Missing Justice

Clarissa may not have given Coakley and Loutrell a full blown

admission, but at least I was on the right track.

From City Hall, I made a stealth pop into my office to grab copies of

the Gunderson case file, the information Jessica Walters had copied for

me detailing Max Grice's complaints, and the financial records for the

hospital wing. Within thirty minutes, I had gathered everything I

needed for my research and was nestled back in my home office and ready

to start filling in the missing pieces.

Based on Jessica's notes about Max Grice, he wasn't a happy camper. At

the heart of his discontent was a woman named Jane Wessler, city

licensing official for the Office of Landmarks Preservation at City

Hall. Three years ago, as a nod to preservationists, the office had

designated an area surrounding the train station an historic district,

seeking to protect the small neighborhood from the

warehouse-to-luxury-loft conversions that marked the nearby and rapidly

expanding Pearl District. As a result of the designation, the Railroad

District, located at the eastern edge of trendy northwest Portland,

still remains an enclave for starving artists, aging hippies, and other

eccentrics who are happier in the neighborhood's traditionally

industrial atmosphere than with high-end yuppified retail, restaurant,

and residential development.

One year after the designation, however, the preservation office

created a licensing provision that permitted developers to obtain

special-use licenses for approved "urban renewal" projects that were

consistent with the architectural history of the Railroad District. For

the first sixteen months of that program,

Jane Wessler was in charge of deciding which projects qualified as

special uses. Grice's three proposals, in her view, did not.

Grice, however, was persistent. After seeing several similar projects

in the neighborhood approved, Grice filed a request under the Oregon

Public Information Act for the names of all companies who applied for

special-use licenses and for Wessler s determination on each

application. Using the data, Grice had tried to make the case to

Jessica Walters that Wessler was on the take. I looked at the list he

had compiled. Maybe there was a trend; a few companies were three for

three while Grice had no luck at all. But I could see why Jessica had

decided there was nothing criminal; with so few examples, it was

impossible to tell if it was just coincidence.

According to Jessica's notes, Grice had resubmitted his applications

after Wessler left for a yearlong maternity leave, but the city had

refused to reconsider the original decisions. That must have been the

appeal from which Clarissa had recused herself.

I took another look at Grice's list. No mention of Gunderson.

Next, I turned to Clarissa's copy of Gunderson's case file. I'd read

through it when Slip had first shown it to me in his office, but I

wanted to see how it fit together with Grice's complaint. Gunderson's

Railroad District project had also been rejected by the city, but by a

different licensing official, a month after Wessler went on leave.

Unlike Grice, however, Gunderson had appealed, and Clarissa had

reversed the decision.

Then I spread out the pages of financial information Slip's

investigator had printed from Clarissa's password-protected disc. The

text at the top of each page identified the spreadsheet as the budget

for the Lucy Hilton Pediatric Center. Lots of money coming in, but no

substantial expenditures yet. That made sense, given that the center

was still in the planning process. From what I knew, the project had

been dropped at one point because of the bad economy, but Townsend had

resurrected it as his baby.

Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be working. There were pages of

entries for donations, large and small, from individuals, corporations,

and the major local foundations. But no money from Larry Gunderson or

Gunderson Development.

I took a break and grabbed a Diet Coke from the kitchen. This time

Vinnie followed me upstairs, sprawling himself beneath the desk near my

feet. When I stopped scratching him behind his ears and returned to my

documents, he looked up at me and snorted. It was as close as he could

come to saying, "Snoozapalooza."

"Tell me about it, little man," I said, rubbing my eyes with the palms

of my hands. For some reason, Clarissa had kept a copy of the

Gunderson file, Townsend's financial records, and the videotape of her

and Caffrey together under lock and key. If there was a connection,

where was it?

I studied the list of the hospital donors again and finally saw it: a

name. The MTK Group had made a donation of $100,000 to Townsend's pet

cause. I reopened Jessica's file on Grice. There, on Grice's list of

companies affected by the decisions of Jane Wessler, was the MTK Group:

three renewal projects in the Railroad District, and every one of them

approved. So what the hell was the MTK Group?

I called the corporate filing division of the Secretary of State's

office, hoping to get the company's basic registration information, but

their business hours were long over. Then I called information, but

there were no listings under MTK. I even tried an Internet search.

Bupkes.

I cross-referenced Grice's list of development companies with

Townsend's list of donors but didn't find any additional overlap.

More than ever, I missed the resources of the U.S. Attorney's

Office. What I needed was access to LEXIS/NEXIS. From what I could

remember, NEXIS's public records database included corporate filing

information from all fifty states. Unfortunately, Duncan never saw fit

to include the service in the office's budget. If we needed legal

research, we did it the old-fashioned way.

Out of desperation, I pulled up the LEXIS/NEXIS Web site on my computer

and tried my old federal password. Part of me was relieved when it

didn't work. Getting busted by the feds wouldn't exactly help my

current professional standing.

Then I remembered that the computer research sites all give free

passwords to law students and judicial clerks. It's the legal

profession's equivalent to a dealer handing out drugs on the

playground. Once the kids are hooked on an easy fix, they'll pay

anything for more.

I found Nelly Giacoma's home number where I'd jotted it in the file.

"Nelly, hi, it's Samantha Kincaid from the District Attorney's

Office."

"Oh, hey there. Congratulations on your PC determination. I heard

about it on the news."

"Thanks. It was pretty much what we expected, though."

"Right," she said. "So did you ever figure out what the key was that I

gave you?"

"We did, actually, and that's sort of why I'm calling. Clarissa had

some documents in a safe deposit box. I'm trying to make sense of

them, but I need to do some NEXIS research."

"Urn, sure, I don't see why not. I'm not doing anything tonight

anyway."

What a trooper. "No," I said, laughing. "I don't expect you to do it

for me. I just need to get onto the system. Believe it or not, you

lose all that fancy stuff if you join a prosecutor's office."

"You're kidding. How do you get anything done?"

"I usually manage, but I need to look at some public records that are

hard to get after business hours. Do you think it would be OK if I

used your password?"

She didn't need to think about it long. "What the hell? It's not like

it costs the city anything, and I hardly use it anyway."

I jotted down the series of letters and numbers she gave me, thanking

her profusely before I hung up.

First, I perused the Public Records library. This was perfect. I had

access not only to the corporate registry information of all fifty

states but to records of all civil court judgments and property liens

filed.

I looked up the information that MTK had filed with the Oregon

Secretary of State. According to the filings, the president of the

corporation was Carl Matthews. The name didn't ring a bell. I

searched next for Gunderson Development. Larry Gunderson was listed as

both the president and secretary of the corporation, which usually

signaled a one-man operation. The Gunderson listing also included an

entry for a former corporate name of Gunderson Construction, Inc." as

well as for Gunderson Construction's bankruptcy dissolution years

earlier.

I switched to the database of recorded judgments. That's when my

search got more interesting. Typing in gunderson development had

yielded nothing, but my search for the former gunderson construction

turned up twenty-seven civil judgments, each one representing a

judgment against the company. No wonder the guy had filed for

bankruptcy. On the fourteenth hit I had a connection, a judgment of

$126,000 against Gunderson Construction in favor of the MTK Group.

So ten years ago, Gunderson and MTK had enough business together that

it led to a judgment against Gunderson. Now they were both doing

business in the Railroad District. MTK had obtained Railroad District

development licenses from Wessler and had given money to the hospital

wing. Clarissa had helped

Gunderson get a license to build in the Railroad District and had kept

a copy of his appeal in the same safe deposit box as the hospital wing

records. But if there was a connection between donations to the

hospital wing and licenses to develop the Railroad District, how did

Gunderson manage to win his appeal without donating to the cause?

I turned back to the screen and accessed the news files. Then,

starting at the top of the list of Townsend's donors, I ran search

after search for any Oregonian articles containing the word gunderson

and the name of each donor. Somewhere there had to be a link.

