Missing Justice

I recognized Susan Kerr from the press briefing. As I took in her

powder-blue suit, French twist, and full face of makeup, a few bars of

that Stephen Sondheim song about ladies who lunch came to mind. She

had that great dewy skin I always envy, beautiful dark hair and eyes,

and had probably even had some work done, but she looked seriously

uptight.

Before we'd even completed the introductions, the maid was back with a

tray of coffee and tea. "Thanks, Rosie. You heading out to yoga?"

Rosie nodded.

"Go ahead and take my car. I'm not going anywhere." When Rosie left,

Susan explained. "I've turned her on to yoga for some back spasms

she's been having, but her sunroofs leaking, and the shop can't fix it

until next week. Poor thing showed up this morning soaking wet. "

Maybe I had judged Susan Kerr prematurely.

"Sorry about all this banging," she said, gesturing in the air the way

people do when they try to point to a sound. She pulled a clip from

her hair and shook her head slightly. Loose brown waves tumbled past

her shoulders. "I've got this creepy basement fit for Freddy Krueger,

and I finally broke down to have it refinished. Anyway, I'm sorry I

wasn't at Clarissa's last night. I was at a fund-raiser for the museum

and didn't get Tara s message until nearly midnight. She told me to

call her, but I can't believe she didn't tell me why. When I woke up

this morning, Clarissa's disappearance was all over the news. Of

course, I called Tara at once to find out who I could talk to. She's

the one who gave me your number, Detective Johnson."

"Tara and Townsend tell us you're probably Clarissa's closest friend,"

Johnson said. His gentle comment called for a response but didn't

steer the conversation in a particular direction.

"Better than friends, detective." Kerr leaned forward and touched

Johnson's forearm as she spoke, a gesture that was somehow more

reassuring than flirtatious. She must have sensed that Ray had arrived

at her home with some preconceived notions. "With my parents gone,

I've known Clarissa longer than anyone else in my entire life. She's

the closest thing to a sister I've got. We've been through it all

together."

We stayed silent during her pause. For Johnson and Walker,

the silence was probably part of the strategy. I was quiet because I

couldn't help but think of Grace and how lost I'd be if anything ever

happened to her.

"I want to believe that there's an explanation," Susan said, "but I

keep coming back to what I know is true. This is totally unlike

Clarissa. She's so ... responsible. Predictable. She'd never go off

like this without telling someone: Tara, Townsend, me, her parents.

She's surrounded by people who are close to her. She'd never let us

worry this way. Something terrible must have happened."

This time, the silence that followed wasn't enough to prod Susan into

speaking, so Johnson gave a gentle nudge. "Everything we've learned

about the case so far leads us to think that we're investigating a

crime here, not just a missing person. Part of what we're doing now is

putting together a timeline for the last few days. Maybe you can start

by telling us about the last time you talked to Clarissa."

"Sure. It was just Saturday. Townsend was working at the hospital

nothing new there so Clarissa had the whole day free. We had a late

lunch, then went to the Nordstrom anniversary sale."

"How was her mood?" Johnson asked.

"Same old Clarissa. Fun, talkative, sweet. Afraid to spend money."

Susan paused and smiled. "Sorry. If you knew Clarissa .. . well,

you'd know what I mean. Best sale of the year, and I had to talk her

into buying a couple of sweaters. She's very practical."

Susan and Clarissa clearly lived in a different world from most of us.

I'd seen Clarissa's closet, after all. I couldn't imagine what Susan's

must be packed with.

"Any financial problems that you know of?" Johnson asked.

Susan laughed. "Oh, God, no. She and Townsend do fine. It's just

Clarissa's way. We grew up in southeast Portland, you know. About

half a step up from the trailer parks. Well, she was half a step up. I

was basically right in there. She worked her way out by studying hard

and putting herself through school."

"Did you go to school together?" I asked.

She laughed again. "Sure through high school. If you're asking how I

dealt with my generational income challenge, I won't waste your time by

making it sound heroic. I was lucky enough to be the prettiest

aerobics instructor at the Multno-mah Athletic Club when my husband

Herbie decided to settle down. We were married for ten years before he

passed away. I've always felt a little guilty for having at least as

much as Clarissa when I can barely balance a checkbook."

I had to hand it to her. Susan Kerr had a hell of a personality.

There's something reassuring about a person who is so comfortable about

who and what she is.

"So when exactly was she with you on Saturday?" Walker asked.

"I picked her up at her house around one. We had a long lunch,

probably until three, then shopped at Lloyd Center until I dropped her

off around seven."

"Can you think of anything unusual that came up?" Walker was quicker

to move to narrow questions than I would have been.

"Like what?" she asked.

"Anything," he said. "Someone following her, a run-in with someone,

something she seemed worried about. Things like that."

"Anything at all that you think possibly could be helpful," I added.

She shook her head. "No. We certainly didn't notice it if someone was

following us. I mean, who would follow us?" Susan's comment seemed to

trigger her own memory. "Well, actually, about a month ago, she did

mention some guy in her caseload who was getting a little creepy. She

usually writes off the stuff people say to her as nothing, but this guy

had her a bit unnerved. I told her to call the police if she was

really worried, but I don't think she ever did. She told me a few days

ago that she hadn't heard anything else from him; I forgot to ask her

about it on Saturday." She was no doubt wondering whether she'd ever

have another chance.

"Her assistant at the office mentioned something similar to me, but she

couldn't give me the file. Do you remember anything else about the

case?" I asked.

"I don't recall whether she ever used his name. The irony is that

Clarissa actually felt sorry for the guy, but there wasn't anything she

could do for him. He was getting evicted from public housing under

some policy that lets them kick you out if someone visits you with

drugs?"

I could tell she wasn't sure if she had it right, so I nodded to let

her know that I was familiar with the policy.

"Anyway, it was a big mess. Clarissa didn't think she could stop the

city from doing it, but the guy said he'd lose custody of his kids if

he didn't have a place for them to live. She was worried that if she

called the police about the letters and it turned out that he was only

blowing off some steam, she'd make it even harder for him to keep his

kids."

"Do you know what he did that had her on edge?" I asked.

"Just a couple of letters, I think. Ranting and raving the way a lot

of people do, but something about how she should have to know his pain

someday. I know I agreed with her at the time that it sounded a little

threatening."

"And you don't know whether she did anything in response?"

"No. It alarmed her at first, which was why I suggested she call the

police. I asked her about it a few times after that, but she seemed to

have gotten over it."

I'd had similar experiences. A defendant gets in your face,

and it feels like a conflict that could rip your guts out. By the end

of the week, it's just another story to share at a cocktail party to

distinguish yourself from all the other boring lawyers.

"Is that enough for you to be able to find the file?" she asked.

"Should be," Johnson said. "We'll be sure to follow up on it. What

about Clarissa's personal life? She seem happy in her marriage?"

Susan Kerr leaned back in her chair, took in a deep breath, and smiled

politely. "I was wondering when you'd get to that. Classic, right?

Whenever something goes wrong, it's got to be the spouse. Hell, poor

Herbie died of a heart attack, but don't think I didn't know what some

of his friends were whispering behind my back."

Johnson had clearly dealt with this kind of response before, because he

handled it like a pro. "I know this is upsetting for you, but, as

Clarissa's best friend, you're the one who can be most helpful in

pointing us in the right direction."

"Well, thank you for that, but whatever the right direction is, that

ain't it. If I thought for a second that Townsend had anything to do

with this, I'd be leading the charge. Shit, I love the man, but I'd

probably kill him myself."

"This early in the case, we have to consider every scenario."

"Well, you're on the wrong track. Townsend and Clarissa are a great

team. To the extent she ever complains, it's the stuff every couple

deals with finding enough time for each other, who does the dishes,

boring shit like that. I doubt Townsend's ever raised his voice to

her, let alone what you're thinking. It's just not in him."

