Missing Justice By Alafair Burke

Synopsis:

Deputy District Attorney Samantha Kincaid is back at work after an
attempt on her life and a promotion into the Major Crimes Unit.  When
the husband of Portland, Oregon city judge Clarissa Easterbrook reports
her missing and Samantha is called on the case, she assumes her only
job is to make the district attorney look good until the judge turns
up.  When the police discover evidence of foul play, however, Samantha
finds herself unearthing secrets that Clarissa had wanted to stay
hidden, the lingering personal tolls of a crime that occurred decades
ago.  And when those secrets lead to the discovery of corruption at the
highest levels of the city's power structure, Samantha realizes that
her quest for justice could cost her not only her job, but her life.

In this skilfully plotted, highly suspenseful follow-up to her
acclaimed debut, Judgment: Calls, Alafair Burke once again demonstrates
that 'she's got what it takes' (Michael Connelly).

With its irreverent heroine and seamless blend of squad rooms, street
scenes and courtroom drama, Missing Justice confirms Burke's place
among the genre's most talented and exciting newcomers.

Also by Alafair Burke Judgment Calls

MISSING JUSTICE

Alafair Burke

ORION

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Orion, an imprint of the
Orion Publishing Group Ltd.

Copyright 2004 by Alafair Burke

The moral right of Alafair Burke to be identified as the author of this
work has been asserted in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library.

ISBN 0 75285 716 9 (hardback) 0 75286 659 1 (trade paperback)

Printed in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St.  Ives plc

All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance. to
actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane London, we2H 9EA

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
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
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
have 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.

She looked up at us from the tile floor, removing her hand from the
brush to push her bangs from her forehead.  The brush stayed entangled
in poor Griffey's coat.  "I was just wondering whether I should show
this to you.  I thought he felt a little crusty downstairs when I was
petting him, but it looks like he's actually got something dried on his
coat back here."

Johnson knelt down and looked more closely at the side of Griffey's
hip.  Then he reached into an interior pocket of his suit jacket,
removed a latex glove, and slipped it over his right hand.

"Do you mind giving us a second, Ms.  Carney?"

Tara seemed surprised by the request but left the bathroom, closing the
door behind her.

"Looks like clay or something," Johnson explained, "like he brushed up
against it here on his side."

"Shit.  We should have gotten the crime lab over here immediately when
the Fletchers called."

I was beginning to panic.  Why the hell hadn't Johnson been on top of
this?  "Wasn't obvious," he said, responding to the unspoken question.
"Until you're certain what you're dealing with, it's hard to decide
what kind of resources to put into it.  Considering the small chance of
any evidence off the dog, plus the likelihood that we're dealing with a
runaway wife, and it's a tough call."

It made sense, but it didn't excuse the fact that we nearly allowed
Tara Carney to take the source of what might be our best piece of
evidence so far and soak him in a bathtub.

Johnson flaked some of the beige paste from Griffey's coat into an
evidence bag, then marked it with his name and the date using a Sharpie
pen.

Shit.  What else had we missed?  "I think we should go ahead and get
the crime lab out here and search around Taylor's Ferry.  Everything
about this feels bad."

"Your call," he said, pulling out his cell phone.

This new gig was going to take some getting used to.

Two.

By 7 a.m. the next morning, I was watching my first Major Crimes Unit
case unfold on television.  Nothing like an attractive, professional,
missing white woman to satisfy the hunger of the viewing masses.

I sat in the eighth-floor conference room of the Multnomah County
District Attorney's Office, location of the office's only TV set,
flipping channels in a futile attempt to track the coverage.  Out of
principle, I boycotted the Fox affiliate for running the tagline case
of a real-life Cinderella?  in a graphic beneath the talking head.  I
finally gave up and settled on the local morning show, which seemed to
be covering the story in the most detail.

Cut to some guy named Jake Spottiswoode, so-called field correspondent,
also known as the kid right out of college who gets sent with his
Columbia Gore-Tex jacket into the rain.

"Good morning, Gloria.  Behind me in southwest Portland is the home of
Dr.  Townsend Easterbrook and his missing wife,

Administrative Law Judge Clarissa Easterbrook.  Dr.  Easter-brook
reported the mysterious disappearance yesterday evening, shortly after
returning from a day of surgery at OHSU.

"Residents of this quiet neighborhood are fearing the worst," Gore-Tex
continued, "since learning that one of Judge Easter-brook's shoes was
discovered in the street on Taylor's Ferry Road last night.  That
discovery was particularly ominous given that the shoe was found only
half a mile from where her dog was found earlier in the night, alone
but still on his leash.  The community is helping police in the search
effort and say they still hold out hope that Judge Easterbrook will be
found safe and unharmed.  We've been told that the family will be
coming outside any minute to make a statement."

"Jake, what can you tell us about what Clarissa Easterbrook might have
been doing before she disappeared?  Was she walking the dog?"  Watching
Gloria Flick lean forward and dramatically furrow her brow, I
remembered why I never watch this show.  Gloria Flick was annoying as
hell.

While Flick continued to feign concern, Gore-Tex explained that the
police had refused to rule out any possibilities.  Although this was
formally a missing persons case, they were moving forward on the
assumption that foul play might be involved.  Trying to fill air time
before the press conference, the rain-soaked rookie correspondent
touched upon Clarissa's position with the city.  "We're hearing,
Gloria, that Clarissa Easterbrook, as an administrative law judge, is
not the kind of judge that many of us would envision, in a courthouse,
presiding over trials.  Rather, she hears appeals from the
administrative decisions of city agencies.  Because many of those
matters are considered routine and, in fact, somewhat bureaucratic,
police are discouraging the media from speculating that Judge
Easterbrook's disappearance could be related to her official
position."

The viewing public was spared any further attempt to explain the boring
work of an administrative law judge when Clarissa Easterbrook's family
assumed its place behind a podium that had been set up in the
Easterbrook driveway.

Joining Tara and Townsend were an older couple I imagined were
Clarissa's parents, along with a woman I didn't recognize.  Townsend
tentatively approached the mike.  Make that about ten mikes.  Unlike
Tara, he had changed clothes, but the bags under his eyes were every
bit as pronounced.

As the attending surgeon at the state's teaching hospital, Townsend was
probably used to speaking to a crowd.  But today he seemed focused on
merely making it through the notes he carried to the podium.  His voice
lacked affect, and he didn't look up once from his reading:

"My wife, Clarissa Easterbrook, has not been seen since six o'clock
yesterday morning.  She disappeared somewhere between then and last
night at approximately six-thirty p.m."  when I returned home.  We
believe she was wearing a pink silk turtleneck sweater, charcoal-gray
pants, and black loafers, one of which was found on Taylor's Ferry
Drive early this morning.  Our dog was discovered last night in the
same area, near the Chart House restaurant.  We are asking anyone who
may have seen her, or seen anything in that vicinity that might be
related to her disappearance, to please call the police immediately.
Clarissa, we love you and we miss you, and we want you to come home to
us safe.

"Behind me are Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney; her parents, Mel and
Alice Carney; and her dearest friend, Susan Kerr.  On behalf of all of
us, I'd like to thank everyone who is helping in this search effort.
Members of the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District
Attorney's Office were here late last night, and the media have been
great about getting Clarissa's picture out there and asking for
information.  We're very grateful for all the support and concern that
has been shown for Clarissa and our family.  Thank you again."

Whoever wrote the script was savvy enough to know how to play the game
of political institutions.  Appear supportive of the police department
and the DA's office early on, and you'll have all the more leverage
down the road if you threaten to turn.  Reporters were shouting out
questions now, but there wasn't much for Townsend to add.  Yes, it was
certainly possible that something might have happened to her while she
was walking the dog, but the police were not ruling out other
possibilities.  No, there hadn't been any ransom demands or other
communications about the disappearance.

Once the family retreated into the house, the station ran more pictures
of Clarissa and repeated the description of her clothing.  Nordstrom
had come through.  From the montage of photographs at a picnic with
Townsend, at Cannon Beach with Griffey, on the lap of a shopping-mall
Santa Claus with Tara I began to feel I knew this woman.  She was aging
gracefully, keeping her hair blond but neatly bobbed, allowing the
wrinkles to show beneath a light dusting of makeup.  And in every
picture she had the same big, generous smile that had greeted me the
one time I had met her at a women's bar conference a couple of years
ago.  I couldn't bear to watch.

As I was clicking the TV off, Russell Frist stuck his perfectly
salt-and-peppered head into the conference room.  "Welcome back,
Kincaid, and welcome to the Unit.  The boss tells me you're in the
thick of things already."

The District Attorney must have called Frist first thing this morning.
Recently appointed supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit, my new boss had
a reputation for screaming at other lawyers and making them cry, but
also for being a good prosecutor.  I had vowed to keep an open mind
about him, but sitting there beneath his gaze, I found myself
intimidated.  At six foot three and a good two-twenty, Frist put in
enough time at the gym to test the seams of his well-cut suit.

It wasn't surprising that Frist referred to the trial unit that
prosecuted all person felonies as "the Unit."  He'd been handling major
crimes for at least fifteen years, so other kinds of cases had no doubt
stopped mattering to him long ago.

"Looks like it," I said.  "When he sent me out to the Easter-brooks'
last night for some hand-holding, I don't think either one of us
thought it was going to turn into something like this, literally
overnight."

"Well, we should talk.  Give me about fifteen minutes, then meet in my
office?"

Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get any actual work done, so I
continued making my way through the pile of mail that had accumulated
over the past month.  As un pampered county employees, we usually have
to take care of our own office moves when we change rotations, but
someone had been nice enough to relocate my things from my old office
down the hall at the Drug and Vice Division to what used to be Frist's
office in major crimes.

Everything, that was, except for my black leather, high-backed swivel
chair.  A good office chair is nearly impossible to come by when you
work for the government.  Most of the chairs around here had ceased
being adjustable years ago and had funky-smelling upholstery fit for
the county's HAZMAT team.  About a year ago, I had spent four full
months sucking up to the facilities manager, begging for a decent
chair.  The campaign was not my proudest moment; let's just say it
involved me, a lunchtime knitting class, and a decade's supply of ugly
booties for the woman's baby.

Now someone had taken my vacation as an opportunity to run off with the
spoils of my labor.  The culprit clearly lacked two essential pieces of
information.  First, I would stop at absolutely nothing to get that
chair back.  And second, I'd have no problem proving ownership.  The
day I got no, make that earned- my chair, I committed vandalism against
county property by scratching my initials in a secret spot and vowing
we'd be together forever.

But for now, I was stuck with a sorry-looking lump of stinky blue tweed
on casters.

Otherwise, the new office was a step up.  In my old office, I had an
L-shaped yellow metal desk with a cork board hutch.  Now I had an
L-shaped gray metal desk with a cork board hutch, plus a matching gray
file cabinet all to myself.  Whoever had done the move had replicated
my old office (minus my special chair) to a T, all the way down to the
two pictures stuck in the corner of my cork board: one of Vinnie
gnawing on his rubber Gumby doll, the other of my parents in front of
their tree on my mom's last Christmas.

I met Frist as requested in his new corner office, legal pad and pen in
hand, ready for a fresh start in a new unit, with a promotion I had
wanted since I joined the office.  It took most attorneys five to seven
years of good work and shameless ass kissing to get into MCU, and I'd
done it in less than three with my pride largely intact.  Given my
Stanford law degree and three years in the Southern District of New
York at the nation's most prestigious U.S. Attorney's Office, some
would say I was actually running behind.

I took a seat across from Frist, trying not to think about the last
time I was there with the office's previous tenant.

True to his reputation, my new boss skipped the small talk and got down
to business.  "I thought we should touch base since you're new to the
Unit and I'm still getting used to this supervision gig.  You know the
deal: we handle all non domestic person felonies, basically murders,
rapes, and aggravated assaults.  Robberies we treat like property
crimes and send down to the general felony unit.  You can decide
whether you want to bring any files over from your old DVD caseload,
but I'd recommend against it.  You'll have your hands full enough here
without having to juggle Drug and Vice."

It took some concentration to focus on the substance of what Frist was
saying.  He had one of those deep voices you have to tuck your chin
into your chest to impersonate, a common practice around the DA's
office.  He sounded like that antiwar governor from Vermont who ran for
president, but this proud conservative ex-marine would never oppose a
war, let alone go to Vermont.  Frist was booming something at me, but
his eyes kept darting alternately between my breasts and somewhere just
above my forehead.

"You're starting out with something less than a regular load.  Usually
we'd give you the cases of whoever left, but O'Donnell obviously had
some doozies that'd be hard to start out with.  So I took over his
caseload, kept about a quarter of mine, and gave you the rest.  As the
new person, you'll be on screening duty."

MCU's screening assignment is a notorious time-waster.  Paralegals dole
out the incoming police reports among the various trial units: major
crimes, gangs, drugs and vice, general felonies, domestic violence, and
misdemeanors.  But to make sure that no one misses a heavy charge and
issues it as a throw-away, any report that even arguably establishes
probable cause for a major person felony goes to MCU for screening. The
problem is, cautious paralegals end up finding potential felonies in
every run-of-the-mill assault.  Now I'd be the one to waste hours
separating the wheat from the chaff.  So much for my big impressive
step up in the prosecutorial food chain.

Frist covered a handful of issues he thought I should be aware of on
the cases I'd inherited from him, then changed the subject.  "Now, as
for this Easterbrook matter, I talked to the boss.  I don't think he
intended to throw you into the middle of things so quickly.  You know,
he figured the judge'd turn up in a couple of hours, and he wanted to
make sure we did what we could in the meantime.  But now this thing's
looking like it's got real potential."

When I first started in the DA's office, I was sickened by how excited
the career prosecutors seemed to get over a juicy incoming murder case.
I swore I'd never treat human tragedy as career fodder.  But it had
since become clear to me that attorneys who have stuck with this job
for any amount of time handle it one of two ways: They either get off
on the adrenaline of their files or they become apathetic.  Compassion
is a straight path to burnout.  I wasn't yet to the point where I
looked at a person's murder simply as a trial challenge, but, when I
did, I'd rather approach my cases as a passionate competitor like Frist
than yet another of the lazy plea-bargaining bureaucrats we keep around
here.

But precisely because Frist was competitive, he wanted in on this one.
"Go ahead and ride the case solo while she's missing, but if a body
turns up, you don't want this as your first murder."

I opened my mouth, but Frist was all over me.  "Zip it, Kincaid.  I
know you're hungry, but you can forget about running this on your own.
And don't think I'm picking on you for being new.  Or because you're a
woman."

Out the window went the staples of my reliable boss-fighting arsenal.
Clearly I'd need to be more creative.

"We always have two attorneys on any death penalty case," he explained,
"which this may very well be, if it's a kidnap gone wrong.  And
Clarissa Easterbrook isn't exactly your typical murder victim.  Every
person out there who thinks he can benefit will be crawling up our
asses to scrutinize every aspect of this investigation and
prosecution."

"Is it still my case, or should I go ahead and tell MCT to call you the
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 handrails 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
I've heard, including what you just told me, this is not a woman who
would run off without some explanation.  One of her shoes was found in
a gutter.  All I'm asking for is the chance to rule out the possibility
that this had anything to do with her work so the police can focus on
more likely possibilities."

"I understand all that, Ms.  Kincaid, but I'm sure you understand that
there are privacy issues at stake."

"Clarissa Easterbrook is not a private attorney.  She doesn't have any
clients, so we're not talking about privileged material.  The only
privacy rights at issue are Clarissa Easterbrook's, and I think it's
safe to say that she'd want us to take a look under these
circumstances."

"I just don't know."  He was still twisting the pen cap.

"I can have the police apply for a search warrant if you think that's a
more appropriate procedure."  I managed to make it sound like an offer
to be helpful instead of a threat.

"I just don't think this is something I should be handling."

"The mayor's office pointed me to you.  You're the chief administrative
hearings officer."

"And I told you that title means little in this context.  I think you
should talk to the City Attorney's Office."

I thought about arguing but decided it was a waste of time.  Loutrell
was a timid bureaucrat who was more concerned about straying beyond his
authority than finding Clarissa Easterbrook.  He had also said the
magic attorney word: The City Attorney represented all city agencies,
including the hearings officers.  If Loutrell told me to go to his
attorney, I didn't have much choice.

Luckily, the City Attorney's Office was just one floor up.  When I
explained to the receptionist what I needed, however, she told me I'd
need to talk to the City Attorney himself, Dennis Coakley, who wasn't
going to be back until the end of the day.  I left my name and number
and did my best to encourage her to get the message to him as soon as
possible.

On my way back down, I noticed the listing for Clarissa

Easterbrook's office on a sign at the third-floor landing.  I followed
the arrow to the left, away from Loutrell's office, and found the suite
number I was looking for.

A receptionist with a pierced nose and red pixie haircut was busy
juggling calls, repeating, "City hearings department, please hold."
After three times she exhaled loudly and looked up.  "Welcome to my
world.  How can I help you?"

At least she had a sense of humor about it.  I gave her my best
empathetic smile and introduced myself.  She made the connection to
Clarissa's disappearance on her own.  "Oh my God.  I have been going
crazy in here this morning.  I didn't listen to the news this morning
and came in early, before anyone else was around.  The calls started
around seven-thirty, and I was, like, What do you mean she's missing? I
had to go out to my car and listen to the news on the radio. Finally,
someone came in this morning at nine to explain the situation to me.
The phone's been ringing off the hook."

"What kind of calls?"  I asked.

"Reporters, mostly.  I don't know what they expect me to tell them.
I've been reading the prepared statement I was given.  Hold on a sec,
okay?"  She jumped back to juggle the phones, telling each caller,
"Clarissa Easterbrook is an important member of the city community.  We
hope for her speedy return, and our thoughts and prayers are with her
family at this critical time."  As she repeated the line, she handed me
a memo from Clarence Loutrell with the typed-out statement.

Once she'd gotten through the on-hold callers, she let the phone ring
unanswered while we spoke.

"Seems like a small office.  You must be pretty close to her."

"I guess.  I started here last fall.  I work for her and one of the
other hearings officers, Dave Olick.  I'm pretty much their entire
staff.  I do the phones, the secretarial work, any legal research that
comes up.  I graduated last spring from Lewis and Clark.

It wasn't exactly my dream job after law school, but it's a job, at
least.  I'm Nelly by the way.  Nelly Giacoma."

The Portland legal market, like legal markets everywhere, was getting
tight.  I wasn't surprised that a recent law graduate might have to
clerk for an administrative law judge for a while.  This one's nose
ring, lollipop hair, and what I now saw was a yin-yang symbol tattooed
on her ankle probably didn't help.

"Since I'm across the street at the courthouse, I just dropped by to
see if the people who worked with Clarissa had any thoughts on where
she might be, that kind of thing."

Nelly shook her head slowly while she spoke.  "No, I just have no idea.
Everything was fine last week.  She was working when I left at five
Friday, and she said she'd see me on Monday."

"You can't think of anything unusual that's happened lately?  Something
that might be connected somehow?"

"Well, about a month ago, some guy on one of her cases sort of blew up
at her."

"Do you know anything about the case?"  I asked.

"Not really.  The guy was getting evicted, but I don't know what the
issue was."

"If you could pull the file, I can go through it while you get some of
those calls."  I tilted my head toward her phone, which was still
ringing.

"Gee, I don't think I can just let you go through the file."

"At least parts of it are public record."

"But I don't think the whole thing is, especially when the case is
still pending.  Besides, I don't even know what case it is.  I'd have
to go through all the files and try to find it.  I better check with
Judge Loutrell and get back to you."

I picked her brain for more about the ticked-off evicted guy or for any
other cases of note, but didn't get any further.  "What about stuff
outside of work?  Did you talk to Clarissa enough to know anything
about her personal life?"

"Well, I know she's married."

Oh, yeah, they were best friends, all right.

"And how did that seem to be going?"  I asked.

"Good, I guess.  Clarissa's pretty private, though.  Or she is with me,
at least.  We're pretty much employer-employee.  But she's really,
really nice.  I hope she's all right.  I'm sure she is, isn't she?"

I nodded and smiled, doing my best to appear unworried.  When I said
goodbye, Nelly apologized that she couldn't be more helpful but assured
me she'd talk to Loutrell about going through the files.  I handed her
my card, but I knew she wouldn't get back to me.  Loutrell would
forward the request to Dennis Coakley, leaving me in the same spot I
was already in.

All I had to show for my out-of-court venture was a head full of frizz
and a few extra calories burned on the stairs.  So much for making a
difference in the world.

While I was waiting at the crosswalk back to the courthouse, my pager
vibrated at my waist.  I recognized the number as the Major Crimes Team
desk and called back on my cell.

After half a ring I heard, "MCT.  Johnson."

"Hey, Ray.  It's Samantha.  I got a page."

"I know.  It was from me.  We finally got hold of Susan Kerr.  I'm
headed out with Walker to her house now.  Can you meet us?"

"Where's the house?"

"Up in the west hills," he said.

"Can you swing by the courthouse and get me?  I took the bus in today."
Schlepping across downtown to check out a car from the county lot would
take longer than the short ride from the courthouse up into the
hills.

"Damn, Kincaid.  What are you doing riding the bus?  We got to get you
livin' a little larger."

"I ride the bus because I'm a good citizen, Raymond.  I recycle too."

"You are definitely a different kind of DA, girl.  Riding the damn city
bus with the rest of the citizens.  I'll swing in front on Fourth in
about ten minutes.  Cool?"

"Yep.  See you then."

I used the ten minutes to make sure nothing urgent was waiting for me
back in the office and to put something called mud in my
moisture-crazed hair for the trip.  My best friend, Grace, is a
hairdresser.  She cut my dark brown locks (the bottle says coffee, to
be exact) into a wispy little do a few months back, and to her chagrin
I was in the ugly process of growing it back into my boring reliable
shoulder-length bob.  According to her, all I needed was the right
product to see my hair through its growing pangs.  I must have been
doing something wrong with the mud, because by the time my fingers were
done crimping and twisting, I looked like Neil Young in drag.

I left the courthouse just as Johnson and Walker pulled up in a white
unmarked bureau Crown Vic.

Lunch-hour traffic had begun to accumulate downtown, but the drive was
quick once we crossed 1-405 and got out of the downtown business
district.  As Johnson maneuvered the tight curves up the west hills, I
asked Walker what they knew so far about Susan Kerr.

"Not too much.  Her PPDS printouts right there," he said, reaching back
to hand me a sheet of green computer paper from the Portland Police
Data System.  "Nothing to see.  She's forty-two, no criminal history,
drives a Mercedes."

"The big one," Johnson cut in.  "I told you, the woman's got some
cash."

"We don't know much more than that.  One criminal complaint four years
ago for a smash-and-grab," Walker explained.

Portland has low violent crime and high property crime, driven
primarily by a large population of street kids and drug addicts. Almost
everyone with a car has at some point been a smash-and-grab victim.  My
poor Jetta's windows have been smashed on three occasions, once for my
stereo, once for the gym bag I stupidly left in the backseat, and once
for nothing but a new Lyle Lovett CD.  That one really pissed me off.

Walker pulled his spiral notebook from the breast pocket of his shirt
to refresh his memory.  "The co-complainant on the smash-and-grab was
Herbert Kerr at the same address.  Presumably the husband, but he's got
a 1932 date of birth.  He died two years ago."

"Hey, some women go for the old guys.  Look at you.  You've got a
woman."  Johnson was laughing at his joke, but Walker gave his partner
a look to show he wasn't amused.

"Yeah, and she's been stuck with me for thirty-two years.  Somehow I
suspect I'm not Susan Kerr's type."

"Well, I know I'm not."

"Excuse me, fellas, but could we get back to talking about the case?
For the record, I think any woman would be lucky to have either of
you."

"Sorry, Sam," Walker said.  "Lack of sleep gets to you.  Truth is,
we're not getting anywhere.  Media coverage is usually good on a
missing persons case, but this one's out of control.  Calls have been
flooding into the hotline we set up, but it's a bunch of stuff that's
either wrong, contradictory, or totally irrelevant."

"Like what?"  I asked.

I could tell he didn't know where to begin.  "Well, we've got people in
the neighborhood telling us they saw her walking her dog on Sunday at
eight a.m."  eleven a.m."  three p.m."  and seven p.m. We've got people
all over town calling us about possible sightings today.  Then we've
got the callers who need us to know everything they ever happened to
notice about the Easterbrooks that their landscapers were out on
Tuesday, that UPS left something on the porch on Friday, that the
windows were open overnight on Saturday.  You don't want to tell people
to stop calling, but you'd think these people would have the good sense
to know they're not being helpful."

"Don't forget the psychics, Jack."

"Ah, Jesus.  The psychics.  One lady called up crying that Clarissa was
at the bottom of the Willamette and couldn't cross over to heaven until
we recovered her body from the river.  Fucking ghoulish.  There's just
way too many nut jobs out there for us to keep up with the leads."

"Well, I think I might have something worth pursuing," I said.  I gave
them the limited information I'd gotten from Nelly Giacoma about the
ticked-off evicted guy.

"Hard to look into it without knowing who we're talking about," Johnson
said.  "Want us to get a warrant for the office?"

"I'm working on it.  I think it'll be faster to go through the City
Attorney, but I'll let you know what I hear.  What about the husband?"
I asked.  "He still acting like what you'd expect?"

Walker answered.  "Yeah, seems all right.  I was over there this
morning.  You know, shook up but not overwrought.  He's definitely in
no shape to be cutting anyone open; he was doing what he could to get
his hospital rounds covered.  But he's out there on the news, being
cooperative.  I'm not getting a vibe from this one."

"Me neither," Johnson said, "but you never can tell."

I assumed when the car stopped in front of one of the nicer Portland
Heights spreads that we had arrived at Susan Kerr's.  As deluxe as the
place was, however, it must not have been good enough because she was
making some improvements.  There was a dumpster in the driveway and a
construction truck across the street.

I opened my door, but Johnson wasn't ready to drop the subject of
Townsend Easterbrook.  "I know you got your boss to think about,
Kincaid, but I think we need to at least consider whether we should ask
the guy to take a poly.  Far as I'm concerned, the husband's always a
suspect.  I don't care who he is."

