Missing Justice

MISSING JUSTICE

Alafair Burke

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Orion, an imprint of the

Orion Publishing Group Ltd.

Copyright 2004 by Alafair Burke

For Jim, Andree, and Pamala

One.

If it's true that dreams come from the id, then my id is not

particularly creative.

The dream that makes its way into my bed tonight is the same one that

has troubled my sleep almost every night for the past month. Once

again, I relive the events that led to the deaths of three men.

The walls of the stairway pass as a man follows me upstairs. I force

myself to focus on my own movements, trying to block out thoughts of

the other man downstairs, armed and determined to kill me when I

return.

Time slows as I duck beside my bed, reach for the pistol hidden in my

nightstand, and rise up to surprise him. The .25 caliber automatic

breaks the silence; more shots follow downstairs. Glass shatters.

Heavy footsteps thunder through the house. In the dream, I see bullets

rip through flesh and muscle, the scene tinted red like blood smeared

across my retinas.

I usually wake during the chaos. Tonight, though, the silence returns,

and I walk past the dead bodies to my kitchen. I open the pantry door

and find a woman whose face I know only from photographs and a brief

introduction two years ago. She is crouched on the floor with her head

between her knees. When she looks up at me and reaches for my hand,

the phone rings, and I'm back in my bedroom.

It is four o'clock in the morning, and as usual I wake up chilly,

having kicked my comforter deep into the crevice between my mattress

and the foot board of my maple sleigh bed. I fumble for the phone on

my nightstand, still ringing in the dark.

"This better be worth it," I say.

It's Detective Raymond Johnson of the Portland Police Bureau's Major

Crimes Team. A member of the search team has found a woman's

size-seven black Cole Haan loafer in the gutter, but Clarissa

Easterbrook is still missing.

The call came only eight hours after my boss, District Attorney Duncan

Griffith, had first summoned me to the Easterbrook home. It was my

first call-out after a month-long hiatus and a new promotion from the

Drug and Vice Division into Major Crimes. I was told it would just be

some quick PR work to transition me back into the office.

So far, the transition had been rough.

When I pulled into the Easterbrook driveway that first evening, I cut

the engine and sat for a few last quiet moments in my Jetta. Noticing

Detective Johnson waiting for me at the front window, I took a deep

breath, released the steering wheel, and climbed out of the car,

grabbing my briefcase from the passenger seat as I exhaled.

I climbed a series of steep slate steps, a trek made necessary by the

home's impressive hillside location. Despite the spring mist, I was

able to take in the exterior. Dr. Townsend Easter brook was clearly

no slouch. I wasn't sure which was bigger, the double-door entranceway

or the Expedition I'd parked next to.

Johnson opened one of the doors before I'd had a chance to use either

of the square pewter knockers. I could make out voices at the back of

the house; Johnson kept his own down. "Sat in that car so long,

Kincaid, thought something might be wrong with your feet."

At least my first case back on the job brought some familiar faces. I

had met Raymond Johnson and his partner, Jack Walker, only two months

ago, when I was a mere drug and vice deputy. But given the history,

however recent, I felt a bond with these guys the gun ky kind that

threatens to stick around for good.

"You must not have given up all hope, Johnson. You were waiting at the

door."

"I was beginning to wonder, but then you tripped something off walking

up the path, and I heard a voice somewhere announcing a visitor. George

fucking Jetson house. Gives me the creeps."

The Easterbrook home wasn't exactly cozy, but I'd take it. Neutral

colors, steel, and low sleek furniture the place was a twenty-first

century update on 1960s kitsch.

With any luck, Clarissa Easterbrook would turn up soon, and there'd be

no need to disrupt all this coolness.

Johnson caught my eye as I studied the house. "Look at you, girl.

You're almost as dark as I am." He grabbed my hand and held it next to

the back of his. Not even close. Johnson's beautiful skin is about as

dark as it comes.

"Yeah, but you're still better looking."

He laughed but it was true. He also dressed better than me more

Hollywood red carpet than police precinct lineoleum. Griffith dragged

you back from Maui just for this?"

"I flew in last night. I sort of assumed I'd have Sunday to myself

before I headed back in tomorrow, but the boss must have thought it

would do me good to get some hand-holding practice while we wait for

Easterbrook to turn up. You know, ease me out of drug cases into the

new gig."

"They usually do," Johnson said. "Turn up, I mean. She probably went

shopping and lost track of time or went out for a drink with the

girls."

"Right, because, of course, that's all women do in their spare time:

shopping and girl talk."

"This is going to take some getting used to, Kincaid, after seven years

of MCT work with O'Donnell."

I didn't react to the mention of my predecessor. "Just doing my part

to lead you down the path of enlightenment, Ray. Clarissa

Easterbrook's an administrative law judge, not some bored housewife."

"Oh, so it's only women lawyers who excel beyond malls and gossip. Got

it. Note to all detectives," he said, as if he were speaking into a

dictation recorder, "the new Major Crimes Unit DA says it's still OK to

diss housewives." He dropped the routine and cocked a finger at me.

"Busted!"

There was no arguing it, so I laughed instead. "Who's in the back?" I

asked, leaning my head toward the ongoing murmurs.

"Walker's back there with the husband and the sister. We got here

about half an hour ago, and the sister showed up right after. We

haven't been able to do much more than try to calm them down. We need

to start working on the timeline, though. I stayed out here to wait

for you. I suspect Dr. Easterbrook's still getting used to having a

brother in the house."

It was unusual to have MCT involved so early in a missing persons case,

but Walker and Johnson were here from the bureaus Major Crimes Team for

the same reason I was: to make sure that our offices looked responsive

and concerned when the missing judge showed up and to triple-check that

the investigation was perfect, just in case she didn't.

"Sounds good. I'll do my part for the family and any press, but for

now you guys take the lead on interviews."

"Music to my ears, Kincaid."

He began walking toward the back of the house, but I stopped him with a

hand on his elbow. "I assume you're keeping things gentle for now,

just in case. And absolutely no searches, not even with consent." If

Clarissa Easterbrook had encountered anything criminal, everyone close

to her would become a suspect, especially her husband. We couldn't do

anything now that might jeopardize our investigation down the road.

"I should've known it was too good to be true. All DAs just got to

have their say. It's in the blood." I could tell from his smile that

he wasn't annoyed. "No worries, now."

We made our way to the kitchen, walking past a built-in rock fountain

that served as a room divider. The Easterbrooks had sprung for marble

countertops and stainless steel, Sub-Zero everything, but it looked

like no one ever cooked here. In fact, as far as I could tell, no one

even lived here. The only hint of disorder was in a corner of the

kitchen, where the contents of a canvas book bag were spread out on the

counter next to a frazzled-looking brunette. She had a cell phone to

one ear and an index finger in the other.

Jack Walker greeted us. With his short sleeves, striped tie, and bald

head, he had enough of the cop look going to make up for his partner.

"Welcome back. You look great," he said into my ear as he shook my

hand with a friendly squeeze. "Dr. Easterbrook, this is Deputy

District Attorney Samantha Kincaid."

There are women who would describe Townsend Easterbrook as

good-looking. His brown hair was worn just long enough and with just

enough gray at the temples to suggest a lack of attention to

appearance, but the Brooks Brothers clothes told another story. On the

spectrum between sloppy apathetic and sloppy preppy, there was no

question where this man fell.

He seemed alarmed by the introduction. At first I assumed he was

nervous. I quickly realized it was something else entirely.

"Please, call me Townsend. Gosh, I apologize if I was staring. I

recognized you from the news, but it took me a moment to draw the

connection."

It hadn't dawned on me that, at least for the foreseeable future,

former strangers would know me as the local Annie Oakley. One more

daily annoyance. Terrific.

"I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Dr. East-erbrook.

Duncan had to be in Salem tonight, but he wanted me to assure you that

our office will do everything within our power to help find your

wife."

When Griffith called, he had insisted that I use his first name with

the family and assure Dr. Easterbrook that he would have been here

personally if he weren't locked in legislative hearings. Other missing

people might disappear with little or no official response, but Dr.

Easterbrook's phone call to 911 had ripped like a lightning bolt

through the power echelon. The wife was sure to turn up, but this was

Griffith's chance to say I feel your pain.

