The Blue Edge of Midnight

by Jonathon King

  “Nice place,” Diaz said, sitting down on the edge of a wingback chair while looking up at the vaulted ceiling.

  I took a seat on the adjoining couch and put the bag between my feet on the marble tiled floor.

  “That for me?” he said.

  “Look. I’ll be straight with you. I don’t want any of this coming back on Billy Manchester. I’ve got this and it’s going straight to you. No one else in the middle or with knowledge,” I said. Diaz was looking at his hands.

  I’d been too paranoid and a hell of a lot more distrustful of the investigators to give up the GPS before. It was perfect evidence for a case against me, even if I was the one who handed it over. Now they were scraping, and more people, including me, were in the target zone. But I didn’t want concealing evidence coming back on a man of Billy’s position.

  “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. No one seemed to know your attorney around the shop, but when we started asking around the law world, everybody seemed to know him. Connected and smart were the words that kept coming back. And I think this is smart too,” he added, looking up into my face.

  I reached into the bag and brought out the GPS unit. It was rewrapped in plastic, and I told him how I’d found it, the cut mattress and the filmy footprint I’d found in my shack.

  “All the locations of the bodies are logged into it,” I said, passing the machine to Diaz. “That’s how you found them, right?”

  The detective looked up and I could tell he was turning a corner, and doing it behind Hammonds’ back.

  “You know what this is like. I saw your file out of Philly,” he started. “This guy’s been playing us and we’re scratching at anything we can. It got to the point we were left waiting for a break, a mistake. And when you came paddling up out of the river we figured, hoped, you were the mistake.”

  I knew he was holding my eyes to see how I might react.

  “Maybe we won’t get anything off this by tracking the supplier and seller. Maybe it comes up empty again. But it’s better than sitting around waiting for another kid to disappear.”

  “And maybe he’s through with that,” I said. “Maybe he’s got a new target.”

  Diaz let the thought sit for a few empty seconds.

  “Yeah, well. No offense, but if that’s true, if he’s after you instead of another kid, a lot of folks aren’t necessarily going to see that as a step back.”

  I was still holding on to the straps of the gym bag, hesitating. When Diaz started to get up I reached in and took out a baggie containing the bent aluminum tag from my canoe and handed it to him.

  “I think it’s more true than you guys are willing to admit,” I said, reaching into the bag for my second bit of concealed evidence.

  Thirty minutes later we were in Diaz’s unmarked sedan heading for the river. He’d been pissed when I told him what the tag was. It was the first time I’d seen him angry and he let some Spanish slip into his voice.

  “Crime scene, man! Mierda, you know evidence and crime scene protocol!”

  Now he’d calmed down as we headed for the access park where I’d left my canoe the night I ducked the warrant, and where the killer must have pulled the tag.

  By then we’d agreed the chance of finding fingerprints on anything were remote and tracing the courier who delivered the tag was probably a dead end too.

  “That’s the way he sent the first set of GPS coordinates,” Diaz said. “Straight to the sheriff’s office.”

  Since then he’d altered his methods, even e-mailing the GPS numbers in from a computer terminal at a downtown Radio Shack. It didn’t take an FBI profiler to figure out this wasn’t some swamp rat survivalist taking shots at the encroaching city dwellers.

  “He knows the Glades. He knows how to get in and out of these damn neighborhoods without being seen. He knows enough about the gadgets to use them. And he sure as hell knows how to play on everybody’s fears,” Diaz said. “Hell, we don’t even know if it is only one damn guy.”

  The detective went quiet as we drove west. He’d already overstepped his bounds talking about the investigation. Seeing his frustration, I doubted they’d found anything to help them. But he was right about the crime scene protocol. They at least deserved to take a look.

  I told Diaz where to make the turn off Seminole Drive and we curved out toward a line of cypress trees and then down the entrance road to the park. A warm drizzle was spattering the windshield and Diaz looked up through the glass, hesitating. But when I got out and started toward the river, he followed.