"OK, we'll talk about it after we're done here."  I stepped into the
rain, making my way to the house as quickly as I could.

Three.

I was surprised when a maid answered Susan Kerr's front door.
Definitely not a Portland thing.  This woman had real money.

The maid led us through three rooms and told us to sit in the fourth.
Big on color-coordinated stripes, dots, and paisleys, Susan Kerr's
taste was the decorating equivalent of a Laura Ashley orgy.  And, as
far as I could tell, every room we passed was what most would consider
a formal sitting room and what I would consider useless: no bed, no TV,
no snacks.  Maybe that was the purpose of the home improvements; I
could hear construction noises coming from somewhere deep inside the
house.

I recognized Susan Kerr from the press briefing.  As I took in her
powder-blue suit, French twist, and full face of makeup, a few bars of
that Stephen Sondheim song about ladies who lunch came to mind.  She
had that great dewy skin I always envy, beautiful dark hair and eyes,
and had probably even had some work done, but she looked seriously
uptight.

Before we'd even completed the introductions, the maid was back with a
tray of coffee and tea.  "Thanks, Rosie.  You heading out to yoga?"

Rosie nodded.

"Go ahead and take my car.  I'm not going anywhere."  When Rosie left,
Susan explained.  "I've turned her on to yoga for some back spasms
she's been having, but her sunroofs leaking, and the shop can't fix it
until next week.  Poor thing showed up this morning soaking wet.  "

Maybe I had judged Susan Kerr prematurely.

"Sorry about all this banging," she said, gesturing in the air the way
people do when they try to point to a sound.  She pulled a clip from
her hair and shook her head slightly.  Loose brown waves tumbled past
her shoulders.  "I've got this creepy basement fit for Freddy Krueger,
and I finally broke down to have it refinished.  Anyway, I'm sorry I
wasn't at Clarissa's last night.  I was at a fund-raiser for the museum
and didn't get Tara s message until nearly midnight.  She told me to
call her, but I can't believe she didn't tell me why.  When I woke up
this morning, Clarissa's disappearance was all over the news.  Of
course, I called Tara at once to find out who I could talk to.  She's
the one who gave me your number, Detective Johnson."

"Tara and Townsend tell us you're probably Clarissa's closest friend,"
Johnson said.  His gentle comment called for a response but didn't
steer the conversation in a particular direction.

"Better than friends, detective."  Kerr leaned forward and touched
Johnson's forearm as she spoke, a gesture that was somehow more
reassuring than flirtatious.  She must have sensed that Ray had arrived
at her home with some preconceived notions.  "With my parents gone,
I've known Clarissa longer than anyone else in my entire life.  She's
the closest thing to a sister I've got.  We've been through it all
together."

We stayed silent during her pause.  For Johnson and Walker,

the silence was probably part of the strategy.  I was quiet because I
couldn't help but think of Grace and how lost I'd be if anything ever
happened to her.

"I want to believe that there's an explanation," Susan said, "but I
keep coming back to what I know is true.  This is totally unlike
Clarissa.  She's so ... responsible.  Predictable.  She'd never go off
like this without telling someone: Tara, Townsend, me, her parents.
She's surrounded by people who are close to her.  She'd never let us
worry this way.  Something terrible must have happened."

This time, the silence that followed wasn't enough to prod Susan into
speaking, so Johnson gave a gentle nudge.  "Everything we've learned
about the case so far leads us to think that we're investigating a
crime here, not just a missing person.  Part of what we're doing now is
putting together a timeline for the last few days.  Maybe you can start
by telling us about the last time you talked to Clarissa."

"Sure.  It was just Saturday.  Townsend was working at the hospital
nothing new there so Clarissa had the whole day free.  We had a late
lunch, then went to the Nordstrom anniversary sale."

"How was her mood?"  Johnson asked.

"Same old Clarissa.  Fun, talkative, sweet.  Afraid to spend money."
Susan paused and smiled.  "Sorry.  If you knew Clarissa .. . well,
you'd know what I mean.  Best sale of the year, and I had to talk her
into buying a couple of sweaters.  She's very practical."

Susan and Clarissa clearly lived in a different world from most of us.
I'd seen Clarissa's closet, after all.  I couldn't imagine what Susan's
must be packed with.

"Any financial problems that you know of?"  Johnson asked.

Susan laughed.  "Oh, God, no.  She and Townsend do fine.  It's just
Clarissa's way.  We grew up in southeast Portland, you know.  About
half a step up from the trailer parks.  Well, she was half a step up. I
was basically right in there.  She worked her way out by studying hard
and putting herself through school."

"Did you go to school together?"  I asked.

She laughed again.  "Sure through high school.  If you're asking how I
dealt with my generational income challenge, I won't waste your time by
making it sound heroic.  I was lucky enough to be the prettiest
aerobics instructor at the Multno-mah Athletic Club when my husband
Herbie decided to settle down.  We were married for ten years before he
passed away.  I've always felt a little guilty for having at least as
much as Clarissa when I can barely balance a checkbook."

I had to hand it to her.  Susan Kerr had a hell of a personality.
There's something reassuring about a person who is so comfortable about
who and what she is.

"So when exactly was she with you on Saturday?"  Walker asked.

"I picked her up at her house around one.  We had a long lunch,
probably until three, then shopped at Lloyd Center until I dropped her
off around seven."

"Can you think of anything unusual that came up?"  Walker was quicker
to move to narrow questions than I would have been.

"Like what?"  she asked.

"Anything," he said.  "Someone following her, a run-in with someone,
something she seemed worried about.  Things like that."

"Anything at all that you think possibly could be helpful," I added.

She shook her head.  "No.  We certainly didn't notice it if someone was
following us.  I mean, who would follow us?"  Susan's comment seemed to
trigger her own memory.  "Well, actually, about a month ago, she did
mention some guy in her caseload who was getting a little creepy.  She
usually writes off the stuff people say to her as nothing, but this guy
had her a bit unnerved.  I told her to call the police if she was
really worried, but I don't think she ever did.  She told me a few days
ago that she hadn't heard anything else from him; I forgot to ask her
about it on Saturday."  She was no doubt wondering whether she'd ever
have another chance.

"Her assistant at the office mentioned something similar to me, but she
couldn't give me the file.  Do you remember anything else about the
case?"  I asked.

"I don't recall whether she ever used his name.  The irony is that
Clarissa actually felt sorry for the guy, but there wasn't anything she
could do for him.  He was getting evicted from public housing under
some policy that lets them kick you out if someone visits you with
drugs?"

I could tell she wasn't sure if she had it right, so I nodded to let
her know that I was familiar with the policy.

"Anyway, it was a big mess.  Clarissa didn't think she could stop the
city from doing it, but the guy said he'd lose custody of his kids if
he didn't have a place for them to live.  She was worried that if she
called the police about the letters and it turned out that he was only
blowing off some steam, she'd make it even harder for him to keep his
kids."

"Do you know what he did that had her on edge?"  I asked.

"Just a couple of letters, I think.  Ranting and raving the way a lot
of people do, but something about how she should have to know his pain
someday.  I know I agreed with her at the time that it sounded a little
threatening."

"And you don't know whether she did anything in response?"

"No.  It alarmed her at first, which was why I suggested she call the
police.  I asked her about it a few times after that, but she seemed to
have gotten over it."

I'd had similar experiences.  A defendant gets in your face,

and it feels like a conflict that could rip your guts out.  By the end
of the week, it's just another story to share at a cocktail party to
distinguish yourself from all the other boring lawyers.

"Is that enough for you to be able to find the file?"  she asked.

"Should be," Johnson said.  "We'll be sure to follow up on it.  What
about Clarissa's personal life?  She seem happy in her marriage?"

Susan Kerr leaned back in her chair, took in a deep breath, and smiled
politely.  "I was wondering when you'd get to that.  Classic, right?
Whenever something goes wrong, it's got to be the spouse.  Hell, poor
Herbie died of a heart attack, but don't think I didn't know what some
of his friends were whispering behind my back."

Johnson had clearly dealt with this kind of response before, because he
handled it like a pro.  "I know this is upsetting for you, but, as
Clarissa's best friend, you're the one who can be most helpful in
pointing us in the right direction."

"Well, thank you for that, but whatever the right direction is, that
ain't it.  If I thought for a second that Townsend had anything to do
with this, I'd be leading the charge.  Shit, I love the man, but I'd
probably kill him myself."

"This early in the case, we have to consider every scenario."

"Well, you're on the wrong track.  Townsend and Clarissa are a great
team.  To the extent she ever complains, it's the stuff every couple
deals with finding enough time for each other, who does the dishes,
boring shit like that.  I doubt Townsend's ever raised his voice to
her, let alone what you're thinking.  It's just not in him."

Johnson and Walker were polite enough not to roll their eyes.  They'd
been around long enough to know what ordinary citizens don't want to
believe you can never tell who has it in them to kill.

It was almost two by the time Johnson and Walker dropped me off
downtown, and I was starving.  The rain had finally stopped, so I
walked the two blocks to Pioneer Courthouse Square, got a small
radiatore with pesto from the pasta cart on Sixth and Yamhill, and
headed back to eat at my desk.  When I went to erase my sign-out on the
white board I found that anonymous coworkers had written, Shoe
shopping, Back to Hawaii, and Does Kincaid still work here?  next to my
original out.  The graffiti made me laugh, but I went ahead and erased
it while I was at it.

I hit the speakerphone to check my voice mail but was interrupted by
the rap of fingers against my open door.  I swung my chair around to
find Jessica Walters, the only female supervisor in the office and
someone who I was pretty sure had never spoken a word to me during my
tenure as a DDA.  As usual, she wore a tailored pantsuit and
oxford-cloth shirt, her trademark pencil tucked neatly behind her
ear.

"Jessica.  Hi."  My surprise to see her, combined with the more than
mild intimidation she inspired in me, ruined any chance I might have
had at witty repartee.  Walters had been a prosecutor for nearly two
decades, put more men on death row than any other DA in the state, and,
as far as I could tell, never had cause to doubt that she was smarter
and quicker than anyone else in a room.  She was currently in charge of
the gang unit.

"Welcome to the club, Kincaid.  You're the first of your kind up here.
Congratulations."

"Thanks, but I thought you were the first.  Weren't you in MCU before
you got your own unit?"

"Yep, was up here for almost ten years.  So was Sally Her-ring ton
before she jumped ship to join the dark side.  But you're the first
hetero a role model for all the straight women in the office who said
it couldn't be done."

There was a crowd of paranoid younger women in the office who were
convinced that the boss created the appearance of gender fairness in
the office by promoting lesbians who were perceived to be less likely
to rock the cultural boat captained by his buddies.  The truth was
sadder.  The atmosphere here was so rough, both for women and for
dedicated parents, that the lawyers who were (or intended someday to
be) both of those things requested other "opportunities" in the office.
So-called voluntary transfers to nontrial units like appeals, child
support, and parental terminations became their own kind of
self-imposed mommy track.

If anything was going to kill the conspiracy theory and the office
culture, it was the increasingly rampant rumor that Jessica and her
drop-dead gorgeous partner of nine years were trying to get pregnant. I
couldn't wait to watch a tough guy like Frist wiggle in his seat while
"Nail Them to the Wall" Walters breast-fed her kid during a homicide
call-out.  Payback for every time I've had to listen to colleagues
bemoan uniquely masculine complaints like jock itch and beer-goggle
bangs.

"To tell you the truth, I was beginning to wonder what was going on
with you in that department.  Now all the support staff can talk about
is you and Forbes.  After all the ninnies in this office that guy has
bagged, he's stepping up in the world."

Given my general anxiety about dating a cop, the last thing I needed
was a reminder of the many brief relationships this particular one has
had over the years.  If ours turned out to be as fleeting, I might be
known as yet another Forbes conquest.

Jessica must have realized that I didn't take the comment as she
intended it.  "I was saying you're a good catch, Kincaid, but I should
probably keep my mouth shut and stick to work.  It's a well-deserved
shot you've got here.  You're gonna be great."

"Thanks, Jessica.  That's really nice of you to say."

"No problem.  Just remember, don't let these fuckers give you too much
shit.  You'll need to pay your dues at first, but then it's about
carrying your fair share of the load.  Don't be afraid to get in their
faces if you need to."

I thanked her for her advice before she left, mentally crossing my
fingers that there wouldn't be a need for me to demonstrate that I
already knew how to push at least as hard as she did.

Among my many waiting voice mails was one from the City Attorney,
Dennis Coakley.  He'd chosen to leave me a message at my desk even
though I'd given the receptionist my cell phone number.  I'd
intentionally phone-tagged people before and knew there was only one
way to win this game.

I called the number he'd left for me, which, of course, led to his
assistant.  She told me he was in a meeting but assured me she'd tell
him I called.

"He is back in the office?"  I asked.  "I just want to make sure he's
going to get the message."

"Yes, he's back.  I'll let him know you called just as soon as he's out
of his meeting."

With that, I threw my running shoes back on, signed out, and trekked
over to City Hall.  I gave the receptionist at the City Attorney's
Office my name and explained that I wanted to see Dennis Coakley.

She seemed confused.  "Didn't we just speak on the phone?"

"Yep, that was me."

"Um did he call you back or something?  I haven't given him the
message, because he's still occupied."

"That's OK, I'll wait," I said, as I settled into a chair near the
front door.  Nonresponsive answers might be objectionable in court, but
they work wonders in the real world.  Ten minutes later, Dennis Coakley
himself came to the front desk and called my name.  Faster than a
doctor's office.

Coakley's office was conservative but well furnished, and I took a seat
at the small conference table he led me to.  I'd seen him around town
before, and he looked no different now than he always did:
wheat-colored bowl cut, glasses thick as microwave doors, bad suit.

Before I had a chance to say anything, he took the lead.  "Given your
presence here, Ms.  Kincaid, I feel I need to say something that I
shouldn't have to.  I know your line of work requires you to deal with
some people who well, let's just call them uncooperative.  But I hope
you didn't feel you needed to come over here personally to exert
pressure on me.  Frankly, I find it a little insulting.  I happen to
know Clarissa Easterbrook and would like to do whatever I can to help
find her."

"It's nothing like that.  In fact, I appreciate your calling me back so
quickly.  It's just that this is my first day back in the office for a
while, and I needed the air.  Your assistant mentioned you were in, so
..."  A lie, to be sure, but much better than admitting my tendencies
to be an untrusting freak.

If Coakley sensed the fib, he was kind enough to gloss over it.  "Good.
No misunderstandings, then.  Tell me what you need from us to help."

"At this point, we don't know.  Officially, it's still a missing person
case, but so far nothing suggests that Clarissa took off on her own,
and the police don't have any leads.  You probably heard that they
found her dog and her shoe by Taylor's Ferry Road."  He nodded sadly.
"You can imagine the scenario that brings to mind.  But we haven't
ruled out the chance that this could have something to do with her
work.  We just want to go through her office to see if anything there
leaps out at us."

He scratched his chin as if I had just asked him to calculate the
circumference of his coffee cup using only the diameter.  "This has
never come up before.  I'm not sure I can let you do that.  Let me look
into it, and I'll get back to you tomorrow.  As long as there are no
legal hurdles, it shouldn't be a problem."  He started to get up to
walk me out.

I stayed in my seat.  "I assumed we'd be able to get in today.  The
sooner the better."

"I'd like to be able to do that, but I don't see how I can."

"Unlock the door, and I can have an officer here within the hour."

"I can't just let the police roam through a judge's files, Ms.
Kincaid."

"Call me Samantha.  And of course you can.  She's not an actual judge;
she's a hearings officer.  I assume if any other city employee was
missing, this wouldn't be an issue."

"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
records."

"Ooh, baby, that's very hot and lusty."

"No more of that," I said.  "Call me later, OK?"

"Ball's back in my court?"

"For now," I said, and hung up.

When I finally got to the point where I was supposed to go .  18 miles
and then turn right for .07 miles, I nearly ran into the yellow crime
scene tape.

PPB had used the tape to close off the entirety of what the sign
declared was a state-of-the-art office park, coming soon.  A young
officer stood at the foot of a gravel road leading to the construction
area.  I flashed my District Attorney ID, and he described the several
turns I'd need to make around the various office buildings.

The day was beginning to lose its light, and the bureau's crime scene
technicians were erecting floods at the edge of a wooded area that
surrounded the new development.  I could see Johnson and Walker were
already here, talking to some of the techs.  I parked behind one of the
bureau's vans and prepared myself for Clarissa Easterbrook's corpse.

I'd seen four dead bodies in my life.  One was my mother's, two were in
my living room last month, and one was on my first and only homicide
call-out.  On that one, I'd been lucky enough to draw a fresh OD.
Depending on how the events leading to her death unfolded, Clarissa
Easterbrook could have been dead up to 35 hours.

Johnson met me at the car and we walked toward the woods.  I could tell
from the surrounding area that the developer had clear-cut the old
growth that must have previously covered these hundred acres or so.
When we reached the end of the clearing, Johnson turned sideways and
stepped carefully through the trees.  I followed and, just a few feet
later, saw what used to be

Clarissa Easterbrook, still in her pink turtleneck and gray pants.  A
lot of good that piece of investigative work had done.

In novels, there's often something beautiful or at least touching about
the dead.  A victim's arms extended like the wings of an angel, her
face at peace, her hand reaching for justice.  This was nothing like
that.  Clarissa Easterbrook's body was laid on the dirt, face up.  The
right side of her head was gone, and I could find nothing poetic about
it.

The only worthwhile observations to be made about the corpse were
scientific.  I initially focused on the disfigurement of her head, but
Johnson pointed out the discoloration on what remained of her face.
Purple streaks stained the left edge of her face and neck, like
bruising against skin that otherwise looked like silly putty.  "Looks
like someone moved her."

When blood is no longer pumped by a beating heart, it settles with
gravity to the parts of the body closest to the ground.  Clarissa
Easterbrook was on her back now, but immediately after her death she
had almost certainly been lying on her left side.

I watched as crime scene technicians methodically photographed and
bagged every item that might potentially become relevant to our
investigation.  A candy wrapper, several cigarette butts, a rock that
looked like it might have blood on it.  These items meant nothing now,
but any one of them could prove critical down the road.  I looked at
Clarissa's body again, surrounded now by all this construction and
police work, and swore I'd find whoever did this to her.

I gave Johnson and Walker the file on Melvin Jackson's case that Dennis
Coakley had copied for me at City Hall.  I also gave them approval to
file the standard search warrant application used after a homicide to
search the victim's house.  We agreed, though, that they'd continue to
take it easy on Townsend unless the evidence started to point to him.

The police would be working the crime scene for the rest of the night,
but I signed out after a couple of hours, when Johnson and Walker left
to deliver the news to Clarissa's family.  I don't envy the work of a
cop.

It's not as if prosecutors don't have bad days.  Our files are filled
with desperation and degradation.  Even the so-called victimless cases
involve acts that could be committed only by pathetic, miserable people
who've lost all hope.  Compare that to fighting over money for a
banking client, and it looks like we're doing the heavy lifting.

But, in the end, I'm still just a lawyer.  I issue indictments, plead
out cases, and go to trial.  When it comes to the investigation, I
might make some calls on procedure, but it's the police who do the real
work.  They're the ones who kick in a door when a search needs to be
executed.  They're the ones who climb through the dumpster when a gun
gets tossed.

And Johnson and Walker would be the ones to visit Clarissa
Easterbrook's family members tonight to tell them that their lives
would never be the same again.  These days, that concept is overused,
as we all say that the crumbling of two towers changed the world
forever.  The kind of change I'm talking about can be claimed only by
the families of the three thousand people trapped inside.  It's the
kind of change that causes every other second of life the birth of a
child, a broken leg, the car breaking down at the side of the road to
be cataloged in the memory in one of two ways: before or after that
defining moment in time.

From what I knew of it, everyone deals with the grief of a murder in
his own way.  There is shock, then rage, then depression, and
ultimately some level of acceptance.  But then the differences emerge.
What kind of survivors would Townsend, Tara, and Mr.  and Mrs.  Carney
become?  The ones who die inside themselves and walk around each day
wondering when their body will catch up to their soul?  The ones
seeking numbness in a bottle, the neighbors whispering about how things
used to be different?  The ones who run the Web sites and help lines
and victims' rights groups?  Clarissa's family still had options for
the future, just not the ones they thought they had when they woke up
yesterday.

Four.

By the time I returned the county's car and caught the bus home, it was
after nine o'clock and there were three messages from my father on the
machine.  The gist of each, respectively?  How was the first day of
work?  I hope you're not working late already.  And, finally, You're
not working on that case with the missing judge, are you?

I promised myself I'd call my father back before bed, but not just yet.
A normal person might want to veg out, watch a little TV, and hit the
hay.  I wanted to run.

Running is my therapy.  My ex-husband called it my escape.  No matter
what the problem, a run always helps me see life in perspective.  Plus,
I still felt like I needed to sweat out the rum and mint from the
sixty-seven mojitos I must have ingested poolside in Maui.

Even tonight's short three-miler did the trick.  After one mile, images
of Clarissa Easterbrook's misshapen head and discolored flesh began to
slip away.  After two, I stopped thinking about work entirely.  By the
time I got home, I was ready to call my father.

"Sammy?"  he said immediately.  Dad had recently discovered the wonders
of caller ID as part of his constant effort to stay busy.  After
thirty-plus years of marriage, two years as a widower hadn't been
enough for my father to feel relaxed at home alone.

"Yeah, Dad.  It's me."

"Late night at work.  I was wondering if you were OK."

"Everything's fine.  Just a lot to catch up on since I've been out and
with the new unit assignment."

"I bet.  So how are the people at the new gig?  A step up from the
bozos in the drug unit?"

As pleased as my father is that I've used my law degree to follow him
into law enforcement, he gets frustrated by the personalities I've had
to deal with over the years.  The colorful language he uses to discuss
my office is his way of showing he's on my side.

"I guess so.  The new supervisor's this guy named Russ Frist.  Seems
pretty decent so far."

"Any cases look interesting yet?"

"You know, they're interesting, but a little depressing.  I'd rather
hear about what you've been up to.  We've hardly talked since I got
back."

"You know me.  Typical retiree stuff: a couple of movies, some
gardening, a trip to the shooting range.  Exciting, I know."

"I noticed that my lawn was mowed while I was gone.  Thanks."

"No problem.  It's not like anyone else needs me.  So what kept you so
late at the office?"

He was trying to be subtle, but he obviously wanted to know if I was
involved in what he was still following as a missing persons case.

"You probably saw the coverage on the administrative law judge.  I was
wrapped up in that most of the day.  Actually, I started working on it
last night."

"Jeez, Sam.  The minute I saw the news this morning, I knew it.  Do you
really need to be on a case like this one right off the bat?"

"Those are the kinds of cases I'm working on now, Dad.  Major crimes
tend to come with the territory in the Major Crimes Unit."

"Very clever, wiseacre.  But you know this isn't the usual territory.
You're going to be right in the middle of the firestorm, cameras all
over you.  Nothing will bring out the crazies faster.  Did you ask your
office to put you on something else until you get used to the new
rotation?"

"No, Dad, and I don't plan to.  This is my job; you should be proud of
me for getting promoted.  I didn't become a prosecutor to handle drug
cases the rest of my life."

My first excursion from my standard drug and vice caseload had finally
come last month when I had prosecuted a psychopath for the rape and
attempted murder of a teenage prostitute.  By the time the case was
closed, a couple of nut jobs had broken into my house, bashed me on the
head, and killed the former supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit.  I'd
avoided a similar fate only because I'd forced myself to become a good
shot years ago when my ex-husband insisted on keeping a gun in our
apartment.  My father may have been a lawman himself, but he hadn't
gotten used to the idea of his little girl shooting her way out of
trouble.

"I am proud of you, Sam," he said, "but maybe you should hold off on
something so big.  You're finally out of the spotlight after the
Derringer case.  This one's going to put you right back out there.  For
all you know, this judge has run off on a lark.  She'll be home safe
and sound, and you'll end up the target of some obsessed freak who saw
your picture one too many times in the paper."

"Well, this is what I want, OK?  And, anyway, she didn't run off, as
you say.  They found her body today.  She's dead.  It's a murder case.
Does that make you feel better about me handling it?"

I should've stopped then.  I'd already gone too far.  But I was tired,
stressed out, and angry for reasons I couldn't even understand.

"There's no way I'm walking away from a case like this," I said. "Maybe
you hung up OSP and ran off to the forest service, but I'm sticking it
out."

I apologized immediately, but the words were still out there.  I was
too young to remember the switch, but I knew Dad had quit the Oregon
State Police to become a forest ranger when I was still a kid.  My
mother had never been particularly comfortable as a cop's wife.  You
never knew when that expired tag you pulled over on highway patrol was
going to belong to a guy running from a warrant, thinking to himself,
I'm never going back.

I had vague recollections of my parents' hushed arguments behind their
bedroom door about Dad's job.  At the time, I had no idea what they
were all about, but in retrospect, and in light of the timing, I
gathered that Mom had put the screws to him.

And so Dad had let go of his law enforcement dreams to patrol Oregon's
national forests until his retirement just last year.  He enjoyed the
steady outdoor hours and his federal pension, but I knew he sometimes
wondered what he'd missed out on in the career he left behind for his
family.

"I just want you to be proud of me, Dad.  When you treat me like a
little girl, I feel like I'm not in control of anything in my life."

"You know I'm proud of you, Sammy.  Of course I'm proud of you, not
just for your work but for everything you've accomplished.  I'm sorry I
even brought this up.  This isn't about you,

it's about me; I forget sometimes how strong you are.  But you're my
only family left, kid.  I don't want anything bad to happen to you."

Why hadn't I seen it that way before?  "Nothing's going to happen. Hey,
a couple psychopaths came after me, and I still turned out OK." We both
laughed.  "Seriously, Dad, I am so sorry for what I said.  I snapped at
you because, honestly, I've got some doubts myself about how I'm going
to learn to get through days like this one.  I went out to the crime
scene this afternoon, and seeing her body I can't stop thinking about
it.  But I really want this assignment.  I'll probably do more than my
fair share of whining about it," I added, "but I want to feel like it's
OK to do that around you without you telling me to take myself off the
case, all right?"