And Easterbrook clearly was in pain. "Thank you for coming so

quickly," he said, his voice shaking. "I feel foolish now that you're

all here, but we weren't sure what we should be doing. Clarissa's

sister and I have been calling everyone we can possibly think of."

"That's your sister-in-law?" I asked, looking toward the woman in the

corner, still clutching the phone.

"Yes. Tara. She came in from The Dalles. I called her earlier to see

if she'd heard from Clarissa today. Then I called her again when I saw

that our dog, Griffey, was gone, too."

Walker tapped the pocket-size notebook he held in his hand with a

dainty gold pen that didn't suit him. Most likely a gift from one of

his six daughters, it looked tiny between his sausage fingers. "Dr.

Easterbrook was just telling me he got home from the hospital at

six-thirty tonight. His wife was home when he left this morning at

six."

A twelve-hour day probably wasn't unusual for the attending surgeon at

Oregon Health Sciences University's teaching hospital, even on a

Sunday. Looking at him now, though, it was hard to imagine him

steadying a scalpel just four hours ago.

Easterbrook continued where he must have left off. "She was still in

bed when I left. Sort of awake but still asleep." He was staring

blankly in front of him, probably remembering how cute his wife is when

she is sleepy. "She hadn't mentioned any plans, so when I got home and

she wasn't here, I assumed she went out to the market. We usually have

dinner in on Sundays, as long as I'm home."

"You've checked for her car," Walker said. It was more of a statement

than a question.

"Right. That was the first thing I did once I was out of my scrubs: I

changed clothes and walked down to the garage. When I saw the Lexus, I

thought she must have walked somewhere. I tried her cell, but I kept

getting her voice mail. Finally, around eight, I thought to look out

back for Griffey. When I saw he was gone too, I drove around the

neighborhood for what must have been an hour. I finally got so worried

I called the police."

In the corner, Clarissa's sister snapped her cell phone shut and blew

her bangs from her eyes. "That's it. I've called everyone," she said,

looking up. "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize anyone else was here."

"From the District Attorney's office," Townsend explained. Ms.

Kincaid, this is Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney."

It was hard to see the resemblance. My guess is they were both pushing

forty, Tara perhaps a little harder, but they had been different kinds

of years. Clarissa was a thin frosted blonde who favored pastel suits

and high heels. Tara's dark brown pageboy framed a round face, and she

looked at ease at least physically in her dark green sweat suit and

sneakers.

She acknowledged me with a nod. "I called everyone I can think of, and

no one's heard from her today. This just isn't like her."

"She's never gone out for the day without telling someone?" Walker

asked.

They both shook their heads in frustration. "Nothing like this at

all," Townsend said. "She often runs late at work during the week, we

both do. But she wouldn't just leave the house like this on the

weekend. With the dog, for hours? Something must be wrong."

We asked all the other obvious questions, but Tara and Townsend had

covered the bases before dialing 911. They had knocked on doors, but

the neighbors hadn't noticed anything. Clarissa hadn't left a note.

They didn't even know what she was wearing, because when Townsend left

that morning she was still in her pajamas.

Her purse and keys were missing along with Griffey, but Townsend

doubted she was walking the dog. She always walked him in the morning,

and sometimes they walked him together after dinner if they were both

home. But she didn't take Griffey out alone after dark. Anyway, we

were talking about ten-minute potty trips, not all-night strolls.

Walker was rising from his chair. "Finding out how she's dressed is a

priority." He was shifting into action mode. "If we go through some

of her things, do you think you might be able to figure out what she's

wearing?"

"You would be the one to go through your wife's belongings I corrected.

We had to keep this by the book. "I think what Detective Walker's

suggesting is that you might be able to tell what clothes are missing

if you look at what's here."

"Right," Walker agreed. "And it would help to get a detailed

description out as fast as possible." It would also help us determine

if we were all wasting our time. Maybe Clarissa had packed a suitcase

and her dog to run off voluntarily with a new man or simply to a new

life without this one.

"You either overestimate my familiarity with clothing or underestimate

Clarissa's wardrobe. Tara, can you help? I doubt I can be of any

use."

I suggested that we all go upstairs together while Tara looked through

Clarissa's closet. Johnson offered to stay downstairs in case anyone

knocked, but Easterbrook assured him that the house's "smart system"

would alert us if anyone approached the door. Of course, Johnson

already knew that, so I gave him a warning look over my shoulder to

join me as I followed Townsend and Tara up the hammered-steel

staircase. No way was he sneaking around down here while the family

was upstairs, especially in a house with its own intelligence system.

The Easterbrook master suite was the size of my entire second floor, a

thousand square feet of spa-style opulence. Town-send led us through a

large sitting area, past the king-size bed, and around the back of a

partial wall that served as the bed's headboard. I couldn't help but

notice that the lip balm on the nightstand was the same brand as my

own, the paperback novel one I'd read last year.

The back of the suite contained a marble-rich bathroom adjoining a

dressing area roughly the size of Memphis. Town-send wasn't kidding

about his wife's wardrobe.

Tara started flipping through the piles of folded clothes stacked

neatly into maple cubes. The hanging items looked work-related.

After she'd gone through the top two rows, Tara blew her bangs out of

her face again. "She tends to wear the same few things when she's

around the house, but the ones I can remember are all here. I just

don't know."

Townsend stood in the corner of the closet, seemingly distracted by a

pair of Animal Cracker print pajamas that hung from a hook. Tara was

unfazed by the moment's poignancy, or at least she did not let it halt

her determination. She was examining rows of shoes stacked neatly on a

rack built into the side of the closet. "Well, it looks like her

favorite black loafers are gone. Cole Haans, I think. But I can't

tell what clothes are missing; she's just got too much stuff."

She walked over to a Nordstrom shopping bag on the floor next to the

dressing table. She pulled out a red sweater, set it on the table, and

then reached back in and removed some loose price tags and a receipt.

"These are from yesterday," she said, looking at the receipt. "Town,

these are Clarissas, right?"

She had to repeat the question before he responded. "Oh, right, she

did mention something about that last night, I think."

"Can you tell anything from the tags?" Walker asked.

"No," Tara said. "Well, the brand name, but then it's just those

meaningless style names and numbers."

"Did anyone go shopping with her? We could find out what she bought

from them," I suggested. I knew I told Johnson I'd leave the questions

to them, but I couldn't help myself.

Townsend seemed to wake up for a moment. "I believe she went with

Susan, but "

"I'm sorry." Walker interrupted, holding up his pen and pad. "What's

Susans last name?"

Tara looked disappointed. "Susan Kerr, a friend of my sister. I've

already tried calling her, and all I got was the machine."

A store clerk would be able to determine from the item numbers what

clothes Clarissa purchased Saturday. It wouldn't be easy to get that

information at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night, but it was worth

trying.

"We'll track someone down from the store," I suggested, looking toward

Ray and Jack. "Can't we pull a number for someone at Nordstrom out of

PPDS?" The Portland Police Data System compiled information from every

city police report and was the handiest source for accessing an

individual's contact information.

Within a few minutes, Walker had the home telephone number of a store

manager mentioned in a recent theft case. A manager would not be

involved in your average shoplifting case, but this one had been

unusual. An employee at one of the local thrift stores had bilked

Nordstrom out of thousands of dollars in cash by taking advantage of

its famously tolerant return policy. The bureau estimated that every

Nordstrom brand dress shirt donated to the thrift store during the last

two years had been returned to Nordstrom stores for cash by either the

employee or one of her friends.

Hopefully the manager would be sufficiently grateful to the bureau for

cracking the case that he'd forgive us for calling him after ten

o'clock at night. Walker made the call on his cell to leave the

Easterbrooks' line open, just in case.

As it turned out, the Easterbrook phone rang just a few minutes later.

I found myself watching Townsend to see how he responded. Did he

really expect the caller to be Clarissa? Or did he act like a man who

already knew we wouldn't be hearing from her? So far he seemed legit,

if dazed. He hadn't made any of the obvious slipups, the ones you see

on Court TV: using the past tense, buying diamonds for another woman,

selling the wife's stuff, things like that.

