The Edge of Night

by Jill Sorenson

“Where’s your necklace?”

  He waited a beat too long. “What necklace?”

  “Your cross. You never take it off.” She looked around for it, but he was already turning his back to her, walking out the door. Dragging the blanket along with her, she raced after him, checking the bathroom in the hall.

  The silver crucifix was there, sitting on the surface of the counter. She picked it up, almost tripping over her own feet as she rushed down the stairs. “You left it here on purpose! Why did you do that?”

  He paused, his hand on the doorknob. “Because I might not come back again,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at her. “And I wanted to give you something to remember me by. Now I really do have to go.”

  She ran to him, tears filling her eyes. “Where?”

  Avoiding her gaze, he refused to answer.

  “Don’t do it,” she said, holding the blanket up with one hand, his chain in the other. “Please, Eric. Whatever it is, don’t do it.”

  He hesitated another moment, searching for the right words. “I lied to you upstairs. I thought it would be easier to leave you that way, but it isn’t. So the truth is this—you’ve been the best time of my life. And I wish I could be the person you think you love.” He kissed her stunned cheek and walked out the door.

  24

  Noah had a voice mail waiting for him when he arrived at the station. The lab director informed him that the samples from the cold-case file he’d been working on had been archived, untested, at the department’s request.

  He listened to the message twice, nonplussed. Only a lead investigator could halt testing, usually because a case had closed. Budget issues were always a concern, and DNA analysis was expensive. Maybe someone had decided the cost outweighed the benefit. It was even more likely that a simple miscommunication had occurred. With thousands of samples to process, some orders fell through the cracks.

  Noah would have to track down the source of the problem and submit a new request. Making a note to ask Santiago about it, he left his desk.

  The cold case would have to wait until Monday morning.

  Tonight he was involved in a routine sweep operation. Every few months the gang unit came together in a concentrated effort, combing the streets for documented members. They collected intelligence, visited known hangouts, and made multiple arrests.

  Without Patrick, there were five GU officers on the team rather than six, so they had their work cut out for them. Noah was growing accustomed to riding solo and even enjoyed the independence. Although he missed having a partner at his side, he felt more confident in his abilities as a police officer now.

  At times, Patrick had been a burden.

  The night was really beginning to heat up when Noah got interrupted by dispatch. “Officer Young, I have an urgent request from Meghan that you call home.”

  Thankfully, he was on the freeway, not engaged with a suspect. Acknowledging the dispatch operator, he picked up his cell phone and stabbed the home button.

  It rang only once.

  “Noah?”

  His gut clenched at the sound of her voice. She’d been crying. “What’s wrong?”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “Eric.”

  “Is he there?”

  “No, but he told me something … really bad. I think you should come home.”

  Cursing, he glanced into his rearview mirror. He’d passed his exit. “Okay. I’ll try.”

  “Is anyone with you right now?”

  “No.”

  “Not even Patrick?”

  “I’m alone in my squad car. Why?”

  “Come home. Please. It might have something to do with the recent murders.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he promised, hitting his lights. After notifying his fellow officers of a family emergency, he exited the freeway and headed west toward his neighborhood in Imperial Beach.

  Inside the house, Meghan was sitting at the base of the stairs, a blanket wrapped around her slender body. Her eyes were puffy and her shoulders bare.

  She had a crucifix cupped in the palm of her hand.

  Noah didn’t need any special cop intuition to understand what had happened. Eric had touched his baby sister, after giving his word not to. “Motherfucker,” he said, wanting to punch a hole through the wall. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No. I’m just … upset.”

  He swore again, furious. When he caught up with Eric, he was going to wring his neck. “What information did he give you?”

  Tears leaking out her eyes, she began a very disturbing story. With each chilling detail, Noah felt more loathing toward Raul and a renewed empathy for April. Even his anger toward Eric dissipated some. “Did he describe the killer?”

  She shook her head. “He was trying to get more information from his friends. He said that Junior put a gun to his head for asking, and that his brother punched him. But a guy named Tony told him the killer might be a patrol officer.”

  A cold bead of sweat trickled down his spine. “Tony Castillo?”

  “I guess. Eric wasn’t sure about the patrol-officer part. He said Raul was the only one who really knew anything.”

  “And he’s dead.”

  “Right.”

  Noah raked a hand through his hair, his mind racing. There were dozens of patrol officers on the CVPD. San Diego had hundreds. Like Eric, Noah was also skeptical of the source. Tony Castillo had pulled a gun on him two weeks ago.

  “He told me the girl’s name,” she continued. “Maggie or Magdalena. Her body was found by a construction crew a few years later but never identified.”

  Noah knew with absolute certainty that this girl was the subject of the cold case he’d been studying. Eric seemed to think the murders were related, and maybe he was right. This victim had a plastic bag over her head and a CVL bandanna around her neck.

  “Fuck,” he said, considering the implications if the killer really was a cop. Maybe the DNA analysis hadn’t been canceled by accident. “Fuck!”

  “You’re scaring me,” Meghan sobbed. “I want you to find Eric. I think he’s going to do something dangerous, like get jumped out of the gang.”