"In other words, the old man needs to lay off."

"Dad "

"I'm kidding," he said, cutting me off.  "Get some sleep now, OK?  You
must need it after the day you've had."

I was still feeling guilty about my little tirade.  "Can I come over
for dinner tomorrow night?"

"You know you don't need to ask.  You can even bring the it runt.

He was referring, of course, to Vinnie.  Dad had taken him in while I
was gone, saving me from a choice between the kennel and sneaking
Vinnie into the hotel.

When I hung up, Vinnie turned away from me, still pissed off about the
temporary abandonment.  He caved when I headed up the stairs, though.
By the time I hit the sheets, he had grabbed his Gumby doll and jumped
in with me.

No matter how important the missing person, an investigation moves more
quickly once the body is found.

Dennis Coakley, who had been dragging his heels yesterday, had hurried
to a slow crawl.  I got his message first thing Tuesday morning: "I
heard the terrible news about Clarissa and wanted you to know I'm still
working away here, the highest possible priority.  I'll call you when
I'm done."

We'd see about that.

I also had a message from Susan Kerr, who clearly moved at a much
faster clip.  "Hi, this is Susan Kerr.  Obviously, I've heard the news,
and I won't even bother trying to tell you how horrible the night was
for everyone.  I think the reality is still setting in for all of us.
Anyway, I wanted you to know that I'll be helping Clarissa's family
with arrangements they're obviously not in the best state right now to
pay attention to all the details.  Tara's doing OK, definitely a help
to her parents.  Townsend, on the other hand well, quite frankly, I'm
worried about him.  In any event, I'm doing what I can, so, if you need
anything from anyone, please feel free to call me.  Anything at all."
Before she hung up, she left every possible number where she might be
located.

Susan was dealing with death by taking charge.  My mother had been the
same way.  The few times she'd lost anyone and I mean anyone: a
neighbor, a cousin, her father she went straight to work.  Call the
funeral director, the insurance companies, the creditors.  Prepare
frozen casseroles and lasagnas to store for the family.  It was like
she had a death checklist, full of tasks to keep her busy until the
body was in the ground.

Watching my mother in action, I had never understood her motivation.
Did she need to stay distracted from the death itself?  Was it a means
of obtaining control over a world that felt unpredictable?  Or was it
just an earnest desire to help those who weren't as strong as she was?
Whatever Susan Kerr's motivation, I was glad someone close to Clarissa
could play that role.  Having seen Townsend attempt to deal with the
mere possibility of his wife's death, I couldn't imagine what the
confirmation of his worst fears had done to him.

I replayed the message to scribble down her phone numbers, then went on
to the next voice mail.  "Hi, Samantha, Susan Kerr again.  Just wanted
to let you know I think I'll go ahead and call Duncan, just to make
sure you've got all the support you feel you need, OK?  Thanks,
Samantha.  I appreciate having someone devote her personal attention to
my friend."

I wasn't surprised that someone with Susan Kerr's resources already
knew my boss.  If she wanted to make sure he was giving me all the
support I deserved, I was all for it.

With the voice mails out of the way, I called Johnson to check in.

"We broke the news to the family last night.  The parents and sister
first, then the husband.  Nothing unusual.  The sister gave us the
official ID while we were working on the search."

"The husband didn't have a problem with it?"

"No.  We explained that a search of the vies house is standard and that
we had a warrant.  He said he understood that the investigation needed
to proceed."

"Did you find anything?"

"Nothing that means anything yet.  We took bank records, credit card
statements the usual stuff that sometimes means something down the
road.  But we already knew from the walk through the other night that
we weren't going to find any obvious signs that she'd been done in the
house.

"Chuck and Mike came through on getting records for the recent credit
card charges and cell calls.  We're still working on getting the toll
records for the home phone.

"We've got a charge at Nordstrom on Saturday.  Adds up to the items we
found in the shopping bag, plus the pants and sweater she was wearing
on Sunday.  The only charge after that was on Sunday, right after noon,
at the Pasta Company."

I knew the place.  Or places, I should say.  The Pasta Company is a
popular local chain.

"Which one?"  I asked, since I could think of six or seven locations
off the top of my head.

"Terwilliger and Barbur."  Made sense.  Only a mile or so from the
Easterbrooks'.

"I sent a patrol officer over there with her picture.  A couple of
employees said they recognized her because she's in there a lot, but no
one could place her there for sure on Sunday."

"There's no way to know if she was alone?"  I asked.

"No, but she probably was.  One order of linguine in browned butter, no
tip.  A carry-out order, it turns out.  Walker drew short straw and got
trash duty.  Duly noted beneath the sink: one empty Styrofoam container
from the Pasta Company."

"So she picked up lunch on Sunday and ate at home by herself.  Great.
All that work, and the credit card records don't get us any closer than
we were the other night."

"Did I say I was finished, Kincaid?  Damn, girl, anyone ever tell you
you're a glass-half-empty kind of woman?  I haven't told you about the
autopsy yet."

"The ME's done already?"  It usually took a couple of days.

"It's been a light week so there's no backup.  He made the cuts first
thing this morning.  Report should be finished tomorrow, but I just got
off the phone with him a minute ago.  You want to continue to interrupt
me, or do you want to get to the good stuff?"

"Consider me quiet."

"Yeah, right.  I'll get in what I can.  Anyway, cause of death is what
we assumed: blunt force trauma to the right side of the head.  He was
having some difficulties with time of death, though.  He couldn't use
some of the factors that help when the body's fresh.  It had clearly
been awhile, because she was cold."

"How long does that take?"  I asked.

"That puts us back to yesterday.  But things get tricky past that
window.  And they were even trickier in this case, because we were
right about her being moved.  I'll spare you the details, but the ME's
got a problem interpreting things like bloating and bugs when he
doesn't know what kind of environment the body was in.  We couldn't
tell him if she was inside, outside, wet, dry, in a heater,
whatever."

So

"Patience, woman.  See, you were about to say, "So he can't tell us the
time of death," right?"

"Maybe."  Definitely.

"See, now, that'd be an inaccurate statement.  ME calls and tells me he
might have to give us a wide window for time of death unless I know
when she ate last.  At the time he called me, I didn't, but, you see,
now I do.  And the ME tells me she died within one to three hours of
eating noodles, which he found in the stomach contents.  Assuming she
ate the food around twelve-thirty, she died between one-thirty and
three-thirty."

"Broad daylight."

"You got it.  Makes an abduction off the street less likely but still
possible."

My phone beeped, indicating that another call was coming through.  The
name of the DA's secretary flashed on the caller ID screen.  I let the
line go to voice mail.

"What else?"  I asked Johnson.  "Was she raped?"

"Unclear.  Looks like she was naked when she was hit.  The ME says
there was no spatter on the clothes, either low or high velocity, which
he'd expect to find.  But there was brain matter and blood transfer
like smears inside the sweater, as if it was pulled on afterward. Also,
he found spermicidal jelly in the vaginal canal, but no boy juice and
no substantial tearing.  No skin under the nails, no sign of a
fight."

"What's all that mean?"

"Means she probably had sex, but it might or might not have been rape.
The stuff he found was the spermicide nonoxynol-9, which conics on most
condoms.  There was a time when that would've ruled out a rape, but
things have changed since the bad guys learned about the DNA databank.
And if she was just trying to get through it alive, she might not have
fought back."

"On the other hand," I said, "maybe it's not a sex crime at all, and
the coroner found something left over from consensual sex."

"Right.  So I need to follow up with the husband and see what he has to
say."

"How much are you going to tell him?"  I asked.

"Nothing.  If it's about to go public for some reason, we'll get to
them first.  Other than that, it's on a need to know basis.  I'll ask
him the last time they had sex and what kind of birth control they use.
He'll no doubt draw some inferences about that and ask me if she was
raped, but I'll tell him what I'm going to tell the rest of the family,
which is the truth: We don't know."

"How about Melvin Jackson?  Have you had a chance to talk to him
yet?"

"Who's that again?"

"The evicted guy?  Wrote mean, threatening letters?  I gave you the
file yesterday."

"Right.  Sorry, we've been juggling a lot here.  When we broke the news
to the family last night, I asked them if the name sounded familiar,
but they didn't think Clarissa ever mentioned him by name.  We haven't
followed up yet with Jackson, but it'll happen."

"Very good.  Anything else?"

"You know, we're also checking on everyone close to the vie.  I even
checked out our girl Susan Kerr.  At the museum all day setting up for
a fund-raising auction, then schmoozing all night, just like she said.
So we're working from the victim out, but Jack and I agree we also need
to take the location into account."

These were standard investigative approaches.  On the assumption that
the crime isn't random since they rarely are police look to the aspects
of the offense that are unique.  That usually means investigating
everything there is to know about the victim.  Victim's a working girl?
Most likely killed by a trick or her pimp.  Dealer?  Probably a
transaction gone bad or a robbery.

But crimes have also been solved by focusing on location.  Who, for
example, would know the layout of the home from which the sleeping
child was kidnapped?  A neighbor.  Maybe a handyman.  And here Johnson
made a good point.  The Columbia Gorge and Forest Park were the locals'
favorite body-dumping destinations.  Who would find their way to the
edge of a previously nonexistent office park?

"Do we know who the future tenant is?"

"There isn't one.  It's one of those 'if you build it, they will come'
things."  In recent years, Portland's suburbs have enticed out-of-town
firms to relocate operations to this area with the promise of tax
subsidies, an educated workforce, and ready-to-go infrastructure.
"We're going over lists of the usual suspects within a two-mile radius
of the crime scene and the Easter-brooks'.  Jack's working on getting a
list of workers at the construction site.  There's a couple different
unions and subcontractors involved, so it's taking a little longer than
we'd like.  We're also looking at old police reports involving any
incidents along Taylor's Ferry Road.  It's mostly car prowls and a few
robberies."

"Page me if you need anything," I said.  "As soon as I'm done screening
custodies, I'm going to review Clarissa's files."  Unfortunately, no
one at City Hall knew that yet.

"We can send someone over for that," he offered, assuming I had
permission to go in.

"No, I better do it.  I'll be able to get through them faster."  "I'll
try not to take that personally, Kincaid."  "Hey, law school's got to
be good for something, right?"  A decent morning at work never lasted
long.  When Johnson and I were done, I retrieved the message from
Duncans secretary.  The boss wanted to see me.

Duncan was tan as ever, despite the rain.  He had to be closing in on
fifty, but in appearance the guy was strangely age-ambiguous: a full
head of white hair, the kind of wrinkles that are "distinguished," and
a movie star smile that in my presence has left his face only once.

"How was Salem?"

"Useless as always.  Legislators just don't get what we're trying to
accomplish.  I was down testifying yesterday about drug courts.  The
liberals don't want to see anyone go to prison on a drug case, and the
law-and-order types want to lock 'em all up, whether it works or not.
But you're done with drug cases now, aren't you?"

"Looks like it," I said.  "Thank you again, Duncan, for giving me a
chance in Major Crimes."

"Well, I know it's what you wanted.  You might not remember this,
Samantha, but you told me that the first time I met you.  It's the only
time a job candidate has ever admitted wanting to prosecute murder
trials.  Most people try to hide that kind of ambition."

"You asked me what appealed to me about being a state prosecutor after
having served as an AUSA, and I told you the truth.  The feds rarely
get a murder case."

"Still, it showed you had balls, if you can excuse the phrase."

"You might not believe this, sir, but that's not the first time I've
heard that particular compliment.  Some day we might even get a
gender-neutral word that captures the same gravitas."

"See, that's a perfect example of what I'm talking about.  You showed
that same personality during your initial interview.  When you choose
to, you can say what you mean and still be very charming."

When I choose to.  For now, I chose to ignore the backhanded part of
the compliment.  But if he didn't get to the point soon, that voluntary
charm of mine was going on strike.

"I asked you to go with the police to the Easterbrook home on Sunday
for a reason.  You've proven that you've got a real compassion for
victims, and I know you've got the ability to be diplomatic and to show
this office in its very best light.  I also thought it was a chance for
you to ease into the new rotation with an MCT call-out.

"But I assumed at the time that Clarissa Easterbrook would turn up.
Obviously, she did not, and as a result of my decision you're now on
one of the highest profile murder cases we've had in a long time.  If
we're going to take you off it, we should do it sooner rather than
later.  Less disruption for the family and for MCT."

"I don't want to be pulled off," I said.  "I've already talked to Russ
about this, and he's going to oversee as necessary."

"My concern isn't with your experience or your skills.  You're a
terrific attorney."

"But you have a concern?"

"Susan Kerr called me today," he said, sitting back into his chair and
steepling his fingers.

"She told me she was going to.  I take it you know her?"

"It's hard not to know her when you've got a public life in Portland.
Bert Kerr had his hand in everything, a big fund raiser for progressive
causes.  I remember when I first ran for this office, he bought me an
eighteen-year-old whiskey at Huber s and asked me what I was going to
do as district attorney.  He wasn't happy with the typical sound bites;
he pressed me on everything: standing up to the police about reverse
drug buys, the death penalty, improving the quality of life for
neighborhoods.  When we were done and I'll never forget it he said,
"You're about as good a man as we're gonna get for a job that puts
human beings in cages."  A month later, he raised $40,000 for my
campaign on a single night.

"Susan don't call her Sue or Susie was his new wife back then, and you
can bet the tongues were wagging.  She was probably about your age,
and, my God, she was wild.  Everyone assumed she was in it for the
money and would be banging the pool boy on the side.  But once people
talked to her, they just fell in love.  She never tried to act like
something she wasn't.  And she came through for Bert in the end.  He
was a mess his last couple of years, and she worked her tail off to
make sure no one knew it.  A good friend of mine told me that by his
last days she was basically running the show, signing his name, doing
whatever she needed to create the appearance that Bert was still going
strong.  So, yeah, she can throw her weight around with the best of
them, but I have a lot of respect for her."

"What did she say about the case?"

"She said she appreciated the police coming to her home for her
convenience.  She was also pleased to have an attorney on the case so
early.  Less likely to have any problems that way.  She wanted
assurances you'd be free to oversee things, which I. of course, gave
her."

"But?"

He chuckled.  "Always jumping to the bad news, aren't you?  As far as
buts go, this one was minor.  Let me ask you: Where is this
investigation heading?  Is the husband a suspect?"

"Not at this point.  He hasn't set off anyone's hunch bells yet, and
he's alibied at OHSU all day Sunday.  But he's not cleared, either, so
it's natural that the police are still keeping him in mind."

"Susan was concerned about the tone of the questions about the victim's
marriage.  She got the impression that the police might be looking in
only one direction."

I tried to assure him that the police, if anything, were leaning
against the husband as a suspect.  I told him about Melvin Jackson and
the search for any sex offenders near the crime scene.

"Why did the police ask Dr.  Easterbrook to take a polygraph last
night?"

"They didn't.  They've mentioned the possibility, but we haven't made a
decision about whether that's the right way to go yet."

"Maybe you've got some mixed signals.  Susan Kerr tells me that the
police, in addition to being very curious about the state of the
Easterbrooks' marriage, asked the husband for a poly last night, just
minutes after telling him that his wife's body had been found.  That's
why she was upset enough to call me."

"Shit.  Well, she didn't mention it to me, and she just left me a
message this morning."

"She thought it would be best not to put you in an awkward position
between her and your detectives, so she brought her concerns to me."

"I don't know what to say, Duncan.  I'll ask the MCT guys about it."

"Good.  I need you to be the woman you're being today on this,
Samantha, the person who came in here for your interview; not the
hothead who puts a line of attorneys outside my door complaining about
bad behavior."

It has never been a line: a slow dribble, maybe.  "I only know how to
be one person, sir."

"Dammit, Sam.  You know what I mean.  I'm just warning you, you're
dealing with some very influential people on this one who don't look
kindly on mistakes.  In addition to Mrs.  Kerr, you've got Townsend
Easterbrook.  Let me be clear: If he's the guy, you crush him.  But not
until there's good reason to.  He's not your typical perp who's used to
being thrown against the car and frisked for looking the wrong way.
He's the chief administrative surgeon at OHSU.  For Christ's sake, the
man singlehandedly got the hospital's pediatric transplant wing off the
ground again after everyone wrote the project off as dead.  He's Mother
Teresa with a penis."

"So you're asking me to give these people special treatment."  It
wasn't a question.

"If you could even begin to think like a realist, you'd know I was
asking you to give them the expected treatment."

There was no use putting up a fight over this, since I'd already been
treating Townsend and Susan "as expected."  I assured him I got the
message, loud and clear.

Back at my desk, I put in a page to Johnson.  Why hadn't he told me
about the polygraph?  My phone sat silent, though, as I finished
screening duty with just a few more strokes of the pen.  I couldn't
wait here all day for him to call it was time to get my hands on
Clarissa's files.

I got lucky.  My first choice judge, David Lesh, had just finished a
plea and was working in his chambers.  Lesh was a former prosecutor. He
was also a former employee of the City Attorney's Office, but his job
there was to advise the police.  He wouldn't look kindly on Dennis
Coakley's obstructionism.

He gave me a warm welcome.  "Get in here, Kincaid.  I haven't seen you
since all hell broke loose.  How are you holding up?  You look
great."

"Thanks, Judge."  Lesh was a regular fixture on the happy-hour circuit
and an absolute nut, but his position required certain formalities.
"I'm doing surprisingly well.  I took some time off, and now I'm in the
Major Crimes Unit."

"Well, good for you.  You deserve it.  If it means anything, I think
you did a great job in the Derringer trial."

His delivery, without an iota of irony, evoked a sharp laugh from me.
An actual guffaw.  "Oh, yeah, ended beautifully," I said.

"At least you've got a sense of humor about it.  So what are you here
for?"

"I'm working on the Clarissa Easterbrook case."

His tone changed markedly, as was Lesh's way.  Irreverence always took
a backseat to the things that mattered.  "I heard about that this
morning.  The saddest thing.  She was such a nice woman.  Did you know
her?"

"No, but I did meet her once.  I guess you knew her from the City
Attorney's Office."

"Not from work so much as just being around City Hall together.  She
was a really great gal, the kind of person who genuinely wanted to hear
the answer when she'd ask how you were doing.  Are you guys getting
anywhere on nailing whoever did this to her?"

"Bureau's working on it," I said, shaking my head, "but nothing yet.
That's actually why I stopped by.  We want to look at her files to see
if someone might have had a grudge, but we're having some problems
getting in.  I don't want to get too far into an explanation since it
would be ex parte, but I'd like to get someone over here from the City
Attorney's Office, if you don't mind."

Judges weren't supposed to talk about a case with only one of the
lawyers present.

"I take it Coakley's not letting you in?"  he asked.

"Well, he hasn't said one way or the other, but I wanted to do the file
review yesterday.  I even walked over there and was ready to do it."

"Let's see what he's got to say about it."

He picked up his phone and punched in a number from memory.  After Lesh
was a prosecutor and before he was a judge, Coakley was Lesh's Duncan
Griffith.  Some bad blood was rumored, so this might be fun.

"Dennis Coakley, please.  This is Circuit Court Judge David Lesh."

Lesh was too much of a pro to drop his poker face, but I'd heard him
make calls before.  He's usually just plain old David Lesh.

"Mr.  Coakley, how are you?  .. . I've got Samantha Kincaid in my
chambers.  Do you have a second to walk over here for a quick
discussion?  .. . Well, she doesn't seem to agree.... Unless you tell
me she can get in there right now to see what she wants to see, I think
you do have a disagreement.... I know it's unconventional, but it's
also the easiest way to do it.  Do you really want to formalize this? I
could have her apply for a warrant, in which case you wouldn't even be
here for my decision.... All right, I'll see you in a few."

A pissed-off Coakley walked in a few short minutes later.  If we'd been
in Toon Town, his face would have been red, his ears smoking, and he
would have been storming in at a forty-five degree lean.  In the real
world, his neck vein was pulsing.  Not nearly as cute.

"All right," Lesh said, once Dennis was settled, "any need for a court
reporter?"  We both declined.  "Just so you know,

Ms.  Kincaid was careful not to tell me too much about the nature of
the dispute until you were here.  I know she wants to look in Clarissa
Easterbrook's files, and you told me you didn't feel you were able to
accommodate that, at least not on the DA's timeline.  Is that about
right?"

I nodded, but Coakley had come ready for a fight.  "Honestly, Judge, I
can't even believe we're here.  Ms.  Kincaid showed up at my office
yesterday, unannounced.  I gave her the one and only file she described
as being of interest, and I've been working ever since to view the
remaining files for privileged information.  I'm nearly done, and
pulling me away from that process only slows things down.  I feel
ambushed."

Lesh asked me if I wanted to respond.

"I was not trying to ambush anyone, your honor.  The problem is that
Mr.  Coakley assumes he has the singular right to decide when and where
and under what terms those files can be reviewed as part of a pressing
homicide investigation.  The fact of the matter is I could have applied
for a search warrant and shown up at City Hall with police to execute
it.  I thought having a judge mediate the discussion might facilitate
an agreement about the matter."

"Right," Coakley scoffed, "and you just happened to pick a judge who
used to work for me."

Lesh made a T with his hands.  "Whoa, that judge is still in the room,
thank you very much.  As you know, Dennis, I made a decision when I
became a judge not to remove myself from all cases involving the city
or the DA's office, just the ones that were pending while I worked for
those offices.  That said, if you think I'm biased, you are welcome to
ask me to recuse myself, and I won't fight it.  We'll get another judge
for you.  Just say the word."

Local custom holds that judges will remove themselves from a case based
solely on an attorney's request.  But local practice holds that no
lawyer ever actually makes such a request lest it burn them down the
road, either with the challenged judge or the one unlucky enough to
pick up the extra work.

"That's not necessary, your honor."

"Then let's get down to business.  You know why the DA wants to get
into those files: There's always the possibility that someone on a case
had it out for Clarissa.  Tell me precisely what your concern is about
letting her have a look."  Lesh gestured at me.  "You'd be doing the
review, right?  Not your officers?"

"That's correct, your honor."

Coakley repeated the same line he'd given me the day before.

And Lesh had the same response.  "Wait a second.  I don't understand
why her files would contain any communications with you.  The city's a
party, for Christ's sake."

"We don't know what kind of internal memoranda she made about other
privileged matters in an employment context, though, your honor, or how
she maintained those memoranda.  I just want a chance to peruse each
file and ensure that it contains only case information.  It's standard
practice in document production."

Lesh made my argument for me.  "Maybe in a civil suit, but this is a
murder investigation.  You're talking about a theoretical possibility
that Clarissa Easterbrook who is now dead, by the way not only had a
conversation with someone in your office but that she recorded it in
some form and then placed it in a case file where Ms.  Kincaid might
stumble upon it unwittingly.  And you think this possibility warrants a
delay in a murder investigation?"

"Not a substantial one, your honor.  As I said, I'm almost done."

Lesh shook his head.  He had worked both the civil and criminal sides
of the bar, but even he was incredulous at this particular civil
litigator's priorities.  "How far have you gotten, Dennis?"

Coakley pursed his lips and thought a second.  "Probably eighty
percent."

"And was there anything in that eighty percent that you needed to
redact?"

"No, there wasn't."

"Of course not," Lesh said.  "OK, here's what we're doing, kids.
Dennis, get the files that you've completed ready for Ms.  Kincaid to
review at City Hall.  Where should she go?"

Coakley clearly thought about arguing, but hedged his bets that things
could get worse and relented.  "Clarissa's office would probably be
best."

"Good.  While she reviews those, you're free to continue working on the
remaining twenty percent.  But if she gets done before you do, too bad.
The two of you can race to the finish."

We both said thank you and started to leave.  Before I walked out, Lesh
called me back.  "Samantha, do you have a minute?"

"Of course, your honor."

Once the door was closed, he asked me to sit down.  "What was that all
about?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"I certainly hope that's not the case, or you're going to have a very
rough career ahead of you.  Did you really need me for that?"

"We were at an impasse, your honor.  I thought you'd help us reach a
compromise, and you did."

"It's my job, Kincaid, and I haven't turned into one of those lazy
sacks who's complaining about more work yet," he said, knocking on his
wood desk.  "But you didn't even talk to Coakley about this before
coming to me, did you?"

"Not since yesterday," I said.

"Before Clarissa's body was found," he said, shaking his head.  "The
guy was eighty percent done, so he meant it when he said he'd been
working on it.  The fact is, you could have come to the same solution
with a phone call.  But he probably gave you a hard time yesterday, so
you decided you'd teach him a lesson.  And don't think for a minute
that I'm not aware why you handpicked me as your weapon."

I didn't say anything.

"It's not my business, but just some friendly advice.  I know Coakley,
and I'd bet money that word of this will get back to Griffith."  That
would be terrific, given the meeting we'd just had.  "Don't forget,
I've worked for that office too.  You've got to stop butting heads, or
you're in for a world of hurt."

People feel perfectly free to lecture me about butting heads, but who
scolds the butt heads  Maybe Lesh could bend the will of jerks like
Coakley through charm and personality, but I've found those kind of
people will run me over if I don't stand up for myself.  I still loved
Lesh, but until he walked a mile in my Ferragamos, he didn't have a
clue as to what my job was like.

I thanked him again for his help and headed back to my office.

Five.

While I was packing up what I needed for the file review, I heard a tap
on my open door and turned to find Russ Frist wheeling my long-lost
leather chair into the office.

"Lucy," I said in my best Desi impersonation, "you got some 'splaining
to do."

He flicked a manila envelope onto my desk in front of me.

"Good shot."  I looked at the envelope but didn't open it.

"What can I say?  Too much ultimate Frisbee in the Corps."

"I wouldn't have guessed that about you, Frist.  When I was in college,
the ultimate Frisbee guys were big dope smokers."

"Right, but they probably never inhaled.  Let's just agree that you
probably shouldn't extrapolate too much from your Harvard experience,
Kincaid."

"Nor you from the Marine Corps."

"Touche."

"Now shut up, soldier, and tell me why you have my beloved chair."

"Open the envelope," he said.

Inside, I found two Polaroids of my chair and a series of ransom notes
written with letters cut from magazines.

"A couple of the guys heard about your unhealthy relationship with the
office furniture and thought it would be a funny way to welcome you to
the Unit.  I put the kibosh on it after Duncan called you out on the
Easterbrook case.  Seemed like it would be in poor taste."

