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 halfprice 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 Winston, 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.
Jenna, how I love you. I let you down.
Sunday, 8:50 A.M.
"Why are you ignoring me?"
In the crystal-chandeliered lobby of the Westerfield Hotel, Emily Kenyon, making her way to the coffee shop for a quick breakfast, turned around to the sound of a familiar voice. It was not the voice of someone she wanted to see. Then or maybe ever. But there he was. The blood had pumped Cary McConnell's face into mass of red and blue veins. Even his eyes seemed rosy, instead of blue. If he'd ever been handsome in his life, it would have been impossible to say for sure just then. He looked like a pinstripe-suited monster, puffed up and in a fury. His red tie was a blood-hued spike that hung from his neck.
"Are you stalking me? I said it was over," she said.
Emily Kenyon stood face to face with her former lover and she felt nothing but revulsion. He'd never been what she thought he was-the knight in shining armor who was going to save her from her fractured marriage, the whirlpool, sucking her down. Drowning her. As he stood there in the hotel lobby, the concierge, a thin, fey man with wing-shaped side burns looking on, Cary McConnell was nothing that she thought he was.
"You sleep with a woman, you think she cares to know you," he said. His words were angry and possessive but his expression was one of worry.
"I don't know why you're here." Emily hurried toward the elevators and McConnell followed. "I have enough on my mind. There's no room for you"
He touched her shoulder and she spun around.
"Emily, I'm here to tell you I'm sorry. And to tell you something you need to know."
She stopped and turned toward him. His anger had ebbed slightly. "What is it?"
"It's about Dylan Walker."
Emily had never mentioned the name to Cary. He'd had no clue that she was searching for Walker. "What about him?"
"He's my client."
"The serial killer is your client?"
"Look, I'm not sure he's a serial killer. But even if he is, he's entitled to legal representation. I can't disclose why he contacted me. I'm in murky ethical waters just telling you he's my client."
"You're unbelievable," she said. "What did you do for him?"
"I'm not playing games here. I'm telling you ... more than I should. I care about you, Emily. I do. You know that. I wanted to warn you"
"Warn me? About what?"
"About Walker. Look, I can't be any more blunt than this. He asked about you. About Jenna"
By now Emily was furious. "What did he want to know?"
Cary took a step back. His face was flushed now. He appeared embarrassed, like a kid caught doing something wrong and lying about it. He muttered something ineffectual, but Emily couldn't quite grasp it.
"What are you saying?"
He looked at her. He seemed almost sorry.
"I can't say. But be careful."
She wanted to threaten to call the police, but she was the police. "Go. Get out of here" The elevator door glided open and she stepped inside. As the two brass-plated halves began to come together she saw Cary for what she hoped was the last time. He stood staring with what seemed like a genuinely remorseful look on his face.
Remorseful, but pathetic. That's what he was. Truly pathetic.
The dark heart of true evil is a hammer on the soul. With each beat, it pulses and sends the tainted blood throughout a killer's body. Like a virus. Or a deadly and dangerous toxin. Some killers know his or her bloodstream is poisoned with wickedness. Most don't.
Not far from the chic comforts of the Westerfield Hotel, one such person pondered the next move. The internal struggle against the heart of evil had been fought and lost. The end was near.