Authors: Leslie Tentler
“Here it is.” He pulled out a cardboard box labeled 1985-90.
“I can’t believe you still have all those,” Mia said as he shuffled through the collection of notepads, most of them looking as old and dog-eared as the cold case file she held.
“I’m a pack rat, young lady. Old habits die hard. And once upon a time I considered writing my memoirs.” He finally located the notepad he was looking for and handed it to her. “You’re welcome to my notes, Mia. If you can decipher my chicken scratch. I can’t guarantee anything in there will make sense after all this time, but who knows. Like they say, the devil’s in the details.”
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to return it.”
“I’d say don’t bother, but if it brings you out to see me again, all right.” He gave her a wink. “Next time, wear your bikini, though.”
As he walked her to the door, Hank handed her several coupons for free margaritas at a bar where he worked part-time at the Fernandina Harbor. “My pension’s good, but bartending gives me a chance to get out and knock off the dust.”
“You’re hardly dusty, Hank.” She touched his arm. “And you should consider writing your memoirs again. I suspect you have some stories to tell.”
They said goodbye. Her purse strap over her shoulder, Mia returned to her car with the cold case file and notepad.
The devil’s in the details.
It wasn’t exactly what the idiom meant, but she wondered if something in the detective’s notes might be useful in discovering more about Joy Rourke’s abduction. Flipping through the thick notepad, she noticed Hank’s tendency to fill up every inch of space. There were notations running along the margins, thoughts and observations written in a loose scrawl, phone numbers as well as names. She shook her head, smiling faintly at the jumble. Starting the engine, she turned on the radio and pulled onto the highway. But the good mood the feisty Hank had put her in soon dissolved.
The lunchtime news report stated that a body believed to be that of Anna Lynn Gomez had been found.
20
I
t was the worst part of the job and one that had been required of Eric too many times over the years. He’d fully expected Victor Gomez to rail at him, even take a swing at him. But the man had simply crumpled to the floor, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Behind him, his wife and remaining daughter had clung to one another, their cries filling their modest home.
Eric wished Gomez
had
hit him. Physical pain was preferable to the responsibility he felt. There had been nothing he could do but hoarsely offer his condolences and leave the family alone with their grief.
Entering the rental bungalow, he removed his holstered gun, the darkening sky a purplish bruise through the window behind him. The Saturday had been one long blur of unpleasantness, beginning with the discovery of the body and search of the surrounding areas, ending with the grim autopsy proceedings. Eric had attended alone, sending Cameron back to the office to file reports. In between, there had been a news briefing and another tense call with SAC Johnston. His muscles ached from the stress collecting in them all day. Mia had left a voice mail message on his cell phone, but there had been no time to get back in touch.
He looked out as Cameron’s car pulled in front of the property, the arrival giving him a sense of foreboding. His partner had been anxious to get home on a weekend night.
“What’s up?” he asked, meeting him at the door.
Cameron looked troubled as he entered. He carried a too-familiar white envelope. “It was in the office mail.”
The padded envelope turned Eric’s heart sideways. He hadn’t expected the recording of Anna Lynn to arrive so soon.
“I…listened to the beginning of it,” Cameron said. “I know how hard the Gomez family hit you today. I thought if there was nothing useful on the recording I’d hold it until tomorrow.”
“You did the right thing to bring it. I should hear it now—”
“Eric.” Cam’s eyes held his. He hesitated, swallowing hard. “You don’t understand… It’s not Anna Lynn Gomez.”
Realization slowly hit him. Eric felt his world spin a little.
“When I realized what it was, I thought about not giving it to you. But she was your wife…”
He had stopped hearing him, Cameron’s voice drowned out by the buzz building in his ears. Neither man wore investigational gloves. Not that it mattered—he’d been through this too many times before. There would be no prints. Eric took the already opened package. He recalled the painful wait three years ago for the recording that never came, the awful anticipation its own form of torture.
It was here now. He worked to find his voice. “How much did you listen to?”
