Betrayal of Trust (22 page)

“Frankly, I thought she and Zoe would be better off being here for the next few nights so they could escape some of the drama,” Monica continued. “It's hard for kids to hang around home when everyone is so upset. I'm pretty much an outsider when it comes to what goes on with Marsha and Gerry, but I know they're both really hurting. As for Josh? That poor kid never had a chance. And poor Zoe, too,” she added. “Finding Josh's body like that must have been a horrible shock.”

Monica's apparently genuine concern for her stepdaughters didn't sound like part of the usual evil-stepmother tradition. But neither Mel nor I let on that as far as Governor Longmire knew, Giselle was still scheduled to stay with her father. Telling both sets of parents one thing and then doing something else is standard teenage behavior, even without a death in the family.

“We'd appreciate any insight you could give us,” Mel said. “Did the two girls talk about Josh much?” she asked.

“When Josh first went to live with them, Zoe especially was all excited about it. Gizzy was less so. Zoe was under the impression that since they were so close in age they'd end up being great pals. I think it hurt her feelings when that didn't happen, but what do you expect when you start blending families? There are always a few bumps in the road. My boys are three and five years older than Giselle. The only thing they have in common with the girls is that they ostensibly belong to the same family. They share the occasional meal, usually on holidays, but they are not good friends, and they're never going to be. That's just the way it is. Sid and I are in love. The kids aren't in love. Deal with it.”

“So Zoe was disappointed that she and Josh didn't bond,” I said. “What was Giselle's reaction?”

“To having Josh parachuted into their lives?” Monica paused to consider for a moment before she answered. “Let's just say she wasn't thrilled. Gizzy isn't someone with the milk of human kindness running through her veins. We talked about the situation with Josh a few times. I tried to explain to her that there was nothing else Gerry and Marsha could do. Josh didn't have anywhere else to go or anyone to look after him. I think Gerry and Marsha both deserve credit for trying to do the right thing.”

I had to admit to myself that Monica didn't come across as a conniving “other” woman who had broken up Marsha's longtime marriage. Like Mel with Kenny Broward, I had come here expecting to find a marital “bad guy.” So far there didn't appear to be any.

“What do you know about Janie's House?” Mel asked. “Did the girls ever talk about it?”

“Well, sure. The girls' school encourages involvement, even though I don't really approve,” Monica said. “That whole noblesse oblige, us-and-them thing bothers me. Yes, I know the official Olympia Prep position is that student involvement with less fortunate kids is supposed to be great for everybody, but who are they kidding? I mean, poor kids already know they're poor without having the rich kids hanging around rubbing their noses in it.”

“So you're not enamored of Janie's House?” I asked.

“Not at all, but that's just me,” Monica said. “Both Zoe and Giselle were really caught up in helping out there last year. Zoe's the kind of kid who would break her neck trying to put a fallen bird back in its nest. As for Gizzy? I think her involvement with Janie's House was more of an ego thing than it was anything else. She's been back there again this summer, but only because Ron is still there.”

“Ron?” I asked.

“Ron Miller is Giselle's boyfriend. He's a year younger than she is and graduated from OP two weeks ago. I thought . . . no, make that I hoped that being apart for a year would be the end of their romance, but I was wrong. They're still as head over heels as ever. Next year could be a little tougher. He'll be going to Stanford, and she'll still be going to school in Tacoma. That will put a whole lot more distance between them. As my mother used to say, ‘Distance is to love as wind is to fire. Blows out the little ones and fans the big ones.' ”

“Sounds like you're hoping for the first option.”

Monica nodded. “And, at Sid's insistence, keeping my mouth shut about it, too,” she said with a tight smile. “It's the voice of experience speaking when I tell you that first-boyfriend types don't always make the best husband material. Ron is certainly smart enough, but he has a mean streak. Sid takes the position that saying one bad word about him would just mean pushing Giselle in Ron's direction that much more. Sad to say, that's probably true.”

“In other words, you don't like Ron much?” Mel suggested.

“Yes,” Monica answered, “but I try not to show it.”

“What does Ron do at Janie's House?”

“He's some kind of special assistant in the computer lab. He's into computers in a big way. I think he's planning on studying computer science in college. But didn't you say you wanted to talk to Gizzy about Josh's suicide? What does any of this have to do with that?”

I could have given her chapter and verse. Let's see. Some poor little rich kid with a mean streak who was romantically linked to Giselle and who was intimately involved with the Janie's House computer system sounded like exactly the kind of person we needed to find, not so much because of Josh's suicide but because of Rachel's murder. We didn't have to tell Monica Longmire that, and we didn't. It was time to back off from angling for more information about Ron Miller right then for fear of tipping our hand.

“We're just looking for background material,” Mel said reassuringly. “Trying to understand what sent Josh over the edge.”

