by Gregg Olsen
Jason could relate. Emily sometimes had him photocopy things that Gloria could have done just as well. He carried a badge, after all, not a degree from a clerical college.
Having her call go to Sheriff Kenyon’s voice mail was exceedingly frustrating, given what Steffi Johansson had to say. She tried three times to dial the number, but in her haste and fear, her fingers felt fat and kept hitting the wrong keys on her touch pad. Finally, after getting the voice mail a second time, she hung up. She dialed the alternate number which went to Gloria, at the dispatcher’s desk.
“I need to talk to Sheriff Kenyon right away.”
“She’s not in right now. Is this an emergency?”
“Yes. I guess it is.”
“What is it?”
“Look, she told me to call her if I had something to say. This is Steffi Johansson. I was at that Crawford lineup a while back.”
“Yes, Steffi. Can I help you?”
“No. I really need to talk to Sheriff Kenyon.”
“She’s out. How about Deputy Howard? I can patch you through.”
“I guess so.”
The line went quiet and then beeped. Steffi knew that the spaced intervals of beeping were an indicator that her voice was being recorded; she’d worked as a telemarketer for a camping company before coming to the café.
“Deputy Howard speaking.”
“Hi, Deputy. I’m Steffi Johansson.”
“How can I help you?”
There was silence for a second as she found her courage. “I know who killed Mandy Crawford,” she said.
When he asked her who and she answered, he felt a rush go through his body like the shock wave he once felt while fixing his uncle’s electric cattle fence wearing soaked leather shoes. If he was standing when she said the name of the man, he surely would have stumbled to the floor. It was that jarring.
“Are you sure you saw him?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice catching with a little emotion. “One hundred percent.”
Jason Howard tried Emily’s cell phone three times. It went to voice mail. Finally, on the second try, he decided to leave a message.
“Emily, Steffi Johansson’s coming down here. She can ID the man she saw that night at her coffee place. Get over here, OK?”
Chapter Sixty-six
Seattle
His condo now in escrow, Chris knew that Emily would have to marry him or he’d have to find a new place to live. He knew she’d never leave Cherrystone. He’d tell her that they’d reached their moment of truth.
Either you love me or you don’t. I know that you do. Let’s spend our lives together.
He swung by Irv Watkins’s house in Normandy Park, a fir-canopied enclave south of Seattle. The house was a two-story contemporary with sweeping views of Puget Sound and Vashon Island to the west. Chris pulled alongside a cobalt blue Miata next to the garage with a FOR SALE sign taped inside the passenger window and parked.
Irv Watkins poked his head out the front door and shook off the chill of the northwest winter gloom. He wore a purple and gold University of Washington sweatshirt and faded brown corduroy trousers.
“You’re a hell of a guy to reach,” he called out. “I had to call downtown to get your cell number.” He waved for Chris to get up the steps.
“I guess I like it like that. But it’s always good to hear your voice. Irv, how’s it going?”
“No complaints, considering.”
Chris winced at the thoughtlessness of his own words. Randi, Irv’s wife of forty years, had been gone such a short time. The Miata had been hers. He stepped inside the Danish modern–furnished home and Irv shut the front door. A cat scampered past. Irv motioned for Chris to follow him to the living room. The place was familiar. Chris had been there years ago for a party. The exact occasion escaped him just then.
“I’m sure it’s been hard.”
“I’m doing better. Miss her every day, you know.”
“I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re hanging in there.”
“Coffee? Beer? Soda?”
Chris passed with a smile and Irv went on, clearly glad to have company.
“Hey, you still seeing Emily Kenyon?” he asked.
“Every chance I get.”
He took a drink. “That’s what I heard. Any-who I saw a clip of the case she’s working on over there. On TV. Last night.”
“Mandy Crawford?”
“That’s the one.”
“It reminded me of the Harriman case.”
Irv had Chris’s interest. “Belinda Harriman?”
“Yeah, you remember that one?”
Chris pondered the name. Of course he did. Everyone did.
Belinda Harriman was a law student at the time of her disappearance. Anyone who lived in the Seattle area at the time could easily remember the photographs and handbills that were plastered all over the region. The mantra from her friends and family members was loud and decisive in their aim to bring her home: Leave no telephone pole without a handbill! All the way from Tacoma to Everett!
As the memories came back, Chris took a seat in the brown leather recliner that matched the one Irv commanded.
Belinda, a tall, slender, redhead with ice blue eyes and a freckle-splashed nose, was last seen playing pool at Sun Villa, a bowling alley with ten lanes and six pool tables in suburban Bellevue, east of Seattle. She’d been there with a group of friends from the UW law school. She rode home with her boyfriend, who dropped her off in front of her University of Washington district apartment building around midnight. Belinda told friends at the bowling alley that she had a big test the next week and needed to study. She waved good-bye and disappeared.
The police—both Seattle and Bellevue—investigated. Every inch of her apartment and the bowling alley was examined for evidence. But nothing turned up. Belinda’s parents packed up her belongings after Christmas, knowing in the way that parents often do that their child is dead.
