Heart of Ice

alternate number which went to Gloria, at the dispatcher’s desk.

“I need to talk to Sheriff Kenyon right away.”

“She’s not in right now. Is this an emergency?”

“Yes. I guess it is.”

“What is it?”

“Look, she told me to call her if I had something to say. This is Steffi Johansson. I was at that Crawford lineup a while back.”

“Yes, Steffi. Can I help you?”

“No. I really need to talk to Sheriff Kenyon.”

“She’s out. How about Deputy Howard? I can patch you through.”

“I guess so.”

The line went quiet and then beeped. Steffi knew that the spaced intervals of beeping were an indicator that her voice was being recorded; she’d worked as a telemarketer for a camping company before coming to the cafe.

“Deputy Howard speaking.”

“Hi, Deputy. I’m Steffi Johansson.”

“How can I help you?”

There was silence for a second as she found her courage. “I know who killed Mandy Crawford,” she said.

When he asked her who and she answered, he felt a rush go through his body like the shock wave he once felt while fixing his uncle’s electric cattle fence wearing soaked leather shoes. If he was standing when she said the name of the man, he surely would have stumbled to the floor. It was that jarring.

“Are you sure you saw him?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice catching with a little emotion. “One hundred percent.”

Jason Howard tried Emily’s cell phone three times. It went to voice mail. Finally, on the second try, he decided to leave a message.

“Emily, Steffi Johansson’s coming down here. She can ID the man she saw that night at her coffee place. Get over here, OK?”

Chapter Sixty-six

Seattle

His condo now in escrow, Chris knew that Emily would have to marry him or he’d have to find a new place to live. He knew she’d never leave Cherrystone. He’d tell her that they’d reached their moment of truth.

Either you love me or you don’t. I know that you do. Let’s spend our lives together.

He swung by Irv Watkins’s house in Normandy Park, a fir-canopied enclave south of Seattle. The house was a two-story contemporary with sweeping views of Puget Sound and Vashon Island to the west. Chris pulled alongside a cobalt blue Miata next to the garage with a FOR SALE sign taped inside the passenger window and parked.

Irv Watkins poked his head out the front door and shook off the chill of the northwest winter gloom. He wore a purple and gold University of Washington sweatshirt and faded brown corduroy trousers.

“You’re a hell of a guy to reach,” he called out. “I had to call downtown to get your cell number.” He waved for Chris to get up the steps.

“I guess I like it like that. But it’s always good to hear your voice. Irv, how’s it going?”

“No complaints, considering.”

Chris winced at the thoughtlessness of his own words. Randi, Irv’s wife of forty years, had been gone such a short time. The Miata had been hers. He stepped inside the Danish modern–furnished home and Irv shut the front door. A cat scampered past. Irv motioned for Chris to follow him to the living room. The place was familiar. Chris had been there years ago for a party. The exact occasion escaped him just then.

“I’m sure it’s been hard.”

“I’m doing better. Miss her every day, you know.”

“I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re hanging in there.”

“Coffee? Beer? Soda?”

Chris passed with a smile and Irv went on, clearly glad to have company.

“Hey, you still seeing Emily Kenyon?” he asked.

“Every chance I get.”

He took a drink. “That’s what I heard. Any-who I saw a clip of the case she’s working on over there. On TV. Last night.”

“Mandy Crawford?”

“That’s the one.”

“It reminded me of the Harriman case.”

Irv had Chris’s interest. “Belinda Harriman?”

“Yeah, you remember that one?”

Chris pondered the name. Of course he did. Everyone did.

Belinda Harriman was a law student at the time of her disappearance. Anyone who lived in the Seattle area at the time could easily remember the photographs and handbills that were plastered all over the region. The mantra from her friends and family members was loud and decisive in their aim to bring her home: Leave no telephone pole without a handbill! All the way from Tacoma to Everett!

As the memories came back, Chris took a seat in the brown leather recliner that matched the one Irv commanded.

Belinda, a tall, slender, redhead with ice blue eyes and a freckle-splashed nose, was last seen playing pool at Sun Villa, a bowling alley with ten lanes and six pool tables in suburban Bellevue, east of Seattle. She’d been there with a group of friends from the UW law school. She rode home with her boyfriend, who dropped her off in front of her University of Washington district apartment building around midnight. Belinda told friends at the bowling alley that she had a big test the next week and needed to study. She waved good-bye and disappeared.

The police—both Seattle and Bellevue—investigated. Every inch of her apartment and the bowling alley was examined for evidence. But nothing turned up. Belinda’s parents packed up her belongings after Christmas, knowing in the way that parents often do that their child is dead.

In late February the following year, a girl on the hunt for evidence of early spring for a science project, found a patch of long red hair on the frozen edge of Phantom Lake, a small body of water more akin to a large pond than a real lake, a few miles north of the bowling alley. Her eyes followed the red hair to a tangle of dead cattails. Arms akimbo, faceup, was Belinda Harriman, entombed in a sodden sleeping bag.

“But Belinda Harriman’s killer was apprehended, convicted, right?” Chris asked, not really seeing the parallels that seemed so apparent to Irv.

“He was. Rick Deacon was his name—the boyfriend, remember?”

Chris scratched his head. “Sorry, Irv, guess I’m getting a little rusty. I don’t see the connection with Mandy. Was it the body dump site that caught your attention? The fact that it was a young woman killed in winter?”

Irv retrieved another beer from the mini fridge next to his chair, his TV command central, and Chris motioned “no thanks” with an outstretched palm.

“Gotta drive,” he said. “Heading over the pass to see Em.”

Irv swallowed a couple of big gulps of his beer. “Sure, a frozen pond and a strangled young girl are ringers,