Half-Past Dawn (18 page)

She thumbed through the effects from his pockets, which Jimmy had laid on the desk blotter. Four hundred dollars in cash, two credit cards, a gold pocket watch, and the keycard for the room. There was an open-ended plane ticket to Mumbai, a taxi receipt, and a stick of gum. From his suit-jacket pocket, there was a small quill pen and two bottles of ink, one a deep brown, the other as black as the poison that ran through his body.

On a separate table, as if placed in reverence, was a set of wooden prayer beads on a simple necklace, organic, as if they had grown in nature themselves. Beside them was a gold jewel-encrusted dagger, looking more like a piece of artwork than something of deadly purpose. There were two identical red books, each the size of a paperback novel.

Mia picked up and examined one of them; the cover was red leather, weathered from years of use. Opening the pages, she found an unfamiliar language but noted its similarity to the etching on the bullet. Thumbing through the dog-eared pages, she imagined it to be a prayer book, the text laid out in a rhythmic cadence. Each and every page was water-stained as if the book had been dipped in the ocean. She suspected the book was of sentimental value to the owner, as it appeared worn and well used. She picked up the second and found it identical in every sense, including the water-stained pages.

She finally turned and looked at Jimmy. “This isn’t why I’m here,” she said, as if she could read his mind.

“No, it’s not,” Jimmy said, avoiding her unspoken question. “Anything you see in his personal effects that gives you pause?”

She reexamined the prayer books, picking each one up in turn, flipping through the pages, fanning them as if a secret might fly out. She finally nodded. “Two things.” She held up the second book, opening it to the back. “A page is torn out of the back. Judging by its condition”—she ran her finger along the frayed edge of what remained of the paper near the spine of the book—“it was recent.”

“And the second thing?”

“The pages are water-stained, yet the leather cover is not.”

Jimmy smiled as he nodded his head. He disappeared and returned with a wet washcloth. He took the book from her hand, laid it down, opened it to the middle, and rubbed the page. At once the foreign language of the prayer vanished, revealing a handwritten text beneath.

“I think it’s a diary,” Jimmy said softly.

“What’s it say?”

“I don’t know, but it’s a hell of a place to keep secrets.”

Jimmy picked up the quill from the table. He opened the black ink bottle, dipped the quill in, and wrote on a piece of paper. They both watched as the lettering dried and disappeared.

Mia took the cloth, and with a single wipe of the page, the word reappeared.

“It’s like a kid’s magic trick.”

“Yeah, we’ve gotten so complex with our encryptions and passwords that we’ve forgotten the best place to hide is usually in plain sight.”

“Makes you wonder what was on the torn-out page.”

They both paused a moment, digesting the room.

“There’s a whole team on their way,” Jimmy finally said. “I need you to take this stuff before they get here. Keep it to yourself. The things hidden on the pages of those two books, I believe, are far more explosive than anyone realizes. I’ve reached out for a translator. I’m flying him in, but he won’t be here until the weekend. I need you to hide this away till then. I’ll get this case classified.”

“You’re sounding paranoid,” Mia said.

“Have you ever known me to be paranoid?”

Mia shook her head; Jimmy was anything but. He was probably the most logical, methodical man she had ever worked with.

“I need to show you something,” Jimmy said.

He took the washcloth from her and picked up the second book. Turning to the last page, he quickly wiped it to reveal a list of names, written in English, all in sharp contrast to the surrounding foreign characters. The list was short, five names. Fear ran through Mia as she realized that she knew them.

“I want you to take all of this now.” Jimmy picked up a two-foot-by-ten-inch evidence case and swept all of the priest’s personal effects into it. “You hide it away, far from any FBI, until we can figure out what to do.”

Mia nodded in agreement. If she had her way, she’d bury the box for all eternity.

“How’s Jack doing?” Jimmy asked, the question seeming odd in the middle of a murder scene.

“He’s good, thanks.”

“When did you see him last?”

“What?” Mia asked, confusion filling her voice. “Late last night. He got home late. I left before he was even awake.”

“Did you talk to him today?”

“What’s going on, Jimmy? You’re scaring me.”

