Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

bookcase behind her was overstuffed with training manuals, some photos of her cats, and two notebooks that kept cold cases always within the swivel of her office chair. Her credenza was set up as a mini hot beverage bar, with an electric teakettle, a wicker basket of dried noodle soups, hot chocolate, instant coffee, and teas. She eyed the teakettle and its electrical cord, but thought better of it.
    What can I use?
    Olga ran her fingers through her short hair, pondering the scenario she was about to employ. She could go down to Property and get a spool of twine, but that was a hassle and she was the type of woman who wanted to do what she wanted, when she wanted to do it. The answer was on her desk. The telephone. She unhooked the wire from the jack and disconnected the phone. Just then Stacy Monroe appeared in the doorway.
    “Phone problems?” Stacey, a patrolwoman with a husky voice and warm demeanor, poked her head inside Olga’s office. “That happened to me last week”
    Olga smiled. “No. No problem. But you’re just in time to lend me a hand-literally-with a little experiment. You game?”
    Stacey’s eyes moved over the photos and files on Olga’s desk. Clearly she was intrigued.
    “Warner and Smith?” she asked.
    The detective nodded, and stepped around from behind her desk, the phone wire now coiled in her hand. “I’m just playing around,” she said. “I’m glad you’re willing. Why don’t you sit here?” She pointed to the edge of the desk. “I’m going to tie you up “
    Stacey let out a nervous laugh and sat down. “Not like I haven’t done that before”
    Olga gave the officer a slight wink. “Oh really?”
    “Kidding! God, you know my life. You know my husband.”
    “Yes, I’ve met Frank” She smiled. “Just how did we get on this topic, anyway?”
    “I don’t know. You were about tie me up “
    “That I was. Put out your arms” Keeping the end of the length in her left hand, Olga started wrapping the beige wire around Stacey’s outstretched wrists. Once. Twice. Three times. She stopped and craned her neck to better view the photograph of Shelley Smith’s disfigured and decomposed wrists. “Looks like he wrapped around five or six times,” she said, almost to herself. “I expect pretty tight, too, but I won’t do that to you”
    “Good,” Stacey said, suppressing a smile. “Something to look forward to later.”
    Olga played along. “Aren’t you just full of surprises?”
    The women laughed, cutting the tension of what they were really doing. Olga was mimicking the actions of an unknown killer while poor Stacey who’d just wandered onto her shift had made the mistake of coming by to say hello.
    Olga stepped back and admired her technique before unspooling the cording. Stacey stood up and rubbed her wrists. As gentle as Olga had been, the wire still hurt a little. Her wrists were red.
    Olga fished a ruler from the top drawer of her desk.
    “Almost twenty-four inches,” she said.
    “Good? Bad?”
    By then, Olga had started for the door, scooping up her black saddlebag purse, detective’s shield, and a tan Gore-Tex coat that was all about function rather than fashion. It was raining outside.
    “Bad, I’d say. Bad for someone who works at Builders’ Center.”
    “Huh?”
    “You’ll see. Thanks, Stacey.” With that, her coat swung over one arm, Olga Morris was gone.

Chapter Nineteen
    1:05, twenty-one years ago, Meridian, Washington
    The sky was a colander. Olga Morris scanned the parking lot of the Builders’ Center off Railroad Avenue as she sought a vacant spot close to the door. Her coat, while waterproof, lacked a hood. Her short hair guaranteed a chilly splash on her scalp. She maneuvered her dark blue Chevy into a reserved parking spot. She did so somewhat reluctantly, but the thought of getting drenched won out over the prospect of being caught taking advantage of the silver and gold shield she carried in her purse.
    Inside, she rushed past the contractor’s help booth, and a swarm of shoppers filling their carts with caulking, lumber, and the miscellaneous provisions of home repair. The detective was grateful that she was an apartment dweller and hadn’t been forced into the nest-building trap so many homeowners had embraced unwittingly.
    Forget a caulking gun; I d rather carry a Glock.
    She made her way to Arnold Davis’s office, a small room behind a ten-foot-wide two-way mirror that allowed the fifty ish manager with gorilla-haired