“ ‘Edge' is the right word,” Monica said. “That must be how Josh felt—like he was walking on the edge of a cliff. From what the girls said, I'm sure there was a chasm between his old life and his new one. It doesn't surprise me that he couldn't bridge it. It's a tragedy, of course, but somewhat predictable.”

“You have a nice place here,” Mel said, abruptly changing the subject.

It was important to keep the interview on a cordial basis. Mel's comment was designed to maintain the smooth flow going with the added benefit that it was also true.

The house was stylish but more comfortable than your basic
House Beautiful
photo spread. We were in a great room that was part kitchen and part family room. The kitchen was all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, and a huge flat-screen TV was situated over a gas-log fireplace in the family room area. Out through a set of sliding doors were a patio with a swimming pool and hot tub gleaming in the nearly setting sun. Beyond that I could see a golf-course fairway. Even in Washington's down real estate market I estimated the place was worth more than a million bucks, give or take.

Monica looked around and laughed. “Yes,” she said. “Not nearly as grand as the governor's mansion, but a little more modern.”

“If I had a choice, this is the one I'd pick any day of the week,” Mel said. “But how do the girls get back and forth?”

“Zoe's still too young to drive, so either Sid picks her up and brings her out or I do. Of course, now that Giselle is home for the summer, she can do some of the driving. Marsha and Sid share custody. When school was in session, it used to be the girls stayed with their mother during the week and then we had them every other weekend, with the situation reversed during the summer. Now that they're older and especially with Giselle off at school, we're all a lot more flexible. They come and go at their own discretion. I think it's really important for everyone that we keep things as civilized as possible.”

“Commendable,” Mel said. “What kind of car does Giselle drive?”

“It's an Acura,” Monica said. “A silver Acura. Sid bought it for her when she graduated from high school.”

A car pulled into the driveway and I heard the sound of a garage door opening.

“That'll be Sid,” Monica told us. “He's been out of town for several days.”

It seemed likely that Sid Longmire's view of our visit would be far less cordial than Monica's, especially if the governor had managed to alert him as to what was going on. We decided it was time to beat a hasty retreat.

“We'll be going then,” I said.

“You don't want to talk to him, too?”

“No, thanks,” I assured her. “We appreciate your help.”

We made a quick exit out the front door and were gone before Sid Longmire was able to unload his luggage from the car and come inside.

Sometimes the best way to win a confrontation is to avoid it in the first place.

Chapter 22

S
he wasn't at all what I expected,” I said as we walked back out to the car.

“Not what I expected, either,” Mel agreed. “A lot older and a whole lot more squared away.”

I was relieved to know that I wasn't the only one who had arrived at Sid and Monica's house with some erroneous preconceived notions.

During the interview with Monica Longmire, my cell phone had vibrated three different times in my pocket. Once in the car, Mel immediately got on the phone, checking with Records for licensing information on Giselle Longmire's Acura and for any vehicles owned or driven by her boyfriend, Ron Miller, or by other members of his family.

I have a Bluetooth earpiece for my cell phone, but I'm not in love with it. Even though Mel and I put it to good use to save our bacon a few months ago, I use it only under duress. Most of the time it stays in my pocket until the battery runs out of juice. Rather than use a state-sanctioned “hands-free” device, I pulled into a parking place beside the guard shack, pulled out my phone, checked the missed calls, and listened to my messages.

I recognized all three of the numbers. Two were from Rebekah Ming, the manager at Tumwater Self-Storage. There were two calls from her but only one message. “Mr. Beaumont, I've had several customer complaints about garbage being hauled into the storage facility. You need to come by and empty it
every
day. Please. We don't want to attract vermin.”

The other one was from Ralph Ames. “I understand you're in Olympia at the Red Lion for the next couple of days. I happen to be coming down there tomorrow. Hoping to have breakfast. I'll be there right around eight. Let me know if you can't make it.”

From my door-to-door salesman days, I recognized that as an assumed close. When one asked for an appointment, the standard question was always: “Which would be better for you, mornings or afternoons?” The question is designed to leave the dreaded words “Not ever” out of the list of possible answers, with the underlying assumption being that of course you want to see me.

The idea of Ralph just “happening” to be in Olympia at that ungodly hour—a good ninety miles from Seattle—was also bogus. Ralph isn't a spontaneous kind of guy. He doesn't ever just “happen” to go someplace. He has appointments—deliberate appointments—and like it or not, Mel and I would be having breakfast with him in the morning. Evidently the governor's garbage, piling up in the storage unit, couldn't wait until then.

Mel was still on her phone and on hold. Here's an idea. Why don't cell phone companies discount the minutes people spend online without talking to anyone?