“Enough to realize it was her.” Cameron stepped closer, his expression earnest. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll take it and listen to it for you—all of it. Let me do that as your friend. This guy’s messed you up enough.”
Eric shook his head. “No.”
“Then I’ll stay while you listen. You can come home with me tonight. Lanie can have the guest room ready. You shouldn’t be alone—”
“Go home, Cam,” he said quietly.
Cameron remained standing by, uncertain. After a while he said, “I’ll call you in the morning, all right?”
Eric had moved to the pedestal dining table in a corner of the living room. He lowered himself to one of its chairs and placed the envelope in front of him, his eyes fixed to his name and the neat, hand-printed address on the envelope’s front. For a brief time, he thought Cameron had already left, but then realized he’d only gone into the kitchen. Returning, he set a glass and a bottle of single-malt Scotch on the table. Where exactly it had come from, Eric wasn’t sure.
“When this place isn’t rented out, I use it when I need some time to myself.” Cameron briefly clasped Eric’s shoulder and then departed.
A short time later he heard Cam’s car start up and drive away. Eric sat in heavy silence before sliding the recorder from the packet. Then he poured a generous drink and drained it, feeling its slow burn down his throat and into his stomach. Gathering his courage and taking an uneven breath, he pressed Play.
“What is your name?” The Collector demanded.
Something broke loose inside him as he heard Rebecca’s voice for the first time in nearly three years. She stated her name, her words too thin and high, pinched tight with fear.
“And who is your husband, my dear? His full title is desirable.”
“Special Agent Eric Macfarlane,” she replied on a sob. Eric felt his muscles go weak.
“You understand why you’re here?”
“P-please! I—I just want to go home. I’ve got nothing to do with this—”
He startled at the sound of something slamming down, possibly a fist onto a table. “Silence!”
Rebecca whimpered. Eric ran his fingers over his face. Dread nearly closed his throat, perspiration breaking out on his skin.
“He’ll be receiving this audio. If you have a message for him, now is the time. I won’t give you another opportunity.”
The recording picked up her ragged breathing. “Eric? Please, help me! He’s insane! He’s going to kill me if you don’t stop him!”
“He can’t save you, Rebecca. What I’m giving you is the chance to say goodbye.”
She cried out. “N-no! Please! Don’t do this! You don’t understand—we’re not even together anymore—”
“Very well. No goodbyes necessary, then.” A tone of resignation carried in his voice. Eric knew what came next and he swallowed thickly. Rebecca’s frantic pleas were stifled as she was gagged.
Her torture began. Eric clamped a hand over his eyes at the sound of her muffled screams. Pitch-blackness washed over him, pain blinding him as he forced himself to keep listening, to keep breathing. His mind flashed to Rebecca’s decimated corpse and the unspeakable things the sick, fucking bastard had done to her.
So many knife wounds.
An eternity later the screaming stopped as she was strangled to death. He could hear the unsub’s grunts of exertion as he pulled the cording tight around her throat until she was asphyxiated. This time, there was no other woman discernible on the audio. Only The Collector, obviously aroused by what he had done.
“That was for
you,
Agent,” he panted.
Eric sat immobile for a long time after the digital recorder had clicked off. He wiped his eyes and had another drink, hoping to numb the acute pain that tore at him. But he couldn’t escape the hard truth. Rebecca had been taken because of him. She’d died afraid and in agony, hating him and begging for him all at once. He had failed as her husband and as her protector.
Lost in fresh grief and self-recrimination, he was well into his fourth glass of Scotch when there was a knock at the door.
“Go away, Cam,” Eric warned under his breath, hearing the faint slur to his words. A glance at his watch indicated almost two hours had elapsed. The last light had leaked from the sky a while back. He rubbed a weary hand over his features, trying to pull himself together. The knock came again, more insistent this time.
With a curse, he got up a little unsteadily on his feet and swung the door open.
