Edge of Midnight. Leslie Tentler

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СКАЧАТЬ she’d needed to advance from the lifestyles pages to crimes. Mia was one of only a handful of female reporters covering hard news at the Courier, not to mention the youngest by nearly a decade. Grayson’s guidance, as well as his fondness for her, had played a big role. She cared about him, truly, but as a good friend.

       He placed a finger under her chin. “Just think about the therapy thing, all right?”

       She smiled weakly. “Think about giving me my assignment back.”

       After he was gone, Mia sighed and looked around her living room. Their two wineglasses sat side by side on the cocktail table. She left Grayson’s where it was but picked up her own, taking it into the kitchen and refilling it. Liquid courage. She needed it for what she’d been planning to do.

       Carrying the goblet, Mia went into the guest bedroom she had converted into a home office. Her desk was positioned near a large window, its lamp casting a soft glow. The police scanner on the columned bookshelf provided the background noise she needed to focus.

       Sitting in front of the computer, she conducted an internet search on serial murders taking place in Maryland three years earlier, hitting the keys as best she could with her bandaged fingers. It didn’t take her long to find what she was looking for. Within a short time, she’d pulled up a number of archived articles from newspapers in Maryland and D.C. Mia began viewing the stories in chronological order. Eric Macfarlane was mentioned in all of them and quoted in several as the investigation’s lead. His grainy image appeared alongside one particularly substantial piece from the Washington Post, the photo taken at a news conference, according to the accompanying caption. In it, he looked serious and handsome—crisp, short brown hair and squared jaw—the perfect poster boy for the FBI.

       None of the articles provided the detail he had shared with Mia, however. There was nothing about fingernails or hair being taken or numerals carved into the victims’ flesh. The Bureau had done a good job keeping such pivotal facts confidential, and she realized again how far out on a limb he had gone in giving her such information.

       Mia continued reading for the better part of an hour. Upon seeing the link to one of the last remaining pieces, she felt a shock run through her. The headline leaped out from the screen, something she hadn’t expected.

      FBI Agent’s Wife May Be Serial Killer’s Latest Conquest.

       She clicked onto the link.

      In a stunning twist in the serial murder investigation plaguing FBI and local law enforcement, Rebecca Macfarlane, age thirty-three, wife of FBI agent Eric Macfarlane, disappeared from the couple’s Bethesda home on Wednesday evening. A Bureau representative who spoke on the condition of anonymity confirmed foul play is suspected based on evidence at the scene. Agent Macfarlane, part of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit, is team leader on the case that so far involves the abduction and murders of four other women in the metro area. He is also the son of U.S. associate attorney general Richard Macfarlane. Agent Macfarlane has stepped down from the investigation pending the outcome of a three-state search…

       She read the rest of the article. A follow-up story with a dateline of a few days later recounted the heartbreaking discovery of Rebecca Macfarlane’s body.

       Mia sat at her desk for several moments, coming to terms with the realization that Eric Macfarlane was even more invested than she’d realized. She wondered if his connections had allowed him to be reassigned to a case in which he had become very deeply, personally involved.

       A burst of activity on the police scanner broke through her thoughts, the voice of a female dispatcher directing units to a waterside area at Yellow Bluff Fort Historic State Park. Mia knew the shorthand codes—the ten-fifty-five indicated a dead body. The location was the park’s northeast boat ramp.

      “Patrol units in the vicinity are requested for crime scene containment. Responding officers should be aware the site has been given federal jurisdiction…”

       The state park was a half-hour away.

       She wasn’t supposed to be on the job. Not to mention, the abductions were no longer her assignment. Mia paced her office before heading back into the living room, driven by the need to know if one of the missing women had been found. The body could be anyone—an unrelated murder or even a fisherman who had fallen into the water and drowned. But the fact that the FBI was there increased the likelihood it was Pauline Berger or Cissy Cox. Locating her purse, car keys and JSO-issued press card, Mia set her security system and left the apartment.

       She wasn’t certain if her press credentials would have any credence with the Bureau, but she had to try.

       Pulling her Volvo onto the darkened street, Eric Macfarlane’s words echoed inside her head. You got away. Those women didn’t.

      5

      The decomposing body of a female lay near the water in an unzipped body bag, shielded from view by a partially raised canvas. Eric stood nearby with his hands on his jeans-clad hips, his heart heavy as he squinted against the harsh mobile lights set up by Forensics. He breathed through his mouth, the stench nauseating. The corpse had been in the water too long to make a visual ID, but the wet hair matted to the skull was blond, and a portion of a tattoo on the right shoulder—a small, delicate butterfly—was still somewhat visible.

       It was the same as the one Pauline Berger’s husband had described.

       If a numeral had been carved into the abdomen, it was no longer discernible since fish and other aquatic wildlife had been gnawing at the bloated flesh. But the fingernails were all missing, and he suspected the M.E. would find several teeth had been removed, as well. He looked out to where two men in wet suits and scuba gear were raking the floor of the St. Johns River, searching for evidence.

       “A crabber with a spotlight found the body when he went out to check his traps,” Cameron said, joining him near the boat ramp. He nodded in the direction of the crabber, an elderly looking African-American man who stood with several JSO deputies. The man appeared visibly upset by what he’d found.

       “When’s the last time he checked his traps?” Eric asked.

       “He says two days ago.”

       A rope around the corpse’s abdomen indicated it had been anchored with some type of weight to keep it from surfacing, but it had somehow broken free. Based on the decomposition, Eric estimated she’d been dead for about a week. The putrefaction was advanced but warm water tended to speed up the process.

       “I’m guessing this isn’t the original dump site, since the body’s been moved downstream by the current,” Cameron noted. “Still, it probably wasn’t too far from here since the St. Johns has a decline of only about an inch per mile. It’s one of the slowest moving rivers anywhere.”

       Eric’s T-shirt was damp from the humidity and a mosquito buzzed near his ear. He looked around the crime scene, which was one of organized chaos. Squad cars from the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office blocked the entrance to the boat ramp’s gravel parking lot, their lights flashing into the tar-black sky. Crime scene specialists went about their jobs while deputies controlled the area, waving on the civilian vehicles that had slowed out of curiosity on the adjacent road. Several FBI field agents were there, as well—men who Eric was supposed to meet officially the following morning. Detectives Boyet and Scofield stood nearby, conferring with the deputy who had been the first responder to the 9-1-1 call.

       “We could drag the water upstream and see what turns up,” Cameron suggested СКАЧАТЬ