Whoever was calling, it wasn't Clarissa. Listening to one side of the

conversation was frustrating. "I see.... Where was he? ... No, in

fact, she's ... missing" Townsend's voice cracked on that one. "The

police are here now.. .. Yes, that's terribly kind of you, if you

don't mind." Some more earnest thank-yous and a goodbye, and Townsend

set the phone back on its base.

"That was a fellow who lives a few streets down. He works with me at

the hospital. He and his wife were leaving the Chart House and found a

dog running in the parking lot with its leash on. It's Griffey."

Walker had reached the Nordstrom manager, who generously offered to

meet him at the store to track down what Clarissa Easterbrook had

purchased yesterday and was we hoped still wearing.

About fifteen minutes after Walker left, a voice similar to the one

that announces my e-mails at home declared, "Good evening. You have a

visitor." Ray was right. Creepy George Jetson house.

I looked out the living room window to see a man in his fifties

struggling to keep up with an excited yellow Lab dashing up the slope

to the front door, straining against the leash. A woman of roughly the

same age followed.

When Easterbrook opened the door, the Lab finally pulled free from his

temporary handler, dragging his leash behind him. He leaped on

Easterbrook's chest, nearly knocking him over. He was a sticky mess

from the drizzle, but you could tell he was a well-cared-for dog.

Townsend absently convinced Griffey to lie down by the fountain, though

the panting and tail thumping revealed that he was still excited to be

home.

A dog like Griffey probably had an advanced degree from obedience

school, unlike my dropout, Vinnie. Vinnie was actually expelled. Or,

more accurately, I was. When it became clear to the teacher that,

despite her instructions, I caved to Vinnie's every demand to avoid his

strategic peeing episodes, she suggested that I re-enroll my French

bulldog when I felt more committed to the process. Two years later,

Vinnie and I have come to mutually agreeable terms. He has a doggie

door to the backyard, an automatic feeder, and a rubber Gumby doll that

he treats like his baby, but if I don't come home in time to cuddle him

and hear about his day, there's hell to pay. Griffey, on the other

hand, appeared to do whatever Easterbrook told him.

Easterbrook introduced Griffey's new friends as Dr. and Mrs. Jonathon

Fletcher. I guess you have to give up both your first and last names

when you marry a physician. Dr. Fletcher's looks said doctor more

than Townsend Easterbrook's. In contrast with the flashy Expedition

and high-tech house, I noticed that the Fletchers pulled up in a Volvo

station wagon.

Mrs. Dr. Fletcher did her best to provide comfort. "I'm certain

Clarissa's just fine, Townsend. A misunderstanding, is all. We just

have to find her, and that's that. Now, when's the last time you saw

her?"

She made it sound like we were trying to track down a lost set of

keys.

"This morning," Townsend said. "She was still in bed. I had

back-to-back surgeries, and when I got home she was gone."

"Well, dear, I'm surprised you even get a chance to operate anymore.

Jonathon tells me how busy you are, developing the new transplant unit.

Sounds like that's going extremely well."

Apparently Mrs. Dr. Fletcher was so used to her job as

conversationalist to her husband's colleagues that she was slipping

into autopilot. Understandably, Townsend cut her off.

"Who knows? Still so much to do," he said. Translation: Who the fuck

cares about the hospital right now? "I didn't even realize Griffey was

gone until a couple of hours ago. When did you find him?"

"Right around ten," Dr. Fletcher said. "A group of us were leaving

our function at the Chart House, and this feisty fellow was running

around in the parking lot. Initially, everyone assumed he escaped from

one of the neighborhood yards or something. But then someone noticed

he was dragging a leash. Our friend went after him, figuring someone

had lost hold of him. When he checked the tag, what do you know? Our

own Griffey Easterbrook."

The Chart House sat just a couple of steep miles down from the

Easterbrook home. The elegant restaurant was located on the winding,

wooded section of Taylor's Ferry Road that ran from the modest

Burlingame neighborhood in southwest Portland, up about two miles to

OHSU, and then back down again into downtown Portland. Spectacular

views of the city made the route one of the most popular spots in the

area for walks, runs, and bike rides.

It was not, however, the safest place for a woman alone at night. About

a year earlier, two guys from the DA's office were taking a run there

after work. They heard what they thought was a couple goofing around

behind the bushes, a man wrestling his squealing girlfriend to the

grass. Fortunately, the woman heard them talking as they ran past and

yelled, "Help, I don't know him."

The bad guy got away, but the ensuing publicity had called the city's

attention to the potential dangers of the area. It was no longer

common to find women alone on the path after dark.

The Fletchers' discovery of Griffey there was not a good sign.

Johnson must've been thinking the same thing, because he decided to

revisit what I thought had been our mutual decision not to search the

Easterbrook/Jetson home. He pulled me aside while Townsend continued

the conversation with the Fletchers.

"I know we're playing it safe, but finding the dog changes the picture.

We need to go through the place now while he's still playing victim. If

we wait until a body shows, he might lawyer up."

I shook my head. "I still don't like it," I said. "Look at him he's a

basket case. Later on, his state of mind might kill any consent we get

from him. If, God forbid, her body does surface, we can easily get a

warrant, since this is her house. We won't need to have probable cause

against the husband."

"And what do we do about the fact that our doctor can move whatever he

wants and start dumping evidence the minute we're out of here?"

Johnson's point was well taken, but it wasn't enough to justify a

thorough search this early in the case. Not only could Townsend try to

throw out the search down the road, we'd pretty much be killing any

chance we had of continued cooperation from him. In any event, if

Townsend was involved in his wife's disappearance, he certainly could

have disposed of any incriminating evidence before calling the

police.

I explained my thinking to Johnson and proposed a compromise. "Why

don't you offer to take a look around to make sure there's no sign of a

break-in? I don't have a problem with you doing a general

walk-through; I just don't want a detailed search yet. If you check

for broken windows and the like, we can at least look for the obvious

and avoid any major fuckups."

"Okay with you if I ask him about it in front of his buddies?"

I gave a quick nod. If Townsend felt pressured to consent to a search

because his friends were around, so be it. Courts only care about

claims of involuntariness if the supposed coercion comes from law

enforcement.

Before Johnson walked away, I added, "We should also get people

searching up on Taylor's Ferry. Hopefully, by the time the department

has a search plan together, Walker can tell us what she might have been

wearing."

Griffey perked up when Tara came down the stairs, apparently satisfied

that nothing helpful was going to come from foraging through her

sister's closet. I'd already been positively disposed toward her based

on her obvious concern for her sister, and I warmed to her even more

when she found the energy to get down on the floor with her sister's

dog and comfort him with a bear hug.

After a few minutes spent on introductions to the Fletchers and the

inevitable words of comfort, Tara grew antsy again. "Griffey, up," she

commanded, pointing him toward the stairs. "Sorry, I can't sit still.

You mind if I throw him into the tub real quick, Town? He's a little

crunchy, and it'll give me something to do."

It was clear that Tara's nervous energy was grating on her

brother-in-law; he seemed more at ease once she'd followed Griffey to

the second floor and he could turn his attention back to the

Fletchers.

"I keep expecting the phone to ring, but I'm not sure exactly what kind

of call it would be; maybe a ransom demand or something. Obviously, I

want it to be Clarissa explaining that this is all a misunderstanding,

that she went with a friend somewhere and forgot to leave a note, and

Griffey just happened to get out.. ." He was just rambling. I didn't

point out that the leash suggested Griffey had not simply escaped from

the yard, but that someone had been walking him. Townsend would come

to the realization in his own time.

I was beginning to think that a ransom demand would be good news at

this point. At least it might indicate that Clarissa was alive.

"This lifestyle of ours," Townsend said, looking around. "Why does any

of it really matter? Maybe it just invites problems."

Johnson used the moment as his in to ask permission for the

walk-through. Consistent with everything else about the man, his

transition was smooth.

He started by asking Dr. Easterbrook if he'd ever noticed anything

that might suggest that someone was scoping out the house or following

them, perhaps planning a way to get to Clarissa by herself.

"No, nothing at all like that," Easterbrook replied. "This

neighborhood is so isolated up here. We hardly see anyone on our

street who doesn't live here."

