“Do you understand that I need you?” Jack asked.
“You’ve always needed me,” she said with a smirk, falling into their yin-and-yang work mode. “Which you can show your appreciation for by getting me a nice big present for my birthday next week.”
“Don’t I always?”
Joy smiled, then got serious. “Let me see that tat?”
“The what?” Frank asked from the driver’s seat.
Jack rolled his eyes and rolled up his sleeve.
Joy smiled as she examined the tattoo.
“What’s so funny?” Jack asked.
“That’s not a tattoo, it’s henna,” Joy said as she ran her hand over the dark ink. “You’re lucky. It’s like the mehndi art that Asian woman get on their hands before they get married.” Joy couldn’t suppress a laugh.
“Joy…” Jack urged her on.
“In a few weeks, you’ll never even know it was there.”
“Great. Long sleeves in summer.”
“It’s better than long sleeves the rest of your life.”
She took hold of his arm, looking at him for approval. Without a thought, he nodded and she began turning his arm, examining it closely.
“This is intricate writing; it’s beautiful in a scary kind of way. A few of my goth friends would love this. Looks like some kind of a mix of Asian and Sanskrit.”
“Well, how do we get it translated fast?”
“Not going to be easy on the Friday of the long Fourth of July weekend.”
“Check with the universities, Columbia, NYU, Yale. I really don’t care what you have to do, Joy.” Jack’s voice grew stern as he handed her his BlackBerry with the scan of his arm.
Joy shrugged it off. She understood the fear running through Jack, the fear he felt for his wife. She had always tended to combat stress with humor, some of it dark; it helped keep her mind from slipping into a black hole of pain that she knew would be hard to extract herself from.
She began working the phones, calling in favors, reaching out to academia, to the professionals they so often called on to render expert testimony. She had always been resourceful, street-smart; it was what allowed her to thrive in school, in work. She was tenacious beyond compare and could pull a rabbit out of a hat if the occasion called for it.
And right now, the occasion called for it more than ever.
“Did you ever give her that necklace?” Joy asked without looking up from the BlackBerry.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Last night, actually.”
Joy nodded. “That’s a good thing, then. Timing’s everything.”
“What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“Jack gave a speech at a UN Peace Council dinner a couple of weeks ago. It went over very well, mainly because I helped him write it. As a token of appreciation, they sent him a beautiful necklace. Their new representative, Manirak Coulhuse-”
“Marijha Toulouse,” he corrected her.
“Right. His council was quite enamored with Jack.”
“It was just a speech, and it’s just a necklace,” Jack said, his tone ending the conversation.
The blue necklace had arrived Monday in an elegant box with a personal letter.
Jack was at once hesitant; he had a deep-rooted fear of compromise. Beware of strangers bearing gifts rang in his ears the moment he became an assistant DA.
Jack had shared the handwritten note with Joy, having her confirm that the simple gift was truly an altruistic gesture with no implications that could compromise him politically, ethically, or morally. They had discussed returning it, but Joy had pointed out that it was an honorable gesture, and if Jack refused to accept it, it would be seen as an insult and an affront. So they created a paper trail, a detailed file documenting the gift, Jack’s speech, Joy’s research, and the Peace Council. And just before dropping the note in the file, Jack had read it once more: Dear Mr. Keeler, On behalf of our committee, I would like to thank you for speaking at our dinner, and while I did not have occasion to attend, I heard you were an inspiration to all. This necklace is a token of our esteem; it represents peace and love, healing and long life. Though you may not subscribe to its religious implications or symbolism, you should know that it is given with the wishes of what it represents and we would consider it an honor if you would accept it. It is something that is worn by the men of my Asian culture, but understanding your customs, perhaps you would not find it fitting with your mode of dress, though it may be more suited to your wife, her tastes and style. You would honor us by giving it to her, affording her our blessing for being the wife of Jack Keeler.
Jack sent a note back, thanking Toulouse and the council for their generous gift, and had scheduled to meet with him next week as a gesture of appreciation.
Jack had looked at the blue stone necklace thinking of the copper bracelets that arthritics wear, believing in their unproven healing properties; he thought of the Star of David, of the Buddhist yin and yang, and of the holy cross. He reached up and fingered the cross around his own neck, thinking about how he had survived bullets, car crashes, and near drowning… And hoped that maybe the blue necklace Mia wore around her neck would somehow impart the intent of Marijha Toulouse: peace, love, and, most important, long life.
CHAPTER 16
Mia sat on the edge of the bed, feeling hopeless, the sounds of the city droning in through the locked door.
There was a heavy click of the dead bolt, and the door opened, the sounds of the city growing louder as a tall man stepped into the room. He held a silver tray with a steaming etched kettle of water and blue china cups, along with a plate of pastries.
The man’s skin was smooth like porcelain, the tone dark. His long black hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, hung just past his shoulders, which filled out a black pinstriped suit. He placed the tray on the table as someone pulled the door closed and the latch was reset, sealing them in.
The man pulled out a chair, sat, and crossed his legs as if in ceremony.
“Good morning,” he said in a subtle Eurasian accent. “I’m sorry about your confined accommodations.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned over the two china cups, picked up two small metal sieves packed tightly with tea leaves, and placed them in the cups. Grasping the kettle in his large hand, he poured the steaming water over the leaves, making a rich, hot tea.
There was a refinement to the man, in the way he talked, in the way he moved. He was precise, with each word spoken in perfect diction; the simple movement of his hand was slow and deliberate as he prepared the tea. With similar precision, he reached into his pocket, withdrew an envelope, and placed it on the table next to the tray.
Throughout the ritual, Mia remained silent, studying his every action. Beneath the tailored Savile Row black suit, there was no doubting his size, his broad shoulders, his powerful hands.
Mia sat there in shock as she recognized him. As impossible as it was, Nowaji Cristos was standing there now. And while she knew of the atrocities he had committed, what he was capable of, these were not what scared her the most.
“You should have no worries for your safety,” Cristos said. “I have very strict instructions not to kill you.”
Cristos smiled at Mia. A pregnant pause hung in the air.
“But I should make you aware, I’ve never been one who listens to orders or instructions. I follow my own path; if I don’t get what I want by dawn tomorrow, I will kill you all.”
With his manicured hand, Cristos pushed the elegant white envelope toward Mia, and without further word, without explanation of what was going on, without asking a single pointed question, the man stood and walked to the door. He gave it two sharp knocks, the door opened, and he disappeared. The door closed behind him, leaving Mia, once again, by herself.