by Gregg Olsen
He aimed a penlight at the photo of the three young women, all blond, all pretty.
Yes, it was her.
The girls were posed in front of a Greek revival mansion that had been their home away from home. It was summertime. They wore shorts and strappy tank tops and flip-flops. No cares. Just bright, shiny futures. They were blue-eyed Barbies, with perfect plastic skin and figures that only a doll maker could conjure.
He focused on their smiles. Their obvious joy was like an ice pick to his gut.
“I’ll wipe that smile off her face,” he thought looking at the girl in the center. “She’s the reason. She’s the leader.”
He told himself when he first got on the airplane in California that it was only to see her, to confront her. He wanted to tell her that her stupid decision had catastrophic results.
“Better be more careful next time,” he’d planned to say. “Some one else might not be as reasonable as I am.”
His interior monologue made him grin as he stood outside in the cold, watching. Waiting. Thinking of what she’d done. What they all had done.
He’d known the kind of pain that few endure. He was proud that he’d sequestered all of that. In the past, he’d done his share of handing out hurt like it was an appetizer to be enjoyed by the recipient. One little poisonous bite at a time was all he needed to find relief from his pain. One gulp. All of that had been a long time ago. But something was stirring inside and he knew that the girl in the center of the photo had become a kind of lightning rod for his anger.
He wrestled with it. Fought it hard. That night as he watched her from across the street, he knew that in the end, he’d have no choice. He’d argue it in his head over and over, and ultimately the dark part of him, the part hidden from all who thought they knew him, was about to become unleashed…again.
He looked down at the photo one more time and knew Jenna Kenyon would be the last to die.
Chapter Two
It was 8:05 A.M., the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, and the Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department smelled of donuts and coffee. Gloria had brought in a dozen from the bakery across the street, as she did at least five times a month. The donuts were good—sugary, greasy, and lighter than air, of course—making them nearly impossible to resist. Only one person in the department seemed to care about the net result of too many donuts on a cop’s waistline. Emily, of course. At least bagels were a somewhat healthy choice. Why not bagels? Emily knew that her own willpower to stay away from the donuts was a better solution than making a directive that Gloria stop bringing them in.
Although past forty, Emily Kenyon wasn’t ready to “give up” and let the forces of nature and donuts take over her body.
She barely had time to acknowledge the donuts with her usual “Gloria, you shouldn’t have!” before being accosted by Jeanne Parkinson, the county clerk.
“Emily,” Jeanne said, her breath short and her hands fluttering. “Mandy’s still not at work.”
Emily glanced at the wall clock. “It’s only ten past the hour.” She peeled off her coat, gloves, and scarf. Her cheeks were bright pink from the walk from her cruiser to the back door. It was the coldest day of the year, just 18 degrees. The crusty berms of snow on the sidewalk had frozen solid. The sky had cleared.
“It doesn’t make any difference,” Jeanne said. “Mandy always came five minutes early. She missed her baby shower yesterday and she’s still not here. I tell you, something’s wrong. She’s missing.”
“Who’s missing?” It was Jason Howard, donut in hand, sugar on his upper lip.
“We don’t know who’s missing,” Emily said. “Or rather, if anyone is missing at all.”
“She’s missing,” Jeanne said. “I know it. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night.”
“We’re jumping to conclusions here. I talked to a girl from Mitch Crawford’s dealership. Mitch had talked with Mandy a little while before I called.”
Jeanne brightened a little. She had all the charm of a concrete block, but now and then allowed a trace of human emotion to wash over her face. It was clear that Jeanne the county clerk was very fond of Amanda Crawford.
“Where is she?” she asked. “What did he say?”
Emily felt a surge of embarrassment. “I guess I misspoke. I don’t know what she said to him. I didn’t talk to Mitch. I talked with his customer service manager.”
