"Just tell me where you are,
Tell me where you love
Without leaving at all,
And I'll go."
Part Two | Clues
The station is no longer quiet. They have lost one of their own, everyone is humming with electricity trying to search for clues. There was a footprint in the blood, a trail leading out of the building. The other Ds suspect she was caught off guard, struck on the back of the head from behind, and that is why there appears to be no sign of a struggle.
Dov has seen her blood before. Just two days ago while she was cooking something in their apartment, Chloe sliced her finger on the serrated edge of a tin can lid. Red covered the kitchen, as did the many expletives spilling from her mouth. He had bandaged her up, kissed her wounded skin, until she finally cracked a smile.
He is not there now to soothe her, and it kills him. It is killing him, slowly, not knowing where she is, and it is killing him, quickly and without trepidation, that they are nowhere near close to finding her. They are supposed to be police officers, detectives, special forces. Why have they not been able to find clues yet? Why is she still out there, wounded and missing?
Chris has kept him far away from the madness, but he can hear Oliver screaming to the other officers every now and again, his shaking voice reverberating around the entire station. He has already broken the news to Frank who is on his way down. Dov wonders if he should phone Nick. Chloe and him are still close. The soldier would probably want to know his best friend has been abducted.
Making up his mind, Dov pulls out his mobile phone and finds Nick's name in his list of contacts. It rings a few times before a groggy voice picks up.
"Dov?"
"Uh, yeah, hey Nick," Dov pants, his voice trembling. "How is everything in Vancouver?"
He does not low why he is opening with that. He doesn't care about Vancouver. But the alternative is ruining Nick's night, is being forced to explain the whole story for the umpteenth time since she disappeared, and he will do whatever it takes to stall for just a few more seconds.
Nick laughs quietly. "It's good. My turn to wake up and feed the baby. Jules is sleeping like a rock in the other room."
"Good, good. How is the little guy?" Stalling. Stalling. Stalling.
"Did you really call me at three in the morning to ask about my life? I saw you three weeks ago. Not much has changed."
Dov contemplates saying yes, and then hanging up, but Nick deserves to know. He loves Chloe like a sister. He needs to know.
"Um, no. No, no I didn't. Look, Nick, Chloe was attacked earlier tonight in the station after her shift. She's gone—gone missing." Dov coughs. His throat is tightening and he can't have that. He's supposed to be strong right now so he can help if he is needed.
The young police detective can hear Nick's sharp intake of hollow breath. He only hopes the man does not drop his child.
"Is she okay?" Nick asks.
Dov wants to shout no! of course she isn't okay. She's been taken. She's bleeding. She's probably dead. But he refrains.
"Um, we really don't know. I mean, they might, but I don't. No one's really telling me anything. She was hit before whoever it was took her. Her blood is everywhere in the women's locker room." He whispers the last part. Not intentionally, but because he cannot bring himself to say it any louder.
"You need to help find her, Dov," Nick almost begs. Grown men should not beg, but Dov has found himself begging a God he doesn't even know if he believes in to make sure the love of his life is okay, so he can forgive Nick for doing the same. "You're an amazing detective. They could use your help."
Ha. Nick talks as if he suspects Dov hasn't already tried that line.
"I can't. I'm personally connected."
"Screw personal connection. Go find her. Bring her home."
For the wildest reason he does not even begin to analyse, Dov can think in this moment only of the musical Chloe dragged him to a few months ago. Les Miserables. He had been forced to read Victor Hugo's novel in high school and since then had refused to ever see any adaptation, but Chloe has doe eyes and she knows how to use them. "Bring him home" is the only line from the musical he remembers, sung in such desperation and agony that it practically pierced Dov's soul.
A quiet cry interrupts his thoughts and then Nick is saying he needs to go, the baby has awoken. Dov shoves his phone away and begins to pace the lounge, stopping short when he notices Sam and Traci walking quickly toward him.
"We've found something," Sam says. "I need you to come with me."
—
He and Sam are at a house. Dov doesn't know why. Sam didn't talk to him on the ride over.
When the detective first approached him and told him to follow him, Dov thought for sure they had found Chloe's dead body floating in some pond, but then Swarek drove him to a random house.