The work was tedious, but it finally paid off. A couple named Thomas

and Diane Curtin had made a generous donation of $50,000 to the

hospital wing. According to the announcement of the Curtins' marriage

two years ago, the generous wife was the daughter of Portland developer

Larry Gunderson.

Having grown up in Portland, I know the place can be incestuous. People

joke that it's more like a big room than a small city. But my head was

beginning to hurt from the points of connection among Gunderson, MTK,

the Railroad District project, the urban growth boundary, and

Townsend's new hospital wing. I did my best to keep track of them,

drawing lines and making notes until I finally gave up and threw my pen

at the wall of my office.

After I apologized to Vinnie for the disturbance, I took another look

at my list of players and the various lines between and among them. If

Clarissa had sold her ruling on Gunderson's appeal in exchange for the

donation, what, if anything, did she have to do with the MTK Group?

I jumped back to the corporate registrations to see if either Larry

Gunderson or Carl Matthews, the president of MTK, was registered as an

agent or officer for any other corporations. It wouldn't be unusual

for a small businessman to be associated with more than one company

over his lifetime.

My search for Gunderson's name turned up only the listings for

Gunderson Development and Gunderson Construction, but Carl Matthews s

name also yielded two results: one for the the MTK Group and one for a

company called Columbia Holding Company. I clicked on the hypertext of

the company name.

The first few lines of the entry showed that Columbia Holding Company

was an inactive Oregon corporation, with a corporate filing date nearly

twenty-five years ago. When I scrolled down farther, I had to reread

the text twice to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me. The

secretary of the now defunct company was Carl Matthews, current

president of the MTK Group. The president was none other than Herbert

Kerr.

I had found my connection.

Susan Kerr's Mercedes was parked in her driveway. I had risked a

complete waste of time by driving up without calling ahead, but I knew

from experience that surprise confrontations were my best chance of

getting information from the uncooperative. Susan was the link. She

was Clarissa's best friend. She was connected to Carl Matthews and the

MTK Group through her husband. And she had been helping Townsend raise

money for the hospital wing. It couldn't be a coincidence. She had to

know more than she was telling. But, once again, she was protecting

her friends and maybe even herself.

I circled the block to steel my resolve. I wasn't going to accept any

lame stories about shielding Townsend in his grief or defending

Clarissa's memory. It was time for someone involved in whatever this

scheme was to flip, and the someone was going to be Susan. If I had to

haul her into a grand jury tomorrow, I'd find a way to do it, Duncan be

damned.

I'd gotten myself good and pumped up and was ready to home in for the

kill when I registered a faint buzzing sound. It stopped, then started

again. My cell phone. I must have forgotten to turn the ringer on

after I had silenced it during court.

It was Chuck.

"Hey, sweetie. Can't talk right now. I'm in the zone."

"The zone for what? Ignoring everyone close to you?"

I looked at my watch. How did it get so late? "I'm sorry. I

completely lost track of time."

"I've been trying to call you all afternoon. I think I scared the be

jesus out of your father. I called him freaking out about where you

were, but I guess you'd just left there before I talked to him. You

all right?"

I looked at the tiny screen on the face of my cell phone and, sure

enough, saw a little envelope indicating unchecked messages.

"I'm fine. The day's just been a little crazy."

"More than a little crazy, babe. I was running around all day on a

rape out in Rockwood, but when I got back the guys were in a tizzy

about something that happened at the Jackson prelim."

"Really, it's fine. Roger got pissed about something that happened,

Duncan took me off the case "

"What? No one told me that. You're not fighting it?"

"No. Look, Chuck. I promise I'll explain everything to you later.

Tonight, even, if you're willing to come over." I realized as I was

extending the invitation how nice it would be to curl up with him and

finally relax tonight. "I'll call as soon as I'm out of here. I

promise."

"And where exactly is here?"

"Nothing important. Just an interview, something I've been meaning to

take care of." I didn't have time for the riot act he'd surely read me

if he knew my errand related to the Jackson case. I could tell him the

full story after I saved the day.

"Fine," he conceded. "It'll give me time to call your father and

apologize for getting so freaked out."

"One quick flip of a witness, and I'll be done in time for Mexican take

out and margaritas?"

"Ooh, now that sounds good."

"It's a plan. I'll call you in probably thirty minutes."

I flipped the phone shut, turned the corner, and parked next to Susan's

Mercedes, still in the zone.

I rang the doorbell, and Susan peeked out through a small window at the

top of the door before opening up.

"Samantha," she said, looking at her watch, "what a nice surprise. Come

on in." She stepped aside so I could enter.

I started to turn right toward the sitting area where we'd met last

time, but once the door was shut she led me in the other direction,

through the kitchen at the back of the house. "Have a seat," she said,

gesturing toward the padded stools surrounding a generous island at the

center of the room. "Can I get you something? I'm terrific with

take-out leftovers."

"No, I'm fine. Thank you."

"You sure? Tuna nicoise salad from the Pasta Company. It's my

favorite, and there's still half a salad left."

"No, I'm sure."

"Suit yourself," she said. "So what happened in court today? I tried

talking to Townsend a few hours ago, but he wasn't saying much, and

quite frankly what he had to say wasn't making much sense. The defense

is arguing that Clarissa took a bribe?"

"More than just an argument. The Attorney General's Office is going to

look into the possibility."

Her dismay appeared genuine. "Townsend didn't say anything like that.

He said something about a continuance on Jackson's case because of what

happened today in court, but nothing about an Attorney General

investigation."

"Did Clarissa ever mention Larry Gunderson or Gunderson Development to

you?"

She shook her head.

"It looks like Clarissa had some kind of arrangement with Gunderson on

an appeal he had before her."

"I can't believe Townsend didn't tell me this. He probably knew I'd go

ballistic at the mere suggestion of such a thing."

"I think you might know more about this than you've been willing to

admit, Susan."

She looked at me as if I were kidding. Then, in case I missed the

look, she said, "You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope. No more kidding, Susan, and no more protecting Townsend and

Clarissa or even yourself. I know what's been going on, and it's time

for people to start owning up. If you were involved somehow, we'll

work something out. I can help you. But you'll be a lot better off

telling me what you know before someone else beats you to the punch."

"Samantha, honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Well, I do. I know, for example, that a woman named Jane Wessler was

helping developers get special-use permits for projects in the Railroad

District. And I know that when Wessler left and Gunderson found

himself without a permit, Clarissa made sure he got one. And I know

that in exchange for all this help, developers were contributing to

Townsend's hospital wing, the project you were helping him with."

"If Townsend convinced Clarissa to do something like that, he certainly

didn't tell me about it."

"Come off it, Susan. I know how much you've helped him with the

fund-raising. You told me you'd never heard of Larry Gunderson, but

who's Diane Curtin? And what's the MTK Group?"

She clearly wasn't used to being confronted this way. I was reminded

of days back in law school, when students would come under fire by a

probing professor. But like any good student, Susan regained her

composure and presented a rational, coherent response.

"That's what this is about? The MTK Group? That's a company run by

some of Herbie's old business buddies. And, yes, I did hit them up on

Townsend's behalf, and, yes, they responded generously. I'm good at

fund-raising. That is, after all, why I was helping Townsend."

"And what about Diane Curtin? And what about the MTK Group's Railroad

District projects?"

She laughed. "If you think I have any idea what Herbie's friends

actually do to earn the money I help them spend, you are terribly

mistaken. As for Diana Curtin "

"Diane," I corrected.

"Whatever. It sounds familiar, but you're going to have to give me

more information."

"You told me you hadn't heard of Gunderson "

"And I hadn't until just now, that is," she said.

"Diane Curtin's his daughter, and she and her husband, Thomas, are also

among your generous contributors."