“Just answer me. When did you speak to him last?”

“Dammit, Jimmy. Ten minutes ago.”

“And he’s OK?”

Mia glared at him, pissed.

“Is he working any crazy cases lately?”

Mia glared at Jimmy.

“Listen, Mia, I found something. It’s real disturbing. And as much as I’d like to spare you the shock, you need to see it.”

“Drop the preface, and show me. I hate when people do that. Everyone has to build the drama.”

Jimmy pulled out two eight-by-eleven sheets of paper, each with an intricate, lifelike drawing on it, and handed them to her.

As shocked as Mia was by the body on the bed and the names in the book, these images shook her to her core, lifelike in every respect. Her knees nearly buckled as she realized who they were of and what they represented. Without a further glance, she stuffed them into the black metal case and slammed the lid closed.

A
S
J
ACK SAT
in the deli listening intently to Jimmy’s every word, he leaned forward. “What were the images of?”

“I can’t say,” Jimmy said.

“Why?”

“Because I promised your wife I would tell no one of their existence, especially you.”

“Bullshit!” Jack’s arm shot out and grabbed Jimmy by the shirt. “You tell me, and you tell me now, what were they of, and why did they scare her so much?”

“Jack, they are too difficult to explain. When you get the box, you will see them for yourself, and then you will understand why I can’t speak of them and why they frightened Mia.”

Jack glared at Jimmy, finally releasing him. He glanced over at the two men behind the counter and saw them staring back. “Tell me the names in the book.”

Jimmy shook his head. “I promised Mia for a reason. I know she is your wife, but whether you know the names will not affect your getting that metal case. Jack,” Jimmy said as he stood up, “you have to get the box. I know the Tombs is under lockdown, but the people who tried to kill you are going to try to get there first. I don’t know how many are coming, but if they get that case, Mia is dead.”

Jimmy turned to leave but suddenly turned back.

“One other thing,” he said. “The body of the priest … it was stolen from the morgue last night.”

As baffled as Jack was by Jimmy’s last comment, he brushed it off. He couldn’t imagine who would steal a body. Instead, his mind focused on Mia. He couldn’t fathom how he would get the case, how he would possibly penetrate the depths of the Tombs. And if he couldn’t …

Jack buried his head in his hands, drawing them down his face as if the action would somehow wash away his nightmare.

He finally looked up … Jimmy was gone.

F
RIDAY
, 3:30
P.M
.

F
RANK PARKED SEVERAL STREETS
away from Jack’s house, on Sniffen Road, only three hundred yards through the woods to Jack’s backyard. He had dropped Joy off at her office to see if she could uncover anything in Jack’s files that could lead them to Mia and picked his friend up on the corner of Broadway and John Street. Jack made no mention of his conversation with Jimmy Griffin, as Frank was already all over him for being spotted and racing off into the subway tunnels of Manhattan to get nearly killed. And besides, there was something about Jimmy that Jack couldn’t put his finger on. While he gave him some insight into Mia’s fear of the case and clues to what it held, he offered no further information that would really help him find her.

Against Frank’s opinion, they headed back to Byram Hills, circling Jack’s house to make sure there was no one there before parking on the other side of the neighborhood. Jack had a suspicion, which he wouldn’t voice until he could get his hands on a file in his study. As pissed as Frank was, it was the only direction they could take at the moment, and everything aside, he trusted Jack’s instinct.

They ran at a fast clip along the old logging paths that had become the haven of hikers and kids on minibikes. There were no houses along the path, and with the summertime tree canopy, the chance of being seen was minimal. They came to Jack’s backyard and remained in the heavy shadow of the woods as they looked around, listening, seeing if there was any other presence beyond their own.

They both feared the FBI or worse descending on the house at any moment, if they weren’t already inside.

They looked at each other and in unspoken agreement sprinted across the backyard to the rear door of Jack’s workshop. They drew their pistols, quietly counted to three, and slipped through the doorway.

Jack’s shop had been turned upside down. What was once an impeccably organized workshop now looked like the twisted wreckage of a junkyard—tools everywhere, cabinets turned upside down. Handmade chairs were now splintered wood scattered across the floor; the tall doors of a dark cherry armoire hung wide open, revealing an empty interior.

