Betrayal of Trust (25 page)

“Sounds a lot like putting the fox in charge of the henhouse,” I commented.

“Exactly,” Mel agreed. “From then on, just like magic, there are no more loitering charges lodged against him. He doesn't have to go wandering around in parks in the middle of the night looking for connections, because the school is happy to send him a never-ending supply of potential victims.”

The whole idea was anathema to me. By the time we stopped in front of Sam Dysart's house, I was half sick to my stomach. Child predators revolt me. That was one core value Anne Corley and I had had in common. Ditto for Mel Soames. Antipathy toward child abusers is evidently part of my first sort in picking potential mates.

When we drove up to Sam Dysart's house, everything looked pretty normal except for the fact that the curtains and blinds were still closed. The house was neat and clean like all the other houses on the block. A gardener's truck was parked at the curb, and a guy with a lawn mower was industriously mowing Dysart's small front yard.

Mel and I got out of the car and started up the sidewalk. When the gardener saw us, he turned off his mower.

“Nobody's home,” he said without our asking. “I tried ringing the bell and knocking on the door because I was hoping to pick up a check. No such luck.”

Mel turned around and marched back down the sidewalk. At first I thought she was leaving. Instead, she went to Dysart's mailbox. She opened it and pulled out a fistful of mail. After shuffling through it, she returned the stack of mail to the box. Then she came back to me.

“Considering the layers of junk mail and real mail, I'd say his mail hasn't been picked up since Tuesday.”

Without having to discuss it, we fanned out and talked to the neighbors. Olympia isn't a small town, but it isn't a big city, either. People tend to know their neighbors. No one could remember seeing Sam Dysart for several days.

I spoke briefly to a woman who lived across the street.

“If there are three days' worth of mail in his mailbox,” Agnes Jones said, “then something is definitely wrong. Whenever Sam goes out of town he always has me pick up his mail. He worries about identity theft. He'd never leave his mail in the box like that. Never.”

“So when's the last time you saw him?”

“Let's see.” She paused for a moment, frowning. “Now that you mention it, I don't think I've seen him since Monday. I was on my way back from the grocery store. He was driving out as I was driving in. We waved and that was it.”

“You haven't seen him since then?”

“No, but that's not indicative of anything. Neither one of us keeps regular hours, so we come and go at odd times. It's not all that unusual for a week or so to pass without our ever laying eyes on each other.”

“Does he have many visitors?” I asked.

Something about my question must have put her on edge. “Wait a minute,” Agnes said. “Who are you? What's this all about again?”

I showed her my badge. “We're investigating a homicide.” You'll notice I didn't say what homicide, but the answer seemed to satisfy her.

“I can't imagine Sam Dysart being mixed up in anything like that,” she declared. “He's a perfectly nice man—a complete gentleman.”

“And about his visitors?”

“Kids drop by from time to time,” Agnes said. “Good kids,” she added. “Clean-cut kids from the chess club at Olympia High. Did you know Sam was once a championship chess player?”

“Yes,” I said. “So I heard.”

When I crossed the street again, Mel had already finished with her share of the neighborhood canvassing and was waiting for me at the end of Sam Dysart's carefully edged driveway. By then the gardener had loaded up his tools and grass clippings and had left the premises.

“Anything?”

“The lady across the street claims that the last time she saw him was sometime around noon on Monday.”

“What do you think?” Mel asked. “Is it possible a welfare check is in order?”

“I think so.”

We stepped up onto the front porch. First we rang the bell. When there was no answer to that, we knocked. Again there was no response, so we walked around the side of the house to the backyard. The lot was far deeper than it was wide. In the far back of the property sat a small stand-alone cottage that looked like it had once been a single-car garage before being turned into either a storage shed or a tiny apartment. Ignoring that for the time being, we went to the back door of the main house and repeated the same knocking routine we had performed on the front porch—with similar results. No answer. When I tried the door, it was locked.

We were about to walk away when a telephone began to ring inside the house. I would have bet money it was Agnes from across the street calling to let Sam Dysart know that police officers had been nosing around his place. The phone rang several times and then went silent.

“Answering machine, most likely,” Mel said.

Turning as one, Mel and I headed for the small building at the far end of the lot. On the side facing us there was a single curtained window and an old-fashioned door—an antique door that took an old-fashioned key, a skeleton key.

