Richard Montanari: Four Novels of Suspense (112 page)

It had been a while since Jessica had been in a coin-op laundry. The experience took her back to her college days. The boredom, the five-year-old magazines, the smell of powdered soaps and bleach and fabric softeners, the clank of the loose change in the dryers. She hadn’t missed it all that much.

Behind the counter was a Vietnamese woman in her sixties. She was petite and bristly, wore a flower-print change vest, along with what looked like five or six different brightly colored nylon fanny packs. On the floor of her small alcove was a pair of toddlers working on coloring books. The television on the shelf showed a Vietnamese action film. Behind the woman sat an Asian man who might have been anywhere from eighty to a hundred years old. It was impossible to tell.

A sign next to the register proclaimed
MRS. V. TRAN, PROP
. Jessica showed the woman her ID. She introduced herself and Byrne. Jessica then held up the photograph they had gotten from Natalya Jakos, the glamour shot of Kristina. “Do you recognize this woman?” Jessica asked.

The Vietnamese woman slipped on a pair of glasses, glanced at the photograph. She held it at arm’s length, brought it closer. “Yes,” she said. “She’s been in here a few times.”

Jessica glanced at Byrne. They shared that charge of adrenaline that always trails the first lead.

“Do you remember the last time you saw her?” Jessica asked.

The woman looked at the back of the photograph, as if there might be a date there to help her answer the question. She then showed it to the old man. He answered her in Vietnamese.

“My father says five days ago.”

“Does he recall what time?”

The woman turned again to the old man. He answered, at length, seemingly annoyed at having his movie interrupted.

“It was after eleven
PM
,” the woman said. She hooked a thumb at the old man. “My father. He can’t hear too well, but he remembers everything. He says he stopped here after eleven to empty the change machines. While he was doing it, she came in.”

“Does he recall if anyone else was here at that time?”

She spoke to her father again. He answered, his response more like a bark. “He says no. No other customers at that time.”

“Does he recall if she came in with anyone?”

She asked her father the new question. The man shook his head. He was clearly ready to blow.

“No,” the woman said.

Jessica was almost afraid to ask. She glanced at Byrne. He was smiling, looking out the window. She wasn’t going to get any help from him.
Thanks, partner
. “I’m sorry. Does that mean he doesn’t recall, or that she didn’t come in with anyone?”

She spoke to the old man again. He answered with a burst of high-decibel, high-octave Vietnamese. Jessica didn’t speak Vietnamese, but she was willing to bet there was a few swear words in there. She figured the old man said Kristina came in alone, and that everyone should leave
him
alone.

Jessica handed the woman a card, along with the standard request to call if she remembered anything. She turned to face the room. There were currently twenty or so people in the Laundromat—washing, loading, fluffing, folding. The surfaces of the folding tables were covered with clothing, magazines, soft drinks, baby carriers. Trying to lift any fingerprints from any of the myriad surfaces would be a complete waste of time.

But they had their victim, alive, at a particular place and a particular time. From here they would begin a canvass of the immediate area, as well as determine the SEPTA route that stopped across the street. The laundry was a good ten blocks from Kristina Jakos’s new house, so there was no way she would have walked that distance in the cold, with her laundry. Unless she got a ride from someone, or took a cab, she would have taken the bus. Or would have intended to. Maybe the SEPTA driver would remember her.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

JOSH BONTRAGER CAUGHT
up with them across from the Laundromat.

The three detectives worked both sides of the street, showing Kristina’s picture to the street vendors, the shop owners, the local bike boys, the corner rats. The reaction, from both men and women alike, was the same.
Pretty girl
. Unfortunately, no one remembered seeing her coming out of the Laundromat a few days earlier, or any other day for that matter. By midafternoon they had spoken to everyone available—residents, store merchants, cabbies.

Directly across from the Laundromat was a pair of row houses. They had spoken to the woman who lived in the row house on the left. She had been out of town for two weeks, had seen nothing. They had knocked on the door of the other row house, had gotten no answer. On the way back to the car Jessica noticed the curtains part slightly, then immediately close. They returned.

Byrne knocked on the window. Hard. Eventually, a teenaged girl opened the door. Byrne showed her his ID.

The girl was thin and pale, about seventeen; very nervous, it seemed, about talking to the police. Her sandy hair was lifeless. She wore a pair of well-worn brown corduroy overalls and scuffed beige sandals, pilled white socks. Her fingernails were chewed raw.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” Byrne said. “We promise not to take up too much of your time.”

Nothing. No response whatsoever.

“Miss?”

The girl looked at her feet. Her lips trembled slightly, but she said nothing. The moment drew out into discomfort.

Josh Bontrager caught Byrne’s eye, lifted an eyebrow as if to ask if he could take a shot at this. Byrne nodded. Bontrager stepped forward.

“Hi,” Bontrager said to the girl.

