Authors: Gregg Olsen
Not when a missing girl with blond hair and blue eyes
haunted every dream.
Emily finished a drink from the minibar and looked in the
mirror. All the makeup in the world wouldn't make her beautiful just now. Christopher Collier would have to see her for
what she was-a middle-aged mother heartbroken with worry
about her only child. Where was Jenna? What had happened
at Bonnie 's? She filled the sink and splashed cool water on
her face. She'd hoped it would reduce the puffiness of her
eyes, but she doubted it. She patted herself dry and put on a
touch of makeup and some lip color. She was about to try
something with her hair when the hotel phone rang.
"Emily, I'm downstairs. Want to eat here? I checked out
the dining room menu. Looks good"
"Sure, Chris. Be down in a minute."
"Good. We have lots to talk about "
Emily buttoned up a fresh blouse and slipped on a simple
linen skirt. She ran a brush through her thick, dark hair. She
fished through her bag and found a gold bracelet that Jenna
had given her for Mother's Day the year before her marriage
crumbled. She dabbed on a little blush. This was as good as
it was going to get.
Christopher has seen me at my worst. He won't mind.
The dining room at the Westerfield was all cream and
gold, with ceilings soaring thirty feet above candlelit tables
spread with linen, silver, and crystal. The menu was a haute
cuisine mix of Pacific Rim cooking. The feature that evening
was Chilean sea bass prepared with sesame, garlic, and scallions. Emily and Christopher both ordered it, along with a
bottle of Chardonnay from a small Washington vintner that
had won raves from Wine Spectator. A little awkward small
talk reigned for a while. Christopher had been divorced for
ten years. His kids lived with his ex and her new husband on
a ranch in Boise. He lived in a downtown condo overlooking
Puget Sound and Seattle's Pike Place Market. He still loved
hiking and made frequent treks in the Cascades and Olympics.
"You still hike, Emily?" He speared a bite of flaky white
fish.
She touched her napkin to her lips. "Yes, but we don't get
out as much as we'd like," Emily said, obviously referring to
her and Jenna. Every sentence seemed to be constructed that
way. It only served to remind her of the deep emptiness she
felt, the fear she had for her daughter's safety.
After a pause, she said, "Thanks for not making a big deal
about me being the Emily Kenyon at the Jeffries scene"
When she'd overheard him talking about it, he'd seemed forgiving-more forgiving than she had been over the years
about what had happened back then.
He swirled the wine in his glass. "No problem. That case
has followed you much more than me. I mean, I was there,
too, you know."
"Yes, I remember." Emily sipped her wine, reminding
herself she'd had already had what amounted to two shots of
tequila. Though grateful that he understood, Emily took the
opportunity and changed the subject. "Did you make the notification about Bonnie Jeffries? Should I brace myself?"
"No," he said. He set his fork down. "That's one of the
reasons I wanted to see you. Catching up with you, as pleasant as it is, wasn't my sole motive."
Emily felt a flash of embarrassment. "Of course."
"We can't find any record of Bonnie having any family,"
he said.
She thought of the papers up in her room. Tina hadn't
mentioned any children, either. "What about the pictures?
Maybe a nephew?"
"No family. Seems Bonnie's parents were killed in a car
wreck back in ninety-one. No sibs. No husband. The woman
lived alone after the Angel's Nest scandal. Hardly ever went
out. Her neighbors didn't even know her last name or where
she worked"
Dinner continued with some shop talk, some family stuff.
When the dessert cart scooted by, both took a pass. Christopher pulled out what looked like an old photo album. It was
scuffed black leather, with red corners. Emily hadn't really
noticed that he brought it along until then. She looked at it
inquisitively.
"From Bonnie's place," he said. "I think you should see it."
She put her hand out, but Christopher didn't give it up.
"Not here. Let's take it somewhere private. Your room?"
If it were any other man, Emily would have shot down the
suggestion with a laugh and a quick retort. But she trusted
Christopher. And more than that, she saw the concerned look
in his eyes.
Or was it something more?
"Doing some clandestine research on the case?" Christopher asked as they entered Emily's hotel room. She nodded
in the direction of the stolen stacks of hospital records she'd
laser printed off David's office computer.
