Half-Past Dawn

by Richard Doetsch

  Frank turned his attention to the enormous crane that sat mid-span, its cable line disappearing into the churning river below, where a small pocket of bubbles turned into a froth. An enormous man, six-four, at least 220 pounds, emerged from the water, climbing up the bank. He removed the regulator from his mouth and pushed his dive mask up onto his head.

  The two men nodded to each other.

  “I hate this,” the man said in a deep voice, pushing his wet blond hair from his face.

  “I know. Anytime a rescue turns into a recovery, it’s heartbreaking to all.” Frank avoided the man’s eyes, hoping his deception would not be evident in his face. “Look,” Frank said slowly, pausing as he formed his words. “I need a favor, and I need your discretion.”

  Frank had known Matt Daly for twenty years. He was local, part of the fabric of the community. He had retired from the Byram Hills police force at the ripe old age of thirty-nine and owned a local bar called GG’s North. He still responded as part of the dive team whenever the need arose.

  “Discretion…” Matt nodded. “There’s a word with implications.”

  “The people in this river are family.”

  “I think it’s safe to say they’re everyone’s family.” Daly looked up at the horde of people on the bridge.

  “I know, everyone feels that way, but to me and my wife, they really are family. Do you know how long it will be before you recover the bodies?” Frank asked, knowing that the recovery effort would never yield a soul.

  Daly inhaled. “I’ve got six guys working the river. The current’s rough, the bottom’s rocky. They could be anywhere between here and a half-mile downriver in the spillway. There’s no way to know.”

  “If you had to make a guess…”

  Daly knew something was up but didn’t ask. “It could take an hour, it could be twenty-four. There’s no way of knowing. It’s one of those things I wish I could get over with but dread the final goal. Do you want to tell me where you’re going with this?”

  “I need you to call me when you find their bodies. Jack’s parents found out by seeing the morning paper. I don’t want them seeing it as another breaking news story. They deserve a modicum of respect.”

  Daly nodded. “You still have the same cell number?”

  “You think maybe you could keep me updated on your progress?”

  “Of course,” Daly said as he looked at Frank. “We both know there’s far more to this than a car accident and what you’re telling me.”

  Frank inhaled, his face speaking the truth that his words couldn’t say.

  “Good luck, then,” Daly said in all sincerity.

  Daly turned to see his team of divers climbing out of the water. He slowly counted heads twice before looking up at a man in a hard hat who stood by the crane. Daly gave him a thumbs-up, and within seconds the low rumble of its engine grew. The winch engaged and slowly began to spool up. All eyes were glued to the heavy wire, watching in anticipation, fearful of what they would see but unable to avert their eyes. And then the water started to churn, and in near slow motion, the trunk section of the white Tahoe emerged from the water, rising like a rebirth. As more of the vehicle emerged, the extreme damage began to sink in. The right side of the SUV was crushed in as if someone had taken a giant sledge hammer to the door panels. The driver’s side was demolished. The car continued to rise out of the water until the last bit of its front end was revealed and it began its fifty-foot climb into the sky. Frank could almost hear the gasps as the front accordioned section was seen; the windshield was missing, as was the driver’s-side door. Water cascaded out of the doors, out of the crumbled front end, like a waterfall, as the car ascended toward the bridge.

  As Frank headed back up the embankment, he knew they would never find a body; he knew they would be working through the day and well into the night before they concluded what he already knew. Jack’s and Mia’s bodies weren’t in the water.

  • • •

  Jack sat in the passenger seat of Frank’s Jeep. With the car sitting far back from the activity and with Frank’s license plate still possessing the police tag IDs, no one paid the vehicle any mind. Jack had tucked his black hair under a dark blue Yankees cap. He chose to avoid sunglasses, the preferred “disguise” for those who wanted to remain anonymous, but as he knew, the effect was the antithesis; it called attention to the individual, made him appear either suspicious or famous or, at the very least, someone who deserved a second glance.