"Can you think of anyone who has a conflict with you of some kind?

Someone who might be motivated to do something to scare you or

retaliate against you?"

"Why would someone hurt Clarissa to get to me, detective?"

"Just exploring all possibilities, doctor. Maybe a disgruntled patient

from the hospital? A former employee?"

"No," Townsend said, slowly shaking his head. "Clarissa would

occasionally get some threats about her cases, but she always assumed

they were only blowing off steam. Never anything we considered

seriously. No one would want to hurt her. She's such a good

person."

"I was just exploring all the possibilities," Johnson repeated. "Come

to think of it, we should probably take a look around and make sure

there's no signs of a break-in, just in case. Do you mind?"

"Of course not, but I'm sure I would have noticed something earlier.

Given the security system, I don't see how anyone could have gotten

in."

"As long as you don't mind, I'll go ahead and check it out. No harm,

right?"

Johnson sidled off before anyone might want to stop him, and the

Fletchers seized the opportunity to extricate themselves from a

situation where they knew they couldn't be of much help. As they

launched into their goodbyes, feeding Townsend more premature

assurances that everything would be okay, I caught up with Ray. Truth

was, I didn't want to be alone with Townsend, struggling like the

Fletchers to avoid all those lame cliches this will all work out, only

a silly misunderstanding, and other completely useless pronouncements

suggesting the speaker had any clue as to how the night would end.

We hit the basement first. My basement is a dark, damp, dusty wreck of

concrete and cinder block that my imagination has populated with

thousands of spiders and their cobwebs. The Easterbrooks' had been

finished into a laundry room and a home gym that had better equipment

than my health club. Not only did we not find any bodies, blood, or

guts, there weren't even any windows to check. In place of the flimsy

things that are so often kicked in for basement break-ins, the

Easterbrooks had glass bricks.

Climbing back up the stairs, we could hear Townsend letting the

Fletchers out the front door, so we headed up to the second floor,

where Tara had Griffey in a bathroom off the main hallway. She was

fighting to get a dog brush through the hair on his hind leg.

Predictably, Griffey stood compliantly while Tara tried to avoid

pulling his entire coat off by the roots.

She looked up at us from the tile floor, removing her hand from the

brush to push her bangs from her forehead. The brush stayed entangled

in poor Griffey's coat. "I was just wondering whether I should show

this to you. I thought he felt a little crusty downstairs when I was

petting him, but it looks like he's actually got something dried on his

coat back here."

Johnson knelt down and looked more closely at the side of Griffey's

hip. Then he reached into an interior pocket of his suit jacket,

removed a latex glove, and slipped it over his right hand.

"Do you mind giving us a second, Ms. Carney?"

Tara seemed surprised by the request but left the bathroom, closing the

door behind her.

"Looks like clay or something," Johnson explained, "like he brushed up

against it here on his side."

"Shit. We should have gotten the crime lab over here immediately when

the Fletchers called."

I was beginning to panic. Why the hell hadn't Johnson been on top of

this? "Wasn't obvious," he said, responding to the unspoken question.

"Until you're certain what you're dealing with, it's hard to decide

what kind of resources to put into it. Considering the small chance of

any evidence off the dog, plus the likelihood that we're dealing with a

runaway wife, and it's a tough call."

It made sense, but it didn't excuse the fact that we nearly allowed

Tara Carney to take the source of what might be our best piece of

evidence so far and soak him in a bathtub.

Johnson flaked some of the beige paste from Griffey's coat into an

evidence bag, then marked it with his name and the date using a Sharpie

pen.

Shit. What else had we missed? "I think we should go ahead and get

the crime lab out here and search around Taylor's Ferry. Everything

about this feels bad."

"Your call," he said, pulling out his cell phone.

This new gig was going to take some getting used to.

Two.

By 7 a.m. the next morning, I was watching my first Major Crimes Unit

case unfold on television. Nothing like an attractive, professional,

missing white woman to satisfy the hunger of the viewing masses.

I sat in the eighth-floor conference room of the Multnomah County

District Attorney's Office, location of the office's only TV set,

flipping channels in a futile attempt to track the coverage. Out of

principle, I boycotted the Fox affiliate for running the tagline case

of a real-life Cinderella? in a graphic beneath the talking head. I

finally gave up and settled on the local morning show, which seemed to

be covering the story in the most detail.

Cut to some guy named Jake Spottiswoode, so-called field correspondent,

also known as the kid right out of college who gets sent with his

Columbia Gore-Tex jacket into the rain.

"Good morning, Gloria. Behind me in southwest Portland is the home of

Dr. Townsend Easterbrook and his missing wife,

Administrative Law Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Dr. Easter-brook

reported the mysterious disappearance yesterday evening, shortly after

returning from a day of surgery at OHSU.

"Residents of this quiet neighborhood are fearing the worst," Gore-Tex

continued, "since learning that one of Judge Easter-brook's shoes was

discovered in the street on Taylor's Ferry Road last night. That

discovery was particularly ominous given that the shoe was found only

half a mile from where her dog was found earlier in the night, alone

but still on his leash. The community is helping police in the search

effort and say they still hold out hope that Judge Easterbrook will be

found safe and unharmed. We've been told that the family will be

coming outside any minute to make a statement."

"Jake, what can you tell us about what Clarissa Easterbrook might have

been doing before she disappeared? Was she walking the dog?" Watching

Gloria Flick lean forward and dramatically furrow her brow, I

remembered why I never watch this show. Gloria Flick was annoying as

hell.

While Flick continued to feign concern, Gore-Tex explained that the

police had refused to rule out any possibilities. Although this was

formally a missing persons case, they were moving forward on the

assumption that foul play might be involved. Trying to fill air time

before the press conference, the rain-soaked rookie correspondent

touched upon Clarissa's position with the city. "We're hearing,

Gloria, that Clarissa Easterbrook, as an administrative law judge, is

not the kind of judge that many of us would envision, in a courthouse,

presiding over trials. Rather, she hears appeals from the

administrative decisions of city agencies. Because many of those

matters are considered routine and, in fact, somewhat bureaucratic,

police are discouraging the media from speculating that Judge

Easterbrook's disappearance could be related to her official

position."

The viewing public was spared any further attempt to explain the boring

work of an administrative law judge when Clarissa Easterbrook's family

assumed its place behind a podium that had been set up in the

Easterbrook driveway.

Joining Tara and Townsend were an older couple I imagined were

Clarissa's parents, along with a woman I didn't recognize. Townsend

tentatively approached the mike. Make that about ten mikes. Unlike

Tara, he had changed clothes, but the bags under his eyes were every

bit as pronounced.

As the attending surgeon at the state's teaching hospital, Townsend was

probably used to speaking to a crowd. But today he seemed focused on

merely making it through the notes he carried to the podium. His voice

lacked affect, and he didn't look up once from his reading:

"My wife, Clarissa Easterbrook, has not been seen since six o'clock

yesterday morning. She disappeared somewhere between then and last

night at approximately six-thirty p.m." when I returned home. We

believe she was wearing a pink silk turtleneck sweater, charcoal-gray

pants, and black loafers, one of which was found on Taylor's Ferry

Drive early this morning. Our dog was discovered last night in the

same area, near the Chart House restaurant. We are asking anyone who

may have seen her, or seen anything in that vicinity that might be

related to her disappearance, to please call the police immediately.

Clarissa, we love you and we miss you, and we want you to come home to

us safe.

"Behind me are Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney; her parents, Mel and

Alice Carney; and her dearest friend, Susan Kerr. On behalf of all of

us, I'd like to thank everyone who is helping in this search effort.

Members of the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District

Attorney's Office were here late last night, and the media have been

great about getting Clarissa's picture out there and asking for

information. We're very grateful for all the support and concern that

has been shown for Clarissa and our family. Thank you again."

Whoever wrote the script was savvy enough to know how to play the game

of political institutions. Appear supportive of the police department

and the DA's office early on, and you'll have all the more leverage

down the road if you threaten to turn. Reporters were shouting out

questions now, but there wasn't much for Townsend to add. Yes, it was

certainly possible that something might have happened to her while she

was walking the dog, but the police were not ruling out other

possibilities. No, there hadn't been any ransom demands or other

communications about the disappearance.

