Читать книгу Edge of Midnight - Leslie Tentler, Leslie Tentler - Страница 9

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The Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office was a combined city and county agency that handled law enforcement in both Jacksonville and the greater Duval County. Eric sat in the JSO conference room on East Bay Street with Cameron and the two detectives who had initially been assigned to the missing-person cases. Detective Boyet was heavyset and balding, while his partner, Detective Scofield, was a blonde, athletic-looking woman in her mid-forties.

“There was more than one blood type in the Acura,” Eric noted as he scanned the forensics report on the car Mia Hale had crashed.

Boyet nodded, his chair squeaking as he shifted his weight. “The blood type on the steering wheel and air bag are a match to Ms. Hale, as are the fingerprints found inside the vehicle. But the larger smears on the front seat are the same blood type as Cissy Cox, our second missing person. Although DNA testing isn’t completed yet, Ms. Cox is O negative. That’s a rare blood type—only about five percent of the population. Its presence makes it likely she was also in the car at some point.”

“Or, the smears were a transfer from Ms. Hale’s hands.” Seeing the detective’s puzzled expression, Eric explained further. “She could’ve come into contact with the second abductee’s blood at the location where she was held. It’s possible she had it on her when she escaped and wiped her hands on the seat before driving away.”

Cameron rose from the table, and he leaned his tall, athletic frame against the wall near a plate-glass window overlooking a line of palm trees. “Speaking of, how did she drive away? The car was stolen—were the keys inside it?”

“It was hot-wired,” Boyet supplied. “Whether she did it herself or the perp did it, Ms. Hale knew at least enough to twist the wires together properly to get the ignition started. I’d say that’s an interesting skill for a journalist. Especially one blitzed out on roofies.”

“Any other prints inside the car?” Eric asked.

“Just hers.”

Detective Scofield spoke. “We’ve had a few dealings with Ms. Hale as a reporter, including the recent disappearances. She’s young, but she’s smart. She was pretty shook up when we spoke to her at the hospital, which is to be expected. It will be interesting to see how she handles all this.”

Photos of the first two missing women, as well as several Polaroids of Mia Hale that were taken during the E.R. examination, lay on the table. Eric studied the closest one, which focused on her face and revealed a faint bruise on her right jaw. She was pretty, he noticed, with a pale olive complexion, dark hair and doelike brown eyes that in the snapshot were glazed with a combination of drugs, confusion and fear. He felt a hard tug of sympathy. His gaze moved to the two other E.R. photos, which displayed the injuries to her abdomen and hand. The interconnecting loops of the number eight were visible on her flat, tanned stomach.

“What kind of twisted bastard does something like that?” Boyet indicated the third Polaroid. Open, raw wounds existed where two of her fingernails should have been. “The E.R. doc said her nails were probably pulled out using pliers or some other tool.”

“Her injuries are consistent with the signature,” Eric said.

Scofield gave a shiver of revulsion. “She’s probably glad she doesn’t have any memory of what happened to her. I know I’d be.”

Eric tried not to think of Rebecca, what she’d gone through. “Are there any similarities or connections between the abducted women? The same socioeconomic status, or maybe they had similar jobs, took the same yoga class or shopped at the same grocery store?”

Cameron pushed off from the wall and began pacing the room. “From a victimology perspective, we haven’t been able to find anything so far. Cissy Cox works at a retail job at the River City Marketplace. Pauline Berger is a stay-at-home mom with a McMansion in Ponte Vedra Beach and a country club membership. Mia Hale lives in the artsy San Marco community, and as you know, works for the Courier. Those are pretty diverse locations and lifestyles.”

“Not to mention, the victims are all over the map, physically.” Scofield pointed to photos of all three women, tapping each with the tip of her ballpoint pen. “A curvy redhead, a tall, Nordic-looking blonde and a petite brunette who’s possibly of mixed Latino or Spanish descent. If you really think this could be a serial killer at work, don’t they have a preferred type?”

“Some do,” Eric acknowledged. “But if this is a resurgence of a past unsub, as I suspect, his tastes are diverse, intentionally so.”

She tilted her head. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“He’s indicated that he likes taking a variety of women. He refers to them as his ‘collection.’”