Johnson and Walker were polite enough not to roll their eyes. They'd

been around long enough to know what ordinary citizens don't want to

believe you can never tell who has it in them to kill.

It was almost two by the time Johnson and Walker dropped me off

downtown, and I was starving. The rain had finally stopped, so I

walked the two blocks to Pioneer Courthouse Square, got a small

radiatore with pesto from the pasta cart on Sixth and Yamhill, and

headed back to eat at my desk. When I went to erase my sign-out on the

white board I found that anonymous coworkers had written, Shoe

shopping, Back to Hawaii, and Does Kincaid still work here? next to my

original out. The graffiti made me laugh, but I went ahead and erased

it while I was at it.

I hit the speakerphone to check my voice mail but was interrupted by

the rap of fingers against my open door. I swung my chair around to

find Jessica Walters, the only female supervisor in the office and

someone who I was pretty sure had never spoken a word to me during my

tenure as a DDA. As usual, she wore a tailored pantsuit and

oxford-cloth shirt, her trademark pencil tucked neatly behind her

ear.

"Jessica. Hi." My surprise to see her, combined with the more than

mild intimidation she inspired in me, ruined any chance I might have

had at witty repartee. Walters had been a prosecutor for nearly two

decades, put more men on death row than any other DA in the state, and,

as far as I could tell, never had cause to doubt that she was smarter

and quicker than anyone else in a room. She was currently in charge of

the gang unit.

"Welcome to the club, Kincaid. You're the first of your kind up here.

Congratulations."

"Thanks, but I thought you were the first. Weren't you in MCU before

you got your own unit?"

"Yep, was up here for almost ten years. So was Sally Her-ring ton

before she jumped ship to join the dark side. But you're the first

hetero a role model for all the straight women in the office who said

it couldn't be done."

There was a crowd of paranoid younger women in the office who were

convinced that the boss created the appearance of gender fairness in

the office by promoting lesbians who were perceived to be less likely

to rock the cultural boat captained by his buddies. The truth was

sadder. The atmosphere here was so rough, both for women and for

dedicated parents, that the lawyers who were (or intended someday to

be) both of those things requested other "opportunities" in the office.

So-called voluntary transfers to nontrial units like appeals, child

support, and parental terminations became their own kind of

self-imposed mommy track.

If anything was going to kill the conspiracy theory and the office

culture, it was the increasingly rampant rumor that Jessica and her

drop-dead gorgeous partner of nine years were trying to get pregnant. I

couldn't wait to watch a tough guy like Frist wiggle in his seat while

"Nail Them to the Wall" Walters breast-fed her kid during a homicide

call-out. Payback for every time I've had to listen to colleagues

bemoan uniquely masculine complaints like jock itch and beer-goggle

bangs.

"To tell you the truth, I was beginning to wonder what was going on

with you in that department. Now all the support staff can talk about

is you and Forbes. After all the ninnies in this office that guy has

bagged, he's stepping up in the world."

Given my general anxiety about dating a cop, the last thing I needed

was a reminder of the many brief relationships this particular one has

had over the years. If ours turned out to be as fleeting, I might be

known as yet another Forbes conquest.

Jessica must have realized that I didn't take the comment as she

intended it. "I was saying you're a good catch, Kincaid, but I should

probably keep my mouth shut and stick to work. It's a well-deserved

shot you've got here. You're gonna be great."

"Thanks, Jessica. That's really nice of you to say."

"No problem. Just remember, don't let these fuckers give you too much

shit. You'll need to pay your dues at first, but then it's about

carrying your fair share of the load. Don't be afraid to get in their

faces if you need to."

I thanked her for her advice before she left, mentally crossing my

fingers that there wouldn't be a need for me to demonstrate that I

already knew how to push at least as hard as she did.

Among my many waiting voice mails was one from the City Attorney,

Dennis Coakley. He'd chosen to leave me a message at my desk even

though I'd given the receptionist my cell phone number. I'd

intentionally phone-tagged people before and knew there was only one

way to win this game.

I called the number he'd left for me, which, of course, led to his

assistant. She told me he was in a meeting but assured me she'd tell

him I called.

"He is back in the office?" I asked. "I just want to make sure he's

going to get the message."

"Yes, he's back. I'll let him know you called just as soon as he's out

of his meeting."

With that, I threw my running shoes back on, signed out, and trekked

over to City Hall. I gave the receptionist at the City Attorney's

Office my name and explained that I wanted to see Dennis Coakley.

She seemed confused. "Didn't we just speak on the phone?"

"Yep, that was me."

"Um did he call you back or something? I haven't given him the

message, because he's still occupied."

"That's OK, I'll wait," I said, as I settled into a chair near the

front door. Nonresponsive answers might be objectionable in court, but

they work wonders in the real world. Ten minutes later, Dennis Coakley

himself came to the front desk and called my name. Faster than a

doctor's office.

Coakley's office was conservative but well furnished, and I took a seat

at the small conference table he led me to. I'd seen him around town

before, and he looked no different now than he always did:

wheat-colored bowl cut, glasses thick as microwave doors, bad suit.

Before I had a chance to say anything, he took the lead. "Given your

presence here, Ms. Kincaid, I feel I need to say something that I

shouldn't have to. I know your line of work requires you to deal with

some people who well, let's just call them uncooperative. But I hope

you didn't feel you needed to come over here personally to exert

pressure on me. Frankly, I find it a little insulting. I happen to

know Clarissa Easterbrook and would like to do whatever I can to help

find her."

"It's nothing like that. In fact, I appreciate your calling me back so

quickly. It's just that this is my first day back in the office for a

while, and I needed the air. Your assistant mentioned you were in, so

..." A lie, to be sure, but much better than admitting my tendencies

to be an untrusting freak.

If Coakley sensed the fib, he was kind enough to gloss over it. "Good.

No misunderstandings, then. Tell me what you need from us to help."

"At this point, we don't know. Officially, it's still a missing person

case, but so far nothing suggests that Clarissa took off on her own,

and the police don't have any leads. You probably heard that they

found her dog and her shoe by Taylor's Ferry Road." He nodded sadly.

"You can imagine the scenario that brings to mind. But we haven't

ruled out the chance that this could have something to do with her

work. We just want to go through her office to see if anything there

leaps out at us."

He scratched his chin as if I had just asked him to calculate the

circumference of his coffee cup using only the diameter. "This has

never come up before. I'm not sure I can let you do that. Let me look

into it, and I'll get back to you tomorrow. As long as there are no

legal hurdles, it shouldn't be a problem." He started to get up to

walk me out.

I stayed in my seat. "I assumed we'd be able to get in today. The

sooner the better."

"I'd like to be able to do that, but I don't see how I can."

"Unlock the door, and I can have an officer here within the hour."

"I can't just let the police roam through a judge's files, Ms.

Kincaid."

"Call me Samantha. And of course you can. She's not an actual judge;

she's a hearings officer. I assume if any other city employee was

missing, this wouldn't be an issue."

"But the fact that she's a city employee makes Clarissa my client. I

just need enough time to make sure there's no privileged information in

her office. If there is, I'll let you know I've withheld something,

and we can go over to the courthouse and figure it out from there."

"Look, this isn't tobacco litigation. What kind of privileged

information are you worried about? We're just trying to find out where

she is."

"I know, and that's why I'm probably going to stay here all night doing

document review in her office, so you can get in as soon as possible.

But our hearings officers call for legal advice and might keep memos of

those conversations. If something like that exists, and I turn it over

to you, it waives privilege. I can't do that."

"I'm sorry, Dennis, but that makes absolutely no sense. How can the

judges call you for advice when the city's a party to the disputes

they're handling?"

"Well, obviously we don't give advice on how to resolve individual

cases as hearings officers, but we are their attorneys in their status

as city employees. It's a complicated relationship. All the more

reason for me to make sure we dot our is and cross our t's, which I

assure you I will do by tomorrow."

