The call came at 11:14 PM, which was the worst time for a call to come, because Anaya Rao had just taken her shoes off.
"Evidence pickup," said the dispatcher. "Old Union rail yard, east side. Detective Bell is on scene."
"What kind of evidence?"
A pause. "A watch."
Anaya laced her shoes back up.
The rail yard had been dead for twenty years. Rusted boxcars sat in crooked rows like teeth in an old mouth, and the October wind came through the gaps with a low, hollow whistle. Two patrol cars had parked with their headlights pointed at a single spot of gravel between the tracks.
Detective Marcus Bell stood at the edge of the light, hands in his coat pockets. He was tall and tired-looking, the kind of man who had seen too many crime scenes to get excited about one more.
"You're the lab tech," he said.
"Forensic technician," Anaya said. "Where is it?"
He nodded at the gravel.
It lay face-up, perfectly centered in the light, as if someone had placed it there for a photograph. A gold wristwatch with a brown leather strap. Expensive. Old. The glass was not cracked. The strap was not torn.
Anaya crouched, camera first. Click. Click. Then she leaned closer.
The hands were stopped at exactly 9:00.
"Whose is it?" she asked.
"Engraving on the back says H.V. — 40 years of service." Bell's voice was flat. "Harlan Vos. Retired judge. His daughter reported him missing two days ago. Said he went out for a walk Tuesday night and never came home."
"What time Tuesday night?"
Bell looked at her for the first time, really looked. "Around nine."
Anaya slipped the watch into an evidence bag. It was heavier than she expected. Cold, the way metal gets when it has been outside too long.
She turned it over under her flashlight, and that was when she saw it — something the engraving almost hid. A tiny mark, scratched into the gold by hand. Not a letter. A number.
9.