Читать книгу Edge of Midnight - Leslie Tentler, Leslie Tentler - Страница 10

3

For the first time in days, Mia felt somewhat at ease. Will had been right—the trip out had done her a world of good. Returning home, she sat in the passenger side of his Porsche convertible, feeling the warm breeze whipping her new, shorter hair. It was a blunt cut, just off her shoulders and about eight inches shorter than her usual style.

“A good haircut is better than Xanax,” Will proclaimed, briefly studying her through the dark tint of his sunglasses as he drove.

“Thanks for lunch…and for everything else.”

He shrugged. “I’m just using you to assist in my procrastination.”

“The new book?”

“I missed my deadline. Again.” He smiled, his dimples deepening. He and Justin had kept Mia entertained at lunch with their hilarious and at times ribald stories, and afterward the three of them had strolled along the scenic Riverwalk among the tourists and joggers until Justin had to leave for a meeting. It had been a distraction technique, she knew, but she deeply appreciated the effort.

“What happened to you this week, Mia…a lot of people wouldn’t be able to get past it.” He sounded serious for the first time since they’d headed out.

She sighed. “I just need things to get back to normal, that’s all.”

“What you need is a break from what you consider normal—writing about people inflicting violence on one another.” He shook his head, his fingers loosely gripping the steering wheel. “Why don’t you take some time off from all that? And I mean more than a few days—a real sabbatical. You’ve got Grayson Miller wrapped around your finger. He’d break his neck giving it to you, and with a paycheck, probably. I don’t care what kind of shape the newspaper industry’s in.”

When Mia looked at him, he added, “You do know he’s in love with you, right?”

She watched the scenery pass by, not wanting to think about Grayson in that way.

They entered San Marco Square with its endless supply of art galleries and cafés. Everywhere, people were milling about on the narrow, tree-shaded sidewalks. Traveling past the renowned giant statue of the three lions at the square’s main intersection, they took a right and headed onto one of the side streets. San Marco was a diverse community, with multifamily apartment buildings and quaint, two-bedroom bungalows interspersed with enormous riverside mansions. Will and Justin had renovated a large, Tuscan-style manor on Alhambra Avenue accented by a terra-cotta, barrel-tile roof and graceful stucco staircases on the exterior. The former single-family residence now consisted of separate units on the main, second and third floors. Mia rented the midlevel unit and there was another tenant on top.

Parking in front of the building, they had just climbed from the convertible when a dark sedan pulled into the circular driveway behind them. A man in suit pants, a dress shirt and tie emerged. He was tall, even-featured and clean cut, somewhere in his mid-thirties, and Mia immediately summed him up as law enforcement. Her impression of him was confirmed when she saw the gun holstered at his waist.

Walking toward them, he presented his shield. “Ms. Hale?”

She felt a lump form in her throat. “Yes?”

“I’m Special Agent Eric Macfarlane. I’m with the FBI.”

Self-consciously, she smoothed her windblown hair, her instincts speaking to her. “You’re part of the VCU the paper mentioned this morning.”

“Yes, ma’am.” As he neared, he removed his sunglasses. His eyes were an unusual, moss-green color and reflected intelligence. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

The ease she’d felt during the afternoon began to ebb. With a faint nod, she made the necessary introduction. “Agent Macfarlane, this is Will Dvorak, my neighbor and landlord.”

“And friend,” he emphasized, a measure of protection in his voice. The men shook hands.

“Will Dvorak? The writer?”

“I’m surprised, Agent.” Will was often recognized for his humorous and sometimes poignant essays on his awkward childhood and adolescence. His last book had been on the bestseller lists. “I wouldn’t peg you for the type who’d read me. You’re a little too butch.”

Agent Macfarlane revealed straight, white teeth and a perfect smile. “My reading list is pretty diverse.”

After another few moments of small talk, Will seemed satisfied she was in good hands. “Well, I’ve put it off long enough. I’m going inside to face the last twenty pages of my draft. Mia, sweetheart, if you need anything…”

“Thanks, Will.” She waited as he retreated through the courtyard to his apartment on the ground level before returning her attention to Agent Macfarlane. “I’ve already spoken with one of the local agents, as well as detectives from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. I’m afraid there’s not a lot more I can tell you.”

“I’ve been briefed on the situation. And I’m aware of your memory loss.” His eyes fell briefly to her bandaged fingers. “How are you, Ms. Hale?”

