*
"Checked the hospital records from the last ten years -- no Jane Does match her description."
Martin slid the files across the table as he walked in with the new recruit, Kathleen Astor. Jack kept her under silent scrutiny, as he did with each new recruit, and shared a look with Martin who assured him she'd done well.
"Viv's with the father and ex-boyfriend, so I want you two scouting out the homeless shelters and, geez -- alleys, even."
He watched them go, flipped open his phone and asked Vivian for some good news.
"I can't say good, but if I wasn't sure before, I'm one hundred percent positive she had every reason to leave with a father like that. Guy's a liver failure waiting to happen. Ex-boyfriend's decent, seems like he genuinely cared about her, but I don't think she really let anyone know her -- he didn't know she was planning to leave. Said she was probably better off, though."
"You believe that?"
"No."
"Well, we'll decide that when we find her."
"Right. Jack, we're not getting any leads are we?"
He hesitated before he spoke, "Nothing yet, but I've got Martin and Kathy out at the homeless shelters, Danny hitting up the restaurants, grocery stores, bars, clubs -- someone has to know something, Viv."
"She might not even be in the city anymore, Jack. This kind of thing --"
"I know, Vivian, but let's give it a few days, all right. If we don't find her, she's gone, Viv."
"She might be already."
"Then we'll deal with it if that's the case."
"All right. I'm going to hang out here for a little while more, talk to some of her former teachers, classmates."
"Okay. Check back in a couple of hours."
"Will do."
He clicked off the phone and gathered some files as he draped his coat over his arm. He had Danny covering the Lower East Side down to the Financial District, and decided to head himself to the Upper East and West sides, though he doubted very much she would be there.
Unless by some miracle she had acquired a small fortune over the last few years, he figured they might have more luck hitting the cheaper areas of New York City and venturing further away from Tribeca, SoHo, and really all parts of Manhattan -- heading into Staten Island and Brooklyn instead.
He hoped he was right.
*
"She'd look older than this now, but you get the idea, " Danny said, tucking the picture of Samantha into his coat.
"How old did you say she was?" The bartender asked, wiping down the countertop.
"She'd be 27 now, 17 when she disappeared."
"Shame. Bad home?"
"Always is."
"Sad eyes, " he spoke, putting a few glasses on hooks over the bar.
"Excuse me?"
"Sad eyes. She's got sad eyes. Think I seen a kid like that once 'bout six months ago. Lookin' for a job as a bartender, good money in it, you know? She was waitressing 'cross the bridge in Brooklyn Heights. Had a cheap apartment in Bedford-Stuyvesant. I gave her some advice."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah -- told her to get the hell out of Bed-Stuy -- dangerous place for a young, pretty, white girl like her to be. Told her to get out, find a nice place in Battery Park or East Village, but figured she couldn't afford it. She could've gone to at least the Upper East Side and it would've been cheaper and safer, but, you know, sometimes they don't listen."
"Did she?"
He nodded. "She got a new place."
"She tell you where?"
"Near Central Park, I think -- south of Harlem. I don't know -- above Little Italy, she could be anywhere in between, far as I know, I wasn't her keeper or nothin', just shoved her along a little."
He held up a finger to Danny as he assisted a customer, then turned his attention back on the agent, making a Godfather as he mixed amaretto and scotch, dropped a few ice cubes and a small straw in the glass and slid it down the countertop.
Slinging his bar towel back over his shoulder, he spoke, "Anyway, like I said, she's got these sad eyes so when she looked at ya -- ya couldn't look away. She was one of the good ones -- I hope ya find her."
Danny put away his notebook.
"I hope so too, Mr. Anglin. Thanks for your help."
"No problem. Course, I guess they're the hardest to find, huh?"
"Who?"
"The ones who want to leave."
"Maybe she wants to come back."
"Yeah, maybe you'll get lucky, " he said and turned to his next customer.
"Yeah, " Danny said softly, paused, and walked away.
*
Tonight, she had off, so she'd spent the evening getting reacquainted with the city that had become both familiar and alien to her as the years passed. She knew the streets, knew them well, but she had found little comfort and refuge, save the number of friends from her apartment complex she could count on one hand.
She'd been lucky to get a break as a bartender because the money had started coming in, started coming in steadily for once, and she had been able to afford still only a one bedroom, but one in Midtown Manhattan; she felt happy that for once something had gone her way. She had dug herself out of the dumps she'd been in over in Washington Heights and Bedford-Stuyvesant, both of which lived up to the reputation of crime in New York City.
Once she'd found herself here in Manhattan, that image she'd always had in the back of her mind began to emerge and light started creeping in at the edges of the darkness she'd been trapped in since she'd come here years ago. Small light, of course, only tiny beams trickling in, but light nonetheless, light enough to give her hope.
So tonight she'd gone out, thrown on a Brooklyn hoodie, pulled tight around her head against the rain, her faded jeans, and old sneakers, and walked the streets of Midtown.
