The Blue Edge of Midnight

by Jonathon King

  When we got to the glassed office, both Diaz and Richards were waiting. The FBI broke off to their computer table and Hammonds crooked his finger to the detectives and to me as he entered his office. Diaz closed the door behind us.

  Without a word Hammonds went through another small door in the back corner of his office. I heard water begin to run.

  I sat down in an upholstered chair, mud and all. Diaz was still wearing his clothes from the swamp, minus the boots. Richards had changed her shirt and was wearing a tight knit top tucked into her water-stained jeans. She’d brushed her hair to a gloss.

  “How’s the girl?” I asked, an excuse to look at her face.

  “She’s fine. Her family’s with her.” A small smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  Hammonds returned, wiping his face with a towel and then dropping heavily into his chair and leaning back.

  “OK. Update me.”

  “The kid’s all right,” Diaz started, looking at a small notepad. “She was dehydrated. Her, um, potassium levels were down. She was covered with insect bites and there was a small bite, maybe a rodent, the doc said, on one foot.” He flipped a page as if it had to come from some official record.

  “There was no sign of sexual assault and the only sign of physical injury was some bruises on her arms where the docs think she was grabbed and probably picked up and carried. And they took some adhesive out of her hair and off a cheek that looks like it came from a strip of duct tape he used to gag her.

  “They expect a full recovery, but they said she was really on the edge.” He finished, looking at me.

  Richards was again half sitting on the edge of the table, her arms crossed.

  “Her parents were brought in and they were all put up in a hospital suite on one of the upper floors. The doctors want to keep her at least a couple of days for observation,” she said without the aid of a notebook. “The newsies were waiting for us and were camped out for hours until hospital public relations got the E.R. doctors to issue a brief statement that she was in guarded condition and they were optimistic for a recovery.”

  Diaz checked his notes and nodded at the precise language.

  “The parents are holding off on the press. They don’t want to say anything yet,” Richards continued. “They were grateful. We gave them a vague description of where she was found and told them we thought the kidnapper had killed himself.” She looked up at Hammonds, wondering if she’d overstepped.

  “All right. Fine,” he said, turning his eyes on me. “Now, Mr. Freeman. If you wouldn’t mind explaining again how you found this situation.”

  I knew the grilling was coming. It was the only reason Hammonds had brought me along. While he began to twist the small towel in his hands, I went through the same description of Nate Brown’s appearance and the boat ride to the cabin I’d given Diaz. They listened. I gave the same description of the girl and of finding Ashley’s body. They listened. Then I went out on a limb.

  “There was some evidence of a struggle. The table and lamp broken. That bit with the chair under the tree was too pat. And why does a loner like Ashley even bother to bring the kid all the way to his place? It wasn’t for rape. It wasn’t for torture.”

  They listened. Diaz moved uneasily behind me. Richards studied the carpet. Hammonds twisted the towel and the lines at the corners of his eyes were tightening again.

  “What the hell’s your theory?” he finally asked.

  “Someone else was there.”

  “Brown?”

  “Yeah. But someone else too.”

  “You have proof of that?”

  I thought of the knife, still stuck inside my boot.

  “It just didn’t feel right,” I said.

  All three of them let it set. Maybe they were thinking about how it felt. Hammonds broke the silence.

  “Look, Freeman. I’m not sure you aren’t in deeper shit than even you think. Sure, we’ll try to find this Brown and talk to him. Hell, we don’t even have a damn autopsy on Ashley yet. But in fifteen minutes I have to go in front of the sheriff, the FBI’s regional director, the county mayor and who the hell knows who else and spin a logical string of events.”

  He had rolled up to his desk. The towel was stretched between his hands like a thick rope.

  “We’ve reached a point of urgency here. And I cannot entertain any goddam conspiracy theories at this point in time.

  “We’ve got a damn good suspect who’s damn good and dead. We saved a kid from becoming victim number five. Now if you want me to make you out to be the hero in that, fine. But I don’t think you’re up to the scrutiny that that would bring. Am I right?”

  I was thinking of Donna the reporter. Maybe he was too. I nodded my head in agreement.

  “So we go with what we have for now.”

  The others nodded. Hammonds stood up and started for his bathroom as we began to file out and stopped.

  “And Freeman,” he said, again in control of his voice. “Don’t leave the state.”

  The FBI agents watched us as we headed for the hallway. Each time I saw them it looked as though they expected to see me in handcuffs. I couldn’t tell if they were disappointed or not.

  “Jesus,” Diaz said, again leading us with his voice. “I never heard the old man cuss before.” We reached the elevator and he punched the down button.

  “If he expects us to be at the press conference, I gotta change down in the locker room,” Richards said, looking at her mud-flecked boots and jeans. She couldn’t see the fine red welts still glowing on her forehead and cheek from the branch whippings. “I’m a mess,” she said, more to herself than us.

  As we rode down Diaz asked if I had a way back north.

  “My attorney’s downstairs,” I said.

  “That was probably good planning,” he said, smiling.

  When the doors opened at the second floor, Diaz punched the lobby button for me and shook my hand before stepping out.