"I'll do the search myself, if that helps. I'm an attorney too, and I

won't disclose anything that shouldn't be disclosed."

Unfortunately, Coakley knew that's not how attorney-client privilege

works. "But you don't represent the city, so I can't let you fish

around in the files without reviewing them first. If you knew

specifically what you wanted, I could look for it right now and give it

to you, assuming nothing needed to be red acted I got the impression,

though, that you won't know what you're looking for until you find

it."

"I think that's probably right. I know she was having a problem with

one of the appellants in a public housing eviction case. Both her

clerk and her friend mentioned that he'd written letters to Clarissa

that she found threatening, but they didn't know his name. Is there

some way you could track that down, short of doing an entire review of

her office?"

"Should be."

I told him everything I knew so far about the case.

"Let me see what I can find out. You want to wait here, or should I

call you?"

"I'll wait. Thanks." He seemed to find my choice insulting.

Five minutes later, I felt my pager go off. The MCT number again.

I took the liberty of using the phone on Coakley's desk to return the

call. This time, I was expecting Johnson to pick up, but the voice

that answered "MCT" belonged to someone I'd known for fifteen years:

Chuck Forbes.

The first time I saw Chuck screech his yellow Karmann Ghia into the lot

at Grant High and then step out in his washed-out 501s, I was hooked.

As much as I didn't want to be, I had to admit I still was.

I hesitated a moment too long. "Hi, it's Samantha Kincaid. I think

Detective Johnson might have paged me?"

"You need to shake the salt water out of your ears, Kincaid. It's

Chuck."

"Oh, hey. What's going on?"

"Two weeks in Hawaii, and that's all I get? What's going on? Bad news

is going on, but Raymond's standing over my shoulder waiting to break

it to you. Everything all right?"

"Sure," I said. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Ray's glaring at me," he said, "so I'm going to hand you off. But

call me later, OK? I want to hear about your trip."

I had tried to play it cool, but Chuck and I were way past

new-relationship head games. "And I want to tell you all about it. I

missed you, Chuck."

"Yeah. Me too," he said sweetly, before handing the phone to

Johnson.

"They found a body in Glenville. I'm heading out there now."

"Is it Clarissa?" I asked.

"We don't have an official ID yet, but, yeah, looks like it's going to

be her."

What I felt at the moment couldn't have been about any meaningful

personal attachment to Clarissa Easterbrook. But I nevertheless felt

myself go empty at the confirmation of what I'd already been

suspecting, and I wondered how I was going to handle a job that would

make this feeling routine.

"Kincaid, you still there? I got to bounce."

"Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Tell me where it is, and I'll meet you there,"

I said, fishing a legal pad from my bag. The lead detectives needed to

arrive at the crime scene as soon as possible, so it was mutually

understood that I'd have to fend for myself. I scribbled down a street

address that Johnson told me corresponded to a construction site at the

outer edge of the suburb of Glenville.

"I need to take care of a couple things and pick up a county car, but

I'll meet you guys out there as soon as I can. Call me if you need

anything."

I walked out of Coakley's office, telling his assistant that something

had come up and I needed to leave.

"He went down to Judge Easterbrook's office, if you want to try to

catch him," she offered.

Dennis Coakley was leaving Clarissa Easterbrook's chambers as I was

walking down the hall. He carried a legal-sized manila file folder and

a small stack of documents.

"You really crack the whip, don't you? Here I thought I'd worked

pretty fast."

I tried to muster a smile. "I'm sorry. Something came up at the

office and I need to head back. I thought I'd try to catch you on my

way out."

"Good timing, because I think I found what you were looking for. Looks

like this is it," he said, holding up a file labeled Housing Authority

of Portland v. Melvin Jackson. "No privileged information there, so I

had Clarissa's assistant make copies if you want to just take them with

you."

He handed me about twenty pages of paper that had been clipped

together.

"I'm sorry I can't do more for you right now, but, like I said, I'll do

the review as fast as I can."

I let him think I was satisfied leaving it at that. For now.

I started to head directly to the county lot by the Morrison Bridge to

pick up a car, then remembered Russell Frist's admonition not to run

the case solo if it turned into a murder.

I stopped in the office, hoping Frist would be in an afternoon court

appearance. My plan was to leave him an e-mail so he'd know how hard I

tried to follow his advice. Unfortunately, he was at his desk shooting

the shit with Jessica Walters. I rapped on the door to interrupt.

"Good to see you, Kincaid. I was beginning to wonder whether this

morning's screening duty was enough to chase you out of here," he

said.

"I'm not so easily chased."

"There you go. Don't let this guy push you around." Jessica was

getting up from her chair. "I'm out of here. VQ after work?"

The Veritable Quandary was a veritable institution of downtown drinking

and a longtime hangout for the big boys at the DA's office. Russ told

Jessica he'd stop by for a quick beer, then asked me if I wanted to

join them.

"I doubt I can make it. Something's come up and I'm actually on my way

out to Glenville."

"Anything having to do with Glenville is my cue to leave," Jessica

said. "Russ, I'll catch you later. Sam, if I can't get you a beer

tonight, we'll do it next time."

"So," Russ asked, "what in suburbia could possibly be more important

than a Monday-night drink?"

"Ray Johnson just called. I don't have the details, but someone found

a body near a construction site out there. The unofficial ID suggests

it's Easterbrook."

To my surprise, Russ made the sign of the cross. "Damn it. Just once,

I'd like to see a happy ending on one of these cases."

I was tempted to ask whether he was sure what ending was happier:

closure for the living left behind or the hope that remained in a

missing person's absence? I kept the thought to myself.

"I told the MCT guys I'd meet them out there," I said. "Are you coming

with me?"

"You think you're ready for this, Kincaid?"

"Look, Russ, I appreciate the concern, but if I didn't think I was

ready, I wouldn't have accepted the rotation. You told me this morning

you thought I was in over my head, so I'm asking if you want to go.

Make up your mind, because I'm leaving."

"You've been on a call-out before?"

I flashed my best sarcastic smile. "You know I have, Dad." All new

DDAs tag along on a homicide call-out when they first start in the

office. If you counted the scene at my house a few weeks ago, I guess

I'd been to two.

"Fine, then. I'm switching into good-boss mode. If you don't think

you need me, go on your own. But page me if you need me, promise?"

I gave him my most earnest assurances while he wrote down his pager

number.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," I said.

"I'll limit myself to two beers at VQ just in case. Call me later,

just to let me know what's up?"

It was fair enough, so I told him I would.

I made a brief computer stop to check out Melvin Jackson and get

directions to the address Johnson had given me.

I ran Jackson for both local and out-of-jurisdiction convictions.

Nothing but a two-year-old DUI and a pop for cocaine residue a year

before that. Maybe the second one sounds major, but a stop with some

burnt rock in your crack pipe translates into a violation and a fine in

Portland, Oregon. What did I expect to find on his record? Repeated

offenses for stalking and kidnapping? Despite common perceptions, a

remarkable number of murder defendants have no prior involvement with

law enforcement.

Next stop: Mapquest. Glenville's one of those new suburbs. You know

the kind: stores in big boxes, houses with four-car garages on

quarter-acre lots, plenty of Olive Gardens for family dining. I'd

watched it grow over the past five years, passing it on the freeway

each time I drove to the coast. But I'd never be able to find my way

around it without a little virtual help.

I clicked on the option for driving directions and then entered the

addresses for the courthouse and the construction site. Two seconds

later, voila turn-by-turn directions with accompanying map. Whenever I

try to figure out how a computer can provide driving directions between

any two points in this enormous country of ours, it starts to hurt my

head. I choose to chalk it up to magic.

I hoofed it to the county lot, checked out a blue Taurus from the

fleet, and did my best to follow the painfully detailed directions.

Around mile four on Highway 26, my cell rang. MCT again. They should

have been using my DA pager to reach me. I was careful not to give my

cell number out for work.

