Edge of Midnight (26 page)

Vacationers strolled in front of them, including a man and a woman, arm in arm. They stopped to kiss, the waves’ foam floating around their bare ankles. Mia looked away, the act of passion playing out in front of them making their conversation even more awkward.

Grayson continued. “The Macfarlanes are loaded, you know. Old money. It beats the hell out of me why any of them went into public service. Eric Macfarlane should be sailing around on a yacht somewhere, not down here, watching autopsies on dead women. Or stealing you.”

“Whatever was between us…I don’t think it’s going to work out,” she confessed softly.

Grayson considered her statement. “Then he’s a damn fool.”

“You shouldn’t be driving. Can I give you a ride home?”

“I’ll call a cab or get a room. I might not be done drinking yet.” He took a deep breath and let it out with a resigned sigh. “But now you know. Hopefully I won’t remember the ass I made of myself tonight.”

“Grayson, please don’t go.”

She fell silent, watching as he lifted a hand to silence her and then walked carefully away, trying not to stagger so that he might maintain some last shred of dignity. He headed back up the stairs to the hotel.

Like the sand she stood on, the world seemed to be shifting under her feet. Her heart hurt for Grayson, for his unrequited love and the crack in their relationship that could probably never be fully repaired. She wondered again if she would be on the chopping block if and when more staff was let go by the paper. Without him in her corner—if she’d lost his friendship—it was possible.

None of this was fair.

Looking up at the black sky, she thought about the past few weeks of her life. It all seemed so surreal—escaping a serial killer, then getting involved with the federal agent assigned to hunt him down. She held her purse, her phone inside it. More than anything, she craved the sound of Eric’s voice. She’d become addicted to it, she realized. But she didn’t call. Instead, she sat on one of the resort’s chaises lined up on the beach. Mia dug her toes into the cool sand, feeling tired and contemplative, unsure.

Night had fallen over the San Marco neighborhood like a heavy blanket.

Allan crouched inside an older model Mercedes, well hidden by the heavy, drooping branches of a weeping willow on a nearby property. He had been there for over two hours. In fact, he had watched her leave earlier that night. From where he sat, she’d looked so lovely in her new hairstyle and pale blue dress. But it had been too early in the evening then, too many cars and passersby.

Now, however, traffic had begun to die down on the residential street.

He fidgeted, gathering his courage. For weeks, he’d been telling himself to forget her. Trying again would be too dangerous. But his desire for her had only gotten stronger and the brunette divorcée was starting to lose her appeal. She’d become an obsession to him.

If he were really going to do this, now was the time.

His heart began to beat a little harder.

Exiting the Mercedes, he closed its door with a soft snick. He stole across a lush lawn, then climbed through a line of shrubs until he stood near the building’s Tuscan-style courtyard, still out of reach of the streetlight.
So close.
He’d been watching the place for a while now and he knew when no one in the three-level structure was home. The men who lived in the ground-floor unit had departed with suitcases days ago.

He had thought about waiting for her in the darkened recesses of the courtyard, but it was too open and there were too many paths for escape. Allan needed her closed off and cornered. He looked upward to her apartment. She would hurry cautiously across the patio from her car, but up there at her door, she would think she was home free. Safe. He could overpower her. It would be a long way to get her to the Mercedes, but if she were unconscious he could carry her down, leave her behind the gardenia bushes and bring the car over to pick her up. He would only have to time it against the squad car that conducted a drive-by on the half hour. Besides, she probably only weighed a hundred and ten sopping wet. He’d moved televisions that were heavier.

The deputies had gone past just a few minutes ago. Waiting for the residential street to be devoid of cars, he slunk up the staircase on the building’s right side, keeping against the stucco wall so that he remained in shadow. Up here, there would be no escape for
him,
either, he realized. His plan would have to play out, no matter what. Throat dry, he glanced at the wedge of moon above him.

It had already occurred to him she might not come home alone. He had seen her in the company of Eric Macfarlane before. Which was why Allan had brought his gun as a precaution.

The level of danger was both nerve-racking and exhilarating.

On the landing, he unscrewed the bulb inside the antique bronze sconce next to her door. The light, hot against his fingers, sputtered out, leaving him in darkness. To the left of the apartment, there was a space underneath the stairs that rose to the building’s top level. It presented the perfect crevice in which to hide. He would wait for her to insert her keys into the door and then he would advance, let her glimpse his face before her world went black. His memory conjured up an image of Mia as a skinny, forlorn child, her large brown eyes fearful as she backed away from him on the street. He wanted to see that same fear in her eyes tonight. He believed in closing the loop. It was an anomaly that she’d escaped him twice now.

It wouldn’t happen a third time.

As he waited for her, he allowed his fantasy to play out in his mind. His big hand over her mouth to keep her from screaming, the sharp jab of the needle and the feel of her body as it sagged in his arms. Allan realized he had half an erection at the prospect of total power. The sickly sweet scent of gardenias in the courtyard wafted up to him.

Some time later, headlights illuminated the street in front of the building. Then the sound of a car slowing and pulling into the driveway below. Quickly, he stepped farther back into the stone-black cove and rubbed his latex-clad fingers together in anticipation.

His nerves zinged. Only one car door slammed. Good. She was alone. It was all falling into place. He took the filled syringe from his pocket and removed the safety tip, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Come to me, little girl. You won’t cheat your destiny again.

26

A
llan felt as tense as a coiled spring, his muscles quivering. The hair on his forearms prickled as her shadow passed by him on the darkened landing. She held a box, its white cardboard luminescent in the thin slant of moonlight.

She wore flats, not heels.

