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  Missing Justice

  ( Samantha Kincaid - 2 )

  Alafair Burke

  Deputy District Attorney Samantha Kincaid walks into her office in Portland's Drug and Vice Division one Monday morning to find three police officers waiting for her. A thirteen-year-old girl has been brutally attacked and left for dead on the city's outskirts. Given the lack of evidence, most lawyers would settle for an assault charge; Samantha, unnerved by the viciousness of the crime, decides to go for attempted murder. As Sam prepares for the trial, she uncovers a dangerous trail leading to an earlier high-profile death penalty case, a prostitution ring of underage girls, and a possible serial killer. And she finds her judgement - not only in matters of the law but in her personal life - called into question...

  MISSING JUSTICE

  Alafair Burke

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

  Orion Publishing Group Ltd.

  Copyright 2004 by Alafair Burke

  For Jim, Andree, and Pamala

  One.

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

  particularly creative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  return.

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

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

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

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

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

  across my retinas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  having kicked my comforter deep into the crevice between my mattress

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

  my nightstand, still ringing in the dark.

  "This better be worth it," I say.

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

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

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

  Easterbrook is still missing.

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

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

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

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

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

  So far, the transition had been rough.

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

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

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

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

  grabbing my briefcase from the passenger seat as I exhaled.

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

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

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

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

  or the Expedition I'd parked next to.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  threatens to stick around for good.

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

  door."

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

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

  fucking Jetson house. Gives me the creeps."

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

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

  century update on 1960s kitsch.

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

  no need to disrupt all this coolness.

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

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

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

  dark as it comes.

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

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

  Hollywood red carpet than police precinct lineoleum. Griffith dragged

  you back from Maui just for this?"

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

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

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

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

  new gig."

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

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

  girls."

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

  shopping and girl talk."

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

  of MCT work with O'Donnell."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  "Busted!"

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

  asked, leaning my head toward the ongoing murmurs.

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

  about half an hour ago, and the sister showed up right after. We
<
br />   haven't been able to do much more than try to calm them down. We need

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

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

  brother in the house."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  now you guys take the lead on interviews."

  "Music to my ears, Kincaid."

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

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

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

  Clarissa Easterbrook had encountered anything criminal, everyone close

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

  anything now that might jeopardize our investigation down the road.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  one ear and an index finger in the other.

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

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

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

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

  District Attorney Samantha Kincaid."

  There are women who would describe Townsend Easterbrook as

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

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

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

  spectrum between sloppy apathetic and sloppy preppy, there was no

  question where this man fell.

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

  nervous. I quickly realized it was something else entirely.

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

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

  connection."

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

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

  daily annoyance. Terrific.

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

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

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

  wife."

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Griffith's chance to say I feel your pain.

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

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

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

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

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

  corner, still clutching the phone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  six."

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

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

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

  steadying a scalpel just four hours ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  than a question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  I called the police."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  sneakers.

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

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

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

  asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  that morning she was still in her pajamas.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  wearing?"

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

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

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

  if you look at what's here."

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

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

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

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

  life without this one.

  "You either overestimate my familiarity with clothing or underestimate

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

  use."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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