A Cold Dark Place

by Gregg Olsen

“Well, that went great,” Jenna said.

  Nick would have laughed just then if nothing important had been at stake.

  “No kidding. I totally choked.”

  Jenna started back to the table. “Okay, let’s figure this out.”

  Nick looked beat up. His big moment as a macho takecharge guy had fizzled. Jenna nudged him on the shoulder.

  “Cary McConnell knows something but he’s a lawyer—”

  “And a jerk.” Nick added, brightening somewhat.

  “Right. Trust me, I know!”

  Nick stared at the photocopies. He placed his index finger on the image of Bonnie Jeffries.

  “She’s the one,” he said. Jenna leaned closer to get a better view of the photograph. “She’s the one we ought to talk to. She’s kind of a whistle-blower type and they always want to help.”

  Jenna agreed. “Let’s go see if she’s still around. I think we can get on one of those computers over there.”

  “If we have enough money,” Nick said.

  “This is a library,” she said with a smile, “some things just have to be free around here.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Saturday, 6:30 P.M., Seattle

  “That’s a part of my life I don’t like to discuss for fairly obvious reasons,” Tina Winston Esposito said, curled up like a cat in a darkened booth in Embers. When fire flashed from the restaurant’s grill, it lit up her face. She was still thin and beautiful. Her blond hair was cut in a bob that made her look chic and rich, which she was. She no longer had her own business, or the need for one. She’d married a wealthy software executive and lived the good life in a high-rise condo downtown. Her bag was Prada. So were her shoes.

  “I can imagine,” Emily Kenyon said. “And I’m sorry for the intrusion. Thanks for meeting me.”

  “I must admit I practically lost it when you mentioned Dylan’s name,” Tina said, sipping a Death Valley dry martini that was delivered to her without so much as a request.

  This lady’s on home turf.

  “Water, for me,” Emily said. “No lemon, please.” Nerves were getting the best of her. Her stomach growled.

  “You know, I hated that detective up in Meridian. Could have scratched out her eyes. Now I wonder why? Everything about those days seems like a dream. A nightmare, really.”

  The waiter, a young man with a tattoo bandaged to hide it from restaurant patrons, returned to take their order. Tina selected the salmon.

  “It’s wild, not that horrid farm-raised Atlantic fish,” she said.

  “Yes, Alaskan,” the waiter said, turning his inquisitive gaze toward Emily.

  “I’ll have the same,” she said.

  The waiter nodded, disappeared, and the kitchen flashed more fire.

  Alone with the detective and her martini, Tina Esposito’s demeanor shifted. The warm, nearly genteel manner turned to stone.

  “Look,” she said, “I’ll help you any way that I can. I don’t even want to know why you’re here. That’s your affair. The less I know the better.”

  Emily said nothing. She knew when to keep her mouth shut. Sometimes the less a detective says, the more she’ll get in an interview. The tactic always served her well. Let the subject fill in all the uncomfortable gaps in a conversation.

  “You just have to promise me that you’ll keep me out of any of this,” Tina went on. For a woman who had a purse worth more than Emily’s monthly salary, her tone was surprisingly pleading. “I have a pretty good life now. I can’t ruin it.”

  Emily felt sorry for her. “If you haven’t been a party to any criminal activity” she said, pausing slightly for emphasis, “I’d say that’s a promise I can keep.”

  “Criminal activity? Good God, no. I’m guilty of one thing. Being stupid.” She finished the last of her martini. “Really, supremely stupid.”

  “We’ve all done stupid things,” Emily said, thinking of Cary McConnell. At least Tina’s stupidity was decades, not hours, old. “Tell me. Tell me about you, Dylan Walker, and Bonnie Jeffries.”

  “All right,” she said. “But be prepared. I warn you. It’s pretty messy.”

  Ensconced behind prison walls, Dylan Walker hardly faded into oblivion, as the prosecutors and detractors had predicted following his trial for the murders of Shelley Marie Smith and Lorrie Ann Warner. He wasn’t lonely, either. He had a full roster of visitors and an endless supply of pen pals.

  Tina Winston started making the drive to the prison two months after Walker was convicted. She’d wanted to go right away, but she had to wait until after the state ran him through diagnostics and a battery of sessions with a counselor to determine how he’d fit into the prison population. Even more to the point, how he’d survive. He was considered “high profile” which really meant “high target.”

  Walker wrote to Tina a week after he’d been moved from Administrative Segregation or Ad Seg, to his “permanent” cell in Block D. His cell mate, a firebug from suburban Seattle, was the perfect fit. He was younger and a follower. That was good. A narcissist like Dylan Walker preferred being the star of his own show. Everyone else was a supporting player. That meant his cell mate, and those who wrote to him, like Tina.

  Tina didn’t know it, of course, but she was being played. He wrote to her that his loneliness and need for her understanding heart and unconditional love was the only thing that kept him alive. She alone could free him from the mental torture of his prison sentence.

  I sit here, alone, and desperate. I feel broken. Not for what I’ve been accused of doing. Not for what the world thinks of me. I feel broken because you are so far away. The walls that hold us apart seem insurmountable. You might think that I’m counting the days to my appeal, but really, I only count the days until I see you.

  Tina always stayed at the Windsong Inn, only ten minutes from the prison. It was a sterile little motel room with cardboard-thin walls and a lamp that was bolted to the nightstand. She could have afforded better accommodations, of course, if there had been better. Despite the jittery and excited feelings—the kind that come with a first date—that came with seeing Dylan, she knew it wasn’t a real romance. She also knew her visits were not to a resort town. The prison town was stark, lonely, and bitter.

  Tina arrived in town Friday night, so she’d be dressed and ready at the prison by 8:00 A.M. Saturday. It took about an hour to get through the examination process to ensure she wasn’t smuggling anything in. By 9:15, her heart would stop when she first saw him line up in the visitation room. His dark eyes sparked with recognition. Even in the drab attire of an inmate’s daily wear—a T-shirt and jeans—he was godlike. If the clothes just hung on the SOBs that other women were there to see, they clung to his ripped body like a second skin. If he hadn’t been a prisoner, a convicted murderer, no less, Dylan Walker could have been a male model or film star. He sauntered to the table, a big white-toothed smile set off by dimples chiseled into that unequivocally handsome face.

  They’d kiss and sit down. Quick and passionate. The second kiss would have to wait until the conclusion of a “date” Tina never wanted to end.

  “I hate that we can only be together twice a month,” she said on more than one occasion.

  He leaned as close as the guards would allow. “I feel the same way.”

  And so each visit went. Tina promised to stand by Dylan. He said she was the only one who understood what he was going through. They talked about each other’s lives. Friends, family—all of the things that held any real importance. In some ways Dylan Walker was the perfect man. He could charm. He was gorgeous. He made her laugh. Best of all, she didn’t have to live with him.

  The only downside, she thought, was that part about him being suspected of being a serial killer. So harsh. So wrong!

  The salmon was perfect, just as Olga had promised. But Emily Kenyon only picked at it as Tina Esposito went on with her story of unrequited prison love. The combination of a woman in love with a creep—handsome as he was—made the detective’s skin crawl.r />
  “How long did you keep it up? Visiting him?” Emily asked.

  Tina swallowed and dabbed her mouth. “Too long. I think I saw him for about a year and half. And that’s when Bonnie came into this.”

  “I thought she came to the trial.”

  “She did. She came a few times, only because I didn’t want to go alone. I think I was starstruck or something and wanted someone to blather to about Dylan.”

  She finished her second martini and it was clear as she looked about the darkened restaurant that Tina Winston Esposito was contemplating a third.

  “What happened with Bonnie?”

  “I really can’t blame her. Not exactly. I told her to write to him. She was lonely and he liked getting mail. So she did. I had no idea that it would turn out the way it did. I was in love with him and I trusted her. I know that it is crazy,” she said, her voice rising a little, “but I’m still mad at her. Ultimately she did me a favor, I guess. But my blood still boils when I think about how I found out.”

  “What? What happened?”

  “I’m going to have one more drink. Then, as the kids say, I’m going to rock your world.”

  “I’m ready to be rocked,” Emily said. “And I think I’ll have what you’re having, too.”

  Tina plucked the olive off her toothpick and smiled.

  The display on the dessert cart at Embers Restaurant was to die for, but Emily Kenyon stopped doing dessert when she turned thirty-five and knew her cheesecake days were out the door along with low-rise jeans and tummy-baring tops. Tina Esposito, however, ordered a Grand Marnier–infused chocolate torte. Considering all the slender woman had consumed during the meal, it did cross through Emily’s mind that she was not only the ex-squeeze of a serial killer, she was likely bulimic, too.

  Emily looked at her watch. They’d been talking—or rather Tina had been talking—for more than an hour and fifteen minutes. And they weren’t getting very far.

  Have to wrap this up, Emily thought. Jenna’s out there with Nick. The police are probably looking for Shali’s car by now.

  “What happened with Bonnie?” Emily finally prodded.

  “Oh that bitch,” Tina said, swaying tipsily. “She double-crossed me. She took away my boyfriend.”

  “But your boyfriend was a sociopath,” Emily said, amused by the absurdity of their conversation.

  Tina tilted her head and slurred, “Touché. But isn’t every successful man just a little bit sociopathic?”

  Emily didn’t say so, but she almost agreed. The concept fit David. It fit that jerk Cary McConnell. Most of the men that had come in and out of her life were more sociopathic than altruistic. Tina took a forkful of the dark chocolate ganache and twisted it upside down in her mouth. She closed her eyes, savoring the dessert or remembering a moment with Dylan Walker. Emily wasn’t sure.

  “I guess it is my fault, too,” Tina said quietly when she came up for air and swallowed. “I introduced them.”

  As the torte disappeared, Emily listened as Tina spun a tale of being jilted by Dylan Walker. He’d convinced Tina that he cared about her friends and family and wanted to meet them.

  “Family was out, of course,” Tina said. “You don’t think I was completely out of my mind.” She stopped and thought better of her remark. “Don’t answer that.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Emily said, playing along.

  “Okay, so I told him all about Bonnie. She was sweet. Single. Lonely. How she could use a friend. He soaked it all up. Made notes about her, for all I know. Anyway, the next thing I knew she was coming to the prison on my Saturdays.” She looked through her purse, Emily assuming that she was getting her credit card to pay the check. Instead she pulled out an envelope.

  “You can have this,” she said, handing it to Emily. “I don’t even know why I saved it.”

  Emily noticed that Tina’s eyes had watered. Was she going to cry? Jesus, tell me that I’m not this pathetic when it comes to men. To David. To Cary.

  The return address was the prison, in care of Dylan Walker.

  Dear Tina,

  This is so hard for me to write. But I’m in an impossible position here. I’ve fallen deeply in love with someone else. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t think our time together was without deep meaning. In many ways, I owe you the very fact that my heart is whole enough to love another. Moreover, I owe a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. You have brought me the woman of my dreams. Thank you, dear Tina. Thank you for my Bonnie.

  Love, Dylan

  Emily folded the letter and slid it back into the frayed envelope.

  “What did Bonnie say about this?”

  Tina sighed and shook her head. “Nothing. Not a peep. I called her. You bet I did. I even went over to have it out with her. It was so silly. Fighting over Dylan Walker? So idiotic. But Bonnie and I never really talked again. When the Angel’s Nest thing made the news a few years later, I called her, you know, to give some support. But she acted like she’d never heard of me. She treated me like some crank caller. Later the prosecution came to me about Dylan and Bonnie and her being mixed up with him. I was married then. I said I didn’t know who either of them were.” She took another deep breath and smiled. “That felt so good.”

  “I can imagine. What were they getting at?”

  “I don’t have a clue. As I said, I never saw her again after Dash—I mean Dylan, dumped me.”

  “What became of her?” Emily asked.

  “I ran into her cousin or something at Westlake Center one day and she said Bonnie had fallen on hard times. She was working as a janitor, I think.” She thought for a moment, and her face brightened once more. “Yes, that’s right. A janitor for the Seattle School District.”

  Tina grabbed her Prada bag and opened it once more.

  “My treat,” she said.

  Saturday, 9:40 P.M.

  Emily Kenyon checked into a room at the Westerfield, an expensive Seattle hotel that ordinarily wouldn’t have been on her list of places to stay. Not without one of those half-price coupons she got out of a school fund-raiser book, anyway. She was too exhausted to drive another mile for the cheaper rates of a suburban or airport hotel room. Sure, the county would pay for the room, but rack rates suggested by written travel policy put a night’s stay at $78 a night, not $190. I’ll add this to the list of things I’m never going to deal with, she thought, as she set her overnight bag on the travertine vanity. She’d been through so much that day, from Cherrystone to Olga to Tina, that she needed a little time to regroup. She took a diet soda from the minibar and perched herself, shoes off, on the edge of the bed.

  A moment later, Emily found herself succumbing to sleep. She didn’t fight it. She just let go.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Sunday, 7:40 A.M., Seattle

  It was early, but not too early for a call to Brian Kiplinger. It wasn’t like he was a churchgoer. Emily Kenyon opened her cell phone and called her boss, an act that she dreaded.

  “Where are you?” Kip said, his gruff voice, not quite loud enough to hide the TV playing in the background. Emily thought it was a gardening show, which was a predictable choice for the sheriff. He was known around Cherrystone as the “Sheriff with a Green Thumb and a Load of Fertilizer.” He acted like he didn’t think it was funny, but those who knew him understood Brian Kiplinger loved any kind of attention.

  “Seattle, at the Westerfield,” she answered. “You know that.”

  “I didn’t know you were on a freaking vacation.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m beat.”

  “And?”

  “What do I have to show for my day?”

  “That’s right. Tell me.” Emily heard a beer can pop.

  Emily could imagine the irritated look on Kip’s face as he settled into his leather recliner. She hoped by the end of the conversation, they’d be back to what they were before the Martin murders—friends with a mutual respect for each other. She told him about Olga and the links among Tina W
inston, Dylan Walker, Bonnie Jeffries, and Angel’s Nest.

  “Interesting, of course. I remember the Walker case. But it sounds like a stretch,” he said.

  “I get that, but there is something here. Look, Cary McConnell told me that someone connected to Angel’s Nest had made inquiries about the Martins. I haven’t been able to confirm it, but I’d bet my detective’s shield that Nick was an Angel’s Nest baby.”

  “And you think this is going to shed some light on our triple homicide?” He sounded gentler now, but still skeptical.

  She ignored him. “Gloria told me that you have the Feds en route?”

  “They should be in Spokane about now. Coming on a flight from the Seattle Field Office. Two of them.” He paused. “How about Jenna?”

  “I have a feeling Jenna and Nick are at David’s. I’ll call you when all this gets settled. In the meantime, can you get Jason to do something for me?”

  “What’s that? Feed your cat?”

  Soft as butter. Kip couldn’t stay mad.

  “That’s an idea, but not what I had in mind. I need someone to tell me if Dylan Walker’s in Monroe or Walla Walla.”

  “I can answer that,” Kip said, an air of satisfaction permeating each syllable. “Neither.”

  Emily acted dumbfounded. “Really?”

  “You just don’t keep up on your golden oldie serial killers. He was shipped out to a prison in Jersey a dozen years ago or so. He’d been too much of a distraction for our local systems. I’ll call my buddy in corrections and find out where he’s at.”

  Emily thanked him and hung up. As she made her way to the shower she had thought of visiting Dylan Walker, maybe out of curiosity as much as anything. But that wasn’t going to happen now. New Jersey was out. She’d focus on finding Jenna and Nick, and Bonnie Jeffries. She turned on the hotel shower. Steam poured into the room and she stepped inside. As the water rushed over her, she imagined all her troubles going down the drain.