"Why are we here?" he asks as his boots clonk on the wooden floor.
Swarek is hunched over a picture frame, flashlight in hand. He tilts his head up momentarily to frown at Dov before returning his attention to the object on the small table by the door. "Because," he says, picking up the frame and turning it over, "our jewellery thief had a partner."
Swarek does this. He says things and expects your mind to understand, to put the tiny, jagged pieces he gives you together. But either Dov is not very smart, or Swarek really does make no sense, because the poor detective is confused.
"What does that mean?" Dov is getting angry. He is getting tired and frustrated, and he is worried out of his mind. "Swarek," he barks when the senior officer does not acknowledge his question. Sam abandons the picture frame to Dov's fleeting satisfaction. "What does that mean?"
Swarek clicks his tongue. He does that too. Andy has said before that the habit annoys her, that it makes her feel as though her husband doesn't care, and Dov agrees.
"Look, kid, an officer saw a guy matching the partner's description entering the station. I don't know how he got to the women's locker room if the officer is correct, but it's a lead worth following. This is his place."
A lead worth following. Code for it's our only lead.
Dov is sweating through his gym clothes. He is technically off duty, but Oliver told him not to worry about that, he'll take care of it, so he is doing his best to ignore how naked he feels in a suspect's home without his gun. Deciding standing around is doing nothing to calm him, Dov takes a few steps forward, completely alert. Then, he stops. The board beneath his right foot feels as though it is getting ready to snap under his weight. There is a gentle creak that echoes through the room. He removes his foot, eyes locked on Swarek, who has abandoned the picture to see what Dov has found.
"This board isn't supported by anything. It's hollow," Dov says, crouching down. His adrenaline is pumping. "Find me something to wedge it open."
Sam goes into the kitchen. Dov hears him opening and closing drawers. Silverware clinks objects together, making ringing noises that hurt Dov's ears. He already has a headache. A migraine. He does not need this too.
Swarek returns seconds later with a large screwdriver and a hammer. He hands them off to Dov, who takes both and wedges the screwdriver in the crack of the floorboard. Firmly holding the hammer, he whacks the smooth end against the back of the screwdriver until there is a considerable amount of space between boards. Chucking the screwdriver to the side, Dov flips the hammer, placing the claw beneath the thin wooden plank. He pulls and pulls, holding his breath, until the slate finally gives way.
On the other side of him, Sam lifts the board quickly. He throws it across the room before pointing his flashlight over the hole they have just made in the ground.
Dov peeks down, afraid something may jump out at him. He has been on edge since he came off shift, but now is the time to truly be wary. Inside the hollow gap Dov spots a box. He glances at Swarek hastily with his eyebrows raised. When his superior nods, Dov sinks his hands into the floor and pulls the box out.
"Careful," Swarek warns, "you don't know what could be inside there. It could be booby trapped."
Heeding Sam's words, Dov cautiously grabs the lock holding the metal box's lid in place. "Should I just smash it?" he asks, adrenaline pumping through his blood. He is shaking, badly, but he tenses every muscle to hide the fact.
"Yeah. No point in wasting time looking for a key. We've got a warrant."
Nodding, Dov takes the hammer in his free hand, releases the lock, and bangs it as hard as he can until it breaks. Sitting back, the young detective inhales a deep breath. He wishes momentarily he had thought to bring his inhaler. Once his mind is partially clear—as clear as it will get while the love of his life is missing—Dov slowly opens the lid. Its hinges creak, and the two detectives peer inside, their lungs frozen.
Dov hears Swarek's gasp, but it sounds as though it is coming from a crackly speaker miles away. It is broken and disjointed. A loud hum rings through his ears as he stares blankly at the contents of the box.
In the background, Dov registers Swarek talking into his walkie.
"Dov," he hears the older man say. "Epstein," he says next, grabbing Dov's shoulder.
Hazily, Dov catches Sam's eyes.
"Epstein, backup is on its way," the man says. "This is good. This will help us find her."
Staring down at the pictures scattered in the box, Dov can think only thing: Earlier, at the jewellery store where they found the gorgeous, shaken woman who was working that day standing in a pile of broken glass, they hadn't interrupt a robbery.
They had interrupted an attempted kidnapping.