  “We’ll be talking, right?”

  Richards started to follow him out, but put her hand on the door guard. I thought she was going to say something but instead she stepped in close, reached up on her toes and kissed me on the mouth.

  “Thanks,” she said. Her eyes were an unmistakable green.

  CHAPTER 22

  When the elevator doors opened on the lobby it took me a few seconds to recognize the action. My head was still softly swimming. The doors started to close again and I reached out and clanged back the metal guard, tripping them open. I started across the marble floor, admittedly a little glazed, and my hand seemed to involuntarily come up and touch my mouth.

  Across the lobby I saw Billy in a dark tailored suit standing before a large piece of public art, studying the shape and color as if he were deeply interested. The young woman at the raised reception desk didn’t turn at the sound of me bashing the elevator door guard. She was watching Billy with an authentic interest. Billy turned before I got to him. “M-Max,” he said softly. “Shall we go?”

  As we started to the front entrance the woman called out pleasantly, “Good night.” Billy smiled and tipped his hand and we went out.

  Through the door he took me on a hard left. The TV trucks, their mechanical necks stretched high, swarmed at the near sidewalk. The standup reporters were under portable lights, filming their introductions to the press conference. I did not see Donna. We got to Billy’s car with only a few curious looks, eased out of the parking lot and headed for the interstate. Billy made a call from his cell phone, said, “We’re on our way,” and hung up. I was quiet for twenty minutes and my attorney indulged me. As he drove north in the far left lane I stared out the window, watching the inside line of sedans and minivans and tractor-trailers slip behind. Billy did not let a single vehicle pass us. He was doing eighty-five. It was his way. But neither his patience nor his impatience was limitless.

  “And?” he finally said.

  I started the retelling with Nate Brown on the deck of my shack and took him throug
h the day. Billy interrupted only once, when I began to describe taking the knife from the stump and putting it in my boot. Before I got it out he raised his hand to stop me.

  “M-More evidence?” he said, in a tone that wasn’t pleased. “Max, you’re out of it. What’s left to p-prove? Why bring a link to yourself?”

  I slipped the knife into the wet and muddied fanny pack on the floor in front of me and said nothing.

  “So you d-don’t think it’s done?”

  “It could be,” I said. “Unless another kid comes up missing.”

  It was near midnight when we reached the tower. For the last few miles I could almost see Billy’s analytical, lawyerly mind working. We were not so different. He just did his grinding in a different way. When we came through the door of the apartment, Dianne McIntyre was in the kitchen, again in her stocking feet, but this time she had Billy’s chef’s apron tied around her. The rich aroma of paella was coming from the stove behind her and she was just sprinkling a touch of chardonnay over the mixture of seafood and rice.

  “Good evening, boys,” she said as we walked in. “You are just in time for dinner and a movie.”

  She reached up and plucked a wineglass from a suspended rack and filled it for Billy and when I sat on a stool at the counter she put her palms on the surface and affected an Old West accent:

  “What’ll it be?”

  I ordered Boodles, but before she turned she scrunched her perfect nose and said: “Hot bath upstairs for two bits.”

  I looked down at my crusty clothes and smiled. Billy slipped his suit-coated arm around McIntyre’s waist, tasted his wine and raised an eyebrow. We had indeed been an interesting pair leaving police headquarters.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said and headed for the guest suite.

  I showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose Temple University T-shirt that had been snatched up by Billy’s maid during my last visit and cleaned and pressed by his laundry service.

  I then had my drink and we all sat in the living area with steaming bowls of the paella and watched McIntyre’s “movie.”

  Billy had asked her to tape the television news and she had recorded Hammonds’ press conference.

  Billy pressed a button on the remote and a panel hung with one of his oil paintings slid silently up into the ceiling to expose a flat, wide-screened television. He punched on the set and hit the play button, and the head of an anchorwoman filled the wall.

  “And our top story tonight, the dramatic rescue of abducted six-year-old Amy Alvarez and the discovery of a body in the Everglades of the man police are now saying may be the Moonlight Murderer.

  “Tonight we have team coverage including this exclusive footage of the medical examiner’s office removing the body of the man police say could be responsible for the abduction and murder of four children from South Florida neighborhoods over this long, hot summer.”

  It was the video shot at the boat ramp by Donna’s cameraman and it opened as the M.E.’s team was hefting the body bag out of the Whaler. The camera caught the men struggle and slip with the load as it hooked on the boat cleat and showed one man go down on a knee. Then in the glare it caught my back as I stepped in and used the knife to slice the strap free. The angle only showed part of my face but the light glinted sharply off the knife blade before the cameraman panned up the slope of the ramp following the body bag up to the black Chevy Suburban.

  As we watched the footage I could feel Billy’s eyes on me, but I didn’t turn from the screen as the report cut back to the anchorwoman.

  “More in a moment. But now we take you live to the sheriff’s administration building where lead investigator Jack Hammonds is holding a press conference.”

