by J. A. Jance
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, t
he 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.
“Your arm,” she ordered. “Give me your arm.”
I slammed on the brakes, left the Mercedes sitting idling in the middle of the street, and ran to help. I could see that the spasm from the first Taser shock was starting to fade. By the time I reached them, Mel had one of Ron’s hands in the cuffs and was struggling to grab the other while he tried desperately to buck her off. I reached into the melee, grabbed his free wrist with one paw, and handed it over to her. Then I grabbed Mel’s Taser.
“Be still,” I ordered, “or I’ll Taser you again.”
“Get off me, you crazy bitch!” he exclaimed. “You’re hurting me. What’s this all about? I wasn’t really going to hit you with the car. Can’t you guys take a joke?”
That’s when I saw the scratches on his bare arms, scratches that were a couple of days old. That’s when I knew for sure we had him.
“It’s no joke,” I said. “What did you throw up into the hedge back there?”
“Nothing,” he said. “You made that up.”
I could hear the sound of sirens. Someone had used their cell phone to report a disturbance. A squad car with a Capitol Police insignia was first on the scene. I was more than happy to have a local cop presence. I sure as hell didn’t want to have to throw the guy into the backseat of my Mercedes.
A uniformed campus cop with a name badge that said OFFICER MARGARET WOOD leaped out of her squad car. “What’s going on?” she demanded.
Mel stood up, straightened her rumpled suit, dusted her hands, and produced her ID wallet.
“Book Mr. Miller here on assault with a deadly weapon and resisting for starters,” she said.
Seeing Mel standing there barefoot, wearing torn panty hose and with two bleeding knees, you’d have thought that she’d have a hard time commanding respect. She didn’t.
“Help me haul him to his feet,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Officer Wood said, and the two of them did just that.
“When you book him, be sure they get photos of those scratches on his arms,” I said. “They could be important, because there are likely to be other charges to follow those.”
Officer Wood looked at me, standing there with not a scratch on me. Then she looked at Mel—a one-raised-eyebrow look that was evidently an understandable question even though she said nothing aloud.
“My partner,” Mel explained.
Officer Wood took charge of Ron Miller and loaded him into the backseat of her squad car. I followed them to the car in time to hear Ron muttering something about police brutality. His snide old-man comment to me still rankled. It sounded like something an immature seventh grader would say. It also sounded a lot like some of the text messages that had been sent to Josh Deeson.
“Too bad, tough guy,” I said. “You were taken down by a girl, fair and square.”
“What’s this all about, anyway?” he wanted to know.
“It started out being about some text messages,” I said. “But now it’s turned into something else—like arson and murder. Just to let you know, you may have set fire to all the computers in Janie’s House, but it’s too little, too late. We’d already copied everything on the hard drives just to be on the safe side.”
He gave me a snarly stare and then turned away. I slammed the door shut and then walked back to the laurel hedges. They were flat on top, densely leafed and at least eight feet tall. Mel trailed after me as I attempted to peer up through the leaves.
“What are you looking for?” Mel asked.
“He threw something up there,” I said. “Didn’t you see it? He tossed something up into the hedge right here, just before he crossed the street.”
Mel shook her head. “I stepped on a piece of gravel and looked down at my feet. When I looked back up, I had gained a lot of ground on him and I didn’t know why.”
I went back over to Officer Wood, who was on her radio and in the process of explaining to her sergeant that she was transporting someone to the Olympia city lockup. I waited until she finished.
“I need a ladder,” I said. “Do you know where I could find one?”
“Someone from Physical Plant,” she said. “How tall?”
“Tall enough to see the top of that laurel hedge.”
She nodded and got back on her radio. An Econoline van with state license plates, a uniformed driver, and two kinds of ladders arrived within a matter of minutes, just after Officer Wood drove away in her squad car. By then, the interested crowd of onlookers had dissipated. Interestingly enough, among the people who had gathered around, I had seen no one I recognized from the governor’s mansion. Given the proximity to all the excitement, that was a little surprising.
“Where do you want the ladder?” the guy from the van asked. I pointed, and he unfolded it where I thought it needed to be.
“Do you want me to do it?” Mel asked.