Scofield blinked. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“He sent digital recordings to the VCU during the previous investigation, although it was likely his voice was altered.” Eric recalled the audios that had been delivered one by one after each woman had gone missing. Even though he didn’t look at Cameron, he felt the weight of his gaze. “The recordings were of his victims being tortured and killed.”

“The VCU deals with some pretty sick shit.” Boyet picked up another of the photos. “What’s the story with the carving?”

“He numbered his victims. There were five women abducted and killed in Maryland before he vanished three years ago. If this is the same guy, your two missing women could be numbers six and seven—”

“Making Mia Hale victim number eight,” Scofield uttered in realization. “Or that was the plan before she got away.”

“Technically, this is still a missing-persons case until a body turns up.” Boyet’s expression was grim. “But if you’re right about the abductor’s identity, Agent Macfarlane, it’s not good. We’re heading into the beach tourist season—Jacksonville doesn’t need a serial killer on the loose.”

“What were you getting at with the second blood type in the car being a transfer?” Cameron asked as he and Eric traveled through the busy JSO lobby a short time later. Although it was still April, heat hit them in a muggy wave as they pushed through glass doors that led to the building’s plaza, then headed west toward the multilevel garage where they had both parked.

“During the Maryland investigation we were able to pick up sounds of two women at once on the recordings.” Eric loosened his tie as he walked. “The first woman—the one being intentionally recorded—was in the foreground. But the AV techs also isolated the sound of a second female in the background on each audio, although the voice was muffled, probably due to a gag.”

Cameron stopped, halting Eric, as well. “Meaning what, exactly?”

He looked out across the water. Jacksonville was known as The River City, and an expanse of the St. Johns that ran through the heart of the downtown was visible from where they stood. He worked to lay out the theory as impassively as possible. “It’s believed the unsub kept two women captive at once. He’d make the newer abductee watch as he killed the woman he’d taken earlier, as a show of power. Then when he brought another woman in, it would be that abductee’s turn to die.”

“Like a revolving door,” Cameron said bleakly. “So you think both women are already dead—that Cissy Cox watched Pauline Berger die, and in turn Mia Hale witnessed Cissy Cox’s execution before she escaped? That’s why she had Ms. Cox’s blood on her?”

Eric thought of the families still holding out hope their loved ones might return home. “Yeah, that’s what I think.”

Cameron’s eyes darkened. He started to say something, but the electronic buzz of his cell phone interrupted him. He looked at the device. “It’s Lanie. I need to take this.”

He stepped a few feet away, talking to his wife about an obstetric appointment. When he closed the phone a minute later, he said, “Lanie says to tell you hello. And that she’s expecting you for dinner tomorrow night. We’d do it tonight but it’s her dad’s sixtieth birthday.”

Eric nodded his understanding. “You’ve got a doctor’s appointment?”

“It’s a routine sonogram. The office called and asked if we could come in early. At four.”

“Go,” he said, glancing at his wristwatch. It was nearly three already. “Lanie needs you. I can handle some things on my own. For starters, I’m going to San Marco to see if I can speak with Ms. Hale today.”

“We can schedule a formal meeting with her tomorrow, after we meet with the rest of the team. Why don’t you get settled in at the rental?”

“I don’t want to wait.”

Cameron took out one of his business cards from the Florida Bureau, upon which Mia Hale’s address and phone number were written. He handed it to Eric.

“The recordings…” He sounded uncertain, as if he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know the answer. “Did you receive one of Rebecca?”

Eric fished in his pocket for his car keys. He thought of the days and weeks he’d waited, both dreading and needing to hear her voice a final time. He didn’t look at Cameron as he answered.

“It was the only one that never came.”

Allan Levi entered the fastidiously neat ranch house.

“Mother? I’m home,” he called, closing the front door behind him. He noticed the interior was too warm, which wasn’t surprising since Gladys was always claiming to be cold and tampering with the thermostat. At least her frugality kept the air-conditioning bills low. Carrying the white paper bag with Walker’s Pharmacy printed on its side, he followed the television noise until he found her sitting at the kitchen table. Her gaunt frame wrapped in a floral housecoat, she was watching the small set on the counter, which she seemed to favor over the larger one in the living room.

