Betrayal of Trust (8 page)

“Yes, they do,” I told him. “And plenty of potential media leaks, too. Ross wants to be as far ahead of the game as possible before any of this hits the media.”

“How come?” Todd asked.

“Because Josh's grandfather and guardian is a man named Gerard Willis—Gerry Willis—who happens to be married to Marsha Longmire, who is Josh's other guardian.”

Todd's eyes widened. “You mean Governor Longmire?”

“One and the same,” I told him.

“Okay,” Todd said. “I get it, and I'll get right on it. I'll work on extracting the photo first. I'll let you know first thing in the morning if I've made any progress.”

“Great,” I said. “Ross says to bill it at your usual rate.”

We sat and watched for some time while Todd made his copies. By the time I glanced surreptitiously at my watch, it was almost seven-thirty. From here it would take us a good half hour to get back to Ross Connors's place in Olympia. If we didn't get under way soon, we were going to be late for our meeting with him.

“Sorry to eat and run,” I said. “But we need to go.”

Todd nodded. “And from the sound of things, I need to go to work.”

We gathered up the computer and the iPhone and returned them to the Bankers Box. In the interim Julie had finished cleaning the kitchen. We found her sitting in the living room, curled into a comfortable ball on a big easy chair, thumbing through a glossy magazine called
Your Baby and You.
We thanked her for the wonderful dinner, then Todd carried the evidence box back out to the car and loaded it for us.

“Stay in touch,” Mel called as we headed out.

Todd nodded and waved, but I could tell from the preoccupied look on his face he was already busy, mentally turning the problems at hand over in his head.

In Washington in June, the sun doesn't set completely until around ten at night. Once we turned east on U.S. Highway 12, the sun was still fairly high in the sky. We were happy to have the sun to our backs, although it was probably blinding to the traffic coming toward us.

“Todd and Julie will make great parents,” Mel said. “And that farm! What a wonderful place to raise kids.”

“I hope so,” I said.

I'm sure I sounded more morose than I intended, and Mel gave me a quizzical look.

“If you ask me, that sounded pretty pessimistic,” she said.

“Why wouldn't it be? Given everything we heard from Gerry Willis this afternoon, parenthood isn't exactly a walk in the park, not even under the best of circumstances.”

“You're right,” Mel said. “I don't suppose it is.”

“And speaking of Gerry Willis,” I added, “you never met the man before today, right?”

“Right.”

“Then how is it possible that as soon as he mentioned that book . . . ?”

I paused, unable to remember the title in question.

“
Watchers,
” she supplied.

“Right.
Watchers.
How come you knew immediately which scene he was talking about?”

“It's the most important scene in the book,” Mel answered. “The pivotal scene. The whole time you're reading the story, you're enchanted by this incredibly brainy golden retriever named Einstein, but you're also aware of this terrible force out chasing down victims, hoping to destroy everything good, including the dog. Without ever seeing the monster, you end up hating him, hoping the good guys will get rid of it before it destroys them. And then, in that one scene, you see how lonely and lost and isolated the poor monster must be. In spite of yourself, you find yourself feeling sorry for him as well.”

“You end up empathizing with the monster?”

“Exactly,” Mel said.

I thought about Josh Deeson, coming to the governor's mansion with only a grocery sack of possessions. And in that flimsy bag, along with whatever clothing he had carried, he had brought with him his mother's worn Bible. Somehow it had been meaningful enough for him to keep. Was it just a memento, the only thing he had to remember his mother by? Or had it been more than that? Had he hoped that inside that Bible his mother might have found her salvation and his? If so, it was also a symbol of dashed hopes and dreams.

“Sort of like how, by the time Gerry Willis finished telling us Josh's story this afternoon, we ended up feeling sorry for the poor kid.”

“Yes,” Mel agreed. “Just like.”

“Crap,” I said, and meant it.

Chapter 8

R
oss Alan Connors may have gone on a two-and-a-half-year-long bender after his wife committed suicide in their backyard, but that doesn't mean he's stupid. Drunks can be smart about a lot of things, even when they're terminally dim about booze.

Once Francine was dead, Ross no longer took any pleasure in his palatial brick home with its slate roof and oddball turret. Yes, he still had a view of Capitol Lake, but he couldn't bring himself to face being in the yard. So he did two things. First he redesigned the yard and put in an in-ground pool and spa. Then he sold the place for top dollar just before the real estate bubble burst. And when that happened, he was ready, too. With prices suddenly lowered, he went shopping in a newly completed condo high-rise, purchased two two-bedroom units high up in the building for almost pennies on the dollar and converted them into a single enormous unit with three bedrooms and an office.

This was, as Ross had confided to me, his “toes-up” house. He planned to stay there, with someone else doing the yard work and maintenance, until he was ready to be hauled out, toes up, on a stretcher. His unit came with a visitor-parking place. It was five to eight when Mel tucked her Cayman into that and we headed upstairs. He hadn't specifically asked us to bring the evidence boxes in with us, but we did anyway, just in case.

