Half-Past Dawn (11 page)

Jack looked at Charlie, the moment dragging on.

Charlie flipped off his computer, reached into his desk, and withdrew a large white sticker with a long bar code on it. He slapped it on the metal case. “I guess being married to you carries some weight.”

Charlie buzzed the door behind them, and the three headed through.

The evidence room was enormous, nearly the size of the building’s footprint. The raw space of concrete floors and walls was filled with thousands of shelves, twelve feet high, their layout creating dozens upon dozens of rows and aisles that formed passages and walkways
that ran on for hundreds of feet. The space was lit by harsh, bright fluorescent lights, although the shelves conspired to cast heavy shadows that ran off in every direction.

Boxes of all sizes filled the shelves, their contents varying from dime bags of marijuana to photographs of domestic-violence cases; expensive jewels from the latest store robbery to the two knives taken from the suspect in the slaying of an off-duty cop. Trials were won and lost on the evidence held within this facility.

Jack, Mia, and Charlie walked down the central aisle from which forty rows branched off toward the secondary aisles. One could truly get lost in the labyrinthine space, feeling like Theseus without a thread.

“You forget the scope of the justice system,” Mia said. “And you handle all this yourself?”

“One man per shift,” Charlie said. “It’s really slow most of the time. I’m kind of like the librarian, checking things in and out.”

“Do you ever get lonely?”

“Nah, kind of peaceful. Besides, there’s usually a decent flow of people throughout the day to tell me what’s going on in the world.”

“What do you do if you get hungry?”

“I bring a bag lunch or dinner, but …”

Charlie smiled and tilted his head for them to follow him as he turned down row S. He reached up and pulled down a large cardboard box labeled
Evidence 9530273
. He lifted the lid to reveal a bag of Oreos, a six of beer, two bottles of water, some chips, magazines, and VHS tapes of
The Quiet Man, The Poseidon Adventure, True Grit,
and
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
.

“I’m prepared for any scenario,” he said in a mock-serious tone.

Jack and Mia laughed, appreciating the humor intended to break Mia’s serious mood.

Charlie put the box away and led them back out to the center aisle. He finally turned and pointed to a vacant section of shelf on row Y. They all looked up.

“Stick it up there in the white-collar-crime section away from all the drugs, jewels, and guns. No one will have any interest in it over here.” Charlie turned and headed back toward his office.

Jack turned to Mia and looked into her eyes. “You’re not going to tell me what’s in the case, are you?”

Mia slowly shook her head.

Jack looked at her as he slid the box onto the deep shelf seven feet up. “You’re sure about this?”

Mia looked up into his eyes. She couldn’t hide her worry. There was an intensity in her face, a focus like Jack had rarely seen. Mia was excellent at hiding her emotions, her thoughts, never betraying her inner feelings to the outside world. But Jack wasn’t the outside world. He could read her as if she were an open book.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything,” Mia softly said.

And finally, Jack realized that what he saw in his wife’s eyes wasn’t worry or concern about her latest case. It was a far more base emotion.

It was fear.

F
RIDAY
, 9:00
A.M
.

M
IA’S EYES OPENED WITH
a start, her heart already pounding in her ears as she awoke from a nightmare into something far worse. She looked around the barren, windowless room, and except for the bed she lay on and the tray of food on the floor, there was nothing to offer any indication of where she was. The heavy brass knobs were polished to a high sheen, while the key mechanism for a dead bolt looked average and recently installed. There was a single lamp in the corner, its forty-watt bulb casting heavy shadows in the small, confined space. The room was not more than ten foot square, and she couldn’t imagine its function beyond a jail cell.

She rose from the bed, her shoulder sore, her head throbbing, and reached for the brass doorknob, although she knew what she would find as she turned and tugged on the thick, heavy door. She laid her ear against the white oak and gently shook the door, listening to its hollow reverberation on the other side. There was no reaction, no approaching footsteps, just the soft echo of the knob turning to and fro and, in the distance, the faint sounds of the city.

