Disclaimer: I don't own Crossing Jordan or any of its characters.
Author's Note: This is the first time I've ever posted a beginning without having written at least the first draft of the end. What that means for you is that I probably won't be as fast as I usually am with updates because I actually have to write them in between. Reviews are always appreciated and usually make me update faster. Enjoy.
"Talk to me, Nigel," Woody ordered playfully as he shuffled into the trace lab. Today was his first day back and he had hated every minute of it. For the most part, he had been confined to desk work and would be so confined until he could get around without his cane. His doctor predicted he would be back in full working order in another six weeks. After spending nearly two months in the hospital, Woody was more than ready to get back to active duty. In the meantime, he was suffering pitied looks from his colleagues and playing errand boy for guys he used to send to do errands for him.
That's what he was doing at the morgue now. Hanson, a cop six years his junior, had sent him to pick up an autopsy report. Nigel turned when he heard the door swing open and launched right into his discoveries during the autopsy.
"Elizabeth Michaels, twenty four," he said, handing the report to Woody, "died of blunt force trauma. She was hit right there on the back of her head." Nigel traced his finger along the computerized image of Elizabeth Michaels' skull. Woody squinted at the injury. He was no doctor or a forensic expert, but he'd been in the game long enough to recognize what he was seeing.
"Looks like the butt of a gun," he suggested.
"Yes it does," Nigel confirmed, "I don't suppose any of your guys found such a weapon at the crime scene."
"You suppose right." Woody smiled and turned to leave but before he could make it out of the trace lab his phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out quickly and identified himself to the caller.
"This is Hoyt." Without meaning to be nosey, Nigel listened to Woody's end of the conversation. His voice was calm and controlled, serious and professional and it was obvious he was talking to a senior officer. "Yes sir," Woody said respectfully, "1327 Rosamun Street….Yes sir, I'll be there…yes sir….thank you, sir." When Woody folded his phone shut, Nigel pretended he hadn't been listening, but Woody, knowing Nigel's curious nature, filled him in anyway. "Kidnapping," he explained. "Someone's taken a baby from an apartment downtown."
Nigel's face fell at the mention of a kidnapping and Woody was suddenly hit with the memory of the last kidnapping they had worked together. Although it had been months since they had been duped by Nigel's ex-girlfriend, he still carried feelings of resentment and bore the scars of betrayal. Woody gave his friend a tight smile, thanked him for the autopsy report and headed for the elevator.
x x x
Woody pulled his car in front of 1327 Rosamun Street between two police cars; one marked, the other not. He took quick glance around the apartment complex before entering. It was a tall and commanding building. It looked only a few years old but he couldn't remember seeing it during its phases of construction, even though he passed it almost everyday. Inside he was greeted by an elderly doorman with "Hank" engraved on his shining name plate, and a young beat cop with no name tag, but who Woody knew as officer Moonie from the seventeenth precinct. He clapped the young man on the shoulder and tried to assess the situation before diving in.
"Do you know what's going on here?" he asked Moonie, "I mean, if there's no homicide, what do they need a homicide detective for?" When the chief had called and given Woody the address he had been curious about why he was needed for the case, but he knew better than to question brass. Moonie shrugged and pointed his thumb towards the ceiling.
"What the lady wants, the lady gets" he smiled, and then turned from Woody to greet one of the building's residents as he came through the revolving door.
Waiting for the elevator Woody wondered just who 'the lady' was. The knowing look Moonie had given him suggested that both he and Woody knew her, but Woody certainly didn't know anyone who lived in this building. No one he knew, apart from a few business criminals, could afford to live here. The expensive tile floor beneath his feet had been polished to a shine and he could see his own blurred reflection under his shoes. The halls were painted a rich cream and were lined with beautiful sconces that probably cost more than Woody's suit. They gave off a warm and comfortable glow but somehow, the lobby still felt cold.
Stepping off the elevator and looking for apartment 1407, Woody bumped into the woman who lived in 1402. She smelled of money and although she smiled politely before taking Woody's place in the elevator, he decided right away that he didn't like her. He gave her a quick glance over his shoulder as the elevator doors slid together and Woody wondered if she had heard what had happened to her neighbor's child. He made mental note to drop by and speak with her later.