When I went to knock on the door, it fell open at my touch because it wasn't locked. It wasn't even closed all the way. As the door opened, a noxious odor exploded around us. We stood outside, covering our noses with our hands and peering into the stinky gloom of what was evidently a tiny apartment. My first thought was that we had stumbled across a blocked toilet and someone needed to call Roto-Rooter right away.

In the arcane world of Planning and Guessing, as opposed to Planning and Zoning, buildings like this are referred to as ADUs (accessory dwelling units). That's what bureaucrats call them. Ordinary, nonbureaucrat folks call those same structures mother-in-law apartments.

This one looked like a one-room cabin, complete with a small table—covered by a chessboard—a rumpled, unmade bed, a kitchen area with a sink, fridge, small stove, and microwave, and a closed door that most likely led into the bathroom with a plugged commode.

“Mr. Dysart,” I called out. “Are you in there?”

Mel reached around the door frame and located a light switch. Using a pen from her purse, she flipped on an overhead light. There was no sign of any kind of confrontation—no knocked-over furniture, no broken crockery. Fighting off the foul odor, I walked as far as the bathroom door and knocked on that as well.

“Mr. Dysart, police. Are you in there? Are you all right?”

In answer I heard an eerie croak uttering words that, loosely translated, sounded like “Help me.” Instead of coming from inside the bathroom, the sound came from behind me on the far side of that unmade bed. As soon as I stepped closer, I realized that was where the odor came from as well. A man lay there on the floor, trapped between the wall he was facing and the side of the bed.

I've heard all those “I've fallen and I can't get up” jokes, and several of them ran through my mind as I wrenched the bed away from the wall. In the background, I heard Mel on the phone calling 911.

“Are you Mr. Dysart?” I asked.

He nodded emphatically. He had been lying on his side, facing the wall. As soon as I moved the bed away from him, he flopped over onto his back with a wrenching groan. Initially I thought he was the victim of some kind of attack. When I reached out to help him, however, I realized that he had lost the use of his entire right side. Instead of dealing with a crime victim, Mel and I had encountered a serious medical emergency. Dysart appeared to have suffered a massive stroke. He had been stuck there on the floor, trapped between the wall and the bed and imprisoned in his own filth, for what must have been several days.

“Water,” he croaked. “Please.”

That much was understandable. I went to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed a glass, filled it, and came back.

“EMTs are on the way,” Mel said.

I picked my way through the stinking mess, knelt at the man's head, and tried to raise him enough to offer him a sip of water. When I did so, the water ran back out one side of his mouth and dribbled down onto his chest.

Within a matter of minutes, units from the Olympia Fire Department arrived on the scene. They bustled into the room in full firefighting regalia, bringing with them the chatter of radios and bags of equipment. While they worked, Mel stood studying the door to the building.

“What do you think are the chances that the skeleton key Josh was wearing opens this door?” she asked.

“Why don't we check?”

I plucked my phone out of my pocket and dialed Joan Hoyt.

“What about the key that was found on a chain around Josh's neck?” I asked her.

“My understanding is that Dr. Mowat has already released the body,” Joan said. “That means his personal effects were sent either to the funeral home or else directly back to the governor's mansion.”

Remembering the way Marsha Longmire had run me out of the house earlier, I knew which one I was hoping for.

My next call was to Larry Mowat at the Thurston County medical examiner's office. I was hoping to talk to a secretary or a receptionist—anyone but him—so of course he answered after the second ring.

“J. P. Beaumont here,” I told him. “We need to know where you sent Josh Deeson's personal effects.”

“ ‘We' being you and that rabid dog you call a partner?” he asked.

“Mel Soames is my partner,” I said. “She also happens to be my wife. Now answer the damned question!”

My response evidently surprised him. He swallowed whatever additional smart-assed comment he had intended to make.

“I did what I always do in cases like this. I sent the personal effects to the funeral home, along with the body.”

“Which funeral home?”

“Nelson's mortuary on Pacific. Why?”

I hung up without answering and turned to Mel. “Let's go,” I said.

“Where to?”

I knew generally where Pacific was, and I headed there without having to wait for Mel to work the GPS.

“To a funeral home,” I told her. “Here's the deal. The key was released along with the body. I'm hoping we can get there and grab it before your friend Mowat can pull the plug on us. If we can pick it up without a hassle, fine. If we can't—if the personal effects have already been turned over to the family—then we're going to have to ask Ross for another court order.”

