Missing Justice sk-2 Read online

"But the fact that she's a city employee makes Clarissa my client. I

  just need enough time to make sure there's no privileged information in

  her office. If there is, I'll let you know I've withheld something,

  and we can go over to the courthouse and figure it out from there."

  "Look, this isn't tobacco litigation. What kind of privileged

  information are you worried about? We're just trying to find out where

  she is."

  "I know, and that's why I'm probably going to stay here all night doing

  document review in her office, so you can get in as soon as possible.

  But our hearings officers call for legal advice and might keep memos of

  those conversations. If something like that exists, and I turn it over

  to you, it waives privilege. I can't do that."

  "I'm sorry, Dennis, but that makes absolutely no sense. How can the

  judges call you for advice when the city's a party to the disputes

  they're handling?"

  "Well, obviously we don't give advice on how to resolve individual

  cases as hearings officers, but we are their attorneys in their status

  as city employees. It's a complicated relationship. All the more

  reason for me to make sure we dot our is and cross our t's, which I

  assure you I will do by tomorrow."

  "I'll do the search myself, if that helps. I'm an attorney too, and I

  won't disclose anything that shouldn't be disclosed."

  Unfortunately, Coakley knew that's not how attorney-client privilege

  works. "But you don't represent the city, so I can't let you fish

  around in the files without reviewing them first. If you knew

  specifically what you wanted, I could look for it right now and give it

  to you, assuming nothing needed to be red acted I got the impression,

  though, that you won't know what you're looking for until you find

  it."

  "I think that's probably right. I know she was having a problem with

  one of the appellants in a public housing eviction case. Both her

  clerk and her friend mentioned that he'd written letters to Clarissa

  that she found threatening, but they didn't know his name. Is there

  some way you could track that down, short of doing an entire review of

  her office?"

  "Should be."

  I told him everything I knew so far about the case.

  "Let me see what I can find out. You want to wait here, or should I

  call you?"

  "I'll wait. Thanks." He seemed to find my choice insulting.

  Five minutes later, I felt my pager go off. The MCT number again.

  I took the liberty of using the phone on Coakley's desk to return the

  call. This time, I was expecting Johnson to pick up, but the voice

  that answered "MCT" belonged to someone I'd known for fifteen years:

  Chuck Forbes.

  The first time I saw Chuck screech his yellow Karmann Ghia into the lot

  at Grant High and then step out in his washed-out 501s, I was hooked.

  As much as I didn't want to be, I had to admit I still was.

  I hesitated a moment too long. "Hi, it's Samantha Kincaid. I think

  Detective Johnson might have paged me?"

  "You need to shake the salt water out of your ears, Kincaid. It's

  Chuck."

  "Oh, hey. What's going on?"

  "Two weeks in Hawaii, and that's all I get? What's going on? Bad news

  is going on, but Raymond's standing over my shoulder waiting to break

  it to you. Everything all right?"

  "Sure," I said. "Why wouldn't it be?"

  "Ray's glaring at me," he said, "so I'm going to hand you off. But

  call me later, OK? I want to hear about your trip."

  I had tried to play it cool, but Chuck and I were way past

  new-relationship head games. "And I want to tell you all about it. I

  missed you, Chuck."

  "Yeah. Me too," he said sweetly, before handing the phone to

  Johnson.

  "They found a body in Glenville. I'm heading out there now."

  "Is it Clarissa?" I asked.

  "We don't have an official ID yet, but, yeah, looks like it's going to

  be her."

  What I felt at the moment couldn't have been about any meaningful

  personal attachment to Clarissa Easterbrook. But I nevertheless felt

  myself go empty at the confirmation of what I'd already been

  suspecting, and I wondered how I was going to handle a job that would

  make this feeling routine.

  "Kincaid, you still there? I got to bounce."

  "Sorry, yeah, I'm here. Tell me where it is, and I'll meet you there,"

  I said, fishing a legal pad from my bag. The lead detectives needed to

  arrive at the crime scene as soon as possible, so it was mutually

  understood that I'd have to fend for myself. I scribbled down a street

  address that Johnson told me corresponded to a construction site at the

  outer edge of the suburb of Glenville.

  "I need to take care of a couple things and pick up a county car, but

  I'll meet you guys out there as soon as I can. Call me if you need

  anything."

  I walked out of Coakley's office, telling his assistant that something

  had come up and I needed to leave.

  "He went down to Judge Easterbrook's office, if you want to try to

  catch him," she offered.

