Emily and Prosecutor Camille Hazelton, smartly dressed in a dark blue suit that looked much more CEO than Emily’s sheriff’s uniform, waited in the hallway with a nervous—and laughing—Steffi Johansson as five men were ushered inside the room.
“Is she going to be all right?” Camille asked Emily, just out of Steffi’s earshot.
Emily nodded. “She’s a laugher. Sorry. We get them the way they come to us.”
“The jury will hate her. If we ever get that far.”
“Tell me about it.”
Camille approached Steffi with a warm, welcoming smile. “I’m Camille Hazelton, I’m the Cherrystone County prosecutor. I’m very grateful that you’ve come in this morning. I’m also grateful that you called the sheriff’s department. Steffi, you’ll see five men. I want you to look carefully at each one and let me know if any one of them is the man that came to your coffee place just after Thanksgiving.”
“OK. Can I ask them anything?”
The question surprised Camille. Most potential witnesses just want to look and leave, kind of hit-and-run identification. “No, no questions, but I’m curious,” she said. “What would you ask them?”
“Well, I’d guess I’d ask them what they’d order for a coffee drink. I never forget what a person orders.”
Camille looked over at Emily. “We can’t ID someone based on a coffee drink. The things that you told Sheriff Kenyon are crucial because of what you said you saw. The man’s injury, for example.”
Steffi took a deep breath. “Got it. OK. I’m ready.” She dropped another laugh, this time softer, and Emily and Camille detected the fear emanating from the pretty blonde. It was clear that she wanted to be helpful, but she was also scared.
“Where is defense counsel?” Emily asked, not wanting to say Cary’s name.
Camille looked at her watch. “Can’t make it, something about a personal emergency at home. He’s sending an associate.” She looked down the hallway. “And right on time, here comes Donna Rayburn now.”
Emily knew Ms. Rayburn, of course. She was an attractive brunette with a law degree and implants that she made no bones about (“They’re not D’s,” she’d been heard to say at a law office party, “but lowercase C’s.”). She was nice enough, but she was one of those people who’d come to Cherrystone with the idea that it was a stepping-stone to a better job elsewhere—and ended up staying. The newspaper had three reporters and an editor who’d done that; the hospital had four doctors. And of course, she knew that Jason Howard had once planned to leave.
Donna walked purposefully toward the three women. She wore a charcoal suit, four-inch heels, and carried a large Kate Spade bag that swung back and forth like a wrecking ball. As always, Donna was in a big hurry.
“Let’s get going on this,” she said, still ten yards away. “I have to catch a flight. I’m speaking at a conference in Chicago.”
“Well, Donna,” Camille said, sarcasm apparent to all, “by all means we wouldn’t want to hold you up.”
Clearly annoyed, Donna Rayburn made a face. “Look, I can’t help it if I’m busy. Really, dragging me over here for a latte-stand clerk’s ID is beyond the pale. I can’t see how it is of any relevance whatsoever. Mitch Crawford is a very, very busy man. And I’m a busy woman.”
It took everything she had for Emily not to pull the Kate Spade from Donna’s hand and bop her upside her head with it.
A jailer popped his head from inside the doorway to the conference room. “Lineup’s ready.”
“Steffi, remember,” Camille said, ushering her toward the glass.
“It isn’t a latte stand,” Steffi said, turning to Donna. “We’re a full-service restaurant and patisserie.”
Donna nodded, her affect smug. “So I hear.”
The lights went up inside, and the miniblinds that covered the window/mirror rose.
Five men stood in a row. Three were jail inmates; two were DUIs, and the third was a burglary II. One was an assistant jailer who often pulled duty for a lineup. He had the kind of bland face and average build and height that made him good filler for lineups. Mitch Crawford was also in the mix. He, like the others, was clad in jeans and a button-down shirt.
Steffi inched forward and studied each one.
“Take your time,” Camille said. “This isn’t about being fast. We’re looking for truth here.”
“All right,” Steffi said, this time without a laugh.
“I’m going to have each one move forward and turn to the right and left,” Camille said.
One by one, each man followed the command.
“Number five looks familiar,” Steffi said.
“Take your time,” Camille said, her heart sinking a little.
Donna impatiently shifted her weight and pulled her handbag close. “I think she’s doing fine.”
Steffi looked at the defense lawyer, then back to the five men. She was so far from laughing by then, that Emily wondered if Steffi Johansson was about to cry. Frustration on her face was unmistakable. Her lips were tight and her eyes seemed glossy with tears.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “Number five seems so familiar, but I can’t be sure.”
Donna Rayburn turned to leave. “This identification is over. Thanks, ladies. I’m off to Chicago.”
No one said good-bye to Donna. She slipped away and headed toward the jail office.
“I’m sorry,” Steffi said, a tear rolling down her check.
“You did your best, Steffi, that’s all we can ask.”
As the three women started to leave they saw Donna walking down the hallway. She wasn’t alone. She was chatting with man number five.
It was Mitch Crawford.
Chapter Twelve
The next day, Emily Kenyon’s morning started as it always did: She pulled into the line at Java the Hut, and ran through a mental checklist of what she’d be doing that day. She wrote a quick “luv u, jenna. see u soon!” to her daughter, using the instant-note feature that allowed her to scroll down and select a prewritten message without having to write each letter. It was cheating, in a way. But at 7 A.M., what in the world was a mother with a murder investigation supposed to do?
She ordered a quad latte instead of the usual triple and tipped the girl a dollar instead of the remaining change. It was the holiday season, of course.
Her list for the day:
Call Chris about condo listing.
Thank Mandy’s supporters.
Talk with Mandy’s parents.
Review Crawford financial documents.
Check cell phone records.
Check Internet activity and e-mail.
Review ATM and credit card transactions.
Pray for a miracle.
Christmas music was playing softly in the background of the Landon Avenue Methodist Church meeting room, where three women worked in unison to find Mandy Crawford. With the color-coordinated finesse of the champion scrap-bookers that they were, they’d set up a Mandy Central that rightly would be the envy of many larger organizations. Even professional ones.
When Emily stopped in on her way to the office and did a quick once-over, she half-expected missing child advocate John Walsh to pop out of the men’s room down the hall. They’d made two trips to the copy center for fliers and had made two dozen outreach calls to community leaders who might be able to spread the word. Not a bad amount of work already done, considering that it was barely half past eight in the morning. The three women all had jobs, but had taken the early part of the morning off so they could get a start on their efforts to bring Mandy Crawford back home.