The door to apartment 1407 was also being guarded by a young beat cop, but this time Woody didn't recognize him. He flashed his badge in the officer's direction and after receiving the nod of approval, entered the apartment. On the other side of the door was a sea of blue uniforms and cheap suits. On a sofa on the far side of the room a teary eyed woman sat giving a statement to the detective crouched before her. The man sitting beside her wrapped his arm around her protectively but offered nothing to the detective. The parents, Woody thought.
He quickly scanned the other faces in the room and found 'the lady' Moonie had been talking about. Standing with her back to him, in the semi circle created by six fellow police officers was the district attorney. He wondered briefly why she was here. Customarily, her role in this case would come long after his. Then, as if she could sense his presence, she dismissed the officers around her and turned to Woody.
"Detective Hoyt," she said and made her way to him. She glanced briefly at his cane and looked for a moment as if she might comment on his recovery. Woody was glad when she didn't. He'd heard enough of that already. Instead she held up a photograph for Woody to see. "This is Grace," she started. "About forty five minutes ago a man with a gun burst into this apartment, threatened Grace's nanny and took the baby from her crib. The nanny placed a call to 911 at seven thirty-two and police were here within five minutes. So far we have officers canvassing the building to see if anyone saw anything and we're working on getting a description from the nanny."
When she finished Woody nodded solemnly. She had given a good description of events, but Woody was still curious why she was briefing him as opposed to another officer. Perhaps the baby was the child of a friend. Renee Walcott looked like the type of woman who would have friends in this building; fellow attorneys perhaps, or some other high profile business people. Still not sure of his role in this case, Woody smiled nervously and tapped his cane against his foot.
"Miss Walcott, I don't mean to sound rude or anything," he started, "but why am I here? I mean I'm a homicide detective and I'm supposed to be on a desk." The district attorney nodded and folded her arms across her chest.
"Detective Hoyt, look around this room." Woody did as he'd been instructed but he wasn't sure what he was supposed to see. The room itself was sleek and modern with cold, hard edges and stale, harsh colors. If it weren't for the play pen in the corner or the high chair in the kitchen he would never had guessed that a baby lived here. When Miss Walcott didn't go on, Woody observed the people in the room. His fellow officers were milling about with their hands in their pockets or their arms folded over their beer bellies. They spoke in hushed tones through their mustaches about the Red Sox and the weather and waited for instructions. Each of their faces was weathered by sun and the horrors their jobs had shown them. Their eyes were sagging and lacked the shine they had had as rookies.
"Do you see those guys," the district attorney asked him finally. She wasn't talking about one specific group of officers but referring to the entire room. "Every one of them is probably operating under the assumption that Grace is dead or that she will be by the time we find her." Woody noticed the way she used the word 'we' and wondered again about her interest in the case. Perhaps it was related to a case of her own. "I realize, Detective, that you and I have had our differences in the past," she continued, giving him a knowing look as she alluded to the Malden and Montgomery cases. "But I know you are good at what you do. You haven't been around long enough to become as jaded as your colleagues." She cast her arm about the room and forced a smile. "As a detective, you come highly recommended, Hoyt, and as a person, I have complete faith that you won't give up until you bring Grace home alive."
Woody blushed. He wasn't sure if she was just stroking his ego or if she really believed the things she'd said, but it didn't matter. A child was missing and with a quick nod of his head, Woody vowed to find her.
He shifted his weight on his cane then and turned to the man and the woman on the sofa. He gestured to them with his thumb and looked upon them with pity.
"Those the parents?" he asked, even though he knew they were.
"That's her father, Eddie Thomas," the district attorney explained. "He got here about fifteen minutes ago. And the woman is Sophie Carver. She's the nanny." Woody nodded sadly before craning his neck to see overeach of his shoulders.
"Where's mom?" he asked when he could find no other women in the room. Miss Walcott looked up at him then and suddenly Woody understood. The fierceness that usually roared in her eyes had been replaced by something darker, something sadder, something almost hopeless.
"Right here," she said quietly. She tapped her index finger against the center of her chest to indicate just where 'here' was. "Grace is my daughter."