Fifteen
Union Station is a refurbished train station located at the gateway to LoDo—Lower Downtown—in Denver. Adjacent to the central public transit hub of the city, it plays host to eclectic shops, restaurants, and even a fancy hotel in the upper levels.
Red neon lights glow on the side of the building, welcoming one and all to this hot destination. Inside, the aesthetic hints at its previous life as a train depot, with benches in addition to tables at the Terminal Bar, impressively high arched ceilings, and indoor lampposts. The bustling throng even feels like a train station crowd.
Tucking my hands into the pockets of my coat, I stroll past the vendors selling bright-colored bouquets of flowers, ice cream shops, and newsstands. My target is on the other side of Union Station, where it opens into a courtyard with fountains, hip restaurants, and, as it so happens, a stage for outdoor performances.
Down the street is the 16th Street Mall, and, in the opposite direction, the historic Tattered Cover Book Store, one of my favorite haunts when I’m on more leisurely errands.
At a restaurant called Thirsty Fox I snag a small bistro-style table with a clear view of the stage. The sun catches the water spouting from the fountain, making it sparkle, and children laugh as they play a game of tag over the cobblestones. Adults lounge at tables around me, professionals just off the clock, hipsters, and tourists.
A server approaches my table and I put in an order for a frothy Belgian beer by a local microbrewery, a caprese salad, and a side of fries (I’m only human).
“When will the Squeeze Keys be coming on?” I ask the server as I hand him my menu.
He looks toward the stage, giving me a view of his impressively wide-gauge earrings. “Should be any minute now.”
I thank him and turn my attention to the three musicians milling about behind the stage. They’re twentysomething and dressed in old-timey getups—slacks, vests, neckerchiefs, and bowler hats. Not all matching but close enough you can tell they’re together. Handling each of their accordions with care, they play a few keys and compress the boxes to warm up. I wonder which one of them is my guy, and how on earth I’ll be able to tell.
My food and drink arrive. I nibble on a French fry and chase it with a sip of beer, the warming spices and light flavors pairing perfectly with my salty snack.
The musicians step on stage and begin performing, starting slow and building to a crescendo of surprising depth, given the quirky instrument. They play covers of upbeat pop songs like “Somebody That I Used To Know,” “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” and “Since U Been Gone.” The themes of which, all told, leave me feeling acutely aware of my aloneness.
I shake off my gloom and study each of the musicians’ faces in turn. I have this theory. When you’ve seen true darkness—like the death of a fellow human, or a glimpse of your own mortality—it leaves a trace on you. Something in your eyes that’s forever altered, a haunting figment of what befell you. Only recognizable by others who have experienced similar sadnesses.
In other words, it takes one to know one.
And I know death. I saw it earlier this year.
I search the eyes of the men while they’re playing. Their focus alternates between their instruments, one another, and the audience. All except for one. Whose gaze continues to linger on something unseen on the horizon.
Goose bumps rise on my arms and somehow I know he’s the witness. He saw the fight with Oscar—maybe even saw the moment life left his body. My concentration is fixed on him throughout the whole performance, so intensely I’m sure he can sense it.
When they’re done, I approach him.
I’m not sure how to introduce myself. Miss Manners never gave instructions on talking to the witness in a murder investigation, but flattery will get you everywhere.
“I enjoyed your music,” I say.
He has curly ginger hair peeking from underneath his bowler hat, lightly freckled skin, and blue eyes that pierce me. “Thanks,” he says softly.
I guess flattery won’t get you everywhere. I decide to play it straight with him. “This is going to sound weird, but did you happen to see something on Pearl Street the other night—a fight outside a restaurant?”
He freezes, fear entering his eyes as he takes me in. Wide-leg jeans, ruffled top, embellished blazer. What he sees must not come across as threatening. Maybe it’s the look of utter desperation on my face.
“What did you say your name was?” he asks.
“I didn’t.” I thrust my hand out to him. “Parker Valentine.”
“Magnus.” He takes my hand, his fingers calloused from all the hours catering to his instrument. “We’d better go somewhere to talk.”
“How did you know it was me?” Magnus asks.
After telling his bandmates he needed to chat with me—followed by a couple nudge nudge, wink winks on their part—we parked ourselves back at my table. I pulled my coat tight around me, the autumnal air chilled without the glare of the sun.
“I put two and two together,” I say. I offer him a fry, but he politely refuses. “Don’t worry, I doubt anyone else will be able to track you down.”
“That’s probably good.” He rubs his forearm, chuckling nervously.
“Yeah, especially since I’m pretty sure the killer is still out there.”
Blood drains from his face as he registers my meaning, his freckles standing out even more. He undoes the kerchief tied at his neck and dabs his face, the performance coupled with the threat of a murderer making him perspire.
“That’s not possible,” Magnus finally says.
Is he really that confident in what he saw, or is his denial that deeply rooted?
I cock my head to the side. “Can you tell me what you saw that night?”