  Noah had been hitting the streets all night, and he hadn’t heard any news about a jump-out. He had, however, collected some intel about a rumble between Eastside and CVL. Supposedly two top guys from each crew were going to brawl it out. No one had named the participants or mentioned where this fight would take place.

  “I’ll look for him,” he said, kneeling before her. “Are you going to be okay?”

  She nodded, her face scrunched up. “I love him.”

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered, giving her an awkward hug. This was a disaster. He couldn’t recall Meghan ever saying she was in love before. The fact that she’d fallen for a gang member who was headed for death or jail boggled his mind.

  What was so fucking special about Eric Hernandez?

  Noah didn’t have time to deal with Meghan’s misplaced affections. He made her promise to stay put and returned to his squad car. After contacting his unit, requesting that they be on the lookout for Eric, he ran a search for the name Magdalena in the system.

  He got lucky.

  There was no recent information, but he found a decade-old arrest report starring Magdalena “Maggie” Chavez. He couldn’t access a full record of the juvenile offense or the accompanying mug shot, but he was able to track down a last known address and next of kin. Her mother, Elvia Chavez, was still listed at the same address.

  Noah decided to pay her a visit.

  The small house near Castle Park High School was in a sad state of disrepair. The paint was peeling and the yard was dead. It looked abandoned. Noah parked by the curb and approached the front door with caution, his hand on his holster.

  He glanced through the torn mesh screen, detecting movement. “Mrs. Chavez?”

  A middle-aged woman appeared on the other side. “Sí.”

  “I’
d like to speak with you about Magdalena.”

  She opened the screen door, letting him in. When his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he realized that she was in her forties, younger than he’d estimated. Her disheveled hair and coarse complexion added years. She had the bleary-eyed, red-nosed look of a wino.

  “Have you found my daughter?”

  Noah couldn’t answer that. “How long has she been missing?”

  “Ten years.”

  “Did you file a report?”

  “Twice. They said they lost the first one.”

  The second must have suffered the same fate, as it wasn’t in the system. “Can you tell me about her?”

  The woman frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “She was a good girl, but she ran around with bad boys. Gangbangers.”

  He took out his notebook. “Do you remember the names of any of her friends?”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  Mrs. Chavez walked away from Noah, into a dark living room, and sat down. The space was crammed with broken furniture and random junk. It smelled like dusty carpet and cat urine. Staring off into a corner, she lifted a small glass from the coffee table and drank from it. “Summer of 2000. She was sixteen.”

  “Did an officer come to your house when you reported her missing?”

  “Two officers came. One of them was quiet, nice. He didn’t talk much. The other told me that kids in gangs were taking over the streets, and there was nothing they could do about it. He said she’d turn up eventually. Shanley, I think he called himself. For all I know, he threw that first report away.”

  Noah thanked her for her time, his heart racing from shock. He didn’t mention the cold-case murder, but he left his card, saying he would be in touch.

  Outside her house, he took a few deep breaths, wondering what to do next. He felt as if he was stuck in a nightmare. Patrick’s last words came drifting back to him. You wouldn’t know a perp if he was sitting right in front of you.

  He’d suspected his partner of being a racist, a woman-hater, and a piss-poor police officer, but a murderer?

  It was unfathomable.

  He put in a call to Santiago, leaving an urgent request to speak with him. He also left a message with April, although he doubted she knew where Eric was.

  Trying to remain calm, he considered his options. This was an incredibly sensitive situation. He couldn’t waltz over to Patrick’s house and pop off accusations. Nor could he announce that he was looking for a serial killer/cop over the wire.

  He had to find Eric. Now.

  Picking up his radio, he contacted his unit. “Any word on the Eastside rumble?”

  “Yes, actually. Rumor has it that a fight’s going down at Brown Field.”

  “Between who?”

  “Oscar Reyes and an unknown CVL member. We think it might be the mysterious third passenger from last weekend’s drive-by. As soon as we’re finished with the sweep, we’ll be en route to that location.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Noah said, signing off. Brown Field was a section of land behind the municipal airport. With its dusty hills and intricate back roads, it was an ideal place for a clandestine meeting. Lots of cover, plenty of space.

  He could attempt to track Eric’s cell phone, but that brought up some touchy legal issues. Unless Noah could prove that Eric’s life was in danger, accessing his personal information required a court order.

  April called him back a moment later. “What’s up?”

  “Do you know where Eric is?”

  “No.”

  “Is he planning to fight someone tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she said, sighing. “Yesterday three men drove by the house while we were saying goodbye. He told me to go back inside.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He went right up to the car! They talked for a minute, at the most.”

  “Can you describe the car or the men inside?”

  “White Monte Carlo, at least ten years old. Mexican guys with shaved heads.”

  He made a note of the description. “Is there a special place Eric would meet them? Designated turf for a fight?”

  She thought for a second, cursing Eric’s recklessness in two languages. “The only place I can think of is near the southern border of Brown Field. CVL and Eastside used to have broncas there, back in the day.”

