Missing Justice

"Good shot." I looked at the envelope but didn't open it.

"What can I say? Too much ultimate Frisbee in the Corps."

"I wouldn't have guessed that about you, Frist. When I was in college,

the ultimate Frisbee guys were big dope smokers."

"Right, but they probably never inhaled. Let's just agree that you

probably shouldn't extrapolate too much from your Harvard experience,

Kincaid."

"Nor you from the Marine Corps."

"Touche."

"Now shut up, soldier, and tell me why you have my beloved chair."

"Open the envelope," he said.

Inside, I found two Polaroids of my chair and a series of ransom notes

written with letters cut from magazines.

"A couple of the guys heard about your unhealthy relationship with the

office furniture and thought it would be a funny way to welcome you to

the Unit. I put the kibosh on it after Duncan called you out on the

Easterbrook case. Seemed like it would be in poor taste."

"Gee. You think?"

"Just take the chair, Kincaid. You have been spared the usual rites of

passage."

"Spared, or is this simply a reprieve?"

"You're a smart woman."

"Great. I'll keep my back up."

"Like you wouldn't anyway?"

As he turned to leave, I said, "Don't you want to know about the

Easterbrook case?"

"Of course I do. I was just waiting to see if you'd tell me on your

own."

I was starting to like this guy. I filled him in on what I'd learned

so far from the investigation. "I was just about to head over to

review the victim's files." I left out the part where I hauled the

City Attorney into court to speed access. "You want to come with?"

"The joys of document review. No thanks. If I liked scouring through

boxes of files on the off chance of finding a little nugget, I'd be

over at Dunn Simon making a shitload of money."

It's helpful as a prosecutor to remind yourself occasionally of the

things (other than lots of money) that go along with civil practice at

the big prestigious firms. I was a summer associate at Dunn Simon

after my first year in law school. I got paid twice what I make in my

current position for what amounted to a two-month job interview. But I

knew I'd never want to work there after a young partner explained to me

why he loved the peculiar formatting that the firm insisted on for each

and every document: "It's just the Dunn Simon way." Yuck.

"I don't know, Russ. Might have to pull a Little Red Hen on your

ass."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your literary reference. I tend to

read material for adults."

"Yeah, right. The kind with pictures that fold out in the middle. I

mean that you don't eat the bread unless you help plant the grain. I'm

picturing myself in the first and only chair in State v. Yet to Be

Determined for the murder of Clarissa Easterbrook."

"You keep dreaming, Kincaid, because it's not gonna happen. Besides,

I've got a good excuse, not that I need to give you one. Judge Maurer

sent a case out for trial this afternoon that I was sure would settle,

so I need to get ready. Have fun with those administrative law files,

though. Sounds like a blast."

I welcomed my chair back into its new home and scooted old blue crusty

into the hallway with a piece of paper pinned to its back that read

hazardous waste. Given the state of the budget around here, it still

might be a step up for someone.

Nelly Giacoma remembered me from the day before. She tried to sound

chipper when she welcomed me into the office, but I could tell from her

puffy eyes and congested voice that she'd been crying. I asked if I

could see Clarissa's files.

"Dennis Coakley told me you'd be coming by. I needed to keep busy, so

I helped make sure we had all the pending cases. He's got everything

in piles for you in the conference room at the end of the hall."

The conference room turned out to be little more than a storage space

that held the water cooler and a bulletin board posting the required

equal employment disclosures. There were four boxes of files stacked

in the corner and a small table I could use for work space.

"Do you need anything?" Nelly asked.

"No, I should be fine. Thanks."

"You sure? Because I think I'm going to head out. Judge Olick told me

to take the rest of the day off. I was going to try to finish some

things up, but I'm pretty useless right now."

"You should definitely go. I'll be fine."

"Thanks. Just let yourself out."

I thanked her again and turned to the files. I began by spreading the

boxes side by side on the floor, quickly scanning the file headings to

see if anything jumped out. Nope. No in the

EVENT SOMETHING BAD HAPPENS Or LITIGANTS WHO HATE ME files, just case

names.

I started at the beginning, dictating the names of the parties and the

nature of the dispute for each file into the hand-sized recorder I

still owned from my days at the U.S. Attorneys Office. The machine

served more as a paperweight in my current position, since the District

Attorney staff refuses to type for the deputies. But considering I

didn't even know what I was looking for, taped notes would be good

enough for now.

Case after case, nothing seemed relevant. One thing was for certain:

There would be no problems finding things of interest in my files. In

fact, the problem would be too many defendants who were angry, mean, or

outright psycho enough to go after me. On a weekly basis in the drug

unit, some dealer who blamed me for the sentencing guidelines would

throw me a devil eye, his thrusted chest, or the very worst the

blood-boiling c-word. Hell, I could fill one side of a tape with the

spitters alone. Experienced prosecutors know always to sit at the end

of the table farthest from the defendant.

Clarissa Easterbrook's caseload, on the other hand, was a major snooze.

How disgruntled can a person be about a citation for un mowed grass, an

unkempt vacant house, or a toilet left on the front porch? Although a

few of them huffed and puffed in their appeal papers, the tough talk

was generally reserved for the nosy neighbors who had sicced the city

on them or the unfeeling civil servants who responded, and even those

were rare. More typically, the appellants tried hard embarrassingly so

to be lawyerlike in their prose. Lots of henceforths, herewiths, and

thereto fores

When I got to the Js, I came across the Melvin Jackson file. Now this

one stood out. At least two letters a week for the past six weeks,

filed in reverse chronological order under correspondence. They began

as pleas for compassion about his recent past, which I learned went

like this:

Melvin Jackson was the father of three children, ages two to six. He

and his wife, Sharon, had always struggled with their shared

addictions, but when their youngest son, Jared, was born addicted to

crack cocaine, Melvin entered the rehabilitation program offered by the

office for Services to Children and Families as an alternative to

losing Jared. Through the program, Melvin had gotten clean. Sharon

hadn't. One afternoon, Melvin came home from his part-time job as a

Portland State janitor to find another man leaving his apartment and

Sharon inside naked, smoking up with Jared in her arms, the other two

children curled together on the sofa. He told her to choose between

the drugs and her children. The next morning, Sharon went to SCF and

signed a voluntary termination of parental rights.

Melvin had been taking care of the kids ever since. He saved enough

money for a used van and was getting by through public housing, public

assistance, and occasional work as a landscaper and handyman.

Melvin was about to lose his public housing because of his unemployed

cousin, who moved in with him a year ago in exchange for watching

Melvin's kids when he worked. One night four months ago, a community

policing officer assigned to the Housing Authority of Portland caught

the cousin and her friends smoking pot on the apartment complex swing

set. The officer found less than an ounce, decriminalized in Oregon,

so the only repercussion for the cousin was a ticket for possession, no

more than a traffic matter. But federal regulations authorize public

housing agencies to evict tenants who have drugs on the property. The

problem for Melvin was that public housing evictions aren't by the

tenant; they're by the unit. Two days after the swing set smoke out

HAP served Melvin with a notice of eviction. Then an SCF caseworker

told him his kids would be placed in foster care if he became

homeless.

I knew a little bit about these kinds of evictions. A few years ago,

the United States Supreme Court upheld the federal housing policy

nine-zip, permitting the eviction of a law-abiding grandmother whose

grandson smoked pot on public housing property. Never mind that she'd

taken in her grandson to save him from a drug-addicted mother. The

only option for someone in Melvin s place was to hope for leniency, but

it would have to come from the housing authority; a court could do

nothing about it.

Clarissas notes in the file suggested that, at least initially, Melvin

had earned her sympathy. One entry during the second week she'd had

the case noted:

Called Cathy Wexler @ HAP: zero tolerance policy won budge. Called SCF

info line: No knowledge can discuss and'l case, but 'very possible'

take kids if lose housing.

