Page 35 of Carter

“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?