Missing Justice sk-2 Page 2

  partial wall that served as the bed's headboard. I couldn't help but

  notice that the lip balm on the nightstand was the same brand as my

  own, the paperback novel one I'd read last year.

  The back of the suite contained a marble-rich bathroom adjoining a

  dressing area roughly the size of Memphis. Town-send wasn't kidding

  about his wife's wardrobe.

  Tara started flipping through the piles of folded clothes stacked

  neatly into maple cubes. The hanging items looked work-related.

  After she'd gone through the top two rows, Tara blew her bangs out of

  her face again. "She tends to wear the same few things when she's

  around the house, but the ones I can remember are all here. I just

  don't know."

  Townsend stood in the corner of the closet, seemingly distracted by a

  pair of Animal Cracker print pajamas that hung from a hook. Tara was

  unfazed by the moment's poignancy, or at least she did not let it halt

  her determination. She was examining rows of shoes stacked neatly on a

  rack built into the side of the closet. "Well, it looks like her

  favorite black loafers are gone. Cole Haans, I think. But I can't

  tell what clothes are missing; she's just got too much stuff."

  She walked over to a Nordstrom shopping bag on the floor next to the

  dressing table. She pulled out a red sweater, set it on the table, and

  then reached back in and removed some loose price tags and a receipt.

  "These are from yesterday," she said, looking at the receipt. "Town,

  these are Clarissas, right?"

  She had to repeat the question before he responded. "Oh, right, she

  did mention something about that last night, I think."

  "Can you tell anything from the tags?" Walker asked.

  "No," Tara said. "Well, the brand name, but then it's just those

  meaningless style names and numbers."

  "Did anyone go shopping with her? We could find out what she bought

  from them," I suggested. I knew I told Johnson I'd leave the questions

  to them, but I couldn't help myself.

  Townsend seemed to wake up for a moment. "I believe she went with

  Susan, but "

  "I'm sorry." Walker interrupted, holding up his pen and pad. "What's

  Susans last name?"

  Tara looked disappointed. "Susan Kerr, a friend of my sister. I've

  already tried calling her, and all I got was the machine."

  A store clerk would be able to determine from the item numbers what

  clothes Clarissa purchased Saturday. It wouldn't be easy to get that

  information at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night, but it was worth

  trying.

  "We'll track someone down from the store," I suggested, looking toward

  Ray and Jack. "Can't we pull a number for someone at Nordstrom out of

  PPDS?" The Portland Police Data System compiled information from every

  city police report and was the handiest source for accessing an

  individual's contact information.

  Within a few minutes, Walker had the home telephone number of a store

  manager mentioned in a recent theft case. A manager would not be

  involved in your average shoplifting case, but this one had been

  unusual. An employee at one of the local thrift stores had bilked

  Nordstrom out of thousands of dollars in cash by taking advantage of

  its famously tolerant return policy. The bureau estimated that every

  Nordstrom brand dress shirt donated to the thrift store during the last

  two years had been returned to Nordstrom stores for cash by either the

  employee or one of her friends.

  Hopefully the manager would be sufficiently grateful to the bureau for

  cracking the case that he'd forgive us for calling him after ten

  o'clock at night. Walker made the call on his cell to leave the

  Easterbrooks' line open, just in case.

  As it turned out, the Easterbrook phone rang just a few minutes later.

  I found myself watching Townsend to see how he responded. Did he

  really expect the caller to be Clarissa? Or did he act like a man who

  already knew we wouldn't be hearing from her? So far he seemed legit,

  if dazed. He hadn't made any of the obvious slipups, the ones you see

  on Court TV: using the past tense, buying diamonds for another woman,

  selling the wife's stuff, things like that.

  Whoever was calling, it wasn't Clarissa. Listening to one side of the

  conversation was frustrating. "I see.... Where was he? ... No, in

  fact, she's ... missing" Townsend's voice cracked on that one. "The

  police are here now.. .. Yes, that's terribly kind of you, if you

  don't mind." Some more earnest thank-yous and a goodbye, and Townsend

  set the phone back on its base.

  "That was a fellow who lives a few streets down. He works with me at

  the hospital. He and his wife were leaving the Chart House and found a

  dog running in the parking lot with its leash on. It's Griffey."

  Walker had reached the Nordstrom manager, who generously offered to

  meet him at the store to track down what Clarissa Easterbrook had

  purchased yesterday and was we hoped still wearing.

  About fifteen minutes after Walker left, a voice similar to the one

  that announces my e-mails at home declared, "Good evening. You have a

  visitor." Ray was right. Creepy George Jetson house.

  I looked out the living room window to see a man in his fifties

  struggling to keep up with an excited yellow Lab dashing up the slope

  to the front door, straining against the leash. A woman of roughly the

  same age followed.