She had even run some computerized searches on Westlaw looking for

authority to support the argument that HAP was prohibited from adopting

a zero-tolerance policy on eviction.

Unfortunately for Melvin, however, he chose a course of conduct that

had probably obliterated that sympathy before

Clarissa had found any law to back up the creative argument she was

trying to craft on his behalf. By the fifth letter, his tone had

changed. All caps and exclamation points don't go over well with

judges. More recently, Melvin s letters became aggressive:

Do you have children of your OWN, Judge Easterbrook? What kind of

person would allow this to happen? Maybe someday you will know just

how UNFAIR life can be. Are you trying to BREAK me?

I could see why Clarissa wrote them off as the desperate words of a

desperate man. But the benefit of hindsight made me wonder if Clarissa

might still be alive if someone had been able to help Melvin Jackson or

at least deflect his anger from a judge who was on his side but

powerless to do anything about it.

As I was starting in on the Ns, Dennis Coakley walked in with another

box of files. If I was counting right, that made me a hell of a lot

faster than he was.

"Not very exciting, is it?" he said.

"Not particularly."

"So was it worth that little scene you scripted this morning?"

"Won't know until I finish the files," I said. If I had boy parts, he

never would have called my power move a little scene. It would be a

fast ball, a line drive, an outside shot, or some other ridiculous

sports analogy that I don't understand.

"Just like I couldn't know if I had something important to deal with

until I took a look," he said, stomping off.

By the time noon came around, I had finished reviewing the very last

file. Nothing. Two hours of work and all I had to show for it was my

monotone summary of Clarissa Easterbrook's pending caseload. The drone

of my own voice, combined with the steady hum of the water cooler, had

been enough to make me nod off a few times.

My legal pad was hardly used, but to keep myself from sleeping I had

made three lists. One was a list of cases where Clarissa said

something at the hearing to indicate she'd be ruling for the city, but

where she hadn't yet issued a formal ruling. Maybe someone decided to

ensure a rehearing with a different judge. Possible, but not

probable.

The second list was even shorter. I jotted down a few names to run in

PPDS when I got back to the office, but each seemed an unlikely

suspect. Sheldon Smithers found a lock on his front tire, courtesy of

the city, after one too many unpaid parking tickets. He made my list

for sending a rant about the hypocrisy of reserving parking spaces for

the administrative law judges in the city lot. That, and the

serial-killerish name.

Then there was Ronald Nathan Wilson. A month ago, Ronald punched the

glass out on the hearing room door after Clarissa denied his challenge

to the city's seizure of his car. It's a long way from vandalism to

murder, I know, but the seizure was for picking up a decoy in a

prostitution sting, sinking Ronald deeper into the creep pile. And,

again, the name didn't help. Six letters each: first, middle, and

last. Everyone knows 6-6-6 is the sign of the devil.

I wasn't sure what to do with my third list. These were cases from

which Clarissa had recused herself. A restaurant manager whose

application for a sidewalk cafe license had been rejected. A homeowner

whose third-floor addition was enjoined under the nuisance code. A

contractor complaining that his requests to rehabilitate buildings in

the Pearl District had been declined unfairly.

Maybe one of them had complained that Clarissa had a grudge against him

but hadn't gotten word yet that she was recusing herself. I knew it

was a stretch, but I had to leave that room with something.

I used my cell phone to check my work voice mail. As long as there

were no new fires to put out, I was actually going to make my lunch

date with Grace. Only three new messages: one from Dad reminding me

about dinner, one from Frist about a grand jury hearing at the end of

the week that I had already calendared, and one from Jessica Walters

asking me to try her later. Still nothing from Johnson.

I considered returning Dad's call but wasn't up for another

conversation like we'd had the night before. Instead, I flipped my

phone shut and considered myself on a well-deserved lunch break.

Grace and I have a handful of regular lunchtime meeting places located

roughly halfway between the courthouse and her salon, Lockworks.

Today's pick was the Greek Cusina on Fourth, which I always spot by the

gigantic purple octopus protruding above the door. Don't ask me what

the connection is.

Grace was waiting for me in our favorite corner booth, great for

people-watching. We could peek out, but a potted rubber tree plant

made it unlikely we'd be seen from the street.

She looked terrific, as always. Physically, Grace and I are yin and

yang. I've got dark-brown straight hair; her color changes by the day,

but I know those cute little curls are naturally blond. She's trendy;

my clothes (unless bought by Grace) come in black, gray, charcoal,

slate, and ebony. I'm five-feet-eight, she's five-three. She eats all

she wants, never works out, and can wear stuff from the kids'

department. I eat half of what I want and run at least twenty-five

miles a week, just to maintain a size in the single digits. She's put

together; I'm a mess. Set aside those differences, and we're twins.

"Hey, woman," she said, standing up to kiss my cheek. "I've missed

you. I sort of liked being roommates. Maybe we should try it here at

home."

"Might not be the same without the beach."

"Or the rum," she added.

"Don't sell the condo just yet; we could wind up killing each other.

Did you order already?"

"Yeah, I figured it was safe."

Grace knows I always get the Greek platter: a gyro, a side of

spanikopita, and a little Greek salad. That converts into roughly six

miles.

Once I'd settled in across from her, Grace asked me to tell her all

about my new life in the Major Crimes Unit.

"I promise I will get to it, but, please, not just yet. I need a break

from thinking about the horrible things people do to each other. Tell

me a little bit about your homecoming. Anything good at the salon?"

Grace opened Lockworks, a two-story full-service salon-slash-spa, in

the haute Pearl District a few years ago. Never mind that back then

she was a marketing executive without a beautician's license. What

Grace had was business sense. She managed to swing a loan for an

entire warehouse, which she converted into the first of what are now

many upscale salons targeting the hordes of trendy young professionals

flocking to Portland. Today the building alone is worth millions, and

clients wait weeks to pay Grace a small fortune for a haircut or

highlight.

"I've been swamped. The first vacation I've taken since I opened that

place, but it doesn't keep people from getting pissed off. I've been

on my feet for the last forty-eight hours, com ping cuts for clients

who refused appointments with the girls who were subbing for me."

"I guess they know you're the best."

"One way to look at it," she said.

"Or they're just pricks."

She clinked her water glass against mine.

QQ

For the next fifteen minutes, I sat back and listened to Grace's

stories about beautiful people who aren't as beautiful as they want to

be. The whining, the temper tantrums, the unrepentant displays of

vanity. I had packed away half of my chicken gyro by the time she

finished telling me her latest Hollywood story. Grace has become the

preferred stylist for the film productions that increasingly choose to

go on location in Portland. Apparently, someone with too much money

offered Grace a big wad of dough to do body waxing for an eye-candy

movie being shot in the Columbia Gorge about windsurfers. Fortunately,

Grace had enough money to take a pass.

"In addition to the obvious yuck factor, most of the half-naked

unknowns are teenagers," she explained.

"I would've thought that was right up your alley, Grace. You're

ripening pretty well into a dirty old woman." I had teased Grace

endlessly in Hawaii each time her gaze predictably and shamelessly

followed whatever young stud crossed our field of vision. I plowed

through the entire Jack Reacher series during our poolside time; Grace

was still working on the same novel on our flight back to Oregon.

"As tempting as that sounds, there's a little too much Oedipal

potential there. Better stay put in the city for now. Check out men

my own age." She gave me that cute little wink she somehow manages to

pull off when she's being cheeky. "Now can we please knock off the

chitchat and get down to business? What have you been working on? I

want every last detail."

Because of my job, Grace's skin has thickened to violence through

osmosis. When I first started handling compelling prostitution cases

in DVD, she saw me through more than a few long nights.

My ex-husband once told me I shouldn't talk about my cases while people

were eating; it wasn't polite dinner conversation, whatever the hell

that is. Down the road, I returned the favor by telling him it wasn't

exactly polite dinner behavior to use our dining room table to screw

the professional volleyball player he picked up at his new job at Nike.

