J. Jance - Betrayal of Trust

“All right then,” Monica said. Spinning on her heel, she set out for the Audi. “I’m going to find that girl and give her a piece of my mind.”

Monica Longmire piled into the Audi, slammed it into gear, and took off. “That was a smooth way to get rid of her,” Mel said. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”

We rang the bell. I was surprised when it opened and Zoe was once again standing there. I hadn’t seen her among the kids gathered at the scene of the fire, but she, too, looked as if she’d been crying.

“My mom’s not here,” she said, sniffling. “Our relatives are all flying in for the funeral. She had to go to the airport to pick someone up.”

“Who is it?” Gerry called from somewhere inside the house, somewhere out of sight.

“Agents Beaumont and Soames,” I called back. “We need to talk to you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Gerry Willis grumbled. “What now? Marsha isn’t here. Gizzy has gone AWOL. Everything’s falling apart. Let them in, Zoe.”

A subdued Zoe led us into the living room. Gerry was seated on a sofa with a breakfast tray on the table in front of him. Good china. Good cups and saucers. Evidently the cook was still on duty.

“Can we get you something?” he offered.

I didn’t want to have this awkward conversation with Zoe standing there hanging on my every word.

“I’d love some coffee,” I said, nodding toward the pot. “Is that regular or decaf?”

“I’m only allowed decaf these days.”

“I’d like some coffee, too,” Mel chirped agreeably.

“Zoe,” Gerry said, “would you please go ask the cook. .”

Zoe set off. In one fluid motion, Mel fell into step beside her.

“I’ll be glad to help carry,” Mel said. It was a neat maneuver on Mel’s part. It conveniently took Zoe out of the picture, but it also left me holding the bag.

“Well?” Gerry urged after a moment. “What’s this about?”

“You don’t need to worry about Gizzy,” I said hurriedly. “We saw her just a few minutes ago.”

“Where?”

“There was a fire at Janie’s House last night. She was at the scene along with a bunch of other kids.”

Gerry nodded. “Good,” he said, reaching for his cell phone. “That’s a relief. I need to call Monica and let her know-”

“Actually, we already did that,” I said. “Mrs. Longmire was just leaving when we drove up. The last thing she said to us was that she was going to find Gizzy and give her a piece of her mind.”

Gerry favored me with a rueful smile. “If anyone can pull that off, Monica can. She’s the best disciplinarian in the group.”

In the annals of divorce-induced group-grope parenting, this struck me as being pretty civilized all the way around. It was good to see four grown-ups acting like grown-ups, putting aside their differences and doing what they could to care for the kids involved.

Gerry picked up his coffee cup, took a sip, and eyed me speculatively. “I have a feeling this isn’t a social call,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Direct questions merit direct answers.

“I’m sorry to have to bring this up,” I said, “but the autopsy results have revealed that your grandson was sexually active.”

“Sexually active,” Gerry repeated. “Are you kidding? Josh was a kid-a shy, bumbling kid. I doubt he could even talk to a girl without falling all over himself.”

“Not a girl,” I said, meeting his eye. “I’m sorry to be the one giving you this difficult bit of news, but the evidence found by the medical examiner would be consistent with there being no female involvement.”

Stunned, Gerry sat there for a moment saying nothing at all, then he shook his head. “This is unbelievable. Are you trying to tell me that Josh was caught up in some kind of homosexual relationship?”

I nodded.

There was another long period of silence. “That can’t be,” he said finally. “It just can’t.”

“Were there any boys he was especially close to?”

“No,” Gerry said. “Not that I know of.”

“Look,” I said. “Josh was a minor. At his age, any kind of sexual encounter, consensual or not, would be regarded as sexual assault and as a criminal offense. That’s why we’re here today, sir, to see if we can find some justice for Josh.”

“How?”

“I seem to remember there were dirty clothes in the hamper in Josh’s room the other day. We’re hoping we might be able to find DNA evidence that would point us in the direction of whoever did this.”

“You want Josh’s dirty clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Then by all means go get them.”

I went right then, while the getting was good. As soon as I started up the stairs, my knees went nuts. By the time I got to the top floor, I was sweating bullets and the pain was killing me. I stopped at the top of the stairs long enough to catch my breath and get my bearings. That’s when I noticed the doors to a linen closet right there in the hallway. I opened them, and voila! There were stacks of washed and ironed sheets and pillowcases. A clean pillowcase was exactly what I needed.

Grabbing one, I ducked under the crime scene tape and let myself into the room. The place was as we’d left it, with fingerprint powder marring every surface. The hamper, however, still full of dirty clothes, was untouched. I emptied the soiled clothing into the pillowcase and turned to make my escape in time to find a furious Governor Marsha Longmire blocking the doorway.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded

I closed the pillowcase and tied it in a knot. “Collecting evidence,” I said.

“What kind of evidence?” she wanted to know. “Josh is dead. His death has been ruled a suicide. What’s the point of torturing my husband any further? Can’t you just let it go?”

“No,” I said. “I can’t let it go. We’ve found evidence that Josh Deeson may have been the victim of a sexual assault.”

“You mean you think he was raped?”

“Maybe,” I said. “We also know that Josh was the target in a case of coordinated cyber bullying, with any number of kids sending him harassing text messages. The messages appear to have come primarily from cell phone accounts billed to Janie’s House, although they seem to have been written by several different people.”

“What kind of messages?” Marsha asked. “What are we talking about here?”

“Insulting, snide comments. In the old days when we were kids, the insults that were in fashion probably wouldn’t have been much more damaging than ‘Your mother wears G.I. boots.’ The messages sent to Josh were far more destructive than that, and far more personal.”

“But. .” she began.

I dodged around her and started down the stairs.

“How did you find out about these supposed messages?” Marsha asked.

“They’re not supposed messages or alleged messages or any other kind of weasel words. We know about them because Josh saved them,” I said. “He downloaded them from his phone to a file on his computer.”

“What does any of that have to do with Josh’s dirty clothes?” Marsha demanded. “Besides, this is our home. Even if his room is still designated as a crime scene, you can’t just come waltzing in here without a warrant.”

“Your husband gave me permission,” I said.

As I clambered down the long flights of stairs, I ached enough that I could barely walk and talk at the same time. As I neared the ground floor, I heard the sound of assembled voices coming from the living room and could see a collection of suitcases that had been hastily deposited in the entryway.

Gerry must have heard Marsha and me arguing as we descended. He was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.