"Gee.  You think?"

"Just take the chair, Kincaid.  You have been spared the usual rites of
passage."

"Spared, or is this simply a reprieve?"

"You're a smart woman."

"Great.  I'll keep my back up."

"Like you wouldn't anyway?"

As he turned to leave, I said, "Don't you want to know about the
Easterbrook case?"

"Of course I do.  I was just waiting to see if you'd tell me on your
own."

I was starting to like this guy.  I filled him in on what I'd learned
so far from the investigation.  "I was just about to head over to
review the victim's files."  I left out the part where I hauled the
City Attorney into court to speed access.  "You want to come with?"

"The joys of document review.  No thanks.  If I liked scouring through
boxes of files on the off chance of finding a little nugget, I'd be
over at Dunn Simon making a shitload of money."

It's helpful as a prosecutor to remind yourself occasionally of the
things (other than lots of money) that go along with civil practice at
the big prestigious firms.  I was a summer associate at Dunn Simon
after my first year in law school.  I got paid twice what I make in my
current position for what amounted to a two-month job interview.  But I
knew I'd never want to work there after a young partner explained to me
why he loved the peculiar formatting that the firm insisted on for each
and every document: "It's just the Dunn Simon way."  Yuck.

"I don't know, Russ.  Might have to pull a Little Red Hen on your
ass."

"I'm afraid I'm not familiar with your literary reference.  I tend to
read material for adults."

"Yeah, right.  The kind with pictures that fold out in the middle.  I
mean that you don't eat the bread unless you help plant the grain.  I'm
picturing myself in the first and only chair in State v. Yet to Be
Determined for the murder of Clarissa Easterbrook."

"You keep dreaming, Kincaid, because it's not gonna happen.  Besides,
I've got a good excuse, not that I need to give you one.  Judge Maurer
sent a case out for trial this afternoon that I was sure would settle,
so I need to get ready.  Have fun with those administrative law files,
though.  Sounds like a blast."

I welcomed my chair back into its new home and scooted old blue crusty
into the hallway with a piece of paper pinned to its back that read
hazardous waste.  Given the state of the budget around here, it still
might be a step up for someone.

Nelly Giacoma remembered me from the day before.  She tried to sound
chipper when she welcomed me into the office, but I could tell from her
puffy eyes and congested voice that she'd been crying.  I asked if I
could see Clarissa's files.

"Dennis Coakley told me you'd be coming by.  I needed to keep busy, so
I helped make sure we had all the pending cases.  He's got everything
in piles for you in the conference room at the end of the hall."

The conference room turned out to be little more than a storage space
that held the water cooler and a bulletin board posting the required
equal employment disclosures.  There were four boxes of files stacked
in the corner and a small table I could use for work space.

"Do you need anything?"  Nelly asked.

"No, I should be fine.  Thanks."

"You sure?  Because I think I'm going to head out.  Judge Olick told me
to take the rest of the day off.  I was going to try to finish some
things up, but I'm pretty useless right now."

"You should definitely go.  I'll be fine."

"Thanks.  Just let yourself out."

I thanked her again and turned to the files.  I began by spreading the
boxes side by side on the floor, quickly scanning the file headings to
see if anything jumped out.  Nope.  No in the

EVENT SOMETHING BAD HAPPENS Or LITIGANTS WHO HATE ME files, just case
names.

I started at the beginning, dictating the names of the parties and the
nature of the dispute for each file into the hand-sized recorder I
still owned from my days at the U.S. Attorneys Office.  The machine
served more as a paperweight in my current position, since the District
Attorney staff refuses to type for the deputies.  But considering I
didn't even know what I was looking for, taped notes would be good
enough for now.

Case after case, nothing seemed relevant.  One thing was for certain:
There would be no problems finding things of interest in my files.  In
fact, the problem would be too many defendants who were angry, mean, or
outright psycho enough to go after me.  On a weekly basis in the drug
unit, some dealer who blamed me for the sentencing guidelines would
throw me a devil eye, his thrusted chest, or the very worst the
blood-boiling c-word.  Hell, I could fill one side of a tape with the
spitters alone.  Experienced prosecutors know always to sit at the end
of the table farthest from the defendant.

Clarissa Easterbrook's caseload, on the other hand, was a major snooze.
How disgruntled can a person be about a citation for un mowed grass, an
unkempt vacant house, or a toilet left on the front porch?  Although a
few of them huffed and puffed in their appeal papers, the tough talk
was generally reserved for the nosy neighbors who had sicced the city
on them or the unfeeling civil servants who responded, and even those
were rare.  More typically, the appellants tried hard embarrassingly so
to be lawyerlike in their prose.  Lots of henceforths, herewiths, and
thereto fores

When I got to the Js, I came across the Melvin Jackson file.  Now this
one stood out.  At least two letters a week for the past six weeks,
filed in reverse chronological order under correspondence.  They began
as pleas for compassion about his recent past, which I learned went
like this:

Melvin Jackson was the father of three children, ages two to six.  He
and his wife, Sharon, had always struggled with their shared
addictions, but when their youngest son, Jared, was born addicted to
crack cocaine, Melvin entered the rehabilitation program offered by the
office for Services to Children and Families as an alternative to
losing Jared.  Through the program, Melvin had gotten clean.  Sharon
hadn't.  One afternoon, Melvin came home from his part-time job as a
Portland State janitor to find another man leaving his apartment and
Sharon inside naked, smoking up with Jared in her arms, the other two
children curled together on the sofa.  He told her to choose between
the drugs and her children.  The next morning, Sharon went to SCF and
signed a voluntary termination of parental rights.

Melvin had been taking care of the kids ever since.  He saved enough
money for a used van and was getting by through public housing, public
assistance, and occasional work as a landscaper and handyman.

Melvin was about to lose his public housing because of his unemployed
cousin, who moved in with him a year ago in exchange for watching
Melvin's kids when he worked.  One night four months ago, a community
policing officer assigned to the Housing Authority of Portland caught
the cousin and her friends smoking pot on the apartment complex swing
set.  The officer found less than an ounce, decriminalized in Oregon,
so the only repercussion for the cousin was a ticket for possession, no
more than a traffic matter.  But federal regulations authorize public
housing agencies to evict tenants who have drugs on the property.  The
problem for Melvin was that public housing evictions aren't by the
tenant; they're by the unit.  Two days after the swing set smoke out
HAP served Melvin with a notice of eviction.  Then an SCF caseworker
told him his kids would be placed in foster care if he became
homeless.

I knew a little bit about these kinds of evictions.  A few years ago,
the United States Supreme Court upheld the federal housing policy
nine-zip, permitting the eviction of a law-abiding grandmother whose
grandson smoked pot on public housing property.  Never mind that she'd
taken in her grandson to save him from a drug-addicted mother.  The
only option for someone in Melvin s place was to hope for leniency, but
it would have to come from the housing authority; a court could do
nothing about it.

Clarissas notes in the file suggested that, at least initially, Melvin
had earned her sympathy.  One entry during the second week she'd had
the case noted:

Called Cathy Wexler @ HAP: zero tolerance policy won budge.  Called SCF
info line: No knowledge can discuss and'l case, but 'very possible'
take kids if lose housing.

She had even run some computerized searches on Westlaw looking for
authority to support the argument that HAP was prohibited from adopting
a zero-tolerance policy on eviction.

Unfortunately for Melvin, however, he chose a course of conduct that
had probably obliterated that sympathy before

Clarissa had found any law to back up the creative argument she was
trying to craft on his behalf.  By the fifth letter, his tone had
changed.  All caps and exclamation points don't go over well with
judges.  More recently, Melvin s letters became aggressive:

Do you have children of your OWN, Judge Easterbrook?  What kind of
person would allow this to happen?  Maybe someday you will know just
how UNFAIR life can be.  Are you trying to BREAK me?

I could see why Clarissa wrote them off as the desperate words of a
desperate man.  But the benefit of hindsight made me wonder if Clarissa
might still be alive if someone had been able to help Melvin Jackson or
at least deflect his anger from a judge who was on his side but
powerless to do anything about it.

As I was starting in on the Ns, Dennis Coakley walked in with another
box of files.  If I was counting right, that made me a hell of a lot
faster than he was.

"Not very exciting, is it?"  he said.

"Not particularly."

"So was it worth that little scene you scripted this morning?"

"Won't know until I finish the files," I said.  If I had boy parts, he
never would have called my power move a little scene.  It would be a
fast ball, a line drive, an outside shot, or some other ridiculous
sports analogy that I don't understand.

"Just like I couldn't know if I had something important to deal with
until I took a look," he said, stomping off.

By the time noon came around, I had finished reviewing the very last
file.  Nothing.  Two hours of work and all I had to show for it was my
monotone summary of Clarissa Easterbrook's pending caseload.  The drone
of my own voice, combined with the steady hum of the water cooler, had
been enough to make me nod off a few times.

My legal pad was hardly used, but to keep myself from sleeping I had
made three lists.  One was a list of cases where Clarissa said
something at the hearing to indicate she'd be ruling for the city, but
where she hadn't yet issued a formal ruling.  Maybe someone decided to
ensure a rehearing with a different judge.  Possible, but not
probable.

The second list was even shorter.  I jotted down a few names to run in
PPDS when I got back to the office, but each seemed an unlikely
suspect.  Sheldon Smithers found a lock on his front tire, courtesy of
the city, after one too many unpaid parking tickets.  He made my list
for sending a rant about the hypocrisy of reserving parking spaces for
the administrative law judges in the city lot.  That, and the
serial-killerish name.

Then there was Ronald Nathan Wilson.  A month ago, Ronald punched the
glass out on the hearing room door after Clarissa denied his challenge
to the city's seizure of his car.  It's a long way from vandalism to
murder, I know, but the seizure was for picking up a decoy in a
prostitution sting, sinking Ronald deeper into the creep pile.  And,
again, the name didn't help.  Six letters each: first, middle, and
last.  Everyone knows 6-6-6 is the sign of the devil.

I wasn't sure what to do with my third list.  These were cases from
which Clarissa had recused herself.  A restaurant manager whose
application for a sidewalk cafe license had been rejected.  A homeowner
whose third-floor addition was enjoined under the nuisance code.  A
contractor complaining that his requests to rehabilitate buildings in
the Pearl District had been declined unfairly.

Maybe one of them had complained that Clarissa had a grudge against him
but hadn't gotten word yet that she was recusing herself.  I knew it
was a stretch, but I had to leave that room with something.

I used my cell phone to check my work voice mail.  As long as there
were no new fires to put out, I was actually going to make my lunch
date with Grace.  Only three new messages: one from Dad reminding me
about dinner, one from Frist about a grand jury hearing at the end of
the week that I had already calendared, and one from Jessica Walters
asking me to try her later.  Still nothing from Johnson.

I considered returning Dad's call but wasn't up for another
conversation like we'd had the night before.  Instead, I flipped my
phone shut and considered myself on a well-deserved lunch break.

Grace and I have a handful of regular lunchtime meeting places located
roughly halfway between the courthouse and her salon, Lockworks.
Today's pick was the Greek Cusina on Fourth, which I always spot by the
gigantic purple octopus protruding above the door.  Don't ask me what
the connection is.

Grace was waiting for me in our favorite corner booth, great for
people-watching.  We could peek out, but a potted rubber tree plant
made it unlikely we'd be seen from the street.

She looked terrific, as always.  Physically, Grace and I are yin and
yang.  I've got dark-brown straight hair; her color changes by the day,
but I know those cute little curls are naturally blond.  She's trendy;
my clothes (unless bought by Grace) come in black, gray, charcoal,
slate, and ebony.  I'm five-feet-eight, she's five-three.  She eats all
she wants, never works out, and can wear stuff from the kids'
department.  I eat half of what I want and run at least twenty-five
miles a week, just to maintain a size in the single digits.  She's put
together; I'm a mess.  Set aside those differences, and we're twins.

"Hey, woman," she said, standing up to kiss my cheek.  "I've missed
you.  I sort of liked being roommates.  Maybe we should try it here at
home."

"Might not be the same without the beach."

"Or the rum," she added.

"Don't sell the condo just yet; we could wind up killing each other.
Did you order already?"

"Yeah, I figured it was safe."

Grace knows I always get the Greek platter: a gyro, a side of
spanikopita, and a little Greek salad.  That converts into roughly six
miles.

Once I'd settled in across from her, Grace asked me to tell her all
about my new life in the Major Crimes Unit.

"I promise I will get to it, but, please, not just yet.  I need a break
from thinking about the horrible things people do to each other.  Tell
me a little bit about your homecoming.  Anything good at the salon?"

Grace opened Lockworks, a two-story full-service salon-slash-spa, in
the haute Pearl District a few years ago.  Never mind that back then
she was a marketing executive without a beautician's license.  What
Grace had was business sense.  She managed to swing a loan for an
entire warehouse, which she converted into the first of what are now
many upscale salons targeting the hordes of trendy young professionals
flocking to Portland.  Today the building alone is worth millions, and
clients wait weeks to pay Grace a small fortune for a haircut or
highlight.

"I've been swamped.  The first vacation I've taken since I opened that
place, but it doesn't keep people from getting pissed off.  I've been
on my feet for the last forty-eight hours, com ping cuts for clients
who refused appointments with the girls who were subbing for me."

"I guess they know you're the best."

"One way to look at it," she said.

"Or they're just pricks."

She clinked her water glass against mine.

QQ

For the next fifteen minutes, I sat back and listened to Grace's
stories about beautiful people who aren't as beautiful as they want to
be.  The whining, the temper tantrums, the unrepentant displays of
vanity.  I had packed away half of my chicken gyro by the time she
finished telling me her latest Hollywood story.  Grace has become the
preferred stylist for the film productions that increasingly choose to
go on location in Portland.  Apparently, someone with too much money
offered Grace a big wad of dough to do body waxing for an eye-candy
movie being shot in the Columbia Gorge about windsurfers.  Fortunately,
Grace had enough money to take a pass.

"In addition to the obvious yuck factor, most of the half-naked
unknowns are teenagers," she explained.

"I would've thought that was right up your alley, Grace.  You're
ripening pretty well into a dirty old woman."  I had teased Grace
endlessly in Hawaii each time her gaze predictably and shamelessly
followed whatever young stud crossed our field of vision.  I plowed
through the entire Jack Reacher series during our poolside time; Grace
was still working on the same novel on our flight back to Oregon.

"As tempting as that sounds, there's a little too much Oedipal
potential there.  Better stay put in the city for now.  Check out men
my own age."  She gave me that cute little wink she somehow manages to
pull off when she's being cheeky.  "Now can we please knock off the
chitchat and get down to business?  What have you been working on?  I
want every last detail."

Because of my job, Grace's skin has thickened to violence through
osmosis.  When I first started handling compelling prostitution cases
in DVD, she saw me through more than a few long nights.

My ex-husband once told me I shouldn't talk about my cases while people
were eating; it wasn't polite dinner conversation, whatever the hell
that is.  Down the road, I returned the favor by telling him it wasn't
exactly polite dinner behavior to use our dining room table to screw
the professional volleyball player he picked up at his new job at Nike.
Now, Shoe Boy was a distant memory, and Grace listened to my stories
whether we were eating or not.

I brought her up to speed on the Easterbrook case, then told her about
my unproductive morning reviewing files.  She wanted to know how the
police could begin to tackle a case with no weapon, no witnesses, and
no physical evidence.  I explained MCT's strategy of following up on
facts that make the case unique.

She was bothered.  "I understand what you're saying about the
statistical odds that the murder has something to do with whatever the
victim might have been involved in, but there's still something about
it that rubs me the wrong way.  It's like you're investigating the
victim, blaming her for getting killed."

"Right, but would you feel that way if it wasn't someone like Clarissa
Easterbrook?  Someone who looks like us and has a good job and does the
kinds of things we do?  When the victim's a doped-out street person,
wouldn't you automatically assume that the lifestyle had something to
do with the fact that she happened to show up dead?"

"But then you're talking about someone who you know was involved in
activities that can be dangerous.  There's no reason to believe that
this woman was a drug addict or a prostitute or sleeping with someone
else's husband."

"So the police snoop around to find out whether she was.  Despite what
people think, the odds of getting swiped off the street by a total
stranger are so slim it would be irresponsible for the police to assume
that scenario without at least looking into the possibility that
something about the victim got her killed."

"Well, do me a favor.  If I show up dead, don't let anyone snoop
through my life."

"How about you do me a favor and don't show up dead?"

"OK, but if I do, I'll try to make it somewhere interesting.  Then you
could bypass the personal stuff and follow up on the location as the
angle.  Maybe some abandoned castle in the Swiss Alps."

"A little outside my jurisdiction," I said.  "And stop being so
morbid."

"Said the proverbial kettle."

"We can't both be dark.  I need my Grace to balance me out a little."

"Fine, but I want to go back to your case.  What's so interesting about
the location?"

I did my best to describe the place where Clarissa had been found and
told her Johnson's theory that it may have been someone familiar with
the construction site.  She was conspicuously quiet.  "What?"  I
asked.

"Nothing.  I'm just trying to catch up with you.  Your food's nearly
gone and I still have my entire lunch to eat."

"Thanks for pointing that out, skinny girl."

"Don't mention it."

"Seriously, what were you thinking about?"

"I think there are probably a lot more people who know about that
location than you might assume."

"Grace, it's all the way out on the edge of Glenville."

"Right, where lots and lots of people live and work.  Sam, you've only
lived in northeast Portland and never ventured beyond the city center.
Where do your cops live?"

"Johnson lives up by the University of Portland.  I think Walker lives
in Gresham."  That put Ray in north Portland, not far from my own
Alameda neighborhood, and Jack out in the county's east suburbs.

"And Glenville's all the way on the southwest edge of the county, which
is why the three of you think the fastest growing city in the State of
Oregon is the boonies.  You guys might see it as Timbuktu, but a
hundred thousand people know the land out there as well as you know
Alameda."

"When did you become such a Glenvillean?  Grace Hannigan, are you
shopping at Burlington Coat Factory without telling me?  Or maybe a new
man one with a minivan and a cul-de-sac?"

"Perish the thought," she said.  "If you must know, I was looking into
opening another Lockworks out there.  There's a boom right now, and
most of it from people with money who need haircuts."

"So are you doing it?"

"Nah.  Too big a risk.  When I bought the warehouse, I knew in my gut
that the Pearl was going up.  I didn't know just how far up I hit the
lottery in that sense but I knew I was ahead of the market.  With
Glenville, the market's already full of people gambling that the
growth's going to continue.  It didn't make sense to get in this late
in the game."

"So no Lockworks for Glenville."

"Right.  Anyway, getting a second shop off the ground would have been a
major pain in the ass.  Who needs it?"

"All that work might get in the way of hanging out with me," I said.

"Couldn't let that happen."

The waitress stopped to clear our plates.  I left a token morsel on the
plate, so I could tell myself I didn't eat the whole platter.  Grace
took great pleasure in telling the waitress she was still working on
it.

"And how's the rest of the new job?  Are you going to share your toys
with the other kids this time around?"

"My problems, Grace, are never with the other kids.  They're with the
supposed grown-ups watching over us."

Grace knew about some of the run-ins I'd had with coworkers in the
office, all of whom happened to be my superiors.  She says I have a
problem with authority.  I say my only problem is that the assholes are
the ones who get promoted.

"And what lucky soul gets to put up with you now?"  she asked.

"It's hard to believe, but he seems pretty decent so far.  Supposedly
he makes people cry, but I've never actually heard that from anyone
firsthand."

"Does the new boss have a name?"  she asked.

"That would be one Senior Deputy District Attorney Russell Frist," I
said, deepening my voice into the best Frist boom I could muster.
"Resident weight-lifting crew-cut-wearing stud muffin."

Grace was smirking.

"What?"

"I can't decide whether to tell you," she said.

"Well, you have to now.  You can't announce that there's something to
be said and then hold out on me."

After the requisite symbolic pause, she said, "Fine," as if I'd dragged
it out of her.  "I don't repeat the things clients tell me, but I
suppose there's no harm in telling you that someone's a client.  I know
Russell Frist from the salon."

"Big bad butch Russ Frist goes to Lockworks?  For a crew-cut?"

"Nope, not the hair.  No point paying sixty bucks for that."

"Oh, please tell me that you wax his back," I pleaded.

"Not that good.  But he does get a monthly no-polish manicure and pays
extra for the paraffin wrap."

When I got back to the office, I was still in a good mood from my big
food and small secret.  The rest of the office might think of Frist as
a mister scary, but I knew he had soft hands.  I like people who are
hard to sum up.  They make life interesting.

My first stop was to see Jessica Walters.

She was leaning back in her chair with her stocking feet on the desk,
one hand holding the phone to her ear, the other tapping her trademark
pencil on her armrest.  The person on the other end of the line was
having a bad day that was getting worse as the conversation
continued.

"You're smoking crack if you think I'll agree to probation.... I don't
care if your guy's in denial, Conaughton.  As far as I'm concerned, the
most important part of your job is to smack him out of it.  I'm not the
one who needs a talking to, but you'd rather waste my time from the
comfort of your office than haul yourself to county for a much-needed
sit-down..  .. I'm hanging up now, because it's not going to happen.
Either take the forty months or confirm the trial date.  Call me back
with anything else and I'll stop talking to you."

She set the handpiece in its cradle as gently as if she'd been checking
the weather.

"Close case?"  I asked.

"Typical plea-bargaining bullshit.  They're never as close as the
defense wants you to think."

"I got your message earlier.  What's up?"

"You believe in coincidences, Kincaid?"

One of my favorite crime writers says there's no such thing, but I'd
never thought much about it.  "Sure," I said, "when I need to."

"Honest answer.  Well, I do too.  They happen all the time, or at least
that's what I'm telling myself on this one.  Your vie called me
Friday."

"On what case?"

"The city judge, Clarissa Easterbrook.  She called me Friday and left a
message."

"About what?"

"I have no idea.  I was in trial all last week.  I took the message
down with the rest of them and have been working my way through the
list.  The name meant nothing at the time I wrote it down, but when I
got to it this morning it gave me the heebie-jeebies."

"What exactly did she say?"

"All I wrote in my call book was her name and number.  If she had said
what she was calling about, I would have noted it."

"You didn't realize this until today?"

"Watch it, Kincaid.  That sanctimony's better spent on the rest of the
fuckups around here.  All I had was a name and number.  I don't think
she even said she was calling from the city hearings department."

I could see how that could happen.  "Can you think of any reason she
might have been calling?  Are you in any groups together?  The Women's
Bar Association, maybe?"

"Sure, along with forty-three percent of all the other attorneys in
this town.  Did she call you?"

"Good point.  Whatever it means, thanks for telling me.  I'll pass it
on to MCT and see if it connects up with anything else.  Do you have
the number she left?"

On the way back to my office, Alice Gerstein stopped me in the hall and
announced that Clarissa Easterbrook s sister was waiting for me in the
corner we call the reception area.

"When did she get here?"

"Right before noon."

I had checked my voice mail around then, but no one had left a message
about the pop-in.

"Did she say what she wanted?"  I whispered.

"Just to talk to you about the case.  I offered to have you call her to
set an appointment, but she insisted on waiting."

Tara Carney had finished the crossword during her wait and moved on to
the jumble.  I apologized for making her wait and explained that I was
out of the office and didn't know she was planning to come in.

"I really didn't mind.  I've been running out of things that make me
feel useful, so waiting here to talk to you .. . well, at least it was
something."

Apparently Susan Kerr wasn't the only one who was trying to stay busy.
I offered Tara the best we had around here, a Dixie cup of water. Don't
knock it.  Until a few of us pooled our own funds for a cooler, the
only water we had was brown.

Once we were in my office with the door closed, I asked her why she'd
come in.

"There's something I haven't told the police yet, and it's been
weighing on me.  If I tell you, can it remain confidential?"

People hear about the sacred attorney-client privilege on TV and assume
it's going to apply to me.  It doesn't.  I did my best to explain to
Tara that I represented the State, not her.  I'd do my best to be
discreet, but if she told me something that related to the case, I'd
almost certainly tell the police, and I might have to disclose it
eventually to a defendant.

"That's the thing," she said.  "I don't know if it relates to the
case."

"If you have any reason to think it might, you really do need to tell
me, Tara.  I can't promise to keep it confidential, but I will treat
the information with respect.  We'll use it for the investigation, but
it's not like I'm going to issue a press release or gossip about your
sister."

She looked into my face and must have decided to trust me.  "I think
Clarissa was cheating on Townsend."

I couldn't hide my frustration.  How could she not have mentioned this
before?  I'd let Grace make me feel bad about the police poking around
in Clarissa's life, and it turns out there was something to discover
after all.

"I didn't know what to say earlier.  That first night, he was standing
right there and was so upset; I couldn't mention it.  Then when the
police told us they found Clarissa's body, I was with my parents.  I
know the police were asking about her marriage, but I didn't want to
say anything in front of them."

"So whom was she seeing?"  I asked.

"That's the thing.  I don't even know.  She never told me.  But she
told me a few weeks ago and she made me swear up and down I would never
tell anyone that she had fallen in love with someone else.  She said
she wanted to leave Townsend.  I was shocked."

"Do you know if she actually started the process of leaving him?  Did
she tell Townsend or go to a lawyer?"

"I don't know.  I think I made her angry.  She wanted me to support her
and be happy for her, and I was crummy."

"How so?"  I asked.

""What about your marriage?  How could you cheat on Townsend?  Why
don't you try counseling?"  That kind of stuff.  I felt really bad when
she said she only told me because she thought she could depend on me. I
tried to stop being judgmental after that, but I think the damage was
already done."

"She didn't tell you anything more?"

"No.  I tried to get her to tell me who he was, but she refused.  She
wouldn't even tell me where she met him.  We mostly talked about how
she was afraid to be alone.  She wanted to leave Townsend to be with
this other person, but she wasn't sure he was prepared to be with her.
I got the impression he might have been married too, like he wasn't
necessarily in a position to live happily ever after with her.  But she
didn't want to keep living with Townsend when she was in love with
someone else, so we talked about how she felt about being on her
own."

"And did she come to any decision?"

