how children can be.'
'Oh my, yes,' Roland said.
'Well, time passed. Dina grew up. Then, just a few years ago, she had a breakdown. Like a nervous condition. She couldn't work. She couldn't do much of anything. We couldn't afford any professional help for her, so we did the best we could.'
'Of course you did.'
'Then one day, not long ago, I found this. It was hidden on the top shelf of Dina's closet.' Evelyn reached into her purse. She produced a letter written on bright pink paper, a child's stationery with sculpted edges. At the top were festive, brightly colored balloons. She unfolded the letter, handed it to Roland. It was addressed to God.
'She wrote this when she was only eight years old,' Evelyn said.
Roland read the letter from start to finish. It was written in a child's innocent hand. It told a horrifying tale of repeated sexual abuse. Paragraph after paragraph detailed what Uncle Edgar had done to Dina in the basement of her own house. Roland felt the rage rise within. He asked the Lord for calm.
'This went on for years,' Evelyn said.
'Which years were these?' Roland asked. He folded the letter, slipping it into his shirt pocket.
Evelyn thought for a moment. 'Through the mid-nineties. Right until my daughter was thirteen. We never knew any of this. She had always been a quiet girl, even before the problems, you know? She kept her feelings to herself.'
'What happened to Edgar?'
'My sister divorced him. He moved back to Winterton, New Jersey, where he was originally from. His parents passed a few years back, but he still lives there.'
'You haven't seen him since?'
'No.'
'Did Dina ever speak to you of these things?'
'No, Pastor. Never.'
'How is your daughter faring of late?'
Evelyn's hands began to tremble. For a moment, the words seemed locked in her throat. Then: 'My baby is dead, Pastor Roland. Last week she took pills. She took her life, as if it were hers to take. We put her in the ground over in York, where I'm from.'
The shock that went around the room was tangible. No one spoke.
Roland reached out, held the woman, putting his arms around her big shoulders, embracing her as she unabashedly wept. Charles stood and left the room. In addition to the possibility of his emotions overcoming him, there was much to do now, much to prepare.
Roland sat back in his chair, gathered his thoughts. He held out his hands and they all linked together in a circle. 'Let us entreat the Lord for the soul of Dina Reyes, and the souls of all who loved her,' Roland said.
Everyone closed their eyes, began to silently pray.
When they were finished, Roland stood. 'He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted.'
'Amen,' someone said.
Charles returned, stood in the doorway. Roland met his gaze. Of the many things with which Charles had trouble in this life-some of them simple tasks, many of them things most take for granted-working on a computer was not among them. The Lord had blessed Charles with the ability to navigate the deep mysteries of the Internet, an ability with which Roland had not been graced. Roland could tell that Charles had already found Winterton, New Jersey and printed out a map.
They would leave soon.
15
Jessica and Byrne spent the afternoon canvassing the Laundromats that were either in walking distance or within reasonable SEPTA distance from Kristina Jakos's house on North Lawrence. In all, there were five coin-op laundries on their list; only two of which were open past 11 PM. As they approached a twenty-four hour laundry called the All-City Launderette, unable to resist any longer, Jessica asked the question.
'Was the press conference as bad as it looked on TV?' After leaving St. Seraphim she had stopped for a take-out coffee at a mom-and-pop on Fourth Street. She had caught the replay of the press conference on the TV behind the counter.
'Nah,' Byrne said. 'It was much, much worse.'
Jessica should have figured. 'Are we ever going to talk about it?'
'We'll talk.'
As frustrating as it was, Jessica let it go. Sometimes Kevin Byrne put up walls impossible to scale.
'By the way, where is our boy detective?' Byrne asked.
'Josh is shuttling witnesses for Ted Campos. He's going to hook up with us later.'
'What did we get from the church?'
'Only that Kristina was a wonderful person. That the kids all loved her. That she was dedicated. That she was working on the Christmas play.'
'Of course,' Byrne said. 'There are ten thousand gangbangers going to bed tonight perfectly healthy, and a well-loved young woman who worked with kids at her church is on the marble.'
Jessica knew what he meant. Life was far from fair. It was up to them to exact whatever justice was available. And that was all they could ever do.
'I think she had a secret life,' Jessica said.
This got Byrne's undivided attention. 'A secret life? What do you mean?'
Jessica lowered her voice. There was no reason to. She just seemed to do it out of habit. 'Not sure, but her sister hinted at it, her roommate almost came out and said so, and the priest at St. Seraphim mentioned that she had a sadness about her.'
'Sadness?'
'His word.'
'Hell, everybody's sad, Jess. That doesn't mean they're up to something illegal. Or even unsavory.'
'No, but I'm going to take another run at the roommate. Maybe poke around Kristina's things a little more closely.'
'Sounds like a plan.'
The All-city Launderette was the third establishment they visited. The managers of 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 laundry- detergent 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 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.
