of tiny binoculars he kept there. It took only a few seconds to focus the lenses and see what it was.

  He felt the coarse hair on the back of his neck rise.

  He knew enough about the investigation—had enough insider information—to understand the significance. Hal found himself breathing hard, his lungs squeezing from the thrill. He’d felt nothing like it since his early days as a reporter.

  In all likelihood, he was watching the copycat leave a message behind.

  The man turned and for the first time Hal realized he was wearing a ski mask. No wonder his face had been indiscernible in the shadows. Looking around, he skulked back down the steps and moved quickly to the end of the short block, turning the corner into the alley.

  On impulse, Hal opened his car door, leaving it ajar. Gathering his courage, he slid his girth from behind the steering wheel and followed the man’s path.

  If the copycat was parked in the alley, it might be possible to covertly get a look at his car tags when he drove past. He could do this, just like the old days. Hal imagined the credibility boost—the media attention—he’d get for helping the FBI crack the serial murder case. Moving stealthily around the street corner in pursuit, he tried to control his galloping heart rate. He tugged at his necktie, the exercise and excitement almost too much.

  There was a vehicle idling in the fire lane. It was farther down and a large, green metal Dumpster mostly hid it from view. Hal could hear the low purr of its engine. He went more deeply into the alley’s dark recesses, keeping carefully out of sight as his hand dove into his coat pocket for his ever-present recorder. When the car drove past, he’d capture the tag number and—boom—Katie Couric would be asking for an exclusive interview.

  In a hushed whisper, he noted the time. Forty-seven minutes past midnight. He began describing the car, the ink-black alley, planning to use it all in his book.

  By the time Hal sensed the man’s presence behind him, it was too late. He felt the cord as it dropped around his fleshy throat. There was no time to scream. The cord tightened instantly, cutting off his windpipe. The recorder clattered to the ground as he grabbed for his neck, trying frantically to loosen the makeshift garrote. The man was tall and strong, nearly lifting Hal out of his shoes. His arms flailed and his stubby legs thrashed. Warm urine flowed down his pant legs.

  He fought until his body grew sluggish. The man grunted and strained as he pulled the cord ever tighter.

  Hal felt his heart explode.

  When he hit the rain-slick asphalt thirty seconds later, he was already dead.

  39

  Noise from outside broke into Reid’s sleep. He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face. A glance at the clock told him it was still early morning.

  “What is it?” Caitlyn asked groggily from beside him.

  He rose and went to the window. The blue lights of squad cars—four of them—cut through the darkness and reflected off the wet street below.

  “Something’s happening. Stay here.” He located jeans, sneakers and a fleece pullover, got dressed and headed to the front of the apartment, grabbing his gun and shield. Opening the door, he froze in its frame. Five perfectly aligned chess pawns sat on his doormat. The pieces were details not released to the press, which meant in all likelihood the unsub had left them.

  He’d been here, within feet of them.

  Reid glanced around the chaos on the street, his breath fogging in the chilly air. Was he still nearby somewhere, watching to get his reaction? But he saw no one looking his way. Uniformed officers were talking, redirecting cars. The activity had been going on for a while. An unmarked sedan with a blue light on its dashboard was double-parked against the curb, indicating a detective was also on the scene.

  What the hell was happening? He would have to deal with the chess pieces later. Reid carefully sidestepped them and locked the door to his apartment, then jogged down the steps toward the officers. He held up his shield. “What’s going on?”

  “Dead body in the alley, Agent,” one of the uniforms told him.

  Already, a police barricade was being set up in front of the alley that separated his apartment building from a two-unit structure housing a German bakery and a dry cleaner. Turning the corner, Reid saw a jumpsuited evidence tech taking photos of a body sprawled on the asphalt. He moved closer, another jolt of surprise hitting him as he recognized Hal Feingold’s paunchy form.

  “Who are
you?” A stern-faced man in a trench coat wanted to know. He wore a gold detective’s badge on a chain around his neck.

  “Agent Novak. FBI. I live over there.” Reid nodded toward his building. “I know who this guy is—”

  “So do we. His name’s Harold Feingold. The wallet’s still on the body. Which means it wasn’t a robbery.”

