Broken Angels by Richard Montanari Page B

the first two laundries had no recollection of ever seeing the pretty, slender blond woman in their place of business before.
    All-City had forty washers, twenty dryers. Plastic plants hung from the rust-stained acoustic tile ceiling. At the front was a pair of laundrydetergent vending machines—Suds n Such! Between them was a sign that made an interesting request: Please Do Not Vandalize Machines. Jessica wondered how many vandals would see that sign, follow the rules, and simply move on. Probably about the same percentage of people who obeyed the speed limit. Along the back wall were a pair of soda machines, and a change dispenser. On either side of the center row of back-to-back washers were a line of salmon-colored plastic chairs and tables.
    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 fiveyear-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 highdecibel, 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