  When Easterbrook opened the door, the Lab finally pulled free from his

  temporary handler, dragging his leash behind him. He leaped on

  Easterbrook's chest, nearly knocking him over. He was a sticky mess

  from the drizzle, but you could tell he was a well-cared-for dog.

  Townsend absently convinced Griffey to lie down by the fountain, though

  the panting and tail thumping revealed that he was still excited to be

  home.

  A dog like Griffey probably had an advanced degree from obedience

  school, unlike my dropout, Vinnie. Vinnie was actually expelled. Or,

  more accurately, I was. When it became clear to the teacher that,

  despite her instructions, I caved to Vinnie's every demand to avoid his

  strategic peeing episodes, she suggested that I re-enroll my French

  bulldog when I felt more committed to the process. Two years later,

  Vinnie and I have come to mutually agreeable terms. He has a doggie

  door to the backyard, an automatic feeder, and a rubber Gumby doll that

  he treats like his baby, but if I don't come home in time to cuddle him

  and hear about his day, there's hell to pay. Griffey, on the other

  hand, appeared to do whatever Easterbrook told him.

  Easterbrook introduced Griffey's new friends as Dr. and Mrs. Jonathon

  Fletcher. I guess you have to give up both your first and last names

  when you marry a physician. Dr. Fletcher's looks said doctor more

  than Townsend Easterbrook's. In contrast with the flashy Expedition

  and high-tech house, I noticed that the Fletchers pulled up in a Volvo

  station wagon.

  Mrs. Dr. Fletcher did her best to provide comfort. "I'm certain

  Clarissa's just fine, Townsend. A misunderstanding, is all. We just

  ha
ve to find her, and that's that. Now, when's the last time you saw

  her?"

  She made it sound like we were trying to track down a lost set of

  keys.

  "This morning," Townsend said. "She was still in bed. I had

  back-to-back surgeries, and when I got home she was gone."

  "Well, dear, I'm surprised you even get a chance to operate anymore.

  Jonathon tells me how busy you are, developing the new transplant unit.

  Sounds like that's going extremely well."

  Apparently Mrs. Dr. Fletcher was so used to her job as

  conversationalist to her husband's colleagues that she was slipping

  into autopilot. Understandably, Townsend cut her off.

  "Who knows? Still so much to do," he said. Translation: Who the fuck

  cares about the hospital right now? "I didn't even realize Griffey was

  gone until a couple of hours ago. When did you find him?"

  "Right around ten," Dr. Fletcher said. "A group of us were leaving

  our function at the Chart House, and this feisty fellow was running

  around in the parking lot. Initially, everyone assumed he escaped from

  one of the neighborhood yards or something. But then someone noticed

  he was dragging a leash. Our friend went after him, figuring someone

  had lost hold of him. When he checked the tag, what do you know? Our

  own Griffey Easterbrook."

  The Chart House sat just a couple of steep miles down from the

  Easterbrook home. The elegant restaurant was located on the winding,

  wooded section of Taylor's Ferry Road that ran from the modest

  Burlingame neighborhood in southwest Portland, up about two miles to

  OHSU, and then back down again into downtown Portland. Spectacular

  views of the city made the route one of the most popular spots in the

  area for walks, runs, and bike rides.

  It was not, however, the safest place for a woman alone at night. About

  a year earlier, two guys from the DA's office were taking a run there

  after work. They heard what they thought was a couple goofing around

  behind the bushes, a man wrestling his squealing girlfriend to the

  grass. Fortunately, the woman heard them talking as they ran past and

  yelled, "Help, I don't know him."

  The bad guy got away, but the ensuing publicity had called the city's

  attention to the potential dangers of the area. It was no longer

  common to find women alone on the path after dark.

  The Fletchers' discovery of Griffey there was not a good sign.

  Johnson must've been thinking the same thing, because he decided to

  revisit what I thought had been our mutual decision not to search the

  Easterbrook/Jetson home. He pulled me aside while Townsend continued

  the conversation with the Fletchers.

  "I know we're playing it safe, but finding the dog changes the picture.

  We need to go through the place now while he's still playing victim. If

  we wait until a body shows, he might lawyer up."

  I shook my head. "I still don't like it," I said. "Look at him he's a

  basket case. Later on, his state of mind might kill any consent we get

  from him. If, God forbid, her body does surface, we can easily get a

  warrant, since this is her house. We won't need to have probable cause

  against the husband."

  "And what do we do about the fact that our doctor can move whatever he

  wants and start dumping evidence the minute we're out of here?"

  Johnson's point was well taken, but it wasn't enough to justify a

  thorough search this early in the case. Not only could Townsend try to

  throw out the search down the road, we'd pretty much be killing any

  chance we had of continued cooperation from him. In any event, if

  Townsend was involved in his wife's disappearance, he certainly could

  have disposed of any incriminating evidence before calling the

  police.