"Well, that explains where I've heard of her, then."

"So why don't you tell me why Gunderson's daughter just happens to

write a fifty-thousand-dollar check to Townsend days before Clarissa

rules in his favor?"

She looked at me incredulously. "I like you, Samantha, I really do.

But you are seriously pissing me off right now."

I shook my head and had to laugh. It was hard not to like her back.

"Not a nice feeling, is it?"

"No, it's not," she said, laughing as well. "I don't know what you

think I know, but you're totally off base. And you're lucky I'm not

easily offended."

"And you're lucky I'm not either. There are too many coincidences

here. I think you knew Gunderson through Herbie and his friends, and

that you might have thrown Clarissa and Town-send his way when

Gunderson didn't get the license he needed. If we get this squared

away, it doesn't need to be messy. But if it drags out, you can bet

that Jackson's defense attorney will do everything he can to haul each

and every one of you into court."

She looked at me, mulling over what I'd said. "There might be

something, but it's not what you're suggesting, at least not my part of

it. In fact, I didn't even realize the possibility of it until just

now when you were talking about MTK."

"So explain it to me."

"What about Townsend? He'll lose everything. His hospital

appointment, his reputation. He could even lose his license."

"And all that's still going to happen if this comes out at Jackson's

trial. But if we take that road, Jackson might go free."

She swallowed before she spoke next. "Gunderson," she said. "You say

there's some connection between him and MTK?"

I nodded.

"About a year ago, Carl Matthews he's the president of MTK "

I nodded again.

"You have done your research," she said. "Carl Matthews and Herbie

were friends from way back, and when Carl and his wife had a party

about a year ago, I took Townsend and Clarissa so Townsend and I could

talk up the new hospital wing to Carl. There were a ton of guests

there. Maybe Gunderson was one of them. Townsend could have met him

then."

I pulled the photograph of Gunderson from my briefcase.

"Maybe he looks familiar," she said. "It was quite a while ago, and I

really wasn't paying attention, but he might have been there."

So much for a conclusive ID. "Was your husband involved in MTK?" I

asked, tucking the photo away.

"Sure," she said, seeming to assume that I'd already known. "He was

the K. Matthews, Tykeson, and Kerr. The boys made lots of money back

in the day. Tykeson's retired, and Herbie s gone, of course, but the

letters live on through Carl."

"So are you part of the company then?"

"Oh, God, no. The estate handled all that stuff, but Carl essentially

bought Herbie's interest in the company after he died."

"Did you know that MTK had a judgment against Gunderson's old company

'back in the day," as you say?"

That seemed to take her by surprise. "Like I said, I've never heard of

Gunderson. But I can see why you said there were so many coincidences

here. Maybe I was wrong about that dinner party, then. I can't

imagine Gunderson would pal around with someone who sued him, right?"

"Not unless they've put the bad blood behind them. The judgment was

taken right before Gunderson filed bankruptcy. I guess he's worked his

way up since then."

"Well, that makes a little more sense. I mean, if a guy's going to

file bankruptcy, it doesn't hurt if his partners are at the front of

the line."

I hadn't thought about it from that perspective before. If someone

knew he was about to go under, high-dollar civil judgments against him

would help soften the blow for his business buddies by helping them

recover at least some of the money through the bankruptcy court.

"I can give you Carl Matthews's phone number," Susan offered. "I'm

sure he wouldn't mind talking to you about Gunderson."

"Susan, I just got done telling you Matthews might also be part of

this."

"Or maybe he's not," she said. "You won't know until you ask him, will

you?"

No longer on the defensive, Susan Kerr was back to taking care of

everybody. She was jotting down a phone number from the Rolodex on her

kitchen counter. "I can also print out a list of all of the donors I

know about for the hospital project."

"Sure," I said. "I've got one already, but yours might be more

up-to-date."

"And I've got a bunch of Herbie's old files and books and things

downstairs if you've got any interest in them. Who knows, maybe he's

got something on Gunderson, right?"

She started toward the basement, and as I trailed behind her down the

stairs, I wondered when the tide had shifted. Talking to Chuck, I had

been convinced that I would be leaving this house with a cooperating

witness, armed with the substantiated facts I'd need to build a case

against Gunderson and whoever else was involved. Now, I was tiptoeing

through Susan's basement, trying not to lose one of my fancy new shoes

in the construction chaos, on my way to leaving with nothing but yet

another pile of documents. How did that happen?

I checked out the basement while Susan began dredging through some old

file cabinets in the corner, pulling out piles of paper and stacking

them next to her. From what I could tell, she was completely

refinishing the place into a home gym and a walk-in wine cellar.

"Wow," I said, peeking in. "There must be room in here for a thousand

bottles."

"Twelve hundred actually. Go ahead. Check it out."

I stepped into the room, stroking the smooth mahogany cubbies. "This

is amazing," I said.

"Ridiculously over indulgent she said, looking back at me. "But Herbie

and I had always talked about it, and since I was redoing the basement

anyway, I figured it was time to go nuts. Cute shoes, by the way."

I looked down at the pointy-toed mules Grace had convinced me to buy

the other night. They weren't exactly practical, and I was still

figuring out how to walk in them, but they were definitely cute.

"Thanks. Nordstrom anniversary sale," I said, still proud of my little

purchase.

"Best sale of the year." She was stacking more and more documents next

to her, and I was wondering how I'd ever carry them out, let alone read

them. "Clarissa and I always went on the very first day. Annual

tradition."

"So what happened this year?" I said, running my fingers up and down

the mahogany stemware shelves.

"Nothing. We splurged just like always."

"Well, you must not have gotten enough, if you went back again last

Saturday."

"Right," she said, after a second. "But we did that half the time

anyway. You know, you exercise a little bit of willpower, but three

days later you've just got to go back and buy everything you left

behind."

It all sounded good, but I'd registered that telling pause. Susan was

lying.

I quickly changed the subject. "So do these things really help keep

the wine fresh, or is it just for show?"

"A little bit of both." I half listened to her explanation about air

seals, ventilation systems, and temperature controls, but I was still

trying to figure out why her pregnant pause about the Saturday

afternoon trip to Nordstrom seemed so meaningful. Still playing with

the smooth shelves, I realized what I'd been missing all along. I had

assumed a lecture from Duncan was the worst thing that could happen to

me by confronting Susan Kerr, but I'd been wrong. I needed to get out

of here. Immediately.

But I was too late. The door swung shut behind me, and I heard a lock

slip into place. "Sorry, Samantha, but you've got shitty timing. Ten

minutes later, and I would've been on my way to the airport. But, as

it turns out, I've got a flight to catch, so you're going to have to

wait right here."

I banged the palm of my hand against the door. "Susan, don't do this.

My God, you just told me this room was airtight."

"And it is. But you haven't given me a lot of choices here. And don't

try to tell me that if I open the door you'll let me go."

"You're scaring the shit out of me!" I yelled into the door. "I

promise, I will let you go. I'll wait two hours before I tell anyone.

You're talking about my life."

"Forget it, Sam. We both know that's not in your nature. Hell, if you

were that easy, I could have just paid you off and I wouldn't have to

run."

"Don't run, Susan. We can work out a cooperation agreement. You can

start over."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed. "That's how all this shit began. Those

last few years with Herbie, I took care of everything, and I did it my

own way. Starting over, as you say. I distanced myself from his old

friends and all of the wheels they grease to get ahead, and guess

what?" She was no longer talking to me, so I didn't bother answering.

"That's right, by the time Herbie died, we were flat busted. I

couldn't go broke; everyone would know. A few calls to Gunderson and

Matthews, and I was back in the black. It was so easy, but then

everything fell apart."

"I understand, Susan. I know how much Clarissa meant to you, and

you've got information to trade. Just let me out of here."

The sound of my voice seemed to knock away any remorse she had started

to feel.

