mother's nondescript fea tures and her father's big-boned frame. She had a plain face, pleasant brown eyes, and dark curly hair. Tina was pencil thin and strawberry blond. Whenever they went out together, men gravitated toward Tina. Bonnie had tried all diets from Weight Watchers to a liquid protein shake to the Scarsdale diet. She'd try in earnest for a couple of weeks, but in the end she'd give up. She'd been to so many free makeovers at cosmetic counters across downtown Seattle that she probably could work for any of the big makeup manufacturers. She hated how she looked. Part of her also hated Tina.
What does one wear to a murder trial? Bonnie Jeffries mulled it over for a minute, searching for control top underwear and her best bra. She selected a pair of black slacks and an aqua blouse; both were loose enough to make her have that just-lost-weight sensation that she welcomed above anything. Loose clothing was like dieting without having to do without. Bonnie was barely thirty, but she looked like someone's middle-age mother. She stacked up her clothes for the next morning on her dresser and trotted off to the kitchen. Rum Raisin ice cream out of the carton sounded so good.
Chapter Twenty-one
12:25 EM., twenty-one years ago, Meridian, Washington
It was as difficult a call as a detective can ever make, aside, of course, from the bone-chilling one that comes in the middle of the night and begins with, 'I'm sorry to be phoning you with this news. Your child was involved in a very serious car accident . . .'
Olga Morris had never imagined the verdict would have been split, though the four long days of deliberation had sent a surge of worry through her system to the point of near overload. Dylan Walker was guilty; she knew it with every fiber of her being. He was a cold-blooded killer. He was a killing machine in an appealing package. Dylan Walker was no more human than that. He'd been found guilty, thank God, but despite the best efforts of a prosecution that had done its homework, he was only convicted of a lesser chargetwo counts of second-degree murder.
This is ludicrous, Olga thought. Since when did binding a couple of women with wire, wrapping their bodies like pupae, and dumping them in a river to escape detection look like anything but first-degree murder? The TV and newspaper pundits exalted the defense for punching holes in the case by bringing in the other possible suspect, but even more so for getting it into the heads of some jurors that Dylan Walker had never planned to murder anyone. That it was some kind of accident. What were they thinking?
When the jury filed in, Olga nearly did a double take in the defendant's direction.
For a nanosecond she was all but certain that Walker had winked at juror number 4, a leggy brunette who drank in the defendant with her big blue eyes.
What in the world is going on here?
That and the verdict were a sucker punch to the gut.
How did this happen?
Olga didn't speak to any of the reporters hovering around the courthouse stairwell. Not that any really wanted to speak with her. After the flurry of gasps and running for the doors, those with mics and notebooks wanted to talk to the defense-not anyone associated with the prosecution. The man with the trail of dead beauties was a bona fide star, the big media 'get'
Olga retreated to her office on the first floor of the Meridian Police Department. She was almost in tears and she pulled out the Walker case file. It was thick, dog-eared, and dirty a year after she'd compiled most of its contents. The pictures of the bodies as they were first found along the sandbar still roiled her stomach. It was all so utterly senseless. Inside, she found Shelley's mother's phone number in Olympia. Mrs. Smith was shaky when she got on the line.
'I'm afraid the news is mixed, Mrs. Smith. I'm terribly sorry. I didn't want you to hear it on the TV first'
There was a long pause. Olga could hear the mother of a dead girl brace herself by sitting down. It was a good idea.
'I heard they came back with a verdict,' Shelley's mom said. 'What did they say?'
Olga Morris felt like a complete loser, like she'd failed the woman on the other end of the line. She had promised to call with the verdict, but now regretted it. At the time she was sure the verdict would have gone completely in the prosecutor's favor. That was before the defense used the tragedy of the Ticen suicide to diffuse the truth.
'Like I said, mixed,' she began, tentatively, still searching for words that would ease a broken heart. None, she knew, could ever be found. 'Two counts of second-degree murder.'
Olga waited, but Mrs. Smith just breathed softly into the line.
'I'm so, so sorry. Shelly and Lorrie deserved so much more than that'
Mrs. Smith finally spoke. Her words were measured, but there was an underpinning of loathing coming from deep inside. She was fighting it, the kind of churchgoer that she was. But it was undeniable. 'Both girls are in heaven now. And after seeing how the world is up in your part of the state, I'd say they're both better off for it. Shame on a system that lets a man steal two beautiful lives as if they were nothing.'
The words pierced Olga's broken heart. She knew they'd failed those girls. Now the worst kind of human being-the kind who can only mimic compassion or approximate the affect of humanity-was getting the biggest break of his life.
'As I said, I'm so, so sorry.'
The line went dead. Mrs. Smith had hung up without saying good-bye.
Two weeks later insult was added to injury when sentence was passed. Twenty years to life for each girl's death. The absolute blow: The sentence was concurrent. Dylan Walker would likely see the light of day.
'Ready?' Tina Winston looked suspiciously at Bonnie Jeffries standing in the doorway wearing her nearly threadbare quilted bathrobe. 'You don't look it.'
Bonnie was perplexed. She drew her robe belt tighter and opened the door wider to let Tina inside.
'God, you can be so obtuse, Bonnie.'
Tina breezed into the foyer and shut the door behind her. 'We're going up to Meridian today, right?' Tina put her hand on her hip and regarded her friend impatiently. She was nearly giddy. She tried to fake a frown, but she was obviously so excited about something she couldn't even be in a teasing mood.
'Dylan Walker wants to meet me. He sent me a personal letter.' Without taking her eyes off Bonnie, now sitting on the living room sofa, Tina unclasped her Louis Vuitton handbag. With the flourish of a waiter presenting some fabulous meal under a crystalline dome, she handed Bonnie an oversized envelope.
It was addressed to Tina Winston. The return address was D. Walker, c/o Whatcom County Jail, Meridian.
'He actually wrote to you?'
Tina grinned broadly. 'Finally. I sent him at least three notes of encouragement throughout that travesty of justice up there in Meridian.' She slid down next to Bonnie and, unable to wait a second longer, pulled the letter from the envelope like it was a Christmas present she'd been dying to open.
'This is stupid, Tina,' Bonnie said flatly.
'Maybe you won't think so when you read it.'
Bonnie was skeptical, but she put on her red-framed readers anyway. Dylan Walker's handwriting was surprisingly crisp, nearly feminine. It looked almost as if he'd never developed a style of his own after learning penmanship in third grade. Ascenders and descenders were perfect in form and angle.
Dear Tina: Your letters have been so welcome and I'm sorry there has been delay in my response. You cannot believe how much mail I get here. There's no way I could answer each and every note, but your sincerity and genuine interest in my case really touched me. I've suffered more than any man I've ever known. I'm not one for pity, but I have no idea why God would do this to me. All I've tried to do is live a good, honest life. See where it got me? Thank you for the photo ...
Bonnie looked over the top of her glasses and made a face. 'You sent him your picture?'
Tina shrugged as if no defense was needed.
'So? Even if he's guilty which he's most definitely not-he's headed to prison. He's not going to hurt anyone