“There you are.” Allan bent to kiss the top of her gray head, catching a whiff of baby powder and White Shoulders cologne. He ignored the low warning growl of Puddles, her arthritic Chihuahua, who was curled into a dog bed on the floor nearby.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she accused. Her eyes remained glued to a religious talk show. “You’ve left me alone all day.”

“You’ve been on your own for three hours,” he corrected. “I had some errands to run. I told you that, remember?”

“Did you get my medicine?”

He gave the bag a shake so the plastic pill vials rattled inside it.

“Humph. Took you long enough.”

“I went into the city to get a television for repair. They’re paying fifty extra for pickup and delivery.”

Allan moved to the sink and washed his hands, taking care to scrub under his fingernails with a small, stiff-bristled brush before drying off with a paper towel. Then he sat in the chair across from Gladys. Depositing the bag’s contents onto the table, he began the process of placing pills and capsules into the lidded, plastic case that helped him keep up with which medications she had to take and when. There were morning, noon and evening compartments for every day of the week. It was tedious, but he didn’t mind the task so much. In fact, he rather enjoyed the order of it.

One red, one blue, one pink.

As he worked, he noticed Gladys had rolled her mobile oxygen canister into the kitchen. The tubing and cannula hung around her flaccid throat like a necklace, however, unused. His eyes slid to the counter. An ashtray sat next to the sink. “Have you been smoking again, Mother?”

“Shush,” she said irritably, waving him off. “I can’t hear my program.”

“I didn’t move all the way back down here to watch you blow yourself up.” Allan frowned. He would have to talk to the cleaning woman—he knew it was that dirty Mexican whore sneaking cigarettes to her and at probably quite a profit. Normally, it would be enough to send him into a rage, but he reminded himself he had a lot for which to be thankful.

For starters, there could be law enforcement crawling all over the place right now.

He placed the last capsule into its proper slot.

“I’m going to my workshop,” he announced, referring to the cinder-block building in back of the property, nestled among the tall pines.

“You spend too much time out there,” Gladys criticized as he rose from the table. She finally looked at him, her watery blue eyes narrowing suspiciously in her lined face. From his vantage point, the droop to the right side of her mouth was clearly visible, a result of the stroke she’d suffered three years ago.

“I need to get started on that television—”

“Boy like you, with an expensive college degree I paid for.” She shook her head, fretful. “And here you are. No wife or kids and not much of a job, if you ask me. ‘Idle hands are the devil’s playthings.’”

He felt his face heat. “I do work, Mother. I’m self-employed. And I take care of you now, too. That’s a job in itself. I’ll be back at five to make you dinner. We’ll have spaghetti with meat sauce—how does that sound?”

Gladys remained sullenly silent. The Chihuahua growled again as Allan left through the kitchen’s screened door. He slunk across the backyard and onto the beaten path through the copse of trees. The skeletal remains of a car went unnoticed. He had much to think about.

It had been two days of uncertainty, but he’d finally begun to relax. No one was coming. According to her own newspaper, she remembered nothing at all. The potent drugs used to make her manageable and compliant had provided the very fortunate ancillary effect of erasing her mind. Allan ran again through his mental checklist, trying to figure out where he had been remiss. What careless blunder he’d made that allowed her to escape.

She had been so special to him, too.

Reaching the cinder-block building, he unlocked the door with his key, flipping on the overhead light as he went inside. Unoccupied. The redhead was rightfully gone, but she should still be here.

He’d first noticed her name bylining the articles on the missing women. His girls. Then a column had run that included her photo. He took a clipped copy from a drawer in his workbench and studied it. The window-box air conditioner behind him hummed. Here, he kept things as cool as he liked.

She was older now, of course. But even after all these years he had still recognized her. What were the chances he’d found her? And that she was a reporter, covering his…work. He didn’t believe in coincidence. It was almost as if it were meant to be.

Allan’s inner voice—the voice of reason—spoke.

She got away and you got lucky. It’s too dangerous. You have to forget about her now.

Pick someone else.

He’d gotten rusty, that was all. Too much time spent trying to keep a low profile, until his darker urges had finally won out. No more Mr. Sloppy, he admonished himself.

The morning’s paper had said the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit was being called in. That couldn’t be helped now and truth be told, it made Allan feel important.

His lips formed a thin smile as he thought of Special Agent Eric Macfarlane and the bond they had shared.