He hadn’t expected Mia. He hadn’t seen her since Wednesday night when they’d made out like a couple of teenagers. She stood on the porch, dressed in shorts and one of those skimpy tank tops she was so fond of. Her brown eyes were wide and questioning, her dark hair sleek and glossy as it grazed her tan, bare skin. Frowning, Eric peered down the darkened street. She was alone. Going around at night by herself with the angel of death running loose. He grabbed her wrist and hauled her inside.
“We talked about this,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t be out by yourself.”
She appeared taken aback by his tone. “I wanted to see you. I…heard about Anna Lynn Gomez.”
He briefly squeezed his eyes closed. He hadn’t given her the rental property’s address. “How’d you find me?”
“Jax Beach isn’t that big. I drove around until I saw your car.”
He dragged a hand through his hair, thinking he should call the JSO and arrange for a deputy to tail her home. He was in no condition to drive. “This isn’t a good time, Mia.”
She glanced around the room, then back at him, concern on her pretty features. “I can see that. What’s going on?”
When he didn’t answer she took a tentative step closer. Laying her palm against his chest, she peered up into his eyes, her voice soothing and soft. “You’re upset, Eric. Whatever it is, whatever’s happened, let me help you, all right?”
He’d been carrying so much heaviness and guilt for so long. He had
been
alone for three long years in a self-imposed exile. Eric stared at her. More than anything, he wanted to forget for just a little while, to let go of the crushing pain. He needed her, needed someone to keep him from drowning. Tangling his fingers in her silky hair, he drew her to him. He pushed the door closed with his foot. His head lowered, his mouth tender and rough against hers all at once.
Mia felt the hard bruise of his lips, his need.
He was hurting—she’d been able to tell that much by his reddened eyes and disheveled appearance. His mouth on hers tasted of fine Scotch. She should push him away,
tell him not like this,
but instead she responded as he deepened their kiss, his tongue exploring, his mouth demanding more from her.
This was wrong.
She should stop him, frame his face with her hands and ask him again what had happened. But she knew instinctively that right now what he needed was her submission.
It was something she was willing to give.
He pressed her backward, his mouth still on hers, his breathing heavy and labored. The wall solidly met her shoulder blades. He pinned her there with his body, his lips eventually leaving hers to travel a wanton path down her throat, over the delicate line of her collarbone. Eric cupped one of her breasts, massaging. Heat raced to her core. He pulled the thin strap of her tank top downward. His mouth, hot, covered her hungrily through the thin lace of her bra. Head back, eyes closed, she arched into him.
He stilled, then raised his head and looked into her eyes. In them, anguish and desire warred with one another.
“It’s okay,” she whispered, caressing his face, giving him permission to go on.
He took in a shaky breath. Then slowly, he drew the top over her head, his fingers unhooking her bra and sliding it down her arms, his mouth returning this time to her bare breasts. The stubble on his jaw was an erotic sensation, dimmed only by the feel of his mouth closing over one nipple, sucking, his teeth rasping sharply over the tightened bud until she thought she might die from the pain-pleasure of it. As he shifted to feed at her other breast, she pulled his tie loose from his collar and dropped it onto the floor, her shaking fingers moving to the buttons on his shirtfront, undoing them, her hands seeking him out. His skin was heated and fevered, his chest hard and covered only by a light sprinkling of crisp hair. He tugged impatiently at the snap on her shorts, then shoved them down until cool air met her thighs.
Her clothing abandoned on the floor, he lifted her easily, coaxing her legs around his lean hips. For a moment she thought he might take her against the wall. But Eric carried her past the sofa and down the hallway. His erection rubbed against her, making her wetter, tighter with need. Mia kissed his jaw, clinging to his shoulders as they entered a small, unlit bedroom. He laid her on the comforter, undoing the straps of her heeled sandals and letting them fall to the floor with twin thuds. Her panties went next. Mia stared up at him, the handsome, serious planes of his face submerged in shadow as he removed his shirt that already hung open, then disposed of his pants and boxers. He lay down alongside her, his long, masculine fingers stroking over her body as he devoured her breasts again, making her moan and writhe.