by R. J. Noonan
“Who’s the short one?” Omak asked under his breath as we waited for the women to draw closer.
“Martha’s assistant, Talitha.”
“I’d like a word with you, Martha,” Omak said.
“Of course.” Martha turned to the younger woman. “Talitha, go inside. Start the tea.” Her assistant nodded and strode into the house.
“I understand you’ve requested that our officers back off.”
“Yes, that would be lovely since the crisis has subsided. Thank you so much.”
“The case is still open.” Omak’s tone was gentle but firm, as if he were chastising a young child. “We’re investigating a possible homicide.”
“I didn’t realize . . .” She thumped a fist to her chest. “How awful. I assumed it was a matter of suicide and auto theft, and, well, of course we wouldn’t press charges.”
“It’s not that simple, Martha. Our investigation is in the early stages, and while I’m sorry for the inconvenience, we need to press ahead.”
“Of course you do.” Martha’s iron stare had latched onto the Jeep behind us. “Is that Andy in the back seat?”
“We’re taking him in to the station,” Omak said.
“Taking him into custody?” Martha moved out of Andy’s sightline, grabbing hold of Omak’s upper arm for support. “Oh, my goodness. Are you arresting him?”
“In the process,” Omak said.
“I should have known.” Martha clasped one hand to her mouth, then said, “Kent is going to be devastated. We’ve always trusted him. And when I spoke with Andy just an hour ago, he insisted he was innocent of any wrongdoing.” She closed her fleece jacket around her neck and folded her arms. “We were too trusting. What are the charges?”
“We suspect that Greenleaf contributed to the death of the driver, Kyra Miller,” Omak explained.
“You probably knew her as Blossom?” I added, monitoring her face as the complacent mask slipped away, the jaw clenched, the eyes grew shiny with tears.
“Lucy’s friend.” Her body seemed to sag with the news. “Kent and I suspected Blossom was the one who had taken the car, but . . . we didn’t want to tell you. We were hoping it wasn’t true, and it seemed to open a Pandora’s box about Lucy’s relationships that . . . You see, some matters are best left unexplored.”
“You should have told us,” Omak said. “You hindered our investigation.”
“I’m so sorry, but we had to look out for the girls. For years Lucy has had a reputation for being—I don’t know. Odd, I guess. It’s hard for her to keep friends. And Blossom, that girl had such a sad upbringing. It’s no wonder she chose to end her life.”
“We’re not sure it was suicide,” I said, glancing at Omak. I didn’t want to reveal too much about the investigation—the drugs, the evidence of intercourse, the damaged brakes, the journals and photos—but I couldn’t let Martha off the hook. “And you’re correct about Kyra’s difficult childhood. It surprises me that you would take in a young girl without notifying her parents or guardian. Please don’t think that I’m judging you, but whenever I wanted to host a sleepover, my parents made sure that they acquainted themselves with my friends’ parents. Just a simple phone call was all it took.”
Martha’s gemlike blue eyes glazed over with contempt. “Blossom told us she was an orphan, on the run from abusive foster parents. A simple phone call would have sent her right back to that abusive environment.”
“Or maybe it would have saved her life,” Omak said. “I’d like to think that there are people in the child welfare system who will protect a kid like Kyra once the abuse has been reported. You and Kent were harboring a runaway child.”
“Please, spare me the lecture. Kent’s daughter has a penchant for bringing in shifty young people and dumping them on Kent and me when she’s through with them. It’s terrible the way she trifles with these girls, but Kent can’t control Lucy and I’m just the stepmother, so you can imagine what Lucy thinks of my advice. In the end, it’s up to me to pick up the pieces for these kids. I can’t tell you how many teenage girls I’ve fixed up with cash and a bus ticket or job leads in Portland.”
“Have you ever considered calling the Department of Social Services?” I asked. “They could help these girls.”
“They have no resources,” Martha snapped. “And how would that look, the fat-cat author calls social services to get rid of his daughter’s friends? It’s my job to protect Kent’s public image.”