Once the family retreated into the house, the station ran more pictures

of Clarissa and repeated the description of her clothing. Nordstrom

had come through. From the montage of photographs at a picnic with

Townsend, at Cannon Beach with Griffey, on the lap of a shopping-mall

Santa Claus with Tara I began to feel I knew this woman. She was aging

gracefully, keeping her hair blond but neatly bobbed, allowing the

wrinkles to show beneath a light dusting of makeup. And in every

picture she had the same big, generous smile that had greeted me the

one time I had met her at a women's bar conference a couple of years

ago. I couldn't bear to watch.

As I was clicking the TV off, Russell Frist stuck his perfectly

salt-and-peppered head into the conference room. "Welcome back,

Kincaid, and welcome to the Unit. The boss tells me you're in the

thick of things already."

The District Attorney must have called Frist first thing this morning.

Recently appointed supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit, my new boss had

a reputation for screaming at other lawyers and making them cry, but

also for being a good prosecutor. I had vowed to keep an open mind

about him, but sitting there beneath his gaze, I found myself

intimidated. At six foot three and a good two-twenty, Frist put in

enough time at the gym to test the seams of his well-cut suit.

It wasn't surprising that Frist referred to the trial unit that

prosecuted all person felonies as "the Unit." He'd been handling major

crimes for at least fifteen years, so other kinds of cases had no doubt

stopped mattering to him long ago.

"Looks like it," I said. "When he sent me out to the Easter-brooks'

last night for some hand-holding, I don't think either one of us

thought it was going to turn into something like this, literally

overnight."

"Well, we should talk. Give me about fifteen minutes, then meet in my

office?"

Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get any actual work done, so I

continued making my way through the pile of mail that had accumulated

over the past month. As un pampered county employees, we usually have

to take care of our own office moves when we change rotations, but

someone had been nice enough to relocate my things from my old office

down the hall at the Drug and Vice Division to what used to be Frist's

office in major crimes.

Everything, that was, except for my black leather, high-backed swivel

chair. A good office chair is nearly impossible to come by when you

work for the government. Most of the chairs around here had ceased

being adjustable years ago and had funky-smelling upholstery fit for

the county's HAZMAT team. About a year ago, I had spent four full

months sucking up to the facilities manager, begging for a decent

chair. The campaign was not my proudest moment; let's just say it

involved me, a lunchtime knitting class, and a decade's supply of ugly

booties for the woman's baby.

Now someone had taken my vacation as an opportunity to run off with the

spoils of my labor. The culprit clearly lacked two essential pieces of

information. First, I would stop at absolutely nothing to get that

chair back. And second, I'd have no problem proving ownership. The

day I got no, make that earned- my chair, I committed vandalism against

county property by scratching my initials in a secret spot and vowing

we'd be together forever.

But for now, I was stuck with a sorry-looking lump of stinky blue tweed

on casters.

Otherwise, the new office was a step up. In my old office, I had an

L-shaped yellow metal desk with a cork board hutch. Now I had an

L-shaped gray metal desk with a cork board hutch, plus a matching gray

file cabinet all to myself. Whoever had done the move had replicated

my old office (minus my special chair) to a T, all the way down to the

two pictures stuck in the corner of my cork board: one of Vinnie

gnawing on his rubber Gumby doll, the other of my parents in front of

their tree on my mom's last Christmas.

I met Frist as requested in his new corner office, legal pad and pen in

hand, ready for a fresh start in a new unit, with a promotion I had

wanted since I joined the office. It took most attorneys five to seven

years of good work and shameless ass kissing to get into MCU, and I'd

done it in less than three with my pride largely intact. Given my

Stanford law degree and three years in the Southern District of New

York at the nation's most prestigious U.S. Attorney's Office, some

would say I was actually running behind.

I took a seat across from Frist, trying not to think about the last

time I was there with the office's previous tenant.

True to his reputation, my new boss skipped the small talk and got down

to business. "I thought we should touch base since you're new to the

Unit and I'm still getting used to this supervision gig. You know the

deal: we handle all non domestic person felonies, basically murders,

rapes, and aggravated assaults. Robberies we treat like property

crimes and send down to the general felony unit. You can decide

whether you want to bring any files over from your old DVD caseload,

but I'd recommend against it. You'll have your hands full enough here

without having to juggle Drug and Vice."

It took some concentration to focus on the substance of what Frist was

saying. He had one of those deep voices you have to tuck your chin

into your chest to impersonate, a common practice around the DA's

office. He sounded like that antiwar governor from Vermont who ran for

president, but this proud conservative ex-marine would never oppose a

war, let alone go to Vermont. Frist was booming something at me, but

his eyes kept darting alternately between my breasts and somewhere just

above my forehead.

"You're starting out with something less than a regular load. Usually

we'd give you the cases of whoever left, but O'Donnell obviously had

some doozies that'd be hard to start out with. So I took over his

caseload, kept about a quarter of mine, and gave you the rest. As the

new person, you'll be on screening duty."

MCU's screening assignment is a notorious time-waster. Paralegals dole

out the incoming police reports among the various trial units: major

crimes, gangs, drugs and vice, general felonies, domestic violence, and

misdemeanors. But to make sure that no one misses a heavy charge and

issues it as a throw-away, any report that even arguably establishes

probable cause for a major person felony goes to MCU for screening. The

problem is, cautious paralegals end up finding potential felonies in

every run-of-the-mill assault. Now I'd be the one to waste hours

separating the wheat from the chaff. So much for my big impressive

step up in the prosecutorial food chain.

Frist covered a handful of issues he thought I should be aware of on

the cases I'd inherited from him, then changed the subject. "Now, as

for this Easterbrook matter, I talked to the boss. I don't think he

intended to throw you into the middle of things so quickly. You know,

he figured the judge'd turn up in a couple of hours, and he wanted to

make sure we did what we could in the meantime. But now this thing's

looking like it's got real potential."

When I first started in the DA's office, I was sickened by how excited

the career prosecutors seemed to get over a juicy incoming murder case.

I swore I'd never treat human tragedy as career fodder. But it had

since become clear to me that attorneys who have stuck with this job

for any amount of time handle it one of two ways: They either get off

on the adrenaline of their files or they become apathetic. Compassion

is a straight path to burnout. I wasn't yet to the point where I

looked at a person's murder simply as a trial challenge, but, when I

did, I'd rather approach my cases as a passionate competitor like Frist

than yet another of the lazy plea-bargaining bureaucrats we keep around

here.

But precisely because Frist was competitive, he wanted in on this one.

"Go ahead and ride the case solo while she's missing, but if a body

turns up, you don't want this as your first murder."

I opened my mouth, but Frist was all over me. "Zip it, Kincaid. I

know you're hungry, but you can forget about running this on your own.

And don't think I'm picking on you for being new. Or because you're a

woman."

Out the window went the staples of my reliable boss-fighting arsenal.

Clearly I'd need to be more creative.

"We always have two attorneys on any death penalty case," he explained,

"which this may very well be, if it's a kidnap gone wrong. And

Clarissa Easterbrook isn't exactly your typical murder victim. Every

person out there who thinks he can benefit will be crawling up our

asses to scrutinize every aspect of this investigation and

prosecution."

"Is it still my case, or should I go ahead and tell MCT to call you the

next time they find a shoe in the gutter at four o'clock in the

morning?"

"Nice try," Frist said, shaking his head and smiling. "But whereas

some people who held this job in the past were lazy fucks who'd rather

play golf than practice law, I want to make sure we do things right

around here, even if we all have to work our asses off. Including me.

So keep your MCT phone calls, and we'll talk later about how to split

the work if the need should arise. I never said who'd be first chair,

now, did I?"

I said "fine" but couldn't resist being a little pouty about it.

As I was leaving his office, Frist dropped a closing comment to my

back. "Besides, Kincaid, from what I hear, MCT's got an inside line to

you in the middle of the night."

"Yeah, my pager number," I said, pretending not to recognize his

not-so-subtle allusion to Detective Chuck Forbes. Despite my every

attempt to be discreet, the whole world seemed to know we had something

going on.

