Betrayal of Trust by J. A. Jance Read Free Book Online Page A

to the bed frame and headboard, and the bed had then been pushed up against the window. I disconnected the rope ladder from the bed and dropped it into my evidence box. If we ever had an actual crime scene, distinctive fibers from that ladder or the one on the second-floor balcony might very well be important.
    I put the rope in the Bankers Box I had brought up from the car to use in gathering evidence. Then I looked at the bed. It wasn’t made, but I guessed that was an unusual occurrence. What appeared to be a bedspread was neatly folded on the floor. I wanted to look under the bed, so I picked up the mattress and box spring and peered down at the floor through the bed frame. Nothing. Not even a respectable collection of dust bunnies on the hardwood floor underneath.
    Then, as I was putting the mattress and box spring back in place, I happened to think to look between them. What I saw hidden there was enough to make me feel sick at heart. It was a scarf, a blue silk scarf I was pretty sure I had seen before—wrapped around the throat of an unidentified dying girl in an iPhone video.
    â€œUh-oh,” I said, leaving the mattress crooked enough that the scarf still showed. “Bad news. You’d better bring that camera over here.”
    Mel turned away from the wall. “What?” she asked.
    â€œCome take a look.”
    Mel retrieved her camera and came over to where I was standing. As soon as she saw the scarf she raised the camera and began photographing the bed.
    â€œGive me your keys,” I said.
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBy the time we pack up the computer and the artwork, we’re going to need that spare evidence box you’ve been carrying around in the back of the Cayman.”
    I managed to limp down the two flights of stairs, but on my way back up, my knees were screaming at me. When I finally reached the top floor, I had broken out in a cold sweat. I paused in the hallway outside Josh’s bedroom door long enough to wipe the moisture off my forehead with the sleeve of my jacket. I had told Dr. Bliss about how bad my knees were, but somehow I hadn’t mentioned it to Mel.
    Back in the room I discovered that Mel had finished taking pictures of the scarf and had returned to collecting the drawings. I began dismantling Josh’s computer system—a PC laptop and a tiny printer—into the Bankers Box I had dragged up from the car. Each time I added an item to the box I noted it on the evidence inventory form waiting there. Once I tore the two-page form apart, I’d have an original as well as a copy.
    One at a time, I went through every drawer—every exceptionally neat drawer—in the desk. I expected to find some kind of camera or video equipment there, but I didn’t.
    We were almost finished when I heard footsteps on the stairs. Mel and I both turned to the door, expecting to have our first glimpse of Josh Deeson. Instead, Marsha Longmire stood in the doorway. She looked at the scarred and empty walls and shook her head.
    â€œI wanted to let you know that class is getting out. He’ll be here soon,” she said.
    I walked over to where she was standing. “Until this morning, you had no idea, did you?”
    She shook her head. “None at all.”
    I took her arm and led her over to the desk where the Bankers Box was still sitting open. “You need to prepare yourself,” I warned. “This is bad.”
    I reached into the box and pulled out the clear bag in which we had placed the now-folded scarf. Worried about preserving trace evidence, we had handled it as little as possible. Through the plastic it was apparent that the bag contained a swatch of material of some kind—light blue material. Marsha knew what it was without a moment’s hesitation.
    She gasped and sank almost to the floor and knelt there with her face buried in her hands. “It’s the scarf,” she murmured. “It’s the damned scarf!”
    I