Edge of Midnight

27



“Thanks for letting me know.”

Downbeat, Eric ended the call with the Bureau’s fingerprint specialist. Steering the car, he closed his cell phone. Parts from the stolen Audi recovered earlier that week had turned up prints, but none was a match in the FBI’s biometric database other than those of the chop shop operators. Which meant that The Collector—if his prints were among those on the parts—had no prior arrest record, eliminating any chance of identifying him that way.

He traveled over the Main Street Bridge, its neon-blue lights and the glittering nighttime cityscape reflecting onto the dark waters below. Eric had been south of Jacksonville looking into a lead in the rural Bayard community. It hadn’t panned out. On his return into the city, he had driven past San Marco. For several minutes, he’d considered turning into Mia’s neighborhood, but he had been deliberately putting some space between them.

You and Ms. Hale have gotten pretty close.

Cameron’s observation echoed in his head. He had been a widower for nearly three years. It was natural to desire physical companionship. But Mia was more to him than that, and that was what was dangerous. Above all else, he was here seeking a killer. A woman, very possibly still alive, was missing. His rational self told him he couldn’t afford distractions or further emotional entanglement in the investigation.

Eric sighed. He shouldn’t have kissed Mia, shouldn’t have slept with her. But that didn’t stop him from wanting her right now.

Seeking a diversion from his thoughts, he used his cell to call Cameron, wanting to update him on the dead end with the prints. He got his voice mail, however. Eric was in the midst of leaving a message when another call beeped through. The screen read JSO Dispatch. He switched over and answered. A male operator’s voice reached him through the airwaves.

“Detective Boyet asked me to alert you, Agent. An emergency call came through about ten minutes ago. The location is a residence at 1211 Alhambra Avenue.”

At the address, Eric’s blood ran cold. San Marco was only a few miles back but he was still on the bridge, headed the opposite way. “What was the nature of the call?”

“Report of a dead body. First responders are on the scene.”

His heart dropped.

“Male or female?”

“Sorry, Agent. That’s all I know.”

Please don’t let it be her. Traffic on the four-lane bridge traveled in two directions. He had to get back there. Disconnecting the call, Eric made a sharp U-turn, his tires screeching as he left the northbound lane and cut across the median into traffic. Cars heading south swerved and honked. Panic bearing down on him, he punched the car’s accelerator to the floorboard, zigzagging between vehicles. He tried calling Mia’s cell phone. No answer.

He said a fervent prayer to a God he hadn’t talked to in years.

Eric’s mouth had gone dry. He passed a hand over his eyes and told himself it could be someone else—others lived there. But Mia was the one who’d recently escaped a killer. She was the one with a possible connection to him that went back to her childhood. He berated himself for not trying harder to set up some kind of formal protection, not pushing something through despite Mia’s resistance and the refusal from the local Bureau head.

He couldn’t lose her like this, too.

As he drove, Eric forced himself to think past the choking fear. The unsub would have taken her, wouldn’t he? He would have wanted time alone with her. Killing her at the scene wasn’t his M.O.

Unless something had gone horribly wrong.

The car careened through traffic as it sped through San Marco Square.

Reaching the residential street, the sight in front of him gutted his insides. Lights from a half-dozen squad cars and an ambulance stained the black sky. Eric stopped his sedan in front of the building and got out, leaving the door open. Pushing through a gaggle of neighbors being contained at the edge of the scene, he flashed his shield at the deputies in charge.

More officers were milling about in the driveway, but the courtyard had been cordoned off with crime scene tape. A body lay on the ground, blocked almost entirely from view by a man and woman. Although they weren’t facing him, he could tell it was Boyet and Scofield.

Eric moved forward, his knees weak. He could see only the body’s lower limbs. Shapely calves and slender, delicate ankles, legs splayed out on the concrete. Female. God, no. He couldn’t breathe. Boyet turned and began walking toward him, his broad shoulders and girth further obstructing his line of sight. “Macfarlane—”

Eric kept going, shrugging free of the man’s hold on his shoulder.

“It’s not her,” the detective called.

He stared at the dead woman, at the mass of curly, blood-soaked hair and pale skin. Eric felt dizzy with relief. He briefly closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together.

“Who is she?” he managed to ask, voice hoarse.

“Third-floor tenant. Her name’s Penney Niemen.” Scofield was dressed casually, in jeans and a Florida State University T-shirt. She wore her shield on a chain around her neck. “At first glance it looks like a fall down the stairs. Skull’s split open, pretty badly, based on the blood and brain matter. We’re waiting on the M.E. to roll her to get a better look.”

“Where’s Mia?”

“She’s here—she made the 9-1-1 call. She came home tonight and found her.” Boyet indicated the corpse. “Between this and Ms. Hale’s abduction, I’m thinking this isn’t the luckiest building to live in.”

He looked around the confusion, searching for her. His gaze fell on a squad car at the far end of the property. It was parked on the opposite side of the driveway under the gnarled limbs of the live oak. The light bar on the vehicle’s roof was flashing, its rear door open. A shadowed form was in the backseat. Eric worked his way through the horde of deputies as a van from the medical examiner’s office rolled to a stop in front of the building.

