next time they find a shoe in the gutter at four o'clock in the
morning?"
"Nice try," Frist said, shaking his head and smiling. "But whereas
some people who held this job in the past were lazy fucks who'd rather
play golf than practice law, I want to make sure we do things right
around here, even if we all have to work our asses off. Including me.
So keep your MCT phone calls, and we'll talk later about how to split
the work if the need should arise. I never said who'd be first chair,
now, did I?"
I said "fine" but couldn't resist being a little pouty about it.
As I was leaving his office, Frist dropped a closing comment to my
back. "Besides, Kincaid, from what I hear, MCT's got an inside line to
you in the middle of the night."
"Yeah, my pager number," I said, pretending not to recognize his
not-so-subtle allusion to Detective Chuck Forbes. Despite my every
attempt to be discreet, the whole world seemed to know we had something
going on.
"Sorry. That was probably what human resources would call
'inappropriate." Color me repentant." He placed his hand dramatically
over his heart. "Seriously, when you're ready, we'll need to talk
about how you want to handle that. We can keep you off his cases or
not, whatever you think is ... appropriate."
I knew he was being fair, but inside I cringed. I pride myself on not
letting my personal life interfere with my job. In the two years since
my divorce, I had complied with my self-imposed prohibition against
dating cops and DAs. It's hard enough for a woman barely out of her
twenties to be taken seriously as a prosecutor. If cops and colleagues
start to look at you as dating prey, you're toast.
I headed straight to Alice Gerstein's desk to pick up some of the
weekend custodies. As the senior paralegal in the unit and possibly
the most competent member of the DA's office, Alice had already entered
today's new cases into our internal data system. We only had until two
o'clock this afternoon to present probable cause affidavits to the
court on anyone arrested over the weekend without a warrant, so issuing
custodies was always the first priority of the day.
Alice welcomed me with a fat Redweld file marked mcu screening. I
struggled to hold it in one hand, my coffee in the other. Judging by
its weight, the file held close to thirty cases. "Could you give me a
few of the regular unit custodies too? You know, so I can use them to
break up the monotony a little?"
Alice was no pushover. "Sorry. Frist has got me under strict orders.
The newbie doesn't get any real cases until the screens are finished. I
know for sure that at least Luke is absolutely delighted by your
addition to the unit. All last week, he was counting down the days."
I usually resent it when the all-female staff tries to enforce the
office's rules against me, because it's common knowledge that most of
them let the rules slide with their favorite male attorneys. But Alice
is a soldier in what she sees as the daily war of keeping this place
running, so I sucked it up and headed back to my office with the dregs.
If Luke Grossman had stuck it out, so would I. About an hour later, I
was reading my nineteenth police report, the closest one yet to a major
crime. Alas, it turned out to be another no complaint to be shipped
off to the Domestic Violence Unit. The victim called 911 to report
that he was walking down the street, minding his own business, when a
woman shot an arrow at him from a balcony overhead. That's right, an
arrow. What we call in this business a weapon, triggering major crime
jurisdiction.
Bad news for me, the 911 call turned out to be woefully incomplete. For
example, he left out the fact that the archer was his ex-girlfriend
who, by the way, was on Portland State's archery team and had a
restraining order against her ex. He also forgot to mention that the
weapon to wit, one arrow had a pink rubber Power Puff Girl eraser
popped onto the tip. No wonder the patrol officer's only arrest was of
Newman himself, for violating the restraining order. At the arrestee's
insistence, his complaint was written up, even as he was transported to
and booked at the county detention center.
I scrawled my initials next to a big fat red mcu declined stamp in the
file's log notes and then went ahead and no complain ted the potential
time with Newman's whining.
My phone rang just as I was tossing the file into my out box.
"Kincaid." The butch phone answer is one of the small but very cool
perks of being a prosecutor.
"How you doing there, Kincaid? I was afraid your extension might not
have moved with you."
I recognized Ray Johnson's voice. How could he be so chipper when he'd
undoubtedly been at the Easterbrook house most of the night?
"Pretty amazing. The county somehow manages to keep all the phones
straight, but I still have to share a copy of the evidence code with
the entire unit. What's up? Don't tell me. Judge Easterbrook turned
up alive and well, rambling about a probe from little green men?"
"Nope. My instinct tells me that's not going to happen, not even that
first part. One good sign, though, is that the husband's schedule
checks out at OHSU. Three back-to-back surgeries. He's accounted for
from seven a.m. to six p.m. No strange behavior."
"You mean it's a good sign for him."