Now, Shoe Boy was a distant memory, and Grace listened to my stories

whether we were eating or not.

I brought her up to speed on the Easterbrook case, then told her about

my unproductive morning reviewing files. She wanted to know how the

police could begin to tackle a case with no weapon, no witnesses, and

no physical evidence. I explained MCT's strategy of following up on

facts that make the case unique.

She was bothered. "I understand what you're saying about the

statistical odds that the murder has something to do with whatever the

victim might have been involved in, but there's still something about

it that rubs me the wrong way. It's like you're investigating the

victim, blaming her for getting killed."

"Right, but would you feel that way if it wasn't someone like Clarissa

Easterbrook? Someone who looks like us and has a good job and does the

kinds of things we do? When the victim's a doped-out street person,

wouldn't you automatically assume that the lifestyle had something to

do with the fact that she happened to show up dead?"

"But then you're talking about someone who you know was involved in

activities that can be dangerous. There's no reason to believe that

this woman was a drug addict or a prostitute or sleeping with someone

else's husband."

"So the police snoop around to find out whether she was. Despite what

people think, the odds of getting swiped off the street by a total

stranger are so slim it would be irresponsible for the police to assume

that scenario without at least looking into the possibility that

something about the victim got her killed."

"Well, do me a favor. If I show up dead, don't let anyone snoop

through my life."

"How about you do me a favor and don't show up dead?"

"OK, but if I do, I'll try to make it somewhere interesting. Then you

could bypass the personal stuff and follow up on the location as the

angle. Maybe some abandoned castle in the Swiss Alps."

"A little outside my jurisdiction," I said. "And stop being so

morbid."

"Said the proverbial kettle."

"We can't both be dark. I need my Grace to balance me out a little."

"Fine, but I want to go back to your case. What's so interesting about

the location?"

I did my best to describe the place where Clarissa had been found and

told her Johnson's theory that it may have been someone familiar with

the construction site. She was conspicuously quiet. "What?" I

asked.

"Nothing. I'm just trying to catch up with you. Your food's nearly

gone and I still have my entire lunch to eat."

"Thanks for pointing that out, skinny girl."

"Don't mention it."

"Seriously, what were you thinking about?"

"I think there are probably a lot more people who know about that

location than you might assume."

"Grace, it's all the way out on the edge of Glenville."

"Right, where lots and lots of people live and work. Sam, you've only

lived in northeast Portland and never ventured beyond the city center.

Where do your cops live?"

"Johnson lives up by the University of Portland. I think Walker lives

in Gresham." That put Ray in north Portland, not far from my own

Alameda neighborhood, and Jack out in the county's east suburbs.

"And Glenville's all the way on the southwest edge of the county, which

is why the three of you think the fastest growing city in the State of

Oregon is the boonies. You guys might see it as Timbuktu, but a

hundred thousand people know the land out there as well as you know

Alameda."

"When did you become such a Glenvillean? Grace Hannigan, are you

shopping at Burlington Coat Factory without telling me? Or maybe a new

man one with a minivan and a cul-de-sac?"

"Perish the thought," she said. "If you must know, I was looking into

opening another Lockworks out there. There's a boom right now, and

most of it from people with money who need haircuts."

"So are you doing it?"

"Nah. Too big a risk. When I bought the warehouse, I knew in my gut

that the Pearl was going up. I didn't know just how far up I hit the

lottery in that sense but I knew I was ahead of the market. With

Glenville, the market's already full of people gambling that the

growth's going to continue. It didn't make sense to get in this late

in the game."

"So no Lockworks for Glenville."

"Right. Anyway, getting a second shop off the ground would have been a

major pain in the ass. Who needs it?"

"All that work might get in the way of hanging out with me," I said.

"Couldn't let that happen."

The waitress stopped to clear our plates. I left a token morsel on the

plate, so I could tell myself I didn't eat the whole platter. Grace

took great pleasure in telling the waitress she was still working on

it.

"And how's the rest of the new job? Are you going to share your toys

with the other kids this time around?"

"My problems, Grace, are never with the other kids. They're with the

supposed grown-ups watching over us."

Grace knew about some of the run-ins I'd had with coworkers in the

office, all of whom happened to be my superiors. She says I have a

problem with authority. I say my only problem is that the assholes are

the ones who get promoted.

"And what lucky soul gets to put up with you now?" she asked.

"It's hard to believe, but he seems pretty decent so far. Supposedly

he makes people cry, but I've never actually heard that from anyone

firsthand."

"Does the new boss have a name?" she asked.

"That would be one Senior Deputy District Attorney Russell Frist," I

said, deepening my voice into the best Frist boom I could muster.

"Resident weight-lifting crew-cut-wearing stud muffin."

Grace was smirking.

"What?"

"I can't decide whether to tell you," she said.

"Well, you have to now. You can't announce that there's something to

be said and then hold out on me."

After the requisite symbolic pause, she said, "Fine," as if I'd dragged

it out of her. "I don't repeat the things clients tell me, but I

suppose there's no harm in telling you that someone's a client. I know

Russell Frist from the salon."

"Big bad butch Russ Frist goes to Lockworks? For a crew-cut?"

"Nope, not the hair. No point paying sixty bucks for that."

"Oh, please tell me that you wax his back," I pleaded.

"Not that good. But he does get a monthly no-polish manicure and pays

extra for the paraffin wrap."

When I got back to the office, I was still in a good mood from my big

food and small secret. The rest of the office might think of Frist as

a mister scary, but I knew he had soft hands. I like people who are

hard to sum up. They make life interesting.

My first stop was to see Jessica Walters.

She was leaning back in her chair with her stocking feet on the desk,

one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other tapping her trademark

pencil on her armrest. The person on the other end of the line was

having a bad day that was getting worse as the conversation

continued.

"You're smoking crack if you think I'll agree to probation.... I don't

care if your guy's in denial, Conaughton. As far as I'm concerned, the

most important part of your job is to smack him out of it. I'm not the

one who needs a talking to, but you'd rather waste my time from the

comfort of your office than haul yourself to county for a much-needed

sit-down.. .. I'm hanging up now, because it's not going to happen.

Either take the forty months or confirm the trial date. Call me back

with anything else and I'll stop talking to you."

She set the handpiece in its cradle as gently as if she'd been checking

the weather.

"Close case?" I asked.

"Typical plea-bargaining bullshit. They're never as close as the

defense wants you to think."

"I got your message earlier. What's up?"

"You believe in coincidences, Kincaid?"

One of my favorite crime writers says there's no such thing, but I'd

never thought much about it. "Sure," I said, "when I need to."

"Honest answer. Well, I do too. They happen all the time, or at least

that's what I'm telling myself on this one. Your vie called me

Friday."

"On what case?"

"The city judge, Clarissa Easterbrook. She called me Friday and left a

message."

"About what?"

"I have no idea. I was in trial all last week. I took the message

down with the rest of them and have been working my way through the

list. The name meant nothing at the time I wrote it down, but when I

got to it this morning it gave me the heebie-jeebies."

"What exactly did she say?"

"All I wrote in my call book was her name and number. If she had said

what she was calling about, I would have noted it."

"You didn't realize this until today?"

"Watch it, Kincaid. That sanctimony's better spent on the rest of the

fuckups around here. All I had was a name and number. I don't think

she even said she was calling from the city hearings department."

I could see how that could happen. "Can you think of any reason she

might have been calling? Are you in any groups together? The Women's

Bar Association, maybe?"

"Sure, along with forty-three percent of all the other attorneys in

this town. Did she call you?"

"Good point. Whatever it means, thanks for telling me. I'll pass it

on to MCT and see if it connects up with anything else. Do you have

the number she left?"

On the way back to my office, Alice Gerstein stopped me in the hall and

announced that Clarissa Easterbrook s sister was waiting for me in the

corner we call the reception area.

"When did she get here?"

"Right before noon."