In late February the following year, a girl on the hunt for evidence of early spring for a science project, found a patch of long red hair on the frozen edge of Phantom Lake, a small body of water more akin to a large pond than a real lake, a few miles north of the bowling alley. Her eyes followed the red hair to a tangle of dead cattails. Arms akimbo, faceup, was Belinda Harriman, entombed in a sodden sleeping bag.
“But Belinda Harriman’s killer was apprehended, convicted, right?” Chris asked, not really seeing the parallels that seemed so apparent to Irv.
“He was. Rick Deacon was his name—the boyfriend, remember?”
Chris scratched his head. “Sorry, Irv, guess I’m getting a little rusty. I don’t see the connection with Mandy. Was it the body dump site that caught your attention? The fact that it was a young woman killed in winter?”
Irv retrieved another beer from the mini fridge next to his chair, his TV command central, and Chris motioned “no thanks” with an outstretched palm.
“Gotta drive,” he said. “Heading over the pass to see Em.”
Irv swallowed a couple of big gulps of his beer. “Sure, a frozen pond and a strangled young girl are ringers, but for crying out loud, that’s hardly enough to get you over here.”
“Then what is it?” Chris wasn’t losing his patience. He liked Irv. He simply remembered that Irv was the kind of guy who could turn a minute into an hour. He could drag a thought out until the damn thing had nothing left anymore.
“Like I said, I saw the TV interview last night regarding the Crawford murder case.”
“So you said.”
Irv poured some more beer down his throat.
Jesus, is this guy another retired cop with a booze problem? Chris asked himself, though he knew the answer.
“When I was watching the show, it sort of hit me. Hard. I recognized someone and it got me to thinking.”
“Rick Deacon’s still in prison, Irv. He couldn’t have done it.”
Irv got up from his recliner, set down his empty green bottle, and strode over the coffe
e table in front of a matching leather sofa. “Oh, it wasn’t him. I know that.” He picked up the remote control and punched the button to play back the DVR. “Isn’t this cool how I can do this?”
“What’s that, Irv?”
“You know, record without a tape. I record the news—in case I’m, you know, if I’m busy or something. I can keep up.”
Irv fast-forwarded past the commercials, the story about a Seattle bus accident, layoffs from a Redmond software company, before stopping on the anchorwoman with a graphic of a yellow chalked outline of dead body with the words CHERRYSTONE MURDER behind her. The story continued with various townspeople talking about Mitch Crawford and what he might have done to his wife.
“That guy!” Irv said, freezing the image. “Right there.”
Chris was on his feet, staring at the screen. He looked back at Irv, unsure of what or who he was supposed to be seeing.
“I think that’s Rick Deacon’s best friend. In fact, I’m positive it is. I remember my buddy working the case said that Rick’s buddy had just as many good reasons to lie about the night that Belinda disappeared as Rick did. In fact, he once told me that if James had come to the police first, they might have been able to pin the murder on his pal.”
Irv pulled out a videotape and stuck it into a player with cords that snaked from the new flat screen.
“Randi was a big fan of Evening Magazine. She made me tape it for the ‘Washington Getaways’ segments that featured places to go. But on this one, there’s an update on the Harriman case…and our guy’s in the shot, putting up a poster.”
Chris extended his finger and aimed it the image on screen.
“Be careful! Don’t touch the TV. Ruins it!”
Chris pulled back his hand, but stepped closer. He could feel the blood drain from his face as the pixels grew larger and brighter. He wanted Irv to be wrong.
“What do you think?” Irv asked. “You think it’s him?”
Chris looked at Irv. “The quality’s not so good. There’s a resemblance, of course.”
“Not the TV’s fault, you know. Picture’s good.”
“I didn’t say it was, Irv. I know you love your TV. But it’s a lot of years ago, man.”
Irv took the final foamy gulp of his beer. “I think there’s something there. Could be a coincidence, but I kind of got that little chill on the back of my neck when I saw him.”
Chris didn’t say so, but he felt that little chill, too. It was like an icy finger tapping lightly at the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck…. pay attention…pay attention.
“I need to leave now,” he said. “Long drive.”
“Can’t you stay for a beer? I feel like cracking open another.”
Chris dismissed the offer out of hand, but gave the impression to his old colleague that he mulled it over. “Later. OK? Thanks, Irv.”
“Don’t you want this?” Irv held out a couple of white pages. “I still have a friend or two downtown, you know.”
Chris looked down at the first paper. It was a state driver’s license photo of the man on the TV taken at the time of the event, obviously from the case file, and on the second sheet was his image as it appeared on his current license.
Jesus Christ, Chris thought, that really could be him.
Chris wondered if he’d taken his blood pressure medicine that morning. He needed this to be one of the days he didn’t skip because he had something else on his mind. He dialed Emily’s number, but no answer. He got Gloria on the phone and she said Emily had been out on the case and she was up to her neck “in alligators.”
“Four bookings in the last hour—three drunks and a peeper. Don’t know when the sheriff will be back in, Chris. Keep trying her cell. Stop by when you can. Things are just strange around here lately.”
She has no idea, Chris thought as he hung up the phone and left for the airport. There was no time to drive to Cherrystone. Good thing a plane left for Spokane every hour.