"And a good sign for our vie. If the husband didn't do her, she's less
likely to be dead." The bizarre mathematics of murder in a world where
most violence against women is inflicted by husbands and lovers.
But Johnson wasn't ready to clear Townsend Easterbrook. "On the other
hand, maybe it happened in the morning, and the guy goes off to work
like it's nothing. Wouldn't be the first time. And, of course, the
alibi's meaningless if he hired someone.
"I also got some preliminary info from the crime lab. They picked up
some unidentified latents around the house, but the one match they got
in AFIS was with the one Walker left on the door knocker. Other than
that, the only thing they've got is on our boy, Griffey. Remember that
gnarly-looking scum the sister found on the dog?"
"Sure, clay or something." My hopes were up. Cases had been solved
before by the unique composition of dirt left behind at a scene. Or,
in this instance, on a dog.
"Nope, not clay. Paint."
Interesting. Dogs out walking in the rain don't usually come home with
body paint.
"And how are we going to find out where that paint might've come from?"
I asked.
"One of the lab guys is getting together with some paint geek from Home
Depot. They've got a color-match computer. It's a long shot, but they
might be able to tell us the brand name if there's a perfect match.
From there, we could check the stores for any recent orders. In any
event, they'll make us up a paint chip, so if we ever do have something
to match it against, we won't have to use the
dog hair. In the
meantime, the PIOs going to put a call out in the next press briefing
for tips. Hopefully, we'll get some reports of a neighbor who was
painting in the area. Even if we don't get our bad guy, it might at
least help us figure out where the dog has been."
Better the bureau's Public Information Office than me. I try to stay
away from the media.
"Any other news?"
"Nothing of any use. Looks like Griffey's the only mutt with anything
to contribute. We called a K-9 unit out there this morning to see if
one of their dogs could pick up a scent on
Clarissa. No luck. The handler told me the scent was long gone.
Probably the rain."
"Any luck getting in touch with Susan Kerr?" It would be helpful to
see if Clarissa's friend had noticed anything unusual when they went
shopping on Saturday.
"Haven't managed to reach her yet."
"She's around," I said. "She was with the family at the press
conference this morning."
"I know. She called my desk this morning; probably got my name from
Tara. I missed her when I called her back, though. When I catch up
with her, you want to go out on the interview with me?"
"Any reason to figure she's a suspect?" DAs don't usually tag along on
witness interviews.
"Yeah, guilty of being a rich muckety-muck. I did a little recon on
our girl. She makes the Easterbrooks look like Jerry Springer trailer
trash."
"Careful, Ray. Not all of us can afford those Hugo Boss suits you
strut around in."
"The point is, she's loaded. I thought we might cut through some of
the predictable bullshit if you talked to her."
"No problem. It's my first day cooped up in the office, so the sooner
the better." As usual, Johnson was right: Lots of rich people find
speaking to the police beneath them. Depending on who Susan Kerr
turned out to be, she might expect a personal call from District
Attorney Duncan Griffith or even from the mayor herself.
I hung up, pleased that I hadn't given in to the urge to ask Ray if
he'd seen Chuck this morning. I was surprised I hadn't heard from him
yet.
I'd managed to reject only another three cases before my thoughts
drifted back to Clarissa Easterbrook. If she was still alive, what was
she doing right now?
I paged Johnson, and he returned the call right away. "Didn't I just
talk to you?" he asked.
"Have you thought about searching Easterbrook's office?"
"I thought you wanted to play things cool with him for now," he said.
I realized that he thought I was talking about Townsend. "No,
Clarissa's office. Maybe there's something there that would at least
give us some leads."
"It's looking like she was snatched from the neighborhood, so we've
been working from that area out. The office has been less of a
priority, but, yeah, you're right, we should at least check it out.
I'll get someone on it."
"Don't worry about it. I'll do it and call you when it's okay to go
in."
"Really, Kincaid, it's all right. I know you're new to this, but DAs
don't usually do any of the runaround work. One of the perks of the
job, right? Bossing cops around?"
"Trust me, there will come a time when you rue the day you encouraged
me to be bossier. I'm not doing this to take the load off you; I'm
doing it because I'm going stir crazy in this new rotation. Plus, I
have a feeling that if you guys storm into a judge's office with a
search warrant, the chief judge will be on the phone to Duncan
demanding my head."
"We're talking about me, Kincaid. I don't storm. I slide." He
dragged out the vowel in his last word.
"You get the drift."
"That I do. Go to it, then. Call me when you need me."
I buzzed through the rest of my screens, the promise of doing some real
work motivating me like a creme briilee waiting at the end of a bad
meal.