Upstairs, the door was opened by Ross's longtime live-in retainer, Iris O'Malley. As far as I knew, Iris had worked for the Connors family for a very long time. It appeared to me that Iris was your basic toes-up employee as well. She would stay on until Ross croaked out or else until she did, depending on who gave up the ghost first.

Apparently Iris O'Malley carries a lot more weight in the Connors household than simply serving as chief cook and bottle washer. She was the one who called me and alerted me to the fact that Ross had been in bed drunk for the better part of three days. I'm not sure how she knew I was in AA, but she did. She ran up the flag, and I came straight to Olympia to see what, if anything, could be done. On that occasion Ross's reaction to my showing up beside his bed of pain had been to tell me to get the hell out in no uncertain terms. It was another three months before he finally picked up the phone himself and called to ask for help.

Note to people with loved ones on that thorny path: You can't make them be ready to ask for help, and there are no high bottoms. Low bottoms are what it takes for people to decide they want to get better.

“Top of the evening to you, Mr. and Mrs. Beaumont,” Iris said.

I wasn't sure about Iris's age, but she was evidently from a generation that didn't hold with women hanging on to either their maiden or their previously married names. Mel raised an eyebrow at that but let it pass.

“Right this way,” Iris added. “Himself is in his office.”

Lars Jenssen, my grandmother's widower, a retired Alaskan halibut fisherman, speaks with a Norwegian accent that is thicker on the phone than it is anywhere else, except when he's in the company of other retired Norwegian halibut fishermen. Then he's barely understandable.

As Iris led us to Ross's home office, I couldn't help wondering about her Irish brogue. Was it real or was it something she cultivated and put on occasionally, when it suited her, along with the gray uniform and dainty white apron?

She motioned us into the room. I was glad to see that the old teacher's desk that had once graced Ross's turret office in the Water Street house had made the transition from one place to another, most likely with an interior designer dying a thousand deaths in the process.

Ross stood up and shook our hands in greeting. “Have you eaten?” he asked. “If you're hungry, Mrs. O'Malley here whipped up her standard lemon-and-vanilla Irish curd cakes earlier this afternoon.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but Julie Hatcher made sure we didn't go away hungry.”

He smiled and shook his head. “I'll say one thing for that girl, she sure can cook. Something to drink then?”

Between the governor's mansion and Todd Hatcher's place, I'd had enough iced tea to float a battleship. Mel must have been in the same condition.

“No, thanks,” she said. “We're good.”

“All right then, Mrs. O'Malley,” Ross said. “That's all. Thank you, and good night.”

Mrs. O'Malley tottered off, and Ross gestured us into a pair of high-backed leather chairs. Unlike the desk, the derelict recliner from his old office hadn't survived the move, so the interior designer had won at least one round.

“I'm assuming those are the evidence boxes?” he asked as I placed them on the desk.

“Yes,” I said. “We thought you'd want to see what we picked up.”

Once again we donned gloves. Once again we removed what was in the boxes and went through it item by item.

“Todd made copies of everything on his computer's hard drive,” Mel explained when we got to the laptop. “There might have been other files on an external drive or online storage, but we didn't find any evidence of an additional drive.”

“And he's working on the phone records?” Ross asked.

“He'll be working on extracting a photo from the video first,” I said. “The phone records will be second. The way Todd works, I expect we'll have a photo in hand first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Ross said. “That's the first step—identifying the victim.”

There was no need for a comment from either Mel or me. We were both in full agreement. In a homicide investigation, once you have the name of the victim and/or a crime scene, everything else grows out of that.

“So what's your read on the situation?” Ross asked. “With the governor's grandson, that is.”

Ross hadn't been around to hear all the spoken and unspoken commentary about Josh Deeson's relationship to Washington's first family, and it didn't seem necessary to fill in all those details right then. Besides, the attorney general wasn't asking for a solution that would hold up in court. He was asking for an opinion from two experienced homicide cops in the middle of an investigation.

“Whoever the victim is, she wasn't killed last night,” Mel ventured. “From what Governor Longmire told us, she intercepted Josh when he came back in and didn't let him out of her sight until he left for school. That means he would have had no time to conceal the scarf under the mattress if he brought it home last night because we were there before he arrived home this afternoon. So on the one hand, just because he had the video doesn't mean he did it, but the scarf would suggest that he did—and that he kept the scarf as a trophy.”

Ross looked at me.

“I agree about the murder not happening last night,” I said. “But it didn't happen very long ago, either, because the file was sent to Josh's phone this morning at one twenty-three
A.M.
People don't waste their time sitting up at night sending out old videos. They send out new videos.”

“Garvin McCarthy has quite a reputation as a defense attorney,” Ross said. “And he's going to do everything in his power to get the search warrant thrown out. If that happens we also lose the scarf. We need to come up with a whole lot more. Did you search anywhere else in the house?”

“The warrant was specifically limited to his room.”

Ross nodded thoughtfully. “He may have had something else squirreled away in another part of the house.”

“That's true,” I said. “It's a big house.”

“Josh knows he's under scrutiny,” Ross said. “I know how kids like that operate. If he's got incriminating evidence hidden in the house, he's going to try to ditch it without arousing further suspicion.”

