Chapter Eighteen
Kazad and Aames followed Hollins as he crossed over one of two bridges on Highway 90 that spanned Lake Washington and connected Mercer Island with the surrounding Seattle area. During summer months, the lake was alive with Jet Skis, canoes, seasonal fisherman and the occasional late-night couple skinny dipping. But in the off season, when rain showers were the only disturbance over the quiet waters, life centered near the southern tip of Lake Washington on The Mercer.
Leaving highway 90, Hollins headed south on Island Crest Way, which was the main artery connecting the northern and southern ends of the island. His destination was located at the furthest point south and surrounded by a private community of expensive weekender homes purchased primarily for short get-aways and lazy stretches of summer. As a result, most remained empty for a majority of the year.
But this morning, among a cluster of fancy cabins near the Mercer Island Beach Club, one unit was occupied by a team of police investigators — and the body of Sharon Reese.
Following Hollins in the Sable, Kazad and Aames left the paved road and maneuvered over a narrow gravel drive that took them past a small wooden sign labeled “cabins.” Police lights broke between clusters of trees as they neared the end of a large cul-de-sac bordered by two-story structures designed to feel rustic while still providing every possible amenity.
For any amenity not available in the cabins, there was someone at the Beach Club able to provide it.
It was an idyllic spot, thought Kazad. Except for the strands of bright yellow crime tape.
Ahead, Hollins parked along the cul-de-sac, leaving room for the medical examiner’s vehicle to eventually arrive and transport the body. He stepped from this car carrying a leather bag as he entered the cabin.
A patrolman recorded his badge number and arrival time.
Kazad and Aames came to a stop and waited before exiting the Sable to avoid the appearance of arriving with Hollins. After a few minutes, they approached the crime scene, hands buried in their coat pockets.
The patrolman clicked his pen, ready to jot down their badge numbers from memory. “How’s it going with the Bettington kid?” he asked. “Is this tied to that?”
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