“I’m…fine.”

His gaze was discerning. “You’re a very lucky young woman.”

“Compared to the other two women who were abducted, I would agree,” she answered somberly, feeling a trickle of perspiration at her nape. It was a hot afternoon, especially for so early in the season. “We can go up to my apartment and talk in the air-conditioning, if you’d like.”

He followed her upstairs. Mia wore cropped cargo pants and a bare tank top, her outfit exceedingly casual compared to his businesslike attire. Unlocking the door to her apartment and disarming the security system, she dropped her keys and purse on a table in the foyer as he closed the door behind them. “Could I get you something to drink?”

“Water would be nice. Thank you.”

From the kitchen, Mia could see him in the living room. He stood with his hands on his lean hips, looking around at her furnishings and the expanse of green park that was visible from the balcony.

“You have a nice place, Ms. Hale,” he said as she approached and handed him the glass, ice cubes tinkling inside it.

“Please, call me Mia. And it’s a fringe benefit of attending college with the building’s owner. Will and his partner, Justin, rent to me for a steal.”

“You and Mr. Dvorak are both writers—that’s interesting.”

“We met at the University of Florida, but Will ended up going the more creative route.” Indoors, Agent Macfarlane’s eyes were even more striking than she’d first realized, the mossy irises rimmed in black and accentuated by thick, sable lashes. His skin was golden-toned, his short brown hair nearly light enough to be considered dark blond. She indicated the couch.

“Please have a seat.” Once he’d done so, she settled onto a nearby side chair.

He took a sip from the glass, then sat it on a coaster on the cocktail table in front of him. “I understand you’d been covering the recent abductions.”

The irony of it washed through her all over again. Mia worked to keep emotion from her voice.

“I wrote two articles. One ran after Pauline Berger’s disappearance a week ago. The second one ran right after Cissy Cox went missing. It was the same day that I…” She paused, twisting her hands together and placing them in her lap before completing her statement. “That I went missing, too.”

“And your second article speculated on a connection between the disappearances?”

When she nodded, he asked, “Based on what?”

“Well, for starters, both women had family and friends, they led normal lives. They weren’t engaged in any at-risk behavior such as prostitution or drug use, nor did they have any history of mental illness or previous unexplained disappearances.” Mia looked briefly at her bandaged fingers. “Detective Scofield at the JSO also indicated that neither of the women’s significant others were being considered as suspects. Two women like that, in the same metro area…they don’t just simply vanish in isolated incidents so closely together.”

His evaluating gaze remained steadfast. “And you have no idea how you ended up in a stolen vehicle?”

She shook her head, wishing she had the answer. “No. I woke up inside it next to the beach. That’s all I know.”

“The car was hot-wired. Do you think you could’ve done that?”

Her lips parted slightly, the unexpected question catching her off guard. She chose not to answer and instead stood and slowly paced the room before turning to face him again.

“You asked me how I am, Agent Macfarlane. The truth is…I’m having a hard time. I’m not used to being on the other side of all this. The one being asked questions.” She swallowed. “I also don’t understand why I’m the one standing here talking to you while those two other women…they’re still…”

Mia briefly closed her eyes, her words trailing away. She was vaguely aware that he’d gotten up from the couch and moved to where she stood.

“Ms. Hale,” he said quietly.

“Mia,” she corrected in a soft whisper. Looking up into his face, she felt her heart beat harder. “Who did this?”

He released a breath, hesitating. “You need to understand that you’re not just a victim. You’re also a reporter. I have to factor that in.”

“Off the record,” she emphasized. “You have my word I won’t write anything to jeopardize your investigation. I’m not even working at the moment. And as a victim I have a right to know, don’t I? Agent Vartran, the detectives—they wouldn’t tell me anything.”

He looked at her for a long moment before speaking again. “I was over an investigation in Maryland three years ago. Five women were abducted. Their bodies turned up later with similar injuries as yours.”

Their bodies. Meaning the women had all been murdered. “And did you catch the person responsible?”

His jaw tightened. “No.”

“But you believe he’s resurfaced here in Jacksonville, after all this time?”

“Based on the specifics of your injuries, it seems possible.” He surprised her by lifting her hand and cradling it within his own as he studied the bandaged nail beds, her abraded wrists. Then he let her fingers slide from his and met her gaze again.