Seeing him, Mia climbed out and ran barefoot into his arms with a sob. Her blue cocktail dress was stained with blood. Eric held her, letting her cry against his chest. The feel of her trembling against him was nearly his undoing.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

“Penney’s dead. I—I came home and she was lying there…” Her voice was muffled. “This was my fault. He was here for me.”

He hushed her, holding her more tightly. The moss-draped tree branches shielded them somewhat, but at the moment he didn’t care if they were witnessed. Nothing mattered except that she was alive.

“Agent Macfarlane? We’ve got something.” A forensics tech motioned Eric to an ornamental concrete planter that ran parallel to the base of the stairs. Walking over, he peered into the dense foliage. A hypodermic syringe sat in the dirt.

“Get a photo of that and bag it,” he instructed. It appeared the syringe had been lost in some kind of struggle on the upper level, dropping into the plants below.

“The barrel’s still full,” the tech noted. “He never got a chance to inject her.”

Boyet came down the staircase, one latex-gloved hand on its wrought-iron railing. “Ms. Niemen must’ve stopped on the second-floor landing to deliver a package to Ms. Hale. It’s still up there along with her purse—a box from that vegetarian place in San Marco Square.”

“The deceased was the head chef,” Eric said, recounting what Mia had told him. He’d already been upstairs once to survey the scene. One of Penney Niemen’s shoes had also been left on the top step. “She’d probably just gotten off work for the night.”

Boyet scratched his cheek. “There’s an area under the stairs that would make a perfect hiding place. I bet the perp was waiting up there.”

Eric still felt shaken. If the upstairs tenant hadn’t arrived first, Mia would be dead or vanished, instead of upstairs in her apartment with Detective Scofield. He looked to the victim, although she had since been placed inside a body bag. The concrete was still a mess, however. Darkened blood and gore remained.

“You think she was pushed, or she fell trying to get away?” Boyet asked. He’d been elsewhere when Eric had spoken with the M.E. called out to the scene.

“Either way, the examiner believes the damage to the skull wasn’t caused by the fall alone,” he said. The skull had been shattered, the damage diffuse and indicating more than one strike. “The blood spatter analyst concurs with the assessment.”

Boyet frowned. “Where’s Agent Vartran?”

“I’ve been in touch with him by phone. His wife’s pregnant, they had a Lamaze class tonight. I told him I’d cover things here.”

Boyet left to give instructions to the deputies, who were still keeping out the neighbors as well as the news teams now at the scene. As Eric again scanned the crowd of bystanders looking for a match to their sketch, he glimpsed Walt Rudner’s jowly face. He was conversing with one of the deputies, trying to glean details. The task force hadn’t yet released the dead woman’s identity, and Eric wondered if Rudner was more interested in getting the story or finding out if his coworker was the one inside the body bag. Knowing what he did about the reporter, he suspected he knew which one.

Turning, he carefully sidestepped the blood at the stairs’ bottom and went up to Mia’s apartment. Lights glowed from its interior, the door wide-open.

He entered, his dress shoes sounding on the wood foyer that opened into the living area. Detective Scofield stood in the room with her arms crossed over her chest. She appeared out of place in Mia’s feminine surroundings.

“Ms. Hale is down the hall, speaking with the building’s owner by phone. He’s in Chicago on a family emergency,” she said. “He’s willing to fly back into town if needed.”

Eric nodded. “How’s she doing?”

“She’s a mess, understandably. First, this psycho kidnaps her and she manages to escape him, then she finds out he came back looking for her tonight and killed one of her friends instead.”

“I’m going to talk to her,” Eric said.

“I’ll go back down, then.”

He stopped in the bedroom doorway. Mia had changed clothes. The bloodied, ruined cocktail dress lay crumpled at the foot of the bed. She now wore cropped jeans and a soft, scoop-necked summer sweater. When she realized his presence, Mia brought the call to a close.

“Agent Macfarlane’s here, Will,” she murmured. “I have to go.”

She disconnected the phone, her eyes red. “Is she still down there?”

“The M.E.’s office will be moving her soon.” He took a step closer, touching her. “Can you pack a bag? You can’t stay here tonight.”

She didn’t argue. Eric held her gaze. “This changes everything, Mia. He’s made a direct attempt to kidnap you again. You need to be under protection.”

“So it definitely wasn’t an accident.”

“It’s unlikely, based on the damage to the skull. We also found a syringe in the courtyard.”

Anguish flashed on her features. The scene below was gruesome, and he could only imagine her stumbling over the body by surprise. Being alone with it while she waited for help to arrive. It occurred to him she hadn’t called him, hadn’t sought out his help.

“Take me to a hotel, all right? I don’t want to be any trouble to you—”

“Mia,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch.”

She looked up at him. Her pretty features were without accusation. “You don’t trust me anymore. After the profile piece, I don’t blame you.”

Unable to help himself, Eric touched her cheek. His chest hurt as he realized how close he’d come to losing her. Keeping his distance seemed unimportant now.

“I trust you,” he murmured.

Tears built again in her eyes.

“I can’t leave…not until they take Penney away.” She shook her head, her voice breaking. “I can’t see her like that again, knowing I caused this.”