  Noah thanked her for the info. He’d heard about the old-school fistfights, and now he had a more specific area to search. “Go straight home after work,” he said, pulling away from the Chavez residence. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  “Be careful,” she said softly.

  “I will.” Although he wanted to say more, it wasn’t the right time, so he ended the call and headed south, toward Brown Field.

  Eric traveled east on Otay Mesa Road, slowing as he passed Brown Field.

  There was a large, hilly area behind the airport where Raul used to give him boxing lessons. The space was open but secluded, offering endless escape routes via dirt-bike paths and gravel roads. In the past few years it had been claimed by the Otay crew, an upstart gang that both CVL and Eastside looked down on.

  They weren’t here tonight.

  Not that Eric cared one way or another. If he saw them, he’d just move to a deserted part of the field.

  He didn’t expect Oscar to be waiting for him, and he wasn’t. He parked near a flat area that couldn’t be seen from the main road and left his lights on. He’d been too nervous to eat dinner, so he grabbed some beef jerky out of the glove compartment, chewing and swallowing mechanically, chasing it down with a Coke.

  Thinking about the fight made him anxious, so he replayed the high points of his afternoon with Meghan. For some reason, his mind kept returning to their stroll on the beach rather than the very satisfying moments he spent on top of her.

  “Baboso,” he called himself, closing his eyes and continuing to picture her face, her smile, the way she said, I love you.

  An hour later, when someone tapped on his window, he jerked awake with a start. “Listo, cabrón?”

  Eric straightened in his seat. A group of cars were parked in a half circle, front ends pointed toward the flat, open area. With a full moon in the sky, there was no need for headlights to illuminate the space.

  He drained the last of his soda and got out.

  Oscar was leaning against the hood of a white Monte Carlo, his arm draped around a homegirl. Eric wondered if she’d been inside the house when Junior did the drive-by. She was pretty and slim, too young for her heavy makeup and hard eyes.

  “Estás solo?” Oscar asked.

  Eric held out his arms. Obviously he was alone.

  “You’re not with CVL anymore?”

  He shrugged. “What difference does it make?”

  “Your boy shot up my car, ese. He fucked with my family. Just so we’re clear, this takes care of your debt only—not his.”

  “He thought you hurt his sister.”

  The girl beside Oscar frowned at him.

  He spat on the dirt. “I didn’t do shit. Fuck him. And fuck you.”

  Eric fell silent. Telling Oscar how it went down might help Junior later, but it wasn’t going to change anything tonight.

  “Where’s the pink slip?”

  “In the glove compartment, signed. The keys are in my pocket.”

  “Do you really want to do this, chacho? Why don’t you hand them over and walk away while you still can?”

  Eric glanced around the small crowd, considering. They would probably beat him up no matter what. And, although he had distanced himself from the Locos, he still represented their clique. He could end this conflict like a man, and leave the barrio with honor, or run away and watch his back forever.

  “You’ll have to take them from me,” he decided.

  Oscar smiled coldly. “A que quieras, güey.” He stepped into the ring, pulling his T-shirt over his head. He’d done time
in prison recently, and it showed. He was ripped. His shaved head gleamed in the moonlight, and his muscles bulged.

  Eric’s stomach clenched with apprehension. Swallowing drily, he removed his own shirt, tossing it on the hood of his car. His lean body inspired laughter rather than awe. Only Oscar’s girl looked at him with a glint of appreciation, which was fine. He didn’t want to be admired by these men; he wanted to be underestimated.

  “My homie will check you,” Oscar said.

  Eric bent forward, bracing his hands on the hood while some cockhead patted him down. He stared at Oscar without really seeing him, enduring the indignity. Oscar’s girl watched the proceedings, moistening her lips.

  When the kid was finished checking Eric for weapons, Oscar turned to his girlfriend. “Show him I’m clean.”

  Giving Eric a sultry smirk, she knelt behind Oscar, encircling his ankles, lifting the cuffs of his jeans. She slid her hands up the insides of his thighs, moving slowly. Then she stood, reaching around to cup his fly. “It’s all you, baby.”

  Eric wasn’t impressed by the display. She reminded him of the girls Junior screwed in front of everyone.

  “Ready?” Oscar asked.

  Eric came forward, his heart in his throat, blood pumping with adrenaline. Although Oscar outweighed him, Eric was several inches taller, and he had a longer reach. He was also quicker and lighter on his feet. Bulky men weren’t necessarily good fighters, he assured himself. They often lacked finesse and endurance.

  Power for power, they were a poor match. The first time Oscar landed a solid hit, Eric would probably go down for the count. But if he dodged the blows, he had a chance of wearing down the bigger man.

  As they circled each other, fists raised, Eric began to reassess his opponent. Oscar Reyes was not a graceless brute. He didn’t exactly float like a butterfly, but he wasn’t clumsy. Dancing around him no longer seemed wise.

  So Eric struck first, trying to stun him with a quick left. Oscar evaded the punch easily. Taking advantage of Eric’s proximity, he retaliated with a big hit to Eric’s stomach, followed by a painful knock on the chin.

  Eric stumbled backward, in danger of losing his footing. He held a hand over his burning midsection, gasping for breath.