“Breakfast with Ralph tomorrow morning at the hotel at eight
A.M.
,” I told her, putting the car in gear. “But right now we're on our way to Ross's storage unit. You dodged garbage detail yesterday, but not today.”

“Dressed like this?” she asked.

“We'll be careful.”

Moments later Mel was taking notes, holding the phone to her mouth with her shoulder and typing them into her laptop.

“Okay,” she said when she ended the call “Here's the scoop on Ron Miller—Ronald Darrington Miller lives on North Cooper Point Road.”

“Darrington is his middle name?” I asked. “Like the town along Highway 2? It sounds a little pretentious.”

“Oh, right,” Mel said with a laugh. “Look who's talking. Is being named after a town in Texas pretentious?”

She certainly had me there.

“Middle name notwithstanding, Ron is seventeen years old and already has two traffic stops to his credit—a Minor in Possession and a speeding ticket, reduced from reckless driving. The MIP charge was dropped for no apparent reason.”

“No wonder Monica doesn't like him much. And how did the MIP get dropped? Political pull of some kind?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“What make and model car?”

“A brand-new Camaro with temporary plates. Probably a high school graduation present.”

“I guess it was too much to hope that he would be driving a green pickup truck.”

“I guess,” Mel agreed.

With a detour by an all-night drugstore for a bottle of Febreze, we drove straight to Tumwater Self-Storage. As soon as we stepped into the hallway I understood why Rebekah had been so insistent. Foul garbage odors permeated the entire floor. We let ourselves into the storage unit and went to work. I took pity on Mel and gave her the recycling while I tackled the coffee-grounds-leaking garbage. She finished hers in a hurry and then she helped me with mine.

Later on someone told us that finding what we found that night was just “blind luck.” I beg to differ. It wasn't luck; it was work. And it wasn't because we were slapdash about it either. Mel and I worked our way through the garbage slowly and methodically and—because of our clothing—carefully as well. There was nowhere to sit. We did it crouching or, in my case, bending over, because the tarp with the garbage on it was on the floor and my knees don't do “crouch” anymore. I was about to give it up when something shiny caught the light from the bottom of a pile of used coffee grounds.

I brushed away the grounds and there it was—a watch with a stainless steel watchband. “Hey,” I said, “what do you know! Look what I found!”

I picked it up carefully in my gloved fingers and held it up to the light. I would have had to get out my reading glasses to read the front of the watch. Mel didn't.

“It says ‘Seiko,' ” she reported. “I could be wrong, but it looks exactly like the one we found on Josh Deeson's body. Which means we have two watches—two interchangeable watches. What does that mean?”

I blew off the remaining coffee grounds and slipped the watch into an evidence bag. Meanwhile, Mel came over and looked through the trash in the same general area where I had been searching. It stood to reason that if anything else of interest had been thrown away, it would be found in close proximity to the watch. We spent another half hour picking through the trash, but we found nothing more than broken eggshells, soggy mounds of dead melon balls, and rotting strawberries. When we had finished, we dragged the tarps to the Dumpster, where we emptied and folded them. After returning them to the storage unit, we left the key at the office and headed back to the car.

It was almost ten by then but not yet fully dark. We were on our way to the hotel. I was dead tired, but Mel had caught her second wind.

“Let's go take a look at Ron Miller's place before we call it a night,” Mel suggested.

She fed the Millers' address into the GPS and off we went. By the time we reached North Cooper Point Road, it was full dark. Even so, it was possible to see that Ron Miller's family lived in a home that made Sid Longmire's place look like a slum and the governor's mansion look modest. This wasn't a gated community so much as a gated estate or a gated compound with several buildings looming into view. We drove past the driveway entrance slowly but without stopping.

Mel gave a whistle. “These people have moolah,” she observed. “So maybe showing up unannounced in the middle of the night to talk to their fair-haired boy isn't such a good idea.”

I had visions of a Garvin McCarthy look-alike riding to the rescue before Mel and I had a chance to open our mouths.

“How about this?” I asked. “It's been a long day. Let's call it a job for tonight. Ron Miller may be tied in pretty tight with Janie's House, but the place was closed all day today. If his conscience is bothering him, I'm willing to bet that he'll show up there bright and early tomorrow, trying to get the lay of the land and figure out if the closure had anything to do with him. If he's our guy, he'll want to make sure his tracks are properly covered. I think Meribeth Duncan is far more likely to give us a crack at talking to Ron Miller than his parents will.”

“Agreed,” Mel said. “Time to head for the barn.”

Back at the hotel we stopped off at the coffee shop for a late supper. I had soup; Mel had salad. Once up in our room, I booted up my computer while Mel got first dibs on the bathroom. Hidden among all those penis enlargement spam messages was an e-mail from Todd Hatcher.