  Jack’s confusion was even greater since he’d left his parents’ home. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more, seeing his tearful mother or his father sitting watch over his daughters. He had remained silent for fifteen minutes after rushing from the house. Jack almost mentioned seeing his father, as Frank knew their relationship, the harsh words his father always threw his way, the distance between them. But he thought better of it. He’d deal with his father later.

  Despite the fact that his kids were at his parents’ house, despite the fact that his father was watching over them, he had Frank call his friend Ben. The ex-military man who didn’t suffer fools had taken up position at the beginning of the single access road that led to his parents’ house. His car parked on the side, he would remain there until Frank gave him the all clear, ensuring that no one got near Jack’s girls.

  A surreal feeling filled Jack as he watched the distant crowd standing in collective grief for his and Mia’s purported deaths. He had never imagined his own wake or funeral, who would attend, what people would say with his passing. He was never one of those who fantasized about being eulogized, having his friends or some priest stand at the pulpit extolling his virtues, his accomplishments and example in life. He always wondered why people never expressed their true feelings for one another while they were alive, instead of waiting to say the kindest things when they were no longer able to hear it, when they had left this earth for their final reward.

  Truth be told, Jack’s faith had wavered; he no longer clung to the notion of an afterlife. His life and career, all of the death and cruelty he had seen, made him question the existence of God. On the other hand, while she was not outwardly spiritual, Mia’s unspoken convictions had been strong since she was a child. She knew of Jack’s diminished beliefs, which is why she bought him the crucifix that had hung around his neck for the last twelve hours in the hopes that it would bring him protection, instill him with faith, ensure God’s beneficence upon him. As he thumbed the talisman around his neck, he refused to attribute to it the fact that he had survived being shot and nearly drowned, but if it had somehow played a role, then he hoped the blue necklace he had given her was equally, if not more, imbued with spiritual protection.

  In this moment, Jack swore he would believe in anything if it would save Mia. He’d believe in the power of the cross, he’d believe in God, in the afterlife, in Elvis… whatever would ensure her survival.

  The thrumping engine of the crane pulled Jack’s attention back to the recovery effort. He watched his white Tahoe rise over the bridge guardrail, the crane slowly swinging about, the SUV dangling, swaying back and forth as the construction vehicle guided the wrecked truck over the flatbed that lay in wait. He could hear the metal twisting, screaming in protest, as it was lowered onto the tow truck. The crumpled front end was a reminder of how lucky he truly was. He didn’t just survive the bullet wound, he survived a vertical car crash, he survived drowning, being trapped within an SUV coffin. While he had recaptured most of the memories of the night before, he had no recollection of what had happened after hitting the surface of the water. His mind was truly blank.

  He watched as the crowd followed the Tahoe’s journey, watched as it was secured to the truck. There were no murmurs, no gasps, the only sound being the grinding of the crane’s gears and the gentle sobs of the people who had individually and collectively concluded that Jack and Mia Keeler were dead.

  And as he continued to watch, he could see their individual faces. Joe Gasparri, the newest member of the
DA’s office; Margo Libreros, his tough-as-nails lead prosecutor; Stanley Boil, the rumpled veteran who refused to retire. There were cops, local officials, and people in mourning he didn’t even know.

  But the sight that struck him the hardest, the one person he felt ashamed for deceiving, stood there alone, off to the side, silently weeping, tears running down her face. She made no effort to wipe them away, allowing them to pour down as if they would somehow wash away her agony.

  Joy had been his assistant for twelve years and had come upstairs with him to his current position as DA. She was everything that made him successful; she kept him timely, organized; she knew his faults and weaknesses and always countered them, never allowing the outside world to know of her boss’s shortcomings. She was like the sister who always kept him in line, kept his ego in check if it ever got out of control after winning some big case or being featured in the newspaper.

  And as he looked at her, at her forever-young face, at the black purse he had given her for her birthday slung over her shoulder, his head began to pound, his heart suddenly racing as his emotions built up inside him. Last night’s rage and anger and fury filled him once again.