Magnus shudders and finally takes one of my fries, twirling it in his fingers. “Why? Who are you, anyway?”
“Someone who wants to see justice served,” I answer vaguely.
“A true-crime enthusiast?” He tosses the French fry back on the plate and gets to his feet. “Find a new hobby.”
“Wait,” I say, and then lower my voice so the neighboring tables can’t hear. “Look, my boyfriend is behind bars, on your word alone. I’d like to hear why you’re so sure it was him you saw.”
For a split second, I’m afraid he might bolt. He looks at the cars driving past on the busy street parallel to us, at the people waiting for their rides.
“I know what you’re going through,” I say quietly.
His gaze cuts sharply to mine. “How could you?”
I lick my lips and grip my beaded necklace for strength. “You keep picturing it,” I start, the words heavy on my tongue. “When you least expect it, an image will flash through your mind, and momentarily, a weight rests on your chest and shoulders. A pressure that almost feels like you’re underwater.” I look at him sadly. “It gets better over time, but I can’t say for sure if it will ever go away entirely. It hasn’t yet for me.”
Magnus sinks back into the chair.
“I really am sorry to make you relive everything.” I sniff. The air in Denver isn’t as crisp as it is closer to the mountains. It smells of exhaust, exotic foods, and whatever is being smoked nearby.
Magnus starts talking, his voice smaller than it was a minute ago. “I was walking to where I parked my car and I heard this scuffle. Two voices arguing, getting louder and louder.”
“Could you tell what they were arguing about?”
He wrings his kerchief on the table, twisting it together and then letting the checkered material unfurl. “There was something one of the guys wanted from the other one. Help of some sort. I know you can get it, one of them said.”
I frown, my eyebrows furrowed.
Help with what? What could one of them get?
“Did it seem like they knew each other?”
“I have no idea.” He casts his gaze toward where his bandmates are chatting up the manager of Thirsty Fox, drinks now in their hands. “Do you want to hear the rest or not?”
I mime zipping my lips and wave for him to continue.
“I was at the opening to the alley, ready to check and see if everything was okay. The two guys were really going at it. Wrestling hard-core, almost to the ground. One of them pulled at the other’s shirt and then stumbled, lost their balance. That’s when I saw the flash of metal.” He hesitates, his breath catching. “A knife. I saw the stabbing motion. Then the shorter guy grunted and fell to the ground. After that, I bolted.”
My blood runs cold at the end of his story. His seems to as well.
“And you got a good look at them?”
He opens and closes his mouth. “Enough.”
I pull up a picture on my phone, one of my favorites of Reid. It was from a day we’d gone hiking in Nederland over the summer. We’d started up the trail exchanging witty remarks—mainly challenges, both of us competitive by nature. Soon, though, we fell into the companionable silence of two people comfortable with each other.
He’d packed a picnic lunch, I’d brought the wine, and we backpacked together through miles of secluded wilderness, finally finding a spot near Lost Lake to enjoy our vittles. For Reid, a meal is never just a meal. It’s an opportunity; a blank canvas. And that day, he’d made roasted summer vegetables, rustic oat crackers with walnut pesto and gooey burrata, and for dessert, truffles. White chocolate stuffed with homemade raspberry jam. Without discussing, I’d brought the perfect wine to pair with our feast. A rosé that was a touch sweet but with enough tartness to cut through the creamy cheese.
We’d made our hideaway in the shadow of a massive pine tree. Reid’s hair had a darker tinge to it in the shade, and as he flashed me a broad smile, I’d snapped this picture. His teeth are stark white against tanned skin, and there’s a spark of danger in his green eyes. Because the moment I lowered my phone, he’d cupped my chin in his palm and brushed his lips over mine.
Lying back in a bed of wildflowers, we’d kissed, limbs lazily intertwined, songbirds chirping around us. It was a long while before we made our way back down the trail.
I keep my face bland as I show Magnus the photo: “Is this the man you saw?”
“The detective already went through this with me.” He grows antsy, only briefly deigning to look at the screen. “He was wearing a chef’s coat, but yeah, that’s him.”
My heart sinks, dragging my hopes and dreams with it. I stare across the courtyard, the dusk lighting obscuring the scene. The moon is barely a sliver overhead, and the twinkling stars are camouflaged by the glow of the city. I have to squint to see the children, still absorbed in their game of tag. That’s when I realize something.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, leaning forward. “There wasn’t a full moon that night and you were at least a dozen feet away. That’s not the best for a visual.”
“Look, I know what I saw, okay?”
“I don’t think you understand. A man’s life is at stake.” I throw my napkin on the table, the plates of food no longer the least bit appetizing.
Magnus stands, a finality in his motions. “Sorry I can’t tell you what you want to hear.” He readjusts his shiny vest, giving me another once-over. “You know, my bandmate is single if you want an introduction.”
I grind my teeth. “Tempting, but I’ll pass.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
Then Magnus walks away, leaving me confused and, if I’m being honest, completely terrified.