I had checked my voice mail around then, but no one had left a message

about the pop-in.

"Did she say what she wanted?" I whispered.

"Just to talk to you about the case. I offered to have you call her to

set an appointment, but she insisted on waiting."

Tara Carney had finished the crossword during her wait and moved on to

the jumble. I apologized for making her wait and explained that I was

out of the office and didn't know she was planning to come in.

"I really didn't mind. I've been running out of things that make me

feel useful, so waiting here to talk to you .. . well, at least it was

something."

Apparently Susan Kerr wasn't the only one who was trying to stay busy.

I offered Tara the best we had around here, a Dixie cup of water. Don't

knock it. Until a few of us pooled our own funds for a cooler, the

only water we had was brown.

Once we were in my office with the door closed, I asked her why she'd

come in.

"There's something I haven't told the police yet, and it's been

weighing on me. If I tell you, can it remain confidential?"

People hear about the sacred attorney-client privilege on TV and assume

it's going to apply to me. It doesn't. I did my best to explain to

Tara that I represented the State, not her. I'd do my best to be

discreet, but if she told me something that related to the case, I'd

almost certainly tell the police, and I might have to disclose it

eventually to a defendant.

"That's the thing," she said. "I don't know if it relates to the

case."

"If you have any reason to think it might, you really do need to tell

me, Tara. I can't promise to keep it confidential, but I will treat

the information with respect. We'll use it for the investigation, but

it's not like I'm going to issue a press release or gossip about your

sister."

She looked into my face and must have decided to trust me. "I think

Clarissa was cheating on Townsend."

I couldn't hide my frustration. How could she not have mentioned this

before? I'd let Grace make me feel bad about the police poking around

in Clarissa's life, and it turns out there was something to discover

after all.

"I didn't know what to say earlier. That first night, he was standing

right there and was so upset; I couldn't mention it. Then when the

police told us they found Clarissa's body, I was with my parents. I

know the police were asking about her marriage, but I didn't want to

say anything in front of them."

"So whom was she seeing?" I asked.

"That's the thing. I don't even know. She never told me. But she

told me a few weeks ago and she made me swear up and down I would never

tell anyone that she had fallen in love with someone else. She said

she wanted to leave Townsend. I was shocked."

"Do you know if she actually started the process of leaving him? Did

she tell Townsend or go to a lawyer?"

"I don't know. I think I made her angry. She wanted me to support her

and be happy for her, and I was crummy."

"How so?" I asked.

""What about your marriage? How could you cheat on Townsend? Why

don't you try counseling?" That kind of stuff. I felt really bad when

she said she only told me because she thought she could depend on me. I

tried to stop being judgmental after that, but I think the damage was

already done."

"She didn't tell you anything more?"

"No. I tried to get her to tell me who he was, but she refused. She

wouldn't even tell me where she met him. We mostly talked about how

she was afraid to be alone. She wanted to leave Townsend to be with

this other person, but she wasn't sure he was prepared to be with her.

I got the impression he might have been married too, like he wasn't

necessarily in a position to live happily ever after with her. But she

didn't want to keep living with Townsend when she was in love with

someone else, so we talked about how she felt about being on her

own."

"And did she come to any decision?"

"I think her mind was already made up; it was just a matter of when. We

talked about how I adjusted after my husband left me. That was

different, though. I have two kids, so my hands were too full to

permit a meltdown. She was picturing herself alone at night with

nothing to do and wondering how she'd get through it. Clarissas one of

those women who's always been with someone."

I knew that feeling. I had been one of those people before my divorce.

Now I don't know what ever made me feel like I could live with anyone

but Vinnie.

I poked and prodded with more questions, but Tara didn't know anything

else about Clarissa's extramarital activities.

"Do you think she told Susan? I got the impression they were like

this," I said, crossing my fingers, "but Susan hasn't mentioned this

either."

"They are I mean, they were." She was still getting used to the past

tense. "In some ways they were more like real sisters than Clarissa

and I were. If anything, they were almost too close, if that makes any

sense. I think Clarissa came to me because I was less likely to

challenge her. Clarissa always felt she owed it to Susan to live up to

her expectations. Family's supposed to love you unconditionally,

right?"

I could tell she was wondering whether she'd lived up to that

obligation. "I'm sure she knew you did, Tara." It was my best effort,

but it sounded no better than the shallow things people said to me when

my mother died.

"I hope so."

"What do you mean about Clarissa living up to Susan's expectations?"

"That's a bit of an overstatement. I don't always choose my words very

well. I think Clarissa wanted to be more like Susan.

It's been that way since they met in sixth grade. Some girl threw gum

in Clarissa's hair on the bus, and Clarissa was afraid to stick up for

herself. Susan was the new kid in school from California, and everyone

else was avoiding her. But when this girl threw gum at Clarissa, Susan

without saying a word to Clarissa followed her off the bus and told her

she'd kick her butt if she ever messed with Clarissa again. From that

point on, they were friends, but Susan was always looking out for

Clarissa. I don't think that dynamic ever went away."

"But if Susan took care of Clarissa, why wouldn't Clarissa confide in

her about something like leaving Townsend?"

"I don't think I'm explaining it well. Susan wouldn't have just

listened to Clarissa, which I think is what Clarissa wanted from me.

She would've gone to Townsend and told him to pay more attention to his

marriage or something. Who knows? She might even have tracked this

other guy down and told him to shape up and be with Clarissa if that's

what she wanted. That's the way Susan is."

I'd just met Susan, but I could already picture it. "I'm sorry, Tara,

but I think I need at least to talk to Susan and see if maybe she knew

who the other guy was."

"But I thought she already said there weren't any problems in the

marriage. In fact, I got the impression she was upset that the police

even asked about it."

"If she doesn't think it has anything to do with her death, she might

just be trying to protect Clarissa's reputation like you were."

She didn't say anything.

"If it matters, I don't see the harm in talking to Susan about your

concerns."

"I'm mostly worried about Townsend. You don't know him. The way he

was Sunday night? He's usually nothing like that, and things have only

gotten worse since then. He's an absolute wreck. I don't think he can

take any more. My parents and I are having a hard enough time on our

own, but now we're worried about Townsend too. If he finds out, I

don't know what he'd do."

"I'll be as discreet as possible," I promised, "but I can't ignore what

you've told me."

By the time Tara left the office, she understood that she could no

longer control what became of the secret her sister had confided in

her.

I needed to tell Johnson about Clarissa's phone call to Jessica Walters

and what I'd learned from Tara. And I still needed to follow up on

what Duncan had told me this morning: Had Johnson really asked Townsend

for a polygraph?

No one picked up at MCT, so I paged him again. He returned the call

fifteen minutes later from a crime scene. I could barely hear him over

a chorus of angry voices in the background.

"Sorry about the delay, but today's been a bitch. I got a home

invasion gone bad here right now. Two guys dead and a front yard full

of gang bangers taking sides. We're meeting back at Central at four to

go over where we are on Easterbrook. Can it wait till then? We can

patch you in on speaker."

"It can wait, but I'll meet you over there." I knew from experience

that attending a meeting by conference call is a guaranteed way to be

confused and ignored, two areas where I didn't need help.

"Sounds good. We should have the bad guys separated from the less bad

guys by then."

I turned my attention back to the task of reviewing the files I had

inherited from Frist. With only a partial caseload, I had thirty-two

pending cases and thirteen waiting to be reviewed for prosecution

decisions. Far fewer files than in DVD, where I'd celebrate if I fell

into the double digits, but homicides, sex offenses, and felony

assaults would require more of me than the drug cases I had learned to

prosecute on autopilot.

By midafternoon, I had finished compiling a calendar of all scheduled

appearances and a list of motions, responses, phone calls, and other

follow-up projects that needed to be done. If only I could learn to

get the actual work completed as efficiently and neatly as I could list

it.

