Edge of Midnight - Leslie Tentler

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Gathering her courage, she unfolded the paper, scanning the front-page news first and then opening it to the second page, which she laid flat against the countertop. Grayson had already warned her that Walt Rudner, a senior reporter nearly twice Mia’s age, had taken over the story on the local abductions.

       A story that now included her, at least anonymously. As she read Walt’s follow-up article to the larger one that had appeared earlier in the week, she felt her stomach flip-flop all over again.

      A thirty-one-year-old woman believed to have been a third abductee managed to escape during the early hours of Tuesday morning. Due to her sustained injuries, the victim has so far been unable to provide any information that could be useful to the investigation, according to a spokesperson for the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office…

       The concluding paragraph stated that the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit out of D.C. had been called in as a special consult.

       A rap at the door made her jump. She moved to the foyer and peered out through the peephole, her shoulders sagging in relief when she saw Will Dvorak, who lived on the first floor and also co-owned the building. It bothered her that a simple knock had kicked her pulse into overdrive. Despite all of this, Mia vowed she wouldn’t turn into a frightened shell of who she’d once been.

       “Get dressed. We’re going to be late,” Will announced as he entered the apartment, kissing Mia’s cheek. He was medium height, with russet hair and blue eyes. As usual, he was immaculately dressed in khakis and a pressed, short-sleeve shirt, and his designer sunglasses hung from a cord around his neck.

       “Dressed? Where are we going?”

       “Justin called from Élan. One of his hairstylists had a cancellation and you’re the lucky girl.” Justin Cho was Will’s partner and a successful entrepreneur who operated a number of ventures around the city, including one of Jacksonville’s top day spas. “I told him I’d bring you down.”

       Mia shook her head. “That’s sweet. But I’m really not up to it.”

       Will gave her an understanding smile but ignored her comment. “Afterward, we’ll have lunch at that place you like on the Riverwalk. The fresh air will do you good.”

       She must have appeared unconvinced, because he placed his hands on her shoulders and gently turned her around, guiding her toward the hall bathroom. Will was a good friend. In fact, in many ways he was the closest she had to family.

       “Will…”

       “This is for your own good.” He flipped on the light, bringing Mia face-to-face with herself in the beveled mirror above the marble vanity. She flinched at her own pale, haunted reflection.

       Her dark hair was a mess. And it wasn’t just the fact that it hadn’t been brushed with any recent regularity. The wide swath that had been chopped off during those missing hours gave her a lopsided appearance—as if she were a child who had attempted to give herself a haircut.

       “It’s just not a good look, honey,” Will said softly.

       Mia frowned, touching the faint bruise on her jaw with her bandaged fingers. Her cocoa-brown eyes were liquid and questioning. She tried again to remember something about what had happened to her, but it was like trying to see through a black mist. She looked at Will in the mirror as he stood behind her. His gaze held concern.

      She wouldn’t let this wreck her.

       Sucking in a tense breath, Mia left the bathroom to get dressed. “All right. Tell Justin we’ll be there.”

      2

      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

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