13. Chapter Thirteen
Chapter thirteen
Nash
The scent of fresh bread can be smelled a block away. My mouth waters. I love a good sub. Maybe I enjoy bread a little too much—especially the fresh stuff. I pull open the door; the bell jingling above, and gesture for Carter to go inside first.
“Wow, this place is small,” he says as he looks around.
“Hole in the wall,” I comment.
“Literally.” He chuckles.
We get in line, and he looks up at the wall that has the menu hanging from it. Every option is handwritten in chalk. I already know what I’m getting, so I don’t bother looking. I get the same thing every time I’m here.
If music is playing in the background, I can’t hear it over all the clanking and shouting coming from the kitchen.
“What’s good?” he asks, eyes flicking over the options.
“What do you like?”
“I’m not picky.”
“Well, I don’t think you could get something bad from this place. Their chicken parm sub is good. Somehow, even with the sauce and cheese, the chicken stays crunchy.”
“Is that what you’re getting?” he looks at me, and for the first time, I see something in his eyes other than pain and sadness. He looks like a normal guy, in a sub shop, trying to figure out what to eat for lunch.
“No, I always get the BLT, add turkey, with extra mayo.”
“That actually sounds really good. I’ll do that too.”
When we get to the counter, Howard, the owner, smiles at me. “Ah, Mister Nash. How are you today? Oh, you brought a friend.”
“I’m great, Howard. Hope you’re staying busy.”
“Always, my friend.” He grins. “Would you like your usual?”
“Yes, but make it two.”
“Select your chips,” he says, gesturing to the rack with individual bags of chips hanging from metal clips.
I grab the regular flavor, but Carter reaches for the sour cream and onion.
When we get the total, Carter tries to slip Howard his card but I quickly step in to pay, giving Carter a look that nicely tells him to back off.
Howard reminds us to grab our drinks while we wait for our food to be made.
The coolers are to our right. Carter grabs an iced tea and I get a Coke. We move over to the area designated for waiting for our food so we’re out of the way of others trying to order.
I watch Carter as he takes in the place, seemingly awed by something so simple. Just a sandwich shop stuffed into a small building.
The walls are red brick with not much hanging on them. Exposed beams are on the ceiling, and there are cracks along the cement floor that give it a charm you can’t fake.
Carter has so much interest in his gaze, like he’s never seen such a place before.
But he’s lived here his whole life and buildings like this are common around here.
Maybe he’s seeing it in a different view today.
The moment feels important in some way. Just a bit of healing. A small amount, but it’s something.
“I’ve never seen this place not busy,” I comment.
“I like seeing small places making money. Better than all the chain restaurants.”
“Agree.”
The line grows until it’s out the door. Good thing we got here when we did.
Howard takes orders. The people before us get their food.
Before long, we’re grabbing ours and heading back out into the cold.
Carter hunches his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets.
The wind blows, feeling like little needles across my exposed skin.
I’m used to the cold. Learned to get used to it when I spent my days doing traffic detail in Chicago.
When we’re back in my office, Carter pulls everything out of the bag while I go to the break room to get plates, napkins, cups, straws, even knives and forks, just in case.
“Wow. Fancy,” Carter comments when I put everything down on my desk.
“I do my best.” I pile up the case files and put them into my drawer so we don’t mess them up.
“Worried I’ll see something?” he asks.
I huff a laugh. “No, not at all. I’m known for making a mess while eating. Specifically spilling drinks. I swear my elbows have a mind of their own.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Ryan was really clumsy.”
That tidbit of information has my chest warming.
“I’ve been told it’s endearing.”
Carter smiles, a lost look in his eye. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I think it is.”
We work together to get the food out and onto plates, plenty of napkins between us so we don’t make a mess. I keep my drink in my bottle with the cap on when I’m not drinking it, so I don’t spill it.
“How long have you worked at the library?” I ask.
“As if you don’t know.”
I hold his gaze. “Pretend I’m not a cop.”
“Kind of difficult when you’re all…” He gestures to me.
“All what?” I ask, sitting back to wipe my hands on the napkin.
“You know. Cop-looking.”
“Cop-looking?” That almost makes me laugh.
“Yes. You’ve just got the look.”
I huff a sound to let him know I’ve heard him. “It’s come in handy, yet it can also be inconvenient.”
“Like now?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, actually looking like he’s sorry.
“It’s fine. Hasn’t really made a difference to me, other than making my job a little more difficult at times, but it’s not meant to be easy.”
“Why did you want to become a cop?” He swipes his hands together to get the crumbs off over the plate, then picks up his napkin as he chews the last bite of his sandwich.
“After I lost my parents, I just… felt like I needed to do something to stop other people from going through what they did.”
My chest gets tight, the same way it always does when I talk about this stuff.
“And you said your brother is a firefighter… same reason?”
“Probably. We don’t talk about it.”
He smiles, but it’s not a happy one. “Yeah, I know that feeling.” It falls silent for a moment, before he adds, “So, what now?”
“I’m going to take everything you’ve told me today and do some good old detective work.”
Carter gets up and starts to clean up our mess.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“It’s the least I can do since you paid for it.”
“I’m not into that back-and-forth stuff. I did it because I wanted to.”
“Well, I’m doing this because I want to.”
He gets all the trash into the plastic bag, ties it off, then drops it into the trash can by the door.
“Thank you for lunch. And for listening. You… are giving me hope I didn’t think was possible.” I hear the way his voice breaks. “If there’s anything you need, please call me. I don’t care what time it is. I just really want to help.”