She knew immediately that her response sounded lame. Yet at the time, it was good enough. She followed procedure. She only swung by the Crawfords’ house as a courtesy to those who’d called in worried about Mandy not showing up for work. For all intents and purposes, Mandy was, in fact, off shopping in Spokane. That’s what her husband said. He ought to know. She wasn’t a missing person. There was nothing more to be done. Mandy Crawford hadn’t hit the twenty-four-hour mark that would mobilize law enforcement from Cherrystone to Spokane.
Jeanne stepped a little closer, not threateningly so—just close enough to let Emily know she was very, very concerned. She was a tall woman with sea-green eyes under overplucked and overarched brows. Not pretty, but swathed in stylish earth-tone Jones New York clothes, she did the best she could with what she had. She’d won the county clerk job fifteen years prior and had no intention of ever giving it up. She had a particular type of toughness that belied the kind of sweetheart she could be. This morning she was almost in tears.
“Look, Emily, I know this girl. She’s in big trouble.” As she looked around the room, each person—Gloria the dispatcher, Jason the deputy, and Emily the sheriff—had a pretty good idea of what was coming next. None would be disappointed.
“She’s dead, I’ll bet. Her husband didn’t want kids. Didn’t want Mandy once she got pregnant. It was as if she ceased to exist from the moment she came back from the doctor with what she thought was great news. Joyful news. I’ll bet the son of a bitch killed her.”
“I didn’t realize that he didn’t want kids,” Emily said. She turned to Jason. “You and I are going over there in five minutes.”
She didn’t have to say where.
Emily Kenyon parked and she and Jason went up the cobbled walkway ringed in pyramidal shrubbery to the front door of the house at 21 Larkspur. Emily hadn’t noticed on her first visit there, but there were some scratches at the base of the door. The Crawfords must have a dog, she thought, as she rang the bell and looked around. The neighborhood was serene, devoid of any activity. In fact, the whole “gated community” seemed out of whack. Why would anyone want to live in a place with a guard posted out front? Especially in Cherrystone, of all places.
Nothing. No answer. No dog barking. No Mitch.
Jason offered to circle the house, and Emily nodded.
She rang once more. Again, nothing.
“All clear back there,” Jason said coming around the south side of the house. “Nice digs. Big pool back there.”
“The inside’s not too shabby, either,” she said. “Let’s head over to the dealership.”
It was after 9:00 A.M. when they arrived, and the sharks in the form of a crew of young men were already circling the car lot, looking for the first bite of the morning. Their pasted-on smiles fell when they noticed it was the sheriff getting out of her hopelessly uncool behemoth of a car. No trade-in here. No getting a ninety-year-old into a car he doesn’t need. Christmas music piped over the car lot. It was José Feliciano signing “Feliz Navidad.” A little peppy for the hour, and certainly wrong for the reason for the visit.
“Mitch around?” Emily asked, as she and Jason approached the dealership’s snowflake-adorned glass front doors.
“Yup,” said a young man in dark green parka over a suit jacket and tie. “He’s in his office.”
A young woman’s voice went out over the loudspeaker. “Eggnog lattes for all customers on the lot right now. Come inside and shake off the chill. It’s our treat!”
Jason followed Emily inside and they walked past three cars festooned with gigantic bows of silver and gold ribbon. One arrow po
inted to the manager’s office, another to the service department. A young woman in a Santa hat smiled from her desk.
“Hi, Mrs. Kenyon! I’m Darla! I went to high school with Jenna!”
Every sentence was punctuated with an overkill of enthusiasm. Emily remembered Darla had been a cheerleader.
“Oh, hi, Darla. Didn’t recognize you with your hat.” Emily smiled warmly. “Nice to see you.” She indicated the door behind her horseshoe-shaped desk. “Is he in?”
“Sure is! How’s Jenna doing?”
“She’s fine. She’s back from Tennessee for the holidays. She’s at her father’s in Seattle right now. Did you know she was working for her sorority?”