  Dennis Coakley was leaving Clarissa Easterbrook's chambers as I was

  walking down the hall. He carried a legal-sized manila file folder and

  a small stack of documents.

  "You really crack the whip, don't you? Here I thought I'd worked

  pretty fast."

  I tried to muster a smile. "I'm sorry. Something came up at the

  office and I need to head back. I thought I'd try to catch you on my

  way out."

  "Good timing, because I think I found what you were looking for. Looks

  like this is it," he said, holding up a file labeled Housing Authority

  of Portland v. Melvin Jackson. "No privileged information there, so I

  had Clarissa's assistant make copies if you want to just take them with

  you."

  He handed me about twenty pages of paper that had been clipped

  together.

  "I'm sorry I can't do more for you right now, but, like I said, I'll do

  the review as fast as I can."

  I let him think I was satisfied leaving it at that. For now.

  I started to head directly to the county lot by the Morrison Bridge to

  pick up a car, then remembered Russell Frist's admonition not to run

  the case solo if it turned into a murder.

  I stopped in the office, hoping Frist would be in an afternoon court

  appearance. My plan was to leave him an e-mail so he'd know how hard I

  tried to follow his advice. Unfortunately, he was at his desk shooting

  the shit with Jessica Walters. I rapped on the door to interrupt.

  "Good to see you, Kincaid. I was beginning to wonder whether this

  morning's screening duty was enough to chase you out of here," he

  said.

  "I'm not so easily chased."

  "There you go. Don't let this guy push you around." Jessica was

  getting up from her chair. "I'm out of here. VQ after work?"

  The Veritable Quandary was a veritable institution of downtown drinking

  and a longtime hangout for the big boys at the DA's office. Russ told

  Jessica he'd stop by for a quick beer, then asked me if I wanted to

  join them.

  "I
doubt I can make it. Something's come up and I'm actually on my way

  out to Glenville."

  "Anything having to do with Glenville is my cue to leave," Jessica

  said. "Russ, I'll catch you later. Sam, if I can't get you a beer

  tonight, we'll do it next time."

  "So," Russ asked, "what in suburbia could possibly be more important

  than a Monday-night drink?"

  "Ray Johnson just called. I don't have the details, but someone found

  a body near a construction site out there. The unofficial ID suggests

  it's Easterbrook."

  To my surprise, Russ made the sign of the cross. "Damn it. Just once,

  I'd like to see a happy ending on one of these cases."

  I was tempted to ask whether he was sure what ending was happier:

  closure for the living left behind or the hope that remained in a

  missing person's absence? I kept the thought to myself.

  "I told the MCT guys I'd meet them out there," I said. "Are you coming

  with me?"

  "You think you're ready for this, Kincaid?"

  "Look, Russ, I appreciate the concern, but if I didn't think I was

  ready, I wouldn't have accepted the rotation. You told me this morning

  you thought I was in over my head, so I'm asking if you want to go.

  Make up your mind, because I'm leaving."

  "You've been on a call-out before?"

  I flashed my best sarcastic smile. "You know I have, Dad." All new

  DDAs tag along on a homicide call-out when they first start in the

  office. If you counted the scene at my house a few weeks ago, I guess

  I'd been to two.

  "Fine, then. I'm switching into good-boss mode. If you don't think

  you need me, go on your own. But page me if you need me, promise?"

  I gave him my most earnest assurances while he wrote down his pager

  number.

  "I'm sure I'll be fine," I said.

  "I'll limit myself to two beers at VQ just in case. Call me later,

  just to let me know what's up?"

  It was fair enough, so I told him I would.

  I made a brief computer stop to check out Melvin Jackson and get

  directions to the address Johnson had given me.

  I ran Jackson for both local and out-of-jurisdiction convictions.

  Nothing but a two-year-old DUI and a pop for cocaine residue a year

  before that. Maybe the second one sounds major, but a stop with some

  burnt rock in your crack pipe translates into a violation and a fine in

  Portland, Oregon. What did I expect to find on his record? Repeated

  offenses for stalking and kidnapping? Despite common perceptions, a

  remarkable number of murder defendants have no prior involvement with

  law enforcement.

  Next stop: Mapquest. Glenville's one of those new suburbs. You know

  the kind: stores in big boxes, houses with four-car garages on

  quarter-acre lots, plenty of Olive Gardens for family dining. I'd

  watched it grow over the past five years, passing it on the freeway

  each time I drove to the coast. But I'd never be able to find my way

  around it without a little virtual help.