The call turned out to straddle the line between the personal and

professional, a differentiation I'd successfully maintained until a

couple of months ago. It was Chuck.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Just past the zoo. I'm on my way to Glenville."

"Good, I was hoping to catch you in the car. Sorry to bug you on a

call-out, but I wanted to make sure you knew that Mike and I are

working on this thing too. It didn't sound like Johnson got a chance

to tell you."

No, he hadn't. This was great. A relationship with Chuck broke not

only my no-cop rule but also the completely independent,

profession-neutral rule against dating Chuck. He makes me, in a word,

crazy. He is stubborn, headstrong, mule-minded, and every other

synonym for a particular characteristic that does not blend well with

what I like to call, in contrast, my well-established personality.

Dating him would be hard enough; working with him would only make

matters worse.

"Russ Frist is running MCU now, and we haven't talked yet about how to

handle this. Hell, Chuck, you and I haven't even talked about it.

Given that we haven't spoken to each other in two weeks, maybe this is

a non issue But right now my mind is on this case, not our

relationship. Your working on this investigation is going to force the

issue."

Chuck, of course, had no problem talking about "us" just minutes after

learning about a murder. He had been in MCT for nearly two years now,

which translates into roughly forty homicide cases. Work in this

business long enough, and you see death as a detached professional, the

way a plumber must view a burst pipe.

"Whoa, back it up, Kincaid. I haven't talked to you for two weeks

because you said you needed time away with Grace."

"And I did. All I was saying, Chuck, is that things were all hot and

lusty for a while there, and now you haven't talked to me in two weeks.

More importantly, I'm in the middle of my first murder case and just

can't deal with this right now."

"Hot and lusty, huh?"

Damn him. "Shut up and answer the question."

"I didn't hear a question, counselor."

Crazy. That's what he makes me. Two minutes on the phone with him,

and I already had visions of running my Jetta off the road. I hung up

instead.

The phone rang immediately.

"I think we got disconnected," he said.

"You know these pesky west hills," I replied.

"Cut you off every time. Look, I'm sorry I pissed you off. All I was

trying to say was that you went to Maui because you needed some space.

The funny thing about space is that you only get it if the people close

to you step back and give it to you."

"I needed to get away from work and from my house, where really bad

things happened, Chuck. I didn't need distance from you."

"OK, I understand that. I was there for the aftermath, remember?"

I passed a sign announcing the approaching exit for Glen-ville and

realized I needed to wrap this up. "Look, I'm sorry we didn't talk

earlier," I said. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is."

"Sure it does. Let's say it's my fault."

That's my boy. "The point is, we still don't know if it's a good idea

to work together. I'll tell Frist to call your lieutenant and take

care of it."

"What, like your father called Griffith? You know what kind of shit

I'd take down here for that?"

Yes, that had been a bit embarrassing. Dad's a retired forest ranger

and former Oregon State Police officer. He can be a little protective.

After the recent festivities at my house, Martin Kincaid had called the

District Attorney to make sure that no further coworkers would be

getting shot in my living room or otherwise endangering his little

girl.

"All right," I conceded, "no calls to the lieutenant."

"It'll be fine. The LT knows about the situation so he's got Mike and

me doing the grunt work. No confessions, no searches, strictly backup.

The priority right now is to hurry up those phone records Johnson's

been waiting on. As other things come up that need to be run down,

we'll take care of it while Johnson and Walker work lead. Glamorous,

huh?"

"When you say it that way."

"Can you live with it, Kincaid, or do I need to turn in my badge and

gun? Your choice."

"You'd do that for me, Chuck Forbes?"

"You bet. But then I wouldn't have a job. Might hang out at your

house all day and night, unshaved and overfed. What do you think?"

"I think you better get off the damn phone and find me some phone

records."

"Ooh, baby, that's very hot and lusty."

"No more of that," I said. "Call me later, OK?"

"Ball's back in my court?"

"For now," I said, and hung up.

When I finally got to the point where I was supposed to go . 18 miles

and then turn right for .07 miles, I nearly ran into the yellow crime

scene tape.

PPB had used the tape to close off the entirety of what the sign

declared was a state-of-the-art office park, coming soon. A young

officer stood at the foot of a gravel road leading to the construction

area. I flashed my District Attorney ID, and he described the several

turns I'd need to make around the various office buildings.

The day was beginning to lose its light, and the bureau's crime scene

technicians were erecting floods at the edge of a wooded area that

surrounded the new development. I could see Johnson and Walker were

already here, talking to some of the techs. I parked behind one of the

bureau's vans and prepared myself for Clarissa Easterbrook's corpse.

I'd seen four dead bodies in my life. One was my mother's, two were in

my living room last month, and one was on my first and only homicide

call-out. On that one, I'd been lucky enough to draw a fresh OD.

Depending on how the events leading to her death unfolded, Clarissa

Easterbrook could have been dead up to 35 hours.

Johnson met me at the car and we walked toward the woods. I could tell

from the surrounding area that the developer had clear-cut the old

growth that must have previously covered these hundred acres or so.

When we reached the end of the clearing, Johnson turned sideways and

stepped carefully through the trees. I followed and, just a few feet

later, saw what used to be

Clarissa Easterbrook, still in her pink turtleneck and gray pants. A

lot of good that piece of investigative work had done.

In novels, there's often something beautiful or at least touching about

the dead. A victim's arms extended like the wings of an angel, her

face at peace, her hand reaching for justice. This was nothing like

that. Clarissa Easterbrook's body was laid on the dirt, face up. The

right side of her head was gone, and I could find nothing poetic about

it.

The only worthwhile observations to be made about the corpse were

scientific. I initially focused on the disfigurement of her head, but

Johnson pointed out the discoloration on what remained of her face.

Purple streaks stained the left edge of her face and neck, like

bruising against skin that otherwise looked like silly putty. "Looks

like someone moved her."

When blood is no longer pumped by a beating heart, it settles with

gravity to the parts of the body closest to the ground. Clarissa

Easterbrook was on her back now, but immediately after her death she

had almost certainly been lying on her left side.

I watched as crime scene technicians methodically photographed and

bagged every item that might potentially become relevant to our

investigation. A candy wrapper, several cigarette butts, a rock that

looked like it might have blood on it. These items meant nothing now,

but any one of them could prove critical down the road. I looked at

Clarissa's body again, surrounded now by all this construction and

police work, and swore I'd find whoever did this to her.

I gave Johnson and Walker the file on Melvin Jackson's case that Dennis

Coakley had copied for me at City Hall. I also gave them approval to

file the standard search warrant application used after a homicide to

search the victim's house. We agreed, though, that they'd continue to

take it easy on Townsend unless the evidence started to point to him.

The police would be working the crime scene for the rest of the night,

but I signed out after a couple of hours, when Johnson and Walker left

to deliver the news to Clarissa's family. I don't envy the work of a

cop.

It's not as if prosecutors don't have bad days. Our files are filled

with desperation and degradation. Even the so-called victimless cases

involve acts that could be committed only by pathetic, miserable people

who've lost all hope. Compare that to fighting over money for a

banking client, and it looks like we're doing the heavy lifting.

But, in the end, I'm still just a lawyer. I issue indictments, plead

out cases, and go to trial. When it comes to the investigation, I

might make some calls on procedure, but it's the police who do the real

work. They're the ones who kick in a door when a search needs to be

executed. They're the ones who climb through the dumpster when a gun

gets tossed.

And Johnson and Walker would be the ones to visit Clarissa

Easterbrook's family members tonight to tell them that their lives

would never be the same again. These days, that concept is overused,

as we all say that the crumbling of two towers changed the world

forever. The kind of change I'm talking about can be claimed only by

the families of the three thousand people trapped inside. It's the

kind of change that causes every other second of life the birth of a

child, a broken leg, the car breaking down at the side of the road to

be cataloged in the memory in one of two ways: before or after that

defining moment in time.