This was one of the times when the gods were on our side. Larry Mowat is a top-down kind of guy. While he was consulting with Charles Nelson, the owner of the mortuary, Mel and I threw ourselves on the mercy of the minimum-wage-earning young woman who was running the Nelson Funeral Home's outer office. We showed her our badges. She handed over what we needed, and we gave her a receipt. We were out of there in five minutes flat with the phone ringing in the background as we hurried out the door.

We drove back to Sam Dysart's place. The ambulance was gone, although some fire department vehicles were still in attendance. As we walked through the side yard, the newly mowed grass was littered with medical debris. A young fireman was emerging from the cottage as we approached.

“Hey,” he said. “You're not supposed to go inside here.”

Mel showed him her badge while I walked up to the door and put the skeleton key in the old-fashioned lock. It turned home with a satisfying click.

“Bingo,” I said. “Sam Dysart is our guy—Dysart and Josh.” I pulled the door shut and locked it. “Now let's go see Ross Connors. We need a search warrant and some DNA evidence. We handle the evidence by the book. If Sam Dysart did this, I want him to go to jail for it for a very long time. I don't want there to be the smallest possibility that he's able to get off due to some mishandled piece of procedure or evidence.”

“The man had a crippling stroke that went untreated for days,” Mel pointed out. “If we lock him up, the taxpayers of Washington will end up footing his medical bills.”

“Fine,” I growled. “If paying a huge medical bill means the state treasurer has prevented one other kid from being victimized by this creep, it'll be worth it. Let's just say it will be taxpayer money well spent.”

“Josh won't be there in court to testify against him.”

“No,” I said. “He won't, but we will be. Just as soon as we get the go-ahead on that search warrant. We'll be able to testify and so will the DNA from that glass of water I offered him a little while ago. Come on. Let's go.”

Chapter 25

A
s we headed for the car, Mel's phone rang. I seem to remember that back in the old days we managed to get by without the constant use of cell phones, but I'm not sure how.

“No,” she was saying. “As I told the officers on the scene, we had no idea there had been a fatality. We were there regarding another matter. If your officers want more information than that, they'll have to check with our boss, Ross Connors.”

“What's going on?” I mouthed in her direction.

She shook her head and waved me off. And then my phone rang, too, with an unfamiliar number.

“Hello.”

“Mr. Beaumont? Monica Longmire.”

“Did you find Gizzy?”

“Yes, I did. She was right there where you said she'd be—in with that whole crowd of onlookers at Janie's House. The two of us had something of a set-to. I told her she was behaving badly to stay out all night and not answer her phone when things are at such sixes and sevens at home with what happened to Josh. I told her she needed to stop being such a self-centered little twerp and start thinking about someone else for a change. I said she should be home helping her mother and Gerry deal with their houseguests arriving for the funeral instead of being out running around. At which point she told me I wasn't her mother and needed to mind my own business. Ron stepped in then, called me a bitch, and told me to leave Gizzy alone.

“About that time a cop from Olympia PD showed up and started asking questions. I think that's when most of the kids there found out someone had died in the fire. It looked to me as though that's the first Gizzy knew about it, too. She turned pale as a ghost. I thought she was going to faint. Ron grabbed her by the arm and led her away. They got in his car and took off.

“Look,” Monica continued. “I've tried to be a team player on this. I know the Millers were big supporters of Marsha's campaign. That's one of the reasons Sid asked me to keep my misgivings to myself where Ron and Gizzy are concerned, but I'm done with that.

“I spent twenty years of my life married to a man very much like Ron Miller. He had money to burn, and as far as the world was concerned, Dan Masterson was the greatest guy in the world. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. But at home and hidden underneath all that good-guy crap was a real snake. So I recognize the type. If the cops at the fire had bothered asking Ron any questions, I'm sure he could have lied his way out of it with no trouble at all. The problem is, I've known Gizzy since she was ten. She's not nearly as good a liar.”

“Wait,” I said. “Are you saying what I think you're saying—that you believe Ron Miller and Gizzy might have something to do with the fire at Janie's House?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying. Ron at least, and maybe Gizzy, too.”

“Based on the expressions on their faces when the cop started asking questions?”

“That and the way they skipped out of there before the cops got around to talking to them.”

Monica's words served to confirm my own private hunch, but two hunches don't make a case, and the fatality arson investigation itself wasn't Mel's and my deal. It belonged to Olympia PD.

“Look,” I said. “Special Homicide operates under the direction and at the sole discretion of Attorney General Connors. Even with a death involved, the fire at Janie's House isn't our case. You'll need to speak to the guys here in Olympia.”