MCT was housed in the downtown Justice Center, just a quick diagonal

across the Plaza Blocks from the courthouse. I took the stairs to the

fourth floor. When I got to MCT's large suite of cubicles, Chuck threw

me a Diet Coke from the mini fridge and a look from deep down in a

naughty place. I missed the soda by a mile, but I definitely caught

the look. As usual, Chuck Forbes didn't miss a thing.

"Nice catch, Kincaid. Something distract you?"

"Just your piss-poor aim. Mike, don't ever rely on your partner in a

gunfight."

Chuck's partner, Mike Calabrese, was finishing off the second and, for

him, final bite of a Krispy Kreme glazed. Licking his fingers, he

said, "That boy there doesn't need his gun. He disarms the world with

his rapier wit."

He disguised the New York accent, giving the impression he was

mimicking something Chuck said recently, most likely after their annual

shooting re-quals. Seven times out of ten, I could outshoot Chuck at

the range.

Johnson took control of the meeting once everyone was settled around

the table. "Thanks for coming back in. As it turns out, the LT OK'd

us for overtime on this, but I appreciate that everyone was willing to

show anyway. I know it was a bad day out there today. Before I let

you in on what Walker and I have been working, where are you guys on

the paperwork?"

Chuck and Mike knew the question was aimed at them. Chuck took

charge.

"We got everything we were asking for. Nothing on the credit cards

other than corroboration for what the wits have been telling us. We

got charges at Nordstrom on Saturday for the clothes she was wearing

and the stuff the sister found in the shopping bag. Then Sunday we've

got the lunch at the Pasta Company. We checked the bills for the last

twelve months, and nothing's jumping out. Same with the bank

records.

"The vies cell phone gets a little more interesting. The general

pattern is slow: a few calls to the house, office voice mail, that sort

of thing. Very few incoming calls. The last two calls were one Sunday

afternoon to the Pasta Company and one Saturday afternoon to her house.

I figured I'd let one of you guys check that one out with the family,

since you're the contacts."

I saw Johnson jot it down in his notebook. "That it?" he asked.

Chuck and Mike exchanged glances. "My partner here has been saving the

best for last," Mike said. "We get a break in the pattern about three

months ago. Suddenly our victim starts using all those minutes she's

prepaid for, and it's almost all calls back and forth between her phone

and one belonging to Metro Council member Terrence James Caffrey."

T. J. Caffrey was a well-known liberal lawmaker. He had previously

been a member of the county legislature but recently ran for and won a

seat on the Metro Council, whose sole purpose was to enforce Oregon's

unique restrictions against urban sprawl. In the 1970s, the

legislature essentially drew a big circle around the Portland area's

existing development and established that line as a boundary between

urban and rural land. Since then, as the region's population had

grown, the urban center had exploded with new development. The result

was a much denser metropolitan area, but the open space beyond it had

remained just that. Only the Metro Council had the authority to redraw

the line that separated urban from rural.

Johnson reached his hands toward Calabrese like he wanted to squeeze

his cheeks and kiss the top of his head. "Now that is what I'm talking

about. Feels like we're swimming through maple syrup and suddenly

something breaks. Too many phone calls to a married man; it might boil

down to old-fashioned lust after all."

"That fits in with something I got this afternoon," I said. I told

them about my visit from Tara. T. J. Caffrey s own marriage would

explain why Clarissa thought that leaving Townsend wouldn't be enough

to make her happy.

The guys were predictably ticked.

"Happens in every case, don't it?" Calabrese spoke for them all.

"These people don't tell us what they know; then they bitch and moan

when we can't find the bad guy fast enough."

Before I had a chance to voice Tara's reservations, Johnson was back on

track. "It's all right. Now we got some pieces coming together. I've

got something that might fit in with the Caffrey angle too, but let's

hold off on that for now. You got anything else?"

"Only a one-minute phone call on Friday to the Multnomah County

District Attorney's Office. We figured Kincaid could track down the

details."

"I've already got them. Jessica Walters paid me a visit this morning."

I explained to them that Jessica had been in trial last week, only made

the connection today between the voice mail and our case, and had no

idea why our victim had been calling her.

"Raises some interesting questions, doesn't it?" Walker asked. "We've

got an assertive, good-looking woman calling Nail 'em to the Wall

Walters. Maybe she was a closet muncher and got involved in something

over her head."

Walker was a good man, so I tried to write off his deduction" as

generational. As for his choice of words, it was nothing I hadn't

heard before in the DA's office.

"Seems unlikely. I talked to Jessica about it today, and Clarissa

Easterbrook's name meant nothing to her until Monday."

Johnson jumped in. "Right now, it's just a phone call; nothing we can

do with it. Mike and Chuck gave us Councilman T. J. Caffrey to follow

up on; Kincaid got us Melvin Jackson to talk to. And Jack and I have a

couple guys we're going to be picking up when we break. Can you run it

down for them, Jack? My voice is toast."

Jack Walker flipped through various computer printouts as he spoke. "We

cross-referenced prior sex arrests with address records from the

surrounding area. Based on that, we got twenty-seven guys within a

couple of miles."

If the public had any clue what was walking around out there with the

rest of us, they'd lose any remaining faith in the criminal justice

system's sentencing priorities.

"But that includes any sex offense," Walker explained, "even the wienie

wavers and step dads Of the twenty-seven, we've got a couple who are

more interesting. One's got a forcible rape and sodomy, lives with his

mother about five blocks from the construction site. Name's John

Peltzkelszvich, or however you pronounce that. I mean, buy a freakin'

vowel, for Christ's sake. Anyway, he's on parole, so we should be able

to get access to him through the PO.

"The guy we like best right now, though, is Gregory Banas. He's

farther out, almost two miles from the site. Only prior conviction is

a misdemeanor sex abuse for grabbing a woman's crotch in a mall parking

lot. But, get this: Banas's name comes up twice. Remember the

attempted rape a couple years ago on Taylor's Ferry that Bradley and

Rees from the DA's office broke up?"

We all nodded.

"The woman's name was Vicki Vasquez," Walker explained.

"No arrest, but Bob Milling from East Precinct called this afternoon.

He was working the case when he was still at Central. Good guy.

Vasquez was never able to make a solid ID, but when she was flipping

through mugs, she pulled out four who could've been the bad guy. Her

favorite?"

"Greg Banas?" Calabrese asked.

"Correctamundo," Walker said. "Milling wanted to put him in a lineup,

but Vasquez moved back to California. Said she wanted to put the whole

thing behind her. At the time, Banas lived in one of those big

apartment complexes on Barbur Boulevard." I knew the location, not far

from the running trail along Taylors Ferry. "About a year ago, he

moved to one off Highway Twenty-six in Glenville, so we've got

potential familiarity with both the crime scene and the presumed pickup

spot."

Ray Johnson nodded. "And location's going to matter on this one. Heidi

Chung called from the crime lab. The paint geek from Home Depot says

that the paint on the dog matches paint going up on the exterior of the

office park. Mocha cream, to be exact."

"Would the paint have been wet on Sunday?" Walker asked.

Johnson had apparently asked the same question already. "They were

painting Friday and Saturday; on Sundays the work is shut down. But

they leave the scaffolding and paint out."

"This doesn't make sense," Chuck said. "We've been assuming the bad

guy swiped the victim from the street, leaving the dog and the leash

behind. Now we're saying bad guy takes victim and her big strong dog?

Does the bad guy location to be determined then dump her in Glenville

and drop the dog near home? No way."

"I'm with you," Johnson agreed. "But let's try it this way, going back

to our old-fashioned lust theory. Husband's off at the hospital all

day, so vie meets her phone pal for a day of romance. Maybe he picks

her up for a drive to the coast, and they take the dog with them. They

fight about the things people fight about when they're screwing each

other but married to other people. He hits her in the head a little

too hard. Dumps her in Glenville on the way back Griffey jumps out for

a tinkle, comes back with paint then leaves the dog and the shoe on

Taylor's Ferry to get us thinking abduction."

