Ok, there you go. First chapter. Enjoy : )
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Chapter 1
Wednesday, November 14th, 2001
On Wednesday morning, Danny Taylor woke up before dawn and left the confines of his apartment to walk through the streets and around the city. He made a detour from his usual path to the office, feeling an indefinable energy pulling him in another direction and compelling him to lean against the guardrail− insisting that he saw what he normally tried very hard not to think of.
They all seemed to converge, at one point or another, to this particular place. It didn't matter if people were from the Bronx or Queens or Manhattan. Everyone came here to dwell on the moments no one could get away from; to remember that day, that morning, the clear blue September sky and the sun's distortion in the buildings across the street. To remember how calm, how impossibly peaceful that morning was.
As a consequence of his morning walk, Danny was the one who was handed their Missing Person's Unit latest case by a harassed-looking agent whose only preoccupation seemed to be to go home and sleep off a night's duty-induced headache. He got the tedious task of calling the police to run preliminary verifications on the accuracy of the story, and, though it was technically his boss's job to determine the plausibility of an authentic disappearance, Danny decided that case NY 7A-39151 would require the team's complete attention.
Outside, the first rays of light cast a dim glow over the city, and as he flipped open his phone to hit speed dial, he could not help but get caught in the view. He thought back, with sadness, to that hellish September day, feeling the same pain they all felt when they woke up with the certitude that something, here in New York, was different.
The towers were gone, and the city was scarred.
"Mmm− Danny?"
Jack's groggy and somewhat cautious voice on the phone brought him back to his immediate surroundings. Saving deep, philosophical considerations for later, Danny turned from the glass panels and dedicated his attention to the work at hand.
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"Bad news?" a feminine voice wondered as Jack Malone placed his phone back next to the key to room 327. In the light of day, the yellow-colored walls he hadn't taken much notice of the previous evening had taken a golden quality he could not help but compare to Samantha's blonde highlights.
She did little to hide the smile that spread on her face when he ran a hand distractedly through his hair, causing it to stick up at odd angles. Despite the seriousness of Danny's phone call, and the logical, rational voice inside him that wanted his mind to concentrate strictly on their new case, the part of him that had just spent the night with Samantha wished nothing more than to savor a few more minutes with her. Unable to take her eyes off her just yet, he allowed himself a last instant of undisturbed peace before he said succinctly, "We have a new case."
It was several moments before she looked away from his dark, inviting eyes, and jumped out of bed with newfound energy. She stopped in front of him, placed one hand on his still unbuttoned shirt and whispered, "Then let's go to work."
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"You were fast," Danny commented as Samantha entered the bullpen, her coat flung over her arm. She had the purposeful, vigorous walk of someone who has successfully filed away the previous case and is ready to move on to the next.
"No rest for the brave," she replied, skillfully avoiding a direct answer. She did not want Danny's profiling skills to turn to the reason of her early arrival, nor to the source of her morning optimism. Taking the time to give a long look at the picture on Danny's desk, she hung her coat, turned to her colleague, and inquired about the case.
Noting that she was doing a very good job lately at keeping her private life just that, Danny passed her the file he'd labeled NY 7A-39151. "His name is Mark Denkman, twenty-six years old, 6"2, about 160 pounds. He has light brown hair, brown eyes, and a distinctive scar at the base of the neck." He waited as she glanced at the picture for the second time, and went on, "He's a paramedic, failed to show up for a shift at 11PM last night."
"What precinct?"
"Fifth. The station's at the corner of King and Arthur." Danny made room on the central table, piling aside cold cases that would have to wait until this one was elucidated. "He lives at 388 Lafayette. It's at the corner of East 4th so we can safely assume he goes to work on foot. I already checked with the morgues and hospitals; they have no record of him and he doesn't match any John Doe's description."
Samantha, catching a glimpse of Vivian and Jack across the hall, quickly scanned the police report. Mark Denkman's supervisor had been the one to call it in, putting emphasis on the fact that Mark was usually very punctual. The police had visited his apartment but found no sign of a forced entry and everything in order. The absence of security cameras on Mark's apartment building would make it difficult to determine the time of his departure, but Samantha was convinced the neighbors would help, or that they'd be lucky enough to find him sprawled on his sofa after a night out.
The wave of optimism running through her once again gave her pause. Since when did she believe cases to be so uncomplicated?