"I think her mind was already made up; it was just a matter of when. We
talked about how I adjusted after my husband left me.  That was
different, though.  I have two kids, so my hands were too full to
permit a meltdown.  She was picturing herself alone at night with
nothing to do and wondering how she'd get through it.  Clarissas one of
those women who's always been with someone."

I knew that feeling.  I had been one of those people before my divorce.
Now I don't know what ever made me feel like I could live with anyone
but Vinnie.

I poked and prodded with more questions, but Tara didn't know anything
else about Clarissa's extramarital activities.

"Do you think she told Susan?  I got the impression they were like
this," I said, crossing my fingers, "but Susan hasn't mentioned this
either."

"They are I mean, they were."  She was still getting used to the past
tense.  "In some ways they were more like real sisters than Clarissa
and I were.  If anything, they were almost too close, if that makes any
sense.  I think Clarissa came to me because I was less likely to
challenge her.  Clarissa always felt she owed it to Susan to live up to
her expectations.  Family's supposed to love you unconditionally,
right?"

I could tell she was wondering whether she'd lived up to that
obligation.  "I'm sure she knew you did, Tara."  It was my best effort,
but it sounded no better than the shallow things people said to me when
my mother died.

"I hope so."

"What do you mean about Clarissa living up to Susan's expectations?"

"That's a bit of an overstatement.  I don't always choose my words very
well.  I think Clarissa wanted to be more like Susan.

It's been that way since they met in sixth grade.  Some girl threw gum
in Clarissa's hair on the bus, and Clarissa was afraid to stick up for
herself.  Susan was the new kid in school from California, and everyone
else was avoiding her.  But when this girl threw gum at Clarissa, Susan
without saying a word to Clarissa followed her off the bus and told her
she'd kick her butt if she ever messed with Clarissa again.  From that
point on, they were friends, but Susan was always looking out for
Clarissa.  I don't think that dynamic ever went away."

"But if Susan took care of Clarissa, why wouldn't Clarissa confide in
her about something like leaving Townsend?"

"I don't think I'm explaining it well.  Susan wouldn't have just
listened to Clarissa, which I think is what Clarissa wanted from me.
She would've gone to Townsend and told him to pay more attention to his
marriage or something.  Who knows?  She might even have tracked this
other guy down and told him to shape up and be with Clarissa if that's
what she wanted.  That's the way Susan is."

I'd just met Susan, but I could already picture it.  "I'm sorry, Tara,
but I think I need at least to talk to Susan and see if maybe she knew
who the other guy was."

"But I thought she already said there weren't any problems in the
marriage.  In fact, I got the impression she was upset that the police
even asked about it."

"If she doesn't think it has anything to do with her death, she might
just be trying to protect Clarissa's reputation like you were."

She didn't say anything.

"If it matters, I don't see the harm in talking to Susan about your
concerns."

"I'm mostly worried about Townsend.  You don't know him.  The way he
was Sunday night?  He's usually nothing like that, and things have only
gotten worse since then.  He's an absolute wreck.  I don't think he can
take any more.  My parents and I are having a hard enough time on our
own, but now we're worried about Townsend too.  If he finds out, I
don't know what he'd do."

"I'll be as discreet as possible," I promised, "but I can't ignore what
you've told me."

By the time Tara left the office, she understood that she could no
longer control what became of the secret her sister had confided in
her.

I needed to tell Johnson about Clarissa's phone call to Jessica Walters
and what I'd learned from Tara.  And I still needed to follow up on
what Duncan had told me this morning: Had Johnson really asked Townsend
for a polygraph?

No one picked up at MCT, so I paged him again.  He returned the call
fifteen minutes later from a crime scene.  I could barely hear him over
a chorus of angry voices in the background.

"Sorry about the delay, but today's been a bitch.  I got a home
invasion gone bad here right now.  Two guys dead and a front yard full
of gang bangers taking sides.  We're meeting back at Central at four to
go over where we are on Easterbrook.  Can it wait till then?  We can
patch you in on speaker."

"It can wait, but I'll meet you over there."  I knew from experience
that attending a meeting by conference call is a guaranteed way to be
confused and ignored, two areas where I didn't need help.

"Sounds good.  We should have the bad guys separated from the less bad
guys by then."

I turned my attention back to the task of reviewing the files I had
inherited from Frist.  With only a partial caseload, I had thirty-two
pending cases and thirteen waiting to be reviewed for prosecution
decisions.  Far fewer files than in DVD, where I'd celebrate if I fell
into the double digits, but homicides, sex offenses, and felony
assaults would require more of me than the drug cases I had learned to
prosecute on autopilot.

By midafternoon, I had finished compiling a calendar of all scheduled
appearances and a list of motions, responses, phone calls, and other
follow-up projects that needed to be done.  If only I could learn to
get the actual work completed as efficiently and neatly as I could list
it.

MCT was housed in the downtown Justice Center, just a quick diagonal
across the Plaza Blocks from the courthouse.  I took the stairs to the
fourth floor.  When I got to MCT's large suite of cubicles, Chuck threw
me a Diet Coke from the mini fridge and a look from deep down in a
naughty place.  I missed the soda by a mile, but I definitely caught
the look.  As usual, Chuck Forbes didn't miss a thing.

"Nice catch, Kincaid.  Something distract you?"

"Just your piss-poor aim.  Mike, don't ever rely on your partner in a
gunfight."

Chuck's partner, Mike Calabrese, was finishing off the second and, for
him, final bite of a Krispy Kreme glazed.  Licking his fingers, he
said, "That boy there doesn't need his gun.  He disarms the world with
his rapier wit."

He disguised the New York accent, giving the impression he was
mimicking something Chuck said recently, most likely after their annual
shooting re-quals.  Seven times out of ten, I could outshoot Chuck at
the range.

Johnson took control of the meeting once everyone was settled around
the table.  "Thanks for coming back in.  As it turns out, the LT OK'd
us for overtime on this, but I appreciate that everyone was willing to
show anyway.  I know it was a bad day out there today.  Before I let
you in on what Walker and I have been working, where are you guys on
the paperwork?"

Chuck and Mike knew the question was aimed at them.  Chuck took
charge.

"We got everything we were asking for.  Nothing on the credit cards
other than corroboration for what the wits have been telling us.  We
got charges at Nordstrom on Saturday for the clothes she was wearing
and the stuff the sister found in the shopping bag.  Then Sunday we've
got the lunch at the Pasta Company.  We checked the bills for the last
twelve months, and nothing's jumping out.  Same with the bank
records.

"The vies cell phone gets a little more interesting.  The general
pattern is slow: a few calls to the house, office voice mail, that sort
of thing.  Very few incoming calls.  The last two calls were one Sunday
afternoon to the Pasta Company and one Saturday afternoon to her house.
I figured I'd let one of you guys check that one out with the family,
since you're the contacts."

I saw Johnson jot it down in his notebook.  "That it?"  he asked.

Chuck and Mike exchanged glances.  "My partner here has been saving the
best for last," Mike said.  "We get a break in the pattern about three
months ago.  Suddenly our victim starts using all those minutes she's
prepaid for, and it's almost all calls back and forth between her phone
and one belonging to Metro Council member Terrence James Caffrey."

T. J. Caffrey was a well-known liberal lawmaker.  He had previously
been a member of the county legislature but recently ran for and won a
seat on the Metro Council, whose sole purpose was to enforce Oregon's
unique restrictions against urban sprawl.  In the 1970s, the
legislature essentially drew a big circle around the Portland area's
existing development and established that line as a boundary between
urban and rural land.  Since then, as the region's population had
grown, the urban center had exploded with new development.  The result
was a much denser metropolitan area, but the open space beyond it had
remained just that.  Only the Metro Council had the authority to redraw
the line that separated urban from rural.

Johnson reached his hands toward Calabrese like he wanted to squeeze
his cheeks and kiss the top of his head.  "Now that is what I'm talking
about.  Feels like we're swimming through maple syrup and suddenly
something breaks.  Too many phone calls to a married man; it might boil
down to old-fashioned lust after all."

"That fits in with something I got this afternoon," I said.  I told
them about my visit from Tara.  T. J. Caffrey s own marriage would
explain why Clarissa thought that leaving Townsend wouldn't be enough
to make her happy.

The guys were predictably ticked.

"Happens in every case, don't it?"  Calabrese spoke for them all.
"These people don't tell us what they know; then they bitch and moan
when we can't find the bad guy fast enough."

Before I had a chance to voice Tara's reservations, Johnson was back on
track.  "It's all right.  Now we got some pieces coming together.  I've
got something that might fit in with the Caffrey angle too, but let's
hold off on that for now.  You got anything else?"

"Only a one-minute phone call on Friday to the Multnomah County
District Attorney's Office.  We figured Kincaid could track down the
details."

"I've already got them.  Jessica Walters paid me a visit this morning."
I explained to them that Jessica had been in trial last week, only made
the connection today between the voice mail and our case, and had no
idea why our victim had been calling her.

"Raises some interesting questions, doesn't it?"  Walker asked.  "We've
got an assertive, good-looking woman calling Nail 'em to the Wall
Walters.  Maybe she was a closet muncher and got involved in something
over her head."

Walker was a good man, so I tried to write off his deduction" as
generational.  As for his choice of words, it was nothing I hadn't
heard before in the DA's office.

"Seems unlikely.  I talked to Jessica about it today, and Clarissa
Easterbrook's name meant nothing to her until Monday."

Johnson jumped in.  "Right now, it's just a phone call; nothing we can
do with it.  Mike and Chuck gave us Councilman T. J. Caffrey to follow
up on; Kincaid got us Melvin Jackson to talk to.  And Jack and I have a
couple guys we're going to be picking up when we break.  Can you run it
down for them, Jack?  My voice is toast."

Jack Walker flipped through various computer printouts as he spoke. "We
cross-referenced prior sex arrests with address records from the
surrounding area.  Based on that, we got twenty-seven guys within a
couple of miles."

If the public had any clue what was walking around out there with the
rest of us, they'd lose any remaining faith in the criminal justice
system's sentencing priorities.

"But that includes any sex offense," Walker explained, "even the wienie
wavers and step dads  Of the twenty-seven, we've got a couple who are
more interesting.  One's got a forcible rape and sodomy, lives with his
mother about five blocks from the construction site.  Name's John
Peltzkelszvich, or however you pronounce that.  I mean, buy a freakin'
vowel, for Christ's sake.  Anyway, he's on parole, so we should be able
to get access to him through the PO.

"The guy we like best right now, though, is Gregory Banas.  He's
farther out, almost two miles from the site.  Only prior conviction is
a misdemeanor sex abuse for grabbing a woman's crotch in a mall parking
lot.  But, get this: Banas's name comes up twice.  Remember the
attempted rape a couple years ago on Taylor's Ferry that Bradley and
Rees from the DA's office broke up?"

We all nodded.

"The woman's name was Vicki Vasquez," Walker explained.

"No arrest, but Bob Milling from East Precinct called this afternoon.
He was working the case when he was still at Central.  Good guy.
Vasquez was never able to make a solid ID, but when she was flipping
through mugs, she pulled out four who could've been the bad guy.  Her
favorite?"

"Greg Banas?"  Calabrese asked.

"Correctamundo," Walker said.  "Milling wanted to put him in a lineup,
but Vasquez moved back to California.  Said she wanted to put the whole
thing behind her.  At the time, Banas lived in one of those big
apartment complexes on Barbur Boulevard."  I knew the location, not far
from the running trail along Taylors Ferry.  "About a year ago, he
moved to one off Highway Twenty-six in Glenville, so we've got
potential familiarity with both the crime scene and the presumed pickup
spot."

Ray Johnson nodded.  "And location's going to matter on this one. Heidi
Chung called from the crime lab.  The paint geek from Home Depot says
that the paint on the dog matches paint going up on the exterior of the
office park.  Mocha cream, to be exact."

"Would the paint have been wet on Sunday?"  Walker asked.

Johnson had apparently asked the same question already.  "They were
painting Friday and Saturday; on Sundays the work is shut down.  But
they leave the scaffolding and paint out."

"This doesn't make sense," Chuck said.  "We've been assuming the bad
guy swiped the victim from the street, leaving the dog and the leash
behind.  Now we're saying bad guy takes victim and her big strong dog?
Does the bad guy location to be determined then dump her in Glenville
and drop the dog near home?  No way."

"I'm with you," Johnson agreed.  "But let's try it this way, going back
to our old-fashioned lust theory.  Husband's off at the hospital all
day, so vie meets her phone pal for a day of romance.  Maybe he picks
her up for a drive to the coast, and they take the dog with them.  They
fight about the things people fight about when they're screwing each
other but married to other people.  He hits her in the head a little
too hard.  Dumps her in Glenville on the way back Griffey jumps out for
a tinkle, comes back with paint then leaves the dog and the shoe on
Taylor's Ferry to get us thinking abduction."

Chuck was nodding with every sentence.  "That could be it."

"Or it could still be an abduction," Walker added, "but the paint comes
from the bad guy, not the building.  There's Peltzkelszvich and Banas,
but we've also got a couple of site workers with problems.  Maybe the
paint goes from the site to them to the dog."

Johnson thought about it.  "It's possible.  I didn't like any of the
work guys for it, though."

Walker filled the rest of us in.  "We found a bunch of dirtbags working
up there, mostly through one union.  There were a couple of rapes, some
robberies, and a mess of DV assaults.  But the robberies were all
commercial, and the rapes weren't strangers one was an ex-girlfriend,
one was the guy's stepdaughter.  Nothing that seemed in line with our
scenario."

"I hate to be the party pooper " The four detectives' shared chuckle
cut me off.  "OK, playing my usual role of party pooper," I revised,
"maybe it's just paint.  Plain, generic taupe-colored paint.  I mean,
how precise can the paint geek get it?  The stuff's not DNA, right?
Griffey still could've come across it wandering around the
neighborhood."

It was too soon to begin connecting all the dots.  Walker and Johnson
needed to get out there and talk to the men whose names had come up and
see if anything shook out.

"One last thing," Johnson said.  "I called the husband today about the
condom, and it wasn't his."

"Did you tell him the ME found spermicide?"  I asked.

"No way.  I just told him we were still running some tests, and it
would help if we knew the last time they had intercourse and whether
they'd used any kind of barrier method of birth control.  Turns out the
doctor had his tubes tied.  They hadn't had sex since the Tuesday
before she disappeared, though, which explains why the autopsy didn't
find anything."

"Was he all right with the questions?"  I asked.  I still needed to
talk to Johnson about the polygraph request.

"Actually, he seemed pretty thrown off by the whole thing.  He was sort
of out of it in general, though.  I guess no one wants to think about
something like that happening to their wife.  Anyway, when I found out
the condom wasn't his, I was thinking sex offense.  But it fits with
what Chuck and Mike got, too.  Maybe the vie was using condoms on the
side with Caffrey."

"Doesn't mean Caffrey did it, though," I said.  "It would just explain
the spermicide."

We were stuck again.

As we broke up, Chuck tried to get my attention.  I raised a finger in
his direction as I ran to catch Johnson alone.

"Griffith got a call today from Susan Kerr," I said.  He looked at me
but didn't say anything.  "Did one of you ask Townsend Easterbrook to
take a polygraph last night?"

The look on his face said So that's what this is about.  "Yes.  As a
matter of fact, I did."

"I thought we were going to talk before you did anything on that."

"You weren't there, Sam.  Am I supposed to stop everything and call you
before I make any kind of decision on one of my investigations?"

I ignored the rhetorical question because, like most rhetorical
questions, it was stupid.  "If this was just another procedure, why
didn't you mention it to me this morning?"

"If you want me to say I'm sorry so you can tell your boss you did what
you needed to, then I'll do it, Sam.  I know how your thing works over
there at the courthouse.  But the guy had just gotten the news and was
being cooperative; the moment was right to ask him to help us eliminate
him.  If I turn that into a DA decision and I mean any DA it gets
political and never would've happened.  No offense against you
personally, but I just needed to do it."

"So you admit you intentionally went behind my back."  I'd nearly
gotten killed going out on a limb on one of Johnson's cases.  I
couldn't help but sound indignant.

He closed his eyes and shook his head.  "No, it wasn't like that."

My stare must have told him I wasn't buying it.

"OK," he said.  "Maybe I could have brought it up with you at the crime
scene yesterday.  But I could tell when we were riding up to Kerr's
house that the subject made you nervous, so I decided to play it by
ear.  Honestly, last night at the house, it seemed like the right move
to make."

"Well, it wasn't," I said.  "From everything I've heard, this guy's on
the verge of losing it.  I don't need you pushing him over the edge by
asking for a poly the minute after he learns his wife was murdered. And
don't tell me you would've done it with another DA, because that's
bullshit and we both know it."

He bit his lower lip and avoided my gaze.  Maybe we didn't know each
other as well as we'd assumed.

I finally broke the silence.  "What's your problem with the guy anyway?
If he didn't do it and I don't think any of us really thinks he did how
could you put him through that?"

"It's not about suspecting him, Kincaid, it's about doing the
investigation right.  He was being so cooperative, I thought, if I
asked, he'd say Sure, let's do it right now, whatever I can do to help.
As it turned out, that's not how it went, so it probably wasn't worth
getting you so fired up."

"He won't take it?"  I asked.  I had assumed from the conversation with
Duncan that Townsend was put off by the request but would nevertheless
humor the police.

"I overstated that."

"What exactly did he say?"

"The question seemed to catch him off guard not like he was threatened
by it, but more like his feelings were hurt.  You saw how out of it he
was that first night at the house.  It was the same thing.  Then he
finally said he didn't see a problem but would let me know today."

"And what did he say today?"  I asked.

"Nothing.  I had to call him about the nonoxynol.  He didn't mention
the poly, and I held off on pressing him.  See, now that really
would've pissed you off."

"Don't push it, Ray."

"Look, I'm sorry I went around you, but I know what it's all about with
you guys and Duncan Griffith.  I didn't want to put you in a bad
spot."

I wanted to be able to say that I was different from all the other MCU
deputies he'd seen over the years, impervious to hierarchical
pressures, but I couldn't begin to articulate the subtle distinctions
that I found so important.

"No, you didn't want me to tell you to back off.  And, in the process,
you made me look like an idiot in front of my boss when I defended you.
Do anything like that again, and I'll forget you're my friend and start
acting like all the other MCU deputies you never would have pulled this
on."

"Yep, friends.  Got it."

"Ray, I meant that, but I also need to do my job."

He was biting his lip again, but at least now he was looking me in the
eyes.  He finally smiled and shook his head.  "Yeah, we'll be all
right.  Go wait for your bus or whatever it is you do after work."

"I drove today, as a matter of fact, but, sorry, we're not quite done
yet.  When do you plan to talk to the councilman?"  If Griffith gave me
a sit-down based on Susan Kerr s concerns about etiquette, I'd really
be in the doghouse if Johnson accused an elected official like T. J.
Caffrey of murder under my watch.

"I figured I'd go by his house tonight and ask him whether he's been
keeping a little piece on the side.  I'll make sure the wife's nearby
when I get to the Trojans.  Kids, too, if he has any."  He placed his
hand on my shoulder to make sure I knew he was kidding.  "Don't worry,
Kincaid, this is me we're talking about.  Tough stuff won't work on a
guy like that anyway."

True, and tact was right up Johnson's alley.  As long as he agreed that
some diplomacy was called for, I couldn't be in better hands.

With work wrapped up, I was more interested in getting into the hands
of another detective.  I stopped by Chuck's desk just long enough to
tell him to meet me at my house.  I was going to my father's for
dinner, but I could spare an hour or so if he wanted to catch up.

"Catch up" is precisely what I meant when I said it, but his expression
when he said, "Leaving right now.  An hour might be enough," had me
scrambling out the door, sucking down Altoids as fast as I could take
them.  Damn that Greek Cusina.  By the time I got to the Jetta, I had
broken into a full sprint and was sweating garlic.  Very attractive.

I used the wonder of cell technology to multitask in the car, calling
Griffith with the update while I maneuvered various body parts in front
of the air vents in an attempt to cool off.  The commute was remarkably
quick.  Drivers in front of me would look in their rearview mirrors and
immediately yield the lane.  Apparently jerking around like a
strung-out freak pays off when others practice defensive driving,

When I rolled past Chuck's '67 Jag to pull into the driveway,

I gave him my best come-hither look.  I placed both feet on the ground
before stepping out of the car.  Slinkier than my normal spread-eagle
hoist.

I bent purposefully and ever so seductively at the waist to reach my
suit jacket in the passenger seat and then flicked it over my shoulder,
one New Balance thrusting to the side with a determined hip.  I parted
my lips and let my tongue linger at the break before I spoke.  "You
coming in with me or not?"

He returned my blistering gaze.  Then he started laughing.  A full-on,
eyes shut, hands-to-the-face bust-up.

I fought competing urges to run away and cry, or to punch him in the
head and then run away.  "That wasn't the response I was looking
for."

He tried to regain his composure but couldn't help himself.  "I'm
sorry.  But I just left you fifteen minutes ago at the precinct.  What
the hell happened to you?"

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the driver s window.  The
combination of the air vents, my sweaty head, and that damn mud Grace
had given me had left my hair in a state of Rocky Horror.  Throw in the
white Altoid powder sprinkled across my clothing, and I was totally
pathetic.  I draped my jacket over my arm, pulled in my thrusted hip,
and tried to explain.

"I was running to my car and got a little warm and "

What was this?  Maybe Grace was right when she said I didn't understand
men, because this one was racing up my walkway steps, straight toward
me, and he wasn't laughing.

I ran ahead of him into the house and let him catch me at the end of my
upstairs hallway.  Just outside the bedroom.

If there is a mathematical formula to calculate sex maybe intensity
times duration then the next hour could very well have brought us back
to par despite the two-week break.

Six.

I see Clarissa Easterbrook in a pink silk sweater on Taylor's Ferry
Road, holding Griffey by his leash.  A man in an ankle-length duster
and brown leather hat has stopped to pet the dog.  The man asks if she
has seen the view of Mount Hood and begins to lead her to a crest
through a clearing in the trees.

He reaches his hand out behind him to guide her, but now it's my hand
he grasps.  When he turns his head to smile down at my trusting face, I
recognize Tim O'Donnell.  My expression changes from confusion to
shock, as I open my mouth to scream for help.

"Babe, wake up, what's wrong?"

My right elbow flew out instinctively, and Chuck bolted upright,
holding his ribs where I jabbed him.

"Oh, God, are you OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said.  "You just took me by surprise."

"I guess we fell asleep."

"You fell asleep.  I watched."

"That's more than a little disturbing."

"Tell me about it.  Your hair's even worse than it was when we started;
you snore; and a spindle of drool was working its way from your lip to
the mattress."

"I'm really going to hurt you this time," I said, reaching over and
poking my fingers into his side.

With one swift move, he had my hands above my head.  "Stop it, I was
kidding.  You weren't drooling, you don't snore, and your hair well,
you're cute as hell, Kincaid."  He gave me a kiss and let me go.  "I
woke you up because you looked like you were having another one of
those dreams.  I've seen cops after a shooting, and it can take a long
time to get over."

"I'm over it.  Just one of those weird naked-in-front-of-the-classroom
dreams."

"Was I there?"

"No, that'd be one of your dreams.  I hate to kick you out of bed,
stud, but I really need to get a move on.  I promised Dad that Vinnie
and I would come over for dinner tonight, and I can't show up with bed
head."

"That poor impersonation of a dog over there is invited, but I'm
not?"

Vinnie was spread out like a bear rug in the hall, still looking
annoyed that he'd been locked out of the bedroom during playtime.
Vinnie's got bug eyes, bat ears, and a face that looks like it was
flattened by a steel plate.  I couldn't tell if the snort he emitted
was in response to Chuck's comment or just one of his everyday
snorts.

"When your date's a French bulldog, you can talk about boring family
stuff without being rude," I said.

"I don't mind if you talk about your boring family.  I just want to be
fed."

I did feel guilty running out on him, and Dad would enjoy seeing Chuck.
"Fine.  But I need some time alone with Dad.  Give me an hour's head
start, and we'll have dinner on the table right when you get there."

The last thing I needed post-vacation was one of the bricks of beef my
father feeds me whenever he cooks, so I had e-mailed a list of
ingredients in the morning and promised to cook if he'd pick them up.
New to computers, he was still so impressed by the technology that he
didn't even complain about the menu.

"You look great," I said, adjusting the collar on the blue shirt I'd
given him for his most recent birthday.  He had complained that it was
too young for him, but it brought out the blue in his eyes and the
silver of his hair.  "You didn't have any problems printing out the
shopping list?"

"I've turned into a real computer whiz since you left."  I had helped
him hook up his Dell right before my trip.  "It's so easy I was even
thinking of telling Al to get one."

Al Fontana is my dad's ninety-year-old neighbor and checker partner.
He's also a dirty old man.

"Dad, you put that man on the Internet, and he'll be dead in a month
from Viagra and porn."

Point taken.

It wasn't long before Dad got to the heart of things.  Apparently I
wasn't the only one who spent the day uncomfortable with where we left
things the night before.  "I know we talked about this, but I want to
tell you in person that I'm sorry I got you so upset last night."

"You're making me feel worse.  I was a total jerk."

"Fine, let's put last night behind us, and I won't make any apologies.
What I'm trying to say is that I'll try not to let my own hang-ups get
in the way "

"Dad, you don't have any hang-ups "

"Please, Sammy, let me finish.  All I was saying was that this woman
was surrounded by powerful people.  I may not have stuck it out as a
cop, but I saw enough to know you'll be looking long and hard at
everything she was involved in.  If you wind up stumbling onto
something, they'll make your life a living hell."

So that's what this had been about.  Dad wasn't afraid I'd get chased
around the city again by a wing nut he was worried some cabal of
"powerful people" would target me for annihilation.  As long as I've
known him, Dad has had an almost delusional distrust of those who find
themselves at the top of the hierarchy of influence.  I typically find
this characteristic endearing, but occasionally it makes me crazy. Like
at my rehearsal dinner in Manhattan, when he was so cold to my now
ex-husband's "blue-blood" parents that I was afraid Roger was going to
call off the wedding.  OK, in retrospect, that wouldn't have been so
bad.  But now he was letting his paranoia get in the way of his pride
in my career.