I checked on all the Web sites the person posing as Greg Alexander had visited. Surprise, surprise. Several of them feature snuff films. I think maybe we're on to someone who is making and selling this crap. And there's a new one—one that appears to feature the same girl and most likely isn't faked. The strangulation was done barehanded and photographed with a stationary camera. If you can find the perpetrator, there should be defensive wounds on his hands and arms. I'm sending you a copy of the new clip. Warning: Don't log on to the sites yourself. If you do, your spam folder will fill up with this junk within a matter of minutes.

I sent Todd a thank-you note and said that we'd be in touch tomorrow, which, it turned out, was very close to being today. There was an e-mail from my daughter, Kelly, with a photo of Kayla, my granddaughter, missing her right front tooth. That one rocked me because it didn't seem possible that Kayla was already old enough to be losing her baby teeth.

Then, there at the bottom of the new-mail list lurked the one from Sally Mathers. I still didn't know how to answer it, but I didn't want her to think I was ignoring it, either.

Received your e-mail. Involved with a complicated investigation. I'll get back to you when I can.

All of which was the truth, with only the smallest possible amount of varnish.

Mel emerged from the bathroom with nothing on and slipped into bed. I told her about the message from Todd.

“That squares with what the M.E. told us, too,” she said.

When she turned off her light, I got the message: Close the computer; step away from the chair; get in bed; turn out your light. I did all of the above.

Moments later I was snuggled up beside her in bed. I was drifting off to sleep when she awakened me with a snort of laughter.

“What's so funny?” I grumbled.

“You are,” she said. “I can't get over the idea that you thought it was strange that Ron Miller's middle name came from an actual town. You don't have any room to talk.”

“I didn't say it was strange,” I corrected. “I said it was pretentious. And now that I've seen Ron Miller's parents' house, I'm not backing off on a single word of it. I'll give Ron Miller the benefit of the doubt. He may not be pretentious, but his parents definitely
are.
”

When Mel's cell phone alarm went off the next morning, it was time for our complicated single-bathroom tango. I stayed in bed snoozing while she did what she needed to do. Then, once she headed out the door for the elevator, I hit the bathroom. It was ten to eight by then, so I had to step on it. When I came down to the restaurant five minutes later, Mel and Ralph were seated together at a small table, both of them looking like they'd just stepped out of a store window. Compared to the two of them, I looked like a much-rumpled bed.

This is nothing new. Ralph Ames has always been a suave kind of guy. When I first met him, he was Anne Corley's attorney. After her death, he came my way as part of the deal right along with the money I inherited from her. Since then, he's been the one who has kept that inheritance not only intact but also growing. I believe that he's now close to having been my attorney longer than he was Anne's. And next to my former partner Ron Peters, Ralph is also my best friend.

In other words, I like the guy, but there are times when I also resent the hell out of him. I find it particularly provoking that, no matter the circumstances, he always manages to look like perfection itself. Even though I was wearing clothing fresh from the dry cleaner's plastic bag, I couldn't compete with Ralph's terminal dapperness. And there's no explaining Mel's ability to look great no matter what, either.

As a consequence I was feeling a bit grumpy when I joined them in the restaurant where they sat, heads ducked close together, studying something on the table in front of them. I took one of the two remaining empty chairs.

Once I was seated—next to Mel and across from Ralph—I could see they were examining three eight-by-ten photos that lay on the table. Ralph glanced up at me and then pushed the photos in my direction.

“To what do we owe . . . ?” I began, pulling out my reading glasses and sticking them on my nose. When I saw the subject matter of the photos, my question dwindled away into shocked silence.

The first picture was one I recognized right off. It was my senior portrait from the
Shingle,
the Ballard High School yearbook. In it I wore my first-ever store-bought suit, purchased on layaway at JCPenney's. At first glance I thought the other two were pictures of me as well. Upon closer examination, however, I realized that although the young man in the photo certainly looked like me, he wasn't me. I didn't recognize either the pose or the clothing. The third picture was of the same guy, grinning my own familiar grin. He was obviously fresh from basic training and wearing a World War II–vintage U.S. Navy uniform.

Ralph tapped first that photo and then the other lightly with his finger. “Meet Hank Mencken, Beau,” he said. “I believe this gentleman was your father.”

For a time I could barely breathe. Yes, I'd had a hint in Sally's e-mail that this was coming and that I might finally be able to put a name on my father's identity, but nothing had prepared me for the shock of that moment when I saw his photo for the first time. The world seemed to shift on its axis as I stared into the face of a complete stranger and discovered that it was almost a mirror image of my own.

Just as I had taken one look at Zoe Longmire and known at once that Marsha Gray Longmire was her mother, the same thing was true here. As I looked into the eyes in that photograph and studied the set of the jaw and the distinctive shape of the nose, I knew beyond a shade of doubt that I had found my family tree—my heritage and lineage.