Ross stopped talking, reached in his pocket, and pulled out a quarter. “I guess it's time to flip a coin,” he said. “Call it.”

“For what?” I asked.

“Call it,” he said again.

“All right,” I said. “Heads.”

And heads it was.

“What's this for?”

“Too bad, Beau. You're the one on permanent trash duty.”

“For what?”

“To go through the governor's garbage. Once the cans are hauled down to the street, what's inside them is fair game. That's true for everyone's garbage, even the governor's. No warrant is necessary.”

“What about Squad A?” I asked hopefully. “Couldn't one of those guys—”

“I brought you and Mel in on this because I don't want to involve the home team,” Ross interrupted. “The fewer people who are in the know, the better. And if anyone asks what you're up to, we're looking into allegations of bullying—school bullying. There's to be no mention of a homicide investigation until we confirm it
is
a homicide investigation.”

“What about the crime lab?” Mel questioned. “Our evidence boxes have Josh Deeson's name and address right on them. Once the guys at the crime lab in Seattle see the address on the labels, what are the chances one of them will recognize it and know we're talking about the governor's mansion?”

“The guys down here or the ones in Seattle might recognize it, but they won't be seeing the evidence boxes.” Ross had been idly shuffling through the stack of Josh Deeson's drawings. Now he returned the pictures to the boxes, along with the other items we had collected. Then he picked up the lids, patted them into place, and secured them with clear packing tape.

“Once you sign and date these, I'll be taking charge of them,” Ross said. “It so happens that I have a meeting with Squad C first thing tomorrow morning. I'll drop your boxes off at the satellite crime lab in Spokane while I'm there. I think it's unlikely that someone working in the Spokane lab will put two and two together. Josh Deeson's name isn't the governor's name, and the address here is a simple street address that most likely won't raise any red flags east of the mountains.”

It crossed my mind that Ross was playing a dangerous game. Once Josh Deeson turned into a real suspect, all hell was bound to break loose. In the old days the media had refrained from printing the names of juveniles who were part of a criminal investigation. Some journalists still pay lip service to that quaint tradition, but when the juvenile happens to be a relative of a politician, all bets are off.

That's the problem with politics and politicians. If, like Marsha Longmire, you're lucky enough to scramble to the top of the electoral heap, you can bet there are all kinds of people on both sides of the aisle hoping to knock you off your perch. And if they have an opportunity to use said politician's kids, grandkids, and other assorted relatives as weapons in that process, they do so, without a moment's hesitation.

That was my opinion, but it's never a good idea to tell your boss that you think he's off in the weeds somewhere, not if you're interested in continuing to work for the man. It's just not done.

“Okay,” I said. “You take charge of the evidence boxes, but what do you expect of us? If you want me to sort garbage, where am I supposed to do it? Right this minute, Mel and I are checked into the local Red Lion. I can't drag the governor's garbage cans into the lobby or the parking lot so I can go through them. What days does the garbage get picked up? And what's Mel supposed to be doing in the meantime while I'm sorting through crap?”

“Trash, not crap,” Ross corrected with a smile. “You mustn't take all this S.H.I.T. stuff so personally.”

The three of us had a good laugh about that, but Ross Connors stopped laughing before anyone else did.

“Excuse me while I make a phone call.”

He picked up a desk phone and dialed a number. “I need to know what days trash is picked up at the governor's mansion,” he said.

Ross never bothered introducing himself, so whoever was on the other end of the line knew his voice well enough to recognize it. The attorney general waited for a several minutes, ignoring us and idly tapping the top of his desk with a fountain pen, a distinctive Mont Blanc Thomas Mann model. Finally, the person he was waiting for came back on the phone. He listened for a time, nodding.

“All right,” he said finally. “To the winners go the spoils.” He put down the phone and then looked at me.

“Bad news,” he said. “The governor's trash is picked up every day, recycling and garbage both. So I'll need to work on how to manage the pickup as well as where you'll do the sorting. I'll have it handled before I leave town in the morning. As for you, Mel, once you have that photo in hand, I want you to go to work on the missing persons end of this.”

Mel nodded.

“How old do you think the victim is?”

“Maybe junior high,” Mel said. “More likely a high school freshman would be my guess.”

That was my assessment, too. Ross nodded in agreement.

“I thought so, too,” he said. “As soon as Governor Longmire showed me the video, I did some preliminary checking. In the past four months, we've had four teenage deaths in western Washington that are in line with that demographic. A drive-by shooting in Kent, a single-vehicle rollover car wreck in Kelso, a drug overdose in Raymond, and an alcohol-related head-on accident on I-90 near North Bend. In each of those incidents, the victim was a high-school-age Caucasian female with brown hair. But those cases also had full autopsies. None of them shows any sign of strangulation.”

“Which means the body of our victim is still out there somewhere,” Mel said. “Hence the missing persons files.”

“And not just from Washington, either,” Ross said. “The girl who was shot in Kent was from Portland and was visiting her grandmother over the summer. The girl in the head-on collision was from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. These days kids have driver's licenses and cars. The girl in the video could be from Canada for all we know. Mel, I know you've worked with agencies in other states in the U.S. as well as in Canada. I want you to do it again.”