“Have you looked at Ron's driving record?”

We had, but I didn't want to say so.

“Not really,” I said.

“I know he has some points on his record,” Monica said, “but not nearly as many as he ought to have.”

We thought as much, too. “You're saying you think cops here in Olympia might give him a pass?” I asked.

“They have in the past.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a fire a few years ago at a boathouse out along Budd Inlet. It belonged to neighbors of the Millers'. It burned up the boathouse as well as the boat that was stored inside it. The fire ended up being declared an accident rather than arson. No charges were ever filed, but Ron's parents ended up paying for the damage. Does that sound like a pass to you?”

“How did you find out about this?” I asked.

“Gizzy told Zoe and Zoe told me.”

“Well, you're right,” I said. “It's sounding more and more like a pass all the time. I think Mel and I should have a chat with the charming young couple. Do you happen to know where they are right now?”

“At the governor's mansion,” Monica answered. “They left the scene of the fire in Ron's Camaro. Gizzy's Acura was parked a few blocks away. That's where they said they were going once they picked up her car. They're there right now, probably having their asses chewed. Gerry was fit to be tied about the situation.”

“We're only a mile or so away,” I said. “We'll drop by and do a little piling on.”

“I'll head home then,” Monica said, “but please don't mention that I'm the one who raised this issue. If they find out I've been talking out of school, all hell is going to break loose. Gizzy will be furious, Sid will be furious, and so will the governor. Not Gerry, though. When it comes to Ron Miller, Gerry and I are pretty much on the same page, but we're the stepparents. You know how that goes. I have to live with these people.”

Suspicions were all Gerry Willis had offered us about Sam Dysart, but those were looking a whole lot more viable now. In this case, Monica's suspicions about Ron Miller coincided with my own.

“Don't worry,” I assured her. “You go on home. We won't give you away.”

While I had been on the phone with Monica, Mel had been in touch with Ross's office. She had brought him up-to-date on the situation with Sam Dysart. We had been walking as we talked. By the time I got off the phone with Monica, Mel and I were buckled into the front seat of the S-550.

“Is Ross going to request search warrants?”

“Yes,” Mel said. “And what about us? I take it we're headed for the governor's mansion?”

“That's the idea,” I said. “It turns out Ron Miller may have had a previous firebug involvement that wasn't prosecuted. Try Googling Ronald Darrington Miller or a boathouse fire on Budd Inlet. The fire in question was declared accidental, but the bad boy's parents, who also happen to be among Governor Longmire's big-time contributors, paid for the damages.”

“And thus kept it off his record,” Mel said, working her iPhone as I drove. “Tell me it doesn't pay to have friends in high places.”

We both knew that wasn't true, because connections work to smooth out all kinds of little rough spots. Mel had just found an article about the fire when we pulled up at the end of the mansion's brick-paved driveway. The last two cars parked there were a silver Acura and a shiny new blue Camaro with a temporary paper plate affixed to the back window.

“Okay,” she said. “The boathouse fire happened three years ago in July, allegedly from fireworks being shot off by an unnamed juvenile. Damage to the structure and contents was estimated to be in excess of seventy-five thousand dollars.”

“Ron would have been fourteen back then,” I said.

“He isn't a juvenile now,” Mel said. “So what's the plan? Are we just going to blurt out something like, ‘Hey, did you two have anything to do with the fire at Janie's House?' ”

“No,” I said. “We're going to tell them that we're interviewing everybody connected to Janie's House. Then we're going to divide and conquer. Most likely Ron and Gizzy cooked up some kind of story to tell their parents about where they were last night and what they did. I'll tackle Ron; you talk to Gizzy.”

“If her mother lets me get anywhere near her,” Mel said.

“Then we compare notes. If the stories don't stack up—and I'm willing to bet they won't—then we come back at them with lying to a police officer.”

I parked directly behind the Camaro, close enough that I figured it wouldn't be easy for Ron to pull out without my moving first.

The same WSP guard nodded us through. We walked up to the front door and rang the bell. A woman in her forties, one I'd never seen before, opened the door. We didn't recognize her and she didn't recognize us.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“We're here to see Giselle Longmire and Ron Miller,” Mel said. “I understand they're both here at the moment.”

“You'd need to speak to the governor first, but she's completely occupied with a personal matter at the moment. I'm Liz Carnahan, her chief of staff. Can I help you?”

