Richard Doetsch - Half-Past Dawn

“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

…”

“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.

Of little note, unless one was familiar with the workings of the judicial system, was the function of sublevel five. With its central location to the courts, it had become the natural repository for the district attorney’s evidence room. Five stories belowground, it was like a modern dungeon, secreted in the earth, carved out of Manhattan Island’s bedrock.

Jack and Mia walked through the cavernous granite and marble lobby, a single black evidence case under Jack’s arm.

Desk guard Larry Knoll’s eyes lit up upon seeing him. “Mr. Keeler.”

“Hey, Larry,” Jack said warmly. He tapped the black evidence case. “I’ve got to see Charlie. Is he down there?”

“Is he ever not down there?”

“Good point. How is your wife?”

“Great, thank you. Daria’s getting fat with our first.”

“Congratulations.” Jack laughed. “Never heard it put that way. There is nothing better than kids. Keep me posted.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Larry hit a button, and Jack and Mia walked through the security gate and headed to the elevator, the doors open awaiting their arrival.

“Fat with her first?” Mia repeated with a laugh. “Do you know every cop in the city personally?”

Jack smiled. “Hardly. If I could, I would, though.”

Mia rubbed Jack’s back. “Once a cop, always a cop.”

Jack and Mia rode the car down and arrived in a small vestibule. There was a couch and two small chairs, their soft design in sharp contrast to the iron door and adjacent Plexiglas window on the far wall, its three-inch bullet-proof design distorting Charlie Brooks’s round face like a carnival mirror. The small window revealed the head and shoulder of the sixty-year-old man who had been the facility’s gatekeeper for twenty-two years.

“Whoa,” Charlie said with a smile, his voice tinny and hollow through the small speaker. He glanced down with an arched brow at his lap. “If I knew the big cheese was coming down, I would have worn pants.”

Jack smiled as he pulled Mia toward the glass into Charlie’s view. “Charlie, I’d like you to meet my wife, Mia.”

“I beg your pardon.” All sense of mirth fell out of the old guard’s face as he looked at her with contrite eyes. He quickly stood up in a chivalrous greeting while making a point to show his clothed legs. “I always wear pants to work.”

The door lock fell back with a thud as a loud buzzer echoed through the halls.

Jack pulled open the heavy metal door and ushered Mia into a small hall, the door crashing closed behind him sealing them in the confined space. The small room was adorned with a metal desk; in the corner was an ancient cathode-ray TV atop a VHS player, its cable line draped along the ceiling, disappearing into a conduit. And while the room and its accoutrements were of a prior century’s vintage, the computer setup on the desk appeared to come from the future, off of some starship: three flat-screen monitors, images of an elaborate file system on one, a security monitoring configuration on another, and the third displaying a picture of Jack with his fingerprints and statistics below. It all sat before Charlie, who was far larger than Mia expected. At six-two, the older man, in his crisp NYPD blues, looked as if he didn’t need the protection of all the security or the 9mm pistol on his belt to fend off any intruder.

Jack laid the metal box on the table against the wall.

“How can I help you, Mr. Keeler?” Charlie’s voice had taken on a forced formality.

“It’s a lock box, highly sensitive case.”

Charlie looked between the two of them as he began to type it into his computer. The evidence-tracking program came up.

“You need to do me a favor,” Jack said as he laid his hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Don’t log it into the system.”

Charlie slowly turned and looked at Jack, his tone saying far more than the question he uttered. “How are we going to track it?”

Jack stared back, his eyes speaking volumes.

“Suppose something happens to you or me,” Charlie said slowly. “How’s anyone going to know where to look?”

“We’ll just have to make sure nothing happens to you or me.”

Charlie paused a moment, his mind working. “This isn’t some elaborate way to hide Christmas presents or anything, is it?”

Mia smiled. “If the three of us tuck it away, there shouldn’t be any problem.”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You know I can’t let her beyond the gate-”

“She’s FBI,” Jack said.

Mia reached into her purse and flashed her credentials.

“You know that carries no weight.” He nodded to Mia. “No offense.”

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.