"If I were you, Sam, I'd try breaking off some of those wood strips.

Maybe you can wedge them through the seal at the bottom of the door and

buy yourself some time. Otherwise, I'm told you've only got about

fifteen minutes."

Bizarre. Even at this moment, there was Susan Kerr, trying to be

helpful. Without any other options, I followed her advice. I tried

pulling on the thin strips of wood that made up the stemware holders

but couldn't get enough torque to break them. Then I adopted a

different strategy, hooking the heel of my shoe on a rail of wood

running along the floor and stepping on it with all my weight. After a

few tries, my body weight won, making me grateful for those eight

pounds I can never quite drop.

I crammed the jagged edge of the broken wood beneath the cellar door,

wiggling and pushing the rail until I felt the tight rubber seal around

the door begin to give about it. Outside, I could hear Susan making

trips up and down the stairs, probably removing from the house whatever

documents she had taken from the files.

"Oh, hey, there you go, Sam. Looks like it's working. You keep at it.

Get your head down by the floor if you need to." This woman was the

Martha Stewart of murderous lunatics. I had an image of her as an

aerobics instructor at the Mac Club, cheering clients on in the same

way.

I broke another piece of wood and wedged it a few inches from the other

one, trying to create a large enough gap to get some air in. I tried

to convince myself that I was only out of breath from the physical

exertion, but I was beginning to panic.

I lay flat on the floor, getting my nose and mouth as close as I could

to the small crack I had made beneath the door. I started to relax

when I was sure that I could feel air coming in from the basement. I

took a few deep breaths and felt my pulse slow from pounding to a

moderate race.

I told myself I was going to be OK. I had air, and I was patient. But

then I wondered just how patient I would need to be. The footsteps on

the stairs had stopped. If Susan had left for her flight, when would

anyone find me? Chuck was expecting my call, but he had no idea where

I'd been heading. If he went to bed assuming I'd blown him off, would

anyone come in the morning? For all I knew, Susan had told her

housekeeper and contractors to take the week off.

I needed to find a way out of here.

I kicked my shoes off and climbed on top of a shelf, holding on to the

bottle slots for balance. I knocked on the wood panels on the ceiling,

listening for any hollow space above, but I never did have an ear for

such things. Explains why I can never buy a good melon. I raised both

hands above me and pushed as hard as I could. The panel didn't give,

but I couldn't tell if it was because the wine room ceiling was built

against the ceiling of the original basement, or simply because I

hadn't pushed hard enough to pop the panel up.

I tried again but felt light-headed after the push. It might have been

my imagination, but I could have sworn I was running out of air.

I jumped back down to the floor, taking another series of long, deep

breaths. It definitely helped. I'd rest a little more, then try the

ceiling again.

Just when I'd regained my balance on the shelf again, I heard more

footsteps in the house. These sounded like they were on the floor

right above me. Then I heard a voice. I couldn't make out what the

person was saying, but from the low register, I was pretty sure it was

a man. I pounded my fists against the ceiling, yelling at the top of

my lungs. I hopped back down for a few more breaths, then climbed up

and made some more noise.

As I heard movement on the basement stairs again, I began pounding on

the cellar door.

"Samantha, baby. Is that you?"

This time the voice was right on the other side of the door, and tears

welled in my eyes when I recognized it. Then I heard metal against

metal, but I kept listening to my father's voice telling me not to

worry, that everything would be OK. And I knew he was right.

My father's grip was so tight, I thought I had a better chance at

oxygen in the wine room.

"I'm so glad I found you. I knew it. When Chuck told me you were out

with a witness, I felt it in my gut. I got here as soon as I could,

and I knew something was wrong when I saw her leaving."

"Dad, wait. I've got to stop her." I took the stairs two at a time

and used the kitchen phone to call 911. "My name's Samantha Kincaid.

I'm a deputy in the Major Crimes Unit at the DA's office, and I was

just kidnapped by a woman named Susan Kerr." The dispatcher was trying

to cut me off so she could do the usual Q and A format for these calls.

I kept on talking right over her. "Kerr s a white female,

shoulder-length dark brown hair, approximately forty years old. About

five-seven, one hundred and twenty pounds. I'm calling from her house,

but she left here for the airport about ten minutes ago to flee the

jurisdiction. I don't know what airline. You need to get officers out

there right away to stop her. MCT knows who she is, and I'll page them

directly. Don't bother sending an officer to the house; I can file a

report later."

I hung up, knowing that she could play back the tape if she missed any

of the information.

My next call was to Chuck.

He was happy to hear my voice. "Thirty minutes on the dot. You ready

for margaritas?"

If only. "Susan Kerr killed Clarissa Easterbrook. She locked me in

her basement and is on her way to the airport. You've got to get out

there right now. I'll call Johnson too and tell him to hook up with

you." Chuck lived in northwest Portland and would be a few minutes

behind Susan, but if Ray was at his house in north Portland, he might

actually beat Susan to the airport.

"Whoa, back up, Sam. She locked you in the basement?"

"Yes, but I'm fine. I guess you told Dad where I might've gone, and he

showed up" I still didn't know why, I realized "and let me out."

"Wait a second, I didn't tell your dad anything. And how do you know

she killed Clarissa?"

"Please, Chuck. I'm begging you. Just go to the airport, find her,

and hook her up for kidnapping me. I'll explain the rest later. Now

go. Don't let her get away."

"All right, I'm going right now. Love you."

"You too," I said, hanging up before either of us had even realized

what we'd just said to each other.

I didn't have time to savor the moment. I needed to call Johnson so he

could back up the man I loved.

I gave him the same bare-bones explanation.

"Wait a second. She locked you in the basement?"

Chuck had asked the same question. Why did everyone find it so hard to

believe?

"Yes, in a wine cellar her construction workers were putting together.

The thing's airtight. I was lucky to get out alive."

"And she's on her way to the airport?"

"That's what she said. Maybe she meant to throw me off, but it's all

we've got."

"I'm leaving right now. We'll hold her on the kidnap. And, Sam, don't

worry about a thing. That crazy bitch had better hope patrol finds her

before Chuck and I do."

When I hung up, I saw that my father was standing in the doorway

waiting. "They're going after her?"

JOQ

I nodded and exhaled.

"So, Dad, obviously I'm grateful," I said, smiling expectantly, "but

what exactly are you doing here?"

"You ran off from the house so suddenly, and you had that glint in your

eye. I was afraid of whatever you might try stirring up. Then Chuck

called looking for you, and I assumed he'd catch you at your place. But

then when he called again and said you'd gone out on a witness

interview I don't know, I felt like I needed to find you. It was just

a hunch, but I thought I'd at least check."

"But how'd you know to come "

"I'm going to get to that. I'm just telling you what I saw. When I

turned the corner, I saw her carrying bags out to the car, even though

your car was obviously still there. I knew right then that something

was seriously wrong. If I'd been packing, I would have stopped her,

but I was more worried about you."

"Well, thank God. The last thing we need is another Kincaid

shoot-out." He smiled, but I could tell he was mad at himself for

letting her get away. "Dad, you did the right thing. Chuck and Ray

will get her."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

I looked at him, waiting for him to get to the rest of the explanation.

"Dad, you still need to tell me what's going on. How did you know to

come here! What do you know about Susan Kerr that you haven't told

me?"

I could tell he was trying to find a way to say it to me. He was

finally ready to talk.

Sixteen.

It wasn't easy for my father to get through his story; I had to prod

him along occasionally like any reluctant witness. But as I finally

understood it, my father's concern about my involvement in the

Easterbrook case began the morning of the first press conference, which

he had caught on the local news.

He recognized the woman standing near the podium, the one in the light

blue suit. He never knew her personally, but the man she eventually

married had changed the course of his life back when she was probably

still a teenager. Given the connection, he couldn't help but notice

their marriage announcement and the occasional reports about their many

community activities that followed over the years. Yes, the woman in

the blue suit on the television was definitely Mrs. Herbert Kerr.