"And, no, I didn't have a warrant," she said.
"I didn't log this baby into evidence yet, either," Christopher said, setting the photo album on the corner of the bed.
"Nice place," he said. "They must have big expense accounts
in Cherrystone" He surveyed the plush surroundings, deep
coppery hues on the pillow-overloaded bed, a gas fireplace,
an oil painting that appeared to be original not a massproduced phony like most places have. He walked over to the
floor-to-ceiling windows. The Olympic Mountains off in
the distance were nearly indigo and the city lights of Seattle
twinkled in the foreground. "My place is right over there"
Emily stood next to him, feeling the effects of too much
Chardonnay. "Where?"
He pointed to his condo, but when she didn't spot it, he
reached over and turned her head just a touch. "There."
The moment begged for double entendres along the lines
of I'll show you mine, if you show me yours-evidence, that
is. But both parties resisted. There was too much at stake just
then, and the teasing near-romance of their friendship was
years ago.
The message feature on her cell phone pulsed and Emily
took the cue to break away from Christopher and the window.
She dialed and learned that David and Olga had phoned. She'd
call both of them back after Christopher showed her whatever it was that he'd brought to dinner.
Christopher took the opportunity to dial in for an update
on the Jeffries case. His face was stone. No smile. None of
the charm that he'd shown during dinner. Whatever he was
hearing, it was unpleasant and dark. When he ended the call,
he told her that he'd been talking with the medical examiner's assistant about the Jeffries murder.
"Overkill, for sure," he said. "I guess even a rookie could
tell that by the scene. Jesus, talk about blood-soaked. ME
says that Bonnie Jeffries was beaten and stabbed. Either
could have killed her. She was hit with a hammer or something like that-tool marks on her skull are being reviewed
now. Looks like at least a half dozen times. She was stabbed
with a serrated blade probably thirty-five times."
The possible circumstances of her last breaths were more
than bone chilling. They were arctic.
"She had a big set of knives in the kitchen," Emily said. "I
have the same set"
He nodded. "Right. I saw them. Not yours. Hers"
"I got that"
"The ME says she was probably out cold when she was
stabbed. Not a single defensive wound"
"But she bled out, so she was still alive when the killer
stabbed her," Emily said.
"Sliced and diced is more like it. The ME says that who ever killed her was driven by rage and contempt. Hatred to
the nth degree. He drove that knife into her no more than a
half inch, as if he wanted to tease her to death"
"Or enjoy it. Make it linger."
"Yeah. We know the type. Some twisted psycho who gets
off on torture."
"Any trace? Anything at all to tag her assailant?"
"Assailants, with an S. Had to be at least two. She's a big
girl as they say. ME says she was first hit in the kitchen, then
finished off in the bedroom. Posed there"
The brutality of the attack made her sick. Emily studied
the skyline, searching for words and trying to find some kind
of calmness in the moment. The idea that there were two assailants was like an ice down her spine. Nick and.Ienna? Not
possible. But they had been there. Her mind was racing, but
she fought to stay cool. She had no choice.
"Anything on tox?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Clean"
That surprised her somewhat and she turned to look at
Christopher. She remembered seeing a bottle of vodka on the
kitchen counter and an array of pills. She d expected something.
"Whoever killed her caught her unaware. She didn't see it
coming," she finally said. Her mind transported her back to
the gruesome scene. She'd been in the bedroom only a minute,
but the images of what she'd seen would never fade. Foil held
the room dark. The radio played. The sheets-cheerful daisies
were the print-were colored in ropes and slashes of blood.
Bonnie was in a pale blue nightgown.
"She was facedown on the bed," she said. "Hit from behind?"
"Maybe, but she was stabbed in the chest and the back.
He or they moved her around on that bed a bit."
Christopher picked up the black album. "This is from
Bonnie's place. We found it wedged behind the desk. I don't know if it was hidden there, or if it just fell." He indicated a
wingback chair he scooted next to the bed where he'd taken a
seat. "Sit here. There's some weird stuff in this book"
Suddenly the Macy's bag of hospital records seemed irrelevant.