“In the case of Kyra Miller, I wish you had called us.” Omak kept his voice steady, though I sensed the bristle of annoyance in his eyes. “She was entered into a database of missing teenage girls from the Portland area. She was one of the Lost Girls.”
Martha squinted, as if it were difficult to decipher Omak’s words. “People were looking for Blossom? No, I had no idea.” She glanced back at the house with a sigh. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I feel terrible about all this. Poor Blossom. I didn’t think a fifteen-year-old girl would be swayed by an older man like Andy. And you think he killed her? I mean, I thought it was a car accident.”
“The accident is under investigation.” Omak stood tall, his voice low but commanding. “Mr. Greenleaf is coming to the precinct with us now. Most likely he’ll be lodged in the jail, at least overnight, maybe indefinitely, so you’ll want to get someone over to the barn to tend to the animals. He asked that we remind you to get the alpacas in the barn before dark. I guess the coyotes are their predators?”
“Yes, yes, I’ll let Carlos know.” She pressed two fingertips to her temple. “What a mess this thing has become. My husband is distraught. His daughter is still missing, and now you’re taking our ranch manager away.” Her creamy blonde hair stayed in place as she tilted her head and pressed fingertips to her temple again. “I’m sure that sounds incredibly selfish, considering a life was lost, but people I love are imploding all around me, and I feel helpless to stop it.”
I felt a flicker of compassion, but Martha Jameson had a skill for weaving all the events into a bundle of pity with herself at the center.
“This is bound to be a difficult time,” Omak said.
“It’s been really hard on Kent, but I’ve lived through worse. It’s the things beyond your control that break your heart. The betrayals. Realizing how Andy must have pulled Blossom in. God knows, he might have made a few moves on Lucy, too. Maybe that’s why she’s gone now. The shame and disappointment, it hits us all in different ways.”
“Did you have any indication Kyra—Blossom—was involved with Andy?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I had no idea what was going on over there. When you give someone a fresh start, you count on them to maintain trust. I thought Lucy and her friends were riding horses and helping Andy care for the alpacas. Yes, he was a young man with a criminal strike against him, but it was long ago and truly unfounded. He seemed like a good kid and he’s always treated me with respect, but I guess you never know what another person is capable of. If it was murder, I’m not sure that even Kent will be able to forgive him. Even a liberal, generous man like my husband has his limits.” Martha sighed. “It’s getting cold. Please, Officers, come in for some tea.”
Martha nodded toward me. “Officer Mori knows how much I enjoy tea time.”
A hot cup of tea would ward off the gathering cold, but it would do nothing to thaw the uneasiness taking hold of me. I felt as if I’d been tricked by the Jamesons, and now my mind was paddling fast to process this new information.
“I’m afraid we need to get Mr. Greenleaf to the precinct,” Omak said. “Some other time?”
“Of course.” With a shiver, she glanced toward the car. “You can’t let your prisoner get away while you’re off chatting with me.”
“That would be embarrassing,” I agreed. “But I have one other question, if you don’t mind. About Kyra Miller. How did Lucy meet her?”
“She was one of Lucy’s friends from the woods. Ragamuffins, Kent calls them.” She glanced toward th
e semicircle of buildings containing her husband’s office. “Those homeless kids in the woods. Kent made some kind of deal with them to leave us alone, but I know Lucy goes off with them sometimes. Their leader, the one who calls himself the Prince, that one’s a piece of work, and she seems to be crazy about him.”
I had not heard of this “Prince” before. “What is the Prince’s real name?”
Martha rolled her eyes. “God only knows.”
“Is the Prince Lucy’s boyfriend?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, but that young man has far too much influence over her—over all of them. It’s cultish.”
And it might be the key to finding Lucy and more of the Lost Girls. “You mentioned that your husband made an informal deal with the Prince and his group. Does Mr. Jameson know how to get in touch with them?”