  I explained my thinking to Johnson and proposed a compromise. "Why

  don't you offer to take a look around to make sure there's no sign of a

  break-in? I don't have a problem with you doing a general

  walk-through; I just don't want a detailed search yet. If you check

  for broken windows and the like, we can at least look for the obvious

  and avoid any major fuckups."

  "Okay with you if I ask him about it in front of his buddies?"

  I gave a quick nod. If Townsend felt pressured to consent to a search

  because his friends were around, so be it. Courts only care about

  claims of involuntariness if the supposed coercion comes from law

  enforcement.

  Before Johnson walked away, I added, "We should also get people

  searching up on Taylor's Ferry. Hopefully, by the time the department

  has a search plan together, Walker can tell us what she might have been

  wearing."

  Griffey perked up when Tara came down the stairs, apparently satisfied

  that nothing helpful was going to come from foraging through her

  sister's closet. I'd already been positively disposed toward her based

  on her obvious concern for her sister, and I warmed to her even more

  when she found the energy to get down on the floor with her sister's

  dog and comfort him with a bear hug.

  After a few minutes spent on introductions to the Fletchers and the

  inevitable words of comfort, Tara grew antsy again. "Griffey, up," she

  commanded, pointing him toward the stairs. "Sorry, I can't sit still.

  You mind if I throw him into the tub real quick, Town? He's a little

  crunchy, and it'll give me something to do."

  It was clear that Tara's nervous energy was grating on her

  brother-in-law; he seemed more at ease once she'd followed Griffey to

  the second floor and he could turn his attention back to the

  Fletchers.

  "I keep expecting the phone to ring, but I'm not sure exactly what kind

  of call it would be; maybe a ransom demand or something. Obviously, I

  want it to be Clarissa explaining that this is all a misunderstanding,

  that she went with a friend somewhere and forgot to leave a note, and

  Griffey just happened to get out.. ." He was just rambling. I didn't

  point out that the leash suggested Griffey had not simply escaped from

  the yard, but that someone had been walking him. Townsend would come

  to the realization in his own time.

  I was beginning to think that a ransom demand would be good news at

  this point. At least it might indicate that Clarissa was alive.

  "This lifestyle of ours," Townsend said, looking around. "Why does any

  of it really matter? Maybe it just invites problems."

  Johnson used the moment as his in to ask permission for the

  walk-through. Consistent with everything else about the man, his

  transition was smooth.

  He started by asking Dr. Easterbrook if he'd ever noticed anything

  that might suggest that someone was scoping out the house or following

  them, perhaps planning a way to get to Clarissa by herself.

  "No, nothing at all like that," Easterbrook replied. "This

  neighborhood is so isolated up here. We hardly see anyone on our

  street who doesn't live here."

  "Can you think of anyone who has a conflict with you of some kind?

  Someone who might be motivated to do something to scare you or

  retaliate against you?"

  "Why would
someone hurt Clarissa to get to me, detective?"

  "Just exploring all possibilities, doctor. Maybe a disgruntled patient

  from the hospital? A former employee?"

  "No," Townsend said, slowly shaking his head. "Clarissa would

  occasionally get some threats about her cases, but she always assumed

  they were only blowing off steam. Never anything we considered

  seriously. No one would want to hurt her. She's such a good

  person."

  "I was just exploring all the possibilities," Johnson repeated. "Come

  to think of it, we should probably take a look around and make sure

  there's no signs of a break-in, just in case. Do you mind?"

  "Of course not, but I'm sure I would have noticed something earlier.

  Given the security system, I don't see how anyone could have gotten

  in."

  "As long as you don't mind, I'll go ahead and check it out. No harm,

  right?"

  Johnson sidled off before anyone might want to stop him, and the

  Fletchers seized the opportunity to extricate themselves from a

  situation where they knew they couldn't be of much help. As they

  launched into their goodbyes, feeding Townsend more premature

  assurances that everything would be okay, I caught up with Ray. Truth

  was, I didn't want to be alone with Townsend, struggling like the

  Fletchers to avoid all those lame cliches this will all work out, only

  a silly misunderstanding, and other completely useless pronouncements

  suggesting the speaker had any clue as to how the night would end.

  We hit the basement first. My basement is a dark, damp, dusty wreck of

  concrete and cinder block that my imagination has populated with

  thousands of spiders and their cobwebs. The Easterbrooks' had been

  finished into a laundry room and a home gym that had better equipment

  than my health club. Not only did we not find any bodies, blood, or

  guts, there weren't even any windows to check. In place of the flimsy

  things that are so often kicked in for basement break-ins, the

  Easterbrooks had glass bricks.

  Climbing back up the stairs, we could hear Townsend letting the

  Fletchers out the front door, so we headed up to the second floor,

  where Tara had Griffey in a bathroom off the main hallway. She was

  fighting to get a dog brush through the hair on his hind leg.

  Predictably, Griffey stood compliantly while Tara tried to avoid

  pulling his entire coat off by the roots.