A Cold Dark Place

Chapter Twenty-seven

Sunday, 10:30 A.M., Seattle

Emily Kenyon held her breath as she drove over the twotiered viaduct that swept several stories above Seattle's waterfront alongside its shimmering harbor. It had long been viewed as an unsound structure, destined to pancake if there was a major earthquake. Given the tornado, the Martin murders, and the sad state of her personal affairs, Emily felt that if the time had come for a big shake, it almost certainly would occur when she was on that disintegrating elevated highway. She held the steering wheel in a death grip.

Emily looked straight ahead, her peripheral vision barely capturing views of a pair of ferries and a container ship as they maneuvered in Elliott Bay. She was headed south to an address in Georgetown, a scruffy but slowly gentrifying neighborhood on the concrete edges of Seattle's industrial district. Bonnie Jeffries's address, given to her by a resourceful Olga Morris-Cerrino, was a dark brown two-story that along with a half dozen others were the holdouts of an old family neighborhood that had seen far better times and hadn't yet been restored and revitalized. Black wrought-iron bars more county jail than French Quarter-fortified the firstfloor windows of each house. One set of iron security grilles apparently hadn't been enough of a deterrent; one window had been replaced by a sheet of heavy plywood.

Emily pulled up next to the weedy sidewalk. These people should sell to some energetic young couples who want to restore these places and will put up with crime and grunge while they wait for the neighborhood to come back, she thought as she made her way up the buckling front steps. What could have been the world's oldest dog, a Norwegian elkhound mix, barely looked up when the detective knocked on the door and waited. No answer. She pressed the doorbell but the silence that followed indicated it was out of order. She strained to hear. She leaned close and pushed the ivory button a second time. The door was ajar. She knocked and it creaked open.

"Bonnie? Bonnie Jeffries?"

Silence. Maybe she was at church?

Emily entered the small foyer, startled by the sound of broken glass under her feet. She turned to look behind her, and for the first time noticed a small glass pane had been shattered. Broken glass glittered on the shabby shag carpeting. What's going on here? She made her way toward the living room. The residence smelled of one of those carpet cleaning powders. Vanilla and lavender, she thought. The house was deathly quiet.

"Ms. Jeffries? Bonnie? Are you home?"

Emily entered the living room, a cramped space of floor-toceiling bookshelves, knickknacks everywhere, and too much furniture. It was tidy, but overloaded. It passed through her mind that the furnishings were all from the overstuffed 1980s. Bonnie hadn't always bought quality, and apparently had never bothered to update.

Rust and green competed with mauve and gray as dueling decades fought for her sense of style. Emily instinctively patted her side, checking for her gun. She'd been in law enforcement long enough to get that sixth sense that something was awry. The feeling was akin to paranoia, but it had been always so deeply rooted in reality that she never disregarded it.

Something's wrong here.

Among the books that competed for space on Bonnie's overflowing living room shelves were volumes about psychology, forensic science, and true crime. In other circumstances, Emily wouldn't have thought twice about that collection. She'd seen a best-selling crime author, a woman with an exceedingly sweet voice and a gentle manner, on a television show talking about the psychographics of her readers. They weren't a pack of blood-lusting housewives. Far from it. She insisted that they were the "gentlest" people one could ever hope to meet. "The kind of people who take a spider outside in a tissue," the author had said.

Never hurt a spider? But maybe fall in love with a killer?

Books and a tray table had been knocked to the floor. A door in the sideboard that Bonnie Jeffries apparently used as a secretary-bills and letters were stacked neatly on its luminous pecan surface-was open. Papers from within were scattered. Someone had been looking for something.

Emily quickly sifted through the papers, but nothing grabbed her.

The kitchen was next. It was clean and orderly, decorated in a red apple motif that showed all the earmarks of a collector's chief problem. Once collecting an item-owls, Scottie dogs, and apples-every gift one receives is tied to the theme. Bonnie Jeffries had framed apple crate labels and apple-shaped platters on the wall. Even the kitchen clock was faced with an apple tree design. There was so much red in the room, Emily didn't notice the red spatter on one of the McIntosh apple-crate label prints, a variety from a farm called Blossom Orchards. And there was an apple-shaped cookie jar on the counter next to a big wooden knife block, just like one that Emily had.