“No one knows. Whenever their location is spotted by an outsider, they move on. Blossom came from that group, but she wasn’t so antieverything. Lucy brought her home, made her a pet. Best friends forever. That’s how the cycle goes. Lucy befriends them, adores them, and obsesses over them until she squeezes the life out of them. It always ends badly, with the poor friend having to call her parents or find employment elsewhere because Lucy couldn’t stand to be around them one more second. With Lucy, it always goes sour.”
“Was Lucy’s relationship with Kyra unraveling?”
My question seemed to alarm Martha. “I think the girls were still going strong, but what do I know? Lucy didn’t confide in me.”
Omak was quiet, stoic, soaking it all in.
I was beginning to get a clearer picture of Lucy Jameson, a portrait that fit with the girlish bedroom. “So when Kyra was friends with Lucy, she stayed here?”
“Yes. In Lucy’s room.”
My mind seized on the image of that single bed laden with childish stuffed animals. Had Kyra Miller squeezed in among the unicorns and teddy bears, her freckled cheek snuggled against a pillow as she sought a sense of safety and belonging? Had she believed that Lucy’s friendship was real? That the generosity of the Jamesons was genuine?
“Sorry. I know you have to go, and here I am playing the bitter stepmother. Every family has its issues, I guess.”
“And believe me, we’ve seen it all,” Omak assured her. He spoke with her as he walked her back to the porch of the giant house and then returned.
I went back to the car to check on Andy, who seemed forlorn, leaning against the car window. A cooperative suspect. As I looked ahead to the process of booking Andy Greenleaf—inputting pedigree information, fingerprints, mugshots, notifications, safe lodging protocol—I wished I could hand off the arrest and join the others searching those sodden woods. After getting an earful from Martha, it was becoming more and more clear that Lucy Jameson might be a menace to others and to herself and that something very strange was happening in the forest. When I mentioned this to Omak, he didn’t seem concerned.
“You need to learn to delegate,” Omak assured me. “And right now, finding Lucy Jameson is not as important as following through on this arrest. You need to work with the prosecutor’s office to make sure we arm them with all the evidence they need. Besides, the chief will want you at the press conference, near the podium, and they’ll probably bring out a handful of officers to make it look like there’s a strong police presence in Sunrise Lake. Any warm bodies that look decent in uniform. All that pomp and circumstance horseshit.”
“I don’t need to be part of the show.”
“The press conference is all part of the game. And a good investigator knows how to delegate and work with the team.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you have any questions or follow-up for the prosecutor, work with Frazier. He’s a good cop. You’ll see.”
“He did a great job bringing in Heather Erickson and her parents,” I admitted.
“That’s right. You’ll learn a lot working with him.”
I wasn’t looking forward to “sharing my toys” with Zion Frazier, but I wasn’t going to be a crab about it. If he did his job, then we’d both be working toward the same goal.
We were received at the precinct with a few high fives and lauded words of praise.
“You got him!” barked the desk officer, Sgt. Stanford. “Good for you.”
A human trophy is an odd phenomenon. Somehow I didn’t feel like dancing on my desk. Calmly, quietly, I cuffed Andy to a chair and began the process of booking him. If Omak wanted me to get through the paperwork and notifications in time for the press conference, it was going to be tight.
As I filled out the captioned forms, my thoughts wandered back to the campers in Stafford Woods—“ragamuffins,” the Jamesons called them—all led by a young man they called the Prince. This reclusive group provided much more fertile fodder for speculation than Andy Greenleaf, who didn’t seem to be bright enough to have pulled off having an affair with a young girl while in a steady relationship with a grounded girl like Heather. Who was this Prince? My Internet search led only to the rock star, and I didn’t want to take too much time when there was an arrest to process. Martha Jameson claimed to know nothing about the Prince, although her stepdaughter had close ties to the campers.
My eyes lit on Andy, who sat with his head tipped back against the wall. He had told us that he hired most of his staff from the campers in the woods. Even if he had never met the Prince, Andy would know a way to find him.
“Andy,” I called gently. “Tell me about the Prince.”