Chuck was nodding with every sentence. "That could be it."

"Or it could still be an abduction," Walker added, "but the paint comes

from the bad guy, not the building. There's Peltzkelszvich and Banas,

but we've also got a couple of site workers with problems. Maybe the

paint goes from the site to them to the dog."

Johnson thought about it. "It's possible. I didn't like any of the

work guys for it, though."

Walker filled the rest of us in. "We found a bunch of dirtbags working

up there, mostly through one union. There were a couple of rapes, some

robberies, and a mess of DV assaults. But the robberies were all

commercial, and the rapes weren't strangers one was an ex-girlfriend,

one was the guy's stepdaughter. Nothing that seemed in line with our

scenario."

"I hate to be the party pooper " The four detectives' shared chuckle

cut me off. "OK, playing my usual role of party pooper," I revised,

"maybe it's just paint. Plain, generic taupe-colored paint. I mean,

how precise can the paint geek get it? The stuff's not DNA, right?

Griffey still could've come across it wandering around the

neighborhood."

It was too soon to begin connecting all the dots. Walker and Johnson

needed to get out there and talk to the men whose names had come up and

see if anything shook out.

"One last thing," Johnson said. "I called the husband today about the

condom, and it wasn't his."

"Did you tell him the ME found spermicide?" I asked.

"No way. I just told him we were still running some tests, and it

would help if we knew the last time they had intercourse and whether

they'd used any kind of barrier method of birth control. Turns out the

doctor had his tubes tied. They hadn't had sex since the Tuesday

before she disappeared, though, which explains why the autopsy didn't

find anything."

"Was he all right with the questions?" I asked. I still needed to

talk to Johnson about the polygraph request.

"Actually, he seemed pretty thrown off by the whole thing. He was sort

of out of it in general, though. I guess no one wants to think about

something like that happening to their wife. Anyway, when I found out

the condom wasn't his, I was thinking sex offense. But it fits with

what Chuck and Mike got, too. Maybe the vie was using condoms on the

side with Caffrey."

"Doesn't mean Caffrey did it, though," I said. "It would just explain

the spermicide."

We were stuck again.

As we broke up, Chuck tried to get my attention. I raised a finger in

his direction as I ran to catch Johnson alone.

"Griffith got a call today from Susan Kerr," I said. He looked at me

but didn't say anything. "Did one of you ask Townsend Easterbrook to

take a polygraph last night?"

The look on his face said So that's what this is about. "Yes. As a

matter of fact, I did."

"I thought we were going to talk before you did anything on that."

"You weren't there, Sam. Am I supposed to stop everything and call you

before I make any kind of decision on one of my investigations?"

I ignored the rhetorical question because, like most rhetorical

questions, it was stupid. "If this was just another procedure, why

didn't you mention it to me this morning?"

"If you want me to say I'm sorry so you can tell your boss you did what

you needed to, then I'll do it, Sam. I know how your thing works over

there at the courthouse. But the guy had just gotten the news and was

being cooperative; the moment was right to ask him to help us eliminate

him. If I turn that into a DA decision and I mean any DA it gets

political and never would've happened. No offense against you

personally, but I just needed to do it."

"So you admit you intentionally went behind my back." I'd nearly

gotten killed going out on a limb on one of Johnson's cases. I

couldn't help but sound indignant.

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "No, it wasn't like that."

My stare must have told him I wasn't buying it.

"OK," he said. "Maybe I could have brought it up with you at the crime

scene yesterday. But I could tell when we were riding up to Kerr's

house that the subject made you nervous, so I decided to play it by

ear. Honestly, last night at the house, it seemed like the right move

to make."

"Well, it wasn't," I said. "From everything I've heard, this guy's on

the verge of losing it. I don't need you pushing him over the edge by

asking for a poly the minute after he learns his wife was murdered. And

don't tell me you would've done it with another DA, because that's

bullshit and we both know it."

He bit his lower lip and avoided my gaze. Maybe we didn't know each

other as well as we'd assumed.

I finally broke the silence. "What's your problem with the guy anyway?

If he didn't do it and I don't think any of us really thinks he did how

could you put him through that?"

"It's not about suspecting him, Kincaid, it's about doing the

investigation right. He was being so cooperative, I thought, if I

asked, he'd say Sure, let's do it right now, whatever I can do to help.

As it turned out, that's not how it went, so it probably wasn't worth

getting you so fired up."

"He won't take it?" I asked. I had assumed from the conversation with

Duncan that Townsend was put off by the request but would nevertheless

humor the police.

"I overstated that."

"What exactly did he say?"

"The question seemed to catch him off guard not like he was threatened

by it, but more like his feelings were hurt. You saw how out of it he

was that first night at the house. It was the same thing. Then he

finally said he didn't see a problem but would let me know today."

"And what did he say today?" I asked.

"Nothing. I had to call him about the nonoxynol. He didn't mention

the poly, and I held off on pressing him. See, now that really

would've pissed you off."

"Don't push it, Ray."

"Look, I'm sorry I went around you, but I know what it's all about with

you guys and Duncan Griffith. I didn't want to put you in a bad

spot."

I wanted to be able to say that I was different from all the other MCU

deputies he'd seen over the years, impervious to hierarchical

pressures, but I couldn't begin to articulate the subtle distinctions

that I found so important.

"No, you didn't want me to tell you to back off. And, in the process,

you made me look like an idiot in front of my boss when I defended you.

Do anything like that again, and I'll forget you're my friend and start

acting like all the other MCU deputies you never would have pulled this

on."

"Yep, friends. Got it."

"Ray, I meant that, but I also need to do my job."

He was biting his lip again, but at least now he was looking me in the

eyes. He finally smiled and shook his head. "Yeah, we'll be all

right. Go wait for your bus or whatever it is you do after work."

"I drove today, as a matter of fact, but, sorry, we're not quite done

yet. When do you plan to talk to the councilman?" If Griffith gave me

a sit-down based on Susan Kerr s concerns about etiquette, I'd really

be in the doghouse if Johnson accused an elected official like T. J.

Caffrey of murder under my watch.

"I figured I'd go by his house tonight and ask him whether he's been

keeping a little piece on the side. I'll make sure the wife's nearby

when I get to the Trojans. Kids, too, if he has any." He placed his

hand on my shoulder to make sure I knew he was kidding. "Don't worry,

Kincaid, this is me we're talking about. Tough stuff won't work on a

guy like that anyway."

True, and tact was right up Johnson's alley. As long as he agreed that

some diplomacy was called for, I couldn't be in better hands.

With work wrapped up, I was more interested in getting into the hands

of another detective. I stopped by Chuck's desk just long enough to

tell him to meet me at my house. I was going to my father's for

dinner, but I could spare an hour or so if he wanted to catch up.

"Catch up" is precisely what I meant when I said it, but his expression

when he said, "Leaving right now. An hour might be enough," had me

scrambling out the door, sucking down Altoids as fast as I could take

them. Damn that Greek Cusina. By the time I got to the Jetta, I had

broken into a full sprint and was sweating garlic. Very attractive.

I used the wonder of cell technology to multitask in the car, calling

Griffith with the update while I maneuvered various body parts in front

of the air vents in an attempt to cool off. The commute was remarkably

quick. Drivers in front of me would look in their rearview mirrors and

immediately yield the lane. Apparently jerking around like a

strung-out freak pays off when others practice defensive driving,

When I rolled past Chuck's '67 Jag to pull into the driveway,

I gave him my best come-hither look. I placed both feet on the ground

before stepping out of the car. Slinkier than my normal spread-eagle

hoist.

I bent purposefully and ever so seductively at the waist to reach my

suit jacket in the passenger seat and then flicked it over my shoulder,

one New Balance thrusting to the side with a determined hip. I parted

my lips and let my tongue linger at the break before I spoke. "You

coming in with me or not?"