"Bonnie?" Emily's voice was now a whisper. She walked down the narrow hallway, drew her gun, and turned toward the open bedroom door. The room was still and dark. Music from a bedside radio played low. The windows that faced the street had been covered in sheets of aluminum foil, presumably to keep out the light. Emily knew from her conversation with Tina Esposito that Bonnie worked nights as a janitor. She slept during the day.

She clearly lived alone. Emily felt sorry for her. For a second, Emily felt the air move, then the hair on the back of her neck prickled and rose. The sense of foreboding was palpable.

Something is terribly wrong here.

Emily flipped on the lights. In a sudden flash of illumination, there she was. Bonnie Jeffries, all 250 pounds of her, was laid out on the bed. The sheets were streaked with so much blood it made Emily gasp. Bonnie was facedown, her nightgown-clad torso painted with her own blood. Adrenaline flowing, Emily scanned the room. Just Bonnie.

"Jesus Christ," Emily said, automatically reaching for her cell phone and dialing 911.

What the hell happened here?

Emily spoke to the emergency dispatcher, identifying herself as a detective from another jurisdiction. Though her heart pounded, her tone was surprisingly cool. She could act like what she'd seen didn't upset her-thought the truth was far the opposite.

"I'll secure the scene until Seattle PD arrives," she said.

"All right. Your name? Your affiliation?"

"Emily Kenyon. Cherrystone, Washington, Sheriff's Office"

"All right. Sit tight. Officers en route"

"I'll wait outside," Emily said. The smell of blood made her nauseous. "Bring the coroner. No need for lights. This lady's dead" Sadness swept over her. A woman's life had been taken in the most brutal way imaginable. Emily had never been so hardened by the experience of her job that she didn't feel jabs to the heart at the sight of a murder victim. The cramped house in the rundown part of Seattle's southern city limits was now a crime scene.

On the way out, Emily noted that baby pictures stared down from the walls, and she spotted a basket of yarn and an unfinished sweater. Every outward indication of what Bonnie Jeffries was in life was at odds with her devotion to serial killer Dylan Walker. She was the Suzie Homemaker type, but robbed of the joy that comes with it.

Maybe that's just the kind of person he wanted. Someone he d be able to control?

Emily hurried to her car.

The story had been told often enough that Emily could almost live the rest of her life nearly believing that she'd moved back to Cherrystone to take care of her parents, the house, save her marriage, whatever had come to mind when someone asked why she'd returned.

But the reality was darker than that. As dark as night. Emily sat behind the wheel in front of Bonnie Jeffries's sad little house and knew that her past was about to catch up with her. She had toyed with the idea of leaving the scene and not making the call to 911. I could have left Bonnie for someone else to find. But who? And when? Bonnie lived a solitary life. Maybe shed lie on that bloody bed until the blowflies came and went, raising generation after generation?

Calling 911, doing her sworn duty to uphold the law, was her only possible choice. Yet it came with a price. As the swarm of vehicles converged all around her, Emily knew she'd have to face head-on what she'd fought so hard to leave behind.

"Emily Kenyon?" the voice came from behind her. Emily turned around to see a familiar face, an older one, but recognizable nevertheless. It was Christopher Collier, a detective she knew from her days in Seattle. They'd shared many of the biggest and toughest moments of her professional life. Seeing him would be tough, too.

"I couldn't believe it when I heard your name," he said, coming closer with a friendly smile on his handsome visage.

"Hi Chris," she said, letting the uneasiness that had gripped her pass. "It has been forever"

"Yeah," he said, reaching out to shake her hand. Like her, he had been nothing but green when they first knew each other at the academy. His still-dark and wavy hairline had receded and he'd added some weight, but overall Christopher Collier looked no worse for wear. "I heard you got your shield. Read it in the Police Bulletin a few years back. Over in Spokane, are you?"

Emily nodded. "Near there. In Cherrystone, where I grew up. It's quiet. Nice place for me and Jenna" Saying her name just then was hard, she hoped that it didn't prompt a question: "Saw that there's an APB out for your daughter, Jenna. What's the deal with that?"

Thankfully, it didn't.

The pair went for the front door, as two blue uniforms started unfurling plastic ribbons, yellow crime scene tape.

"So you called this in? What's goin' on?"

She liked Christopher. In a very real way, it was a gift from the Almighty that he'd been the one to respond to the Jeffries crime scene just then. He wouldn't hurt her. He wouldn't bring up any of the unpleasantness that had made her flee Seattle. At least not to her face.