“Yeah. Cool. I heard that. I still want to go to college, but, you know, being a single mom hasn’t made the timing for that so good right now.” She pointed to a picture of a little boy on the credenza behind her.
Emily studied the little boy’s photo, and suddenly felt sorry for Darla. The timing of the pregnancy, of course, was what had been out of whack. College first. Then a job. Married next. Baby last. That’s what she told Jenna over and over, and so far, it seemed that the mantra had sunk in.
Mitch Crawford poked his head out of his office. He appeared irritated.
“Enough of the photo,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here.”
Darla looked hurt and embarrassed, and it was apparent that the man who took his father’s job was absolutely nothing like the man who’d built the dealership on brains and undeniable charm. Mitch was devoid of any of that.
Emily turned toward Mitch. “Would have been nice if you’d called us, if you’ve been waiting for us to show up.”
“I did call. Earlier.” He let out an annoyed sigh and commanded Darla—without saying a word—to sit down and get back to work. She did.
It was a peculiar conversation, and Emily made note of its strangeness. None of Mitch Crawford’s words were about his concern for Mandy, which was the reason they were there. He seemed more bothered by how he’d been inconvenienced by the sheriff and her deputy not being there earlier. But they’d come because of Jeanne Parkinson’s apprehension. Not because he called anyone.
“Look,” he said, “the end of the month is a hectic time around here. We’ve got sales goals to hit.”
“Of course. I have a goal, too,” she said measuring her words. “It involves finding your wife.”
Mitch toned down his conspicuous irritation. His eyes meandered from the sheriff to the deputy. “I understand. I’m busy. I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
Emily wanted to smack the guy and she was pretty sure, judging by the way Jason looked at him in contempt, he’d have told the review board that he’d seen nothing happen.
“I’ll try to move this along. Can we sit down?” Emily asked, taking one of two visitor’s chairs in an office that resembled more a trophy case of his father’s achievements than anything Mitch Crawford had done. Number 1 Dealership in the Northwest, Grande Champion for Auto World’s Contest of Excellence, and other over-the-top plaques that make no sense to anyone outside the auto-sales industry.
“I talked to one of your employees last night,” Emily said, removing her coat. “She said you’d talked with Mandy.”
Mitch’s eyes were alternately fastened on Emily, then on Jason. It was like a Ping-Pong match.
“No, I didn’t. Must be a misunderstanding. I told the crew I was worried about her. Wanted to see if her car ran into a patch of black ice or something. I drove the highway all the way to Spokane and nothing. Not a trace.”
Jason glanced at her, but Emily ignored him. She made another mental note to tell him not to do that again. The best reaction when you want someone to keep talking is no reaction.
Darla, who was listening to every word, popped her head into the office.
“Mrs. Kenyon—I mean Sheriff Kenyon, I can clear up the phone call thingy. I told Tracee Connors, the night receptionist, that Mr. Crawford wanted to talk to his wife. She screwed up.”
Mitch glared at Darla. “Not the first time around here, that’s for sure.”
Darla went back to her desk, her face red.
“Let’s take a moment here,” Emily said, turning back to Mitch. “We need to locate your wife. So let’s calmly review what you’ve told us to see if we’ve missed anything.”
Mitch slid into his leather office chair and swiveled toward the window. “Right. We need to find Mandy. She could be hurt. The baby could be in trouble.”
“That’s right. So, like I said, let’s go over what you remember.”
“That morning she told me she was going to take Toby out for a walk, then she was going to Spokane.”
“OK, what was she driving?”
“Her car, a silver Camry, 2003.”
It seemed odd to Emily that a car dealer had his wife driving an older car, not to mention one that was neither make nor model sold at his dealership. Jason wrote down the plate number.
“Why was she going to Spokane?”
“She said she was sure the baby was going to come early and she wanted one last chance to get some things she’d been wanting.”
“OK, good. That’s a detail we didn’t have. But what about the baby shower at work?”
Mitch stared, blank-eyed. “Maybe she screwed up the date? That would be just like her.”