  Ham Mathis was hovering around his canoe concession office, emptying out the ice water from the cooler where he kept cold drinks for his rental customers. He peeked out from under the hood of his yellow rain slicker and spat a brown string of tobacco juice into the wet grass when he saw me coming.

  “Hey, Ham. How’s it going?”

  The old Georgian set the cooler down and looked up.

  “Hey, Max,” he answered, sneaking a look at Diaz coming up behind me. “I truly am sorry about your boat.”

  He let another string of juice fly and then led us around to the back of his trailer. There lay the carcass of my canoe.

  “I pulled her ’round so’s the customers wouldn’t see her,” he explained.

  The boat was flipped on its gunwales like I’d left it, but someone had stomped her. Gaping holes in the center of the hull yawned like twisted black mouths in the rain. Each rib had been methodically snapped. It had taken a malicious effort to do that kind of damage to its tough outer skin.

  I went around to the bow and checked the port side where the tag had been. The pulled rivets had left four small jagged holes behind.

  All three of us just stared at the broken shell for several long minutes.

  “That’s how she was the other mornin’ when I come in,” Mathis finally said. “I ain’t never had no vandalism out here before.”

  “Anything else damaged?” Diaz asked.

  “’Cept your paddle,” Mathis answered, looking at me. “Snapped it like a twig and tossed it down the bank.”

  I showed Diaz where I’d set the canoe five nights before. We agreed there wasn’t much of a chance of picking up any footprints or latents off the canoe skin. Mathis had called the county sheriff’s office the morning he’d found the mess and a patrol deputy had come by and written up a report. When Diaz went into the small trailer with Mathis to get a reference number, I walked down to the river. The water had turned dark green in the fading light and was pocked with raindrops. Large circles grew in the spots under the cypress boughs where heavier drops fell from the branches. The air smelled thick and green, an odor I had never known until I came here from the city. A heron sat perched on a log on the opposite shore, searching the water for a meal. Suddenly it raised its head, then croaked its distinctive keyow and flew off as if something in the shadow behind had scared it. I stared into the dark patches but if something had flushed the bird, I couldn’t pick it up.

  “Angry?”

  Diaz’s voice startled me. He’d come down from the trailer and was standing behind me, fingers in his pockets and shoulders hunched against the drizzle.

  “Guy that smashed that canoe didn’t just want to let you know he was following. He was pissed,” Diaz said.

  “Yeah,” I said, turning back to the river and looking into the shadows. “But not enough to show himself.”

  As we stood there Diaz’s beeper went off and he retreated to his car to use his phone. A minute later he flashed his headlights and punched the horn. I yelled to Mathis that I’d come back later with my truck and he waved me off. When I climbed into Diaz’s car he put the sedan in gear before I could close the door.

  “That was dispatch,” he said, setting his lips in a hard line. “They got another missing kid.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Diaz spun a circle through the grass along the edge of the access road and the rubber yelped when he hit the Seminole Road pavement. As he sped east I knew he wasn
’t planning to drop me off.

  He had his blue light on the dash by the time we made the interstate and despite the rain-slick roadway he hit the southbound entrance ramp hard. I kept my mouth shut and cinched up my seatbelt. I’d been on a few car chases in the city but despite how Mel Gibson and the boys make it look in the movies, you rarely get above fifty miles an hour on urban streets. When Diaz merged onto the interstate he was already doing sixty-five. When he got to the outside lane he pushed it to eighty-five and started talking.

  “They got the call out from dispatch fifteen minutes ago, same as the last ones, some new housing development called Flamingo Lakes out in Westland,” he said as if I knew the layout. He powered past a low ride Honda as the driver picked up Diaz’s blue light in his rearview and jumped to an inside lane.

  “We scrambled a unit out there and they already got a call out for a K-9 and a bloodhound unit. We used to wait for some kind of confirmation, but not anymore.”

