Betrayal of Trust by J. A. Jance

started to say something, then stopped. When she did speak it was with the forced calmness of someone who has carefully stifled a sharp remark.
    â€œYou don’t understand,” she said. “This is a homicide investigation. Whatever you say can be used against you.”
    â€œI get it,” Josh replied, mocking her. “One of those Miranda warnings. Big deal.”
    â€œAll right,” Marsha said. “Suit yourself.”
    Closing the door with what I considered to be remarkable restraint, she left the room.
    â€œShe’s right, you know,” I told Josh. “You probably shouldn’t talk to us.”
    â€œI don’t care,” he said. “That witch doesn’t give a damn about me. I’ll talk to you if I want to.”
    There are times in this business when teenage rebellion and bravado can be very good things. Apparently this was one of those times.
    If Josh Deeson chose to be stupid rather than smart, it was his problem, not ours.

Chapter 5
    O ut of the corner of my eye, I saw a movement from Mel’s part of the room. She put the stack of loose drawings down on Josh’s now-empty desk and then groped for something inside her purse.
    There are lots of addictions in this world. Mel Soames is a self-admitted “purse slut.” She loves purses, all kinds of purses, but especially expensive purses. I had been with her, carrying the Amex card in my pocket, when she picked out this particular version for her last year’s Christmas present. I had learned by bitter experience that choosing a purse for her wasn’t something I should attempt on my own. For instance, left to my own devices, I never would have bought this huge alligator-skin monstrosity that cost more than I paid for my first VW Bug.
    I never cease to be amazed by all the stuff she carries in it, some of which—like the digital camera—often turns out to be exceedingly useful, especially since I don’t have to carry it.
    I’m sure some of the guys who knew me back in the day would spit their coffee or beer out through their noses to hear those words coming from me. When I first landed at Seattle PD, the departmental culture was pretty much this: Never hire a man whose wife works and never, ever hire a woman.
    In other words, there were no purses in my professional life for a very long time. Now there are, and I was happy to see what Mel pulled out of hers—a tiny cassette recorder. She switched it on and set it down on the desk, on top of the stack of drawings.
    â€œYou have the right to remain silent . . .” she began.
    â€œYeah, yeah, yeah,” he said. “Don’t bother.”
    But Mel did bother. She recited the whole Miranda warning from beginning to end without having to resort to a cheat sheet. Josh was in the room, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was a kid who had no idea that his whole future was hanging in the balance.
    He looked at her with complete contempt. “What do you want to know?”
    In the world of homicide interviews the guy the suspect thinks is stupid is the one who should ask the questions, even if the “guy” in question isn’t a guy.
    â€œWho’s the girl?” Mel asked.
    â€œWhat girl?”
    â€œThe one on the video.”
    â€œWhat video?”
    â€œWe’re not stupid,” Mel said. “The video on your cell phone. We saw it. So did your grandmother.”
    â€œShe’s not my—”
    Mel cut short his objection. “So did the governor.”
    â€œI don’t know what video you’re talking about.”
    â€œMaybe this will remind you.” I had inventoried the cell phone and placed it in the Bankers Box along with the computer equipment. Mel extracted it now, turned it on, and scrolled through to the video until she found the file in question. She set the file playing and held it close enough for Josh to see the images on the tiny screen. Mel and I watched Josh