She stopped inside Morton's of Chicago on 5th Avenue for a bite, watched the people of wealth ease themselves into luxury and flaunt their monetary status as they displayed their worth on their fingers in jewelry and around their neck in expensive furs. They had a comfort she could only imagine and a greed she never wanted, but once, maybe, she thought she'd like to step inside Bloomingdales, Saks 5th Avenue, or even Prada, and walk out with something she could afford to say was hers.
It grew later, coming on 1 a.m. in fact, and she watched the city continue to move, though less occupied and slightly quieter, less hectic and noisy. She walked past numerous payphones on a daily basis, happened to tonight, in fact, and sometimes, even now, she wondered what would happen if she'd just pick up the phone, just pick it up and hear her mother and say she wanted to go home.
She didn't really no where home was anymore, didn't feel she belonged to anyone anymore, even herself. Only now was she settling into something she could only describe as the smallest degree of happiness, but there were by and large whole pieces to that perfection missing -- most especially...someone to love, someone to be in love with, someone to share herself with.
The buildings merged together as she walked until she finally stopped in front of one government building -- the FBI, in fact. Not too large, but large enough to announce its presence and she wondered how it must feel to be a part of that in even the smallest degree, to know you were doing something of importance rather than getting people drunk and cleaning up after them when they chose to forget their inhibitions and forget to be polite and well-mannered and human, really, and leave all their filth for her to clean up in their hotel rooms.
She dug her wet hands into her pockets, watched some lights go out and some remain on and wonder what they hovered over in the late hours of night, what case their frenzied mind worked to solve. She could only imagine some of the things they saw in there -- probably, she thought, some things she'd only seen in nightmares and they had to stare at photos of the atrocities humans were capable of inflicting upon each other.
As she stood outside, an agent happened to walk out and she pulled her hood tighter in an unconscious reflex to hide herself.
He noticed her and paused as he stood on the bottom step, stared at her a moment, unable to shake the familiarity of her face. He couldn't make it out completely, but her eyes looked like ones he'd seen once.
"You okay, ma'am?" He asked.
The rain masked her view, but behind the fog, she caught sight of his kind eyes and bit her tongue, resisting the urge to scream that she was anything but okay.
Instead, she tightened the straps of the tiny backpack she had strapped to her back and nodded.
"Just fine, " she said, feeling the lie burn as it slipped from her tongue.
"Where you headed?"
She shifted her pack, unsure why this man would be interested in anything she was doing.
"Home -- Midtown."
"By yourself?"
"Every night."
"It's late."
"Says the guy just leaving work at one in the morning, " she spoke, a teasing lilt in her voice. She didn't know why, but she felt an ease with him.
He shifted now, looked down the street.
"Big case."
"Good luck with it, " she replied, turning to leave and pausing to remark, "by the way, your collar's crooked.
*
The key slid in easily as she met her door. Her hand was numb from the steady rain outside and her body shook with bone weary coughs.
The sound of footsteps drew her attention as she pushed her apartment door in, slinging her pack inside. It was her neighbor, jogging up the steps. She'd met him a month ago when she'd moved in and he'd been friendly and nice, quiet, but kind, and they'd grown to be friends in their own way.
"Coming down with something?" He asked, turning the key in his lock as well.
"Yeah, " she said, smiling, "sick of work."
"Me too. But I got a new job."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'll tell you over a bowl of chicken soup tonight after work -- my last night at that crummy place, " he said, smiling.
"Oh, I wouldn't want to bother --"
"No, no. It's no bother. I was going to make some soup anyway."
She knew he wasn't, but she smiled. He had this innocence about him that made her think if she'd ever had siblings, he'd have been the younger brother she always wanted -- you just wanted to shove him under a blanket and keep all the monsters away; mostly, she wanted to because he had that look in his eyes that she once had and it was nice to see it again, nice to know it wasn't an illusion.
"All right, well, thanks Ted."
"Sure, Janet, see you soon."
She cringed a little every time she heard it. She didn't know why she still did it, but it happened nonetheless. This time, she'd become Janet Leblanc. Janet for her mother and Leblanc -- Leblanc for that movie that had already immortalized her, the Maltese Falcon. No one, she thought, would give it a second thought, and this way, she could keep a part of her past with her in some way.
She thought of the pain she'd endured over the years, what she'd been and done and the disillusionment she carried around of her own silly dreams. They had once seemed conceivable and now they seemed simply...like nothing more than dust.
But sometimes, what hurt most was that she'd forgotten the sound of her own name.
*
"You need a picture of me?"
Janet Spade eyed Jack warily, and even more so when he finished his request.
"A picture of you when you were between twenty-five and thirty," Jack concluded.
"That was a long time ago, Agent Malone." Mrs. Spade turned away, and Jack didn't miss the wistful tone that crept into her voice. "I'm not sure I understand."
"Forensic artists can do amazing things, Mrs. Spade. Using a combination of Samantha's picture and yours, we can age her photograph..it'll give us a good idea of what she looks like now."
Janet Spade bit her lip as tears stung her eyes. "What she looks like now..." A deep breath. "Okay. I think I have something that may work. Excuse me for a minute."