Something was wrong.

Too tall, the head capped by a mass of curly brown hair. Not the sleek bob he’d expected. His heart stopped.
It wasn’t her.

“Mia?” the woman called as she knocked on the door.

He made out the words printed on the box. Slice of Life. He recognized the name—that hippie eatery in San Marco Square. It was the third-floor tenant who drove the red Prius and never came home before midnight. What was she doing here now? She tilted left and peered between the window blinds into the lit apartment, then turned. Allan pressed himself against the stair’s underbelly, trying to soak into the blackness.
Go away.
Her gaze fell to the ground. His shoes. Visible. She dropped the box, a frightened squeak emitting from her mouth. Then she was stumbling, making a mad dash for the stairs, starting to scream louder.

Panicked, Allan lunged after her. He had to shut her up before lights started snapping on all over the neighborhood. His gun was equipped with a silencer he’d bought from a spy store online, but it was tucked into the back waistband of his pants. The needle was faster, already poised. He jabbed it into her neck. But before he could push the plunger, she broke away. He made a final grab for her, snarling, catching her wrist and whipping her around at the top of the steps. Off balance, she fell headfirst, plummeting down the staircase, her body gaining momentum and tumbling over itself in a sickening series of thuds. Cursing, Allan hurried down the stairs. She lay at the bottom. Her left arm was twisted at an awkward angle, undoubtedly broken. Her nose was broken and bleeding, too. Blood from her badly scraped leg leaked onto the concrete.

He hadn’t accounted for this.

Unable to help himself, he stopped to gawk at the damage. Her eyes slowly fluttered open. To his mild surprise, she was still alive. Her mouth worked soundlessly until a moaning keen came from her throat. Allan knelt and put his hand over her mouth, silencing her. The gardenias hid them from street view.

He couldn’t take this one—she was too damaged. Nor was she who he’d come for. Leaning over her, he peered into her dazed eyes. He let go of her mouth and cradled her face between his palms, his thumbs hooking into the soft skin under her jaw.

“Shh.”

“P-please,” she begged, voice garbled. Blood from her nose dripped down her face, making a mess. “Don’t kill me!”

She
knew
him. Even with the horn-rimmed glasses he had taken to wearing instead of his contacts. The damned sketches. He wondered again about the unnamed witness the news had reported.

She began to cry out for help.

This woman had ruined everything. Even if he hid the body, the blood staining the courtyard would attract attention. And a neighbor could have heard her and be on the way now. His plan, his daring—all of it wasted. She wasn’t even supposed to be here. Anger surged inside him as she wailed again.

“Shut up!”

With a forceful grunt, he slammed the back of her skull onto the concrete and felt it bounce. She fell silent. He did it again—three, four times—until he was breathing heavily with exertion. Blood bloomed slowly behind the woman’s head, soaking into the thick, brown curls. The light in her eyes had faded, and her jaw had gone slack. He had to get out of here. Rising, he wiped a shaking hand over his mouth and dove back through the shrubbery toward the car.

Mia turned into the driveway, her mind still on the disastrous dinner with Grayson.

She had driven home barefoot, her sandals on the passenger seat next to her clutch bag. Even now, the ocean’s scent lingered in her hair and on her skin. Granules of sand still clung to her calves and feet, between her toes. She’d lingered on the beach, lost in her thoughts, until the trail of passersby had begun to thin and it no longer seemed safe to remain alone.

She got out of the car and pressed the key fob to lock it, then walked toward the courtyard. Penney Niemen’s Toyota Prius sat in the first parking spot. At least she wasn’t the only one in the building tonight. Still, Mia increased the pace of her steps, aware of the shadows and the fact that Will and Justin were out of town.

As she turned past the line of gardenias at the courtyard’s entrance, she slowed. Something lay in shadow at the base of the stairs.

Penney?

She dropped her shoes and purse. Tiny pinpricks of fear traveled over her as she rushed forward. Penney’s body was sprawled out, one foot still on the bottom step, her curly brown hair spread out like a halo on the concrete.

“Oh, God! Penney!”

She reached her, falling to her knees. Penney gazed blankly upward. The blood pooling around her head glistened darkly in the streetlight’s filmy glow. Mia let out a strangled cry, aware she was kneeling in wet crimson. Blood was everywhere—Penney’s face, her legs. Her surroundings spun as she was hurtled back to a cinder-block room and another dead woman staring up at her.

“Someone help me! Please!” Her plea echoed off the courtyard walls.

Despite the tremors racking her body, Mia felt for a pulse at Penney’s neck. Nothing. She recognized the small particles and glimmering globs stuck in her beautiful hair. Skull fragments and bits of brain matter—she’d seen it before in crime scene photos of a convenience store clerk shot at point-blank range. She gagged reflexively, the fact that she’d had nothing to eat or drink the only thing stopping her from vomiting.

Too shaken to stand, Mia crawled to her purse. Somehow, she managed to close her trembling fingers around her cell phone and dial 9-1-1.

“Operator. What’s your emergency?”

Her voice sounded unfamiliar to her own ears. “I’m at 1211 Alhambra Avenue. Please hurry! There’s been an accident, a woman’s dead!”

An accident.
Even as she said it, she felt a wave of certainty that this was more than a freak fall down the stairs. She shivered uncontrollably. How long ago? The body, the blood—they were still warm.

“You’re certain the person is deceased?” the female operator asked. “Have you attempted CPR?”

She looked back at Penney. Tears blurred her vision.

“She’s dead. There’s no pulse. Her head’s…” Mia couldn’t finish the statement. The words caught in her throat. “She’s dead.”