From what I knew of it, everyone deals with the grief of a murder in

his own way. There is shock, then rage, then depression, and

ultimately some level of acceptance. But then the differences emerge.

What kind of survivors would Townsend, Tara, and Mr. and Mrs. Carney

become? The ones who die inside themselves and walk around each day

wondering when their body will catch up to their soul? The ones

seeking numbness in a bottle, the neighbors whispering about how things

used to be different? The ones who run the Web sites and help lines

and victims' rights groups? Clarissa's family still had options for

the future, just not the ones they thought they had when they woke up

yesterday.

Four.

By the time I returned the county's car and caught the bus home, it was

after nine o'clock and there were three messages from my father on the

machine. The gist of each, respectively? How was the first day of

work? I hope you're not working late already. And, finally, You're

not working on that case with the missing judge, are you?

I promised myself I'd call my father back before bed, but not just yet.

A normal person might want to veg out, watch a little TV, and hit the

hay. I wanted to run.

Running is my therapy. My ex-husband called it my escape. No matter

what the problem, a run always helps me see life in perspective. Plus,

I still felt like I needed to sweat out the rum and mint from the

sixty-seven mojitos I must have ingested poolside in Maui.

Even tonight's short three-miler did the trick. After one mile, images

of Clarissa Easterbrook's misshapen head and discolored flesh began to

slip away. After two, I stopped thinking about work entirely. By the

time I got home, I was ready to call my father.

"Sammy?" he said immediately. Dad had recently discovered the wonders

of caller ID as part of his constant effort to stay busy. After

thirty-plus years of marriage, two years as a widower hadn't been

enough for my father to feel relaxed at home alone.

"Yeah, Dad. It's me."

"Late night at work. I was wondering if you were OK."

"Everything's fine. Just a lot to catch up on since I've been out and

with the new unit assignment."

"I bet. So how are the people at the new gig? A step up from the

bozos in the drug unit?"

As pleased as my father is that I've used my law degree to follow him

into law enforcement, he gets frustrated by the personalities I've had

to deal with over the years. The colorful language he uses to discuss

my office is his way of showing he's on my side.

"I guess so. The new supervisor's this guy named Russ Frist. Seems

pretty decent so far."

"Any cases look interesting yet?"

"You know, they're interesting, but a little depressing. I'd rather

hear about what you've been up to. We've hardly talked since I got

back."

"You know me. Typical retiree stuff: a couple of movies, some

gardening, a trip to the shooting range. Exciting, I know."

"I noticed that my lawn was mowed while I was gone. Thanks."

"No problem. It's not like anyone else needs me. So what kept you so

late at the office?"

He was trying to be subtle, but he obviously wanted to know if I was

involved in what he was still following as a missing persons case.

"You probably saw the coverage on the administrative law judge. I was

wrapped up in that most of the day. Actually, I started working on it

last night."

"Jeez, Sam. The minute I saw the news this morning, I knew it. Do you

really need to be on a case like this one right off the bat?"

"Those are the kinds of cases I'm working on now, Dad. Major crimes

tend to come with the territory in the Major Crimes Unit."

"Very clever, wiseacre. But you know this isn't the usual territory.

You're going to be right in the middle of the firestorm, cameras all

over you. Nothing will bring out the crazies faster. Did you ask your

office to put you on something else until you get used to the new

rotation?"

"No, Dad, and I don't plan to. This is my job; you should be proud of

me for getting promoted. I didn't become a prosecutor to handle drug

cases the rest of my life."

My first excursion from my standard drug and vice caseload had finally

come last month when I had prosecuted a psychopath for the rape and

attempted murder of a teenage prostitute. By the time the case was

closed, a couple of nut jobs had broken into my house, bashed me on the

head, and killed the former supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit. I'd

avoided a similar fate only because I'd forced myself to become a good

shot years ago when my ex-husband insisted on keeping a gun in our

apartment. My father may have been a lawman himself, but he hadn't

gotten used to the idea of his little girl shooting her way out of

trouble.

"I am proud of you, Sam," he said, "but maybe you should hold off on

something so big. You're finally out of the spotlight after the

Derringer case. This one's going to put you right back out there. For

all you know, this judge has run off on a lark. She'll be home safe

and sound, and you'll end up the target of some obsessed freak who saw

your picture one too many times in the paper."

"Well, this is what I want, OK? And, anyway, she didn't run off, as

you say. They found her body today. She's dead. It's a murder case.

Does that make you feel better about me handling it?"

I should've stopped then. I'd already gone too far. But I was tired,

stressed out, and angry for reasons I couldn't even understand.

"There's no way I'm walking away from a case like this," I said. "Maybe

you hung up OSP and ran off to the forest service, but I'm sticking it

out."

I apologized immediately, but the words were still out there. I was

too young to remember the switch, but I knew Dad had quit the Oregon

State Police to become a forest ranger when I was still a kid. My

mother had never been particularly comfortable as a cop's wife. You

never knew when that expired tag you pulled over on highway patrol was

going to belong to a guy running from a warrant, thinking to himself,

I'm never going back.

I had vague recollections of my parents' hushed arguments behind their

bedroom door about Dad's job. At the time, I had no idea what they

were all about, but in retrospect, and in light of the timing, I

gathered that Mom had put the screws to him.

And so Dad had let go of his law enforcement dreams to patrol Oregon's

national forests until his retirement just last year. He enjoyed the

steady outdoor hours and his federal pension, but I knew he sometimes

wondered what he'd missed out on in the career he left behind for his

family.

"I just want you to be proud of me, Dad. When you treat me like a

little girl, I feel like I'm not in control of anything in my life."

"You know I'm proud of you, Sammy. Of course I'm proud of you, not

just for your work but for everything you've accomplished. I'm sorry I

even brought this up. This isn't about you,

it's about me; I forget sometimes how strong you are. But you're my

only family left, kid. I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

Why hadn't I seen it that way before? "Nothing's going to happen. Hey,

a couple psychopaths came after me, and I still turned out OK." We both

laughed. "Seriously, Dad, I am so sorry for what I said. I snapped at

you because, honestly, I've got some doubts myself about how I'm going

to learn to get through days like this one. I went out to the crime

scene this afternoon, and seeing her body I can't stop thinking about

it. But I really want this assignment. I'll probably do more than my

fair share of whining about it," I added, "but I want to feel like it's

OK to do that around you without you telling me to take myself off the

case, all right?"

"In other words, the old man needs to lay off."

"Dad "

"I'm kidding," he said, cutting me off. "Get some sleep now, OK? You

must need it after the day you've had."

I was still feeling guilty about my little tirade. "Can I come over

for dinner tomorrow night?"

"You know you don't need to ask. You can even bring the it runt.

He was referring, of course, to Vinnie. Dad had taken him in while I

was gone, saving me from a choice between the kennel and sneaking

Vinnie into the hotel.

When I hung up, Vinnie turned away from me, still pissed off about the

temporary abandonment. He caved when I headed up the stairs, though.

By the time I hit the sheets, he had grabbed his Gumby doll and jumped

in with me.

No matter how important the missing person, an investigation moves more

quickly once the body is found.

Dennis Coakley, who had been dragging his heels yesterday, had hurried

to a slow crawl. I got his message first thing Tuesday morning: "I

heard the terrible news about Clarissa and wanted you to know I'm still

working away here, the highest possible priority. I'll call you when

I'm done."

We'd see about that.

I also had a message from Susan Kerr, who clearly moved at a much

faster clip. "Hi, this is Susan Kerr. Obviously, I've heard the news,

and I won't even bother trying to tell you how horrible the night was

for everyone. I think the reality is still setting in for all of us.

Anyway, I wanted you to know that I'll be helping Clarissa's family

with arrangements they're obviously not in the best state right now to

pay attention to all the details. Tara's doing OK, definitely a help

to her parents. Townsend, on the other hand well, quite frankly, I'm

worried about him. In any event, I'm doing what I can, so, if you need

anything from anyone, please feel free to call me. Anything at all."

