the 13th Hour (2 page)

And as they lay entwined, in the afterglow of the moment, the sheets in a ball at their feet, they both lost sense of time, of where they were, of whatever worries they faced in the coming day, taking comfort in each other's embrace.

With the sunlight dancing upon the white pillows, Nick finally rose from the bed, stretching his toned body to full alertness, and caught sight of the small table on their porch.

Despite her own lack of sleep from too many hours at the office, Julia had risen to prepare breakfast and set the wrought-iron table on the private, second-floor deck just off the sitting room. There was bacon, eggs, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and skillet cake, all fixed and silently carried up from the kitchen as he'd slept.

In nothing but underwear and T-shirts they ate as the sun began its climb in the summer morning sky.

"Special occasion?" Nick asked, alluding to the meal.

"Can't I just welcome you home?"

Nick smiled. "After that first course, a dry bagel would have been more than enough."

Julia smiled back, her look warm and caring, but there was something else there, a hesitation in her eyes.

"What did you do?" Nick asked with a chuckle.

"Nothing." But her voice and the slight dimple rising on her cheek said otherwise.

"Julia . . . ?"

"We have dinner with the Mullers tonight at Valhalla," Julia said quickly.

Nick stopped eating as he looked up. "I thought we agreed we were staying home."

"They're not so horrible." Julia smiled a disarming smile. "I really like Fran. And come on, Tom's not that bad."

"When he stops talking about himself. If I hear one more word about how much money he makes, or what kind of car he just bought--"

"--He's just insecure. Think of it as a compliment."

"How could I possibly think of his yammering as a compliment?"

"He's trying to impress you; he obviously cares about your opinion."

"All he cares about is himself." Nick cleared his plate, placing it on the large serving tray. Julia grabbed the remaining dishes, stacking them atop his.

"I thought we made plans together, not for each other," Nick said.

"Nick." Julia grimaced. "We couldn't get reservations until 9:00."

The moment was suddenly lost as a tension grew between them.

Julia picked up the tray and walked to the door. "It's Friday night; I just wanted to go out."

And she slipped back inside the house, leaving Nick standing there alone.

Nick walked inside, through the sitting room and into his bathroom, shutting the door, turning on the shower. He stepped in, hoping the cool water would wash away his suddenly foul mood. He hated wasting time with superficial friends, those whose thoughts never ran deeper than the menu.

Fifteen minutes later he was dressed in his favorite Levi's and a polo shirt and walked back into the room to find Julia dressed and heading for the door. She had transformed from his sexy wife to a businesswoman in a black skirt, Tory Burch shoes, and a white silk blouse. She picked up her purse, throwing it on her shoulder, and looked at him.

"I think we should cancel," Nick said calmly, in an almost pleading voice. "I really just want to be home."

"You'll be home all day," she said.

"Yeah, in my office working, trying to finish my report," Nick said a little too quickly.

"Why don't you work out? Go for a run. Relieve some of that stress. I really want to go out tonight. It will only be two hours, we can even skip dessert."

"Like that will make the evening any more bearable." His dismissive tone came out as a challenge.

"Just do it for me," Julia said as she walked to the door. "You never know, it might turn out to be a good time."

"What about me? I've been on too many planes to count, and we both know how much I love flying. I'm lucky to know what state I'm in."

"Nine o'clock."

"I don't want to."

"Nine o'clock." The anger was beginning to show in her voice as she walked out. "I'm late for work."

"Fine," Nick exploded, his voice echoing through the room and down the hall.

Her only response came ten seconds later with the slamming of the back door, the thud shaking the whole house.

It was the first time in months that a morning had ended badly. The days were always supposed to start with hope and optimism before being pulled into an abyss by the trials and tribulations of work.

And all at once he regretted his rage, regretted parting at odds over something so trivial as a dinner date. There was always tomorrow, there was always Sunday. He tried her on her cell phone but there was no answer, and rightly so.

T
HE LIGHTS OF
the interrogation room flickered on and off, the windowless space falling in and out of a pitch-black dark before the overhead fluorescent light settled back into its pale dim glow.

"Sorry about that," Dance said. "The generator's been running over nine hours now. It's seen better days."

He settled back in his chair and tilted his head. "You a Yankees or Mets fan?"

Nick just stared at him, amazed that he would ask such a question, considering everything going on.

"Jeter just hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth to beat the Red Sox, six to five." Dance shook his head, seeing Nick's lack of interest, and reached into his pocket.

A second man had joined them and had yet to say a word. His chair was tipped back against the wall as he pushed a few strands of out-of-place hair from his face. Detective Robert Shannon was an unfortunate stereotype, his muscled body crammed into a black short-sleeved shirt two sizes too small, accentuating his arms and chest. His black Irish hair was slicked back, and there was a small scar on his chin. His slate-blue eyes were angry, accusatory. He was spinning an old-fashioned billy club in his hand, tossing it back and forth like a miniature baseball bat, as if he were some beat cop out of 1950s New York. Nick couldn't help thinking the guy was already convinced of his guilt.

Dance pulled a small Dictaphone from his pocket, held it out, and hit play.

"Nine-one-one emergency?" a woman's voice sang out.

"My name is Julia Quinn," Julia's whispered voice said. "Five Townsend Court, Byram Hills. You have to hurry, my husband and--"

The phone clicked off. "Hello," the operator said, "Hello, ma'am?"

