Betrayal of Trust by J. A. Jance Page A

with?”
    “Nobody,” Josh insisted. “I was by myself.”
    I thought he had been telling the truth about not recognizing the girl and maybe even about not knowing how the scarf had magically appeared in his locker. All I had to do was look at his face to see he was lying about being by himself. He had definitely been with somebody, and once we went through his phone and scrutinized his text messages, we’d probably have a name and a phone number. I didn’t call him on it, though, and neither did Mel. Instead, she favored me with a meaningful look that said it was time for the good cop to come to Josh’s rescue.
    “Leave him alone,” I said to Mel. “He’s had a shock, and I don’t blame him for being upset.” I turned to Josh, putting on the charm and doing my best to sound sympathetic.
    “Come on, Josh,” I wheedled. “Let us help you. This is the time. If you had nothing to do with what happened to the girl, you don’t have anything to worry about. Just tell us who she is and who did it. That’s all we want to know—who and maybe where. Somebody killed that poor girl, and it’s our job to find out who those people are. We don’t really care what’s on your phone or on your computer. We need to find out who killed her. Help us do that. Tell us what you know.”
    Lying to suspects in interviews is standard operating procedure. I don’t like doing it, but sometimes telling a few little white lies is the only way to make any progress in the investigation.
    “I already told you. I don’t know who she is. I don’t know who killed her.”
    “Where’s your watch?” Mel asked.
    “What watch?”
    “The Seiko your grandfather gave you for eighth-grade graduation.”
    “I don’t know where it is,” Josh said. “I lost it.”
    “When?” Mel asked. “Where?”
    “If I knew where I was when I lost it, then it wouldn’t be lost, now would it?”
    Josh tried to reassume his devil-may-care attitude, but it didn’t quite work. Once again his cracking voice gave him away.
    “How long ago did you lose it?”
    He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. It was a while ago. Maybe a couple of weeks.”
    “Who else comes in this room?”
    “Nobody,” Josh said. “I’m the only one.”
    “No maids?” I asked. “No housekeepers?”
    “I already told you,” Josh said. “Nobody comes here but me. I’m up here all by myself, like the Prisoner of Zenda or something.”
    I was more than a little surprised that he even knew the words “Prisoner of Zenda.” I wondered if he’d actually read the book.
    Mel didn’t allow herself to be deflected.
    “Tell me about the scarf,” she said.
    Josh crossed his arms. “I already told you. I don’t know anything about the scarf,” he insisted. “I found it in my locker.”
    “Why’d you hide it under your mattress? If the scarf turns out to be our murder weapon, that’s going to put you at the top of our suspect list.”
    “Maybe it’s not the same scarf,” Josh said.
    Mel shook her head. “Guess again, Charm Boy. We found the scarf concealed here in this room where you, by your own admission, are the only person coming and going. A video file showing what appears to be the same scarf being used to strangle someone shows up on your phone, and you expect us to believe that you don’t know anything about it? Give me a break. This isn’t my first day, you know.”
    Josh said nothing.
    Far below us I heard the sound of a ringing doorbell. Whatever reinforcements Governor Longmire had summoned—probably one of her fat-cat major contributors—was riding to Josh’s rescue. That meant our chance to interview Josh Deeson was almost over.
    “Look,” I said quickly. “We know you didn’t kill her. I get that; Ms. Soames here gets that, but I’m guessing you do know who’s responsible. You need to tell us who she was and who did this to her. You need to name names. Let us help you put this terrible mess behind you. This is your last chance to make