Mia turned and looked at the tray of food on the floor. There was a sealed bottle of water. A loaf of bread, cheese, fruit, and a wedge of
sausage, like a welcoming tray from some fine hotel. And although she felt hungry—starving, actually—the hollow pit in her stomach, the mix of fear and anger, was too overwhelming to allow her even to think of eating.

Mia had always been able to master her emotions, contain her fear, her pain, her disappointment. Her stepfather had instilled in her that the display of emotions was for the weak, the unintelligent, a sign of our animal heritage. The display of emotions—be it by man or woman—would only serve to fog the mind and impede one from clear thought.

Whether is was the disappointment she felt at being cut from the swim team in eleventh grade after dedicating so many years to the sport or being thrown from her horse at the age of fifteen, her father admonished her tears, scolded her for not burying the pain deep down, never to be spoken of again. She had learned it so well that she was thought of by many as cold and distant. But her face to the world was so contrary to the swirl of emotions she felt within, emotions she didn’t display until she met Jack and he cracked the hard shell she had developed over the years. But those lessons her stepfather forced upon her, while not suitable for a child, had come in handy in her line of work. She was unreadable when she chose to be, masking her feelings with an expertise only seen through by her husband.

But as she thought of Jack, it all came pouring forth in her mind: the rainy bridge, the white Tahoe, the gunshot, her husband’s eyes as he looked pleadingly at her as the car tumbled over into the churning river below.

Despite all of her mastery of her emotions, despite the desperate need to find a means of escape, Mia wrapped herself in her grief.

For the second time, the most important man in Mia’s life had been murdered, violently taken from her as she was forced to bear witness.

And as all strength left her, she collapsed to the floor, her body wracked with sobs.

J
OY

T
HE CALL CAME AT
6:30 that morning. Cursing under her breath at whoever had the nerve to rattle her so early on a Friday, Joy Todd rolled over and grabbed the phone to hear her sister utter her name in a fateful tone. Joy sat up and swept her long blond hair out of her face as if it would help her to focus. She climbed out of bed, stretching the kinks out of her back when her sister began to sob.

“Sheila …” Joy said. “What’s wrong?”

Sheila read the headline from the morning paper.

Joy’s anger was immediately vanquished by grief, and she collapsed to the floor, unable to move.

She finally struggled to stand, wiping the tears from her blue eyes, and she knew where she had to go. It was an odd instinct, something that affected everyone when dealing with the tragic death of a loved one. It happened in plane crashes, motorcycle accidents, and shootings. Some kind of mystical tug on the heart and mind drew the grieving to the place of the incident, where they could try to touch the souls of their loved ones as if they lingered waiting
to say good-bye. Makeshift memorials were constructed of flowers, candles, handwritten notes, some in pen, some in pencil, many in crayon bidding farewell, expressing their love and anguish to the ones they never got a chance to say good-bye to.

Joy emerged from her apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Two subways, one train, and a cab ride later, she found herself in Byram Hills, standing with the crowd on the bridge. She was not surprised at how many had followed the same instinct to gather and mourn Jack and Mia. They were the type who always listened, who helped others through their troubles and tragedies, yet never spoke of their own difficulties. It contributed to the fondness people held for them, to the genuine love their friends expressed over the years.

Joy knew Jack as well as, if not better than, anyone. In all the years they had worked together, she had seen him at his best and worst, yet he never buckled, never broke, no matter how hard the pressure. When her parents died and she didn’t have money for the funeral, it was Jack who stepped in and paid. And while the gesture would warm anyone’s heart, Joy knew that it was paid for from what little savings Jack and Mia had. She was there for the births of their daughters, helped them move into their house; she was the only one from their office who attended their holiday parties.

As she watched the Tahoe being lowered onto the bridge, tears rolling down her face, she barely felt the vibration of her phone in her jeans pocket. She pulled it out and flipped it open without seeing who called—she couldn’t care less—and absentmindedly laid it on her ear.

And her heart nearly exploded for the second time that morning as she heard his voice. There was no doubt, no thought of some kind of trick; she knew who it was before the first uttered word was completed.

“Joy,” Jack said, “please don’t let anyone see you react to this call.”

“Oh, my God,” she said in a sobbing whisper.

“I need your help.”