Emily edged the chair closer to Christopher, who'd opened
the book with his eyes fixed on hers, gauging her reaction. It
was a compendium of news articles, neatly cut and pasted on
black sheets of construction paper. Whoever had set up the
book, clearly did so carefully. There wasn't a crooked edge
or scissor slip. The headline on the opening page was unfamiliar to her.
MISSING ONE WEEK:
WHERE IS BRIT?
Now holding the book across her lap, Emily scanned the
yellowed, brittle clipping. It was an article about Brit Osterman, a twelve-year-old girl who'd gone missing on her way
home from school in her cozy Seattle neighborhood.
"What's this?" she asked.
Christopher just looked at her and shook his head. "Read on.
And like I said, be prepared. I think there's something here"
The article on the first page was followed by one with a
picture of an adorable girl with cat-eye glasses and a nose
splashed with freckles. She had not been found. Her parents
were quoted as saying they'd "never give up ... until our little girl is home safe and sound"
Another item recounted how the girl was never found.
FIVE YEARS AGO,
LITTLE GIRL VANISHED
Emily looked up at Christopher. Her mind was racing for
a connection. "Bonnie?"
"Oh God no," he answered flatly. "Not at all. Flip to the
next one."
The headline on the next page was an absolute screamer.
The letters were at least two inches tall, centered smack under
the masthead of the Nampa, Idaho, Daily Express. The
words were utterly heartbreaking. Emily touched her lips, as
if doing so would stop her from tears as she read.
STEFFI MILLER'S MOTHER:
WHY DID GOD ALLOW THIS?
The article was about the disappearance of a teenage girl
from a religious camp on a lake near Nampa. A couple of
campers were quoted about how much Steffi had enjoyed canoeing and theorized that perhaps she'd suffered a fatal accident. But the reporter pretty much put that to bed with a
quote from the ever-PR-minded camp director: "If she took a
spill in the lake, she did it without a canoe. All of our canoes
and skiffs are accounted for. We just don't know where she
went" A photograph of a half dozen boys and girls sitting
around a campfire had been the interest of at least one person. In red pencil, someone wrote: "Me" with an arrow
pointing to the back of one of the boy's heads.
Emily met Christopher's knowing stare. He half smiled in
that way cops do when something really devious is about to
be sprung on an unsuspecting partner. Emily felt like a partner, back in the old days ... and right then, too.
"Are you having fun yet?" he asked.
"Actually, I'm not" She frowned, knowing that he knew
more and was holding out on her. "You know how I hate it
when anyone withholds information."
"I remember," he said. "Oh yeah, I remember. The Miller
case was never solved. No body ever found. Turn the page"
There were additional clippings. These featured a Seattle woman named Tanya Sutter. The name seemed somewhat familiar to Emily, but she couldn't quite place it. According to
the news articles and there were four pages of them-Tanya's
body was discovered by a roadside cleanup crew one week
after her disappearance. She was swathed in a plastic wrapping and dumped near an off-ramp outside of Tacoma.
The light went on. Emily pointed a slender finger at Tanya's
photo. "Didn't they tag Dylan Walker for this one?"
"Bingo."
She scanned the articles and was reminded about Olga
Cerrino and how she'd told her that the plastic wrapping had
been a signature of Walker's. Since the other victims' bodies
were never recovered, no one could say for sure if they'd
been murdered, how the killer had done it, or if Walker had
indeed been the killer. The bodies were the missing evidence.
"Are Shelley Marie Smith and Lorrie Ann Warner in
here?" she asked.
"Yup. But that's not why I brought this to you"
Emily looked at him, puzzled. She started flipping toward
the back of the book.
"Stop! Back up," he said. "You know better than to read
the back of a book first"
Startled by his initial command, Emily missed the playful
sarcasm of his last words. She started going backward, page
by page; the headlines replayed the story of the Meridian
murders from conviction to the discovery of the bodies. It
was like a videotape on rewind. Pictures of Dylan Walker
looking snarky and charming, handsome and devious. The
high school photos of the victims showed them in all their
youthful glory. Long hair. Braces. Wide smiles. Hand-wringing headlines covered every aspect of the story. An image of
Olga Morris-Cerrino caught her eye and Emily lingered on
the photo. She was so lovely then. So young. So unaware that shed marry and be a widow before fifty-five. Emily started
flipping the pages once more.