  Reid filled him in. “Feingold’s a former reporter for the Post—he’s been writing a book about a case I handled a couple of years back.”

  Recognition dawned on the detective. “The Capital Killer investigation, right?”

  He reached out his hand and Reid shook it.

  “Detective Vecchio. D.C. Homicide. We’re still waiting on the M.E.’s office.” He placed his hands on his hips over his gun belt. “So, Agent Novak. Feingold was writing a tell-all about the case that basically made you famous and he’s found dead next door to your residence. You think this has anything to do with you?”

  “I think it has more to do with the case I’m working now.” Reid noted the heavy ligature marks on Feingold’s neck. His eyes were open, his mouth gaping and tongue protruding.

  “The copycat case.” Vecchio peered at the body. “But I thought the vics were all women.”

  Reid voiced the theory forming inside his head. “My guess is Feingold was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He probably had me under surveillance, doing research for his book. Both he and the copycat were lurking outside my apartment and this is how it ended.”

  The detective’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s some coincidence.”

  “The unsub left a gift on my doorstep sometime last night, so he was in the same proximity. Feingold might’ve made him. Strangulation fits the killer’s M.O.”

  “We can’t get a body temp until the M.E. arrives, but based on the lack of rigor mortis, I’m guessing he’s been dead no more than three or four hours,” Vecchio said. “A bakery worker comes in to heat the ovens at five-thirty. He found the guy.”

  A uniform called Vecchio away, leaving Reid alone with the forensics photographer and the body. The camera flashed repeatedly, lighting up the alley’s dark confines. Reid’s chest tightened. He didn’t care for Feingold, but he didn’t want him dead, either. He also hated the thought that he’d let his guard down. That the killer had gotten so close. He’d been distracted last night by his need for Caitlyn and his own personal dilemma.

  Another camera flash illuminated the concrete near the body. Seeing a small object on the ground, Reid borrowed an evidence bag and carefully scooped it up. The jagged piece of plastic was marked with the logo of an electronics manufacturer. Reid thought of the digital recorder Feingold always carried—it was the same brand. Unless the device had been tossed into the Dumpster, it appeared that whoever killed him had confiscated it.

  When Vecchio returned, Reid alerted him to the missing recorder. He talked with the detective for a few more minutes, then walked back to his apartment. The chess pieces were still there, lined up like soldiers guarding the entrance. But the door was half-open, and Caitlyn stood in the threshold with her arms wrapped around herself. She wore Reid’s bathrobe, her face made pale by the streetlight.

  “He was here, wasn’t he?”

  Reid nodded, wishing he could diminish the fear in her eyes.

  “The chess pawns,” she noted quietly. “There are five of them, but only four victims so far.”

  He didn’t respond. He’d been thinking the same thing. His guess was that the killer had wanted him to feel vulnerable, to be aware of how close he’d gotten to Caitlyn.

  “We may be able to lift prints off the pieces.” Reid reached into his jeans pocket for the extra evidence bag he’d taken. He had already informed Detective Vecchio that the scene now had federal jurisdiction. “I’ve got to make some calls. You need to go back inside.”

  “What are all the police here for?” Caitlyn pressed. “What’s going on?”

  He could hear the buzz of the cops’ voices, as well as the honk of a car horn from an impatient commuter who was waiting to be routed around the disorder. The predawn sky had begun to lighten, revealing low-lying gray clouds.

  “There was a murder last night in the alley. Hal Feingold. He’s dead.”

  Caitlyn appeared shocked. She shook her head, her blond hair swaying. “I don’t understand.”

  “More than likely, he trailed us here, but ran into the unsub.” Reid thought again of who else besides Fein gold might have been watching them last night. An image of David Hunter confronting them in the woods ran through his mind.

  “The family confirmed it belongs to Bliss Harper.” Mitch pulled the evidence bag containing the necklace from his suit pocket and dropped it onto his desk. “Even you have to admit this makes Hunter look damn good for it.”

  Listening, Reid stared out the office window, his arms crossed over his chest. The view hadn’t changed since his leave of absence—the same brick high-rises with tinted windows, the same sliver-thin glimpse of the park and busy urban street several stories below.