  I clicked on the option for driving directions and then entered the

  addresses for the courthouse and the construction site. Two seconds

  later, voila turn-by-turn directions with accompanying map. Whenever I

  try to figure out how a computer can provide driving directions between

  any two points in this enormous country of ours, it starts to hurt my

  head. I choose to chalk it up to magic.

  I hoofed it to the county lot, checked out a blue Taurus from the

  fleet, and did my best to follow the painfully detailed directions.

  Around mile four on Highway 26, my cell rang. MCT again. They should

  have been using my DA pager to reach me. I was careful not to give my

  cell number out for work.

  The call turned out to straddle the line between the personal and

  professional, a differentiation I'd successfully maintained until a

  couple of months ago. It was Chuck.

  "Where are you?" he asked.

  "Just past the zoo. I'm on my way to Glenville."

  "Good, I was hoping to catch you in the car. Sorry to bug you on a

  call-out, but I wanted to make sure you knew that Mike and I are

  working on this thing too. It didn't sound like Johnson got a chance

  to tell you."

  No, he hadn't. This was great. A relationship with Chuck broke not

  only my no-cop rule but also the completely independent,

  profession-neutral rule against dating Chuck. He makes me, in a word,

  crazy. He is stubborn, headstrong, mule-minded, and every other

  synonym for a particular characteristic that does not blend well with

  what I like to call, in contrast, my well-established personality.

  Dating him would be hard enough; working with him would only make

  matters worse.

  "Russ Frist is running MCU now, and we haven't talked yet about how to

  handle this. Hell, Chuck, you and I haven't even talked about it.

  Given that we haven't spoken to each other in two weeks, maybe this is

  a non issue But right now my mind is on this case, not our

  relationship. Your working on this investigation is going to force the

  issue."

  Chuck, of course, had no problem talking about "us" just minutes after

  learning about a murder. He had been in MCT for nearly two years now,

  which translates into roughly forty homicide cases. Work in this

  business long enough, and you see death as a detached professional, the

  way a plumber must view a burst pipe.

  "Whoa, back it up, Kincaid. I haven't talked to you for two weeks

  because you said you needed time away with Grace."

  "And I did. All I was saying, Chuck, is that things were all hot and

  lusty for a while there, and now you haven't talked to me in two weeks.

  More importantly, I'm in the middle of my first murder case and just

  can't deal with this right now."

  "Hot and lusty, huh?"

  Damn him. "Shut up and answer the question."

  "I didn't hear a question, counselor."

  Crazy. That's what he makes me. Two minutes on the phone with him,

  and I already had visions of running my Jetta off the road. I hung up

  instead.

  The phone rang immediately.

  "I think we got disconnected," he said.

  "You know these pesky west hills," I replied.

  "Cut you off every time. Look, I'm sorry I pissed you off. All I was

  trying to say was that you went to Maui because you needed some space.

  The funny thing about space is that you only get it if the people close

  to you step back and give it to you."

  "I needed to get away from work and from my house, where really bad

  things happened, Chuck. I didn't need distance from you."

  "OK, I understand that. I was there for the aftermath, remember?"

  I passed a sign announcing the approaching exit for Glen-ville and

  realized I needed to wrap this up. "Look, I'm sorry we didn't talk

  earlier," I said. "It doesn't matter whose fault it is."

  "Sure it does. Let's say it's my fault."

  That's my boy. "The point is, we still don't know if it's a good idea

  to work together. I'll tell Frist to call your lieutenant and take

  care of it."

  "What, like your father called Griffith? You know what kind of shit


  I'd take down here for that?"

  Yes, that had been a bit embarrassing. Dad's a retired forest ranger

  and former Oregon State Police officer. He can be a little protective.

  After the recent festivities at my house, Martin Kincaid had called the

  District Attorney to make sure that no further coworkers would be

  getting shot in my living room or otherwise endangering his little

  girl.

  "All right," I conceded, "no calls to the lieutenant."

  "It'll be fine. The LT knows about the situation so he's got Mike and

  me doing the grunt work. No confessions, no searches, strictly backup.

  The priority right now is to hurry up those phone records Johnson's

  been waiting on. As other things come up that need to be run down,

  we'll take care of it while Johnson and Walker work lead. Glamorous,

  huh?"

  "When you say it that way."

  "Can you live with it, Kincaid, or do I need to turn in my badge and

  gun? Your choice."

  "You'd do that for me, Chuck Forbes?"

  "You bet. But then I wouldn't have a job. Might hang out at your

  house all day and night, unshaved and overfed. What do you think?"

  "I think you better get off the damn phone and find me some phone