The text message on Emily’s phone came earlier that afternoon from Donna Rayburn, the associate from Cary McConnell’s law office.
If u get this, meet me where u found M. I’m out of range. So can’t call. I’ll be there at 4. Come alone. Do not tell Cary. DR
For the first time, Emily noticed that Donna had made several attempts earlier in the day to reach her, but no calls lasted long enough to leave a message. Cell reception was spotty at best in some parts around Cherrystone. No carrier could really claim total coverage.
For a moment, Emily considered calling Camille to get her take on talking with a lawyer from the other side of the Crawford case, but she thought better of it. Her need to meet likely had nothing to do with the case. If Donna had something to say to her, she might as well hear it. Maybe she had wised up about Cary and wanted an experienced and sympathetic shoulder to cry on?
Chris Collier stood in the security line at SeaTac while a young, blond-haired and dreadlocked TSA agent with a neck tattoo covered by a Band-Aid waved an electronic wand between his legs and down his back.
“Just checking, sir.”
“No problem.” Chris wanted to laugh a little because as he heard the young man’s words, he impulsively edited them to: “Just checking, dude.”
He could hear his cell phone ringing from the plastic caddy that held his shoes, belt, coat, and wallet.
It was probably Emily calling him back. Damn!
He put on his shoes, grabbed the paperwork he’d passed through the X-ray machine, and found his way to the departure gate. A baby’s piercing cry filled the gate area, but Chris merely offered a smile in the direction of the young mother. His own kids were grown, but he never forgot what it was like to have little ones on an airplane.
It’s only an hour flight, he thought.
He dialed Emily back, but no answer. This time when it went to voice mail, he left a message.
“Em, I’m on my way to see you. Something could be breaking on the Crawford case. I’ll explain when I get there.”
He hung up. He chose to be somewhat cryptic. Saying more would be too explosive.
The young man’s voice was matter of fact, though given in a slight whisper.
“Hey, sir, this is me, Devon Little of the DMV. We got a request yesterday on your license photo and information. Seattle PD. The requestor came from Seattle PD. Wanted your photo from today and your pic from back when you were my age. Pretty funny haircut. Don’t forget to send me the money right away. I’m going on vacation next week.”
The man shut his phone. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple. He knew the day was coming. He just didn’t think it would be so soon. He looked across the room at the woman fussing with the makings of a salad.
It looked good. Too bad she wouldn’t be having any of it.
Chapter Sixty-seven
Cherrystone
It was her late work day, so Gloria Bergstrom was at the desk answering the one or two calls that would come in until 9:30, when Renata Klug would come in to relieve her. She looked up when Emily came in.
“I just tried you,” she said. “Jason called. Steffi’s coming in to the office. She needs to amend her statement. Jason says she can ID the man who was at her shop that night.”
Gloria looked at the door, then back to Emily. “He should be here in five minutes. Went to get her. Says this is big.”
Emily checked her office phone and locked up a second time for the night. Just as she returned, Jason and Steffi came inside the office.
Jason looked like he was going to burst. Steffi looked as if she was about to cry.
“You have to hear this, Sherrif,” he said.
“Hi Steffi. Are you all right?”
“I’m scared,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll help you. Let’s go to the conference room.”
Gloria sighed. It was clear she hated being left out.
When the three of them sat down, Steffi started to shake. She put her palms flat on the tabletop to steady herself.
&nb
sp; “I was watching TV, you know, about Mandy.”
“On the Spokane show,” Jason added, as though the detail was helpful.
“Did it trigger a memory or something?”
“More than that.” Tears started to fall.
“Tell me. Take your time.”
“The man who came into our café. The one I told you about?”
“Yes? The one who was injured?”
“Yeah.” Steffi fidgeted with her hands. “Well, that man was on the TV.”
“We’ve already done the lineup,” Emily said. “We can’t go there again, just because you can ID Mitch Crawford now.”
Steffi looked over at Jason, then back at Emily. She’d stopped shaking and seemed to find firmer footing.
“It wasn’t Mr. Crawford I saw.”
“Then who was it?” Jason asked.
The young woman looked at Jason, then Emily. “It was his lawyer. Cary McConnell was the man I saw that night.”
Emily’s pulse spiked, but she hid the surge in adrenaline that came with it the best that she could. “You think the man you saw that night was Cary McConnell?”
Steffi shook her head and the gesture brought Emily a second of relief.
“No, I don’t think it, Sheriff Kenyon. I’m absolutely certain.”
Jason leaned toward Emily. “Look, it makes sense,” he said, in a low voice. “McConnell wasn’t there at the lineup, right? He had an associate there. Remember?”
Emily recalled how disappointed she and Camille had been when Steffi came up empty-handed. She remembered how Cary had been too busy to come in. He was a man who liked to do battle head-on. But not that day.
“He had access to the Crawford house. He could have faked that note.”
Emily could feel herself nearly lose balance. She was grateful that she was sitting in a chair. Cary McConnell was a sleazebag lawyer. And the world’s worst boyfriend. But they were suggesting that he was a killer.
“That’s a pretty big leap,” she said. The defensive tone of her remark shocked her own sensibilities.