"Sorry. That was probably what human resources would call

'inappropriate." Color me repentant." He placed his hand dramatically

over his heart. "Seriously, when you're ready, we'll need to talk

about how you want to handle that. We can keep you off his cases or

not, whatever you think is ... appropriate."

I knew he was being fair, but inside I cringed. I pride myself on not

letting my personal life interfere with my job. In the two years since

my divorce, I had complied with my self-imposed prohibition against

dating cops and DAs. It's hard enough for a woman barely out of her

twenties to be taken seriously as a prosecutor. If cops and colleagues

start to look at you as dating prey, you're toast.

I headed straight to Alice Gerstein's desk to pick up some of the

weekend custodies. As the senior paralegal in the unit and possibly

the most competent member of the DA's office, Alice had already entered

today's new cases into our internal data system. We only had until two

o'clock this afternoon to present probable cause affidavits to the

court on anyone arrested over the weekend without a warrant, so issuing

custodies was always the first priority of the day.

Alice welcomed me with a fat Redweld file marked mcu screening. I

struggled to hold it in one hand, my coffee in the other. Judging by

its weight, the file held close to thirty cases. "Could you give me a

few of the regular unit custodies too? You know, so I can use them to

break up the monotony a little?"

Alice was no pushover. "Sorry. Frist has got me under strict orders.

The newbie doesn't get any real cases until the screens are finished. I

know for sure that at least Luke is absolutely delighted by your

addition to the unit. All last week, he was counting down the days."

I usually resent it when the all-female staff tries to enforce the

office's rules against me, because it's common knowledge that most of

them let the rules slide with their favorite male attorneys. But Alice

is a soldier in what she sees as the daily war of keeping this place

running, so I sucked it up and headed back to my office with the dregs.

If Luke Grossman had stuck it out, so would I. About an hour later, I

was reading my nineteenth police report, the closest one yet to a major

crime. Alas, it turned out to be another no complaint to be shipped

off to the Domestic Violence Unit. The victim called 911 to report

that he was walking down the street, minding his own business, when a

woman shot an arrow at him from a balcony overhead. That's right, an

arrow. What we call in this business a weapon, triggering major crime

jurisdiction.

Bad news for me, the 911 call turned out to be woefully incomplete. For

example, he left out the fact that the archer was his ex-girlfriend

who, by the way, was on Portland State's archery team and had a

restraining order against her ex. He also forgot to mention that the

weapon to wit, one arrow had a pink rubber Power Puff Girl eraser

popped onto the tip. No wonder the patrol officer's only arrest was of

Newman himself, for violating the restraining order. At the arrestee's

insistence, his complaint was written up, even as he was transported to

and booked at the county detention center.

I scrawled my initials next to a big fat red mcu declined stamp in the

file's log notes and then went ahead and no complain ted the potential

misdemeanor charges as well. No use making someone in DV waste their

time with Newman's whining.

My phone rang just as I was tossing the file into my out box.

"Kincaid." The butch phone answer is one of the small but very cool

perks of being a prosecutor.

"How you doing there, Kincaid? I was afraid your extension might not

have moved with you."

I recognized Ray Johnson's voice. How could he be so chipper when he'd

undoubtedly been at the Easterbrook house most of the night?

"Pretty amazing. The county somehow manages to keep all the phones

straight, but I still have to share a copy of the evidence code with

the entire unit. What's up? Don't tell me. Judge Easterbrook turned

up alive and well, rambling about a probe from little green men?"

"Nope. My instinct tells me that's not going to happen, not even that

first part. One good sign, though, is that the husband's schedule

checks out at OHSU. Three back-to-back surgeries. He's accounted for

from seven a.m. to six p.m. No strange behavior."

"You mean it's a good sign for him."

"And a good sign for our vie. If the husband didn't do her, she's less

likely to be dead." The bizarre mathematics of murder in a world where

most violence against women is inflicted by husbands and lovers.

But Johnson wasn't ready to clear Townsend Easterbrook. "On the other

hand, maybe it happened in the morning, and the guy goes off to work

like it's nothing. Wouldn't be the first time. And, of course, the

alibi's meaningless if he hired someone.

"I also got some preliminary info from the crime lab. They picked up

some unidentified latents around the house, but the one match they got

in AFIS was with the one Walker left on the door knocker. Other than

that, the only thing they've got is on our boy, Griffey. Remember that

gnarly-looking scum the sister found on the dog?"

"Sure, clay or something." My hopes were up. Cases had been solved

before by the unique composition of dirt left behind at a scene. Or,

in this instance, on a dog.

"Nope, not clay. Paint."

Interesting. Dogs out walking in the rain don't usually come home with

body paint.

"And how are we going to find out where that paint might've come from?"

I asked.

"One of the lab guys is getting together with some paint geek from Home

Depot. They've got a color-match computer. It's a long shot, but they

might be able to tell us the brand name if there's a perfect match.

From there, we could check the stores for any recent orders. In any

event, they'll make us up a paint chip, so if we ever do have something

to match it against, we won't have to use the dog hair. In the

meantime, the PIOs going to put a call out in the next press briefing

for tips. Hopefully, we'll get some reports of a neighbor who was

painting in the area. Even if we don't get our bad guy, it might at

least help us figure out where the dog has been."

Better the bureau's Public Information Office than me. I try to stay

away from the media.

"Any other news?"

"Nothing of any use. Looks like Griffey's the only mutt with anything

to contribute. We called a K-9 unit out there this morning to see if

one of their dogs could pick up a scent on

Clarissa. No luck. The handler told me the scent was long gone.

Probably the rain."

"Any luck getting in touch with Susan Kerr?" It would be helpful to

see if Clarissa's friend had noticed anything unusual when they went

shopping on Saturday.

"Haven't managed to reach her yet."

"She's around," I said. "She was with the family at the press

conference this morning."

"I know. She called my desk this morning; probably got my name from

Tara. I missed her when I called her back, though. When I catch up

with her, you want to go out on the interview with me?"

"Any reason to figure she's a suspect?" DAs don't usually tag along on

witness interviews.

"Yeah, guilty of being a rich muckety-muck. I did a little recon on

our girl. She makes the Easterbrooks look like Jerry Springer trailer

trash."

"Careful, Ray. Not all of us can afford those Hugo Boss suits you

strut around in."

"The point is, she's loaded. I thought we might cut through some of

the predictable bullshit if you talked to her."

"No problem. It's my first day cooped up in the office, so the sooner

the better." As usual, Johnson was right: Lots of rich people find

speaking to the police beneath them. Depending on who Susan Kerr

turned out to be, she might expect a personal call from District

Attorney Duncan Griffith or even from the mayor herself.

I hung up, pleased that I hadn't given in to the urge to ask Ray if

he'd seen Chuck this morning. I was surprised I hadn't heard from him

yet.

I'd managed to reject only another three cases before my thoughts

drifted back to Clarissa Easterbrook. If she was still alive, what was

she doing right now?

I paged Johnson, and he returned the call right away. "Didn't I just

talk to you?" he asked.

"Have you thought about searching Easterbrook's office?"

"I thought you wanted to play things cool with him for now," he said.

I realized that he thought I was talking about Townsend. "No,

Clarissa's office. Maybe there's something there that would at least

give us some leads."

"It's looking like she was snatched from the neighborhood, so we've

been working from that area out. The office has been less of a

priority, but, yeah, you're right, we should at least check it out.

I'll get someone on it."

"Don't worry about it. I'll do it and call you when it's okay to go

in."

"Really, Kincaid, it's all right. I know you're new to this, but DAs

don't usually do any of the runaround work. One of the perks of the

job, right? Bossing cops around?"

"Trust me, there will come a time when you rue the day you encouraged

me to be bossier. I'm not doing this to take the load off you; I'm

doing it because I'm going stir crazy in this new rotation. Plus, I

have a feeling that if you guys storm into a judge's office with a

search warrant, the chief judge will be on the phone to Duncan

demanding my head."

"We're talking about me, Kincaid. I don't storm. I slide." He

dragged out the vowel in his last word.

"You get the drift."

"That I do. Go to it, then. Call me when you need me."

I buzzed through the rest of my screens, the promise of doing some real

work motivating me like a creme briilee waiting at the end of a bad

meal.