As an Oregon State Police officer in 1979, he found himself pulling

escort duty for Representative Clifford Brigg. Brigg would ride in the

back of Dad's highway patrol car, using the time to read the paper,

confer with other bigwigs, or occasionally sneak in a round of footsie

with his large-breasted, short-skirted so-called legislative aide. He

paid little attention to my father, but my father paid plenty of

attention to Brigg. It was his job.

On a sunny afternoon in July 1980, my father drove Brigg to Salem from

a press event in downtown Portland to announce the groundbreaking of a

new office building. As usual, Brigg was multitasking, this time

meeting with major campaign supporter Herbert Kerr during the ride.

Watching the two discreetly in his rearview mirror, Dad saw Kerr slip

an envelope to Brigg. From the way Brigg stuffed it into his coat

pocket, my father concluded that the deal was rotten.

Others would have let it drop, convincing themselves that it was either

none of their business or nothing to worry about. Or perhaps they'd

seek cover before talking, reporting the observation to a supervisor or

perhaps anonymously to the press, happy to let someone else steer the

course. But not my father.

The next time he had Brigg in the car to himself, he made the mistake

of confronting him. I don't know how my father expected Brigg to

react. Maybe he was naive enough back then to believe he'd come clean

and return the money. But, instead, Brigg denied any wrongdoing. He

gave Dad a choice. He could let the matter slide, in which case Brigg

and his cronies would make sure he worked his way straight up the OSP

ladder. Or he could repeat the story, in which case Brigg's

legislative aide was prepared to file a complaint that my father had

groped her.

My father's face tightened at the memory, his palms working the edge of

the kitchen table where we sat. "You should have seen his girlfriend

when she told me later the things she was willing to say if it came

down to it. These were truly ugly people, Sam." Herbert Kerr would

back up Brigg's denial, and my father's career would be ruined.

The arguments he had with my mother were not, as I had inferred, about

his hours or the physical dangers of police work. The truth was that

they didn't see eye to eye about Clifford Brigg and his threats.

To my father, the choice he'd been given was no choice at all. He

wanted to blow the whistle, career be damned. He'd work as a janitor

if he had to.

"And Mom?" I asked.

One look at his face, and it all became clear to me. Mom was a good

woman, about as good as they're made. But she and Dad didn't always

approach the world from the same perspective. She loved my father, but

part of her probably wished he'd earned more money or recognition. She

was ecstatic when I announced my engagement to Roger, while my father

feigned acceptance. And, although she never said as much, she no doubt

wondered how different her life would have been if she could have quit

teaching and pursued her passion for painting.

Dad didn't need to fill in the blanks. My mother must have wanted him

to play the game and accept Brigg s deal.

But instead, my father hung up the state system and found a quiet,

humble job with the federal forest service. He told my mother about

his decision only after he had given notice at OSP. He hoped Brigg and

Kerr were smart enough to see the move as a sign that he planned on

going silently, and he had been right. He never heard another word

about it.

"Not from him, at least," I had said.

He did his best to explain that my mother's concerns were for me. She

didn't believe Dad could run away from the problem. And since he

wouldn't be able to convince anyone that he'd seen something

suspicious, he might as well get what he could out of Brigg and Kerr.

But for my father, the decision wasn't about pragmatism. Brigg was

forcing a choice between the two most important components of his

character dedication to his family, and an unwavering commitment to

good over evil.

My father had found a third way. He should have been proud. He had

avoided accepting the favors of corrupt men like Brigg and Kerr, and he

had refused to let martyrdom destroy his reputation and family. But to

him, his departure from OSP felt cowardly an easy way to tell himself

that he'd rejected a deal with the devil, without actually confronting

Brigg. It was the kind of moral equivocation he despised.

When he saw Susan Kerr on television that Monday morning, the

unfairness of the choice Brigg had given him and the shame of his

response came flooding back. His instinct was to save me. If someone

was going to stumble onto the secrets of someone like Clarissa and her

friends, Dad reasoned, let it be someone other than his daughter. His

family had paid their dues.

I felt a wave of anger. I had suspected all along that someone was

blackmailing Clarissa; if he'd shared his story about Brigg and Kerr

earlier, I might have made the connection to Susan instead of spinning

my wheels all week. Maybe I hadn't been particularly forthcoming with

details of my own about the case, but it would have been easy enough

for him to bring me into the loop.

I understood why he'd been struggling, though. From his perspective,

the pit in his stomach had seemed irrational, a sour remnant of his own

mistakes. Why, after all, should he have assumed that a woman who

married Herbert Kerr years after his own encounter with the man was

herself corrupt? Nevertheless, his instincts were what they were and

he'd been right.

My plan was to call information to find the closest Pasta Company, but

then I had a better idea. I pulled the garbage can from beneath the

kitchen sink. On top of the heap lay a take-out bag with the receipt

still inside. Tuna nicoise salad, just as she'd said.

I used Susan's phone to call a sergeant I knew at central precinct. He

agreed to send a patrol officer to meet me at the restaurant with the

pictures I needed.

Pulling out of the driveway, I waved to Dad in my rearview mirror. He

followed me to the bottom of the west hills, letting loose a final honk

before going his own way.

At the light at Fourteenth and Salmon, I paged the medical examiner,

Dr. Jeffrey Sandier. We'd never worked together before, so I had to

explain who I was and what I was calling about before we got down to

business. But then the business was quick.

"Just how sure are you on the time of death?" I asked.

"Time of death's never as certain as they make it sound on TV shows.

You draw inferences from the forensic evidence, but in the end, it's

exactly that an inference. I often tell people that in my thirty-eight

years of experience I've only seen one case where I could pinpoint the

exact moment of death. And that was because the defendant unplugged a

clock from the wall and used it to bash in the victim's skull."

For a disgusting story, it was actually pretty cute.

"So what about Easterbrook? You calculated time of death based upon

her stomach contents?"

"Exactly. By the time she was found, her body temperature was already

down to the ambient temperature at the crime scene, so her liver

temperature was of no use. Rigor mortis had already come and gone,

which would normally signal at least thirty hours postmortem, usually

more like thirty-six."

"But she was found Monday afternoon, putting her death at Sunday

morning, not Sunday afternoon."

"You're still assuming more precision than exists. I said it would

normally be thirty-six hours or so, but change the facts and it could

be entirely different. Say, for example, there was significant

physical exertion immediately before death. Through the exertion, the

victim's already depleting her body of the chemical that keeps her

muscles relaxed. So the stiffness sets in sooner, quickening the

entire process."

I could see why the DAs all said that Sandier was a pro on the witness

stand. No jargon or scary science stuff.

"Here," he explained, "we got lucky. Once Johnson told me he knew what

time the victim ate lunch, I went by that instead. Death stops

digestion. Based on the state of her stomach contents, she died an

hour or two after she ate."

"What if Johnson was wrong about the time?"

"It's just like any other system of inferences. Garbage in, garbage

out."

"Is it possible she died Saturday night?" I asked.

"Sure. Like I said, this isn't down-to-the-minute stuff, especially

once you're past the first twenty-four hours. To reconcile the

physical state of the corpse with what Johnson told me about the

victim's lunch on Sunday, I had to make certain assumptions, like the

physical exertion before death that I mentioned early. I also assumed

she was kept somewhere warm, which was consistent with what we knew

about the body being moved. With the very same state of deterioration,

sure, the death could have occurred on Saturday, especially if the body

were kept in a relatively cool atmosphere."

I had a feeling I knew exactly where that cool spot was.

When I pulled into the Pasta Company parking lot, a young patrol

officer was already waiting for me. I still had a quick call to make,

though. I dialed into my voice mail box at work and jotted down Russ

Frist's home telephone number.

