Authors: Leslie Tentler
“He gave you his notes?”
“I told him I might’ve known Joy when I was in foster care.”
Eric had pulled his dress shirt free from his suit pants, and she noticed his jacket and tie were draped over the back of her desk chair. His shield and gun in its holster were also nearby, on the bookshelf next to several reference journals and an old
AP Stylebook
she’d had since college journalism courses.
“Have you found anything in them?” he asked.
“Not so far. It’s mostly the same information as in the cold case file, although some of the detective’s personal thoughts and observations are included along with the facts. I’ve been trying to locate people he talked to during the investigation, but there are a lot of names and it was twenty-five years ago. Some are dead, or moved or are just generally hard to find. I worked on it Sunday, and a little today at the paper between assignments.”
Still studying the notepad, he took it to the love seat. Mia sank down beside him and pointed to one of the names on the list, a man who had lived across from Miss Cathy’s. “His house would’ve been in the best position to see something that day. He died a year ago, I found out.”
“Keep looking,” Eric said. “We have task force members going through the JSO file, but if someone stands out to you or raises any flags, let me know.”
She nodded, although she realized it was a long shot. Hank Dugger and his partner had worked the case thoroughly, it seemed.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asked.
“I had a bite at the hospital cafeteria when I was making calls. What about you?”
She shook her head, stifling a yawn.
“What I’d
like
is for you to get some rest.” He released a breath as he looked at her. “If anything had happened to you tonight, Mia, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself.”
“I’m in this by choice. Today got a little rough, but next time—”
“There won’t be a next time.” The resolution in his voice left no room for argument. “Dr. Wilhelm believes it’s gotten too dangerous. I won’t risk your health again.”
He touched her face. “I also think you should take tomorrow off from work.”
“I don’t need to. The E.R. doctor said I’m fine.”
His eyes held hers. Then he kissed her, a soft pressure against her lips that made Mia yearn for more. Their lovemaking two nights ago had been hard, desperate, but tonight it was clear he was treating her as a fragile thing. He gently wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him as he sat back and continued reading through Hank Dugger’s notes. The room’s lighting was soft, with only the sofa lamp and the fluorescent glow of the computer warding off the darkness. Her eyelids heavy, the sedative still in her system, Mia laid her head against his chest.
Sometime later, she awoke in her bedroom, tucked in under her goose down comforter. She vaguely remembered Eric rousing her and taking her to bed. The nightlight cast a blue, hazy glow. He lay next to her, his arm across her stomach as he slept. His breath played against her hair. She let herself take temporary comfort in his presence, feeling safe and protected in his embrace.
I don’t take what happened between us lightly. I want you to know that.
Mia sighed softly in the darkness. But in the end, what did that really mean?
He was drunk and hurting that night,
she reminded herself.
And when his work is done here, he’s going to leave.
No matter how adult and sophisticated she believed herself to be, she also understood the real truth.
She was setting herself up for a fall.
23
T
he indentation in the now-vacant pillow beside her was a reminder she hadn’t slept alone. Shutting off the alarm clock’s drone, Mia pushed the covers back and padded to the kitchen, following the scent of freshly brewed coffee. She found Eric there, already dressed in his clothing from the previous day.
“Good morning,” she mumbled sleepily.
He didn’t respond. Instead, in a quiet voice, he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
“Tell you about what?” Rubbing her eyes, she came closer. The Tuesday edition of the
Jacksonville Courier
lay open on the granite countertop. He must have retrieved it from her doorstep while she was still in bed. As her vision focused on the headline at the top of page two, she felt her drowsiness evaporate: Investigating VCU Agent Has Personal Ties to Jacksonville Killer.
“I didn’t know about this.” Mia scanned the article. Walt’s byline was at the top, but the italicized line at the bottom of the column made her heart beat harder with anger. She was listed as a contributing journalist, along with a reporter from
The Washington Post.
“And I didn’t contribute
anything.
”
Eric ran a hand through his hair, clearly caught off guard by the article.
“My name on there is some kind of editorial mix-up—”
“It’s a profile piece,” he pointed out. “I thought you had to be interviewed for something like that.”