Over Liz's shoulder I could hear the sound of raised voices coming from somewhere nearby—probably the small study just off the front entryway. Marsha seemed to be doing most of the talking.

“Staying out all night is not okay! I expect both of you to show better sense than that. And how about a little respect for what's going on with Gerry? With all the people in town for the funeral tomorrow, the last thing we need is to have you behaving like this.”

There were some mumbled replies—a male voice and a female one—but nothing that we could understand.

“I'm sorry,” Liz Carnahan said. “This is a personal matter.”

“If the governor is busy, perhaps we could have a word with Mr. Willis,” I said, handing over a business card. “This concerns his grandson.”

The chief of staff gave me the stink eye, but she took the card with her as she turned and disappeared into the house, leaving the door ajar behind her. A moment later, the door to the study slammed open. Ron Miller strode out into the foyer. Then he pushed his way past Mel and me without even acknowledging our presence while Giselle darted upstairs.

“I'll take him,” I said, nodding after Ron. “You go tell Gerry Willis about Sam Dysart.”

I left Mel standing on the front porch and hurried back to the driveway. Ron was in the Camaro, doing his best to get out of my deliberate automotive squeeze play. I walked up to the car and tapped on the driver's window, held up my badge, and waited until he rolled the window down.

“Got a minute?”

He looked at me and shook his head. I was a cop. He naturally assumed that made me dumb as a stump. I didn't want to do anything to disabuse him of that notion.

“I don't have to talk to you without one of my parents and/or my attorney in on the discussion,” he said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you invoking your Miranda rights when I haven't even said anything to you? I just wanted to talk to you about the Janie's House situation, but if you want to be Mirandized, then you must have reason to believe you're under suspicion in that incident.”

“Aren't I?” He was an arrogant piece of work. He backed up again. This time his bumper dinged the one on the Mercedes.

“Hey,” I said. “That's my car. You bump it again, there'll be trouble.”

“Then move it out of the way so I can go.”

He said it like he was accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. Mel, having made short work of talking to Gerry Willis, appeared at my side and took up a position just to the left of the Camaro's front bumper, holding up her iPhone. She didn't have to tell me that the video app was running. I already knew.

Ron wrenched on the steering wheel, slammed the Camaro into reverse, and stepped on the gas. This time he bumped the Mercedes hard enough to set off the alarm. Then he went forward enough to ram Gizzy's Acura too, setting off that alarm as well. In another time or two, he might have gotten loose, but by then Mel had joined me.

“If you do that again,” I warned him, “I'm placing you under arrest for assault with a deadly weapon.”

“You and who else, old man?” he demanded. Then he rammed the Mercedes one more time, just for good measure.

I reached in through the open window and tried to grab him. But the car sped back fast enough that all I got was a handful of tracksuit. He slipped out of the shirt like a snake shedding its skin. Then, leaving the Camaro still running, he slid across the seat and charged out through the door on the passenger side of the car.

As he took off, I saw him reach back to pick up something from the passenger seat. For a sick moment, I thought it might be a weapon. He paused, as if considering his options, then ran off down the driveway, loping along at a speed that would have left me in the dust twenty years ago. But not Mel Soames. She runs every day—every single day—and she can run my socks off. I'm sure Ron Miller was counting on being able to outrun me, but he never anticipated that the suit-clad, high-heeled woman standing next to the front bumper of his car would kick off her pumps and take after him like a shot in her stocking feet.

Knowing my gimpy knees would make it impossible to keep pace, I switched off the ignition in the Camaro, grabbed the keys to that, and clambered into the Mercedes. I knew I couldn't keep up with either Mel or Ron, but I could sure as hell outdrive them. I turned off the alarm, pulled a U-turn, and went after them in hot pursuit.

At the end of the driveway, Ron paused long enough to throw something Frisbee-like up into the tall laurel hedge that lined both sides of the drive, then he darted off across the street and headed into the capitol campus.

Had it been a half hour later, people would have been streaming out of their office buildings. As it was, the path in front of him was relatively deserted. So was the path in front of Mel. And that slight pause was all she needed to close the gap between them to within that magic fifteen-foot margin.

“Police,” she shouted. “Stop or I'll use my Taser.”

I saw the jerky image of the bright red laser aiming light appear on Ron Miller's back. He didn't stop, but Mel had warned him once, and one warning is all punks like that get. She pressed the switch on her Taser, and Ron fell to the ground, flopping spastically to the concrete sidewalk and howling in outrage. By then Mel was on top of him, handcuffs in hand.