I got lucky. Unlike most of the lawyers on the office homicide

call-out list, Frist apparently didn't screen his evening calls.

"Russ, it's Samantha Kincaid."

"You better not be calling me to give notice."

"That depends on how you react to what I'm about to tell you." I

spelled everything out for him. "Johnson and Forbes are on their way

to the airport, but I need you to get together with Calabrese and

Walker for a search warrant for Susan's house. Make sure the judge

approves destruction if necessary. I've got a feeling the crime lab

will find blood evidence beneath a wine cellar she's got going over

there."

"And where are you off to?" he asked.

"To get you the rest of the evidence you're going to need for that

warrant."

The dinner rush was over by now, so I was able to walk right up to the

hostess desk. Unfortunately, when I got there, the two girls at the

counter felt free to ignore me while they finished discussing the

pressing issue of the day whether the new waiter had been checking out

Stacy, another hostess who was supposedly a "skank." Given that these

two appeared to have all skank bases covered, that was saying a lot.

I waited patiently until the one with the hoop through her navel made

eye contact with me, but they immediately resumed chatting. I resisted

the temptation to grab the edge of the other girl's purposefully

exposed thong underwear and deliver the mother of all wedgies. Instead,

I got their attention by using my District Attorney badge.

"Hey. Girls. I need the two of you to plug back into the world that

doesn't revolve around you and pay attention. Were either of you

working a week ago Saturday night?"

They rolled their eyes at each other to be cute, but they at least

seemed to be listening. "We both were," said Thong.

"Yeah, Saturday's like totally crazy around here." Belly

Button obviously thought I was like totally clueless for so not knowing

that.

I showed them the DMV photographs of Clarissa and Susan that the

officer from central precinct had run for me. "Do you remember seeing

them in here together?"

The idea of doing something that might get someone else in trouble

seemed to appeal to them and they actually took a close look at the

photographs. Unfortunately, their facial expressions remained

completely vapid. Nope, not the slightest bit of recognition. On the

other hand, these girls probably paid little attention to women outside

of their age range of competition.

I was reaching for the photographs when one of the waiters stopped by

to complain that the hostesses had put too many screaming kids in his

section. When he noticed the badge I was still holding, he leaned in

to take a look at the pictures.

"Cool, man. You got some Matlock action going on here or what?" He

pushed his long highlighted bangs from his forehead to get a closer

peek.

"Are you even old enough to remember that show?" I asked.

"Syndication, senorita."

"And I apparently remind you of Andy Griffith?"

"Sure, if he was a little younger with a knockout fern bod."

I know, I'm a total hypocrite. You take all those characteristics that

infuriate me in a teenage girl and bundle them together in a

nice-looking boy package, and I'm done.

"I was hoping someone here might recognize these women from last

weekend," I said, pointing to the pictures.

"Yeah, I remember those birds. That one was pretty well preserved for

her age, if you know what I mean," he said, gesturing toward

Clarissa.

This one definitely had a thing for mature women. God bless him.

"Do you remember what day that was?"

"Not exactly. But if it was last weekend, it was Saturday. Sundays

for wind surfing. Yeah, that definitely could have been Saturday. I

remember it was the lunch menu, and I don't work days except

Saturday."

"Do you remember what time?"

"Weekend lunch menu's good till four, and I don't come in until two.

You do the math."

"Do you remember what they ordered?"

He laughed and pushed the hair back again. "I don't have nearly that

many brain cells left."

When you looked like this guy, you probably didn't need them. "Is it

possible the well-preserved one had linguine with browned butter?"

"Yeah, might have been something like that. "Cause I remember the

other one saying something bitchy about the pasta. She was one of

those salad-with-the-dressing-on-the-side types. You chicks can be

terrible to each other, you know?"

He had no idea.

It wasn't the perfect ID, but it was enough for probable cause. I

called Russ as soon as I left the restaurant.

Before I even made it to the precinct, I got a call from Chuck. "We

found her on a flight roster for American Airlines, outbound to JFK.

She had a one-way ticket to Portugal."

"Otherwise known as one of the last few lovely retirement areas that

puts up a fuss about extraditions. So you've got her?"

"It took a fight, but we finally convinced the airline to hold the

flight. We're bringing her in now."

"Is she talking?"

"Not yet. Ray's putting her in the car. We figured we'd wait until we

got her in the box downtown."

Once they had her in a holding room, Russ and I watched the questioning

through a one-way mirror. Susan played it cool. According to her, she

"might" have gotten tied up in a scheme Townsend had with Gunderson,

but Chuck and Ray were nuts if they thought she'd do anything to hurt

Clarissa.

Then Walker called my cell with some preliminary feedback from the

search at her house.

"I don't know how you figured it out, Kincaid, but it's just like you

said. We found a copy of the video of Clarissa and Caffrey. It was

right there in the entertainment center with a bunch of yoga tapes. And

the lab guys are saying there's some seepage in the concrete beneath

that wine room. It could definitely be blood, but it's going to take

awhile to confirm it."

"No sign of those documents I saw piled next to the file cabinet in the

basement?"

"Nothing." Johnson didn't find them in Susan's car either. She must

have dumped them somewhere on her way to the airport.

"Sorry you can't be here for the questioning," I said. "You might've

gotten a second chance at catching the look."

"Yeah, right. That's OK, as long as I get to see a different kind of

look the look on Jackson's face when we release him. I feel like shit

we had the wrong guy; every cop's worst nightmare, right?"

"Should be. But you didn't know, Jack. Susan Kerr sent us off track

from the very beginning."

"Well, you did real good, Kincaid."

"Thanks," I said, flipping my phone shut so I could pass the word on to

the rest of the team.

Russ and I watched Johnson and Chuck break the news to Susan. She'd

already met the nice Ray at her house, so Chuck was playing the bad

cop. If I hadn't been so nervous, it might have been fun to watch his

performance.

The MCT guys were pros. They told her about the videotape first,

reeling her in with questions about the bribery scheme before

confronting her with the murder.

"It's not what you think," she said, changing to a resigned tone. "This

was all Townsend and Gunderson. Townsend found out about Clarissa's

affair and used it to guilt-trip Clarissa into ruling for Gunderson in

exchange for the hospital donation."

Like all coconspirators, she was spinning a version that undoubtedly

shifted the blame from herself but which nevertheless contained some

undercurrent of truth.

"So what was the videotape for?" Chuck asked. "And what were you

doing with it?"

"Clarissa brought it over here a couple of weeks ago to show me. She

must have left it. Townsend initially had it made to get an upper hand

in the divorce, but then he told her he'd mail it to Caffrey s wife

unless she convinced Caffrey to vote in favor of development in

Glenville. I guess Gunderson stood to make a lot of money, and

Townsend would be rewarded in kind."

"Could that be it?" Russ asked me.

I shook my head. "If Gunderson and Townsend hooked up at a cocktail

party and reached this one-time deal to help Gunderson's Railroad

District project, how would Gunderson even know that Clarissa could get

to Caffrey? Or if Townsend's the one who thought of this, how would he

know that Gunderson had investments out in Glenville? It doesn't make

any sense."

"So what's your theory?"

"Susan's the link. She pretends she's a trophy widow, but she learned

everything she knows from Herbie. I think she, Gunderson, and MTK are

all still in bed together. They were bribing Jane Wessler at the city

for the Railroad District licenses. When

Wessler went on maternity leave without giving Gunderson his permit,

Susan turned to Clarissa. I always thought it was weird that Clarissa

hadn't told Susan about her relationship with Caffrey. I think she

did, and that her best friend turned around and used it to convince her

that she owed this to Townsend. Then even that wasn't enough. She got

that videotape and told Clarissa she'd mail it to Caffrey's wife if

Clarissa didn't deliver Caffrey's vote."