Before she hung up, she left every possible number where she might be

located.

Susan was dealing with death by taking charge. My mother had been the

same way. The few times she'd lost anyone and I mean anyone: a

neighbor, a cousin, her father she went straight to work. Call the

funeral director, the insurance companies, the creditors. Prepare

frozen casseroles and lasagnas to store for the family. It was like

she had a death checklist, full of tasks to keep her busy until the

body was in the ground.

Watching my mother in action, I had never understood her motivation.

Did she need to stay distracted from the death itself? Was it a means

of obtaining control over a world that felt unpredictable? Or was it

just an earnest desire to help those who weren't as strong as she was?

Whatever Susan Kerr's motivation, I was glad someone close to Clarissa

could play that role. Having seen Townsend attempt to deal with the

mere possibility of his wife's death, I couldn't imagine what the

confirmation of his worst fears had done to him.

I replayed the message to scribble down her phone numbers, then went on

to the next voice mail. "Hi, Samantha, Susan Kerr again. Just wanted

to let you know I think I'll go ahead and call Duncan, just to make

sure you've got all the support you feel you need, OK? Thanks,

Samantha. I appreciate having someone devote her personal attention to

my friend."

I wasn't surprised that someone with Susan Kerr's resources already

knew my boss. If she wanted to make sure he was giving me all the

support I deserved, I was all for it.

With the voice mails out of the way, I called Johnson to check in.

"We broke the news to the family last night. The parents and sister

first, then the husband. Nothing unusual. The sister gave us the

official ID while we were working on the search."

"The husband didn't have a problem with it?"

"No. We explained that a search of the vies house is standard and that

we had a warrant. He said he understood that the investigation needed

to proceed."

"Did you find anything?"

"Nothing that means anything yet. We took bank records, credit card

statements the usual stuff that sometimes means something down the

road. But we already knew from the walk through the other night that

we weren't going to find any obvious signs that she'd been done in the

house.

"Chuck and Mike came through on getting records for the recent credit

card charges and cell calls. We're still working on getting the toll

records for the home phone.

"We've got a charge at Nordstrom on Saturday. Adds up to the items we

found in the shopping bag, plus the pants and sweater she was wearing

on Sunday. The only charge after that was on Sunday, right after noon,

at the Pasta Company."

I knew the place. Or places, I should say. The Pasta Company is a

popular local chain.

"Which one?" I asked, since I could think of six or seven locations

off the top of my head.

"Terwilliger and Barbur." Made sense. Only a mile or so from the

Easterbrooks'.

"I sent a patrol officer over there with her picture. A couple of

employees said they recognized her because she's in there a lot, but no

one could place her there for sure on Sunday."

"There's no way to know if she was alone?" I asked.

"No, but she probably was. One order of linguine in browned butter, no

tip. A carry-out order, it turns out. Walker drew short straw and got

trash duty. Duly noted beneath the sink: one empty Styrofoam container

from the Pasta Company."

"So she picked up lunch on Sunday and ate at home by herself. Great.

All that work, and the credit card records don't get us any closer than

we were the other night."

"Did I say I was finished, Kincaid? Damn, girl, anyone ever tell you

you're a glass-half-empty kind of woman? I haven't told you about the

autopsy yet."

"The ME's done already?" It usually took a couple of days.

"It's been a light week so there's no backup. He made the cuts first

thing this morning. Report should be finished tomorrow, but I just got

off the phone with him a minute ago. You want to continue to interrupt

me, or do you want to get to the good stuff?"

"Consider me quiet."

"Yeah, right. I'll get in what I can. Anyway, cause of death is what

we assumed: blunt force trauma to the right side of the head. He was

having some difficulties with time of death, though. He couldn't use

some of the factors that help when the body's fresh. It had clearly

been awhile, because she was cold."

"How long does that take?" I asked.

"That puts us back to yesterday. But things get tricky past that

window. And they were even trickier in this case, because we were

right about her being moved. I'll spare you the details, but the ME's

got a problem interpreting things like bloating and bugs when he

doesn't know what kind of environment the body was in. We couldn't

tell him if she was inside, outside, wet, dry, in a heater,

whatever."

So

"Patience, woman. See, you were about to say, "So he can't tell us the

time of death," right?"

"Maybe." Definitely.

"See, now, that'd be an inaccurate statement. ME calls and tells me he

might have to give us a wide window for time of death unless I know

when she ate last. At the time he called me, I didn't, but, you see,

now I do. And the ME tells me she died within one to three hours of

eating noodles, which he found in the stomach contents. Assuming she

ate the food around twelve-thirty, she died between one-thirty and

three-thirty."

"Broad daylight."

"You got it. Makes an abduction off the street less likely but still

possible."

My phone beeped, indicating that another call was coming through. The

name of the DA's secretary flashed on the caller ID screen. I let the

line go to voice mail.

"What else?" I asked Johnson. "Was she raped?"

"Unclear. Looks like she was naked when she was hit. The ME says

there was no spatter on the clothes, either low or high velocity, which

he'd expect to find. But there was brain matter and blood transfer

like smears inside the sweater, as if it was pulled on afterward. Also,

he found spermicidal jelly in the vaginal canal, but no boy juice and

no substantial tearing. No skin under the nails, no sign of a

fight."

"What's all that mean?"

"Means she probably had sex, but it might or might not have been rape.

The stuff he found was the spermicide nonoxynol-9, which conics on most

condoms. There was a time when that would've ruled out a rape, but

things have changed since the bad guys learned about the DNA databank.

And if she was just trying to get through it alive, she might not have

fought back."

"On the other hand," I said, "maybe it's not a sex crime at all, and

the coroner found something left over from consensual sex."

"Right. So I need to follow up with the husband and see what he has to

say."

"How much are you going to tell him?" I asked.

"Nothing. If it's about to go public for some reason, we'll get to

them first. Other than that, it's on a need to know basis. I'll ask

him the last time they had sex and what kind of birth control they use.

He'll no doubt draw some inferences about that and ask me if she was

raped, but I'll tell him what I'm going to tell the rest of the family,

which is the truth: We don't know."

"How about Melvin Jackson? Have you had a chance to talk to him

yet?"

"Who's that again?"

"The evicted guy? Wrote mean, threatening letters? I gave you the

file yesterday."

"Right. Sorry, we've been juggling a lot here. When we broke the news

to the family last night, I asked them if the name sounded familiar,

but they didn't think Clarissa ever mentioned him by name. We haven't

followed up yet with Jackson, but it'll happen."

"Very good. Anything else?"

"You know, we're also checking on everyone close to the vie. I even

checked out our girl Susan Kerr. At the museum all day setting up for

a fund-raising auction, then schmoozing all night, just like she said.

So we're working from the victim out, but Jack and I agree we also need

to take the location into account."

These were standard investigative approaches. On the assumption that

the crime isn't random since they rarely are police look to the aspects

of the offense that are unique. That usually means investigating

everything there is to know about the victim. Victim's a working girl?

Most likely killed by a trick or her pimp. Dealer? Probably a

transaction gone bad or a robbery.

But crimes have also been solved by focusing on location. Who, for

example, would know the layout of the home from which the sleeping

child was kidnapped? A neighbor. Maybe a handyman. And here Johnson

made a good point. The Columbia Gorge and Forest Park were the locals'

favorite body-dumping destinations. Who would find their way to the

edge of a previously nonexistent office park?

"Do we know who the future tenant is?"

"There isn't one. It's one of those 'if you build it, they will come'

things." In recent years, Portland's suburbs have enticed out-of-town

firms to relocate operations to this area with the promise of tax

subsidies, an educated workforce, and ready-to-go infrastructure.

"We're going over lists of the usual suspects within a two-mile radius

of the crime scene and the Easter-brooks'. Jack's working on getting a

list of workers at the construction site. There's a couple different

unions and subcontractors involved, so it's taking a little longer than

we'd like. We're also looking at old police reports involving any

incidents along Taylor's Ferry Road. It's mostly car prowls and a few

robberies."

