Edge of Midnight

24



Richard Macfarlane sat behind his polished walnut desk on the sixth floor of the Robert F. Kennedy Department of Justice Building in Washington, D.C. He looked up from his paperwork at the intercom’s buzz on his phone console.

“Sir?” The female administrative assistant’s voice came through the speaker. “SAC Johnston with the Violent Crimes Unit is here to see you.”

He masked a sigh. The visit wasn’t entirely unexpected. Colin Johnston hadn’t made an appointment, and he considered feigning a meeting or an important phone call. But instead he removed his reading glasses and briefly pinched the bridge of his nose. His policy was to address unpleasant matters head-on. “Send him in.”

A moment later the door to his office opened. The SAC entered, his bearing as ramrod-straight and his physique as hard as it was twenty-two years ago when they had served together in the first Persian Gulf War.

“Colin,” Richard said, standing. He reached over the desk to shake hands. “How are you?”

“Good.”

“Maggie?”

Johnston had been divorced for years. Maggie was his daughter, who Richard recalled as being a happy, blond-haired child.

“She’s married now, with a baby.”

“Time flies.” He shook his head in disbelief, then indicated a supple leather wing chair across from his desk. “Please, sit down.”

Johnston cut directly to business, handing him a document. “It’s from the Jacksonville Courier. It ran this morning. I thought you’d want to see it.”

“I already have,” Richard said impassively, returning his eyeglasses to his nose. He glanced briefly at the article before setting it aside. “I received it by email a little while ago. It’s unfortunate. Eric can handle it, however.”

“Can he?”

He gave him a hard stare. “He’s my son.”

Johnston was quiet for several moments, seeming to weigh his words. “You’re my superior here, Richard. I understand that. We also go back a long way. But I don’t agree with Agent Macfarlane’s placement on the Jacksonville assignment. I’ve been against it from the beginning, as you know. This article isn’t good press for the Bureau. Going against protocol to place an agent on a case who’s clearly got a personal involvement—”

“He’s got three women dead down there and one still missing. That’s Eric’s biggest problem. Not some damn newspaper exposé.” Richard stood from behind the desk and went to look out the large window onto Pennsylvania Avenue. Outside, the afternoon sky was a cloudless, cerulean-blue, a perfect spring day. The white froth of cherry blossoms was visible on the trees lining the federal plaza below. Taking a calming breath, he released it. “He just needs a little more time, Colin. He deserves to be the one to bring the bastard down.”

“Is that his ego speaking or yours?”

He turned, shoulders rigid. “What if it were your daughter? Maggie? You wouldn’t want justice?”

“No one’s saying there won’t be justice. We have other, very qualified agents, you know.” Johnston rose and walked to the window to stand beside him. “Have you thought about what this might be doing to him? I had a concern after Rebecca’s murder that he might resign, or at least move to a different, less stressful unit. The VCU has one of the highest turnovers in the Bureau. We had an agent spiral out of control and commit suicide just last year—”

“And you think my son might be on a ledge somewhere?” Richard laughed, a choked sound.

Johnston frowned. “What I’m saying is the VCU is a pressure cooker. The unsub’s already wreaked havoc in his life—”

“Which is why he’s going to get the son of a bitch this time,” Richard said, feeling a rise of emotion in his chest.

“Despite his connections within the department, Agent Macfarlane’s always been his own man.” Johnston paused. The overhead panel lighting reflected off his smoothly shaved head. “I’ve respected him for that. But he’s put himself in a sensitive position. Not to mention, the unsub clearly enjoys proving his superiority—”

“Superiority? Hardly.”

“Eric’s special to him, because of who he is…your son. This maniac needs to feel powerful. Think about that.”

Richard’s mouth formed a grim line. He returned his gaze to the window. “He already murdered his wife. What else can he possibly do?”

Johnston lowered his voice. “Just don’t make this about you, Richard. I know you hate to lose.”

He bristled. He didn’t just hate to lose, he refused to. “Until Eric does something to warrant otherwise, he stays.”

When it was clear he had no other comment, Johnston turned to leave.

“Semper fidelis,” he said in quiet defeat, then closed the door behind him.

Richard repeated the motto in a rough whisper even though the other man was already gone. Johnston was a good man. He’d been a good marine officer, under his command. Only to himself, in a moment of weakness, did he admit his advice was sage.

He looked around the large, well-appointed corner office afforded to him by rank. Family photos were lined up on the credenza behind his desk in tasteful, sterling-silver frames. Richard had been told on more than one occasion that he was too hard on his son. Eric had followed in his footsteps within the DOJ because he wanted to please him…and also because law enforcement and justice were in his blood.

Opening the credenza’s drawer, he removed another framed image. Eric and Rebecca’s wedding photo. He’d put it away after her death. Even now, he felt a sense of loss for what might have been. He had known about their pending separation, and that Eric hadn’t wanted it. But he also knew it hadn’t lessened the responsibility he felt over what had happened to her.

Emotions were a dangerous thing in the field. They could get you reprimanded, or they could get you killed. He swallowed hard.

Still, he stuck by his decision.