"Working a triple homicide back home" She could tell by the look on his face, he already knew about all of that, but she continued anyway. "One of the victims had a connection with Jeffries and .. ." She stopped as they went inside the front door. "Watch for the glass."

He looked down and acknowledged the sparkling shards. "So, what's this Jeffries woman's deal?"

Christopher Collier was a patient man, a broad-shouldered six-footer with a gentle countenance. He could be fierce when needed, but generally was the kind of man who deliberated on everything. Carefully. Thoughtfully. He never rushed. Emily liked him for that very reason. But as she struggled to come up with a good reason why she was there in a house with a dead body, it felt a little as though he was letting her twist in the wind. She told him about the Angel's Nest connection with her homicides in Cherrystone and how she'd seen Olga Morris-Cerrino, then Tina Esposito, which had led her to Bonnie's house.

Bonnie 's corpse.

She led Christopher into the hazily lit living room. "I found her down there in the bedroom. My guess is that she was killed in bed. She sleeps days, works nights. The assailant got in by breaking that window and turning the knob."

"Okay," he said. "Let's have a look."

Emily stayed where she stood. "Your case," she said. "I'll stay here"

The Seattle police detective disappeared into the darkness of the hallway. Emily heard him speaking to another of the detectives, a younger man, whom she did not know.

"Emily Kenyon," he said, his voice somewhat lower than normal. "She used to be one of us. Got her butt kicked hard by the Kristi Cooper case"

"I remember studying that case at the academy. That's her?"

"Yeah, she's okay. Been through a lot. I'll handle her. Let's look at the vic"

Kristi Cooper. Kristi. The name nearly stopped Emily's heart. If she lived to be one hundred years old, she'd still never get over what happened with Kristi. It was clear that others hadn't forgotten the name either. No one ever would. Jesus, the police academy taught that? As Emily remained frozen in the living room, a dead woman on the bed, a half dozen police officers and detectives moved in and out of the tattered brown bungalow. She found herself wishing she was invisible.

But she wasn't.

What in the world? Emily stood in Bonnie's overstuffed living room and tried to catch her breath. She shut her eyes tightly and opened them. Something so bewildering it couldn't be real. She couldn't believe her eyes. The coin purse on the credenza was pink and beaded with the design of a flamingo standing on one leg. It was so familiar. The flamingo was missing its eye. Couldn't be. She picked and pulled on the zipper and opened it. The missing eye bead was still inside.

Jenna was here.

Emily steadied herself, resting the palm of her hand on the back of the oak desk chair. She felt the floor move a little. It was the sensation that she'd endured during the Cooper case so many years ago. She hadn't felt the shifting floor like that in years. Not a panic attack. Her throat felt constricted and her breathing grew shallow. What happened here? Her sense of control fluttered. It was like the days after Kristi when she couldn't move, couldn't even drive. It was all she could do to get behind the wheel of a car back then, only to find she couldn't turn the key. No one who'd ever experienced a panic attack could ever understand how powerful it could be. Get over it. Pull yourself together. None of that worked.

As Christopher Collier started down the hall, Emily did the only thing that came to her fragile mind just then. She put the tiny coin purse in her jacket pocket. She breathed in deeply. She heard Christopher and the other detectives as they moved about the back bedroom. She heard a photographer taking pictures. What had happened here? What had Nick and Jenna done? She closed her eyes.

"You all right?" It was Christopher. His voice snapped her back.

"Fine. Thanks"

"You look as pale as a ghost."

Emily tried to shake it off. "I don't know. I guess you just never really get used to this stuff. Not if you're human," she said. The pink edge of the purse protruded slightly from her pocket, and she gently pushed it out of sight. Her heart was a bass drum. She felt sweat work its way down her temples.

"Hear, hear." Christopher tilted his head in the direction of the front door. "Let's get you some air."

"Thanks. Turn up anything back there?" she asked.

"Yeah. One thing. The kill was fresh. Probably within the last hour or so. The ME will know better. I'm just stating the obvious of course. The blood on the floor had barely coagulated. Slippery mess in there"

Emily didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say.

"When did you get here?" Christopher picked up the slack in the conversation, the light of a sunny day now flooding the yard in front of the dull brown house. A flowering cherry tree Emily hadn't noticed was like a mushroom cloud of pink over the garage. "About what time?" His tone wasn't exactly accusatory, but it bothered her. But not for the reason Christopher Collier would have dared to imagine. She thought of the coin purse. When had Jenna and Nick been there?

