23. Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter twenty-three
Nash
I make my way downtown, parking my truck in the first open spot I see.
I shouldn’t bother taking it because parking is a bitch, but I like the freedom of having it when I need it.
I get a spot two blocks away and walk over to the Quick & Dry, moving quickly because it’s fucking cold.
This is the laundromat that Lilianna Travers said she worked at.
Hopefully she’s on shift today, because I know there is more to this story.
And if there isn’t, if I’m barking up the wrong tree, the least I can do is offer support when it comes to her husband because the guy seems like a controlling piece of shit.
It’s not my job to get involved in people’s relationships, but I don’t like the thought of a man being abusive toward a woman—toward anyone.
It hits me harder than most things do, and it’s why I always struggled with domestic calls back in Chicago.
It’s difficult for me to control my anger in those times and I know my limits.
As I’ve gotten older, my patience has dwindled.
Doing those sorts of calls wasn’t something I could handle anymore.
This woman is dredging up all kinds of bad memories for me, but I’m going to keep my cool and turn this into something good. Preferably solving this case and making sure she’s safe—and that Ryan and Carter have closure.
Heat and the smell of laundry detergent and dryer sheets hits me the moment I pull open the heavy door.
The whir of dryers is heard behind the voices on the TV and the customers chatting.
It’s a busy place, with most of the machines being used and almost all of the chairs taken up.
A few kids sit at a colorful table in the back corner coloring on papers with broken crayons.
It’s not a huge place, but it’s big enough, and clearly stays busy.
I get looks as I walk in, which happens most places I go.
I say it’s my size, but it’s probably something else.
I make my way to the counter where there is a small computer screen and a POS machine.
On the back wall is shelving stocked with individual laundry soap boxes and dryer sheets.
To the right is a hallway, and from here I can see it opens to a back room.
I lean forward, hoping to see if someone is working, but I don’t see anyone back there, so I turn and look around.
There’s a woman at the dryers in a dark green t-shirt with the Quick & Dry logo on the back, covering most of it.
By the blond hair, I can tell it isn’t Lilianna but it was a shot in the dark that she’d be here.
“Excuse me?” I say to the woman, who turns and looks up at me almost confused. “Hi, I’m looking for Lilianna Travers. She works here, right?”
The woman frowns then looks up at the clock on the wall. She’s young, maybe only eighteen.
“She’s not due to be in for another twenty minutes.”
“Mind if I wait?”
“Of course not,” she says carefully. She doesn’t ask questions, which makes me think they aren’t close. If they were, the protective mode would probably have kicked in and she’d ask who I was and what I want with her. Why is there a man looking for her at work?
Through the glass windows, I spot a café across the street. I head over to waste some time. The morning rush must have passed, or this place is awful, because it’s empty when I walk in. I order a hot coffee with a splash of cream, the way I always do, then make my way back to the laundromat.
Lilianna walks in ten minutes later.
I don’t bombard her when she walks in. I already know the other worker is going to let her know someone is here for her.
She’s not a fugitive, so it’s not like she needs to run. And she knows I know where she lives, and I think she’d prefer me to be here than there.
I watch the scene play out, exactly as I thought it would. Lilianna goes behind the counter, the other woman whispers something to her. Lilianna scans the place until her eyes land on me. She freezes, then sighs. She puts her things down and walks over to me.
“Detective Bennett, I don’t have anything to say to you.”
“Fine, but I have something I’d like to say to you. Give me five minutes. Can we talk somewhere private?”
She holds my gaze for a long moment. “Will you leave me alone after that?”
“Depends.”
Rolling her eyes, she groans. “I don’t know what you want, but my husband is not happy about this. He didn’t believe your story.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her it was her story, but there’s no point in arguing.
“Five minutes,” I repeat.
Her gaze searches mine, and she considers me for a moment before saying, “Fine, but you’re only getting five minutes. Maybe only four.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be just a few minutes,” Lilianna tells the woman behind the counter. She nods and watches me as I follow Lilianna to the back room.
There is a small square table and two chairs in the back right corner. She leads me that way, and we sit. There are racks of clothing back here, some shelves stocked with supplies, unopened boxes, and two wide loading doors that they probably use for dropping off the dry cleaning.
“I’m not here to judge you or talk you into changing your mind,” I start.
“But I will say that I think something happened to you three years ago, something you don’t want to talk about—something you want to forget.
I don’t blame you for that. Maybe you’re strong-willed and you’re able to go on with your life after what happened, but I’m working with someone who would really benefit from finding the man who is responsible for his boyfriend’s death. ”
Lilianna’s eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “Death? What death? I don’t know anything about a death.”
That renders me speechless for far too long. Nothing about her says she’s faking, unless she’s a really good actress.
I consider how to respond, but I’m stumped. Is it possible she didn’t know about the murder? How wouldn’t she? It was in the papers and on the news. Though, unfortunately, “Man Murdered in New York City Alley” is a repeat headline around here.
I set my hands flat on the table and lower my voice.
“Mrs. Travers, three years ago on March 19th, Ryan Kinsley was murdered by a man who was assaulting a woman in an alley a few blocks west of High Line.” She pales, and I almost can’t believe it.