“Not always,” Mia admitted. She forced herself to slow down and read the article more thoroughly. It made the connection between the recent murders in Jacksonville and the ones in Maryland three years earlier, something the local press had already reported. But this time, the bistate killings were simply a backdrop for a story on Special Agent Eric Macfarlane, the investigation’s lead. It was all there in print—the details of his wife’s gruesome death at the hands of the serial killer, his familial connections within the Department of Justice that had allowed him to remain on the case.
Two days after being abducted from the couple’s Bethesda home, Ms. Macfarlane’s mutilated corpse was discovered in a snow-edged ravine near the Rawlings Lake community. According to FBI and police reports, Agent Macfarlane identified his wife’s remains at the scene…
Mia’s stomach clenched. Eric didn’t need the spotlight on him right now, no more than it already was. Three women were dead in Jacksonville and a fourth missing. He didn’t need anyone recounting his tragic past or questioning his suitability to do his job.
“I have to go,” he said, not looking at her. It was predawn, still dark outside. “I need to go by my place to shower and change.”
She trailed him to her office. “Eric, I had nothing to do with this.”
He didn’t seem angry, just distracted. He took his wallet, shield and holstered gun from the bookshelf, clipping the latter items to the belt at his waist. “If you did, you were just doing your job. You’re a reporter, Mia, and everything in the story is accurate—”
“Please believe me. I wouldn’t blindside you.”
With a sigh, he turned to face her. He studied her for several long moments.
“I believe you,” he said finally. “I’ll arrange for the sketch artist to meet you at the paper this morning. Be careful, all right?”
A few moments later, she locked the apartment door behind him. Mia stood in her pajamas, wondering if he really
did
believe her or if he’d just wanted a nonconfrontational escape. Reporting was her job. She’d confessed before that she had done research on him. Along with her name attached to the article as a contributor, it had to create some real doubt in his mind.
Despite his composed demeanor, she knew Eric was reeling. His painful history had been brought front and center, splashed onto the
Courier’
s pages. And while it was true the information was already in the public domain, rehashing it now seemed both unnecessary and a disruption to the investigation. Returning to the kitchen, she made a cup of coffee and took it back to the bedroom, anxious to dress for work.
Arriving at the newspaper an hour later, she headed to Grayson’s office. He was behind his desk, his bifocals perched on top of his salt-and-pepper hair as he loaded his laptop into its travel case. Mia stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry.” He zipped the bag closed and placed its strap over his shoulder. “I’ve got to run.”
“Where are you going?”
“To a publishers conference in Boston. I’m chairing a panel on social media. My flight leaves in three hours. I just came in to pick up a few things. I emailed you an assignment—a mugging near Jacksonville Landing early this morning. The fourth in two weeks.”
The destination was a popular venue on the St. Johns, comparative to Miami’s Bayside. Locals and tourists alike frequented it.
“This one got pretty violent,” he continued. “The victim’s been hospitalized at St. Vincent’s. See if you can talk to him, and to the detective who caught the case at the JSO. Keith Berkman is serving as chief editor in my absence—”
“Why was my name on Walt’s piece as a contributor?”
Grayson walked from behind the desk. “You mean the one on Macfarlane? It must’ve been a copy edit mistake. Walt’s probably pissed. He hates sharing credit.”
“Why didn’t I know the profile was being written?”
“Why should you? It wasn’t your story.” He sidestepped her and opened the door.
“You shouldn’t have run that piece.”
“Walk me to my car, Mia?”
She accompanied him through the newsroom in silence. It was still early enough that only a handful of other staff members had shown up, most of them sitting at their desks and nursing their coffee as they checked email and phone messages. Grayson didn’t speak until they had traveled through the lobby and into the parking garage. He stopped at his car to open the trunk and dropped the laptop case inside.
“Now, want to tell me why that story shouldn’t have run?” He kept his voice low and controlled. “The last time I checked, we were in the news business. Eric Macfarlane
is
news. He’s got a pretty, murdered wife and a daddy who’s third man from the top at the DOJ. The family wants justice and Macfarlane’s got the clout to defy FBI protocol. The story has high stakes, raw emotion and nepotism within the federal government. We’d be fools
not
to tell it.”
“He wasn’t even interviewed.”