The small workshop off his garage was Jack’s haven, his sanctuary. When the days became too much and the house full of females left him feeling outnumbered, he’d fire up the power tools and build himself a bookshelf, a stool, a puzzle box, whatever it took to clear his mind. Some people found peace through yoga or golf; he found it through Craftsman and Dewalt power tools, knotty pieces of pine, and brass hammers.

The three-inch-thick steel door on the five-foot-tall gun case was ajar, its lock drilled out. Jack pulled back the heavy door and glanced inside. The guns still lay there in their racks, the ammunition drawers sat wide open, yet nothing was missing.

Frank laid his finger on his lips and held his gun high. He and Frank bisected the door into the house. Jack gripped his pistol as he wrapped his other hand about the knob and slowly turned it pulling open the door.

Peering into the kitchen, he could see every cabinet open, food and debris scattered across the floor. Before Jack could make a move, Frank rolled into the kitchen, gun at the ready. He spun around, backing himself through the room. Jack came in close behind, his gun held high, his finger on the trigger.

Jack’s eyes were drawn to the picture on the floor, the one of Mia and the girls at the beach, honest smiles on their faces. He remembered that summer day last year as if it had just happened. He could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin, the smell of the ocean as its breeze tousled the girls’ hair. He remembered it all so well.

“Hey,” Frank whispered.

Jack snapped back to the moment to see Frank pointing his gun at the pantry door. He motioned Jack to take up a low position as he angled himself to the right of the doorjamb and, without warning, ripped open the door.

Fruck charged out. Frank leaped back, shocked, as the 150-pound dog nearly bowled him over before running straight to Jack.

“Jesus, you didn’t tell me you got a dog,” Frank said as he lowered his gun.

Jack opened the back door, hustled the dog outside, and closed the door behind him. “Sorry about that.”

Jack and Frank worked their way through the house, sweeping through the rooms: master bedroom, living room, study, basement. They were all ransacked.

“Whoever it was is long gone,” Jack said.

“What were they looking for?”

“The case. I’m sure they were pissed when they found out they snagged an empty one from the back of our car. Or maybe something of Mia’s that might point them in the right direction.”

Jack walked into the study and found that both his and Mia’s computers were missing, no doubt taken by the intruders, but he wasn’t too worried about that. The drawers were upended, the shelves swept clean of their pictures, books and mementos strewn on the
floor. Jack leaned down and picked up the file labeled
Keeler
that the intruder had tried to steal several hours ago before hurling himself in front of a tractor-trailer. It was a medical file, with X-rays, MRIs, and information packets on death. He picked up the center drawer, inserted it back into the desk, and tucked the file away, keeping it from Frank’s sight.

“Is that the file from this morning?” Frank asked.

“Yeah, it’s just my boring health records and physical. Whoever came here second didn’t seem to want it.”

“Then what were they looking for?”

Jack turned to a tall cherry-wood armoire, its twin doors wide open, its contents of books, papers, and trinkets on the floor, leaving nothing inside. The joints were smooth and pure; the dark cherry finish was his favorite and had taken almost a month to bring to its current gloss. Jack closed the left door, latching it up while leaving the right door wide open. He stuck his hands inside, and, placing them along the back seam in just the right spot, he gave a slight push. The lock sank, and the floor panel of the case popped up, revealing a hidden compartment. Like a magic box where the magician’s assistant disappears only to come back moments later, it was a trick box, a puzzle case, the kind of thing he was fond of building. Mia always mocked him. “Why build a box when you can build a
magic box?
Why build a chair when you can build a
trick chair
?”

He lifted the lid to reveal a host of files. He thumbed through them and finally found what he was looking for. The file was thick with his personal notes and research that he had gathered on a case eighteen months ago. The file was, in fact, a duplicate file, the original remaining in his city office, but he wasn’t about to go near there. The files were not of a secret nature requiring lock and key, but he preferred to tuck away anything that might frighten the eyes of curious children who loved to rummage through Dad’s things when he wasn’t looking.