Back in the holding room, Susan's explanations continued to contain

just enough truth to confirm at least part of what I suspected. Chuck

and Ray had broken the news to her about the blood in the basement.

Her demeanor changed again, and this time she feigned sadness for the

loss of her friend. She even managed to shed some tears. "It wasn't

me. It was Townsend. Clarissa called me Saturday, completely

hysterical. I guess she told him that morning that she wasn't going to

go along with Gunderson anymore. If they were going to mail the

videotape, she was willing to go to the police. She was over here

telling me about it when Townsend showed up. They went down to the

basement to have a private conversation, and the next thing I knew

there was yelling. It sounded like a terrible struggle. I ran

downstairs." Her voice cracked for effect. "Oh, my God, I couldn't

believe it. Townsend told me I had to help him, or he'd tell everyone

I'd been in on it. I realized how it would look. My house, my

husband's old business partner I panicked."

"You didn't panic." Chuck spoke quietly, but was convincingly

disgusted. "You went shopping, Susan. You went and picked out an

outfit to dress your dead friend in, so it would look like she died

Sunday. You hired carpenters for a fucking remodel. Don't lay this

all on Townsend."

I made a mental note to have a handwriting analyst check the charge

receipt for Clarissa's purchases last Saturday at

Nordstrom. My guess is that the signature would be close, but not

quite right. I was also pretty sure that, as much as Susan had joked

about Clarissa being the reluctant shopper, we'd find out that Susan

hadn't bought anything for herself that day.

"But it was his idea," Susan was insisting. "He's the doctor. He's

the one who cooked up this whole thing about using the food in her

stomach. You tell me, how could I come up with that myself? I still

don't even understand it."

Russ poked me in the side with his elbow. "She's got a point there."

I nodded. "Sure. Townsend came up with the idea of throwing us off

with the take-out container from Sunday, but she's still the doer. You

met Townsend. It had to have been the other way around. Clarissa

confronts Susan; Susan kills Clarissa and then tells Townsend he'd

better help or she'll pin it all on him."

"It would certainly explain why the guy's been a walking corpse. But

what about the poly?"

"He passed it because of the questions." I told him about the

transcript of Townsend's interview. He was asked if he'd been at the

hospital Sunday, if he killed Clarissa, and if he hired, solicited,

ordered, or asked anyone to kill her. But they neglected to ask the

money question: "Do you know who killed your wife?"

Chuck was asking Susan to walk them through the rest of the plan.

"Townsend called Gunderson to come over for Clarissa's .. . to get

Clarissa," said Susan. "He came over and took Clarissa to the

Glenville property, then stashed the hammer at Jackson's."

"And how would Gunderson know that Jackson had a grudge against

Clarissa? Your story's not adding up." Chuck did a better bad cop

routine than most. His tone struck the perfect balance between anger

and dismissiveness.

"She's cooperating, OK?" Johnson said.

Susan looked at Johnson. She probably recognized the routine, but she

played along anyway. "Townsend told him about Jackson."

"And Jackson just happened to work for Gunderson? Wrong again,

Susan."

"Clarissa got Gunderson to give Jackson a job. I told you she felt

sorry for the guy. I think she was probably trying to turn what she'd

done into some kind of good deed. Karma and all."

"God, she's good," I said.

"Maybe," Russ said, "but I still can't believe she hasn't law-ye red

up."

I shook my head and smiled. "That's because you don't know Susan Kerr.

She thinks she's way too smart for all of this. She's been

manipulating people her whole life, getting away with it every time.

And she probably figures, Hey, she's a woman, she's in here first;

she'll be the one to get the deal. She's convinced Gunderson and

Townsend will go down, and she'll waltz out with a few months of local

jail."

"That's not going to happen, is it." It wasn't a question.

"No way," I said.

"Ready to call Duncan?"

"Let's do it."

It took a good forty-five minutes, but we finally laid it all out for

the boss.

"And you think we've got PC for Townsend and Gunderson?" "I do," Russ

said. "We've got a coconspirator implicating Townsend directly in the

murder, and at the very least she's implicating Gunderson in the

cover-up. Add the circumstantial evidence of the various connections

between everyone, and we've got enough for warrants."

"Start working on search warrants," Duncan said, "but call their

lawyers and give them an hour to turn themselves in."

"What?" I screeched into the speakerphone. "You've got to be kidding.

This is a murder case, Duncan."

"No shit, Samantha. But we're not dealing with a bunch of gang bangers

here. You don't need a perp walk on this one. They'll turn themselves

in."

"Right," I said. "Just like Susan Kerr did. In case you forgot, we

pulled her off a plane after she tried to kill me."

"Don't be dramatic. She locked you in a room," Duncan argued.

I looked at Russ and shook my head. "Yeah, Duncan, without any air."

"Look, Samantha. You're new to this. We let guys TSI all the time,

even in murder cases. Russ, if you're worried about it, call the

airlines and make sure they know not to let these guys fly out. But

giving them an hour's not going to kill anyone."

If only he'd been right.

When the deadline came, Gunderson was there with Thorpe, but Roger had

been stood up. We dispatched cars immediately, but we were too late.

Townsend Easterbrook was dead.

Seventeen.

A week later, I attended the funeral with Chuck and my father.

I don't know why I went or why I made anyone come with me. Maybe

because death was still new to me. Or maybe part of me actually felt

sorry for him.

Susan Kerr may have tried to put all the blame on Townsend, but in the

end he had the last laugh. He had found one decent concluding act to

his life. He left a note. He'd probably written it as the final dose

of painkillers settled in, but I was confident it was reliable. Unlike

most coconspirators, Townsend no longer had a reason to point the

finger at others. He just wanted, finally, to tell the truth.

These are my words, not his, but the truth went something like this:

Townsend Easterbrook had believed that building the pediatric wing was

the most important accomplishment of his life. He knew he'd earned his

position more for his administrative skills than his healing ones, and

the new wing was his way of securing a legacy at the hospital. Several

months earlier,

Susan Kerr had offered to help, and Townsend had happily accepted. The

money came rolling in.

But then, on the Friday before Clarissa's death, he discovered the

deal's strings. Clarissa sat him down and told him that, in exchange

for Susan's generosity, she had rigged a decision in favor of a company

in which Susan had an interest. She said she'd done it to help the

hospital wing and out of loyalty to Susan, but now things had gone too

far. Susan was asking her to do even more, and Clarissa planned to say

no. The money would dry up.

Townsend told her to put her foot down. Screw Susan. They'd build the

wing without her.

But that's not what happened. Clarissa left the house to meet Susan on

Saturday for lunch. A couple of hours later, Townsend got a call.

Something was wrong with Clarissa, Susan said. He needed to come

over.

When he got there, Clarissa was dead, lying in a pool of blood in the

basement. Susan claimed that Clarissa had tried to destroy some

documents and attacked her when Susan put up a fight. According to

Susan, it was self-defense.

While Townsend was still reeling, Susan said she'd blame it all on him

if he told anyone Clarissa had been with her that day. The documents

detailed the connection between Clarissa's thrown case and the

donations to the hospital project. Townsend would lose everything.

Then she told him something he'd never even suspected Clarissa had been

cheating on him. Guilt over the affair was the reason she'd been

willing to fix Gunderson's case in the first place. Susan even had a

videotape to back the story up.

Because Clarissa had died shortly after lunch, all they needed to do

was make sure her body wasn't found for a day or so, and make it look

as if she'd eaten her Saturday meal on Sunday. As a doctor, Townsend

knew some of the rules about determining time of death "garbage in,

garbage out," as Dr. Sandier had put it.