She didn’t know? “He stepped in to help, and unfortunately he was stabbed and succumbed to his wounds.”
“S-stabbed?” she whispers. “Someone d-died?”
Her hand goes to her chest, her fingers pressing on a gold chain that’s hanging around her neck. The trembling is unmistakable.
“Yes. I’ve been assigned to work on the case.
And as I said, I am not trying to guilt you into anything.
I am not trying to make things difficult for you.
I’m sure you have your reasons for doing what you’re doing, but I will ask that you consider Ryan’s partner in all of this because he is still alive and he is hurting.
If you know anything about that assault, anything at all, it could be very helpful in solving a cold case. ”
“Someone was murdered?” she repeats as tears form in her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am. Ryan Kinsley was only twenty-six years old. He was a good person.”
“Oh my God,” she mutters, looking away. She’s still pale, confused and pained.
“I said I would only take five minutes of your time, and I always keep my word.” I stand up and dig in my pocket to pull out my card.
“My time is up, but you can call me any time and for anything. Not just the case, but… anything at all. If you need any kind of help or advice...” I give her a look, hoping she understands.
She doesn’t move though. Just sits there, looking like she can’t believe what I said.
I really don’t want to guilt the woman into talking about this if she doesn’t want to.
It’s not my call to make. I can’t force her.
I mean, I could, there is a murder involved here, but we’re not there yet—I don’t have enough to prove she was the one there to push harder.
And this is tough—I’m not in favor of harassing victims, but in this case, one victim could help another.
Let’s just hope she’ll talk.
If Lilianna is the girl from the alley, she is struggling right now. Coming to terms with the fact that what happened to her didn’t only happen to her. That someone lost their life—and her silence is protecting that murderer.
I can’t make these decisions for her. I can only hope she makes the right one on her own.
I slide my card onto the table.
“I’m sorry,” I say softly. Her brown eyes flick to me. “Call me if you need anything.”
She doesn’t respond, just holds my gaze for a moment. Then I walk out of the room and back to my truck, where I sit and stew for far too long.
Once back at the office, I dial Gendreau.
“You’re on speaker,” she says.
“I think Lilianna Travers is the girl.”
“Did she say something happened?” Weber asks.
I can tell they’re in a car by the background noise, which isn’t surprising. I think they said they were heading back to the evidence warehouse.
“No, but I’ve visited with her twice. She didn’t know that Ryan Kinsley was murdered that night, and judging by the way she reacted, she knows something. Considering there are no other witnesses…”
“It only makes sense that it was her,” Weber says. “Why else would she react?”
“Exactly,” I grunt.
“This is good. This is really good,” Gendreau adds.
Yes and no.
This is pain she will have to relive. New pain she will have to feel. She will have to make a huge decision and figure how she’s going to do it with her husband being the prick that he is. It’s good for us, yes, but she’s suffering right now.
“Maybe,” I say. “Her husband is a real piece of work. Wasn’t happy that I was in their house while he wasn’t there.”
“He’s one of those.” I hear the eye roll in Gendreau’s voice.
“Right. So we need to tread carefully. I left my card. Hopefully she’ll call.”
“If she doesn’t?” Weber asks.
“I’ll make another visit in a few days. Maybe next week. I don’t want to push too hard. She needs time to think about all of this. Process. It’s a lot.”
“Got it,” Gendreau says.
“Focus on the Howard case and the Lemaunt case for now. Those two could be opened, as long as we get enough.”
“I think we have that already,” Gendreau says. “We were going to bring it to you this afternoon, when we meet.”
“Great, can’t wait to hear it. I still have a pile of unopened files in my office that I need to dig through this morning, but we’ll chat later.”
“Good luck,” Weber says.
“You too,” I say, and then end the call.
There’s a text waiting for me from Carter.
Carter: Are you busy this weekend?
Am I busy this weekend? What a loaded question.
I could be. I will be, because that’s what I do even though I said I wouldn’t.
It started with bringing Ryan’s case file home and only looking at it in my kitchen.
Then I moved into the office that I said I wouldn’t use as an office—even though I knew I was lying to myself.
Because yeah, now I use the damn thing as an office and have multiple files open at a time. My bag is stuffed full when I leave on Friday and the weekends are spent drinking too much coffee and digging through reports.
Me: Do you mean other than work?
Carter: ::eye roll emoji:: yes!
I let out a rough sigh, leaning back in my chair and stare at his text.
Be honest with him.
Me: Then no.
My phone rings. It’s Carter. I answer it right away.
“Hey.”
“So…” he begins in this too-sweet voice. “Since you’re not busy this weekend, I was hoping you could help me…”
“With?”
I don’t know why I’m even asking. I’ll help him with anything he needs.
“The shelter is hosting a big adoption event on Sunday, and we need help running it but we also need help setting up on Saturday too. They cut the adoption fees in half and have been promoting it for weeks to hopefully get all the animals their forever home.”
“What time do you need me?” I ask without hesitation.
“Both days?” he asks in a hopeful voice. I can’t help but chuckle.
“Yes.”
“You’re the best,” he says excitedly, then tells me the times I need to be there. I add it to my calendar right away.