Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

Jeffries.
    “Okay,” he said. “They’re next.”
    She had McConnell’s office phone number on her speed dial, from when he and her mom had been dating, and she gave it to Nick. They walked past the three engineering students, sullen and bored in their studies, and found a bank of pay phones, relics of the pre-cellular era.
    Nick dialed and a law office administrative assistant answered.
    “I need to talk with Cary. It’s urgent,” Nick said, doing his best approximation of mature and demanding. He’d hoped his voice carried even a hint that he was a money-paying client. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to be.
    “Mr. McConnell is away on business,” she answered. “Can I take a message?”
    “When will he be back?”
    “He’s on the coast,” the young woman said, employing the term those east of the Cascade Range used for the entire region west of the mountains.
    “This is important. I’m working on the Angel’s Nest situation. I need to talk to Cary.”
    “Who’s calling?” she asked.
    Nick offered the only name that popped into his head-it came from the news clippings. “This is Randall Wilson,” he said. He was sure he didn’t sound anything like Randall Wilson. Randall Wilson would be nearly seventy by now. But given the circumstances, and the lack of any real plan for his call, it was the best he could do.
    The young woman apparently heard the hesitation in his voice.
    “Just who is this and what do you need?”
    “I … I .. ” Scared and feeling a little stupid, Nick abruptly hung up.
    “Well, that went great,” Jenna said.
    Nick would have laughed just then if nothing important had been at stake.
    “No kidding. I totally choked”
    Jenna started back to the table. “Okay, let’s figure this out.”
    Nick looked beat up. His big moment as a macho takecharge guy had fizzled. Jenna nudged him on the shoulder.
    “Cary McConnell knows something but he’s a lawyer-“
    “And a jerk” Nick added, brightening somewhat.
    “Right. Trust me, I know!”
    Nick stared at the photocopies. He placed his index finger on the image of Bonnie Jeffries.
    “She’s the one,” he said. Jenna leaned closer to get a better view of the photograph. “She’s the one we ought to talk to. She’s kind of a whistle-blower type and they always want to help.”
    Jenna agreed. “Let’s go see if she’s still around. I think we can get on one of those computers over there”
    “If we have enough money,” Nick said.
    “This is a library,” she said with a smile, “some things just have to be free around here”

Chapter Twenty-five
    Saturday, 6:30, Seattle
    “That’s a part of my life I don’t like to discuss for fairly obvious reasons,” Tina Winston Esposito said, curled up like a cat in a darkened booth in Embers. When fire flashed from the restaurant’s grill, it lit up her face. She was still thin and beautiful. Her blond hair was cut in a bob that made her look chic and rich, which she was. She no longer had her own business, or the need for one. She’d married a wealthy software executive and lived the good life in a high-rise condo downtown. Her bag was Prada. So were her shoes.
    “I can imagine,” Emily Kenyon said. “And I’m sorry for the intrusion. Thanks for meeting me “
    “I must admit I practically lost it when you mentioned Dylan’s name,” Tina said, sipping a Death Valley dry martini that was delivered to her without so much as a request.
    This lady’s on home turf
    “Water, for me,” Emily said. “No lemon, please.” Nerves were getting the best of her. Her stomach growled.
    “You know, I hated that detective up in Meridian. Could have scratched out her eyes. Now I wonder why? Everything about those days seems like a dream. A nightmare, really.”
    The waiter, a young man with a tattoo bandaged to hide it from restaurant patrons, returned to take their order. Tina selected the salmon.
    “It’s wild, not that horrid farm-raised Atlantic fish,” she said.
    “Yes, Alaskan,” the waiter said, turning his inquisitive gaze toward Emily.
    “I’ll have the same,” she said.
    The waiter nodded, disappeared, and the kitchen flashed more fire.
    Alone with the detective and her martini, Tina Esposito’s demeanor shifted. The warm, nearly genteel manner turned to stone.
    “Look,” she said, “I’ll help you any way that I can. I don’t even want to know why you’re here. That’s your affair. The less I know the better.”
    Emily said nothing. She