He returned my blistering gaze. Then he started laughing. A full-on,

eyes shut, hands-to-the-face bust-up.

I fought competing urges to run away and cry, or to punch him in the

head and then run away. "That wasn't the response I was looking

for."

He tried to regain his composure but couldn't help himself. "I'm

sorry. But I just left you fifteen minutes ago at the precinct. What

the hell happened to you?"

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the driver s window. The

combination of the air vents, my sweaty head, and that damn mud Grace

had given me had left my hair in a state of Rocky Horror. Throw in the

white Altoid powder sprinkled across my clothing, and I was totally

pathetic. I draped my jacket over my arm, pulled in my thrusted hip,

and tried to explain.

"I was running to my car and got a little warm and "

What was this? Maybe Grace was right when she said I didn't understand

men, because this one was racing up my walkway steps, straight toward

me, and he wasn't laughing.

I ran ahead of him into the house and let him catch me at the end of my

upstairs hallway. Just outside the bedroom.

If there is a mathematical formula to calculate sex maybe intensity

times duration then the next hour could very well have brought us back

to par despite the two-week break.

Six.

I see Clarissa Easterbrook in a pink silk sweater on Taylor's Ferry

Road, holding Griffey by his leash. A man in an ankle-length duster

and brown leather hat has stopped to pet the dog. The man asks if she

has seen the view of Mount Hood and begins to lead her to a crest

through a clearing in the trees.

He reaches his hand out behind him to guide her, but now it's my hand

he grasps. When he turns his head to smile down at my trusting face, I

recognize Tim O'Donnell. My expression changes from confusion to

shock, as I open my mouth to scream for help.

"Babe, wake up, what's wrong?"

My right elbow flew out instinctively, and Chuck bolted upright,

holding his ribs where I jabbed him.

"Oh, God, are you OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said. "You just took me by surprise."

"I guess we fell asleep."

"You fell asleep. I watched."

"That's more than a little disturbing."

"Tell me about it. Your hair's even worse than it was when we started;

you snore; and a spindle of drool was working its way from your lip to

the mattress."

"I'm really going to hurt you this time," I said, reaching over and

poking my fingers into his side.

With one swift move, he had my hands above my head. "Stop it, I was

kidding. You weren't drooling, you don't snore, and your hair well,

you're cute as hell, Kincaid." He gave me a kiss and let me go. "I

woke you up because you looked like you were having another one of

those dreams. I've seen cops after a shooting, and it can take a long

time to get over."

"I'm over it. Just one of those weird naked-in-front-of-the-classroom

dreams."

"Was I there?"

"No, that'd be one of your dreams. I hate to kick you out of bed,

stud, but I really need to get a move on. I promised Dad that Vinnie

and I would come over for dinner tonight, and I can't show up with bed

head."

"That poor impersonation of a dog over there is invited, but I'm

not?"

Vinnie was spread out like a bear rug in the hall, still looking

annoyed that he'd been locked out of the bedroom during playtime.

Vinnie's got bug eyes, bat ears, and a face that looks like it was

flattened by a steel plate. I couldn't tell if the snort he emitted

was in response to Chuck's comment or just one of his everyday

snorts.

"When your date's a French bulldog, you can talk about boring family

stuff without being rude," I said.

"I don't mind if you talk about your boring family. I just want to be

fed."

I did feel guilty running out on him, and Dad would enjoy seeing Chuck.

"Fine. But I need some time alone with Dad. Give me an hour's head

start, and we'll have dinner on the table right when you get there."

The last thing I needed post-vacation was one of the bricks of beef my

father feeds me whenever he cooks, so I had e-mailed a list of

ingredients in the morning and promised to cook if he'd pick them up.

New to computers, he was still so impressed by the technology that he

didn't even complain about the menu.

"You look great," I said, adjusting the collar on the blue shirt I'd

given him for his most recent birthday. He had complained that it was

too young for him, but it brought out the blue in his eyes and the

silver of his hair. "You didn't have any problems printing out the

shopping list?"

"I've turned into a real computer whiz since you left." I had helped

him hook up his Dell right before my trip. "It's so easy I was even

thinking of telling Al to get one."

Al Fontana is my dad's ninety-year-old neighbor and checker partner.

He's also a dirty old man.

"Dad, you put that man on the Internet, and he'll be dead in a month

from Viagra and porn."

Point taken.

It wasn't long before Dad got to the heart of things. Apparently I

wasn't the only one who spent the day uncomfortable with where we left

things the night before. "I know we talked about this, but I want to

tell you in person that I'm sorry I got you so upset last night."

"You're making me feel worse. I was a total jerk."

"Fine, let's put last night behind us, and I won't make any apologies.

What I'm trying to say is that I'll try not to let my own hang-ups get

in the way "

"Dad, you don't have any hang-ups "

"Please, Sammy, let me finish. All I was saying was that this woman

was surrounded by powerful people. I may not have stuck it out as a

cop, but I saw enough to know you'll be looking long and hard at

everything she was involved in. If you wind up stumbling onto

something, they'll make your life a living hell."

So that's what this had been about. Dad wasn't afraid I'd get chased

around the city again by a wing nut he was worried some cabal of

"powerful people" would target me for annihilation. As long as I've

known him, Dad has had an almost delusional distrust of those who find

themselves at the top of the hierarchy of influence. I typically find

this characteristic endearing, but occasionally it makes me crazy. Like

at my rehearsal dinner in Manhattan, when he was so cold to my now

ex-husband's "blue-blood" parents that I was afraid Roger was going to

call off the wedding. OK, in retrospect, that wouldn't have been so

bad. But now he was letting his paranoia get in the way of his pride

in my career.

I shook my head in disbelief. Part of me wanted to unleash to tell him

how much I resented the guilt I'd felt all day about last night, to

tell him he could keep his supposed apology. It only served to raise

the issue again in a whole new light. But I didn't want to say

anything that I'd regret.

Instead, I kept a measured voice. "Dad, I told you before that the MCU

is where I want to be. That means I'll be dealing with bad guys, and

if some of them happen to be important and influential, so be it. In

fact, I would think that you'd prefer me to prosecute the

privileged."

"I obviously didn't do very well getting my point across. I was trying

to explain what my worries had been, but that I know that you're going

to be better than I was at handling the pressures that might come with

a case like this."

"Oh, come on, Dad. You know that's not true."

"No," he said, "you said it last night I hung up OSP."

"You were in a different situation. You had a wife, a child." He

shook his head, and I could tell he wanted me to drop the pep talk. "I

was old enough to remember what it was like. Mom was pressuring you

"

I stopped mid-sentence when I saw the look on his face. It was clear

I'd said something wrong.

"I'm not sure what you think you remember, sweetheart, but your mother

never pressured me."

"Dad, it's OK. It doesn't make me think any less of her. She was

worried about you getting hurt."

"Sam, just stop it. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then why did you leave OSP?" I asked. Once again, this conversation

was getting us nowhere.

"I don't want to talk about it. Let's get dinner started."

Everyone close to me Grace, Chuck, Roger (back in the day) has always

complained that I change the subject when the going gets rough. I

guess it runs in the family.

"Not yet. I want to know what this is about. You're upset, and it

apparently has something to do with why you moved over to the forest

service."

"I promised I would support you in your job, and I'm going to keep my

promise. Let's just leave it at that."

"Dad, I remember you and Mom arguing right around when you changed

jobs. It was the only time you did argue, in fact. You tried to keep

it from me, but I'd hear you in your room "

He laughed. "If you think we didn't argue over the years, we kept it

from you better than we thought."

"Thick walls," I said, knocking on the one behind me. He was changing

the subject again, and not very convincingly either. My parents'

marriage had been as solid as they come. Even before I made the

mistake of walking down the aisle of doom with Roger, I'd known that

we'd never come close.

Whatever was going on now, I could prod Dad all night and he would

still never budge. So I grabbed a bag of vegetables from the counter

and began chopping.