I shook my head in disbelief.  Part of me wanted to unleash to tell him
how much I resented the guilt I'd felt all day about last night, to
tell him he could keep his supposed apology.  It only served to raise
the issue again in a whole new light.  But I didn't want to say
anything that I'd regret.

Instead, I kept a measured voice.  "Dad, I told you before that the MCU
is where I want to be.  That means I'll be dealing with bad guys, and
if some of them happen to be important and influential, so be it.  In
fact, I would think that you'd prefer me to prosecute the
privileged."

"I obviously didn't do very well getting my point across.  I was trying
to explain what my worries had been, but that I know that you're going
to be better than I was at handling the pressures that might come with
a case like this."

"Oh, come on, Dad.  You know that's not true."

"No," he said, "you said it last night I hung up OSP."

"You were in a different situation.  You had a wife, a child."  He
shook his head, and I could tell he wanted me to drop the pep talk.  "I
was old enough to remember what it was like.  Mom was pressuring you
"

I stopped mid-sentence when I saw the look on his face.  It was clear
I'd said something wrong.

"I'm not sure what you think you remember, sweetheart, but your mother
never pressured me."

"Dad, it's OK.  It doesn't make me think any less of her.  She was
worried about you getting hurt."

"Sam, just stop it.  You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then why did you leave OSP?"  I asked.  Once again, this conversation
was getting us nowhere.

"I don't want to talk about it.  Let's get dinner started."

Everyone close to me Grace, Chuck, Roger (back in the day) has always
complained that I change the subject when the going gets rough.  I
guess it runs in the family.

"Not yet.  I want to know what this is about.  You're upset, and it
apparently has something to do with why you moved over to the forest
service."

"I promised I would support you in your job, and I'm going to keep my
promise.  Let's just leave it at that."

"Dad, I remember you and Mom arguing right around when you changed
jobs.  It was the only time you did argue, in fact.  You tried to keep
it from me, but I'd hear you in your room "

He laughed.  "If you think we didn't argue over the years, we kept it
from you better than we thought."

"Thick walls," I said, knocking on the one behind me.  He was changing
the subject again, and not very convincingly either.  My parents'
marriage had been as solid as they come.  Even before I made the
mistake of walking down the aisle of doom with Roger, I'd known that
we'd never come close.

Whatever was going on now, I could prod Dad all night and he would
still never budge.  So I grabbed a bag of vegetables from the counter
and began chopping.

By the time Chuck arrived, the salad was tossed and the salmon was
broiled.  After pumping palms, slapping backs, and a few other male
welcoming rituals, he found me in the kitchen, took one look at the
pink fish, and whispered in my ear, "If I swear you're not fat, can we
please have some steak?"

The man knew me so well.  "I'm in no condition to run after this
evening, so the least we can do is eat something healthy."

"What was this evening?"  Dad called out from the living room.  "Must
have been big to keep you from running."

Chuck winked and mouthed the word big at me.

I rolled my eyes.  "No more work talk tonight."  I put dinner on the
table, and for the next two hours we talked about Hawaii, my dad's
computer, movies, and politics.  We made it through the conversation
with no shootings, no bodies, no demons from the past just three normal
people sharing a meal.

As ten o'clock approached, Dad clicked on the local news, and I moved
to the kitchen to take on the dishes.

As the familiar staccato theme song faded out, I heard an anchor
report: "In our top story tonight, new developments in the
investigation into the death of Judge Clarissa Easterbrook.  Find out
why her husband is railing against the Portland Police Bureau."  I ran
into the living room just in time to catch: "But first, Morley
Rutherford's going to tell us what we can expect in the way of weather
tomorrow.  Morley?"

I resisted the urge to throw my sudsy sponge at Morley Rutherford's fat
freckled head while he droned on with his entirely predictable
springtime weather report.  Why not kick off the news with an
announcement that the earths going to rotate tomorrow?

Once Morley wrapped up with his seven-day graphic of clouds and
showers, the camera finally cut back to the anchor.  "At a surprise
news conference held just moments ago, the husband of slain judge
Clarissa Easterbrook accused the Portland Police Bureau of focusing the
investigation on him rather than looking for the real killer."

The footage cut to Townsend at a podium in front of his house.  "When I
learned yesterday that some monster had killed my beloved Clarissa" his
voice broke and his hands trembled, but he continued to read from the
statement in front of him "I thought that nothing in the world could
ever be worse than at that moment.  But the course of the Portland
Police Bureaus investigation has convinced me that there is a more
horrific possibility, and that would be if the person or people
responsible for her death were not brought to justice.  The police tell
me they have no suspects in my wife's death, but they spent hours in
our home with a search warrant, interrogated our friends looking for
problems that did not exist in our marriage, and asked me to take a
polygraph examination, suggesting that they would not be able to
investigate other suspects fully until I proved my innocence.  So that
is why I am standing here tonight.

"I have not even buried my wife" he wiped away a tear and swallowed but
kept his eyes on his notes "and I am here in front of cameras, forced
to deny something that is inconceivable to me.  I did not and could not
ever hurt Clarissa."

The words themselves were no different from the typical denials always
issued in these cases, some truthful, some not.  A bet placed at this
point in the game would reflect nothing but hunch.  That Townsend was
seeking to tip those odds became clear when a familiar face replaced
his at the podium.

I shushed Chuck and my father.  Their outraged comments were drowning
out the voice I had hoped never to hear again.  "Good evening.  My name
is Roger Kirkpatrick."

My ex-husband hadn't aged.  It was probably a deal with the devil.  He
had the same short preppy haircut he'd worn in New York, before his
commitment to a "freer" lifestyle in Oregon had caused him to grow his
brown curls into what I had called the Doogie Howser look.

He proceeded to announce that he and his firm, Dunn Simon, had been
retained by Townsend Easterbrook to oversee a team of private
investigators and to help ensure that the police sought out the real
killers instead of harassing the victim's family and friends.  Then he
went for broke.

"To satisfy the police department's baseless suspicions, Dr.
Easterbrook submitted voluntarily this afternoon to a polygraph
examination administered by retired FBI agent Jim Thornton, a
recognized expert in the field.  Agent Thornton has certified," he
said, holding up a paper I assumed was an affidavit from Thornton,
"that Dr.  Easterbrook's answers were truthful.  He had nothing
whatsoever to do with his wife's death, and the police have wasted
precious time by doubting him.  No one should have to prove his own
innocence, but Dr.  Easterbrook has.  Now it's time for the Portland
Police Bureau to join the search for justice by finding whoever is
responsible for this terrible loss."

Just as abruptly as he'd appeared, Roger was gone, replaced by the
anchor.  "Dr.  Easterbrook's attorney concluded his remarks by saying
that his firm had begun its own investigation and would share its work
with law enforcement."

"The only thing he knows how to share is his diAs furious as I was, the
natural instinct to behave in front of my father silenced me.  I
couldn't even hit the mute button, thanks to my ridiculous yellow
rubber gloves.  I gave up, threw the remote on the sofa, and headed
into the kitchen to exchange the gloves for something more helpful.

By the time I had sucked down half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, I
was ready to talk again, but Chuck and my father had already covered
all the bases: Why hadn't Townsend gone through the police?  A surprise
press conference only creates more conflict.  Just how legit was this
polygraph?  Depends on the questions, the equipment, and the
administrator.  And, the doozy of the night, why the hell had Townsend
hired Shoe Boy?  He doesn't even practice criminal law.  Did Townsend
know his new attorney was my ex-husband?  Surely Roger would have told
him.

I figured since they'd finished all the objective analysis, I could
jump to the part that was anything but.  "You know what?  He wins.  I'm
off the case.  I'm telling Frist tomorrow."

My father said nothing.  Neither did Chuck.

Fine, I'd do the pep talk myself.  No, self, I said in my head, you
need to finish what you started.  Don't let him get the best of you.
Act like a professional.  Then the coach in me found a winning theme,
one that deserved to be spoken aloud: "You know, what if Townsend
actually did it?  Imagine Roger and me in trial together."

Chuck put his hand on my shoulder.  "Maybe it's best if you did recuse
yourself."

"Forget it.  I'm not letting him chase me off my own case."  When I
beat Roger during our first-year moot trial competition at Stanford, he
attributed the win to the side slit in my skirt.  I should have known
to stay away.  Handing him his ass in trial (and in pants) would be
sweet satisfaction.

My dad was noticeably quiet.  As Chuck carried his coffee mug into the
kitchen, I looked at him and raised my eyebrows.  So?

"It's up to you, Sam.  I'll support you either way."

"But, what about "

"Unh-unh.  Don't use this to revisit what we put to rest earlier.  This
is about you and your case, not me."  When he turned the television
back on, I knew I wasn't getting any further with him, so I tried my
luck in the kitchen with Chuck.

As I hugged him from behind, my pager buzzed.  He felt it too.

"Duty calls, counselor."

I recognized the number as MCT's.  No doubt it was Johnson breaking the
news about the press conference.  He could wait a few minutes.

"What's going on with you?  You got awfully quiet in there."

"Nothing's going on."  He kept his back to me.

"What are you upset about?"

"It's fine, Samantha.  Don't worry about it."

Samantha?  Chuck's got plenty of names for me: Kincaid, Sam, Sammy,
babe, the list goes on.  But Samantha?  Things were not fine.  "Is this
about Roger?  You can't possibly be jealous."

"See, I knew you'd turn it into that, Sam.  That's why I wasn't going
to say anything.  Suddenly I'm an overbearing jealous pig with
testosterone poisoning."

"Not quite that bad.  More like a piglet."  He didn't laugh.
"Seriously, Chuck, what's going on?"

"Johnson and Walker are doing all the legwork on this case, and Mike
and I are stuck on the sidelines because of what I've got going with
you.  Don't get me wrong; I don't have a problem with that.  But now
that Roger's involved, maybe you should at least consider the
possibility that you should be the one to step aside."

My pager buzzed again.  Johnson was probably waiting for my call before
leaving the precinct.

"I did.  You were sitting right there.  The first thing I said was I'm
off the case.  Now I think I should stay on it.  There will be plenty
of cases you work that will go to another DA.  Who knows?  Maybe we'll
even decide it's all right to work together."

"Why do you say it that way: Who knows?  Like it's so crazy for us both
to work a case?  How come you trust your judgment going against your
ex-husband, but you can't be on the same team with me?"

More buzzing.  "Honestly?  Because my ex-husband's an asshole, and
dealing with assholes is pretty much what I do for a living.  You, my
dear, are dangerous for a whole different reason," I said, leaning
close.  "I don't always think straight when it conics to you."

He placed his hands on my shoulders and smiled, then pushed a strand of
hair behind my right ear.  "Consider me assuaged, Kincaid," he said,
kissing my earlobe.  "Now call whoever the hell's been paging you.  You
think I haven't notice you staring down at that thing?"

Johnson picked up on the first ring.  "I got a call from the husband's
lawyer.  We fucked up big-time.  I need you to sign a warrant on Melvin
Jackson."

Portland's one of those towns that shuts down at 10 p.m. My Jetta was
one of the few cars on the Morrison Bridge, and I walked into MCT ten
minutes after I left my father's.

Johnson was standing at the printer, proofreading pages as they
spooled.  "This is just about done.  The search is for his apartment,
and he's also got a Dodge Caravan registered to him."

"Back up.  What the hell's going on?"

"The husband's people dug up something we missed.  They're back there,"
he said, gesturing to an interview room down the hall.

"They're here?"

Then, with his usual spot-on timing, my ex-husband walked into the
room.  "Detective, I oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.  You're
looking well, Samantha."

"I know."  My worn-out Harvard T-shirt and jeans didn't make the best
ensemble for our first post-divorce face-to-face, but confidence is the
ultimate accessory.

He, on the other hand, hadn't changed out of the suit he'd worn for the
press conference.  And, sure enough, close up, I was able to confirm
it: the red power tie was the one I'd placed in his stocking on our
last Christmas together.

"No introductions necessary, I see," Johnson said.

"Samantha and I went to law school together "

"And were briefly in the same marriage," I added.

Johnson looked amused, and Roger seemed uncomfortable.  Score.

"I'm at Dunn Simon now, Samantha.  I wasn't sure if you'd heard."

"Saw it on the news, in fact, about half an hour ago."  I couldn't
stomach letting him know I'd read about his move from Nike to the
Portland powerhouse firm in the Oregon State Bar bulletin a year ago.

"The firm made me an offer I couldn't refuse," he boasted.

"From what I remember, Roger, there weren't a lot of offers you could
refuse."

"Nice to see you haven't changed."

"Nope, but apparently you have," I shot back.  I just couldn't help
myself.  "I wasn't aware that Dunn Simon was in the criminal law
business."

"It's not, but Townsend Easterbrook's not a criminal.  He's the
attending surgeon at OHSU, another one of our clients.  He doesn't need
a defense attorney.  He needs someone to dig for evidence, and no one
does that better than a civil litigator."

Johnson saved us from what was about to turn into a Dunn Simon
marketing speech.  "Well, alright-y, then.  Glad the two of you could
catch up.  I was just telling Samantha that you preferred to wait until
the DA had signed off on the warrant."

"I'm sure you understand, Detective, that given the course of the
investigation, my client would feel better knowing for certain that the
warrant has been approved.  I'll wait until it's finished."

I knew from experience that there was no point arguing with Roger. What
he lacks in personality he makes up for in tenacity.  I was surprised
he didn't insist on reading the document over my shoulder. Instead, he
retreated back to the interview room.

Johnson's affidavit was nothing pretty, but it was a rush job and
contained what it needed: Melvin Jackson's pending appeal, his letters
to Clarissa Easterbrook, and this was the biggie the documents
confirming his recent employment as a part-time landscaper at the
Glenville office park.

"Jesus, Johnson," I said, signing the cover form on the DA review
line.

"I know.  It's bad."

I didn't care if he knew.  This was unbelievable.  "How in the world
could we have possibly missed this?  You have the employee lists; you
have Jackson's file.  You're tracking down a crotch grabber, but you
need the husband to hire a fucking lawyer to find Melvin Jackson's name
sitting right there?"

"We were stupid, but we weren't that stupid.  Remember I told you that
we got the list of workers from the unions?"  I nodded.  "Well, we did
it through the unions because when we asked the site's foreman for a
list, he told us which unions were doing the work.  Apparently, though,
the contractor for the build is allowed to use some nonunion labor,
which he didn't exactly advertise at the site.  Melvin Jackson was one
of the nonunion guys.  Landscaping."

"So how did a bunch of Dunn Simon pencil-necks figure it out?"

"Luck."  Johnson didn't know me well enough yet to know that I think
luck is for whiners.  He did know me well enough not to leave it at
that.  "When I talked to Townsend last night,

I told him we'd look into people who worked at the site as part of the
investigation.  He probably mentioned that to his lawyer, but the
lawyer didn't start with the foreman to get a list of employees; he
started with the company that owns the property.  Turns out Dunn Simon
represents them too.  One big happy family."

"Well, it's signed now, so you can send them all home for the night.  I
hope you'll understand if I don't stick around for the goodbyes.  What
judges are on call duty tonight?"

"Maurer and Lesh."

"You should be all right with either one of them.  Maurer's got kids,
but Lesh is probably still up.  Loves the Daily Show.  Call me if you
have any problems."

"Sure thing."

He stopped me as I was walking out.  "Hey, Kincaid.  Thanks for
understanding.  We'll make up for it tonight."

"Sounds like it could've happened to anyone."  In truth, I wasn't
convinced there hadn't been some sloppiness, but he was beating himself
up enough as it stood.  Laying off felt like the right thing to do,
given our afternoon confrontation.  "I'm just glad someone caught
it."

"Well, between me and you, considering the someone?  That shows real
class.  And, just to prove I know I got some time out in the doghouse,
that's all I'm gonna say about your old law school friend back there.
That could've been hours of material."

More like days, but he didn't know the half of it.  "Much appreciated,
Ray.  You be careful on that search.  Jackson's desperate."

When I finally got home, it was too late to call my father.  I checked
the machine; no messages.

Vinnie was waiting for me in bed with a note tied to his collar.

I recognized Chuck's scribble.  "I couldn't fit through Vinnie's doggy
door so I guess it's another night alone.  Sweet dreams."

The best I could do was no dreams, which was as good as it was getting
these days.  Unfortunately, the slumber didn't last long.  Five hours
in, Jack Walker called to fill me in on the search.

"You guys find anything?"  I asked, groping for the lamp.

"You could say that.  This thing's ready to go."

I asked him to walk me through it from the start.

"Lesh agreed to sign the warrant as a no-knock," he explained, meaning
they could enter the house without knocking first.  "So we call out the
emergency response team just in case the entry goes bad.  Never know
with the kids and all.

"We kicked the door.  Jackson's asleep on the couch.  His three kids
are sacked out in the bedrooms.  We took them out into the hallway to
secure the apartment and get the scene under control."

"Handcuffs?"  I asked.

"Just for Jackson.  He was one unhappy camper about us waking the kids,
and we didn't want him going mental on us."  Under the circumstances, a
court would go with that.

"Then what?"

"Once we secured the apartment, our first priority was placing the
kids.  We had SCF on-site with a foster placement ready, but Jackson
wigged when he saw them coming.  He was a complete wreck, pretty much
offered to confess if we'd call his mom."

"He admitted it?"

"Hold on.  I wrote it down verbatim."  I heard him flip some pages.
"Here it is.  "You're here for me.  This don't involve my kids.  I'll
show you what you came for; now just let them stay with their nana.
These kids been through enough.""

"Holy shit."

"It gets better.  SCF calls the mom did it right there in front of
Jackson so he'd know we weren't jamming him.  We tell him she's on the
way and even let the kids lay down in the apartment next door while
they're waiting.  So then Raymond goes, "All right, Melvin.  We're all
stand-up here.  Now what were you saying about showing us what we came
for?"  Melvin says, "It's in the van.  Keys are on the table."

"We leave backup watching Melvin and the apartment while we head out to
the parking lot with the keys.  We slide open the door, step in, and
find six gallons of mocha cream paint."

"Anything else?"  I asked.

"Not in the van.  So we go back up to the apartment and say to Jackson,
"I guess you've been watching the news, Melvin."  He must've lost his
desperation by then, knowing that his mom's on the way for the kids. He
tries to play it cool and is all, "The news?  Man, I don't know what
you're talking about, the news."  And I said, "You must've known we
were looking for the paint, Melvin.  You just told us where to find
it."  And so then he admits that he knew we'd been looking for the
paint."

"Anything in the apartment?"

"Oh, yeah.  Melvin keeps a great big fat file on his eviction case,
including copies of all the letters he sent the vie.  We also found
some drafts of letters he must not have sent, and those were even
worse.  We bagged 'em up already, but I wrote down here that one of
them said, Maybe someone should show you what it's like to lose
everything, bitch.  Guess he decided that wasn't likely to get him
anywhere."

Neither would her death, but murder is rarely rational.

"Then Melvin's mom shows up.  And let me tell you, Mama Jackson is a
major piece of work.  Came damn close to waking up the entire floor.
Kept screaming at us to get her boy out of those handcuffs.  We were
trying to calm her down.  Then

Raymond walks out of the back of the apartment with a hammer looped
over his pen."

"What hammer?"

"I'm getting there.  I thought I was supposed to give you the facts in
the order they happened."

Cops love to fuck with lawyers, even when they're prosecutors, and, as
much as Walker loves me, I am still a prosecutor.

"Ray found a hammer stashed on the top shelf of the bedroom closet.
Looked like it had been wiped down, but you could still see a little
blood.  The crime lab's checking for sure.  We should have an answer by
morning."

"So what happened when Jackson saw that you found the hammer?"

"That's what was fucked up.  It wasn't so much what Jackson did; it was
what the mother did.  She went absolutely nuts.  Hands on the hips,
doing the sassy head thing: "I knew this wasn't no routine search. This
here's about that white judge.  I been trying to tell this fool the
police gonna be knockin' on his do', but, no, Melvin, you got yo'self
too busy to listen."  Then she starts homing in on Johnson, going off
about how he planted the weapon and how could he turn his back on his
own people, that kind of shit."

"Can't be the first time you guys had to deal with a pissed-off
mother."

"Sure, you get used to it, but she took our attention away from
Jackson.  No one got a chance to see his reaction when he realized
Johnson found the hammer.  There's something about that first look,
that expression on their face when they realize you've got 'em.  It's
too bad you can't get that look into evidence, right there for the
jury.  Because the minute you see it, you know.  You know it in your
gut, This is the guy.  And we missed it."

"Oh, come on, you know it's your guy anyway.  You got the weapon, the
paint, the letters.  You said yourself that Jackson practically
confessed."

"I didn't say he was getting off.  Shit, the guy's toast.  But it's the
look, Kincaid, and the mom kept us from seeing it.  You've got no clue
what I'm talking about, do you?"

I did, actually.  There's a thrill no, it's nothing short of a high
when you've got the defendant on the stand, you're building a rhythm
with him on cross, and then you ask the karate chop question, the one
you've been headed for from the very start.  But you sneak up to it
through the back roads, taking every possible detour, so no one knows
it's coming, least of all the defendant.  And when he realizes there's
no good way to answer it, he gets that look.  He flashes back to his
attorney warning him to stay off the stand.  Then to him telling the
attorney, "That bitch ain't got nothing on me."  And then he pictures
what you both know is coming, the jury reading that verdict.  It's a
look of panic and utter hatred.

An arrest without the look was like hitting it out of the park without
the crack of the bat.  Or a perfect drive off the tee without feeling
the ping of the ball against the sweet spot of your club.  For Walker,
this case clearance was purely utilitarian.

"Maybe it's not too late for you to get the look," I told him.  "Is
Jackson talking?"

"Doesn't look like it.  He's the type who would have, but once the mom
was done giving Johnson the black-pride trip, she started in on Melvin
about a lawyer."  Walker slipped back into his Mama Jackson routine.
'"Don't you be talkin' to that Uncle Tom and his cracker-ass police
buddies.  You get yo'self a public defender."  Before you know it,
Melvin's lawyering up."

"How clear was it?"  I asked.  Thanks to the Supreme Court, the police
are allowed to ignore a suspects reference to an attorney if it's
ambiguous.

"Couldn't get any fucking clearer: "I want a lawyer."  "

The four magic words.  We couldn't touch him.  If we were going to get
anything else out of him, it would have to be through his
court-appointed lawyer.

"It's all right," I said.  "We don't need it.  The statements he made
before he invoked will come in, and they look bad, especially with the
threats.  Assuming the crime lab finds the vies blood on the hammer,
he's done."

"I got to say, given our fuckup earlier, it felt good to nail the
bastard.  Johnson's down there now booking him at MCDC, and I'm writing
up the reports."  Jackson would spend the night in the Multnomah County
Detention Center so he could be arraigned tomorrow morning.  "We're
both running on empty right now and have a back load of comp time. Call
us tomorrow if you need follow-up, but I don't think either of us will
be at the precinct.  My wife's gonna leave me if I don't eat a meal
with her and the girls soon."

"She'd rather have you at the house than the OT?  Must be true love,
Walker."  And it was, too.  Take a look around a detective squad, and
the cubicles are filled with comically enhanced mug shots, doctored rap
sheets, and the occasional pinup.  Walker's is filled with photographs
of his wife, Sandy, and their houseful of daughters.  I'd never met
them, but I'd followed their lives through pictures from the wedding
day to their Six Flags vacation last August.

"Still don't know how I got so lucky."  I was touched that Walker would
express that kind of sentiment to me.  Then came the follow-up.  "From
what I hear, I could've wound up with a prick like Roger
Kirkpatrick."

"Just for that, Walker, I'm starting a list of tomorrow's follow-up
work.  Some for you for saying that, and some for Johnson for telling
you about it."

We both got a laugh out of it.  "See?"  he said.  "I wouldn't have said
it if I didn't think you could handle it."

"Sure you would."  These guys think I don't know what they put some of
my coworkers through.  "Now get some sleep and enjoy your day off.
We've got more than enough for arraignment tomorrow.  Just tell the
crime lab to call Chuck or Mike with the lab results, OK?"

"Done.  You're going Agg Murder, right?"

With what we had, proving Jackson killed Clarissa wouldn't be hard. But
to get an aggravated murder conviction, I'd need to prove that the
murder occurred under one or more special circumstances.

I knew what Walker was really asking, but answered the question
narrowly to avoid the discussion.  "I'll plead it tomorrow as an agg,
probably based on the vic's status as a judge."

Walker wasn't interested in legal theories.  He knew you could file
aggravated murder charges without seeking the ultimate sanction.  "But
will your office go for the death penalty?"

"I'm sure that will be discussed.  Whatever happens, it won't be my
decision."

It was the same cop-out I used whenever I wondered what would happen if
I ever got a death penalty case, and I tried to find comfort in it as I
hung up the phone.  As opinionated as I am, this issue is one of the
few that leaves me scurrying up the nearest fence.

When I finally fell back asleep, it was only because I convinced myself
that Jackson's sad circumstances and lack of a prior criminal record
would limit the stakes of the case to a life sentence.

Seven.

It was there in the pile of custodies the next morning.  My first Major
Crimes Unit call-out had been cleared and was ready for issuing.  Unit
rules be damned; I grabbed the file off Alice Gerstein's desk so I
could prep the complaint against Melvin Jackson before turning to my
screening cases.

For now, I kept the complaint simple, one count of aggravated murder
and one alternative count of plain old garden-variety murder.  Pleading
the case as an agg murder requires a special circumstance.  If Jackson
killed Clarissa during the commission of either a kidnapping or rape,
that would qualify.  But there were problems with both theories.  We
had the condom and the ME's opinion that Clarissa's clothes were put
back on her after she was killed, but we didn't have the traditional
indications of rape.  Clarissa's shoe and the paint provided
circumstantial indications that Jackson pulled Clarissa into the van
before he killed her, but if he killed her during the struggle and then
put her in the van, it wasn't a kidnapping.

I avoided both possibilities and instead used Clarissa's employment as
an administrative law judge as the special circumstance.  As long as
the jury believed that Melvin killed Clarissa because of her official
judicial duties, that was enough.