Ron’s comment continued to play inside my head: “You and who else, old man?”
“No, I will,” I said, speaking to Mel far more harshly than she deserved. “You don’t know what we’re looking for.”
I wasn’t sure I did, either. I knew it was small and round and had flown through the air like a Frisbee. I went up and down the ladder three different times. Going up was bad enough. It hurt like hell, but it was doable. Coming down was a killer. Mel watched me go up and down the ladder the first time. As I wiped away tears, she shook her head and said nothing. Then, walking away and leaving me to it, she activated her iPhone and began making arrangements to have Ron’s vehicle towed to the crime lab.
Finally my search paid off. It lay there on the carefully trimmed flat surface of the laurel hedge. At first glance it looked like a tiny coil of wire with a protuberance on one side. I grabbed it, slipped it into an evidence bag, and then climbed back down with my prize.
I handed the evidence bag over to Mel. “We need to document this,” I said when I was finally able to speak again.
“What is it?” Mel asked, frowning as she peered at the bracelet through the glassine bag. “Why would Miller bother throwing away a useless coil of wire like this?”
That’s when I realized Mel hadn’t been with Ardith and Kenny Broward on the drive back to Packwood.
“It’s not wire,” I told her. “Unless I’m sadly mistaken, we’ve just found Rachel Camber’s elephant-hair bracelet.”
Chapter 26
While we waited for the tow truck to come collect Ron Miller’s Camaro, I got on the phone with Ross Connors and asked for a time line on our requests for search warrants.
“Judge Reston tells me the one for Ron Miller’s vehicle is not a problem since he tried to use it in the assault on Mel. Getting a warrant to search his home, which is actually his parents’ home, however, is going to be a bit more challenging. You do know about Ron Miller’s parents, don’t you?” he asked.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen the gates to their compound, and I know that a couple of years back they dropped a cool seventy-five thousand bucks to keep their fair-haired boy from facing arson charges.”
“Yes,” Ross said, “they certainly did. Ronald Miller, Senior, is a trial lawyer who specializes in beating up pharmaceutical companies for fun and profit. Mrs. Miller has recently decamped for what she hopes are greener pastures. I have a feeling Mr. Miller is going to take a dim view of having his son booked into a jail of any kind. By the time that happens, Daddy Miller will have one of his
legal-beagle pals standing by to bail him out. If we’re hoping to search Ron’s room for additional evidence of any wrongdoing, we’re going to need to have a very solid basis of probable cause, more than just a few scratches on his arms.”
“We’ve got something more,” I said. “While Ron was trying to outrun Mel, I saw him throw something up into the governor’s laurel hedge. I just dragged it down from there. I’m pretty sure it’s Rachel Camber’s elephant-hair bracelet.”
“Rachel Camber,” Ross said. “Of course, the dead girl from Packwood.”
“Yes, I believe Ron was trying to smuggle the bracelet out of the governor’s mansion just as we got there. Giselle Longmire, the governor’s older daughter, is Ron Junior’s girlfriend. There’s a good chance that whatever Ron is mixed up with, Gizzy is, too.”
“Oh, my,” Ross said, shaking his head sadly. “What the hell’s going on here? These are kids who should be growing up to be pillars of the community. I’m sure that’s what their parents intended, but it sounds like they’ve turned out to be a bunch of delinquents.”
“Thugs is more like it,” I said. “And the worst kind of thugs—spoiled-brat thugs who are accustomed to having power and money and who expect to get their way no matter what.”
“What’s your plan?” Ross asked.
“First we’re going to try talking to Giselle to see if we can get her to tell us what she knows, but I think it’s a good bet that Governor Longmire won’t let us anywhere near her.”
Ross was quiet for a long time. For a moment I thought maybe he had hung up. “I’m not so sure about that,” he said. “You and I know something about this kind of thing, Beau. We’ve both been betrayed by loved ones who made all the wrong choices. The fallout that came later almost destroyed us.
“When it comes to politics, Marsha Longmire and I are miles apart, but she’s been a good governor, and I hate to see her torn apart by what’s about to happen. Before you try to question Giselle, let me talk to Marsha and see what I can do. She may just surprise you. What exactly are we talking about here?”