When I was done, I called the mayor's office. Although Clarissa's
position entitled her to be called Judge, hearings officers are
actually part of city administration. Anyone who disagrees with a city
agency's decision has to take an administrative appeal to a city
hearings officer before he can sue before a "real" judge. In short,
when it comes to city bureaucracy, a judge like Clarissa Easterbrook is
the last stop before the courthouse.
I explained the situation to the mayor's administrative assistant, who
referred me to Clarence Loutrell, the chief administrative hearings
officer.
Hanging up the phone, I swiveled my chair around to look out the
window. Okay, it was more of a cranking than a swivel with this
particular chair, but it was enough for me to see that there wasn't a
break from the rain yet. I generally prefer to handle this kind of
thing face-to-face. It's harder for someone to reject a request in
person than to say no to a faceless voice on the telephone.
Fuck it. The walk in the humidity was sure to leave me with a puffy
head of cotton-ball hair for the rest of the day, but four hours at a
desk after two weeks on the beach had me yearning to get out. Besides,
I could put my hair through a wind tunnel, and it wouldn't matter.
Clean clothes and a lack of BOis about all you need to meet minimum
standards for the courthouse crowd.
I signed myself out on the MCU white board without explanation,
following my practice of staking out ground early in a new job the way
Vinnie pees everywhere he goes to mark territory. No way was I going
to join the kiss-ups who leave notes on the board detailing their
precise location. That's what pagers were for.
I kicked off my black Ferragamo sling backs and threw them in my
briefcase while I shoved my stockinged feet into my New Balances. I'd
lost enough of my good shoes to Portland's damp streets.
On my way out, I swung by my old office in DVD. Kirsten
Holloway, newly promoted from the misdemeanor unit, had already covered
the place with her wedding photos and stuffed animals. She would learn
her lesson quickly. By the end of the week, anonymous pranksters would
be sure to have her cute little animals posed in backbreaking positions
violating the laws of thirty-six states. I didn't even want to think
about the Post-it notes she'd find stuck around the bride and groom. In
the meantime, no sign of my beloved chair.
I entered City Hall from its new Fourth Avenue entrance. The city had
completed what seemed like endless remodeling about a year ago. What
used to be a dingy back entrance through a metal door was now the main
entrance, hugged by pink pillars and a rose garden.
The refurbished City Hall beat the hell out of my rundown courthouse.
The renovation had exposed the building's original marble tile and
woodwork. To the extent that there was any natural light on this
crummy day, it flooded into the lobby through the atrium skylights. The
tiled staircases that had once been enclosed in a stairwell were now
open, exposing five floors of original copper handrail
s and plating.
I took the stairs to the third floor, then ducked into the corner to
switch my shoes. Judge Loutrell's office was in the suite at the end
of the hall.
I was in luck, or so it seemed. After a short call, Loutrell's
secretary told me he was in and willing to see me. Even though I
should have made an appointment, of course.
Loutrell rose from his desk to greet me. He was tall and thin, balding
but trying hard to conceal it with his last few wisps of white hair. I
shook his hand and introduced myself as a Deputy District Attorney.
"I'm sure you already know that Clarissa Easterbrook has been reported
missing."
"Yes. I was shocked when I heard it on the news this morning. It's
just not like Clarissa to be gone like this."
"That's what others have been telling us as well, so the police are
investigating every possibility. For now, they're focusing primarily
on Judge Easterbrook's neighborhood, but since I work at the courthouse
and was in the area, I thought I'd see if anyone she works with might
have any theories about where she could be or people the police should
be talking to."
"Gosh, not offhand. I wish I could help, but I didn't talk to Clarissa
much and I don't know much about her personal life."
"What about her professional life? Has there been anything unusual
lately for her at work?"
"Not that I can think of. Like I said, we didn't talk much, and all of
us work pretty independently. I'm the chief administrative officer,
but that doesn't mean much other than filling out some forms and
whatnot."
Now came the tricky part. "I'm sure it's a long shot that her
disappearance would have anything to do with work, but we want to make
sure we cover all the bases early on. What would be really helpful to
the investigation is to take a look in Judge Easterbrook's office. You
know, just to make sure nothing seems out of the ordinary."
I was about halfway through the request when Loutrell began to finger
the pen resting on his leather desk pad. By the time I was finished,
he had picked it up and was twisting the cap around in circles.
"Well, yes, I can see why that would be an important part of what
you're trying to do. But I'm sure you understand that I can't just
open up one of our hearing officers' offices for you."
"Judge Loutrell, one of your coworkers is missing. From everything