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“Not another word.” He turned to Mel. “Receipts,” he said. “I want receipts for everything in those two boxes.”
    â€œTalk to my partner,” Mel said sweetly. “He’s the one in charge of paperwork.”
    I gave him a lowly carbon copy of the receipt form. I knew in advance that it wasn’t especially legible. McCarthy looked at the paper, then at me.
    â€œYou expect me to read this?” he demanded.
    â€œSorry about that,” I said with a shrug. “Old technology and all that. I can copy the originals and fax them to you later if you like.”
    McCarthy didn’t say yes or no to that. “Is my client under arrest?” he asked.
    â€œNot so far,” I told him cheerfully. “Right now he’s merely a person of interest. With any kind of luck on our part, however, he’ll be a full-fledged suspect under suspicion and under arrest in no time at all.”
    Scowling, McCarthy gave me a business card with his name and a whole collection of phone numbers embossed on what looked and felt like expensive paper. I dropped the card in my jacket pocket. I offered him my hand. He ignored it. I love it when attorneys can’t bring themselves to be collegial, to say nothing of polite. In my book, that was strike one against Garvin McCarthy.
    I took my box and followed Mel out into the hall. On the second floor I made my way to the balcony and picked up the coil of rope ladder that was still lying in the far corner of the balcony where Josh had left it. Once that was in my Bankers Box, I finally stripped off my latex gloves and dropped them into my pocket.
    Back in the hallway I heard raised voices coming from the landing at the bottom of the stairs. I recognized the governor’s voice. Hers was followed by a man’s voice, an angry man’s voice. The First Husband had evidently emerged unexpectedly from his hospital bed in the maid’s quarters. It sounded as though he wasn’t happy to discover that any number of things had transpired behind his back.
    â€œWhat the hell is going on up there?” he demanded. “Who are all these people coming and going?”
    â€œSome police officers stopped by,” Marsha responded pleadingly. “Please, Gerry. It’s just a little problem with Josh. I’m taking care of it. It’s handled.”
    â€œIt’s not a little problem,” Mel said, stepping briskly into the argument as well as into the lion’s den. “My name is Agent Melissa Soames. I’m with the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team, Mr. Willis. My partner, J. P. Beaumont, and I are here executing a search warrant of your grandson’s room.”
    â€œA search warrant?” Gerry Willis repeated. “What kind of search warrant? Why? What’s going on? Is Josh in some kind of trouble? And what team again?”
    I came down the last flight of stairs in time to answer that one.
    â€œSpecial Homicide,” I told him. “We found some troubling images on your grandson’s cell phone.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘troubling’?”
    At the bottom of the stairs Mel and Marsha Longmire stood on either side of an angry older gentleman in a wheelchair. Since the man was seated, it was difficult to tell how big he was, but he struck me as a large man, with a fringe of iron-gray hair around a balding pate. Knowing Gerry Willis had recently undergone bypass surgery, I expected him to look wan and sickly. He did not. His coloring was great, and from the fit he was pitching, there was nothing at all the matter with his vital signs or mental faculties.
    â€œSnuff film,” Mel said in answer to his question.
    â€œSnuff film,” Gerry repeated. “As in somebody died?”
    Mel nodded. “Apparently,” she said.
    Gerry Willis’s hardened eyes flashed in his wife’s direction. “You knew about all of this and didn’t tell