  We surged up on the bumper of a sport utility vehicle, Diaz laid on the horn and slid halfway into the inside emergency pullover lane so the guy got the full view of the flashing blue light in his side mirror.

  “¡Muevete, hijo de puta!”

  The SUV finally found room to merge over and there was a line of six more cars in the lane ahead. Diaz stayed straddling the emergency lane and forced them all over like he had some sort of force field pushing out in front of him.

  “Six-year-old girl,” he said flatly as he pushed it to ninety miles an hour in the now open lane. “Playing in a fenced yard on the lake. This time he killed a dog on the way in.”

  I looked over at the detective’s profile, saw his jaw muscles flexing and kept my silence.

  Even at this speed it was a thirty-minute trip down into the next county. By the time we reached the entrance to Flamingo Lakes my calves were cramping from pushing my toes to the floorboards trying to put on my phantom brakes. After jumping off the interstate we’d swerved through suburban traffic going west, blew through six stoplights and caused a dozen cars to jam on their brakes.

  When we turned onto the street I saw a spray of blue and red lights webbed at the end of a broad cul-de-sac. Diaz had to park a block away. I followed him in and we walked past two television trucks with their broadcast antennas up, a knot of huddled neighbors with cell phones, and a couple of K-9 patrol cars holding barking dogs. A big, boxy ambulance was backed into the driveway of the house at the end of the street. Letters on the mailbox spelled Alvarez. The place seemed too chaotic for a crime scene.

  I walked a step behind Diaz, matching his stride as he nodded his way past several uniformed officers. No one gave me a second look. There were two plainclothes detective types just inside the entrance of the house, both talking into two-way cell phones, and we squeezed past.

  Inside the house the energy hum changed. Every light in the big, two-story home seemed to be on, but it held the stark, empty feel of a nightclub thirty minutes after closing time. The décor was off-white and pastel and spotless. But the furniture— sectional couches and oversized chairs—had all been pulled out from the walls.

  “Last time we had an abduction callout we were an hour into the search when the kid crawled out from behind a couch,” Diaz whispered, as if reading my puzzled look. “She’d climbed back there and fallen asleep.”

  All conversation inside the house was consciously subdued. I followed Diaz into the kitchen and saw Detective Richards sitting at a polished wood table. Another woman sat next to her, elbows planted wide, her eyes in both palms, fingers thrust up into her dark hair. Richards had an arm resting lightly on the woman’s shoulder and was touching her head, stroking her hair as she talked to her in low tones.

  Diaz caught his partner’s eye and mouthed the question: “Hammonds?”

  Richards pointed a finger to the rear of the house and then looked directly into my eyes. Green or gray? I thought. She turned her attention back to the woman, a mother whose heart I could not and did not want to imagine. I followed Diaz through a set of French doors and out onto a patio.

  In a corner of the backyard Hammonds stood within a huddle of men dressed just like him, suits minus the jackets, ties knotted, shoes tight and made for the city. I figured FBI, but Hammonds still seemed to be in charge, no matter how tenuously. He stood in the middle, his silvered hair glowing in lights blazing from two outside spotlights mounted high on the corners of the house. I stayed on the cut stone patio while Diaz went out to the group. I could see the low fence that surrounded the long sloping yard. An orange and blue plastic jungle gym and slide stood to one side. Next to it, a yellow crime scene blanket covered a large object on the grass. The dog.

  When I looked up, Diaz was talking with Hammonds, who did not look in my direction, but nodded his head and handed Diaz a bulky, hand-held flashlight.

  “The kid was out here playing in the yard while the mom was cleaning up dinner dishes,” Diaz said when he came back, talking like he was briefing me.

  “She didn’t hear anything unusual, but the sun was going down, it was getting late so she comes out on the patio to call the kid inside and sees the dog lying there. She looks around. No kid. She freaks.”

  I followed as he moved to the back end of the yard.

  “They got the fence up to keep the dog and the kid inside. They were safety conscious and worried about the lake.”

