'Yes,' Candace said, 'I understand that. But you're over there in Seattle because of a connection between the Martins and Angel's Nest. Bonnie Jeffries worked for Angel's Nest. Right?'
'Look,' Emily said, her patience rapidly evaporating, 'you apparently already have better sources than me'
She noticed Christopher parking out front, and very abruptly the phone call was over.
'Sorry, I'm late,' he said, coming to her. 'Got the warrant, here.'
'He's not here,' she said. 'Landlord's over there. He'll let us in.'
On seeing them talking about him, the landlord ambled over.
'Now there are two of you,' he said, squinting into the sun. He looked at Christopher only-one of those men who are blind to a female cop when there's a choice between a man and woman with a badge. 'What can I do you for?'
'We have a warrant to search this apartment,' Christopher said, holding out the folded papers.
He waved the warrant away. 'No need. I follow the law. When you've lived in this neighborhood you see a fair amount of those. Of course it wasn't always that way. We're supposedly a neighborhood in transition. To what I ask?'
'Sir, I can only imagine,' Emily said as he fished in his front pocket for his keys.
'Found 'em,' he said. 'What's Dan done to get all this fuss?'
Christopher started to answer. 'We can't say-'
He cut off Christopher with a quick, 'yeah, yeah ... I know the drill. I'll wait outside. Leave the place as you found it please. Otherwise the wife and I will have to clean it up. We can't afford to call in any more help, you know. Fixed income.'
'All right,' Emily said. She put on her rubber gloves. Christopher did the same.
'You won't find anything nasty in there,' the landlord said. 'Dan is the neatest fellow you'll ever meet'
Christopher held the door and the pair retreated inside. The apartment was in perfect, almost boot-camp- barracks order. Nothing suggested that Dylan Walker was anything but the 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 things in order there,' she said. 'Let's get out of here. There's nothing here'
'That we can see. I'm going to have the tech guys come down here and take a look.'
'What about his vehicle?'
He nodded. 'DMV says Walker drives an old Chrysler sedan. We've got an APB out on it now.'
The cool basement apartment belied the hot hour of the afternoon. Going outside in search of the landlord brought a furnace blast to Emily Kenyon's face. A jasmine vine pumped perfume into the air, now further scented with fresh cut grass. It was heady and sickly sweet. She went around to the side of the old Victorian where she'd heard lawn equipment buzzing while she and Christopher were inside conducting a search. She found the old man on one knee bent down and rolling up the Day-Glo orange cord to his electric edger in the front yard.
'Another day, another dollar,' he said, this time smiling. 'Find what you're looking for?'
'As you know, we're looking for Dylan, I mean Daniel. Any ideas where he might be?'
He got up, brushed at the grass stains, grousing that his wife was going to kill him. 'He's usually pretty good about telling me where he's going. Yeah, I know he's an ex-con. I know about his troubles with the IRS'
Emily shook her head. 'Sir, I'm not with the IRS. But I do need to find him.'
'He's a good tenant. Why are you people hassling him?'
She brought out her badge again. 'I told you this is a police matter and I don't want to bring you in for hindering our investigation. Understood?'
He folded his burly arms around his sweaty chest, his genial nature now gone. He was irritated and angry. 'He has a cousin who has some beach property. He goes there once in a while. Not often. But given the weather, I'd say he's there. Probably working his ass off painting or doing yard work if I know Dan'
You don't know him, sir. But that's another story.
'Do you know where it is?' she asked. 'Exactly? '
He turned and started for his front door. 'Sure. My wife keeps all the addresses of everyone she's ever known.