“You are helping,” I assure him. “You’re doing everything you can, and so am I.”
He nods, reaching for his coat. “I have some things to do, so I should get going. But I meant what I said about calling me.”
I walk him down to the lobby and to the front door.
“If you need anything, remember you can call me too. No matter the hour.”
There’s a soft smile on his face that looks almost sad. “Thank you.”
Carter leaves, and I head back up to my office to dig into what he told me.
I’m not surprised the information he gave isn’t in the file.
Just like I’m not surprised that he told the officers things they didn’t write down, because they were too busy or didn’t think it was important.
No, I am not surprised by any of it, but I am pissed.
I do a search for any facility that someone may wear nursing clogs in a one-mile radius from where the attack happened.
It could be nothing, but it could be everything.
Anyone can wear those shoes, but they’re not the kind of shoes you take a nightly stroll in.
If the woman being attacked was wearing clogs that late at night, she was coming from work or going into it.
She either came off public transportation or was walking from home.
If I can find the woman who was attacked, that is so much more than anyone ever had before. It could be the one thing I need to find out who murdered Ryan Kinsley.
There are a lot of places that pop up in the area. Nursing homes, urgent cares, respiratory therapy, physical therapy, and many other things.
I narrow it down by places that were in business three years ago and either still open at or just closing around ten p.m.. I also need to take into consideration that this woman could have been doing private care, but we’ll get there if we need to. First things first.
After going through my list, there are six places that I need to start with.
Looks like it’s going to be a long night.
I grab my stuff and head out of the office and drive down to the scene.
I pull right into the alley because sometimes I use my status to make things easier.
I hop out of the truck, leaving the lights on so I can see better.
Either side of the alley are tall buildings, one residential and the other commercial.
I stand a few feet from my truck, imagining everything Carter told me about that night. Everything I saw in the crime scene photos. It pieces together in my head like a movie.
That dumpster is still there; in the same place it was three years ago.
The drops of blood flicker in my mind, showing along the ground the way it was in the photos.
I can see Ryan on the ground, up against the wall beside the dumpster, even though that wasn’t in the photos.
Carter’s above him. Panicking. Passersby who look the other way because this is New York, and it’s what people do.
I look up, down the end of the alley wishing the suspect would just pop up from a trapdoor in the ground.
Of course, that doesn’t happen. Not only is it impossible, I’m not that lucky.
I walk until I reach the other street and look both ways, wondering where the asshole went.
Did he ditch the clothes? The mask? Nothing was ever found, but I can’t be sure the cops did their best. In fact, I’m sure they didn’t. There’s nothing I can do about it now, but that mask could have been our smoking gun. It likely had DNA on it. Now, we’ll never know.
And what about the woman? Did she hide? Run home? Call a ride? Go back to work? So many options, so many possibilities, and too much time has passed for it to be an easy answer.
This road is just as busy as the other, with businesses up and down. Some that would have been open that late. Plenty of others that would have been closed.
People walk by, ignoring me. Cars drive and honk. People shout. Such a busy world, a busy place, for no one to have seen anything. But someone knows something. They have to. There is too much going on around this area for no one to not have seen a thing. Yet no one has come forward.
I take another look and make a mental note to call all these places and follow up. There are notes and I have the recordings, but none of it is helpful. I’ll feel better if I reach out, just to be sure. I can’t trust what’s in the file.
“This is bullshit,” I mutter as I pull out my cell and dial my boss.
“Daniels,” he answers.
“It’s Nash. You want to tell me what’s going on with these lazy cops working these scenes?”
He sighs. “They’re not my guys, and it was before my time.”
“I get that but—”
“They don’t work here anymore.”
“Is that supposed to satisfy me?
He pauses a moment, then says, “There was a clean out a few months after the Kinsley case. It was a big thing around here because it should have been solved. The whole thing is part of the reason your position was made.”
“Oh, so I wasn’t hired to just solve cold cases but to clean up others’ messes?”
Covering it all up, basically. No one will look into it, or dig deeper, if these cases get solved. Motherfuckers.
“What do you want me to do, Nash? Should I have put that in the job description?”
“Yeah, maybe. Then I’d know what the hell my days would look like. Because I’m starting to get a real taste of it lately.”
“I’m sorry, all right? But if I didn’t think you weren’t good for the position, I never would have hired you. This doesn’t change your job or what you’re doing.”
“No, but it makes more work for me. It’s impossible to redo entire investigations by myself because nothing in these files is reliable.
These people deserve justice, and you have one person on how many cases?
How am I supposed to comb through all these files myself?
I’m doing it for the first time all over again. ”
“What do you want, Nash?” he asks, sounding tired and defeated. But also prepared like he knew this was coming. My answer is simple.
“A team.”
He chuckles. “A team? What do you think I am?”
“I need more people.”
“You just started.”
“Yeah, and you’ve been here for years, so you should know the messes I’m trying to clean up. Make it work, or these cases will never be solved, and we’ll both look like idiots.”
I end the call, feeling only a tinge of guilt for talking to my boss that way. I’m not insubordinate and I’m not usually rude to my superiors. But I’m pissed. Who allowed this to happen?
When Monday rolls around, I have two people sitting in my office, waiting for me. A man and a woman, both who look capable and experienced. Not rookies, but not almost retired either. Wow. Did my bitching actually work?
“Apparently, we work for you now. Congratulations.” The woman smiles. “I’m Bea Gendreau.”
“Kristoph Weber,” the guy says, his eyes shining with laughter.
I don’t understand what’s so funny about the situation, but I put them both to work anyway.