  “What about the security cameras at the Metrorail?” he asked.

  “Morehouse went through the digital footage last night. He was at it until after two. If Hunter used the train to leave the motel area, he wasn’t caught on camera.” Mitch joined him at the window. “You want to give me your take on what went down at your place?”

  The two men had talked earlier by phone, but their conversation had been brief since Mitch was at the Harper household getting an ID on the necklace. Reid had quickly told him about Hal Feingold and the chess pawns, which he had already taken to the evidence room along with the plastic fragment from the digital recorder. The one thing he hadn’t mentioned was Caitlyn’s presence.

  “Feingold was strangled outside my apartment sometime between midnight and 3:00 a.m. When I went out this morning to see why the cops were there, I found the chess pawns at my door.” Reid recounted his theory about Feingold witnessing something that had gotten him killed.

  Mitch frowned. “Well, the unsub knows where you live. Don’t you see that as a threat?”

  “I can take care of myself.” He was going to have to tell him, he realized. Caitlyn’s safety was more important than saving himself a lecture on Bureau protocol. “I think we need to request security for Caitlyn again.”

  “No means no, Reid. Why would they reconsider—”

  “Because she was at my apartment last night. I think she’s the real reason the unsub was there.”

  “She was there all night?”

  Reid understood the implication. He gave a faint nod. “I think the chess pawns were a direct threat to her, not me. He wanted me to know how close he’d been able to get to her.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “On her way back to Middleburg. Manny Ruiz drove into the city this morning to pick her up.”

  Mitch’s gaze was hard. “Other than the fact that you’re screwing Cahill’s sister, which I already figured, is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mitch paced a few steps away, scrubbing a hand through his sandy hair before turning back to face him. He appeared frustrated. “At the bar the other night, you seemed…off. Distracted. Like you weren’t even listening to me.”

  Reid sighed. “Mitch—”

  He tapped his own forehead with a blunt finger, not finished. “It’s like when they started messing with your brain, trying to get out that goddamn tumor, it changed you. This stuff with Caitlyn Cahill, even the way you acted at the Harper autopsy. You’re not in the game, buddy. Are you sure you even want to come back? You need to talk to me and tell me what’s going on with you.”

  Reid bowed his head. They’d been partnered for nearly nine years. He had wanted to know first what he was dealing with, but it wasn’t fair to keep Mitch in the dark.

  “The neurologist wants to talk to me about the results from my last MRI,” he said quietly. “I’m having headaches again…bad ones. Something’s wron
g.”

  “Reid,” Mitch uttered, surprised. “How long’s this been going on?”

  “For a few weeks.”

  “Have you spoken to Johnston about this?”

  “No. And I don’t plan to until I know what the problem is. The same goes for my family. Maybe it’s not as bad as I think.”

  Mitch laid a hand on his shoulder. “Listen, if you want to blow the rest of the day off, I’ll cover for you—”

  “I’d rather be at work. I’ve been gone for too long. And I want this case closed.” Reid focused on the files spread across the credenza in their shared office. Crime scene photos, court depositions and interview transcripts from the original Capital Killer case were stacked on the left, material from the current investigation on the right. “My neurology appointment’s scheduled for tomorrow morning. Let’s just go from there, all right?”

  He tried to ignore Mitch’s concerned stare. His cell phone rang. Reid dug it from his suit pocket and answered. Going to his desk, he used a pen to jot information from the caller onto a yellow notepad. The conversation took less than a minute. When he hung up, he said, “That was Cal Bernard.”

  “The computer forensics guy?”

  “There’s someone else besides Hunter on our radar.” Reid walked to the door. “The webcam hidden in Caitlyn’s house—Bernard just traced it to one of her neighbors.”

  40

  Absently, Caitlyn wiped down the butcher-block counter in her kitchen. She had attempted to make herself a late lunch—a bowl of soup and a sandwich—before going to the stables, but she’d ended up putting most of it back into the refrigerator. She didn’t feel like eating, her mind elsewhere. Making love with Reid had been more intense than anything she’d ever experienced. She had slept dreamlessly, peacefully in his arms, until morning brought with it the blue flash of police lights through their bedroom window.