• • •

J
OY SAT IN
the backseat of Frank’s Jeep, hugging Jack, holding on to him as if he was about to slip away from this earth again.

“What the hell?” She was genuinely pissed. “It’s eleven a.m. and you couldn’t have picked up the phone any earlie?”

“Sorry,” Jack said with an apologetic smile as Frank shot him a glance.

“I’m serious.” Joy leaned back and glared at him. “I thought you were dead. Do you have any idea how that feels?”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“You’re lucky I don’t kill you now. Don’t ever do that again.” Joy’s emotions flew all over the place, finally settling down into relief as she took a deep breath and leaned back in the seat. “How’s Mia?”

Jack’s look quickened her breath. He told her what had happened, about going over the bridge, his wounds and the tattoo, Mia’s disappearance and his confidence in her still being alive, and the evidence case. After riding the emotional roller coaster again, Joy calmed herself and regained the focus she was known for.

“Do you understand that I need you?” Jack asked.

“You’ve always needed me,” she said with a smirk, falling into their yin-and-yang work mode. “Which you can show your appreciation for by getting me a nice big present for my birthday next week.”

“Don’t I always?”

Joy smiled, then got serious. “Let me see that tat?”

“The what?” Frank asked from the driver’s seat.

Jack rolled his eyes and rolled up his sleeve.

Joy smiled as she examined the tattoo.

“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.

“That’s not a tattoo, it’s henna,” Joy said as she ran her hand over the dark ink. “You’re lucky. It’s like the mehndi art that Asian woman get on their hands before they get married.” Joy couldn’t suppress a laugh.

“Joy …” Jack urged her on.

“In a few weeks, you’ll never even know it was there.”

“Great. Long sleeves in summer.”

“It’s better than long sleeves the rest of your life.”

She took hold of his arm, looking at him for approval. Without a thought, he nodded and she began turning his arm, examining it closely.

“This is intricate writing; it’s beautiful in a scary kind of way. A few of my goth friends would love this. Looks like some kind of a mix of Asian and Sanskrit.”

“Well, how do we get it translated fast?”

“Not going to be easy on the Friday of the long Fourth of July weekend.”

“Check with the universities, Columbia, NYU, Yale. I really don’t care what you have to do, Joy.” Jack’s voice grew stern as he handed her his BlackBerry with the scan of his arm.

Joy shrugged it off. She understood the fear running through Jack, the fear he felt for his wife. She had always tended to combat stress with humor, some of it dark; it helped keep her mind from slipping into a black hole of pain that she knew would be hard to extract herself from.

She began working the phones, calling in favors, reaching out to academia, to the professionals they so often called on to render expert testimony. She had always been resourceful, street-smart; it was what allowed her to thrive in school, in work. She was tenacious beyond compare and could pull a rabbit out of a hat if the occasion called for it.

And right now, the occasion called for it more than ever.

“Did you ever give her that necklace?” Joy asked without looking up from the BlackBerry.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Last night, actually.”

Joy nodded. “That’s a good thing, then. Timing’s everything.”

“What do you mean?” Frank asked.

“Jack gave a speech at a UN Peace Council dinner a couple of weeks ago. It went over very well, mainly because I helped him write
it. As a token of appreciation, they sent him a beautiful necklace. Their new representative, Manirak Coulhuse—”

“Marijha Toulouse,” he corrected her.

“Right. His council was quite enamored with Jack.”

“It was just a speech, and it’s just a necklace,” Jack said, his tone ending the conversation.

The blue necklace had arrived Monday in an elegant box with a personal letter.

Jack was at once hesitant; he had a deep-rooted fear of compromise.
Beware of strangers bearing gifts
rang in his ears the moment he became an assistant DA.

Jack had shared the handwritten note with Joy, having her confirm that the simple gift was truly an altruistic gesture with no implications that could compromise him politically, ethically, or morally. They had discussed returning it, but Joy had pointed out that it was an honorable gesture, and if Jack refused to accept it, it would be seen as an insult and an affront. So they created a paper trail, a detailed file documenting the gift, Jack’s speech, Joy’s research, and the Peace Council. And just before dropping the note in the file, Jack had read it once more: