Chapter 23
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Ravenswood, Illinois
The temperature had grown colder and the air more brittle. Gray clouds had thickened overhead like a heavy blanket, blocking what little sun had managed to penetrate the winter gloom. Scattered snowflakes drifted down, melting instantly when they touched the still-warm pavement.
“Think this boyfriend is significant?” Drake said as they resumed their seats inside the vehicle. He started the engine.
“Possibly. Pretty young girls tend to pick up boyfriends easily at that age. But a guy who will date a woman with three young kids? Way less common,” Flint replied. “Let’s talk to the neighbors.”
The Kline house sat on a tree-lined street three blocks from the convenience store, its brick facade and neat landscaping reflecting middle-class stability.
A modest two-story colonial with white trim and shutters painted forest green.
Children’s toys were scattered across the front porch while the yard was well-maintained even during the dormant season.
Flint knocked on the brightly painted front door.
A woman answered while pulling her brown hair back into a practical ponytail.
Dressed in well-worn jeans and a University of Illinois sweatshirt with a coffee stain near the left shoulder, she looked like a soccer mom although she was probably a grandma by now.
Behind her, Saturday morning cartoons played in a living room painted warm yellows and blues.
The smell of pancakes and maple syrup wafted through the doorway.
“Mrs. Kline? I’m Michael Flint, this is Alonzo Drake. We’re private investigators looking for information about Lisa Peterson. Ahmad Patel at the convenience store suggested you might remember her.”
“Yes, I remember Lisa.” The woman’s open, friendly expression grew cautious. “She lived down the street with her three children. Tragic what happened to her.”
Flint gave her a friendly smile. “We’re working for her children now. They’re trying to understand their mother’s life here in Ravenswood.”
Mrs. Kline’s face softened. “Those poor children. They were so young when she died. Please, come in. Younger than my grandkids are now.”
The living room reflected comfortable chaos.
School papers and children’s artwork covered the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchen, colorful magnets holding them in place.
Toys occupied strategic corners where they’d been hastily gathered during the morning cleanup routine.
The couch showed the gentle wear of constant use, with cushions that countless family movie nights and homework sessions had shaped.
“What would you like to know about Lisa?” Mrs. Kline asked after offering them a seat on the couch.
“Mr. Patel mentioned Lisa had a boyfriend during the winter before she died,” Flint said. “Do you remember him?”
“Sure. He was tall, maybe six feet. Dark hair that looked like he cut it himself.” She closed her eyes as if she were visualizing him. “Strong looking, with callused hands like he did physical work for a living.”
“What else can you tell us about him?” Flint asked.
Mrs. Kline’s face brightened as the memories returned. “My kids took to him immediately. He played basketball with them in our driveway sometimes, teaching them how to shoot free throws. Very patient with the younger ones.”
Flint waited to encourage her to continue.
Her eyes seemed to be focusing on details from years past. “Always polite during our conversations. I remember thinking Lisa seemed much happier after he started coming around.”
“What was his name?” Flint asked.
“Lisa just called him Frankie. But she did formally introduce us when they were walking past with the children,” Mrs. Kline said. “The last name was long. Italian, I think. Might have started with a T. I can’t really remember. I’m sorry.”
“Do you remember anything else about him?” Drake asked.
“He drove an old pickup truck. Blue Ford, I think. Sometimes he’d help Lisa carry groceries from the store or fix things around her apartment.
” Mrs. Kline’s gaze turned inward as she sifted through more old memories.
“He was unusually good with her children. Most men that age don’t have much patience for small kids, especially someone else’s kids.
But he seemed to genuinely enjoy spending time with them. ”
“How long were they together, Frankie and Lisa?” Flint asked.
“Maybe three or four months. Started around Christmas time, and then poor Lisa died the following March.” Mrs. Kline’s face grew sad, the happiness of remembering good times overshadowed by the tragedy that followed.
“I always wondered what happened to him. He just disappeared after the accident. Never saw him anywhere else in town.”
“Do you know where he lived?” Flint asked.
“It was a long time ago.” She shook her head.
“Are there any photos of him?” Flint asked. “Maybe from holiday gatherings or neighborhood events?”
Mrs. Kline considered the question. “You know, Mrs. Kowalski might have some. She lived upstairs from Lisa and was always taking pictures of the children playing together. She loved documenting everything.”
“We can certainly follow up on that,” Flint replied.
Her face brightened. “Actually, I remember now. She invited Lisa and the kids up for Christmas morning. I think Frankie was there too. Lisa told me Mrs. Kowalski took lots of photos that day.”
“Is Mrs. Kowalski still around?” Flint asked.
“She passed away last year, but her daughter Elena has all her mother’s photo albums. Elena Kowalski-Martin. She lives on Maple Street, the yellow house with the brown trim.” She gave him the address.
They talked for another ten minutes, gathering details about Lizzy’s daily routine and her relationship with the mysterious Frankie. None of it was particularly helpful.
When they finished, Mrs. Kline walked them to the door.
“I hope those children are doing well,” she said. “Lisa loved them so much. She would have done anything to protect them.”
Back in the SUV, Drake started the engine and let it warm while the defroster cleared the windshield. Snow fell in fat flakes that stuck to the glass and accumulated on the grass. Cold seemed to seep through every seal and gasket.
“Mrs. Kowalski next?” Drake asked, rolling the SUV in that direction. He turned onto Main Street. The SUV’s tires crunched through the thin layer of snow accumulating on the asphalt.
They found Elena Kowalski’s home on the other side of town where the streets were quieter, and the houses showed more character.
A ranch-style home with pale yellow siding and white trim with a tidy front yard.
The dormant flower beds held only brown stalks poking through patches of snow, but Flint imagined they would be a riot of color in the spring.
Drake parked at the curb, and they walked the concrete sidewalk that led to the front door. Evergreen shrubs flanked the porch and provided the only color in the winter landscape.
Elena Kowalski-Martin answered the door after the first knock, as if she’d been expecting them. Which she probably was. Flint assumed Mrs. Kline called to say they were coming.
A woman in her fifties with prematurely graying hair pulled back in a loose bun answered the door.
Intelligent brown eyes blinked behind wire-rimmed glasses that had slipped down her nose.
She wore a thick cardigan over dark sweatpants, the kind of practical clothing that people who spend time caring for others choose.
“Mrs. Kowalski-Martin? Mrs. Kline gave us your name. I hope we’re not bothering you,” Flint said before he offered his card and the same brief introduction he’d supplied earlier. “We’re looking for information about Lisa Peterson, who once lived in your mother’s apartment building.”
“Yes, Penelope called. Please come inside. You’ll catch pneumonia out there.
” Elena’s face lit up with recognition and sadness.
“Lisa and her children. Of course I remember them. Mother loved having children in the building again. She adored Lisa and the kids adored Mom. I’m happy to help if I can. ”
They followed her inside and Drake closed the door behind them.
Family photos covered every available surface, creating a visual timeline of birthdays, graduations, and holiday celebrations spanning decades.
Weak sunlight filtered through sheer curtains, creating gentle shadows that danced across polished hardwood floors.
Elena led them to the living room, gesturing toward a well-worn sofa that showed decades of family use.
“Mother passed away six months ago,” Elena said in the manner of a daughter who had processed grief and moved into acceptance. “She talked about Lisa often, especially in her final years. She felt terrible about what happened to that poor girl.”
“Your mother watched the children sometimes,” Flint said to encourage more.
“When Lisa had to work late shifts or when one of the kids was sick and couldn’t go to daycare.
Mother enjoyed it immensely.” Elena’s face softened with fond memories.
“She’d been widowed for years by then and the children made her feel useful again.
She’d bake cookies for them and teach them Polish words.
They called her Babcia, which means grandmother. ”
Flint leaned forward. “We understand Lisa had a boyfriend during her final months. Did your mother ever mention him?”
“Frankie Tantanella. Yes, Mother liked him very much.” Elena smiled, the expression transforming her features and revealing traces of the young woman she’d once been. “She said he was respectful and wonderfully patient with the children. Mom very much approved of Lisa’s choice.”
“Mrs. Kline said your mother might have photos of the kids and Lisa and Frankie,” Flint said.
“Actually, yes. Mother loved taking pictures all the time. She had quite a collection when she passed.” Elena’s eyes brightened with sudden enthusiasm. “Let me get the photo albums. I think we’ll find a few photos in there.”