"Page me if you need anything," I said. "As soon as I'm done screening

custodies, I'm going to review Clarissa's files." Unfortunately, no

one at City Hall knew that yet.

"We can send someone over for that," he offered, assuming I had

permission to go in.

"No, I better do it. I'll be able to get through them faster." "I'll

try not to take that personally, Kincaid." "Hey, law school's got to

be good for something, right?" A decent morning at work never lasted

long. When Johnson and I were done, I retrieved the message from

Duncans secretary. The boss wanted to see me.

Duncan was tan as ever, despite the rain. He had to be closing in on

fifty, but in appearance the guy was strangely age-ambiguous: a full

head of white hair, the kind of wrinkles that are "distinguished," and

a movie star smile that in my presence has left his face only once.

"How was Salem?"

"Useless as always. Legislators just don't get what we're trying to

accomplish. I was down testifying yesterday about drug courts. The

liberals don't want to see anyone go to prison on a drug case, and the

law-and-order types want to lock 'em all up, whether it works or not.

But you're done with drug cases now, aren't you?"

"Looks like it," I said. "Thank you again, Duncan, for giving me a

chance in Major Crimes."

"Well, I know it's what you wanted. You might not remember this,

Samantha, but you told me that the first time I met you. It's the only

time a job candidate has ever admitted wanting to prosecute murder

trials. Most people try to hide that kind of ambition."

"You asked me what appealed to me about being a state prosecutor after

having served as an AUSA, and I told you the truth. The feds rarely

get a murder case."

"Still, it showed you had balls, if you can excuse the phrase."

"You might not believe this, sir, but that's not the first time I've

heard that particular compliment. Some day we might even get a

gender-neutral word that captures the same gravitas."

"See, that's a perfect example of what I'm talking about. You showed

that same personality during your initial interview. When you choose

to, you can say what you mean and still be very charming."

When I choose to. For now, I chose to ignore the backhanded part of

the compliment. But if he didn't get to the point soon, that voluntary

charm of mine was going on strike.

"I asked you to go with the police to the Easterbrook home on Sunday

for a reason. You've proven that you've got a real compassion for

victims, and I know you've got the ability to be diplomatic and to show

this office in its very best light. I also thought it was a chance for

you to ease into the new rotation with an MCT call-out.

"But I assumed at the time that Clarissa Easterbrook would turn up.

Obviously, she did not, and as a result of my decision you're now on

one of the highest profile murder cases we've had in a long time. If

we're going to take you off it, we should do it sooner rather than

later. Less disruption for the family and for MCT."

"I don't want to be pulled off," I said. "I've already talked to Russ

about this, and he's going to oversee as necessary."

"My concern isn't with your experience or your skills. You're a

terrific attorney."

"But you have a concern?"

"Susan Kerr called me today," he said, sitting back into his chair and

steepling his fingers.

"She told me she was going to. I take it you know her?"

"It's hard not to know her when you've got a public life in Portland.

Bert Kerr had his hand in everything, a big fund raiser for progressive

causes. I remember when I first ran for this office, he bought me an

eighteen-year-old whiskey at Huber s and asked me what I was going to

do as district attorney. He wasn't happy with the typical sound bites;

he pressed me on everything: standing up to the police about reverse

drug buys, the death penalty, improving the quality of life for

neighborhoods. When we were done and I'll never forget it he said,

"You're about as good a man as we're gonna get for a job that puts

human beings in cages." A month later, he raised $40,000 for my

campaign on a single night.

"Susan don't call her Sue or Susie was his new wife back then, and you

can bet the tongues were wagging. She was probably about your age,

and, my God, she was wild. Everyone assumed she was in it for the

money and would be banging the pool boy on the side. But once people

talked to her, they just fell in love. She never tried to act like

something she wasn't. And she came through for Bert in the end. He

was a mess his last couple of years, and she worked her tail off to

make sure no one knew it. A good friend of mine told me that by his

last days she was basically running the show, signing his name, doing

whatever she needed to create the appearance that Bert was still going

strong. So, yeah, she can throw her weight around with the best of

them, but I have a lot of respect for her."

"What did she say about the case?"

"She said she appreciated the police coming to her home for her

convenience. She was also pleased to have an attorney on the case so

early. Less likely to have any problems that way. She wanted

assurances you'd be free to oversee things, which I. of course, gave

her."

"But?"

He chuckled. "Always jumping to the bad news, aren't you? As far as

buts go, this one was minor. Let me ask you: Where is this

investigation heading? Is the husband a suspect?"

"Not at this point. He hasn't set off anyone's hunch bells yet, and

he's alibied at OHSU all day Sunday. But he's not cleared, either, so

it's natural that the police are still keeping him in mind."

"Susan was concerned about the tone of the questions about the victim's

marriage. She got the impression that the police might be looking in

only one direction."

I tried to assure him that the police, if anything, were leaning

against the husband as a suspect. I told him about Melvin Jackson and

the search for any sex offenders near the crime scene.

"Why did the police ask Dr. Easterbrook to take a polygraph last

night?"

"They didn't. They've mentioned the possibility, but we haven't made a

decision about whether that's the right way to go yet."

"Maybe you've got some mixed signals. Susan Kerr tells me that the

police, in addition to being very curious about the state of the

Easterbrooks' marriage, asked the husband for a poly last night, just

minutes after telling him that his wife's body had been found. That's

why she was upset enough to call me."

"Shit. Well, she didn't mention it to me, and she just left me a

message this morning."

"She thought it would be best not to put you in an awkward position

between her and your detectives, so she brought her concerns to me."

"I don't know what to say, Duncan. I'll ask the MCT guys about it."

"Good. I need you to be the woman you're being today on this,

Samantha, the person who came in here for your interview; not the

hothead who puts a line of attorneys outside my door complaining about

bad behavior."

It has never been a line: a slow dribble, maybe. "I only know how to

be one person, sir."

"Dammit, Sam. You know what I mean. I'm just warning you, you're

dealing with some very influential people on this one who don't look

kindly on mistakes. In addition to Mrs. Kerr, you've got Townsend

Easterbrook. Let me be clear: If he's the guy, you crush him. But not

until there's good reason to. He's not your typical perp who's used to

being thrown against the car and frisked for looking the wrong way.

He's the chief administrative surgeon at OHSU. For Christ's sake, the

man singlehandedly got the hospital's pediatric transplant wing off the

ground again after everyone wrote the project off as dead. He's Mother

Teresa with a penis."

"So you're asking me to give these people special treatment." It

wasn't a question.

"If you could even begin to think like a realist, you'd know I was

asking you to give them the expected treatment."

There was no use putting up a fight over this, since I'd already been

treating Townsend and Susan "as expected." I assured him I got the

message, loud and clear.

Back at my desk, I put in a page to Johnson. Why hadn't he told me

about the polygraph? My phone sat silent, though, as I finished

screening duty with just a few more strokes of the pen. I couldn't

wait here all day for him to call it was time to get my hands on

Clarissa's files.

I got lucky. My first choice judge, David Lesh, had just finished a

plea and was working in his chambers. Lesh was a former prosecutor. He

was also a former employee of the City Attorney's Office, but his job

there was to advise the police. He wouldn't look kindly on Dennis

Coakley's obstructionism.

He gave me a warm welcome. "Get in here, Kincaid. I haven't seen you

since all hell broke loose. How are you holding up? You look

great."

"Thanks, Judge." Lesh was a regular fixture on the happy-hour circuit

and an absolute nut, but his position required certain formalities.

"I'm doing surprisingly well. I took some time off, and now I'm in the

Major Crimes Unit."

"Well, good for you. You deserve it. If it means anything, I think

you did a great job in the Derringer trial."

His delivery, without an iota of irony, evoked a sharp laugh from me.