By the time Chuck arrived, the salad was tossed and the salmon was

broiled. After pumping palms, slapping backs, and a few other male

welcoming rituals, he found me in the kitchen, took one look at the

pink fish, and whispered in my ear, "If I swear you're not fat, can we

please have some steak?"

The man knew me so well. "I'm in no condition to run after this

evening, so the least we can do is eat something healthy."

"What was this evening?" Dad called out from the living room. "Must

have been big to keep you from running."

Chuck winked and mouthed the word big at me.

I rolled my eyes. "No more work talk tonight." I put dinner on the

table, and for the next two hours we talked about Hawaii, my dad's

computer, movies, and politics. We made it through the conversation

with no shootings, no bodies, no demons from the past just three normal

people sharing a meal.

As ten o'clock approached, Dad clicked on the local news, and I moved

to the kitchen to take on the dishes.

As the familiar staccato theme song faded out, I heard an anchor

report: "In our top story tonight, new developments in the

investigation into the death of Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Find out

why her husband is railing against the Portland Police Bureau." I ran

into the living room just in time to catch: "But first, Morley

Rutherford's going to tell us what we can expect in the way of weather

tomorrow. Morley?"

I resisted the urge to throw my sudsy sponge at Morley Rutherford's fat

freckled head while he droned on with his entirely predictable

springtime weather report. Why not kick off the news with an

announcement that the earths going to rotate tomorrow?

Once Morley wrapped up with his seven-day graphic of clouds and

showers, the camera finally cut back to the anchor. "At a surprise

news conference held just moments ago, the husband of slain judge

Clarissa Easterbrook accused the Portland Police Bureau of focusing the

investigation on him rather than looking for the real killer."

The footage cut to Townsend at a podium in front of his house. "When I

learned yesterday that some monster had killed my beloved Clarissa" his

voice broke and his hands trembled, but he continued to read from the

statement in front of him "I thought that nothing in the world could

ever be worse than at that moment. But the course of the Portland

Police Bureaus investigation has convinced me that there is a more

horrific possibility, and that would be if the person or people

responsible for her death were not brought to justice. The police tell

me they have no suspects in my wife's death, but they spent hours in

our home with a search warrant, interrogated our friends looking for

problems that did not exist in our marriage, and asked me to take a

polygraph examination, suggesting that they would not be able to

investigate other suspects fully until I proved my innocence. So that

is why I am standing here tonight.

"I have not even buried my wife" he wiped away a tear and swallowed but

kept his eyes on his notes "and I am here in front of cameras, forced

to deny something that is inconceivable to me. I did not and could not

ever hurt Clarissa."

The words themselves were no different from the typical denials always

issued in these cases, some truthful, some not. A bet placed at this

point in the game would reflect nothing but hunch. That Townsend was

seeking to tip those odds became clear when a familiar face replaced

his at the podium.

I shushed Chuck and my father. Their outraged comments were drowning

out the voice I had hoped never to hear again. "Good evening. My name

is Roger Kirkpatrick."

My ex-husband hadn't aged. It was probably a deal with the devil. He

had the same short preppy haircut he'd worn in New York, before his

commitment to a "freer" lifestyle in Oregon had caused him to grow his

brown curls into what I had called the Doogie Howser look.

He proceeded to announce that he and his firm, Dunn Simon, had been

retained by Townsend Easterbrook to oversee a team of private

investigators and to help ensure that the police sought out the real

killers instead of harassing the victim's family and friends. Then he

went for broke.

"To satisfy the police department's baseless suspicions, Dr.

Easterbrook submitted voluntarily this afternoon to a polygraph

examination administered by retired FBI agent Jim Thornton, a

recognized expert in the field. Agent Thornton has certified," he

said, holding up a paper I assumed was an affidavit from Thornton,

"that Dr. Easterbrook's answers were truthful. He had nothing

whatsoever to do with his wife's death, and the police have wasted

precious time by doubting him. No one should have to prove his own

innocence, but Dr. Easterbrook has. Now it's time for the Portland

Police Bureau to join the search for justice by finding whoever is

responsible for this terrible loss."

Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, Roger was gone, replaced by the

anchor. "Dr. Easterbrook's attorney concluded his remarks by saying

that his firm had begun its own investigation and would share its work

with law enforcement."

"The only thing he knows how to share is his diAs furious as I was, the

natural instinct to behave in front of my father silenced me. I

couldn't even hit the mute button, thanks to my ridiculous yellow

rubber gloves. I gave up, threw the remote on the sofa, and headed

into the kitchen to exchange the gloves for something more helpful.

By the time I had sucked down half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, I

was ready to talk again, but Chuck and my father had already covered

all the bases: Why hadn't Townsend gone through the police? A surprise

press conference only creates more conflict. Just how legit was this

polygraph? Depends on the questions, the equipment, and the

administrator. And, the doozy of the night, why the hell had Townsend

hired Shoe Boy? He doesn't even practice criminal law. Did Townsend

know his new attorney was my ex-husband? Surely Roger would have told

him.

I figured since they'd finished all the objective analysis, I could

jump to the part that was anything but. "You know what? He wins. I'm

off the case. I'm telling Frist tomorrow."

My father said nothing. Neither did Chuck.

Fine, I'd do the pep talk myself. No, self, I said in my head, you

need to finish what you started. Don't let him get the best of you.

Act like a professional. Then the coach in me found a winning theme,

one that deserved to be spoken aloud: "You know, what if Townsend

actually did it? Imagine Roger and me in trial together."

Chuck put his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe it's best if you did recuse

yourself."

"Forget it. I'm not letting him chase me off my own case." When I

beat Roger during our first-year moot trial competition at Stanford, he

attributed the win to the side slit in my skirt. I should have known

to stay away. Handing him his ass in trial (and in pants) would be

sweet satisfaction.

My dad was noticeably quiet. As Chuck carried his coffee mug into the

kitchen, I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. So?

"It's up to you, Sam. I'll support you either way."

"But, what about "

"Unh-unh. Don't use this to revisit what we put to rest earlier. This

is about you and your case, not me." When he turned the television

back on, I knew I wasn't getting any further with him, so I tried my

luck in the kitchen with Chuck.

As I hugged him from behind, my pager buzzed. He felt it too.

"Duty calls, counselor."

I recognized the number as MCT's. No doubt it was Johnson breaking the

news about the press conference. He could wait a few minutes.

"What's going on with you? You got awfully quiet in there."

"Nothing's going on." He kept his back to me.

"What are you upset about?"

"It's fine, Samantha. Don't worry about it."

Samantha? Chuck's got plenty of names for me: Kincaid, Sam, Sammy,

babe, the list goes on. But Samantha? Things were not fine. "Is this

about Roger? You can't possibly be jealous."

"See, I knew you'd turn it into that, Sam. That's why I wasn't going

to say anything. Suddenly I'm an overbearing jealous pig with

testosterone poisoning."

"Not quite that bad. More like a piglet." He didn't laugh.

"Seriously, Chuck, what's going on?"

"Johnson and Walker are doing all the legwork on this case, and Mike

and I are stuck on the sidelines because of what I've got going with

you. Don't get me wrong; I don't have a problem with that. But now

that Roger's involved, maybe you should at least consider the

possibility that you should be the one to step aside."

My pager buzzed again. Johnson was probably waiting for my call before

leaving the precinct.

"I did. You were sitting right there. The first thing I said was I'm

off the case. Now I think I should stay on it. There will be plenty

of cases you work that will go to another DA. Who knows? Maybe we'll

even decide it's all right to work together."

"Why do you say it that way: Who knows? Like it's so crazy for us both

to work a case? How come you trust your judgment going against your

ex-husband, but you can't be on the same team with me?"

More buzzing. "Honestly? Because my ex-husband's an asshole, and

dealing with assholes is pretty much what I do for a living. You, my

dear, are dangerous for a whole different reason," I said, leaning