Danny capped the marker after he finished tracing out the timeline they would be using, and she hung Mark Denkman's newly printed picture on the board. Together, they waited for Vivian and Jack to settle around the meeting table. Jack's eyes stopped briefly on Samantha, but he focused back on work before either of them let their personal feelings get in the way of their professionalism.
Once both he and Vivian had caught up with the information Danny had gathered, Jack questioned, "What about the family?"
"Mark's grandmother Josephine Denkman is in town. Born in 1924, married in 1943, widow."
"Parents?"
"Deceased."
Vivian, who had been listening attentively up to this point, chose this moment to take part in the discussion. "Cell phone?"
"We can't locate it. Either it's turned off of Mark's not in New York anymore."
"Anything else that stands out?"
Pleased that the question had been asked, Danny nodded. "I ran a quick history and found no middle or high school records for David, which is strange."
"Ok," Jack said, taking charge. "Danny, since you're a step ahead of us, I want you to dig further into this guy's background. Run the usual: bank accounts, phone lines, DMV. And try to find those missing records, they've got to be somewhere. When you're done, talk to Mark's supervisor. Viv− question the grandmother, there's nothing like family to help with background. Samantha," he decided, "We'll go to Mark's apartment."
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Outside, the air was satisfyingly warm, but a slight breeze blew Vivian's hair to the back of her head. Nourishing the hope that their missing person would be found alive, she realized that more than her own, it was the well-being of her colleagues that she cared about. The team could do with a happy ending these days. Their previous case had not particularly ended well, and the last couple of months had been emotionally draining. She was aware of the weariness behind Danny's outward detachment, and how his eyes too often stopped on the gap between the buildings not too far away. And if lately Samantha and Jack were more discreet in their displays of emotion, Vivian suspected them to be equally disillusioned.
Coming to an intersection, she stopped walking and observed her surroundings. No one could pretend things were still the same. More, if possible, than the background view, the foreground had changed. Everyone seemed on a constant lookout, waiting for something to happen and not knowing, in the meantime, what to think or feel. A part of this city, Vivian believed, was stuck in the past− living in the present while reliving over and over again the events of that September morning. And lives were stretched across the fabric of time, hearts aching from a loss so deep it was gradually becoming irremediable.
What happened to you? she mentally asked of the picture she'd brought along. Mark's features still held that bit of teenage innocence not uncommon for a man his age, but beneath it she sensed an underlying maturity and gravity she could not pinpoint the origin of.
His grandmother would have the answers, Vivian figured. Arriving in front of a three-story building, she looked up to double-check the address. Josephine Denkman, 616 East 110th, second floor. If the size of the entrance hall and the number of mailboxes were any indication, her apartment would be no bigger than most people's living rooms.
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Danny ushered Mark Denkman's supervisor into one of the interrogation rooms and closed the door. The chief wasn't as young as he once had been and the hair around his ears was grayer than it must have looked a few months before, but he looked like the kind of person who'd give his life for his men, and you had to have respect for a guy like that.
Opening the notepad he'd taken along, Danny forced his mind on the business that had brought them to this room. "Did Mark meet trouble over the course of the last few weeks? Disgruntled patients, resentful colleagues, accidents; anyone acting strangely around him?"
"Yeah, sure. There are always angry guys out there, y'know how it's like. Someone gets shot, they don't want to be taken to the hospital; you get domestic violence cases and angry husbands, blah-blah… But I can't remember anything in particular. Mark's a great guy," the chief said matter-of-factly. "He's the hard-working type, never late, never complains. I'm tellin' ya, something happened to him."
Jotting a few notes down, Danny considered with sympathy the man in front of him. He sensed no deception, just heartfelt concern.
"Has Mark mentioned any friends or family to you?"
"He has a grandmother in Manhattan, I think. Other than that… apart from the guys at the station, I've never seen him in anyone's company."
"How well do you know him?"
The man seated on the other side of the table frowned slightly. "I'm their supervisor, not their best friend, agent Taylor. When Mark came to me five years ago I knew he'd make an excellent paramedic, and I made sure he trained with the best. He gets along well with everyone at the station, and he likes the Yankees, which suits me just fine."
Danny smiled indulgently, making a mental note not to mention this to Vivian. "Why did he become an EMT?"
"You mean, does Mark Denkman have some deep, dark secret in his past that would explain why he works the graveyard shift in this neighborhood to make less than he would cleaning toilets at Shea?" A humorless note passed in the chief's eyes, and there was unmistakable cynicism in his voice. "I'm just he does, just like ninety percent of my guys. He just never told me what."