“I haven’t read your articles on the abductions yet. I’m wondering, does your photo run with the byline?”

She shook her head. “But I do a column on Fridays. It’s a police blotter roundup. My photo runs with that one. What does that—”

“If this is the same unsub, he’s a sociopath and an extreme narcissist. You’re an attractive female—he was probably flattered someone like you noticed his work. It could explain why he took you.”

Mia thought of some faceless criminal circling her photo in the newspaper with a red pen. Stapling it to his bulletin board where he memorialized his victims. It sickened her. “The wounds to my hand and my stomach—he cut off my hair. Why?”

His gaze traveled to an impressionist painting over her couch, his expression making it clear he was still struggling with how much to tell her.

“I work a crime beat,” she reminded him. “I can handle it.”

“He pulled out your fingernails and cut off your hair as mementos,” he said finally. “He considers himself a collector, but he can’t keep his victims’ bodies since they’ll decompose. So he takes souvenirs that will last longer. Fingernails, hair, sometimes teeth, among other things.”

Ice water moved through Mia’s veins. Absently, she touched her abdomen through her top. He must have noticed the gesture, because he added quietly, “He also numbers his victims as a way to dehumanize them. He thrives on order and organization, as well as control.”

She did the math, adding herself and the two missing women here to the five victims murdered previously in another state. The marking on her skin now made sense.

“Pauline Berger and Cissy Cox are already dead, aren’t they?”

“We have no proof of that yet. There are no bodies. And for now what I’ve told you is speculation based solely on your wounds. Three years is a long time for a killer to stop, then start up again,” he conceded. “We don’t want any of this getting out unnecessarily or too early. I’ve already told you more than I should. My dealings with reporters haven’t always been a positive experience.”

Mia was aware of the delicate dance between the news media and law enforcement, and she’d always tried to conduct herself in an ethical manner. She touched his arm through his shirtsleeve. Her voice held a tremor despite her best effort. “I want this man caught, Agent Macfarlane. And I want…I need…to help those two women. I need to help them get back home if they’re still alive, or at least bring some peace to their families if they’re…not. That’s the most important thing to me right now.”

His shoulders were broad, and Mia could ascertain the fit, hard build of him under his dress shirt. He studied her for several long moments before speaking.

“What if you could regain some of your memory?” he asked.

She blinked. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“There’s some experimental, highly classified work being done that I’ve recently been made aware of.” His words were speculative and careful. “It’s a combination of drug therapy and hypnosis, but it’s shown some usefulness in retrieving lost memories.”

A small stone lodged inside Mia’s chest. “How experimental, exactly?”

“The military has been using it with severely injured prisoners of war to help them recall certain key facts about their captivity, even when they were barely conscious for most of their ordeal. The theory is that the mind can register events—faces, voices, surroundings—even in an unconscious or altered state.”

“Does it work?”

“The results so far have been mixed,” he admitted. “And to my knowledge it hasn’t been applied to drug-induced amnesia. But one of the pioneers is a practicing psychiatrist at the Jacksonville Naval Air Station. I have access to him.”

She tried to process what she was being told. It sounded like something out of a sci-fi movie. “Are there risks?”

“If Dr. Wilhelm believes you’re a candidate, he can discuss the risks with you. With both of us.” He took a step closer. Although they were alone inside the apartment, his voice lowered. “If you decided to do it, I would be there with you, Mia. I’d want to hear any details you might be able to recall firsthand. My understanding is that when the therapy works, the memories can be vivid.”

She felt the stone inside her chest grow a little larger.

“I—I’d like to think about it.”

He nodded. “Of course.”

Reaching into his shirt pocket, he handed her his business card. “Thank you for your time.”

Mia accompanied him to the door. One hand on its knob, he turned again to face her. “You asked me earlier why you were here talking with me, while the other two women were still missing.” He raised his shoulders in a faint shrug. “The reality is, I don’t know. Maybe you were smarter or braver, or maybe he just got careless with you. But you got away. Those women didn’t.”

His eyes held a depth of emotion that surprised her. It was a step outside the cool, professional demeanor he’d exhibited so far. Once he had left and closed the door behind him, Mia continued standing in the foyer. She crossed her arms over her chest, the air-conditioning suddenly putting too much of a chill upon her skin. Mia still felt Eric Macfarlane’s presence. What he had suggested was nothing she would have thought possible.

The memories can be vivid.