Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

neatest tenant since Felix Unger. Shoes by the front door were matched and in perfect alignment with the baseboards. A stack of magazines mostly automotive, aerospace, and, oddly, gardening-were set with such precision one would have thought the place was being previewed by a real estate listing agent.
    The furnishings were simple, not expensive and not upholstered.
    “You’d think he’d have a pillow around here. Jesus, who could watch television on that?” Christopher pointed to an old mahogany church pew that Dylan Walker used for his sofa. A small TV sat on an antique wire-and-wood egg crate on the other side of the room.
    Emily agreed. “Not exactly the cozy type, that’s for sure. Maybe those years in New Jersey gave him a taste for a spartan lifestyle.” She let her eyes wander over the room, noting that there was not a single photograph or picture on the walls. The sole bit of wall art was a hardware store calendar with a small picture of an apple orchard. Emily went over to a Formica desk and opened the drawers. The first two were empty, save for a couple of pencils and some legal-sized envelopes. The third and bottom drawer held a shoebox of photos. Emily sifted through its contents, hoping to find some images of Bonnie, Tina, someone whose face she’d recognize.
    Any ties to the case? To Nick? And by extension, Jenna.
    Instead, the photos were all of Dylan Walker, albeit an older and decidedly tired version of the man that had prison groupies hearts atwitter so many years ago. Most had him wearing a T-shirt or a chambray shirt. A small tuft of gray hair poked from the V of the collar. His face was still quite handsome, his features still chiseled, though somewhat softened by the passage of time. Maybe sun in the prison yard? Despite that, his eyes remained a pair of lasers to the camera lens. On the back was his signature: Love, Dylan.
    “This guy thinks he’s got game. Even in prison,” Emily said. “He must have kept a stash of photos to send out to the lovelorn who wrote to him.”
    “Jersey said his fans faded after some time,” Christopher called from the other side of the room. “Got up to a hundred letters a week in the beginning. By the end, only Jeffries was a regular.”
    “She visited him?” Emily asked, slightly miffed that the information hadn’t been disclosed until that moment.
    “A time or two,” he answered. “Not much. He was pretty much done with her”
    She put the photos in a plastic bag. She couldn’t let it go. “What else do you know that you haven’t told me?”
    Christopher looked over at her, not answering, just staring. “I’m not holding out on you. Why would you even think that?”
    “Sorry.” She didn’t say anything more. Emily moved into the kitchen and opened the cupboard doors. The shelving had been marked with permanent marker in the shapes of cups, glasses, and plates, a guide to exactly where every object should be set. She’d seen this on a pegboard tool storage system in a basement workshop, but never in a kitchen. She opened the drawer next to a wall phone. It was the proverbial junk drawer. But in this apartment there was nothing junky about it.
    “Check this out,” she said, pointing with her index finger at the form of a pair of scissors portrayed on the particleboard bottom of the drawer.
    Christopher peered over her shoulder. “Neat freak, all right.”
    “No it isn’t that, but you’re right. What I was getting at is that if this guy’s so neat then where are his scissors?” She looked at Christopher and he shrugged. “And what do you suppose this is?” She indicated a circle drawn in the bottom of the drawer. It was about the size of a softball.
    “You got me” Christopher touched his gloved fingertip to the drawer bottom. The latex adhered slightly. “My guess is a roll of strapping tape. Something sticky, anyway.”
    The bedroom was next. It was stark in every way. With the sole exception of a small gilt cross next to the window, the walls were white and empty. The bed was queen-size, but lacked a comforter or spread. Instead it was covered with an army blanket and a turned-back white top sheet. Two pillows in perfect, pristine condition sat next to the wall. No headboard. No nightstand. Christopher opened the closet. Dylan Walker’s clothes hung in perfect, color-coded order.
    “Was Dylan in the military?” Emily asked, poking her head inside.
    “Nope, just prison.”
    “We’ll he sure learned how to keep