And Dance clicked off the recorder.

"She made that call at 6:42," Dance said. "May I ask where you were?"

Nick remained silent. Not out of defensiveness but because he was afraid that if he spoke he would break down. Hearing Julia's voice only magnified his pain, the suffering that infused his heart.

He knew exactly where he'd been at 6:42; he was still in his library working, he had been there most of the day except for grabbing a few Cokes and Oreos from the kitchen.

The gunshot had startled him from his concentration, his hearing grew suddenly acute, and, as if he had been on some delay, he finally bolted up from his chair. He ran out through the living room, through the kitchen, to the mudroom, where the back door to the garage hung wide open.

He couldn't understand why Julia had left the door open again. He saw her purse on the floor by the coat hooks where it usually hung, its contents scattered on the floor. And as he crouched to pick it up he finally saw the blood dripping down the white wainscoting, his eyes trailing it down to see her black skirt, her long leg, her foot in its yellow Tory Burch shoe sticking out by the back stairs, her body, her face concealed by the lowest steps.

And in that moment, all the air left his lungs as he collapsed to the floor. Shaking uncontrollably, he rubbed her leg, calling to her, whispering her name, knowing she would never answer him again.

After a minute, his heart all but dead, he finally looked up, to see his best friend standing over them with tear-streaked eyes. Nick released her leg and rose to his feet. Marcus laid his hands upon Nick's shoulders, holding him back from advancing toward Julia's upper body, putting all 220 pounds of what was once muscle into keeping him from a sight that would haunt him till the end of days.

As Nick fought his best friend to get near his wife, a scream of anguish finally poured forth, filling the small room before dissolving to silent tears, the sounds of the world falling away to nothing as the reality of the moment set in.

They waited at Marcus's house next door, silently sitting on the front steps for over an hour before they heard the sirens announcing to the neighborhood that something horrible had happened. It was a sound that would be with Nick forever, for it was the sound track to his tragic loss and the prelude to the unthinkable nightmare of accusations that were about to begin.

The gray-haired man stuck his head into the room, again. "His attorney's here."

"That was fast," Dance said.

"The wealthy don't wait," Shannon said, speaking for the first time, as he tipped his chair forward and stood up. His eyes bore into Nick as he headed for the door.

"Let's go." The gray-haired man waved his hand, ushering the two policemen out.

The door closed with a loud clang behind them but reopened not thirty seconds later; Nick's heart hadn't even had a moment to slow.

The man walked in as if he owned the room, tall, polished, with an air of wisdom and calm that displaced some of the terror that had enveloped Nick for much of the last several hours. His hair was dark, flecked with gray, silver highlights at the temple; his eyes were sharp and focused. His face was weathered from life, character lines etching the tanned skin about his eyes and forehead. He was dressed in a double-breasted blue blazer and sharply creased linen pants, his yellow silk tie set off against a pale blue shirt, all of it combining to display a man of refinement and taste. He even smelled rich.

"They already took most of you, eh?" the man said in a deep European-sounding voice as he pulled out a metal chair and took a seat across from Nick.

Nick stared at the man, confusion filling his eyes.

"Your wallet, keys, cell phone, even your watch," the man said, looking at the pale stripe on Nick's bare wrist. "They slowly strip your identity, then they take away your heart, and finally your soul, until you'll say whatever they want you to say."

"Who are you?" Nick asked, the first words he had spoken inside the confines of these walls. "Did Mitch send you?"

"No." The man paused, looking about the room, assessing it and Nick at the same time. "With the case they have against you, an attorney is the last thing you need. He'll charge six hundred an hour, give you a bill for half a million, and make you feel like you owe him as you sit in your prison cell doing twenty-five to life."

Nick stared at the elegant man, even more confused. "Mitch is on his way. I've got nothing to say to you."

The man nodded, exuding calm, as he laid his arms upon the table and leaned forward.

"I understand the crippling grief you must be feeling. It's horrible that they don't even allow you a moment of mourning before they start trying to steer you into a confession." The man paused. "When did justice start to become about winning and losing, an us-against-them mentality, instead of the revelation and uncovering of truth?"

Nick looked the man up and down.

"Have you seen the file on you, their case?" the man said. "It's detailed; I doubt they'll even offer you a plea deal."

"I didn't kill my wife," Nick finally said.

"I know, but that's not how they see it. They see motive, the weapon," the man said, casting his eyes at the gun sitting in the middle of the table. "They're hoping for a confession to avoid the extra paperwork."

"How do you know?"

"They'll spend twelve hours slowly wearing you down getting you to confess to avoid the weeks of meeting with the DA for months of trial preparation." The man paused. "You'll be convicted, spend the rest of your days in prison, mourning the death of your wife, always wondering what really happened."

"So, if you're not an attorney, why are you here?"

The man's warm eyes remained fixed on Nick as he took a deep breath, his chest expanding before finally exhaling.

"You can still save her."

Nick stared back at the man, the words not making sense. He leaned closer for clarity. "What?"

"If you could get out of here, if you could save her, would you?"

"She's dead," Nick said with confusion, as if the man were unaware of the fact.

"Are you sure?" the man said, looking more closely at Nick. "Things aren't always what they seem."

"Are you saying my wife is alive?" Nick's voice cracked. "How? I saw--"

The man reached into the inner breast pocket of his Ralph Lauren jacket, pulled out a sealed letter, and slid it across the table to Nick.