The remark caught Emily by surprise. It seemed cold, harsh. He didn’t know where his wife was, and Mitch Crawford was happy to disparage her. Either Mandy was a ditz or her husband didn’t care much for her.
“Where did she shop for the baby?” Emily asked. “Do you know?”
“Baby Gap and Chelsea’s.”
Emily narrowed her brow. It was a name she hadn’t heard of, and she figured it was because she hadn’t been asked to a baby shower in three years. And, well, her own baby days were long behind her with Jenna out of college and on her own.
“It’s an overpriced boutique on the first floor of the Riverside Square,” Mitch said. “I don’t know why she wanted to buy that crap. It’s just a baby, for Christ’s sake. A baby doesn’t know what the hell it’s wearing. But Mandy knows how to spend the dough. She’s not the Walmart type.”
Jason took notes while Emily focused on getting all the information she needed.
“OK. Now, about the morning walk with Toby.” She stopped herself for a moment. She recalled the scratched door at the Crawford house and how silent the place had been when she’d come by the day before. “Where is Toby?”
“Good question. I haven’t seen him since yesterday when I left for work.”
“Doesn’t that concern you?” Jason asked, for the first time inserting himself into the conversation.
Mitch looked at the young deputy. They weren’t that far apart in age, but it was clear that Mitch regarded Jason Howard as someone well beneath his station in life.
“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t. The dog gets out all the time and runs up and down the street. If I had a dollar for every time I had to go out and call for him in the middle of the night, I could close this dealership and retire. Trust me, Toby will be home tonight. He’ll be hungry.”
“So what happened next?” Emily asked. “Did Mandy take Toby for a walk?”
Mitch shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess so. I wasn’t there. One of us has to work, you know.”
Emily wanted to say something about how Mandy did have a job. And about how if Mitch had been half as good a man as his father, his dealership wouldn’t be hemorrhaging customers. Instead, she smiled.
Anything to keep him talking.
“Did Mandy phone you? Text you? Contact you in any way yesterday? After you—you saw her last?”
He shook his head. “No. We’re not like those couples who have to check in with an ‘I love you’ every five minutes.”
Duly noted.
“Look, I know you’re here to find my wife, but I get the vibe from you that you don’t like me. I don’t care. You don’t have to like me to
find her, now do you?”
Jason piped up. “You’re right. We don’t have to like you.”
Emily glanced at Jason. She let a slight smile break across her face. “But, yes, we will find her.”
“Good. Now, if you need me to sign some paperwork for the missing persons report or whatever, let’s do it. I made a list of her friends. Here.”
He shoved a piece of paper at Emily. It held the names of friends and family members. Many of the names were familiar to her. Three were from the county clerk’s office.
“If you turn up anything, call Darla. She knows how to find me.”
As they walked past a sullen Darla, Emily turned to Jason and, in a very low voice, said what both of them were thinking.
“This guy’s really broken up that his wife is missing, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, crying a river.”
Chapter Three
The drive from town to Spokane was monotonous under the best of circumstances. The two-lane highway was frosted with gray snow that resembled concrete in texture, color, and, if the night’s freeze was deep enough, strength. An APB had been put out by Gloria, indicating a pregnant young woman was missing from Cherrystone. The local paper and a Spokane radio station with a pretty good police-beat reporter had already called.
Every day in Cherrystone was a slow news day.
Emily Kenyon told her deputy that she wanted to check out the stores that Mitch Crawford said his wife had frequented. She wanted to do something that felt like real police work again.
“I’ve been stuck behind a desk or at a banquet table for months,” she said. “I’d like to play cop while I still remember how. You hold down the fort and start checking out where else she might have gone. Hit up her neighbors, too.”
Jason wasn’t disappointed in the least. He had a home-cooked dinner waiting after work and he figured that Mandy Crawford was ticked off at her husband and would turn up before the end of the day.
