Heart of Ice

Chapter Forty-nine

No matter what the other parts of the country were going through in terms of economic growth and recession, the Puget Sound region seemed bulletproof. Expensive developments with chichi names popped up in places that ten years before had been the modest homes of factory workers. Underperforming strip malls were dozed in favor of restaurants, movie theaters, and big-box electronic stores. Emily, still fuming over the stupidity of a woman like Tricia Wilson, drove north on 405 toward Interstate 90, then across the floating bridge to Mercer Island. As she drove, she fumbled in her purse for the MapQuest directions she’d printed out before she left Cherrystone.

It was for 4545 Lake View Terrace, which was David’s address. She felt silly for doing a drive-by to her ex-husband’s new digs, but curiosity had gotten the best of her. Jenna told her mother that the house on the water “wasn’t all that great.” But something in her daughter’s voice indicated a white lie.

It wasn’t that Emily was jealous of David’s success or his new life with Dani and their child. It just seemed that after he’d left her, he simply went on to a new life. She didn’t. She stayed where she was, mentally, emotionally, and romantically. She’d dated a few times. She hated revisiting that time of her life. She’d found love with Christopher Collier, or at least she allowed herself to entertain the thought. But not a new life. Jenna had graduated from college and was working toward her own future.

But not Emily. For some reason, Emily didn’t seem to know how to move herself forward.

She made a sharp left, then a right, and followed the road that looped around the island.

At least his view isn’t of Seattle, but of Bellevue, she thought, as she tried to rack up whatever consolation she could.

Lake View Terrace met the main road and dropped down an incline to the water.

“Dad says to add a million to each house the closer you get to the shore,” Jenna had said when she was first describing the new house. “I’d rather have a house with horses and a view of the mountain than that silly lake. Too cold to swim in, anyway.”

Emily drove down toward the water. The last house, 4545, was gated. She pulled up to the gate. The house was a monster. It had to be five thousand square feet. It was all arches and porticos, as though every Italian architectural gewgaw had been thrown into a blender and poured onto the foundation.

A deep purple 700-series BMW was parked out front on the smallish circular drive. Smallish, Emily figured, because the house had taken up most of the lot. She squinted her eyes to make out the license plate.

The plate read: HOTDOC33

Oh, David, she thought. What has Dani done to you?

“I thought I saw you on the video cam.” It was David, emerging from the front door. Emily wanted to die just then. “So now you’re a stalker, huh, Em?”

She’d been caught. There was no way out of it. No way out of her stupidity for driving by. She wondered if she’d been like one of those criminals who wanted to get caught, for some repressed reason.

“I just wanted to see where our daughter’s education fund ended up,” she said, feeling bitterness take over embarrassment.

“I see.” David’s eyes were cold, unfeeling. He stood on the other side of the wrought iron gate with his arms folded. “Maybe you’d like to come inside and see what you’re missing?”

The things she hated about him started flooding back. “I’m not missing anything.”

“Really? Then why’d you come?”

“Curiosity. I wanted to see what misplaced values and too much money gets these days.”

“Maybe you should just move on, Emily.”

“Oh, I have, David. I have.”

She got into her car, pressed the accelerator and drove off to see Chris at his condo in Seattle. She’d called him earlier in the day to say she might come by, but she didn’t know when. After playing stalker on her ex—and having her case crumble—she could use the love of the man she adored.

Chris swung open the door to his twentieth-floor unit and without missing a beat, put his arms around Emily. The look on his face was surprise.

“Why didn’t you buzz me?” he asked.

Emily managed a smile, though not a convincing one. “A woman downstairs let me in. I must look like I live here.”

Chris hugged her again. “You look upset. What is it?”

“What isn’t it? My case is imploding. My life is a mess.”

He led her to the living room where the windows framed a magnificent view of a ferry pulling in to the pier.

“Maybe I can help with both.”

“Maybe,” she said, stopping herself as her gaze landed on the coffee table. Fanned out on the table were five business cards from various real estate agents.

He followed her eyes to the business cards.

“Yup, I’ve listed the place.”

“I see that.”

“I had some brokers come over, you know, give me the song and dance about how much dough they can bring in versus the other guy. I just did the listing agreement about an hour ago.”

“I don’t know what to say or what it means for us, Chris.”

“There’s time to figure that out. The market’s slow.” He laughed and stretched out his long legs. He wore dark-washed blue jeans and a light gray sweater.

Emily put her hand on his knee and looked into his blue eyes.

“All right.”

They curled up on the couch for an hour, discussing the case. How Tricia Wilson had lied about her abuse, and about the ramifications the disclosure might have on the case.

“You still have the computer evidence? You still have his aberrant behavior, right? His affair with his office girl?”

Emily nodded. “Right. We still have all that. But I’m not sure it’s enough. There’s not a single bit of physical evidence to tie him to the crime.”

“I get that,” he said. “Let’s dig a little deeper over dinner.”

“Can’t do it,” she said. “And you know I want to. I have to get back to Cherrystone.”

“Please call me,” was the message that Fatima Hussein left on Emily’s voice mail. The woman’s tone was polite, but with an unmistakable sense of urgency. Emily pulled over to the side of the road. Listening to voice mail while driving was one thing, but making a call and focusing on a conversation involved too much distraction on a snowy highway. The call must have come when she was going over the mountain pass—a location where she never seemed to get cellular reception.

Emily searched her memory. She didn’t know anyone by that name.

“Is this Fatima Hussein? This is Sheriff Kenyon returning your call.”

“Yes. Thank you very kindly for answering my call I made to you. Please hold for one moment while I forward my other calls.”

By the time Fatima came back on the phone, Emily had made the connection. “You’re with Evergreen Marketing, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we met in the lobby. I was doing phone training, practicing my American accent with people as they call in.”

“I remember you,” Emily said as cars whizzed by one after another, kicking slushy snow in her direction. “How can I help you?”

“I am U.S. citizen. I wanted you to know that.”

“OK, that’s wonderful,” Emily said, unsure how to respond.

“That’s why I am phone calling you. It is about our civic duty.”

“What do you have to tell me, Fatima? Is it about Tricia Wilson?”

“Yes. You are correct. I want you to know that something has been going on with her. We all have noticed it here.”

“I don’t see how I can help you with a work performance issue.”

“No that. It is about her new car and her clothes.”

“What do you mean, Fatima?”

“She bought a new Lexus and she’s wearing new garments every day. She is not even close to a top performer. We don’t understand how she could afford all of that.”

Emily remembered how impeccably coiffed and attired Tricia had been when she came to Cherrystone, and again, at the offices of Evergreen Marketing. She was the very picture of success, one of those women in magazine ads or on TV.

“I thought she was an executive there,” Emily said. “She just seemed so in charge, so professional.”

“Oh, not at all. She’s one of our phoners.”

“Phoners?” The term puzzled her.

“She does outreach calls. Surveys, things of that kind of nature.”

“I see.”

“I thought that you should know. I do not want to be involved. But it was my duty to tell you.”

Emily thanked the woman. Civic duty was one thing, of course. But the call smacked a little of getting even. Or maybe even housecleaning.

Tricia Wilson, you’ve just been outsourced, Emily thought, pulling back on to the highway.