"I was here no more than five minutes before Cen Comm took my 911 call for help."

"That's what I thought. Sure is something that you'd find another body when looking for answers to those three back in Cherrystone."

"Yes, I guess so "" She didn't know what else to say. He was right.

"Are you going to be okay?"

She nodded.

"Drink later? I have to stay and process the scene"

Emily didn't want to, but saying no right then might appear like she was pushing him away. Better to have him close just then.

"At the Westerfield downtown. Call me there," she said.

Emily put her car in gear and started to leave, and watched the scene in her rearview mirror. Christopher Collier walked back inside. Four more cops and techs had arrived, as had the tricked-out truck of the local 24/7 radio news crew. The TV people would probably be next on the scene. Yellow plastic tape now stretched across the front of the house like a banner for a soldier's homecoming from Iraq. Emily had no intention of going back to the hotel. Not now Now more than ever, she needed to find her daughter. No more mistakes. She drove east to David's house on Mercer Island. The image indicating a new message played on the tiny LCD screen of her phone. A text message from Sheriff Kip that nearly caused a pile up on the 1-5 and 1-90 interchange.

Walker released last year. Returned to WA. Tacoma area.

Emily took her cell phone to the sitting room adjacent to the bedroom. It occurred to her that the space would have been a better work area than her bed. A lot better. She sighed and punched the speed dial number for David. It went immediately to voice mail. He was on the phone. She sighed and dialed Olga's number.

"Emily?" Olga answered. "Is that you? Are you all right?"

"It's me. I'm sorry it took so long to call you back. The day has been a nightmare."

"I know. I heard about Bonnie turning up dead"

"Oh," Emily said, slumping into a chair. "What's the media saying?"

"It hasn't been on the news," Olga said. "A friend of mine from Seattle PD called me. Gruesome. You found her?"

"Yes," Emily said, softly, unable to stop the images of what she'd found from playing once more. The blocked-out windows. Bonnie on the bed. Everything soaked in blood. The little pink purse. The baby pictures. They rolled, one after another. She changed the subject to save herself from reliving it even more.

"Do you know anything about Bonnie's family?" Emily asked.

"What family? She was an only child. Her parents disowned her when she went head over heels over Walker. I talked to them one time, very briefly. Ran into them at the Angel's Nest trial. I was going to testify that she was a nut job, but I was never called."

"There were baby pictures in the hallway," Emily said. "She must have had someone in her life. No sibs?"

"None that I ever knew about. Best friend was Tina Walker and the love of her life was Mr. Wonderful, Dylan Walker."

Emily's phone indicated that David was calling and Emily told Olga that she'd get back to her as soon as she could. She said good-bye and pushed the Talk button.

"I tried calling a moment ago"

"I know," David said, his voice cool. "What did you want?"

"Our daughter, of course. God, do you have to be such an ass about all of this?"

"You haven't exactly made my life easy."

"Easy? Let's not go there"

David exhaled. "All right. Jenna's not here. We haven't seen her all day. I left you a message to call me."

"I've been busy." Though she felt defensive just then, Emily also felt a wave of panic. She'd hoped that Jenna was home with her father. She didn't see the need to tell him about the Jeffries murder nor about Jenna's coin purse being found there. Neither could she admit that she'd reconnected with Christopher Collier, albeit at a crime scene. The name would enrage David. He'd been the source of many of their arguments in the past.

"Why don 't you just confide in your cop buddy?

"You have your own little girl now Kristi Cooper has been dead for years. Get over it. I'm your husband. Christopher Collier is married to someone else."

"Christopher called. He's worried about you."

There had never been any real reason for the jealousy. Their relationship had never been sexual. But David didn't see it that way.

"David, we've got to find her. Jenna's in trouble."

"Besides her boyfriend with the dead family, what do you mean? Jesus, Emily, what is going on?" His patience was maxed out and the familiar timbre of his irritated voice was in full force.

"Look, I don't know what's happening. I don't have a goddamn clue right now. But this is bad. This is serious. You need to act like her father. You need to make her safe"

"Don't start lecturing me. She was living with you when she ran off."

"You know something? I'm glad that you have Dani. She's a bigger bitch than I could ever be ""

Emily snapped the phone shut. And it felt good.