Missing Justice sk-2 Page 4

  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

  misdemeanor charges as well. No use making someone in DV waste their

  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