  We hopped the waist-high fence and Diaz flipped on the flashlight, sweeping it across the ground until it illuminated a row of small white markers standing like folded cards in the grass, each with a number printed on it.

  “Patrol guys got here first and found the mom out here knee-deep in the water and came in after her so there’s a lot of prints. But these?” he said, shining the light on a deep print next to marker number one. “Could they be the same as you saw in your place?”

  I bent to the imprint. Then the next one. And the third, all left in a patch of shiny mud. They were the same size as far as I could tell. The third one showed clearly that it had no tread, just a smooth size nine.

  Diaz swung the beam farther out into a sudden stand of cattails and water lily that spread out into the water. I asked him to swing the light left and saw the water grasses stop abruptly at what appeared to be the property line. Next door the neighbor’s green St. Augustine lawn went uninterrupted into uncluttered open water.

  “Weed sprayed,” Diaz said, again reading the puzzle in my face. “The developers tried to sell this whole place as a man- made wetlands area to help appease the environmentalists. They let the indigenous stuff grow in the water and they even have workers come out and pull any non-Florida stuff out.”

  He sprayed the light back into the grasses leading out into the water from behind the victim’s house.

  “It’s great for luring the birds but some of the owners don’t like it. They think the water grass looks like weeds and ruins their view so they spray it all dead.”

  He swung the beam back to the footprints that disappeared into the lilies.

  “So what about the prints?”

  “Could be,” I answered. “I thought the one at my place might be a moccasin or something. You know? No tread or anything. Just like these.”

  “Booties,” Diaz said. I looked up.

  “Booties. Like the kind windsurfers or scuba divers wear. They’re like a black neoprene sock that pulls up over your foot. They use them to keep you from chafing your skin with the straps on dive fins or from stepping on shells and stuff in the water.”

  I nodded and stood staring at the prints, thinking about Fred Gunther’s scuba equipment bag and the clean canvas tarp in the storage bin of his Cessna. The same kind of canvas that glowed in moonlight and had been wrapped tightly around Alissa Gainey’s floating body.

  We started back up to the house. Hammonds and his group were still in their loose circle and he still didn’t look at me.

  “So the guy comes in from the water. Maybe he lies out there in the high grass, waiting for th
e chance, watching the kid and the mom.”

  Diaz was one of those detectives who had to run his theories out loud, hear his own voice to find a mistake in the sequence or logic. I knew a couple like that. I just listened.

  “He comes out of cover as late as he can because he wants to use the darkness. He jumps the fence and snatches the kid, somehow keeps her from screaming and—boom. Back in the water and gone.”

  As Diaz talked, the mechanical whine of a helicopter began to build. I could see it swinging in from the east, a cone of brilliant light pouring into the neighborhood and now into the lake. The chopper stopped and hovered while the beam poked down into another crescent of cattails and maidencane at the shore line. One of the men in Hammonds’ group was looking up and talking into his cell phone. The chopper banked and moved over us, the downdraft ruffling through our clothes. Next to the children’s slide the wind had kicked up the crime scene tarp leaving the crooked rear leg and haunches of a big German shepherd exposed. The cream and black fur had already lost its natural luster.

  “You forgot the dog,” I said to Diaz, as the chopper moved off.

  “Oh, yeah,” he replied, looking for the first time at the dead animal. “He cut its throat with one slice. Somehow, before the thing had a chance to even yelp.”

  “He do this before, kill a pet?”

  “No. In fact, the first one he came in the middle of the night and took the kid out a bedroom window. The family dog, a real yapper according to the father, never reacted.”

  “He’s getting reckless.”

  “Or more pissed off,” Diaz said.

  When I looked up, Richards was standing on the patio, watching us. She was wearing dark jeans and a white, short- sleeved shirt. The spotlights behind her put a halo around her blond hair and backlit the thin fabric of her blouse, putting the outline of her breasts and her tapered waist in silhouette. I turned away to look out over the black water of the lake while Diaz went to talk with her.