“It wasn’t necessary. The reporter from the
Washington Post
who covered the Maryland murders provided more than enough background.” He closed the trunk. “I’ve got to go.”
“You put me as a contributor on the profile, didn’t you?”
Grayson didn’t answer. Instead he said, “I’ll be back this weekend. We can get together for dinner and finish this discussion.”
Mia shook her head, upset. “No.”
“It’s a
business
dinner,” he clarified. His face had reddened somewhat, and he snatched his glasses from the top of his head and stuffed them into his shirt pocket. “We have some things to talk about—things I’d rather not discuss in the office. I’ll send you an email with the time and location. Now I suggest you get yourself over to St. Vincent’s. The guy’s a tourist and he’s leaving town as soon as he’s discharged…maybe as early as today.”
She stood there as Grayson started the car and pulled it from the parking space. The sedan’s taillights glowed red in the still-shadowy confines of the concrete deck until it turned the corner and headed down to street level. Mia rubbed a hand over her eyes, hating the tension that had developed between them. Although she disliked his methods, she realized Grayson was right.
She’d lost her objectivity where Eric was concerned.
Like the other law enforcement surrounding the metal warehouse, Eric wore a Kevlar vest, a protective measure that was also nearly unbearable in the midday Florida heat. Gun drawn, he exchanged a glance with Cameron as the Sheriff’s Office squad commander gave the silent signal to move. The deputies swarmed, several Bureau agents among them, traveling over dirt and gravel and keeping low to the ground. The warehouse’s inhabitants scattered as officers burst through its front door.
“Sheriff’s Office! Get down! Get down!”
Through the chaos, Eric zeroed in on an African-American male cowering behind a car that was up on blocks, something concealed in his grip. “You! Let me see your hands! Now!”
The man took off through a back door, sprinting outside and into a large maze of industrial-strength shelving that held an abundance of car parts and scrap metal. Eric ran after him through the narrow passages, yelling out orders to halt. The shelves were piled so thickly it was impossible to see anything but the path forward and the fleeing man’s dreadlocks a dozen feet ahead of him. Rounding a corner, Eric felt an explosion of pain as something hit him square in the chest. He fell backward, his gun skittering out of reach.
A different male—this one Hispanic, with long, scraggly hair and a beard—stood over him, wielding a metal exhaust pipe. He raised it, preparing to swing it down like an ax. Writhing on the ground from the blow, Eric flinched, lifting his forearm in defense.
“Drop it!”
The pipe froze in midair. Detective Boyet’s hulking form filled the space between the shelving, his gun aimed. “I got no problem blowing you away, asshole!”
With a vicious curse, the man dropped the pipe as the detective advanced.
“You all right, Macfarlane?” Boyet’s eyes and gun remained steady on the perp.
“Yeah.” Winded, Eric had trouble forcing the word out. He reclaimed his weapon and used the shelving to pull himself up. The air had been knocked from his lungs and his chest hurt when he drew in a breath, but he was pissed off more than anything. Perspiring, he squinted against the hot ball of sun. “The other one got away.”
“No matter. This one’s the big kahuna,” Detective Scofield said, appearing from the other end of the maze with her gun trained.
“Remy Martinez,” Boyet growled, spinning the man around and kicking his legs apart to be frisked. “You’re under arrest.”
Eric and Cameron stood with the two detectives outside the JSO interview room. The chop shop sting had netted eight arrests.
“Twelve cars a day are reported stolen in Jacksonville. Stoner Jesus in there has probably had his hands on half of ’em.” Boyet nodded toward the glowering perp. Handcuffed, Martinez sat on the other side of the two-way observation mirror.
“Stoner Jesus?” Cameron asked.
“You know, long hair and beard. He also stinks of weed.”
“This is the biggest operation we’ve busted to date.” Scofield had gotten a recent haircut, her blond hair shortened into a gamine pixie-style that suited her athletic frame. “If the unsub’s selling the stolen cars he uses in the abductions, Martinez might’ve done business with him. Word is he has two dozen hoods on the street, jacking for him regularly. The JSO infiltrated the ring with an undercover detective.”
Eric had been notified that morning of the pending sting, and he’d wanted to take part. He turned at the sound of footsteps. A deputy approached with a sheet of paper.