  The screen changed to show Hammonds standing at a podium flanked by several men in suits, clasping their hands in front of themselves like ushers waiting to take up the collection at Sunday church service.

  Richards was the only woman in the bunch. She had cleaned up and was wearing a skirt with a jacket that looked too large. Her blond hair made her stick out even more and I could tell she’d put on some lipstick. I picked up my gin and took a deep draw.

  The camera tightened on Hammonds, who had begun to speak.

  “As you are already aware, through the joint efforts of the FDLE, the FBI, the Sheriff’s Office and the FMD earlier today we were able to ascertain the whereabouts of six-year-old Amy Alvarez at a location in the far Everglades. With the quick action of a medical-response team from the county rescue center we were able to airlift the child to Memorial Hospital where she is now listed in guarded but stable condition.”

  Hammonds cleared his throat and took a drink of water before continuing.

  “Subsequent to our arrival at said location, we were also able to locate the remains of a suspect we have now identified as David Ashley, a thirty-eight-year-old Florida native. The deceased was found hanged in a location nearby.”

  You could hear the press corp squirm in their chairs and then someone in the back yelled, “Are you saying he committed suicide, Chief?”

  Hammonds paused again and seemed reluctant to look up from his notes to face the gathered cameras.

  “Mr. Ashley did not leave any correspondence or suicide note to indicate his mindset or motivation, but there were indications at the scene of a troubled and potentially psychotic individual. Evidence was also collected at the scene linking Mr. Ashley to another victim in this summer’s string of abductions and although we will continue our investigative efforts into this matter, it is our hope that today’s developments put an end to this long and difficult case.”

  Hammonds gathered his one-page address and turned to his team as some politician took the podium and began, “First of all we want to share in the joy of the Alvarez family in the safe return of their child, but our hearts also go out to the families …”

  I stood up and Billy stopped the tape and punched off the set. I made myself another drink and stood at the kitchen counter thinking about Hammonds’ “linking” evidence and how even he wouldn’t hang himself out that far unless they picked something up at the scene. I was running my memory through the inside of Ashley’s cabin when I remembered the blanket. Richards had peeled it off the child and someone had put it in an evidence bag. Hammonds would not have missed it. Every piece of evidence in every abduction would be stuck in his head. He could easily use it as a strong tie-in, proof that Ashley was the right suspect.

  Billy rolled the painting back in place over the television screen and McIntyre started for the kitchen.

  “What they like to call a slam dunk case,” she said, stacking the bowls in the sink. “Especially tidy since the suspect is dead.”

  “At least they k-kept you out of it with that ‘able to ascertain the w-whereabouts’ c-crap,” said Billy, carrying his wineglass to the counter.

  “Yeah, at least there’s that,” I said, avoiding a reaction to his emphasis on the word they.

  “Do you think it’s over then?” McIntyre asked me.

  “Possibly,” I said, thinking of the knife. “Maybe they’re just hoping that if there were more snakes in the bucket, they crawled away for good.”

  She raised another exquisite eyebrow to me, her only response. I picked up my drink and moved out to the patio where I stood at the railing in the high ocean breeze and looked out on the black water. The moon was down. I could see a few dots of light far out from shore, boats at anchor or trolling so slowly they appeared stationary. I sat in the lounge chair and closed my eyes. I was trying to remember the kiss in the elevator but visions of Ashley twisting under the tree canopy and the black- stained butcher stump and Nate Brown standing high in his skiff kept invading my head. I could hear the tinkling of glass and china inside and the low voices of Billy and McIntyre in conversation.

  Then the lights went out and I heard Billy step to the door.

  “Can I get anything for you, Max?”

  I could tell from the cleanness of his words that he must have sti
ll been just inside and that it was too dark for him to see my face.

  “No thanks, Billy. I’m fine.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “I’ve given it some thought.”

  “All right. We’re going to bed.”

  I had always thought there should be more joy in such a statement. But what did I know?

  “Good night,” I said.

  I sat for a while, thinking of my friend. I wondered if he stuttered when he was in the arms of his lover, in the darkness of his room. If he couldn’t see her face, could he whisper his words without hesitation? I suppose it didn’t matter. In the arms of a lover your faults and failures were supposed to be inconsequential. Sometimes you’re supposed to be a hero. Even if your armor is somewhat tarnished. But I knew that was fantasy too.

  I sat listening to the surf eighty feet below and the sound of water took me again to that jumpy place in between dreams and consciousness.

  It must have been a dream because I could see my breath billowing out like thin smoke in the freezing air. But I could hear the voices of men screaming as clearly as if they were standing below on the sand looking up. I had never heard men scream before that day, not with such panic and helpless ache.

  It must have been a dream because I could see the woman, really only a girl, not much older than I was as a second-year patrolman. She was standing on the outside ledge of the Walnut Street Bridge, leaning out over the water forty feet below, her arms reaching back to the cold concrete abutment. She had tossed her coat into bridge traffic before we could cordon off the area, and it lay there now with a brown stain of a tire tread across the back. I was watching her hands, gone white with the cold and fear. Her long fingernails were blood red in contrast as they dug into the gray stone.