When I was done, I called the mayor's office. Although Clarissa's

position entitled her to be called Judge, hearings officers are

actually part of city administration. Anyone who disagrees with a city

agency's decision has to take an administrative appeal to a city

hearings officer before he can sue before a "real" judge. In short,

when it comes to city bureaucracy, a judge like Clarissa Easterbrook is

the last stop before the courthouse.

I explained the situation to the mayor's administrative assistant, who

referred me to Clarence Loutrell, the chief administrative hearings

officer.

Hanging up the phone, I swiveled my chair around to look out the

window. Okay, it was more of a cranking than a swivel with this

particular chair, but it was enough for me to see that there wasn't a

break from the rain yet. I generally prefer to handle this kind of

thing face-to-face. It's harder for someone to reject a request in

person than to say no to a faceless voice on the telephone.

Fuck it. The walk in the humidity was sure to leave me with a puffy

head of cotton-ball hair for the rest of the day, but four hours at a

desk after two weeks on the beach had me yearning to get out. Besides,

I could put my hair through a wind tunnel, and it wouldn't matter.

Clean clothes and a lack of BOis about all you need to meet minimum

standards for the courthouse crowd.

I signed myself out on the MCU white board without explanation,

following my practice of staking out ground early in a new job the way

Vinnie pees everywhere he goes to mark territory. No way was I going

to join the kiss-ups who leave notes on the board detailing their

precise location. That's what pagers were for.

I kicked off my black Ferragamo sling backs and threw them in my

briefcase while I shoved my stockinged feet into my New Balances. I'd

lost enough of my good shoes to Portland's damp streets.

On my way out, I swung by my old office in DVD. Kirsten

Holloway, newly promoted from the misdemeanor unit, had already covered

the place with her wedding photos and stuffed animals. She would learn

her lesson quickly. By the end of the week, anonymous pranksters would

be sure to have her cute little animals posed in backbreaking positions

violating the laws of thirty-six states. I didn't even want to think

about the Post-it notes she'd find stuck around the bride and groom. In

the meantime, no sign of my beloved chair.

I entered City Hall from its new Fourth Avenue entrance. The city had

completed what seemed like endless remodeling about a year ago. What

used to be a dingy back entrance through a metal door was now the main

entrance, hugged by pink pillars and a rose garden.

The refurbished City Hall beat the hell out of my rundown courthouse.

The renovation had exposed the building's original marble tile and

woodwork. To the extent that there was any natural light on this

crummy day, it flooded into the lobby through the atrium skylights. The

tiled staircases that had once been enclosed in a stairwell were now

open, exposing five floors of original copper handrails and plating.

I took the stairs to the third floor, then ducked into the corner to

switch my shoes. Judge Loutrell's office was in the suite at the end

of the hall.

I was in luck, or so it seemed. After a short call, Loutrell's

secretary told me he was in and willing to see me. Even though I

should have made an appointment, of course.

Loutrell rose from his desk to greet me. He was tall and thin, balding

but trying hard to conceal it with his last few wisps of white hair. I

shook his hand and introduced myself as a Deputy District Attorney.

"I'm sure you already know that Clarissa Easterbrook has been reported

missing."

"Yes. I was shocked when I heard it on the news this morning. It's

just not like Clarissa to be gone like this."

"That's what others have been telling us as well, so the police are

investigating every possibility. For now, they're focusing primarily

on Judge Easterbrook's neighborhood, but since I work at the courthouse

and was in the area, I thought I'd see if anyone she works with might

have any theories about where she could be or people the police should

be talking to."

"Gosh, not offhand. I wish I could help, but I didn't talk to Clarissa

much and I don't know much about her personal life."

"What about her professional life? Has there been anything unusual

lately for her at work?"

"Not that I can think of. Like I said, we didn't talk much, and all of

us work pretty independently. I'm the chief administrative officer,

but that doesn't mean much other than filling out some forms and

whatnot."

Now came the tricky part. "I'm sure it's a long shot that her

disappearance would have anything to do with work, but we want to make

sure we cover all the bases early on. What would be really helpful to

the investigation is to take a look in Judge Easterbrook's office. You

know, just to make sure nothing seems out of the ordinary."

I was about halfway through the request when Loutrell began to finger

the pen resting on his leather desk pad. By the time I was finished,

he had picked it up and was twisting the cap around in circles.

"Well, yes, I can see why that would be an important part of what

you're trying to do. But I'm sure you understand that I can't just

open up one of our hearing officers' offices for you."

"Judge Loutrell, one of your coworkers is missing. From everything

I've heard, including what you just told me, this is not a woman who

would run off without some explanation. One of her shoes was found in

a gutter. All I'm asking for is the chance to rule out the possibility

that this had anything to do with her work so the police can focus on

more likely possibilities."

"I understand all that, Ms. Kincaid, but I'm sure you understand that

there are privacy issues at stake."

"Clarissa Easterbrook is not a private attorney. She doesn't have any

clients, so we're not talking about privileged material. The only

privacy rights at issue are Clarissa Easterbrook's, and I think it's

safe to say that she'd want us to take a look under these

circumstances."

"I just don't know." He was still twisting the pen cap.

"I can have the police apply for a search warrant if you think that's a

more appropriate procedure." I managed to make it sound like an offer

to be helpful instead of a threat.

"I just don't think this is something I should be handling."

"The mayor's office pointed me to you. You're the chief administrative

hearings officer."

"And I told you that title means little in this context. I think you

should talk to the City Attorney's Office."

I thought about arguing but decided it was a waste of time. Loutrell

was a timid bureaucrat who was more concerned about straying beyond his

authority than finding Clarissa Easterbrook. He had also said the

magic attorney word: The City Attorney represented all city agencies,

including the hearings officers. If Loutrell told me to go to his

attorney, I didn't have much choice.

Luckily, the City Attorney's Office was just one floor up. When I

explained to the receptionist what I needed, however, she told me I'd

need to talk to the City Attorney himself, Dennis Coakley, who wasn't

going to be back until the end of the day. I left my name and number

and did my best to encourage her to get the message to him as soon as

possible.

On my way back down, I noticed the listing for Clarissa

Easterbrook's office on a sign at the third-floor landing. I followed

the arrow to the left, away from Loutrell's office, and found the suite

number I was looking for.

A receptionist with a pierced nose and red pixie haircut was busy

juggling calls, repeating, "City hearings department, please hold."

After three times she exhaled loudly and looked up. "Welcome to my

world. How can I help you?"

At least she had a sense of humor about it. I gave her my best

empathetic smile and introduced myself. She made the connection to

Clarissa's disappearance on her own. "Oh my God. I have been going

crazy in here this morning. I didn't listen to the news this morning

and came in early, before anyone else was around. The calls started

around seven-thirty, and I was, like, What do you mean she's missing? I

had to go out to my car and listen to the news on the radio. Finally,

someone came in this morning at nine to explain the situation to me.

The phone's been ringing off the hook."

"What kind of calls?" I asked.

"Reporters, mostly. I don't know what they expect me to tell them.

I've been reading the prepared statement I was given. Hold on a sec,

okay?" She jumped back to juggle the phones, telling each caller,

"Clarissa Easterbrook is an important member of the city community. We

hope for her speedy return, and our thoughts and prayers are with her

family at this critical time." As she repeated the line, she handed me

a memo from Clarence Loutrell with the typed-out statement.

Once she'd gotten through the on-hold callers, she let the phone ring

unanswered while we spoke.

"Seems like a small office. You must be pretty close to her."

"I guess. I started here last fall. I work for her and one of the

other hearings officers, Dave Olick. I'm pretty much their entire

staff. I do the phones, the secretarial work, any legal research that

comes up. I graduated last spring from Lewis and Clark.

It wasn't exactly my dream job after law school, but it's a job, at

least. I'm Nelly by the way. Nelly Giacoma."

The Portland legal market, like legal markets everywhere, was getting

tight. I wasn't surprised that a recent law graduate might have to

clerk for an administrative law judge for a while. This one's nose

ring, lollipop hair, and what I now saw was a yin-yang symbol tattooed

on her ankle probably didn't help.

