Heart of Ice. Gregg Olsen

the microphone like she was about to warble on a TV singing show, her fingertips doing all the work. She stood in front of Crawford’s dealership and did the news reporter bobblehead nod as she was introduced. Her hands must have been frozen, Emily thought, but apparently Anne Yakamoto wanted to show off her slender fingers and perfect nails—admittedly, her best feature.

      “I’m standing here in front of the world-famous Crawford’s car dealership in downtown Cherrystone….”

      Emily winced at the first sentence. World-famous? She wondered if Mitch Crawford had been the copywriter for the opener. It would be like him to insist upon that kind of a promo line to secure the interview. She rolled her eyes at Jason and he returned the gesture.

      “…and as Christmas comes, this whole town is wondering where one of their own has vanished. Mandy Crawford has been missing since just after Thanksgiving. Police have investigated, but have come up empty-handed. No one wonders where Mandy has gone more than her husband, the owner of this hugely successful dealership. He’s been putting up posters and working the phone lines of the volunteers who are searching for his missing wife. I sat down with Mitch Crawford’s defense lawyer this afternoon.”

      The video cut to a shot of Cary on the telephone. He looked serious as he made some notes on a legal pad.

      Emily doubted Cary had made notes on anything or even that he talked to clients on the phone. He always said he had “associates” to do the jobs he didn’t like. The only thing he liked to do, apparently, was grandstand in the courtroom.

      Or, apparently on subzero-rated TV.

      Next, Anne Yakamoto faced the camera. “Mr. McConnell, you’re pretty upset about what’s been happening to your client.”

      Cary, in a crisp white shirt, charcoal jacket, and a Tiffany blue silk tie, unfolded his arms. “You bet I am, Anne. Mitch Crawford has suffered an unbelievable tragedy here.”

      “Unbelievable is right,” Jason said, his eyes fixed to the TV.

      “…His wife, the mother of his child-to-be, just flat-out disappeared. Immediately the sheriff put the focus on Mitch, when she should have been looking for Mandy. We don’t even know what happened to her, but we do know that Mitch didn’t have a thing to do with her disappearance.”

      The camera went back to the reporter. “Why do you think the sheriff focused on your client?”

      “Lazy. Inexperience. I don’t know. It probably was convenience.”

      Emily felt her blood boil, but she said nothing.

      “…There isn’t one shred of evidence that ties my client to anything here. He was looking forward to the holidays with his wife and the birth of their first child. Turning him into a suspect is outrageously cruel. Leave him alone. Find Mandy. Do your job, for crying out loud.”

      There was a quick cut-over to an image of Mitch Crawford, shoveling the snowy sidewalk in front of his fabulous house. Emily doubted he’d ever done that before. He struck her as the type who’d made sure that he kept plenty of “the little people” around to do that sort of thing. Bossing people around made him happy.

      Anne Yakamoto turned her head slightly when the news anchor asked if she’d talked with Mitch Crawford. “Mitch talked to me briefly off-camera. He’s still wrapping Christmas presents for his wife and expected new baby. He says he just wants them to come home safely.”

      Jason looked over at Emily. She sat stone-faced. Even the reporter had bought into his charm; she’d referred to him by his first name.

      A photograph of Mandy went up on the screen. It was fairly recent. She smiled broadly, holding up a baby quilt. There was no mistaking the joy the young woman had for her impending motherhood. If the photo was meant to tug at the heart, it succeeded.

      “If you see this woman, please contact Mr. McConnell at his law offices in Cherrystone.”

      Another news story came on and Emily turned off the TV.

      “That was probably the most insulting bit of news reporting, if you can call it that, I’ve ever witnessed—and, believe me, I’ve seen more than my share,” Emily said.

      “Yeah, looks like the reporter was on the wrong side of that story from the get-go.”

      “I guess that’s Cary’s strategy. He’s going to be the mouthpiece for his client now. Letting us know how hard this has been on Mitch, how rough we’ve been on him.”

      “I’d like to be rough on him,” Jason said. “The guy’s a prick.”

      “That, he is. But we’ll get him. His arrogance and his lawyer’s arrogance will be their undoing. In a way, I’m relieved.”

      “I’m out of here. See you in the a.m.”

      “Night, Jason.”

      As her young deputy departed, Emily winced at the thought of the blue tie that Cary McConnell had been wearing. It had been held in place by an antique tie tack with his initials. She wondered if it was a coincidence or a maybe even a kind of snarky sartorial wink directed at her. She’d purchased the tie and the tack—the only gifts she’d given to him.

      She wished now that she’d asked for them back.

      Chapter Eleven

      Emily Kenyon pulled the Crown Vic to the side of the road. The Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department hadn’t yet ordered the hands-free phones that were a state safety requirement at the beginning of the New Year. She answered her ringing phone. The young woman on the line was one of those who masked her nervousness with inappropriate laughter. The end of every sentence was punctuated with a giggle or quick laugh. Throughout her years as a detective, Emily Kenyon had interviewed so many of her ilk. Also, the criers, the derailed train-of-thoughters, and the story-changers. The story-changers were always the worst. As long as people kept the basics of their information consistent, they’d probably make it through the trial process.

      A crier was better than a laugher, though. Laughers frequently turned off members of the jury. What’s so funny about homicide? A crier could win a case for either side.

      “My friend says I should call because we saw something that might help your case,” the woman said, laughing.

      “What is your name? What case?” Emily felt a little annoyed, but Gloria had taken the call and said that the girl “might have what we’re looking for—a real lead.”

      “Steffi Johansson,” she said. Again, the laugh. “I think Mitch Crawford was in our shop just after Thanksgiving. He was a total freak, too.” Another laugh.

      “I see,” Emily said. “How about I come out to see you. Are you at your shop?”

      “Yes, I am. It’s Café Patisserie on the north end of Griffin Avenue, just off the highway.”

      Emily knew the place. “I’ll be there in a twenty minutes. Tell your boss you’ll need a break.”

      “I am the boss,” Steffi said, letting out a short laugh. “At least, for this shift.”

      Steffi Johansson was waiting just inside the front door of the café when Emily arrived. “I made you a mocha, double-shot, no whip.”

      “You didn’t have to do that,” Emily said, taking the paper cup and moving to a table by the front window, away from another patron reading USA Today and sipping a chai latte.

      Steffi smiled. “I nailed your drink, didn’t I?”

      Emily hated mochas. “That you did,” she said.

      The young blonde laughed. “I have a real knack for that. Don’t ask me why. I just know what people want.”

      “Well then, you know what I want,” Emily said, not caring that her segue was silly and obvious. Finesse wasn’t needed with Steffi Johansson. The girl was annoying as hell.

      “Right.