Heart of Ice. Gregg Olsen

She was the first female sheriff for Cherrystone, but surely someone had thought that through before. It was an annoyance on chilly November days and thankfully she only had to wear the suit for official occasions that had more to do with public relations than law enforcement. Moreover, she had the sneaking suspicion the getup made her look like a flight attendant as much as anything.

      That afternoon she had lunch with the Rotary Club to kick off the annual “Teddy Bears for Tots” fund-raiser, a statewide drive in which officers collected plush teddy bears for the littlest victims of crimes, accidents, and fires. Emily spoke for five minutes, shook the hands of several Rotary officers, and thanked them for the “teamwork that makes us great.”

      The line felt hokey; even so the crowd applauded.

      As she exited the restaurant banquet room, she knew that she needed a warmer coat than her old trench if she wanted to keep from freezing. She ran through her mental list of things that had to be done. She needed to get her roots touched up at the salon. She also had to do something with the turkey carcass that occupied the top shelf in her refrigerator following Thanksgiving with Jenna, her twenty-two-year-old daughter, Chris Collier, her boyfriend—though she loathed the idea of a grown man being called a boyfriend—and her friend, Olga Cerrino.

      Her cell rang. It was Jason Howard, her deputy.

      “Kenyon here,” she said.

      “Hi, Sheriff. It’s Jason.”

      That they even bothered to identify themselves was almost a joke between them. Only a dozen employees made up the Cherrystone Sheriff’s Department. It wasn’t the smallest law enforcement organization, but it certainly wasn’t in Washington State’s top ten. “We got a call from Jeanne Parkinson at the clerk’s office. She’s worried about an employee.”

      Emily knew Jeanne. She worried about everything.

      “What’s going on?” she asked.

      “An employee didn’t come to work today.”

      Emily wanted to laugh, yet somehow she held it. “Is this what we’ve been reduced to? The attendance monitors for the county?”

      “That’s what I thought, but this could be different. They’re worried that something might have happened to Mandy on her way to work.”

      “Mandy Crawford?”

      “Yeah. She’s pregnant, you know.”

      “I know. She’s due any day, isn’t she?” Emily checked her teeth in the rearview mirror of her Kelly green county-issued Crown Vic. Spinach salad was never a good choice for a luncheon. Why didn’t caterers understand that spinach leaves gripped teeth like Velcro?

      “Mitch says when he left for work, she was already gone.”

      Mitch was Mitch Crawford, Mandy’s husband.

      “I’m not far from there,” Emily said. “I’ll stop by and follow her route to the office.”

      “Need the address?”

      “I know where everyone in Cherrystone lives. That’s how exciting my life is.”

      “Gotcha, Sheriff. We’re in the same boat.”

      She almost said something about the Titanic, but thought better of it. Jason Howard was her subordinate and admitting to him that they were both in dead-end jobs was counterproductive. The fact was that adrenaline junkies would die a slow death in Cherrystone. Nothing earth-shattering happened in Cherrystone. No murder in five years. There had been three rapes, twenty-eight burglaries/robberies, eighty-three assaults, and a couple hundred drug busts, mostly for meth—the scourge of small towns and rural communities across the West.

      No one had to tell Emily who Mandy’s husband was. Mitch Crawford was a good eight to ten years younger than she, but the Crawford family was well known for having the region’s car dealership. Cherrystone was certainly out of the way, with Spokane being its nearest major city. Mitch’s father, Eddie, however, had shown a knack for marketing that turned the car lot into a destination. He’d fly people into Spokane from Seattle or Portland, pick them up in a limo, and make sure they returned home in one of his cars. He ran ads on TV and radio, and was inducted into the Marketing Hall of Fame in Reno, Nevada. When he died, Mitch took over.

      The car lot wasn’t looking so sprightly these days. Mitch Crawford, it seemed, was no Eddie Crawford.

      Mitch and Mandy lived in a hopelessly hokey development crafted for those who think showing off their money is the better part of having any. Their address was in the ridiculously named Bristol Estates—ridiculous because Cherrystone was nowhere near England, and the only thing English about the town was that most people spoke the language.

      When Emily arrived, she showed her badge and a guard opened the gate. Bristol Estates was a small development with only fourteen homes on “equestrian lots” built with garish architectural embellishments. Each home had a “carriage” house for their cars and a turret that presumably fed fantasies for the would-be princes, Rapunzels, and Lancelots.

      Emily parked the Crown Vic behind Mitch’s Germanmade sedan and wondered why Cherrystone’s biggest car dealer didn’t drive a Ford like all his customers.

      The leaded glass front door swung open.

      “Emily,” Mitch called out. “Sorry you’ve been dragged into this.”

      He was better looking than she’d remembered. He had broad shoulders, a strong, handsome jawline, and hair cut short in the way that men sometimes do when it is thinning. He was far too vain for a comb-over. He wore a Ralph Lauren sweater and slacks that looked a little too matchy-matchy, as though he’d purchased them without the help of a woman who knew what really looked good on a man. A gold chain that hearkened back to his dealership origins was nestled in his manscaped chest hair. He’d tried to leapfrog from his car dealership lineage, but the gold jewelry, the bad taste, and a whiff of Calvin Klein’s Obsession were clues that he’d not made it as far as he’d liked. Despite the grand house. Or maybe, because of it.

      “Dragged? It’s my job,” she said.

      “I know. Just seems silly. I’m sure Mandy just went out shopping.”

      “How come you’re home?”

      “Oh, just had to zip home for some stuff I need at work.”

      “I see.”

      He cracked the door open a little more, but still didn’t come outside or offer Emily to come in out of the cold air.

      “She was supposed to be at work,” she said.

      “Oh, no. She’d taken the day off. She had some things to get for the baby.”

      Emily stepped a little closer, craning her neck to see what, if anything was behind him. “They were expecting her at the clerk’s office.”

      Mitch looked unconcerned. “Signals crossed, I think. I’m not saying this to sound like a Neanderthal, but you know, she’s pregnant. She’s not exactly dotting all the i’s and crossing the t’s these days.”

      Emily let the remark fly by. He was being a Neanderthal, but something was drawing her attention more than his words—the overpowering odor of bleach.

      “Can I come in?” she asked, a calming smile on her face. “Have a look around?”

      He looked at her warily.

      “Sure. I was doing a little cleaning. I’m done now.”

      “Smells like bleach,” she said.

      Mitch offered a kind of lifeless smile that seemed more for effect than for the conveyance of any warmth or charm. “Nothing works better for cleaning.”

      “I know,” she said, thinking at the same time that nothing obliterates blood and other body fluids better than bleach, too.

      Mitch led Emily into the kitchen. Atop the black granite counter,