I passed Frist in the hallway as I was walking to the printer to pick
up the complaint.

"We need to talk about that cluster fuck of a press conference last
night on the Easterbrook case.  The guy was nice enough to confine his
bitching to the bureau, but Griffith's still gonna want a briefing."

"I think we're OK from that end.  The husband's attorneys turned over
some information last night, and the police arrested Melvin Jackson a
few hours ago."  I left out the part about one of the attorneys being
my ex-husband.  Although people in the office knew I was divorced, only
a handful of them knew who the ex was.  One of the advantages of
keeping your own name.  "When I left MCT last night, the husband's
people were playing nice.  I think the press conference was a wake-up
call."

"Looks like it worked.  Jackson's the disgruntled tenant?"

I nodded.

"What did they find on him?"

I told him about Dunn Simon's list of nonunion labor at the office park
and the evidence the police found when they executed the search
warrant.  "I was just doing the complaint.  Do you want to see the file
before arraignment?"

"You know you should have called me, Kincaid."

"I thought you told me to run with it until we got to proceedings."

He looked at me skeptically.

"There's nothing to worry about, Russ.  Everything's under control."

In light of how things had come together, he couldn't argue with that.
"All right, let me see the complaint."  He took a quick look.  "Good
call.  If you add in a rape charge, it might cloud the motive.  Most
newbies would've thrown in every theory they could think of."

"You only need one when it's good," I said.  "I'm going to head over at
two for the arraignment.  I assume you don't need to come with me."

"The DA at the Justice Center can handle it, Kincaid."

"Nope.  It's my first arraignment on an agg murder.  I'm doing it
myself."

"Are the screens done?"

"They will be soon."

"All right.  Don't forget to call Duncan."

I didn't need to.  When I got back to my office, I had a voice mail
from Duncan's secretary asking me to come down to his office.
Terrific.

He had seen the press conference.  Even worse, he had gotten a phone
call from Dennis Coakley.  Dennis must have slept on it and woken up
even angrier.

I tried to calm him down by telling him about the Jackson arrest, but
the distraction proved temporary.

"What exactly did we talk about in here yesterday?"  he demanded.

"Duncan, I know you're upset, but please don't talk to me like I'm in
kindergarten."

"When you act like a child, Samantha, you get treated like a child."

I couldn't help it.  I exhaled in a way that might have sounded like a
scoff.  "I can't believe you actually just said that.  Does anyone
really say that?"

"Watch it, Sam.  You're a good attorney, but I won't have my people
talk to me that way."

Threatening to fire me was the typical trump card around here, but now
I had one of my own.  "Or what, Duncan?  You're going to fire the woman
who almost got killed last month on the job because she ruffled some
feathers trying to find the madman who's snatching women off the
street?"

"Don't even think about playing that game with me.  Next thing you
know, you'll be the talented young attorney who was never the same
after that shooting."

The entire time I'd worked here, I'd always caved when it came down to
the last shove.  If I was going to stick around, it was time to set
some boundaries.  I couldn't spend the rest of my career being lectured
on a daily basis.

"I guess what it comes down to is how bad you want me to apologize.  I
refuse to suck up to Dennis Coakley."

"You are so off base.  This is not about Coakley, it's about your
respect for me and the authority of this office.  I asked Dennis what
time you hauled him over for the pissing match.  You went straight from
here to Lesh's.  You didn't listen to me at all yesterday."

"You're forgetting the part where I went off on my detective about the
polygraph request and then called you to make sure everything was
fine."

"See, only you could turn that phone call into something that helps you
here.  You didn't mention anything about Coakley, did you?  It's always
bits and pieces of information from you, Sam, and it's getting old."

"OK, so maybe I could have mentioned it to you then while we were
talking," I conceded, "but I won't apologize for what I did to get
those files.  It was important, and Coakley was being an ass."

"Well, at least you recognize that it wasn't exactly masterfully
executed internally."  We were finding just enough common ground for
our egos to cling to as we brought the conversation down to a calmer
level.  "I don't know, Sam, maybe I put you into this a little too
quickly.  I called Lesh.  He did his best to cover for you, but I could
tell he was worried about you too.  And we haven't even talked about
this press conference.  Wasn't that your ex-husband?"

I nodded.  Duncan's memory ran deep.

"I think I should pull you off," he said.  "Maybe out of MCU entirely,
but definitely off this case."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, Duncan, but if you do either of those
things, I won't want to work here anymore.  And I won't go quietly."

Whether it was because he valued my work or feared what I could do to
him in the media, the threat actually worked.

"Then here's the deal.  This is the last time we have one of these
talks.  You start thinking about the ramifications of what you do, or
you're going to have to go your own way."

"Deal," I said, with a salute.  It was as much as either of us could
hope for right now, but at least we were talking instead of yelling.

"Christ, your ex-husband?  There's stubborn, Sam, and then there's just
plain masochistic."

"Think of it this way.  I guarantee you: No way does Roger Kirkpatrick
call you to complain about this case.  It would take all the fun out of
torturing me."

"I'll take some comfort in that, then.  All right, if you're staying on
this thing, we'll need to schedule a conference with the death penalty
committee to talk about what sentence to seek."

That's right.  We've got a death penalty committee.  It's not as bad as
it sounds.  When Duncan ran for district attorney in this liberal
county, he acknowledged that he was personally opposed to the death
penalty but nevertheless promised to administer it since it was Oregon
law.  The purpose of the committee is to have the same group of
attorneys all experienced career prosecutors evaluate every aggravated
murder case in comparison to previous ones and try to achieve the
impossible: the even-handed application of the death penalty.

"I'll send out an e-mail looking for times," I said.

"They usually take about ninety minutes.  And invite the family to come
an hour after we start.  I guess we'll need to go through the husband's
lawyers now that he's represented.  And, remember, I don't care what
your ex did to piss you off.  Be civil."

I worked like a fiend all morning so I could run off some of my
resentment at noon.  I changed into my workout clothes in the
eighth-floor locker room and was warmed up by the time I got to the
river.  I decided to bump it up from my usual flat three-mile loop
along the Willamette and did a five-miler around the west hills
instead.

I slowed to a jog after a brutal half mile up a steep incline.  I was
out of breath and wishing I'd brought a water bottle when I realized I
was just a couple of miles from Susan Kerr s house.  I decided I had
time for a short detour.

I recognized the Expedition in the driveway with the OHSU parking
permit.  My immediate reaction was to wonder what Townsend was doing at
Susan Kerr's in the middle of a workday.  Then I realized he wouldn't
be back to work this soon after his wife's murder.  So how suspicious
was it for him to be here?  The two of them did, after all, have a
friendship through Clarissa and were both stomaching the same loss.
Maybe they were talking about Jackson's arrest.

Remembering Duncan's ultimatum, I held off on interrupting them and
decided to add Townsend's visit to the list of things I needed to
discuss with Susan Kerr.

By the time I made it down the hill, into the courthouse, and out of
the locker room shower, I had just enough time to tuck my damp hair
into a clip and walk across the Plaza Blocks to Jackson's
arraignment.

The Plaza Blocks' official designation as a park is a bit of an
overstatement.  They're nothing more than two city blocks of grass with
a few trees and some benches.  In the mid-1800s, the two blocks
epitomized a quaint vision of city life, providing a forum for citizen
oration and assembly.  The south block, Lownsdale Square, was the
gentlemen's gathering place, while women congregated safely in the
north side Chapman Square.

These days, the one thing that distinguishes the Plaza Blocks from some
of the more remarkable downtown parks is their location beneath the
seventh floor of the Justice Center, otherwise known as the Multnomah
County Detention Center.  Once word got out that MCDC inmates had a
view of the park, the plaza blocks became home to more than their fair
share of singing, sign holding, and breast flashing.

Although it was just after lunch, it was still pretty early in the day
for your average criminal's loved ones, but one young devotee was
already out.  She was probably in her twenties but looked older.
Several years of chain smoking, combined with regular methamphetamine
use, is hell on the skin.  She wore skin-tight dark-blue Wrangler
jeans, a thick brown belt with a heavy gold buckle, and patent-leather
stilettos.  A spaghetti-strapped red lace camisole revealed a
multicolored tattoo of a large eagle in the cleavage of her impressive
bosom.  She was yelling, "I got this for you, Darryl!  It stands for
freedom, baby!  Can you see it?"  The refined gentlemen of Lownsdale
Square would not have been pleased, but I decided I liked her.

I took the stairs to JC-2, the courtroom for the two o'clock
arraignments.  There was a stir when Judge Levinson called for Melvin
Jackson.  Given the continuous news coverage on the case, even the
courthouse regulars were curious.  Jackson's orange jail uniform was
accompanied by handcuffs and leg shackles.  Apparently he hadn't been
on good behavior since his booking.

It showed.  His hair was matted, and his eyes were blearier than the
usual first-morning bloodshot.  I suspected pepper spray.

Jackson qualified for court-appointed counsel.  Because this was an
aggravated murder case, the attorney was sure to be good, a member of
Oregon's capital defense bar.

This afternoon's lucky winner?  Graham Szlipkowsky, public defense
veteran and colorful courthouse regular.  Graham is probably fifty and
tries cases in corduroys and tennis shoes.  With salt-and-pepper hair
cut like a mop and a matching beard, he looks more like a Muppet than
one of the city's most experienced trial attorneys.  He told me once
that his mother insisted on the waspy first name to even out his Polish
father's last name.  As a result, neither of his names quite suits him,
and everyone calls him Slip instead.

Slip's a straight shooter, perfect for this case.  He didn't need the
glory of a high-profile trial and would be smart enough to know the
situation was hopeless.  After some unsuccessful motions to suppress
the critical evidence, he'd be looking for a plea to avoid a death
sentence.

The appearance should have been perfunctory.  A quick waiver of speedy
trial rights from Jackson, a token request for bail from Slip, and
Judge Marty Levinson would order the defendant remanded until trial.
Any other result at an agg murder arraignment was largely
theoretical.

On the other hand, there's something about me and theoretical
possibilities that seems to click.  After the usual brief conference
with his client, Slip asked Levinson for additional time in light of
"some unusual circumstances."  A rookie defense attorney would've been
torn a new one, but Slip had enough earned credibility that the judge
deferred.

Great.  For my own satisfaction, I'd walked over for a routine hearing
that was technically the responsibility of the JC-2 DDA.  Now that I
knew "unusual circumstances" had arisen, I had to stay.  You don't know
from waiting until you've spent time in a courthouse.  Doctors?
Mechanics?  The DMV?  Forget about it.  I settled into a seat at the
front of the galley while the assigned arraignment deputy moved through
more routine matters.

Seven arraignments and forty minutes later, Slip informed the clerk he
was ready to go back on the record in Jackson.  I took my place again
at counsel table, called the case, and asked the judge to hold the
defendant without bail.

As expected, Slip contested the request.

"May it please the court, Graham Szlipkowsky for the defendant, Mr.
Jackson.  Your honor, my client respectfully requests that the court
consider alternatives to remand without bail.  We recognize that the
charge of aggravated murder triggers a presumption of no bail, but it
is, after all, merely a presumption.  Mr.  Jackson has no prior
criminal record and is the single father of three young children who
require his care."

So far, so routine.  And so hopeless.  It was the next part of Slip's
request that must have reflected the forty-minute recess.

"Regardless of defendant's custody status pending trial, Mr.  Jackson
does not waive his right to a prompt hearing of probable cause.  We
request that a preliminary hearing be scheduled at the earliest
possible date so that my client can contest the charges immediately. He
sees no need to await a trial date."

Levinson was neither impressed nor amused.  He took off his glasses,
scratched his bald head, and said, "You're kidding me, right?"

Most people have heard of prelims from the high-profile California
cases.  They're mini-trials to determine whether there's sufficient
evidence to hold the defendant over for trial.  The federal system and
just about every state uses the less burdensome, more secretive grand
jury process instead.  Oregon, as usual, had forged a third way: a
theoretical procedure for conducting preliminary hearings that never
actually took place.  As a result of confusing court decisions and
years of local practice, indictment by grand jury was the routine.

Jackson did not, however, want to do this the routine way.

"I would never kid, your honor."  Slip was good at handling
cantankerous judges.

"You've explained to your client that the State's burden at a
preliminary hearing is considerably lower than at trial?"  Levin-son
asked.  The question was more for Jackson's sake than Slip's.  "That
all the State has to do is show probable cause?  And that the Court is
required to draw every possible inference in favor of the State?"

"I've explained that all to him, your honor.  Mr.  Jackson's highest
priority is to be with his children.  He is afraid he'll lose his kids
if he doesn't nip these charges in the bud.  He knows it's an uphill
battle, but he wants at least to have that chance.  As your honor well
knows, the grand jury process is even more lopsided."

The prosecutor runs the show with the grand jury.  No judge, no defense
counsel, no defendant.

"Your honor," I said, "I already have this case scheduled for grand
jury.  He has no right to a preliminary hearing."

"But he's not indicted yet, is he?  And now he's asking for a
prelim."

I tried to explain that wasn't how it worked, but Levinson wanted to
keep his docket moving.

"I don't see the harm, Ms.  Kincaid, and I don't want to leave all
these people waiting here while the two of you argue about it.  Friday,
JC-Three, at nine o'clock.  I assume you can make it, Ms.  Kincaid?"

"Of course," I said, since that was the only acceptable answer to a
question that had used you in the collective sense.  Judges assume
prosecutors are fungible.  If I had open-heart surgery scheduled for
that morning, I'd have to find someone else.  Fortunately, I did not.

Neither did Slip.  "I can clear my calendar, your honor."

"Very good.  As for bail, nice try, Mr.  Szlipkowsky, but, unh-unh, I
don't think so.  Remanded."

I told myself there was nothing to worry about.  Beating charges at a
prelim is unheard of.

I passed Russ on the way back to my office.  I was beginning to think
the man lived in the hallway.

He looked at his watch when he saw me.  "You spent an hour and a half
over there to do one arraignment.  I need to find you some more work,
Kincaid."

I told him about Jackson's request for a prelim and the Friday hearing
date.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me.  We don't do prelims."

"Try telling that to Levinson while he's behind on his docket."

"Well, we can't be ready to put on evidence by Friday morning.  Did you
ask for more time?"

"No."

He looked frustrated.

"It would've been pointless, Russ, and it's just a prelim.  Weapon,
threats, paint, statements.  Done.  It'll take two hours."

"Let's see," he said, ticking my points off on his fingers.  "Hammer:
no blood tests yet; threat: every judge gets them, including whoever
you draw for the prelim on Friday; paint: you need an expert or else
Jackson's just a laborer with a can of beige paint; and statements: you
better hope they come in.  I know your guys were out there just for the
warrant, but a lot of judges will say Jackson was under arrest the
minute the cuffs came out."

Jackson hadn't yet been Mirandized when he admitted knowing that the
police were there about the paint.  His statements would be admissible
only if the court believed that the police had handcuffed Jackson to
restrain him temporarily during the search rather than to arrest him.

"You worry too much," I said.  "The threats are motive, and I'll line
up a paint expert.  That's enough for probable cause right there, and I
guarantee you the crime lab will find a blood match on the hammer.  The
only problem is I'm supposed to have discovery to Slip by the end of
the day.  There's some evidence suggesting the victim was having an
affair, and I think we need to turn it over."

I had been hoping to have more time to mull over Tara's revelation, but
Jackson's request for the quick prelim forced the issue.  The failure
to turn over exculpatory information could lead to a reversal down the
road.

"Christ."  Frist rubbed his temples.  "Exactly what kind of evidence
are we talking about?"

I told him about Tara's visit.  It was more than mere rumors; according
to her sister, Clarissa admitted she was contemplating divorce because
she was in love with someone else.

"You don't know who the someone else was?"  he asked.

"Not with any certainty, but we've got a theory."  I told him about the
calls to T. J. Caffrey.

He started shaking his head before I had even finished.  "I'm not sure
I'd tell the defense about any of that.  Even if she was having an
affair, there's nothing concrete tying it to the murder, and you don't
know for certain who the guy was.  A few phone calls don't mean
anything."

I understood his argument.  The rules on disclosure allow the
prosecution to hold back just about anything that's arguably innocuous.
But with the growing numbers of innocent men being freed from prison in
cases where the prosecutor sat on information, I tend to fall on the
side of broader disclosure.

I explained my analysis to Frist.  There was both physical and
testimonial evidence suggesting that the victim may have been having an
affair, and the phone records showed that the calls between Clarissa
and Caffrey made up the bulk of her cell phone usage.  I wouldn't turn
Caffrey's name over to Slip directly, but I'd give him the phone
records and a report about Tara s statement so he could decide for
himself if they were relevant.

"Suit yourself," Frist said, "but if this case goes to trial, and he
tries to turn your victim's supposed boyfriend into his one-armed man,
you'll regret it."

"You're dating yourself.  Satanic cults are the 'other guys' of
late."

"You're pushing your luck, Kincaid, but I'll go along with you anyway.
Duncan's going to want to call Caffrey as a courtesy," he said
resignedly.  "I'll tell Duncan; you take care of the husband.  We don't
want him learning about this at the prelim."

Great.  Getting information to Townsend meant a phone call to Roger. In
the hierarchy of pleasantries, I ranked it just beneath walking a plank
of nails into a shark tank.

"And, speaking of the prelim," I said, "tell me I can do it without
you."

"I'm afraid I've got no choice, Kincaid."

I started in on my spiel about how wasteful it was to use two attorneys
on a prelim, but he interrupted.  "No.  I meant I don't have any choice
but to let you go solo.  I've got thirteen victims coming in on a
sex-abuse grand jury.  Some chick who ran a home day care didn't notice
her boyfriend diddling all the kids."

I never wanted to get used to these cases.

"I'll do it by myself, then.  Don't worry.  It will be fine."  I
started to walk away, then realized I'd forgotten something.

"Oh, can you do a death penalty meeting tomorrow at two?  Duncan told
me to get everyone together."

"Yeah, I'm clear.  And, for the record, Sam, I would have let you
handle the prelim anyway.  You're doing a good job."

An unqualified compliment at the District Attorney's Office?  For me?
Either Frist was a different kind of supervisor or I was becoming a
real jerk.

I picked up the phone to call Roger but couldn't bring myself to ignore
the message light on my phone.

It was Chuck.  "Hey, babe.  Good news back from the crime lab.  Give me
a call."

I hate those messages that keep you hanging.  Either tell me what you
need to tell me or ask me to return the call.  I was eager for the lab
reports but felt obliged to get the call to Roger over with.

I dialed the first six digits of his number before tapping on the
handset for a new dial tone.  A call to Susan Kerr would allow me to
procrastinate a little longer.  I still needed to talk to her about
Tara's suspicions that Clarissa was seeing someone else, not to mention
her little visit this afternoon from Townsend.

When I identified myself, she jumped right in.

"I'm so happy you called.  I was going to see if there's anything I can
do after Townsend's press conference last night.  I was in bed by then
and couldn't believe what I saw in the paper this morning.  I didn't
even know he had a lawyer."

"Neither did we."

"Would it help if I called someone at the mayors office to support the
bureau?  I know I was a bit critical of how the police handled the
situation with Townsend Monday night, but I think you're all doing a
great job."

I assured her that I appreciated the offer, but there was no need for
her to pull strings.  "But, since you brought it up, do you have any
idea why Townsend would rail against us like that?"

"No, and it shocks me."

"He didn't mention it when he was at your house this afternoon?"

Wow.  I hadn't planned on blurting it out that way.  Very Perry
Mason.

Unfortunately, it didn't have a Perry-Masonian effect.  Instead of
breaking down and sharing a lifetime of secrets with me, Susan Kerr
made me feel like shit.

"Are you actually having Townsend followed or something?  My God, are
you watching my home?  Maybe Townsend was right to rail against you, as
you put it."

I immediately launched into a back pedal, explaining that I had passed
her house on my regular run and happened to notice his car.

"If you had simply asked like a regular person instead of ambushing me,
I would have told you all of this anyway.  What I was about to say was
that I can only chalk up the press conference to the fact that Townsend
just hasn't been himself since well, since, Clarissa was found.  He's
been drinking more, and sometimes he'll start rambling incoherently. My
best guess is that someone from work might have suggested it, because I
know it didn't come from me or Clarissa's family.

"As for his visit this afternoon, if you must know, I initially
suggested it, hoping to pull out some of the old Townsend.  When he's
in work mode well, everything else sort of fades away.  I've been
helping him with some fund-raising for the hospital's pediatric wing
and thought it might help him to put his mind back into that for the
afternoon.  But of course he told me about the arrest, and one thing
led to another.  I wound up crying away another afternoon, while he sat
like a zombie on the sofa.  So, no, we did not talk about the press
conference."

I didn't know what to say.  I floundered around for an appropriate
apology, finally lamely offering that I was sorry for her loss.

She sighed.  "I know.  I can tell you care, and I do appreciate it.  My
God, I thought it was hard when I lost Herbie, but to have a loss like
this I don't know how Townsend will ever get over it.  Quite honestly,
I'm beginning to question his stability.  He doesn't seem to be
thinking straight."

Her worries about Townsend made it even harder to share what I'd heard
from Tara.  I omitted T. J. Caffrey's name for the time being.

"Boy, you are full of good news today, aren't you?"  Her attempt at
levity didn't change the fact that she wasn't having any of it.  "I
know I've already told you this," she said, "but Clarissa and Townsend
had a perfectly normal marriage.  Well, about as normal as it can be
given how hard the guy works.  But, trust me, if there was something
wrong, Clarissa would have told me.  And, my God, if she was cheating "
She laughed at the mere thought of it.  "She'd definitely tell me
before she'd say anything to Tara."

"I'm just trying to reconcile Tara's information with everything else
we've heard," I explained.  "Why would Tara make something like that
up?"

"Perhaps she misinterpreted something Clarissa said.  We all vent about
our husbands now and then, don't we?  And Tara can be very
melodramatic."

"She seemed fairly certain about Clarissa's meaning," I said.

"Just because she was sure doesn't make her right.  And even if
Clarissa was fooling around which I'm sure she wasn't what use is there
in bringing it up now?  I understood from Townsend that you had a
mountain of evidence against this Jackson guy."

"We do," I said, "but we still need to cover our bases.  I don't want
the defense springing something on us down the road because we were
afraid to ask the tough questions."

"Well, you've asked them, and my answer hasn't changed.  Clarissa
wasn't like that, and I hope you'll leave it at that.  If the police go
to Townsend with this, it could send him right over the edge."

Tara had expressed the same concern.  Townsend might be the one in
charge at the hospital, but apparently, in other areas of his life,
those closest to him felt the need to be strong on his behalf.

"I know you're worried about Townsend," I said, "but I hope you're not
holding back information you think would hurt him.  Tara already told
me that's why she initially didn't say anything about this."

"I am most definitely not holding back with you.  If anything, I feel a
little guilty for mentioning Townsend's irrational behavior.  But I
don't want to hear anything else about Tara's little suspicions.  This
son of a bitch Jackson killed my best friend.  You just told me a
second ago that it was basically a sure thing.  But instead of anyone
asking me about her life or what she was like or how wonderful she was,
you just want to make sure she was a good wife."

I did my best to explain how important the questions were to the case,
and she did her best to say she understood.  But I nevertheless hung up
feeling like the worst kind of bottom feeder.

I probably should have waited before calling Roger, but I didn't.

"Roger Kirkpatrick."  I could picture him in an office high above the
Willamette, feet on his desk, answering the phone on speaker to avoid
wasting his valuable time on extraneous hand movements.

"Roger, it's Samantha."

"I assume you're calling about Easterbrook?"  He still hadn't picked up
the receiver.

"Good guess, since I've never called you about anything else in the
last three years.  Now unless you've once again got your hands where
they don't belong, pick up the damn phone and get me off speaker."

I heard a click and then his voice was directly in my ear.  Perhaps I
should have left well enough alone.  "I had hoped you'd either squelch
the hostilities, Samantha, or remove yourself from the case."

He had no idea how much I had squelched.  There was a time when I
wanted to rip his guts out in public if not literally, then at least
through well-placed billboards announcing that Mister Communitarian was
a cheat and a liar.  He liked to think his charitable donations and
board memberships made him a good person, but Roger Kirkpatrick was a
thief of the worst kind, no better than a con man.  His grift began
with the hours he spent with Nike's newest spokesperson, the
aforementioned volleyball pro.  It was only after weeks of inner debate
that I had finally asked him if I needed to worry.  Surely, he had
noticed that she was seventy-two inches of legs, breasts, muscle, and
tan.  Negotiations, he assured me.

And, with that, I had given him my trust, not just in the general way a
wife trusts her husband, and not even just in the way I trusted Roger.
I had given him the trust I have in myself, in my own ability to judge
a man who looks me in the eye and tells me he's for real.

Yes, Roger had gotten off easy.  If I seemed a little brusque, he was
going to have to deal.

"I wanted to make sure you knew that Jackson requested a prelim," I
said.  "It's Friday morning.  I'll need Townsend there at eight-thirty,
just in case."

"I know," he said.  "I sent a paralegal over this morning for the
arraignment.  I told Townsend to expect to be there.  If you don't
mind, I'll be with him."

"Suit yourself.  Easy billables, I suppose."  Eventually, Town-sends
retention of a defense attorney would look terrible in front of a jury,
but it would be irrelevant to the judge who handled the prelim.  "We
also would like him to meet with us before we make a final decision
about whether to seek the death penalty."

He assured me they'd both be at the meeting the next day.

"Is that everything?"  he asked.

"Johnson needs to talk to Townsend.  Some evidence might come out at
the prelim that could be disturbing."  I told Roger about the
nonoxynol-9, my conversation with Tara, and Clarissa's phone records.

"That's a hell of a lot to dump on a guy, Samantha.  Your cops didn't
think to mention any of this to him earlier?"

"Don't blow this out of proportion.  This is the usual way it's done.
We guard the information, but in the end the family hears it first from
us.  The only thing that's making this hard is having to go through you
to get to our victim's husband."

"When Johnson asked him the other night about barrier methods, Townsend
assumed there must have been a sexual assault."

"We still don't know," I said.  "Maybe the nonoxynol's Jackson's.
Either way, Tara seems to think Clarissa was seeing someone else. Think
what you want about the phone calls."

