Edge of Midnight

33



“If the Bureau doesn’t work out, you might have a future in television,” Eric quipped to the rookie agent who’d posed as a reporter during the news conference—a way to make sure the right question was asked at the right time. He went past her, heading toward the elevator bay as journalists continued filing from the building’s lobby.

“Do you think he saw it?” Cameron asked as he caught up to him in the corridor.

“If I know this guy, he continually scans the media for any mention of himself.”

“Well, if you wanted to piss him off, calling him an ‘asexual underachiever’ in front of the entire city should do it.”

Arriving at the elevator, Eric pushed the up button. Normally, psychological profiles remained internal to the team. But if the unsub could maintain his current state of anger, he might continue to take flagrant risks and make a mistake that would get him caught. Goaded or not, Eric felt certain he would attempt to take another woman soon. With the frustration of the foiled abduction, he wouldn’t be able to go for long with no one in captivity.

“We’re putting extra men on surveillance in Ms. Hale’s neighborhood tonight,” Cameron said as the elevator doors slid open and they entered. “Just in case your press conference got him riled up enough to try to visit her again.”

Eric checked his wristwatch. Mia would be back at the bungalow soon and under the watch of two armed deputies. If anything did go down in San Marco tonight, at least she wouldn’t be there. He’d been second-guessing himself about allowing her to go into work, but he figured it was better than her pacing a hole in the beach house’s floor. She’d left him a voice mail earlier, unhappy about his call to Grayson Miller, which she had asked him not to do. He would deal with the consequences of that later. Eric had wanted to be sure Miller understood the situation and didn’t send her out to cover a story. Keeping her alive was more important than keeping her job.

“What about the security camera on the building next to the tire store?” he asked as they entered Cameron’s office.

“I had Hatcher go through the footage from the dry cleaners. The camera angle is off. The perp drove in through the side entrance, not through the parking lot. We’ve got a shadow entering at just past midnight, but you can’t get a make on the vehicle. It’s out of range. With our unsub, it might’ve been stolen, anyway.” Cameron went to his desk and sat in front of his computer. “We did get the employee paperwork from the temp agency a little while ago. It came through while you were preparing for the press conference.”

“Any red flags?”

“I’ll print it out for you. As I suspected, the agency’s records are sloppy. The guy basically emailed digital images of approved job applications for anyone they sent out for small electronics repair over the last several years. He’s unsure which workers were used to service the security firm’s clients, though—he says that information was part of the computer files they recently lost.”

Which meant there would be a larger number of workers to look at, Eric thought. “Did they do background checks?”

Cameron gave a sardonic grunt as the printer in the corner of the room rumbled to life. “His idea of security clearance is asking applicants to check a box if they’ve ever been convicted of a felony.”

Eric went to the printer and began leafing through the pages being pushed out.

“I already ran through them on-screen. No one has previous work history for companies in Bethesda or the surrounding areas. At least no one claimed to. But it might be worth the time to cross-reference the names with the Maryland and Virginia DMVs. See if anyone ever had a driver’s license up there.” Cameron glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly six. They’re closed now but I can do it first thing in the morning.”

“You should get going,” Eric said. He took the printed sheets and put them in his briefcase. “Don’t you and Lanie have an appointment?”

“Yeah, and traffic’s hell getting back to St. Augustine this time of day.” Heading to the door, he retrieved his suit jacket that hung from a peg on its back. Sliding into it, he said, “What about you?”

“The hotline’s been lit up like a pinball machine. Every other civilian in the metro area thinks they’ve seen the unsub now that we’ve recirculated the sketch.” False sightings were common whenever the media put out a photo or artist rendering of a suspect, even when it had been shown before. “I’m going to stick around and see if any of the calls are worth looking into.”

“We’ve got field agents for that.”

Eric gave a faint nod. “I know.”

“Hey.” Cameron hesitated, serious. He stood just outside the office’s threshold. “Start watching your back, Eric, all right? You don’t know how this guy’s going to react to what you said about him today.”

Cam was a good friend—they’d been close during their years at the Bureau. It felt like decades ago and yesterday all at the same time.

“Go drive your wife to Lamaze class.”

Once he was gone, Eric moved to the window. Looking out over the building’s plaza, he released a breath, feeling the stress he carried in his shoulders. At the parking lot’s perimeter, a line of tall palm trees swayed in the early-evening breeze. Cars exited onto the main road, workers heading home to families and loved ones. It was unsettling to know this lunatic was out there among them. Waiting for another chance to strike.

Walt Rudner’s question about his personal ties to the investigation had been harder to answer on camera than he’d expected. Maybe it was having his emotional laundry aired in a public forum, but it had hit Eric like a fist, reminding him all over again how much he wanted justice for Rebecca’s murder. How responsible he still felt for her death.

He thought of Mia. He wouldn’t let someone else he cared about end up like that.

It had been a long and frustrating Monday. Mia sat in the backseat of the squad car as it pulled discreetly from the newspaper’s parking garage, heading in the direction of the Fuller Warren Bridge.

The sun had begun to settle over the St. Johns, and she caught glimpses of its dappled waters as the vehicle traveled along Riverside Avenue, heading past Memorial Park with its massive live oaks and the renowned bronze sculpture that served as its focal point. Inside the park, people on blankets and folding chairs dotted the expanse of green lawn. Musicians were setting up for an outdoor evening concert. Mia longed for the time when she could have attended such an event freely, without concern for her safety or the need to be escorted by armed deputies. She’d taken her former world for granted.

If you believe you’ve seen the man in this sketch, or know his whereabouts, I urge you to call the task force hotline…

Eric’s request at the press conference that afternoon had been so earnest. He’d appeared tired, and she realized there were limits to endurance, even for someone as strong and capable as him. She closed her eyes, trying to diffuse the image of The Collector that was still inside her head.

In the front seat, the two deputies had been engaged in enthusiastic conversation about Florida pro football teams, but the one in the passenger-side seat turned to her. He had a square, chiseled face and blond hair in a bristled crew cut.

“It’s a no-go on the grocery store detour, Ms. Hale,” he said, sounding apologetic. “Agent Macfarlane doesn’t want you out, not even with us. Once we get you back to the beach house, you can make a list and we’ll send someone to pick up whatever you need.”

Mia nodded, unsurprised. “Did Agent Macfarlane say when he might be back tonight to take over?”

“No, ma’am. I figure he’s going to be tied up for a while—the press conference today and the appeal made to the public probably brought out all the crazies.”

Feeling a wave of anxiety, she wondered about the likelihood of a particular crazy being among them.

The squad car traveled onto the traffic-congested bridge. Mia stared out over the water. She’d made this trip back and forth to the downtown for years. When they reached the other side, however, she knew there would be a deviation. They’d be taking a different path—not into San Marco but heading east on Beach Boulevard until they reached the Atlantic Ocean. She’d be tucked away in a weathered beach house not unlike the hundreds of others nestled near the shore. With a sigh of resignation, she rested her head on the back of the seat. In the front, the two deputies had lapsed back into their trash talk, one-upping each other with increasingly disparaging comments about the athletic prowess of the Jacksonville Jaguars and Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

Neither noticed the dented black van that remained several cars back on the congested road. The one that had been lagging behind them since leaving the newspaper’s parking garage.

When the squad car turned onto the dead-end street leading to the bungalow, the van continued on its path on the A1A, heading southward along the coast.