Townsend ensured that the police found a fresh take-out container in

the house by using a short break between surgeries to dash to the

nearby Pasta Company. He'd also set up the initial call-out by leaving

Clarissa's loafer to be found in the gutter, and dropping Griffey, on

his leash, along Taylor's Ferry Drive. Susan had taken care of the

rest. She'd shown up at the house Saturday night with an empty

Nordstrom shopping bag to put in Clarissa's dressing room. She told

Townsend she'd make sure the body wasn't found until Monday. He

realized that the medical examiner would figure out her clothes had

been switched, but it didn't seem to bother investigators. And when

the evidence against Melvin Jackson came out, he assumed that Susan

must have set up the plan ahead of time. By then, he was too out of

his mind on OxyContin to figure a way out.

He'd been considering suicide for days, but Roger's call on Monday

night had sealed the deal. He took the pills, wrote his letter, placed

a plastic bag over his head, and let go of the situation. Whether we'd

get the note in at trial remained to be seen, but I knew in my heart it

held all the answers.

The services were modest, arranged as a courtesy by Dr. and Mrs.

Jonathon Fletcher. Townsend's death had made headlines, as had Susan's

arrest and Jackson's release, but so far the official explanation for

his suicide and its relationship to those other events was under

wraps.

Clarissas family chose not to attend. From what Tara had told me, she

and her parents were still coming to terms with the idea that Clarissa

had been killed by people they'd treated as family. The only eulogists

were Townsend's professional acquaintances. They remembered his

commitment to patients and his love for Clarissa, careful to keep their

comments general enough that they reflected a relationship that once

was.

Roger found me in the lobby of the funeral home. I told Chuck and Dad

I'd meet them in a second.

"I'm surprised you came," he said.

I shrugged.

"I hope you realize that I didn't know," he said. "If I had "

"Don't worry about it. I know. I was fooled too, remember?"

"I should have sensed it, though. I could have talked him into coming

forward."

"Really, Roger, you don't need to say anything. It's fine."

We stood there awkwardly while he searched for something else to say.

"So Jackson's out, huh?"

"Released last Wednesday," I said. "Took a couple days, but he

couldn't be happier." He hadn't been the only one. Mrs. Jackson was

waiting in the lobby with Melvin's kids. She burst into tears with the

first look at her freed son, and before long we all lost it. Walker

insisted the sniffle I overheard was from allergies, but I knew

better.

"Is the poor guy still getting evicted?"

"Some people are working on it." Dennis Coakley of all people was

intervening with HAP to hammer out an agreement for Melvin and the kids

to stay in public housing.

"So how does your case look?" How strange that after our years

together, this conversation would be like any typical one between

lawyers.

"Not too bad," I said.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you lay the

foundation for Townsend's letter. I was the last one to talk to him, I

guess."

"All right, thanks."

"You've probably got enough evidence without it. Jim Thorpe's been

keeping me up to date," he said by way of explanation.

Gunderson had already cut a deal for three years on bribery and abuse

of corpse for helping Susan move the body. It was a gift, but, in the

end, we were never able to prove he'd been in on the murder. In

exchange, he had delivered the goods. Gunderson had come to suspect

that Susan wasn't quite as loyal as his old pal Herbie and recently

began taping their conversations. The recordings of Susan telling

Gunderson to hire Jackson a week before the murder and to come to her

house the night Clarissa died would be gold at trial. Add the

documents he had confirming Susan's investment in Gunderson

Development, and we had motive to go with opportunity. As for means,

we'd ask the jury to infer from the blood in the house that she had hit

Clarissa in the head and then planted the hammer at Jackson's.

"We'll see, right?" Roger knew me too well not to sense the impatience

in my voice.

"I'm holding you up. Just humor me on one more question: Was it

premeditated?"

Gunderson had confirmed that Susan was the one who asked him to hire

Jackson, but we knew Clarissa was trying to find a job for Melvin.

Susan may very well have made the request on her behalf. And from what

our shrinks were telling us about Susan, she was far more likely to

kill in a rage triggered by what she saw as Clarissa's betrayal. The

more closely we looked into her background, the more stories we were

hearing like the one Grace had told me about Susan burning her

husband's favorite humidor. My best guess was that, in Susan's

screwed-up mind, she'd done Clarissa and Townsend a favor by hooking

them up with Gunderson.

"I don't think we'll ever know," I said, "but my gut tells me it

wasn't."

"Well, you've always had good instincts." More awkward silence. "So

I'll see you later, I guess."

"Yeah, maybe."

He stopped me before I walked out. "I know it's not my business, but I

couldn't help but notice that you came with Forbes."

I followed the direction of his glance to Chuck and my father in the

parking lot. "You're right. On both counts."

He nodded. "I guess the two of you always were close."

"Uh-huh." It wasn't the most articulate response, but talking to my

ex-husband about my boyfriend was awkward, to say the least.

"You know, Sam," he said, "it might not matter to you anymore, but I do

feel bad about what happened between us."

So that's what he'd been hemming and hawing about. As if "what

happened" had involved both of us?

"If it makes it any easier, she didn't even mean anything to me."

I looked at the floor while I summoned my patience. There was nothing

to gain by fighting him. "I always knew that, Roger. And that's why I

couldn't stay with you."

I left him then, wondering if I'd ever get over the fact that a man who

loved me as much as he knew how to love another person had thrown it

all away for someone who hadn't even mattered.

Outside, I was greeted by the sun for the first time in weeks. Dad put

his arm around me. "You OK there?"

"I'm good," I said, walking to the car. "Less sad than I was a few

hours ago. Maybe it's because the rain finally stopped."

"Maybe," he said. He gestured to the lobby. "What was that about?"

I paused, wondering the same thing. "Nothing that mattered. We talked

about the case a little." I looked at Chuck and smiled.

"You mean the case where you're the star witness?" I could always

count on Chuck to lighten the mood.

"That would be the one." I was still off the case I couldn't testify

and prosecute but Russ had assured me I could help plan the trial.

Looking Susan Kerr in the eye and giving evidence against her would be

even more rewarding than sitting first chair.

If my first two weeks in MCU were any indication, my first major trial

would come soon enough. In the meantime, I was happy to wait it out.

Author's Note

Striking the optimal balance between fact and fiction is a real writing

challenge. Readers notice when a defendant gets off on inconceivable

grounds or when the cops get a warrant with nothing approaching

probable cause. And not only do they notice, they feel cheated. On

the other hand, too much loyalty to reality makes for dry novels.

Samantha Kincaid's life is based on fact. Unless I mess it up, you

won't find her making nonexistent objections or prosecuting laws that

would never make the books. Along the way, I even ask for help to make

sure I've got my facts straight. For the answers, I thank Larry

Lewman, Deputy State Medical Examiner for the State of Oregon;

Multnomah County Deputy District Attorneys Josh Lamborn, Jim Mclntyre,

and John Bradley; and Hofstra Law School professors Nora Demleitner and

Matt Bodie. If I bungled something they told me, it's my fault, not

theirs.

The smart growth plan at the heart of Missing Justice is also based on

fact. When Samantha Kincaid describes Portland's urban growth boundary

as the "secret ingredient in Portland's warm gooey cinnamon bun," she

speaks from my heart. I did, however, exercise some artistic license.

The legislation creating Portland's urban growth boundary is not called

the Smart Growth Act; the Metro Council is not just a part-time gig;

and there is neither an Oregon suburb called Glenville nor a Portland

neighborhood called the Railroad District, let alone a development

licensing program based in it. In other words, the book's still

fiction.

And a better book it is thanks to the continued dedication and talent

of Jennifer Barth, Maggie Richards, and John Sterling at Henry Holt.

Their support, hard work, and creativity have made all the difference,

and I'm forever grateful.

A former deputy district attorney in Portland, Oregon, Alafair Burke

now teaches criminal law at Hofstra School of Law and lives in New York

City. She is the daughter of acclaimed crime writer James Lee Burke.

Missing Justice is her second novel. It follows her acclaimed debut

judgment. Calls.

www.alafairburke.com

Also by Alafair Burke Judgment Calls