It was nearly dark by the time Mia returned to her apartment. Temporarily deactivating the security system long enough to come inside, she kicked off her shoes in the foyer, her feet tired. Late that afternoon, the JSO had announced the arrest of two suspects in the downtown muggings, requiring her to attend a news briefing and revise her article before filing it with the paper. She was glad, however, the men had been caught. The hospitalized tourist she’d spoken with was a mess. He’d suffered three broken ribs and a deep laceration on his scalp requiring sutures. All for his wallet and iPhone. He’d told Mia he hadn’t resisted, but the men had beaten him anyway.

At least now they were off the streets. The suspects were being arraigned in the morning. Mia would be in the courtroom for their hearing.

She had ordered delivery at the paper while working, eliminating the need to rustle up dinner. Going into the bedroom in search of more comfortable clothing, she slowed at the sight of her rumpled, still unmade bed. Absently, she ran her fingers over Eric’s pillow, wondering how the day had fared for him. She checked her voice mail from the nightstand phone. No messages. There had been none on her cell phone, either.

He owes you nothing, she reminded herself.

After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, she went into her office and sat on the sofa, picking up Hank Dugger’s notepad as a distraction. She began leafing through the pages again, starting at the spot where she’d last left off. As she read, Mia was again struck by the notion that Hank seemed to have a fear of white space. Nearly every inch of paper was covered with commentary, with some of it running vertically up the paper’s edges when he’d run out of room at the bottom. And while the comments were interesting—a few cynically humorous, even—she still saw no areas the investigation had overlooked.

She had just turned on the television for company when someone knocked at the door. Putting down the notepad, Mia went to the foyer, cautiously peering out through the peephole. Will stood on the landing. It wasn’t who she had been hoping for.

“What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as she opened the door and saw his face.

“It’s Justin’s mother.” He came inside. “She took a bad fall.”

It was upsetting news. She’d met Sonya Cho just a few months ago when she’d come to Jacksonville to visit during the winter. Despite being in her seventies, she had seemed agile and robust. “Is she going to be all right?”

“It’s too early to tell. Her hip’s broken, and apparently she was on the floor for some time before anyone found her. Pneumonia’s set into her lungs. Justin’s fallen to pieces—he’s packing to go up there now. They’re very close, you know. I’ve become quite fond of Sonya myself.”

“Sit down,” Mia told him. “I’ll get you a glass of wine.”

She rejoined him in the living room, bringing them both a glass of merlot.

“Justin’s an only child, so he’ll have to make arrangements for her care should she no longer be able to live alone. Heaven knows she won’t leave Chicago—we’ve discussed it with her before. At the least, we’ll have to stay up there until we can get a handle on the situation.”

Of course Will was going with him, she realized. Justin needed him there. “Is there anything I can do while you’re gone? Anything that needs looking after?”

“We’re flying out tomorrow morning.” Will added hesitantly, “I can change the plane reservations to three of us.”

It took Mia a few heartbeats to understand what he meant. She shook her head. “Will, I can’t go with you. I have work.”

“You can take some time off. You’ve said yourself Miller isn’t giving you the choice assignments, anyway.” He worriedly shook his head. “I just don’t feel right leaving you here, not with everything going on. I’ve seen the squad cars driving by on the street. I think having Justin and me downstairs gives you some security. Penney on the top floor is never home—you’ll be here all by yourself.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He looked at her doubtfully, then sighed. “You do seem to have Agent Macfarlane at your disposal.”

Will paused as if she might have something to tell him. He’d probably seen Eric’s car parked outside overnight. But the truth was, Mia wondered if Eric would ever be inside her home again. If the memory-retrieval sessions were truly over, it was possible whatever was between them had come to an end, too. The therapy had made it necessary for them to spend time together. With that gone—and with the recent tension over the profile on him in the Courier—there was a very real possibility this morning had been the culmination of what they’d shared.

“You all right, sweetheart?” Will asked.

“I’m just worried about Justin’s mother, that’s all.”

He stayed long enough to finish his wine, and then Mia walked him to the door. Part of her wanted to cry on his shoulder. Will was her friend and confidant—he’d always been there for her. But he seemed overwhelmed by his current situation and she didn’t want to add to his burden with her own problems.

She hugged him goodbye and wished him a safe trip.

Closing the door and reactivating the security system, she stared up at the vintage iron chandelier that hung in the foyer. Mia dimmed its glow but didn’t turn it off—she’d been keeping the lights on all night lately. She and Will had gotten the fixture at a junk shop downtown, the store’s owner claiming it had been salvaged from one of the famous old bordellos on Ward Street. Regardless, it reminded her of their friendship and better times.

Returning to the living room, Mia picked up their wineglasses. She took them into the kitchen and washed the crystal stems by hand. As she dried the second one, however, she felt an inexplicable tingle at her nape. Someone walking over her grave, as the old saying went. She turned. Her breath left her lungs, the wineglass shattering on the tile at her feet.

The Collector held a knife gripped in his fist. Mia let out a choked cry. She tried to scramble away, but her fear-clumsy legs crumpled beneath her.

And then he was gone.

It took several moments to realize it had only been a vision. Another memory flash like outside the foster care home that day. Still, she couldn’t stop the frantic thudding of her heart. Her shin was bleeding—she’d cut herself on the broken glass.

Picking herself up from the floor, tears of frustration welled in her eyes. But she wouldn’t call Eric. Her pride and independence wouldn’t allow her to.

She had to handle this alone.