The girl lifted her head slightly, but remained aloof and silent.

Bontrager glanced beyond the girl, into the front room of the row house, then back.
“Kannscht du Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch schwetzer?”

The girl appeared stunned for a moment. She looked Josh Bontrager up and down, then smiled a thin smile and nodded.

“English okay?” Bontrager asked.

The girl put her hair behind her ears, suddenly conscious of her appearance. She leaned on the doorjamb. “Okay.”

“What’s your name?”

“Emily,” she said softly. “Emily Miller.”

Bontrager held out a picture of Kristina Jakos. “Have you ever seen this lady, Emily?”

The girl scrutinized the picture for a few moments. “Yes. I’ve seen her.”

“Where have you seen her?”

Emily pointed. “She washes her clothes across the street. Sometimes she gets on the bus right here.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Emily shrugged. She chewed on a fingernail.

Bontrager waited until the girl met his gaze once again. “It’s really important, Emily,” he said. “
Really
important. And there’s no rush here. You take your time.”

A few seconds later: “I think it was maybe four or five days ago.”

“At night?”

“Yes,” she said. “It was late.” She pointed toward the ceiling. “My room is right up there, overlooking the street.”

“Was she with anyone?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did you see anyone else hanging around, see anyone watching her?”

Emily thought for a few more moments. “I did see somebody. A man.”

“Where was he?”

Emily gestured to the sidewalk just in front of her house. “He walked past the window a few times. Back and forth.”

“Did he wait right here at the bus stop?” Bontrager asked.

“No,” she said, pointing to her left. “I think he stood in the alley. I figured he was trying to stay out of the wind. A couple of buses came and went. I don’t think he was waiting for the bus.”

“Can you describe him?”

“White man,” she said. “At least, I think so.”

Bontrager waited. “You’re not sure?”

Emily Miller put her hands out, palms up. “It was in the dark. I couldn’t see too much.”

“Did you notice if there were any vehicles parked close to the bus stop?” Bontrager asked.

“There are always cars in the street. I didn’t notice.”

“That’s okay,” Bontrager said with his big farm-boy smile. It worked magic on the girl. “That’s all we need for now. You did great.”

Emily Miller colored slightly, remained silent. She wiggled her toes in her sandals.

“I may need to speak to you again,” Bontrager added. “Would that be okay?”

The girl nodded.

“On behalf of my colleagues, and the entire Philadelphia Police Department, I would like to thank you very much for your time,” Bontrager said.

Emily glanced from Jessica to Byrne, back to Bontrager. “You’re welcome.”

“Ich winsch dir en hallich, frehlich, glicklich Nei Yaahr,”
Bontrager said.

Emily smiled, smoothed her hair. To Jessica, she looked rather smitten with Detective Joshua Bontrager.
“Gott segen eich,”
Emily replied.

The girl closed the door. Bontrager put away his notebook, smoothed his tie. “Well,” he said. “Where to next?”

“What language was that?” Jessica asked.

“It was Pennsylvania Dutch. Which is mostly German.”

“Why did you speak to her in Pennsylvania Dutch?” Byrne asked.

“Well, for one thing, that girl was Amish.”

Jessica glanced up at the front window. Emily Miller was watching them through the parted curtains. Somehow she had managed to quickly run a brush through her hair. So she
was
smitten after all.

“How could you tell?” Byrne asked.

Bontrager thought about his answer for a moment. “You know how you can look at someone on the street and just
know
they’re wrong?”

Both Jessica and Byrne knew what he meant. It was a sixth sense wired into police officers worldwide. “Yeah.”

“Same thing with Amish folks. You just
know.
Besides, I saw a pineapple quilt on the couch in the living room. I know Amish quilting.”

“What is she doing in Philly?” Jessica asked.

“Hard to say. She was wearing English clothes. She’s either left the church, or she’s on
rumspringa
.”

“What is
rumspringa
?” Byrne asked.

“Long story,” Bontrager said. “We’ll get to it later. Maybe over a buttermilk colada.”

He winked and smiled. Jessica looked at Byrne.

Score one for the Amish kid.

AS THEY WALKED
back to the car, Jessica ran the questions. Besides the obvious—who killed Kristina Jakos and why, three others loomed.

One: Where was she between the time she left the All-City Launderette and the time she was placed on that riverbank?

Two: Who called 911?

Three: Who was standing across the street from the Laundromat?

16

The medical examiner’s office was on University Avenue. When Jessica and Byrne returned to the Roundhouse they had a message from Dr. Tom Weyrich. It was marked
Urgent
.

They met in the main autopsy theater. It was Josh Bontrager’s first time. His face was the color of cigar ash.

TOM WEYRICH WAS
on the phone when Jessica, Byrne, and Bontrager arrived. He handed Jessica a folder, held up a finger. The folder contained the preliminary autopsy findings. Jessica scanned the report: