by Gregg Olsen
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Sherman Wilder stood next to the boarded-up stall door. If anyone had told him six months before that his life would turn out in the way that it had, he’d have looked at him or her like they were crazy. Never could he have imagined that someone as brilliant and beautiful as Brenda Nevins would select him over all other suitors. When Brenda came into his life, he’d been just another of the faceless people who provide a backdrop for the smarter, the richer, the better looking.
“What’s the point of living if you are nothing but dust?” Brenda had said, during one of their training sessions in the prison IT lab. “A man like you can be so much more with the right woman and focused ambition.”
That was the beginning. There was more to it, of course. It had been a buildup of days and then weeks, then months before she showed him that he was special. It culminated with hasty sex with no finesse whatsoever. The kind of encounter a teenage boy has with his girlfriend in the car because there’s nowhere else to go and they can’t stop themselves. Wham. Bam. Thank you, ma’am. It was fast. Exciting. It was that first sip of whiskey that begged for a full-on guzzle. Over time, there were many such encounters. Each had the rush of being forbidden. Every time they had sex brought the possibility of ruining his life.
Guzzle. Sip. Guzzle.
No matter what he’d read about her online, no matter what the prison administration said about her—“devious, conniving”—he saw Brenda Nevins as something far different.
Misunderstood. Brilliant. Sexy as hell.
Sherman understood her anger at the world for all that it had done to her. The people who told her she was less than she was. She’d had a long list. He hated them as much as she did. When she sent up a trial balloon that she wanted to escape, he balked. She punished him by avoiding him for three weeks. Finally, when she came back to him, she said she had found another way out.
“I don’t know why I even bothered with you,” she said, lingering in the IT training lab after the other inmates had gone.
Her words cut deeply.
“Don’t be that way,” he said.
Brenda gave him a knowing smile. “Oh, I can be any way that I want to be.”
“You know what I mean, Brenda. Don’t ice me out.”
She looked at him with those eyes of hers, but said nothing.
“Talk to me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Baby, talk to me.”
“Look,” Brenda said, “I don’t know what to think about you, Sherman. You talk a good game, and I’ve seen a game player or two in my life.”
“No games, baby,” he said. “I promise.”
She pointed a finger at him. “When I asked you for help, you turned your back on me.”
Sherman wanted to hold her, but one of the guards kept walking by the open doorway. “Not being able to break you out of prison is not turning my back on you,” he whispered. “It’s realistic.”
Brenda scooted next to his desk and sat down on top of it. “I don’t do realistic,” she purred, “I do fantastic. You, for one, should know that, Sherman.”
His face turned red. She was right.
“I told you I get things done,” she said, “I always have been able to manage. No one person can stop me.”
Sherman didn’t know what or whom she was talking about, but he understood two things very clearly: Once Brenda got out, they’d be together. Once they were together, they’d make sure that everyone knew exactly who Brenda Nevins was. He was never going to let her down.
“I’m going to have you do things for me,” she said, “that might be uncomfortable to you.”
She scrutinized him. His eyes stayed right where she wanted them. On her. She studied his pupils. She gauged the color of his skin, the sweat above his brow. Was there a twitch? Was there any sign that he’d fail her?
“I’ll do whatever you want,” he told her.
The list of what had been uncomfortable to Sherman Wilder had grown since Brenda tricked Janie Thomas into doing the unthinkable. He’d played that scenario of his agreement to take care of her, support her, serve her even, over in his head. He’d killed for her. It surprised him how easy it had been to take out Patty Sparks and the Good Samaritan in the VW.
But his mom? That was a hard one.
“No tracks, babe,” she had said. “Besides, she’s old anyway. Old dies. We’re actually helping her get to where she needs to go.”
* * *
Tim and Jillian MacDonald waited for Kendall in a conference room at the Kitsap County Sheriff’s Office. Tim was a barrel-chested machinist from the shipyard; Jillian taught watercolor painting out of their Southworth home overlooking the parking lot of the ferry landing. Friends always described them as an outgoing, happy couple that doted on their daughter, but didn’t spoil her. Older than her siblings by so many years, Chloe MacDonald was one of those kids who was as comfortable hanging out with her parents and their friends as she was with kids her own age.
“Detective Stark,” Tim said, trying as hard as he could—and failing—not to show how worried he was, “we’re Chloe MacDonald’s parents. I’m Tim. This is Jillian.”
Kendall was surprised, but didn’t show it either. Or at least she’d tried not to.
“She’s Chinese,” Jillian said. “We adopted her when she was two.”
Tim pulled a photo from his wallet. It was Chloe in her black-and-red cheer uniform. Her hair rested on her shoulders. She had a kind of charisma that came through the photo straight at the viewer.
“She’s beautiful,” Kendall said.
“She’s more than that,” Tim said, fighting tears. “She’s everything to us.”
Jillian patted her husband’s shoulder.
“My husband and I, we know that you are doing everything you can.”
“And the FBI is too,” Kendall said, for the first time saying something positive about the agency. It was, she knew, not a competition. She put the photo in her coat pocket.
“We just wanted you to put the face with the name,” Jillian said. “We know we don’t look like her. We know that she’s not our blood, but she is our daughter in every way that matters.”
“I know she is,” Kendall said.
Tim opened his mouth to speak, but the effort was wasted. His voice cracked with the first syllable and he gave up.
Again, his wife intervened.
“If there’s anything my husband or I can do, anything at all, please call on us,” she said. “I made a list of all her friends, teachers too. I’ve called every single one, and no one knows anything more than you probably do. I don’t think whoever took our daughter is someone from around here. Everyone loves Chloe.”
Kendall took the slip of paper. She told them how much she appreciated their help. That she, too, was doubtful that anyone from Port Orchard could be behind the abduction.
“I’ve lived here all of my life,” she told them, “and I know you have too. We will move heaven and earth to bring these girls home safe and sound.”
* * *
Dispatch notified Kendall three times that Jack Scott had been calling for her—in fact, twice in the last hour. She understood Blake Scott’s father’s anxiousness and she’d returned his call each time, but they all went to voice mail.
“He’s a real piece of work,” the dispatcher said. “Says he demands you get over to his house.”
“I’m pulling up now,” Kendall said.
The detective realized that stressful situations often brought out the worst personality attributes in people. She knew Jack Scott because he owned six car dealerships in the county and she’d actually purchased her SUV off his lot in Bremerton. He advertised himself as Kitsap’s Kar King. At the moment, he was worried, stressed out, and all but certain the authorities weren’t doing a proper job with the investigation.
The Scotts’ house in Fragaria Landing was a mammoth chateau with a circular drive, a six-car garage, and a gazebo that overlooked Colvos Passage and had a view of Mount Rainier. I
t was impressive, as it was meant to be. Kendall’s SUV had been leaking oil lately, so she parked on the street in front of the house. The circular driveway was pristine, and the Kar King’s phone calls indicated to her that he’d be the type to call the county and complain that she had messed up his driveway.
Even though she’d bought the car from his dealership and had taken it in twice for repairs.
If Port Orchard had a beautiful couple, Jack and Kathryn Scott were it. At least in photos. Jack was broad shouldered, chiseled-featured, and had dark brown hair that would be the envy of men half his age. Kathryn, like her husband, was also ageless. Kathryn, who was a freelance photographer, was a stunning beauty with green eyes and light brown hair that if dyed, Kendall was certain had been done by a salon out of town. Both were in their late forties.
The couple led Kendall into the living room. The mountain filled the windows that went from the floor to the twenty-foot ceiling. It was obvious that Kathryn had been crying and probably hadn’t slept all night. She’d done what she could to pull herself together, but she wasn’t the arm candy that had appeared in her husband’s commercials over the years. She wore dark jeans and a white top. Her husband, who looked the same as always, was dressed in slacks, a light blue shirt, and a paisley tie.
“I need to know what you know,” Jack said. “I don’t like sitting around, and Blake means everything to me.”
“To us,” Kathryn added, her eyes on her husband. “She means everything to us.”
“I know she does,” Kendall said. “We’re going to do everything we can to find out what happened.”
“And where she is,” Kathryn said.
“Look,” Jack said, “I know you’re limited on resources. I’m willing to write a big check to get a private investigator in here to help find Blake.”
“And the other girls,” Kathryn said.
“That’s a very generous offer,” Kendall said. “But we have all of our resources on it now. We’ve alerted the state patrol, the authorities in Jefferson and Clallam counties, and we also have the FBI in the loop.”
“The FBI,” Jack repeated, slightly confused, but a little less agitated. “Why the feds?”
“That’s what we need to talk about,” Kendall said. “We need to know if there has been any kind of ransom demand.”
Kathryn looked at Jack, waiting for him to respond.
“No,” he said. “Have any of the other parents been contacted by someone?”
It had been a while since the van went missing. Kendall knew that a ransom demand would have been made hours ago. If any of the girls had been held for money, it had to be Blake. Her family was worth millions. The others—and certainly Patty’s husband—could scrape up maybe $50,000. The Scotts could get their hands on ten or twenty times that amount. If appearances counted for anything, that is.
Kendall asked the Scotts the same questions as she had the other parents. Blake had a steady boyfriend, Kyle “Chad” Chadwick, a wide receiver for the high school football team. She excelled in all her classes, most of which were advanced placement or college prep. She had more friends than they could count.
“Everyone loves her,” Jack said.
“Adores her,” echoed Kathryn, starting to cry.
Jack moved his tie to keep it out of the fray when he leaned in to comfort her.
“I’m sure everyone does,” Kendall said, though thinking, maybe not everyone.
Kathryn handed Kendall a picture of her daughter.
“I know you need a current photo,” she said. “I took this one last week.”
The image showed Blake posed by the gazebo with the snowcapped mountain in the background.
“I was testing locations for her senior portrait. Early, I know. But for some reason it has been on my mind.”
With that, Blake’s mother broke down completely.
“You’ll keep us informed,” Jack said.
“I’ll do my best. This is an active investigation, which means that we might not be able to tell you everything.” Kendall stood to leave. “I’m very sorry for all that you are going through. I know this is difficult.”
“Detective Stark,” Jack said, his arm around his wife as she sobbed into his perfectly crisp shirt. “You don’t have anything now. Do you?”
“I’m sorry. As I said, I can’t discuss what we know.”
“That’s not right,” he said. “She’s our daughter.”
“Please,” Kendall said, “notify me right away if you hear from anyone claiming to know anything about your daughter’s whereabouts.”
Kathryn Scott looked up. Her mascara had smeared on her husband’s shirt and she put her palm on his chest to cover it.
“We will,” she said.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Kendall Stark drove out to Woods Road to talk with Karl and Sue Ellen Turner, Amber’s parents.
Sue Ellen answered the door and invited Kendall inside. Sue Ellen was a heavyset woman, with long brown hair that she wore pulled back, away from her face. She had on a stylish sweater and dark slacks. If her diamond earrings were real—and Kendall was never a good judge of that kind of thing—they were two carets, perfect clarity.
Her husband, right behind her, was older, maybe by a good ten years. Karl Turner was a financial consultant, which Kendall considered a dubious profession—and kind of legal robbery. Judging by the gold oyster Rolex he wore low on his wrist, he’d been successful. Karl shaved his head, and a silvery five o’clock shadow darkened the sheen of his pate.
The couple led Kendall to the living room. Sue Ellen offered coffee, but Kendall declined.
“I saw on the news that the FBI has been called,” Karl said. “We’ve not been told of any ransom.”
“There hasn’t been any ransom demand,” Kendall said. “The FBI’s been assisting on another case, but the two are not related.”
“Brenda Nevins,” Sue Ellen said.
“I’m sorry,” Kendall said, “if I had something to tell you, I would. Please do not believe what you hear on the news or read on the Internet. It isn’t always true. In fact, it mostly isn’t true.”
That didn’t seem to satisfy Karl Turner. He picked at a bit of lint on his slacks.
“I have friends at the State Department,” he said.
Kendall wasn’t sure where that had come from.
“Thank you for letting me know,” she said. “I’m here to find out all that I can about Amber, particularly any changes in the past few days or weeks.”
Sue Ellen put her hand to her mouth. “You don’t think she was being stalked, do you, Detective?”
“No,” Kendall said. “We are in the very early stages of the investigation. We’re trying to see what pieces of the puzzle are out there. I understand she had a boyfriend.”
Karl Turner looked at his wife.
“My husband wasn’t happy about it, but she did have a crush on a boy from school.”
Kendall didn’t say Elan’s name. She waited.
“He was an Indian or Native American,” Karl said. “Or whatever you have to call them now. This week anyway. I didn’t want my daughter involved with him. I think they are great and proud people, but not the sort for her to get mixed up with.”
“Elan is his name,” Sue Ellen said. “I liked him. Nice kid.” She turned to her husband. “Our daughter is missing, and you’re acting as though you’re still angry about Elan. Get over it. Get your priorities straight.”
Karl slammed his fist on the table. “You like to throw some punches at me when we have company, don’t you? You deal with the detective. Amber’s your daughter. She treats me like nothing but a wallet anyway.”
He stormed off to the kitchen. Kendall heard the refrigerator door open and the sound of a beer bottle being opened.
“He has a temper,” Sue Ellen said. “It’s just the way he shows us that he loves us.”
“Ms. Turner, were all of you getting along before Amber disappeared with the others?”
Sue E
llen wrapped her arms around her chest. She looked at Kendall for a flicker, before fixing her gaze in the direction of the kitchen.
“Yes,” she said, “everything was fine. The same. Amber and her father didn’t always see eye to eye about boys or really pretty much anything.”
“Where was your husband last night, say around 9 P.M.?”
“Here,” she said, “with me.”
“I see.”
Sue Ellen gave Kendall a hard stare. “I don’t like you,” she said. “My daughter’s missing, and you’re asking questions about my husband.”
“I’m doing my job,” Kendall said. “I’m trying to help find your daughter. I have to ask a lot of questions that might offend a lot of people. That’s the way it works.”
“It’s insulting,” Sue Ellen said, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on the detective’s.
“Not meant to be,” Kendall said.
They talked a bit longer, and, having cooled down with a beer, Karl Turner returned.
“I’m sorry,” he said, taking a seat next to his wife and laying his hand on top of hers.
“It’s all right,” Kendall said. “I know you’re both under a great deal of stress.”
He squeezed his wife’s hand, and she seemed to wince.
The three of them talked for a few more minutes. Amber’s grades had been as strong as ever. She was involved in several extracurricular activities. She was a member of a youth group at St. Gabriel’s, the local Catholic church. She loved babysitting her little sister, Bryn.
Sue Ellen spoke up. “She’s only a toddler, but she is so worried about Amber. She keeps asking when she’s coming home. We tell her soon. She’ll be home soon.”
“May I talk to her?” Kendall asked. “Sometimes kids, even very young ones, see or hear things that adults might miss.”
Karl answered this time. “She’s at my mother’s in Seattle. I took her there this morning. Didn’t want her around any of this.”
* * *
Kendall got into her car and dialed Birdy’s number. She picked up right away.
“The Turners are one strange family,” Kendall said, pulling away from the house and onto Waaga Way. “Did Elan ever meet them?”