He brought his chin down, his mouth puckered. “The dude in the woods?” He shrugged. “I never met him.”
“But you must have heard about him. You hired people from his camp.” I swiveled my chair around to face him. “Where’s he from? What’s his real name? What prompted him to live off the grid?”
Andy lifted his free hand to scratch his chin. “If I tell you, what’s in it for me?”
I smiled. “I’ll treat you with dignity and respect.”
He tipped his head to one side. “Yeah. You probably would anyway. You’re nice for a cop.”
“Thanks. I can let the prosecutor know that you were cooperative,” I said, thinking ahead. “And if the information you give me leads to another arrest, you might be getting yourself off the hook.”
“So you’re telling me to save myself by solving the crime?” Andy looped his fingertips inside the collar of his shirt and scratched his neck. “Good one.”
“Don’t be that way. Help me help you. What’s the story with the Prince?”
He sighed. “He’s actually a poser, homeless by choice. He’s got a house and a place to live, but from what I hear, he can’t stand to be walled in. Something happened when he was a kid, he got stuck in the woods or something, and I guess he learned how to live like a wild animal. He’s into all that survival shit.”
The Prince was not the first kid to play at homelessness. “Is his real name Prince?”
“Nah. It’s something dorky like Clive Vanderpoop or Vandyke or something like that. When you hear his name, you’ll know why he makes people call him the Prince.”
“How can I find him?” I asked. “I know it’s a big secret, but you must know . . .”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Much as Lucy talked about him, I never got under his spell. Why would I suck up to some crazy guy in the woods when I have a nice house and a good job? And why do you care so much? He’s not the one who killed Blossom. She left the woods months ago, and as far as I know, the Prince never comes out.”
“If I find him, I think I can find Lucy,” I said.
“Maybe. But Lucy’s lived on the edge of those woods most of her life. If she wants to disappear, she knows how to do it.”
“Still, I need to try.”
“And I need to get a break from the prosecutor.” He pointed to my computer. “I hope you’re adding all this to your notes about how cooperative I’m being.”
“Just like I promised.” I clicked the mouse, returning to the forms to proc
ess his arrest. But already my mind was elsewhere, pursuing another track. Lucy had been at the estate the night Kyra was killed. Maybe Lucy had done something to send an intoxicated Kyra driving off in a vehicle with no brakes. Lucy had been on the compound; she had argued with her father and then disappeared around the same time as Kyra. Was she hiding to escape culpability?
The clock told me I had better get moving if I was going to make it to the press conference. I completed the arrest report, adding in comments on Andy’s cooperation. Then I called the prosecutor’s office and spoke with one of the prosecutors, a woman named Claudia Deming. In a deep, calming voice, she promised to review the report I’d filed and meet with me tomorrow.
Handcuffs removed, Andy stood somberly at the table to have his prints done. “Did they use the Live Scan when they fingerprinted you last time?” I asked him. It was one of the procedures I had aced in the police academy. “I think you’ll like it better. No messy ink.” I tapped his hand to help him relax.
“Ouch. Police brutality,” he said, then shrugged a shoulder. “Kidding.”
Someone had the news on his computer monitor, and as I rolled out Andy’s prints, the mention of Sunrise Lake caught my attention.
“An odd twist of events, a case of mistaken identity, and an apology from the police.” The reporter relished the intro. This was national news coverage, with sophisticated graphics and lighting and widespread impact. “Sounds like a lead in to the latest mystery novel from best-selling author Kent Jameson, but in fact this is the strange sequence of events that has been playing out over the past twenty-four hours in the author’s home at Sunrise Lake, Oregon. Last night the police came to the author’s doorstep to notify him that his daughter had been killed in a car crash. Today it was found that the driver of the fateful car was not, in fact, Lucy Jameson, and the police had to backstep and apologize for their error.”
“We did not,” I said aloud, scowling at the exuberant reporter. Where had he gotten his facts?
“The question becomes,” the reporter continued, “who was driving the car and why did the driver crash on a deserted road in perfect weather conditions?”