Emily Kenyon 01 - A Cold Dark Place

rebuke.
    “I didn’t say anything,” she said.
    They drove from the hotel toward the exclusive waterfront high-rise that Tina Esposito called home, Harbor Court. It was twenty stories tall and had been the source of much resentment from upland locals for blocking their waterfront views. But money and zoning talked. It always did. The Espositos owned the top floor.
    “She’s there,” Christopher said, turning down the hill toward the waterfront. “We have an unmarked car down there with a couple of guys babysitting for me. We wouldn’t want to miss her.”
    “You love this, don’t you?” Emily asked.
    He turned from looking at the street in front of him, his handsome face now overtaken by an almost impish smile. “Don’t you?”
    She had to admit that she did. “Better than a traffic stop in Cherrystone, that’s for sure” But deep down, she thought that the recent events in Cherrystone had been anything but routine. Mark, Peg, and Donny Martin had been murdered and that was the reason why she was in Seattle.
    Monday, 10:15 A.M.
    “My husband can’t know about any of this” were the first words out of Tina Esposito’s perfectly painted mouth as she opened the penthouse door. She was referring to Rod Esposito, the software developer who had earned millions when he developed a computer program that quickly became the gold standard of the airline industry’s reservation systems. The joke was that he was afraid of flying. “He’s away on business in Vancouver.” She looked at her diamond-encrusted Cartier Santos watch. “His train arrives in three hours” With a sweeping gesture, she escorted the detectives into a living room with an absolutely breathtaking view of Elliott Bay to the west and Mt. Rainier to the south. Everything about the space was luxe. The carpets were Persian, and not from some flim-flam rug store featuring a two-year going-out-ofbusiness sale.
    Not like mine back home, Emily thought.
    The furnishings were all antiques, of the most simple and elegant style. None of that ridiculous rococo French crap that most Americans clamored for once they had a few million to rub together. Emily noticed a landscape behind a settee, but suppressed the urge to get close enough to study it. She was sure it was a Constable, but she wasn’t about to tip her art history class hand by saying so. Few residences in Seattle could make the pages of Architectural Digest, Emily mused to herself, but this one could.
    The Espositos might be new money, but their taste-or their hired interior designer’s was decidedly old school.
    Ensconced in her grand living room, Tina put up her host ess facade. It was merely a mask. Beneath her fine silk blouse, it was clear that her heart was beating at an accelerated rate. She was scared.
    “Can I offer you some coffee?” She pointed to a mohair sofa. “Please take a seat”
    “No coffee, thank you,” Emily said. “We’re not here on a social call, Tina. We’re here to talk about the murder of a close friend of yours”
    The remark brought a hard stare from Tina, then a curt response. “Bonnie and I weren’t friends.” She poured some coffee into a dainty china cup and proceeded to sprinkle a blue packet of sweetener into the dark brew. Then she stirred.
    The wheels were turning. She was buying time.
    “But you were,” Emily said. “You called her five times this week.”
    Tina continued to stir like she was paddling a river. Christopher glanced at Emily. They both knew what was going on.
    Buying more time. Time to think.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tina said stiffly. She picked up the tinkling china cup and saucer and drank.
    “Why are you making us treat you like this?” Emily said.
    “How so?”
    “Like you’re a liar. We have the phone records. We know you called her.”
    An overweight longhaired mini dachshund waddled in and jumped up on Tina’s lap. “Millicent,” she said. Tina seemed grateful for the intrusion. She started stroking the dog’s fat belly.
    Emily leaned forward. “What did you talk to Bonnie about?”
    Tina said nothing.
    “If you’ll look at the duration of the calls,” Chris interjected, “you’ll see they were very short.”
    Tina stammered, pretending to be unhappy with her cot fee, her dog, her maid taking the day off. She was beginning to unravel. Her face was red now and she was petting the dog with such pressure, both detectives were sure the poor animal would yelp in pain if she