"How about 9/11?"
The chief's piercing stare studied Danny for a moment, his mouth tightening imperceptibly. "What about it?"
"How did it affect Mark?"
There was no answer. When he sensed he'd hit a wall, Danny closed his notepad, leaning against the back of his chair. It wasn't the first time he was faced with this reaction. No one was comfortable breeching this subject. In truth, neither was he.
"Did Mark−"
"I don't see how this is related to his disappearance," the chief interrupted bluntly.
"You'd be surprised," Danny said quietly. They'd had many cases in the past few weeks that were linked, directly or indirectly, with 9/11. People thought, and therefore acted, differently. Nothing was superficial anymore. New Yorkers suddenly had these layers to unravel and they had this deepness you hadn't cared to notice before.
Sighing, Mark's supervisor looked at his hands, and then, as if recognizing the necessity of the question, moved his eyes back to Danny. "I lost some of my men, and the others… they changed, sure. They're still coping, just like everyone else. But I don't honestly think that Mark not showing up for work last night has anything to do with it."
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Samantha took in the classic, messy bathroom and smirked at the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. How typical of a single guy, she reflected, simultaneously noticing the useless laundry basket and the empty bottle of soap near the washbowl. She went through the rest of the room's potential sources of interest, but found nothing that indicated Mark Denkman had been hurt, on medication, drugs, or hiding anything worthy of being investigated. The bedroom was better decorated than the bare walls of the bathroom and it had a distinctive male vibe, but nothing out of the ordinary stood out.
"Samantha, how often do you turn off your phone?"
She turned to look at Jack, who had emerged from the living room with Mark's cell phone. "Not often."
"And how often do you leave your apartment without it when it's in plain sight on the kitchen table?"
Her eyes narrowing with curiosity, she replied, "Never."
"It was turned off. The only calls Mark received this morning were from his grandmother, his boss and the police," he explained. "We'll have to check the rest of the calls when we get back. There's no evidence of foul play but everything from the unopened bills to the unwashed dishes indicates that he left in a hurry. The TV's still on standby and there's plenty to eat in the fridge."
"And he hasn't done laundry in a while, so I don't think he was planning on packing clothes and going somewhere," Samantha added, turning on the laptop on the desk. Meanwhile, Jack moved to the wooden chest near the window and began searching through the drawers.
Samantha quickly estimated that the list of emails on Mark's computer was irrelevant. "The only person he seems to be communicating with is his grandmother, the rest is spam," she informed Jack. "He's lucky a woman her age has Internet access."
"What's the date on the emails?"
"Mmm… they go back to last week. Josephine Denkman was inviting him for lunch on Sunday." That was four days ago, and it wouldn't help them much. "Are you finding anything?"
Jack shook his head, closed the last drawer and removed his gloves. Turning off the computer, Samantha suddenly had the sinking feeling that this new case wasn't going to be as easy as she'd anticipated, and her optimism began to fade. What they'd found, or more precisely what they hadn't found, only confirmed what the landlord had told them: Mark was a calm and quiet resident. As the exaggerating occupant next door had put it, their missing person could have won the neighbor-of-the-year award.
Moving to stand beside Jack, Samantha glanced at the world outside the window. It had the brown, green and yellow colors so characteristic of late fall, but the sky that stretched over the city was undeniably grey.
"It's going to rain."
"Yeah," Jack replied absentmindedly. Something else had caught his attention, his eyes carefully inspecting the contents of the bedside table. He took a couple of steps and picked up a blank notepad, holding it to the light. Coming closer, Samantha read at the same time as he did the scribbled notes that had been taken on a now absent sheet, but that had left carved marks on the top remaining one.
"Fulton Street," Jack read aloud.
Mentally researching the address in the complicated map of Manhattan she'd memorized over the years, she wasn't surprised when Jack did the same and declared, "That's not very far from the office."
She acquiesced. From Fulton Street, you could hit Broadway and from there, go to City Hall Park.
Or you could reach ground zero.
Meeting Jack's similarly disturbed eyes, she suggested in a quiet tone, "It could be a rendezvous point."
"Could be," he held her gaze longer than strictly necessary, smiling unexpectedly as their shoulders brushed.
But in spite of the warm feelings working in close proximity with him stirred in her, Samantha felt what was left of her optimism disappear. Pleasant as Jack's company might be, it did not change the fact that they had practically no leads to work from, and that Mark Denkman's life might well be hanging by a thread.