  His mind began to open. He felt the memories coalesce. Joy’s pain, her suffering and tears, and, in an odd way, the purse on her shoulder sparked it all. It was as if his brain was suddenly on overload. Thoughts, feelings, images, and memories from two days earlier poured forth as if it had been minutes ago, as if it was always there, in the forefront of his mind.

  Jack remembered.

  CHAPTER 13

  WEDNESDAY, TWO DAYS AGO

  It was Wednesday, 11:00 in the morning. Jack was staring at Joy, her eyes blue and clear, unmarred by tears and sorrow. Her wry smile flashed the usual I-told-you-so as she handed him a file.

  “I told you to take the Richmond case file with you last night.”

  “I went straight to the conference room this morning.”

  “Mia leave you on empty again?” Joy laughed.

  “You could have brought the file upstairs to the conference room.”

  “You could leave ten minutes earlier in the morning.”

  Jack handed her back the file. “A lot of good it’s going to do me now.”

  Without missing a beat she took the file and handed him the newspaper and a new file. He raised his eyebrow in question.

  “You need to read up on the polling numbers,” Joy said. “And the Times didn’t paint a very flattering picture of your first term in office.”

  Jack opened the file and glanced at his morning campaign brief. Although it was only June, the political prognosticators and the soothsaying polls had already projected his defeat in November. His opponent had raised more than double what his coffers held, most from the power brokers who had funded him four years ago. While many thought elections were up to the voters, they were really won with dollars and a theme.

  While Jack had achieved much in three and a half years, there was no compelling theme to hang his hat on. Everyone needed buzz, every politician needed a defining moment that could be boiled down to a catch phrase that thirty million dollars could disseminate into the hearts and minds of the thirty-two percent of the public that pulled the lever on election day.

  With his thoughts on more significant matters, Jack snapped the file closed and headed into his office.

  The high-ceilinged space was the largest on the floor, as was fitting for the man who oversaw the prosecution of the New York City’s crimes. The wood-grain walls matched the forty-year-old chipped and scarred desk that sat before the large picture window. New York Harbor’s panorama was brightly lit under the summer sun, the vast waterway dotted with freighters and barges heading in and out of the local ports. A handful of sailboats piloted by those lucky enough to have the day off cruised the waterway, their sails filled with summer breeze.

  Jack removed his jacket and draped it over his chair, loosened his muted blue-striped tie, and stared out at the view, regrouping after his early-morning trial conference, knowing he had a long day ahead. He finally looked at the New York Times and skimmed the article about his successes and failures in his first term, along with the odds against reelection. And as he turned, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

  Sitting on the couch was the last person he ever expected. She had only been to his office once in all the years, and that was when she needed his signature on the legal papers to refinance their mortgage.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mia said. She was sitting on the old, cracked leather couch, dressed in a long black pencil skirt and white shirt, far more fashionable than any FBI agent he had ever known. On the couch next to her was a long black metal box.

  “Friggin’ Joy,” Jack said with a half-laugh. “She could have mentioned you were in here.”

  Mia smiled. “I told her I wanted to scare you.”

  “Well, you succeeded.” He laughed.

  He walked over, leaned down, and kissed her gently; it was a rare day when they saw each other in the morning, their divergent schedules pulling them in different directions. He hoped their lives would once again fall into sync but knew that was years off with both of their careers in high gear. “By the way, thanks for leaving me on empty.”

  “Sorry…” Mia smiled that get-out-of-jail-free smile, the one that always released her from Jack’s anger. She had him so wrapped up in her heart that she could remove his limbs and he’d still forgive her with a thank you and a returned smile.

  “Not a very nice article,” Mia said as she pointed at the newspaper in Jack’s hand.

  “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers,” he said as he tossed the paper into the garbage. But then his eyes filled with sudden concern at her unaccustomed presence. “Are you all right?”

  Mia nodded as she stood from the couch. “Yeah.”

  But Jack could see that she wasn’t, his eyes falling on the case on his couch.