Mrs. Spade disappeared up her home's narrow staircase, and Jack caught a glimpse of himself in the small mirror that hung above the fireplace.
His collar, he noted, was perfectly in place, but glancing at it only reminded him of the young woman he'd seen the night before. Briefly, Jack tried to hold her in his memory, to turn the lilt of her voice and expression in her eyes over and draw out a conclusion, some reason for the familiarity that had washed over him as they spoke, but Janet Spade's descent back into the living room broke him out of his futile efforts.
She looked at him shyly before wordlessly handing him a small, dusty photograph. He smiled his thanks as his eyes dropped to the picture.
Poor quality couldn't rob the photo of its essence, of the quiet moment in time captured forever in a four-by-six inch prison.
Janet Spade's eyes, as deep and dark as they remained so many years later, were without barriers at the time the picture was taken. She looked as though she had just raised them to the camera, and her mouth was curved in the beginning of a surprised smile.
"Is that okay?" Mrs. Spade motioned to the photograph. "I was twenty-eight in that picture, but I may..I may have another, if that won't work..."
"This is fine, Mrs. Spade," Jack assured her, standing with the picture in hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." A quick smile, then her face grew serious. "I'd like...I'd like to see her, see her picture when it's finished, if that's allowed."
Jack couldn't recall standard procedure for such a request, and at the moment, he didn't care. "Of course. I'll let you know."
"Thank you. For everything," the woman clarified, as Jack stepped out the front door. "Two days ago, I didn't think I'd ever see my daughter again. You've brought me hope, Agent Malone."
All Jack could manage was a smile and a slight nod, because how could he tell her that she brought him hope, too? What words could he form to say that searching for Samantha Spade, the one who had caught his attention and never let go, had reinstilled in him a sense of purpose and reason and drive?
He couldn't, so he left Janet Spade behind and prayed that his actions would convey what his words never could.
*
"Table of Contents, huh?" Samantha had to smile at the eager expression on Ted's face.
"Yeah, it's really great. Kind of vintage-like, you know? The hours aren't bad, either."
Samantha nodded, idly stirring what was left of her soup. She couldn't help gazing out the window at the black city peppered with sporadic dots of light, and she tried to remember the last time she'd been as excited as Ted was now about...anything.
"Janet?"
She looked up automatically to find Ted gazing back at her curiously, and shook her head.
"Sorry. What was that?"
"Um, I said maybe you could come visit me sometime. You know, buy a good book..." He trailed off, leaving them in awkward silence for a brief moment until Samantha smiled.
"Sure. Let me know when you get settled in, and I'll drop by."
The relief in Ted's voice was apparent. "Yeah, great. I will."
More of the lights around the city had gone out, Samantha noted, and she stood slowly.
"I better go. Thanks for the soup, Ted, and congratulations on the job."
He walked her quietly to the door. "No problem. See you soon, then."
She felt his eyes on her back, watching her until she was enclosed safely in her own apartment, and she smiled, because even if it was just young, quiet Ted, Ted who had no trouble believing that her name was Janet LeBlanc and never questioned the brief stories she told him about her past, it was nice to know that someone, somewhere, cared.
*
"Viv? Yeah, it's Jack. Listen, I'm going to try something out here...I'm on my way to see Adam Gallagher...right, the artist. I want to see if he can age Samantha's picture, give us an idea of what she looks like now. Call Danny, will you? If it works, we'll need everyone to pick up an updated photo. Great. Thanks, Viv."
Closing his phone, Jack continued down the quiet hallway of the FBI's forensic office. Ducking into a small, darkened room, he was greeted warmly by slender Adam Gallagher, a middle-aged man whose life had consisted entirely of photographs and forensics, and the combination of both.
"Jack, hello. What can I do for you?"
"Got a case I could use some help on. Girl skipped town when she was seventeen, and that was ten years ago. Her mom asked us to take her case a few days ago."
Adam winced. "That's tough. Those for me?" The artist pointed to the two photographs Jack clutched in his right hand.
"Yeah, this one's the girl at seventeen," Jack handed him Samantha's picture, "and her mom at twenty-eight."
Adam studied the two photos for a moment before nodding. "Sure, I think we can work with these. Let me just load them into the computer."
Soon after, Samantha's face popped up on the screen.
"Since she's seventeen, her face is almost completely mature already," Adam explained to Jack as he made some quick changes. "We'll just slightly elongate a few features. Her eyes won't change," he clarified before typing a command into the computer. Janet Spade's photograph appeared onscreen next to Samantha's.
"Using her mother's features, we can fill in the rest," Adam said, and with a few more keystrokes, the picture was finished.
Jack couldn't speak.
The face was fuller, the skin darker, the expression more relaxed, but he knew without a doubt that the woman staring back at him was the same woman he'd seen the night before.
Samantha Spade.
It had been dark, and their meeting brief, but he knew.
He knew because her eyes had haunted him from the moment he saw her...from the first time he ever saw her picture..and as he gazed at the image staring back at him from the computer, he knew Adam Gallagher was right.
Her eyes hadn't changed.
*
TBC...