An actual guffaw. "Oh, yeah, ended beautifully," I said.

"At least you've got a sense of humor about it. So what are you here

for?"

"I'm working on the Clarissa Easterbrook case."

His tone changed markedly, as was Lesh's way. Irreverence always took

a backseat to the things that mattered. "I heard about that this

morning. The saddest thing. She was such a nice woman. Did you know

her?"

"No, but I did meet her once. I guess you knew her from the City

Attorney's Office."

"Not from work so much as just being around City Hall together. She

was a really great gal, the kind of person who genuinely wanted to hear

the answer when she'd ask how you were doing. Are you guys getting

anywhere on nailing whoever did this to her?"

"Bureau's working on it," I said, shaking my head, "but nothing yet.

That's actually why I stopped by. We want to look at her files to see

if someone might have had a grudge, but we're having some problems

getting in. I don't want to get too far into an explanation since it

would be ex parte, but I'd like to get someone over here from the City

Attorney's Office, if you don't mind."

Judges weren't supposed to talk about a case with only one of the

lawyers present.

"I take it Coakley's not letting you in?" he asked.

"Well, he hasn't said one way or the other, but I wanted to do the file

review yesterday. I even walked over there and was ready to do it."

"Let's see what he's got to say about it."

He picked up his phone and punched in a number from memory. After Lesh

was a prosecutor and before he was a judge, Coakley was Lesh's Duncan

Griffith. Some bad blood was rumored, so this might be fun.

"Dennis Coakley, please. This is Circuit Court Judge David Lesh."

Lesh was too much of a pro to drop his poker face, but I'd heard him

make calls before. He's usually just plain old David Lesh.

"Mr. Coakley, how are you? .. . I've got Samantha Kincaid in my

chambers. Do you have a second to walk over here for a quick

discussion? .. . Well, she doesn't seem to agree.... Unless you tell

me she can get in there right now to see what she wants to see, I think

you do have a disagreement.... I know it's unconventional, but it's

also the easiest way to do it. Do you really want to formalize this? I

could have her apply for a warrant, in which case you wouldn't even be

here for my decision.... All right, I'll see you in a few."

A pissed-off Coakley walked in a few short minutes later. If we'd been

in Toon Town, his face would have been red, his ears smoking, and he

would have been storming in at a forty-five degree lean. In the real

world, his neck vein was pulsing. Not nearly as cute.

"All right," Lesh said, once Dennis was settled, "any need for a court

reporter?" We both declined. "Just so you know,

Ms. Kincaid was careful not to tell me too much about the nature of

the dispute until you were here. I know she wants to look in Clarissa

Easterbrook's files, and you told me you didn't feel you were able to

accommodate that, at least not on the DA's timeline. Is that about

right?"

I nodded, but Coakley had come ready for a fight. "Honestly, Judge, I

can't even believe we're here. Ms. Kincaid showed up at my office

yesterday, unannounced. I gave her the one and only file she described

as being of interest, and I've been working ever since to view the

remaining files for privileged information. I'm nearly done, and

pulling me away from that process only slows things down. I feel

ambushed."

Lesh asked me if I wanted to respond.

"I was not trying to ambush anyone, your honor. The problem is that

Mr. Coakley assumes he has the singular right to decide when and where

and under what terms those files can be reviewed as part of a pressing

homicide investigation. The fact of the matter is I could have applied

for a search warrant and shown up at City Hall with police to execute

it. I thought having a judge mediate the discussion might facilitate

an agreement about the matter."

"Right," Coakley scoffed, "and you just happened to pick a judge who

used to work for me."

Lesh made a T with his hands. "Whoa, that judge is still in the room,

thank you very much. As you know, Dennis, I made a decision when I

became a judge not to remove myself from all cases involving the city

or the DA's office, just the ones that were pending while I worked for

those offices. That said, if you think I'm biased, you are welcome to

ask me to recuse myself, and I won't fight it. We'll get another judge

for you. Just say the word."

Local custom holds that judges will remove themselves from a case based

solely on an attorney's request. But local practice holds that no

lawyer ever actually makes such a request lest it burn them down the

road, either with the challenged judge or the one unlucky enough to

pick up the extra work.

"That's not necessary, your honor."

"Then let's get down to business. You know why the DA wants to get

into those files: There's always the possibility that someone on a case

had it out for Clarissa. Tell me precisely what your concern is about

letting her have a look." Lesh gestured at me. "You'd be doing the

review, right? Not your officers?"

"That's correct, your honor."

Coakley repeated the same line he'd given me the day before.

And Lesh had the same response. "Wait a second. I don't understand

why her files would contain any communications with you. The city's a

party, for Christ's sake."

"We don't know what kind of internal memoranda she made about other

privileged matters in an employment context, though, your honor, or how

she maintained those memoranda. I just want a chance to peruse each

file and ensure that it contains only case information. It's standard

practice in document production."

Lesh made my argument for me. "Maybe in a civil suit, but this is a

murder investigation. You're talking about a theoretical possibility

that Clarissa Easterbrook who is now dead, by the way not only had a

conversation with someone in your office but that she recorded it in

some form and then placed it in a case file where Ms. Kincaid might

stumble upon it unwittingly. And you think this possibility warrants a

delay in a murder investigation?"

"Not a substantial one, your honor. As I said, I'm almost done."

Lesh shook his head. He had worked both the civil and criminal sides

of the bar, but even he was incredulous at this particular civil

litigator's priorities. "How far have you gotten, Dennis?"

Coakley pursed his lips and thought a second. "Probably eighty

percent."

"And was there anything in that eighty percent that you needed to

redact?"

"No, there wasn't."

"Of course not," Lesh said. "OK, here's what we're doing, kids.

Dennis, get the files that you've completed ready for Ms. Kincaid to

review at City Hall. Where should she go?"

Coakley clearly thought about arguing, but hedged his bets that things

could get worse and relented. "Clarissa's office would probably be

best."

"Good. While she reviews those, you're free to continue working on the

remaining twenty percent. But if she gets done before you do, too bad.

The two of you can race to the finish."

We both said thank you and started to leave. Before I walked out, Lesh

called me back. "Samantha, do you have a minute?"

"Of course, your honor."

Once the door was closed, he asked me to sit down. "What was that all

about?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I certainly hope that's not the case, or you're going to have a very

rough career ahead of you. Did you really need me for that?"

"We were at an impasse, your honor. I thought you'd help us reach a

compromise, and you did."

"It's my job, Kincaid, and I haven't turned into one of those lazy

sacks who's complaining about more work yet," he said, knocking on his

wood desk. "But you didn't even talk to Coakley about this before

coming to me, did you?"

"Not since yesterday," I said.

"Before Clarissa's body was found," he said, shaking his head. "The

guy was eighty percent done, so he meant it when he said he'd been

working on it. The fact is, you could have come to the same solution

with a phone call. But he probably gave you a hard time yesterday, so

you decided you'd teach him a lesson. And don't think for a minute

that I'm not aware why you handpicked me as your weapon."

I didn't say anything.

"It's not my business, but just some friendly advice. I know Coakley,

and I'd bet money that word of this will get back to Griffith." That

would be terrific, given the meeting we'd just had. "Don't forget,

I've worked for that office too. You've got to stop butting heads, or

you're in for a world of hurt."

People feel perfectly free to lecture me about butting heads, but who

scolds the butt heads Maybe Lesh could bend the will of jerks like

Coakley through charm and personality, but I've found those kind of

people will run me over if I don't stand up for myself. I still loved

Lesh, but until he walked a mile in my Ferragamos, he didn't have a

clue as to what my job was like.

I thanked him again for his help and headed back to my office.

Five.

While I was packing up what I needed for the file review, I heard a tap

on my open door and turned to find Russ Frist wheeling my long-lost

leather chair into the office.

"Lucy," I said in my best Desi impersonation, "you got some 'splaining

to do."

He flicked a manila envelope onto my desk in front of me.