  Mia walked to the window, looking out at the harbor. “You know, we never did properly christen this office.”

  Jack looked at her with raised eyebrows, glancing out through the open door at Joy, who was busily typing, hoping she didn’t hear Mia’s suggestive comment. He quickly closed the door.

  “Hmm. You like that idea.” Mia turned around and sat on the windowsill, her long legs exposed even more, a glint of mirth in her eyes. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “Mia,” Jack said with a smile, “as much as I would like to mark the occasion four years after the fact, as much as I would like to see the rest of those legs, I know you didn’t come here for that.”

  “I need a big favor.”

  “You don’t need to preface it.”

  “I need you to put this evidence case in the Tombs.” Mia pointed to the box on the couch.

  “The FBI evidence room isn’t good enough?”

  Mia didn’t answer.

  Jack looked at her, his concern growing. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  Mia shook her head.

  Jack walked to the couch and picked up the case. It was a standard one-foot-by-three-foot evidence case, akin to a bank lock box. It was hinged along the short side, a single cylinder lock on the near end. The top was stamped FBI 7138.

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  “It’s best you don’t know.”

  The moment hung in the air, a host of unasked questions floating around the room. They both had secrets, things in their jobs that they didn’t share: cases, investigations, rumors. It was the nature of their jobs. Jack and Mia had always been open and honest, even speaking those truths that are sometimes hard to hear. It was the foundation of their love. But in their careers, while often sharing war stories, tales of success and failure, advising each other as spouses so often do, there were aspects that they couldn’t talk about.

  “Mia, I’ve never questioned you, never told you what to do with your job.” Jack stared at her. “But if you can’t trust your own people

&
nbsp; …”

  “I don’t tell you how to do your job, Jack.” There was a hint of stress in Mia’s voice. “Can’t you just help me without a lecture?”

  Jack took a long breath and relaxed. “I’ll have Joy bring it down-”

  Mia shook her head. “I don’t want anyone else to know.”

  “OK.” Jack nodded. “I’ll bring it down myself after lunch.”

  Mia continued to stare at him, the same look she gave him when he said he’d take the garbage out, the look that said it couldn’t be done on Jack time, it had to be Mia time. It had to be done now, preferably five minutes ago.

  Jack walked out of his office and thirty seconds later returned with a case nearly identical to Mia’s but without the FBI sticker. “You’re going to need to swap the contents of your box into one of mine.”

  Mia nodded. “Now?”

  “You can do it on the ride over. We’ll take the Tahoe.”

  Jack grabbed his suit jacket from the back of his chair, put it on, and straightened his tie. He picked up both metal boxes and walked out of his office, Mia two steps behind.

  “Joy,” Jack said to his assistant, “Mia and I are going to run and get a quick bite to eat.”

  “Well, that’s a first,” Joy said. “You guys have worked ten blocks apart for all these years, and in all that time, it was like you worked in different states.”

  Joy stared at the two large boxes under Jack’s arm, then looked into her boss’s eyes. They both knew that lunch was not really on the agenda.

  The Manhattan Detention Complex was located at 125 White Street and had a level of security that rivaled the New York Federal Reserve, where one of the world’s largest gold stores resided only a half-mile away. But the contents of the Tombs were far from precious metal. The primary function was as a jail for holding criminals with pending cases in the adjacent courts, although it also functioned as a maximum-security prison for several of the country’s most notorious criminals, from terrorists to serial killers. It was rarely spoken of, as both liberal and conservative voices would seek to have the facility shuttered for humanitarian or not-in-my-backyard reasons. The facility was actually two adjacent structures that rose eighteen stories into the Lower Manhattan skyline and extended down eight additional floors into the island’s granite substrate. Configured with multiple checkpoints, electronic security, video, and nearly impenetrable walls, the Tombs was considered one of the most secure locations in the country. Without incident, it was a place of no hope for the incarcerated, as no one escaped the Tombs, ever. It was a place fittingly called a mausoleum for the living.