"Since I'm across the street at the courthouse, I just dropped by to

see if the people who worked with Clarissa had any thoughts on where

she might be, that kind of thing."

Nelly shook her head slowly while she spoke. "No, I just have no idea.

Everything was fine last week. She was working when I left at five

Friday, and she said she'd see me on Monday."

"You can't think of anything unusual that's happened lately? Something

that might be connected somehow?"

"Well, about a month ago, some guy on one of her cases sort of blew up

at her."

"Do you know anything about the case?" I asked.

"Not really. The guy was getting evicted, but I don't know what the

issue was."

"If you could pull the file, I can go through it while you get some of

those calls." I tilted my head toward her phone, which was still

ringing.

"Gee, I don't think I can just let you go through the file."

"At least parts of it are public record."

"But I don't think the whole thing is, especially when the case is

still pending. Besides, I don't even know what case it is. I'd have

to go through all the files and try to find it. I better check with

Judge Loutrell and get back to you."

I picked her brain for more about the ticked-off evicted guy or for any

other cases of note, but didn't get any further. "What about stuff

outside of work? Did you talk to Clarissa enough to know anything

about her personal life?"

"Well, I know she's married."

Oh, yeah, they were best friends, all right.

"And how did that seem to be going?" I asked.

"Good, I guess. Clarissa's pretty private, though. Or she is with me,

at least. We're pretty much employer-employee. But she's really,

really nice. I hope she's all right. I'm sure she is, isn't she?"

I nodded and smiled, doing my best to appear unworried. When I said

goodbye, Nelly apologized that she couldn't be more helpful but assured

me she'd talk to Loutrell about going through the files. I handed her

my card, but I knew she wouldn't get back to me. Loutrell would

forward the request to Dennis Coakley, leaving me in the same spot I

was already in.

All I had to show for my out-of-court venture was a head full of frizz

and a few extra calories burned on the stairs. So much for making a

difference in the world.

While I was waiting at the crosswalk back to the courthouse, my pager

vibrated at my waist. I recognized the number as the Major Crimes Team

desk and called back on my cell.

After half a ring I heard, "MCT. Johnson."

"Hey, Ray. It's Samantha. I got a page."

"I know. It was from me. We finally got hold of Susan Kerr. I'm

headed out with Walker to her house now. Can you meet us?"

"Where's the house?"

"Up in the west hills," he said.

"Can you swing by the courthouse and get me? I took the bus in today."

Schlepping across downtown to check out a car from the county lot would

take longer than the short ride from the courthouse up into the

hills.

"Damn, Kincaid. What are you doing riding the bus? We got to get you

livin' a little larger."

"I ride the bus because I'm a good citizen, Raymond. I recycle too."

"You are definitely a different kind of DA, girl. Riding the damn city

bus with the rest of the citizens. I'll swing in front on Fourth in

about ten minutes. Cool?"

"Yep. See you then."

I used the ten minutes to make sure nothing urgent was waiting for me

back in the office and to put something called mud in my

moisture-crazed hair for the trip. My best friend, Grace, is a

hairdresser. She cut my dark brown locks (the bottle says coffee, to

be exact) into a wispy little do a few months back, and to her chagrin

I was in the ugly process of growing it back into my boring reliable

shoulder-length bob. According to her, all I needed was the right

product to see my hair through its growing pangs. I must have been

doing something wrong with the mud, because by the time my fingers were

done crimping and twisting, I looked like Neil Young in drag.

I left the courthouse just as Johnson and Walker pulled up in a white

unmarked bureau Crown Vic.

Lunch-hour traffic had begun to accumulate downtown, but the drive was

quick once we crossed 1-405 and got out of the downtown business

district. As Johnson maneuvered the tight curves up the west hills, I

asked Walker what they knew so far about Susan Kerr.

"Not too much. Her PPDS printouts right there," he said, reaching back

to hand me a sheet of green computer paper from the Portland Police

Data System. "Nothing to see. She's forty-two, no criminal history,

drives a Mercedes."

"The big one," Johnson cut in. "I told you, the woman's got some

cash."

"We don't know much more than that. One criminal complaint four years

ago for a smash-and-grab," Walker explained.

Portland has low violent crime and high property crime, driven

primarily by a large population of street kids and drug addicts. Almost

everyone with a car has at some point been a smash-and-grab victim. My

poor Jetta's windows have been smashed on three occasions, once for my

stereo, once for the gym bag I stupidly left in the backseat, and once

for nothing but a new Lyle Lovett CD. That one really pissed me off.

Walker pulled his spiral notebook from the breast pocket of his shirt

to refresh his memory. "The co-complainant on the smash-and-grab was

Herbert Kerr at the same address. Presumably the husband, but he's got

a 1932 date of birth. He died two years ago."

"Hey, some women go for the old guys. Look at you. You've got a

woman." Johnson was laughing at his joke, but Walker gave his partner

a look to show he wasn't amused.

"Yeah, and she's been stuck with me for thirty-two years. Somehow I

suspect I'm not Susan Kerr's type."

"Well, I know I'm not."

"Excuse me, fellas, but could we get back to talking about the case?

For the record, I think any woman would be lucky to have either of

you."

"Sorry, Sam," Walker said. "Lack of sleep gets to you. Truth is,

we're not getting anywhere. Media coverage is usually good on a

missing persons case, but this one's out of control. Calls have been

flooding into the hotline we set up, but it's a bunch of stuff that's

either wrong, contradictory, or totally irrelevant."

"Like what?" I asked.

I could tell he didn't know where to begin. "Well, we've got people in

the neighborhood telling us they saw her walking her dog on Sunday at

eight a.m." eleven a.m." three p.m." and seven p.m. We've got people

all over town calling us about possible sightings today. Then we've

got the callers who need us to know everything they ever happened to

notice about the Easterbrooks that their landscapers were out on

Tuesday, that UPS left something on the porch on Friday, that the

windows were open overnight on Saturday. You don't want to tell people

to stop calling, but you'd think these people would have the good sense

to know they're not being helpful."

"Don't forget the psychics, Jack."

"Ah, Jesus. The psychics. One lady called up crying that Clarissa was

at the bottom of the Willamette and couldn't cross over to heaven until

we recovered her body from the river. Fucking ghoulish. There's just

way too many nut jobs out there for us to keep up with the leads."

"Well, I think I might have something worth pursuing," I said. I gave

them the limited information I'd gotten from Nelly Giacoma about the

ticked-off evicted guy.

"Hard to look into it without knowing who we're talking about," Johnson

said. "Want us to get a warrant for the office?"

"I'm working on it. I think it'll be faster to go through the City

Attorney, but I'll let you know what I hear. What about the husband?"

I asked. "He still acting like what you'd expect?"

Walker answered. "Yeah, seems all right. I was over there this

morning. You know, shook up but not overwrought. He's definitely in

no shape to be cutting anyone open; he was doing what he could to get

his hospital rounds covered. But he's out there on the news, being

cooperative. I'm not getting a vibe from this one."

"Me neither," Johnson said, "but you never can tell."

I assumed when the car stopped in front of one of the nicer Portland

Heights spreads that we had arrived at Susan Kerr's. As deluxe as the

place was, however, it must not have been good enough because she was

making some improvements. There was a dumpster in the driveway and a

construction truck across the street.

I opened my door, but Johnson wasn't ready to drop the subject of

Townsend Easterbrook. "I know you got your boss to think about,

Kincaid, but I think we need to at least consider whether we should ask

the guy to take a poly. Far as I'm concerned, the husband's always a

suspect. I don't care who he is."

"OK, we'll talk about it after we're done here." I stepped into the

rain, making my way to the house as quickly as I could.

Three.

I was surprised when a maid answered Susan Kerr's front door.

Definitely not a Portland thing. This woman had real money.

The maid led us through three rooms and told us to sit in the fourth.

Big on color-coordinated stripes, dots, and paisleys, Susan Kerr's

taste was the decorating equivalent of a Laura Ashley orgy. And, as

far as I could tell, every room we passed was what most would consider

a formal sitting room and what I would consider useless: no bed, no TV,

no snacks. Maybe that was the purpose of the home improvements; I

could hear construction noises coming from somewhere deep inside the

house.