"I'll tell him myself," he said.

"I want to send someone over, Roger.  You can pick whomever you're most
comfortable with, and you can be there.  But I want a cop to tell him."
It was the first step to bridging the gap between Townsend and PPB, an
accomplishment that would help the rest of the case run smoothly.

Roger wasn't having it.  "I'm not trying to be an ass, Samantha, but
don't tell yourself you're doing this for Townsend.  There's not a man
in the world who'd choose to hear something like that from a cop
instead of someone he at least knows is on his side.  You want the cop
there to see his reaction, and it's totally unnecessary.  Townsend's
cleared.  I'll tell him myself."

I had to admit it with Townsend's alibi and poly, there was no
compelling justification for having a detective present when he heard
the news.  "Fine," I said, "but some words of advice?"  He was silent
during the pause.  "When you break the news to Townsend, try to be a
little more subtle than you were with me."

I hung up, angry at myself for losing my cool.  I wrote a memo for the
file about my conversation with Tara and sent a duplicate and the phone
records to the discovery desk.  Now that Townsend would be getting the
news, I could make the disclosure to Slip.

I needed a pick-me-up.  Fortunately, I had saved the best call for
last.  Chuck answered at MCT.

"I was wondering when I'd hear from you," he said.  "You find my note
last night?"

"Pretty cute.  I'm not sure Vinnie enjoyed being the messenger, though.
Looked like he tried to chew it off of his collar."

"He was probably trying to eat the damn thing.  Greedy mutt snarfs down
anything within a three-foot radius."

"Takes after his mommy that way.  Now, as much as I'm enjoying
deconstructing my little man's eating habits, can you please share the
good news?  I didn't appreciate the cliff-hanger."

"I am pleased to announce that Heidi Chung, famed PPB crime lab
specialist, will testify that blood on the hammer Johnson took from
Jackson's apartment belonged to Clarissa Easterbrook.  The ME says it's
consistent with her injuries."

"Yes!  I knew we'd get it."  Even so, I felt relieved to have the news
officially in.  Establishing probable cause against Jackson would be a
breeze.

"Ah, but there's more," he said.  "A little surprise to end your day
with."

I kicked my door shut with my foot and dropped my voice low.  "It's not
exactly a surprise if you tell me about it ahead of time."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Kincaid.  This surprise is from
Chung.  She got Jackson's prints from his booking.  Matched his right
index and middle to two of the unidentified latents on the
Easterbrooks' door knocker."

I let out a small scream.  It always felt good when a case came
together, but it was particularly satisfying to have my first murder
case wrapped up with a tidy little bow on top.  I told him to ask the
crime lab to get the reports to me ASAP so I could include them in
Slip's discovery package.

"Now," he said, "if you want to get back to that conversation you
started a second ago, I'm up for it.  But I charge two ninety-nine for
the first minute and one ninety-nine thereafter."

"As tempting as that sounds," I said, "I think I'm in the mood for
something a little more personal."

"I could probably handle that.  Maybe come up with a surprise or two of
my own."

"You're on.  Seven o'clock, my house.  Bring your toothbrush.  This one
might be an overnight."

Eight.

With the evidence in against Jackson and the charges formally filed, I
finally got a taste of a regular MCU morning on Thursday.  It was just
like a morning in DVD, but instead of grinding out morning drug
custodies, I was churning through the night's assault arrests.

As required, I finished the misdemeanor screening cases first.  I held
back only one to issue as a felony.  Robert Jenkins, a
thirty-seven-year-old man with a prior trespass conviction at an
elementary school, was tackled by the father of a four-year-old girl
after the father found Jenkins taking pictures of his daughter at the
park.  The girl remained clothed the entire time, but Jenkins had
manipulated her into various poses that revealed his Chester the
Molester ways.  When the responding police officer perused the other
shots in the guy's digital camera, he found forty photographs of eight
different kids.  Bent over, legs spread, fingers in their open mouths;
the details varied, but the gist was always the same.  Jenkins admitted
to the officer that he used the pictures to pleasure himself sexually
and did not consider them to be art.

A single line at the end of the police report hinted at the problem
with the case: "I decided to arrest the suspect for harassment, since
he touched the vie to achieve the desired pose, and such touching was
offensive under the circumstances."  It wasn't obvious what to charge
the defendant with, but I wasn't about to let a guy like Jenkins off
the hook with the misdemeanor of harassment.

I flipped through the penal code to confirm my recollection, but the
child sex abuse laws all required physical contact or at least nudity.
I reread the victim's statement.  For the photograph of her straddling
the slide, she said Jenkins told her to climb up the ladder, then
pulled her feet on either side of the slide before she went down.  She
said the slide hurt her skin and she didn't know why she couldn't keep
her dress beneath her legs.  The officer noted some redness on the
backs of her thighs.  Good enough for me.  An assault on a
four-year-old is a felony, and I had an appellate case saying a red
mark is enough to get an assault charge before a jury, which I'd pack
full of parents.  Jenkins could make all the arguments he wanted about
strict statutory definitions, but the charge would stick.

I sent a follow-up request to a detective I knew in the child sex abuse
unit asking him to run Jenkins's other photographs by the DARE officers
who worked the schools near the park.  Even if finding the other kids
didn't lead to more charges, telling the parents seemed like the right
thing to do.  They were probably convinced that the "don't talk to
strangers" talk had been enough to protect their kids.  It never is.

Thanks to a grand jury appearance and an overdue response to a motion
to suppress, I didn't finish reviewing the rest of the custodies until
nearly noon.  I apologized to Alice as I put them on her desk.  For her
to finalize the paperwork in time for arraignments, she'd have to work
through lunch.

"The least I can do is bring you something," I offered.  She told me it
wasn't necessary.  If the attorneys here paid for lunch every time they
screwed over the staff, we'd all be broke, and they'd all be fat.  But,
after the polite amount of argument, she accepted.

Alice estimated she had another hour of work, so I decided to take in a
quick run.  Jessica Walters was also in the locker room and asked if I
wanted to join her for a loop around the waterfront.

Whenever I run with someone new, I let them set the pace.  We were
clocking about an eight-minute mile, which was comfortable for me, but
I couldn't tell if she was holding back.

We crossed the Willamette over the Morrison Bridge, saving the
prettiest, downtown side of the loop for last.  Once the noise of the
bridge was past us and we had dropped down to the river's edge, she
asked me if I had ever tried to run with the office's Hood-to-Coast
team.

The Hood-to-Coast is Oregon's annual relay race from Mount Hood to the
Pacific coast.  At one time, there had been an official District
Attorney team.  When Duncan found out that the members wore T-shirts
bearing electric chairs, one for each defendant the runner had placed
on death row, he pulled the plug.

I reminded Jessica that the group was no longer the official office
team, making no effort to hide my sarcasm.

"Whatever.  Have you ever run with them?"

"I didn't think I was eligible."  My impression was that a team member
needed to have a reliable eight-minute mile, the ability and
willingness to drink mass quantities of alcohol, and a penis.  Two out
of three didn't cut it.  "In any event, I figure you choose your
battles."  If I was going to become the office's rabble-rouser, it
wasn't going to be for the privilege of running with a group that likes
to polish off the day by watching each other light their gas.

We had started a subtle incline but hadn't dropped the pace.  Jessica
didn't say anything until the path flattened out again.

"How's the evidence against Jackson looking?"  she asked.  She was
winded but could still get the words out.

I gave her the abbreviated version.  "I know the case is strong, but
ever since I issued it, I've been finding myself getting worried. Frist
thinks I might regret telling the defense about the affair."

"It's your first murder case," she said, "so you're worrying more than
you need to.  It's normal.  You'll feel great by the day of trial."

She was right.  A case is always strongest at the beginning, when all
you've got is what the police have given you.  As you move toward
trial, your job and the defense's is to pick, poke, and prod at every
last thread, any possible wrinkle that might turn out to be the glove
that won't stretch over the defendant's hand.  But by the first day of
trial, you've tucked in the loose strings and ironed out the wrinkles,
and the case is clearer than ever.

"I also still wonder why she was calling you," I said, "and if it had
anything to do with the murder.  Maybe because of the gang unit?  Do
you work with public housing at all?"  It wasn't unusual for us to work
with other agencies on long-term crime reduction plans.

She shook her head.  "The community prosecution unit will call HAP
sometimes if they know of a problem in the projects, but we stay out of
that stuff in the trial unit.  Hard enough to get cooperation on cases
without getting people worried about losing their apartment."

When I didn't respond, she looked over at me and laughed.

"You need to chill out, Kincaid.  It's just a phone call.  I called
twenty people this morning, and if someone chops me up in little pieces
tonight, I guarantee you it won't have anything to do with any of
them."

"It just seems weird to call someone you don't know, leave a message,
and not say what you're calling about," I said.  "And that number she
left you was her cell, by the way."

"It was?"  Jessicas tone told me she found that unusual too.

They say murder cases are like any other criminal case, but with one
important difference: Your most important witness, the victim, is gone
forever.  The reason for Clarissa's phone call was lost with her death,
along with all the other information she took with her.

We picked up the pace as we passed the courtyard at the north end of
the waterfront, then began the slow jog through downtown back to the
courthouse.  She stopped at the Plaza Blocks to stretch, and I put in
about thirty seconds with her before I grew impatient.  My doctor says
I've got the heart of a healthy horse but the bones of a
ninety-year-old man.  Regardless of his warnings, I still spend every
exercise minute I can spare going after every calorie I can burn.

"I stuck Alice Gerstein with some last-minute custodies and told her
I'd bring her back some lunch, so I better get a move on," I said,
explaining my abrupt departure.

"Don't let Frist know you're being so considerate," she said.  "Makes
everyone else in the unit look even worse."

I was happy to find the Mexican food cart parked outside the
courthouse.  I got fish tacos on corn tortillas for me and a chicken
burrito for Alice, then climbed the stairs to the eighth floor to
polish off my workout.

Alice accepted the bag with the burrito in it and thanked me.  "Sorry
to break this to you, but you've got another visitor."

Still out of breath and in my sticky running gear, I was in no
condition to have a meeting.  "Who is it?"  I asked.

"Melvin Jackson's mother.  She's been here about twenty minutes."

"Can you tell her to schedule an appointment?  I'm a mess, and I have
some work I need to do before the death penalty meeting on that
case."

"I'll do it if you want me to," Alice said, "but I can tell you right
now it won't be pretty.  She threw a fit when I told her no one was
here to talk to her.  We finally calmed her down by telling her you
were on your way back."

"We don't usually meet with a defendant's family members.  Maybe she
should call the defense attorney."

Alice was patient, but the look on her face reminded me of that plumber
I'd hired when I told him to try adjusting the flu shy chain doohickey.
"I tried that," Alice said, "but I believe her response was, "I don't
need to talk to some lazy-ass public defender.  I need to talk to the
lady who's buying all this bullshit about my son.""

Given Walker's description from the night of Jackson's arrest, it
sounded like the last two days had actually done wonders for Mrs.
Jackson's forbearance.

"Fine.  I'll be ready in a few minutes."

When I'm not distracted by the television, the refrigerator, or singing
in the shower, I can get ready in seven minutes flat.  It's one of the
advantages of never learning how to put on makeup or do my hair.  A
shower, a hair clip, and a change of clothes are all I need to
transform back into my regular everyday self.

Martha Jackson was in the reception area, shifting in her seat and
tsk-ing every time someone walked by for a reason other than to see
her.  She was short for her weight, a trait that was only accentuated
by the hot pink lilies on her dress that appeared to bloom from her
generous bosom and broad hips.

I managed to get my name out, but she was off and running before I had
a chance to offer her some water and a seat in the conference room.
"You got a hundred lawyers in this office.  How come I got to wait half
an hour to talk to someone about a case that's been on the news every
day of the week?"

I tried to explain that not all the lawyers work on each individual
case, but she was looking for a fight.

"You trying to tell me you'd leave someone waiting here if they ready
to say they seen Melvin Jackson do it?"

"Is that what you're here to say?"  I asked.

That did the trick.  "Hell, no.  No way Melvin could kill that woman."
It was exactly what I expected to hear, and I herded her into a
conference room while she repeated it every way she could think to say
it.  I hoped the closed door would at least buffer the outburst that
was sure to greet the bad news: I wasn't going to drop the charges and
send Melvin home with her.

When she was done saying her piece, I did my best to say mine
sympathetically.  For all I knew, she had nothing to do with her son
turning out to be the kind of man he was.

"I can't pretend that I understand how difficult this must be for you,
Mrs.  Jackson, but the police have compelling evidence suggesting that
your son, as hard as it must be for you to accept, was responsible for
Clarissa Easterbrook's death.  I would not be doing my job if I ignored
that evidence simply because a loving mother told me her son was
innocent.  If he claims he's innocent, he has his own attorney to help
him defend against the charges.  You might want to call his lawyer and
see how you can help."

In a capital case, the bulk of the defense work often goes into the
penalty phase.  If Slip could calm Martha Jackson down long enough to
put her on the stand, a mother's plea for mercy can sway a jury to
spare a son's life.

"Oh, trust me, I'll be talking to that man too, but I know there's only
so much he can do.  Only you people can shut off this assembly line of
a court system once it gets to going.  You say you wouldn't be doing
your job to ignore evidence, but let me ask you this, Ms.  Kincaid.
Isn't part of your job to pay attention to evidence that's looking you
right in the face?"

Given the circumstances her son was in and my role in that process, I
showed her more patience that I normally would.  "Of course it is, and
I'm doing that."

"You probably went to some fancy law school, didn't you?"  she asked.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say, Mrs.  Jackson."

"I'm pointing out that you a smart woman, but you only looking at what
you want to see."

I was getting frustrated.  She was going to have to come to terms with
this eventually, so it may as well be now.  "I'm very sorry for your
situation, but, ma'am, you know where the police found the murder
weapon, and your son's fingerprints were on the victim's front door."

"C'mon now, my boy was just trying to get the woman to talk to him.  He
wanted to sit down, look her in the eye, and ask how in the world
someone can lose his home and children because of something his cousin
did."

"And maybe he finally found a way to do that."  I immediately regretted
saying something so mean-spirited, but it seemed to be exactly what
Martha Jackson expected.

The fire in her voice was gone.  She clicked her tongue against her
teeth and shook her head.  "I don't know why I

bothered.  Y'all just ain't usin' the heads God gave you.  How that
poor lady's death gonna help my grandchildren?  You see a colored man
and assume he ain't got sense, just an animal lashing out at the
world."

I was angry at the accusation, but knew that nothing I said would
change either her perception of the criminal justice system or the many
events in her lifetime that were responsible for it.  "I'm sorry, Mrs.
Jackson, but I can't help you."  I opened the door to show her out.

She had one more thing to say before she left.  "Melvin's living in
Section Eight one step above begging on the streets for a reason. Why's
he all the sudden got regular work at some fancy office development?
And wouldn't you know that's where your poor missing judge turns up.
Believe what you will about my son, but y'alls the ones ain't
thinkin."

She walked past me through the doorway and headed for the elevator.  I
assumed she didn't need an escort.

Russ Frist was standing outside the conference room.

"Melvin Jackson's mother," I explained.

"Alice told me about her when I got back, but I didn't want to walk in.
Sounded like you had everything under control."

"Sure, if you consider being an insensitive prick having things under
control," I said.  "It's not her fault her son's in a jam."

"More hers than yours, Kincaid.  Let it go."

Letting things go never was my forte.

At two o'clock, the members of the death penalty committee gathered to
decide whether Melvin Jackson should live or die if convicted.  Even
the boss himself showed up, joining Russ Frist, Jessica Walters, Rocco
Kessler, and me.

Rocco Kessler spoke first.  His real name is Richard, but somehow the
macho nickname grew out of his initials.  Knowing him, I suspected he
engineered the transition himself.

I hadn't seen him since leaving DVD, where he was most memorable as the
supervisor who wanted me fired.  He must not have missed me much, since
he took his chair in the conference room without so much as a hello.

"Let's get this show on the road.  Duncan wants to keep things moving,
and I plan to stick to the format we've always used."  The dearly
departed Tim O'Donnell had previously chaired these meetings.  "The
husband's coming in at three, Kincaid?"  he asked.

I nodded.  "He's the only one.  The trip downtown's too hard for the
parents, and the sister just called her kids are having a meltdown and
she couldn't pawn them off on her folks.  For what it's worth, my gut
tells me they'll go either way on the sentence.  They know nothing's
going to bring Clarissa back."

"Okay, then.  Take as long as you need to tell us about the case and
the defendant, this" he looked down at his notes "Melvin Jackson.  What
we usually do is just go around the room and give our initial
impressions, then go from there."

I finished in twenty minutes, spending only half of that on the
evidence itself.  What made this meeting a difficult one wasn't the
question of Melvin Jackson's guilt but the balancing of two seemingly
irreconcilable images of the man.  I tried to give it to them straight,
covering both the aggravated nature of the crime and the sympathetic
story of a father with no prior criminal history beating a lifelong
addiction to keep his children.

Rocco asked Jessica to speak first.

"I think this is one of the hardest cases we've seen.  At first blush,
it's got death penalty written all over it.  The guy snatches a woman
off the street, for Christ's sake.  But when you think about it, the
reason those cases give you such a visceral reaction is that you think
of a sex offender.  You think of the Polly Klaas or Dru Sjodin cases.
Melvin Jackson's not one of those guys.  He's not a predator.  And we
also don't have any prior acts of violence; I'd be inclined to seek
life."

Rocco looked to Russ.

"I'd go death penalty but accept a plea to life.  We might not know
exactly what Jackson did to her, but the ME says the vies shirt was off
when she was beaten.  We also know he stalked her.  I see where you're
coming from, Walters, but to me this isn't just some guy who snapped.
Think of what it must have been like for the victim in those final
moments, taking her clothes off for him.  That's more than
garden-variety murder."

Rocco jumped in next.  I was getting the impression he forgot I was
there.  "I'm with Frist," Rocco said.  "The guy might not have any
priors, but that just means no one caught him before.  Even by his own
sad story, he's a doper who thinks he deserves a medal for choosing his
kids over heroin."

Jessica shook her head.  "Forget for a second that Melvin Jackson's a
black man who lives in public housing and Clarissa Easterbrook's an
attractive, wealthy judge."

Rocco accused her of playing the race card, and the room broke out in a
cacophony rivaling Crossfire.  Duncan made a time-out sign with his
hands and told everyone to let Jessica finish speaking, but Jessica
held up her hand.  "Never mind."

I, however, minded.  She had a valid point, and they should at least
take it into consideration.  If this was going to be my case, I
couldn't be afraid to speak up.

"Jessica's right," I said.  "When a defendant looks like Melvin Jackson
and the victim looks like Clarissa Easterbrook, that alone pushes
buttons we might not even know we have."

Rocco didn't want to hear it.  "That's a PC load of crock, Kincaid."
Aah, sweet memories of my former boss.  "Jackson's race has got nothing
to do with this, and I don't want to hear another word about it."

"Well, that's all you're going to hear about if Jackson's not
comparable to other capital defendants.  You tell me: Have we ever
asked for a death sentence against a white defendant with no prior
violence?"

The immediate silence at the table was answer enough, but it wasn't the
right one for Russ and Rocco, who began walking through individual
cases, struggling to compare them to Jackson's.  Duncan chose to stare
at the ceiling.  I couldn't tell if he was seeking spiritual guidance
or picturing himself under fire by civil rights protesters on future
campaign stops.

We were still debating the case when Alice Gerstein rapped on the door
and peeked in.  "Dr.  Easterbrook and his lawyer are here whenever
you're ready."

From what I'd heard, the usual goal of these meetings was to make the
decision before the family arrived, then use the rest of the time to
get the family on board.  But Duncan wasn't going to make Townsend wait
while we continued to argue.

"For now, we'll hear what he's got to say.  If I make a final decision,
I'll let everyone know.  We may just have to meet again."

I moved to the empty chair between Rocco and Russ.  It might have
seemed like a thoughtful gesture so Townsend could sit next to his own
attorney.  In truth, it was to ensure that Roger didn't sit next to me.
I wasn't sure I could resist the temptation to kick him in the shins if
he irritated me.

With constituents in the room, Duncan ran the floor.  He got about as
far as any government lawyer short of the solicitor general would have
before my ex took over.  Roger Kirkpatrick is and always has been a
power lawyer.

"We appreciate your having Dr.  Easterbrook here so he can communicate
his views in person.  I'm sure you understand that this is not an easy
thing for him to talk about."

As much as Tara and Susan had emphasized Townsend's deterioration, they
had nevertheless understated it.  His eyes were puffy, his skin pale;
he looked at the table when he spoke, barely registering our presence.
He mumbled something about being against the death penalty, hating
Melvin Jackson, and being a doctor, before Roger spared him and us
further embarrassment.

Roger placed his hand on Townsend's shoulder.  "It's OK.  Let me see if
I can explain what you told me earlier."  He shifted his attention to
the rest of us.  "Townsend has struggled this week with a new emotion a
hatred of Melvin Jackson that is more intense than anything I'm sure
any of us has felt before.  When he first heard Monday about the
evidence found in Jackson's apartment, his instinct, and I'm being
frank here, was to kill Jackson himself."

Townsend didn't currently look capable of let alone driven to revenge,
but maybe the change was further proof of what this week had been like
for him.

"I spent a lot of time calming him that night, talking to him about the
court system and convincing him that the case was strong enough that I
was confident your office could convict.  I left his house Monday night
certain that he would be lobbying you to pursue this prosecution as a
capital case.  But when we talked the next day, Townsend told me he'd
been up all night, trying to picture what the rest of his life would be
like if Jackson were dead or if Jackson were in prison.  And, he's
convinced the right outcome is a life sentence not just to spare
Jackson but to spare himself.  He's a doctor in the business of saving
lives and was quite frightened, I think, of the emotions that

Clarissa's death triggered in him.  I don't think he could live with
himself if another human being even one as despicable as Jackson were
put to death, even in part to console him.  Townsend, do you have
anything you want to add?"

From appearances, I wouldn't have thought that Townsend was even
listening, but he responded to the question.  Sort of.  "Clarissa's
gone.  She's not coming back."

I had heard of similar cases, even stories of the families of murder
victims going to bat to save the defendant.  But I couldn't begin to
understand it.  I wondered if they ever saw the videotape of that guy
who killed all those nurses in Chicago.  After his capital sentence was
reversed by the Supreme Court, an investigative reporter caught him on
camera in prison, taking drugs, talking up the joys of prison sex, and
boasting to his fellow inmates about the ways his victims begged for
mercy before he strangled them.  The death penalty might not be a
deterrent and might cost a hell of a lot more than a life sentence, but
it meant that a victim's parents never had to go to sleep at night
wondering what their kid's murderer was up to.  Townsend was telling us
to ignore the only factor that made me hedge on the death penalty a
survivor's need for what's lamely referred to as closure.

Duncan had launched into "the speech," the one every prosecutor gets
used to giving, the one where we promise to take into account the
person's feelings about the disposition of a case but explain that the
ultimate decision needs to be on behalf of the entire citizenry.  Roger
cut him off.

"I've explained all that to Dr.  Easterbrook already, Duncan."

Griffith gave me a look across the table at the use of his first name.
No one ever said my ex-husband lacked balls.

"Townsend, why don't you wait for me in the lobby?"  When the door was
closed, Roger continued.  "I've also explained to

Townsend that you shouldn't have a problem sticking with this as a non
capital case.  You're in a liberal county where most people feel the
same way he does about the death penalty.  In fact, according to our
research, your office seeks the death penalty in only a third of your
agg murder cases.  Let me be blunt here; I'm not real impressed with
what I've seen so far in your office."

I shouldn't have changed seats.  Talking me down to my boss was bad
enough.  But doing it in front of my coworkers was definitely
shin-kick-deserving behavior.

"Until we essentially served Jackson to them on a platter, the police
were content to sit back and assume this was a textbook case of 'the
husband must have done it."  I'm sure you have fine lawyers if given
the appropriate resources, but I also know what can happen when people
are overworked.  Maybe to save resources, you go for the death penalty
hoping to plead it out to a life sentence.  Given how this case
started, I would hope you would defer to Dr.  Easterbrook's wishes.  If
anyone has a right to dictate what happens to Melvin Jackson, he does.
If I feel like you've continued to ignore him, I'll follow up again
with the media."

When I was with him, I had actually been attracted to Roger's
confidence.  I understood now why everyone else had called it
arrogance, and I felt responsible that he was unleashing it on my
office.  I couldn't stand another minute of it.

"Even for you, Roger, you are totally out of control."

The table went silent.  Roger looked smug, Duncan looked embarrassed,
every one else looked shocked, and I couldn't stop myself.  "What kind
of person can take Townsend Easterbrook's pain and parlay it into
billable hours and a chance for a few minutes in front of the cameras?
Stop thinking about yourself for one minute and you'd realize that the
screw up you keep rubbing in our faces had as much to do with the
owners of the office park who happen to be your clients as with the
police."

"Samantha, you're embarrassing yourself," he said.

"No, she's not."  It was Russ.  "What's embarrassing is your attempt to
bully this office.  You assume that because we're prosecutors, we're a
bunch of bloodthirsty rednecks.  As for the bureau's delay homing in on
Jackson, your client wasn't exactly forthcoming.  The cops had to get
their information from the workers on the site, and funny they seemed
to be under the impression that it was union work."

Talking about the Glenville development project brought Mrs.  Jackson's
words back to me.

"Who is your client anyway, Roger?"  I asked.

"I told you," he said.  "Dr.  Easterbrook came to us through OHSU."

He knew exactly what I was talking about.  "Who's in charge of the
construction in Glenville?"

"I wasn't aware that the DA's office had taken over the operations of
the National Labor Relations Board.  For what it's worth, the nonunion
work on the site was permissible."

"So tell me who the client is.  I want to know how they came to hire
Melvin Jackson.  From what I've heard of him, I'm not sure I'd want him
to mow my backyard, let alone hire him on a major development
project."

But Roger was done talking to me.  He stood up and offered Duncan his
hand.  "Duncan, unless you have any more questions, we'll be on our
way.  Please let me know your decision once you've made it."

Then I got a glimpse of how Duncan Griffith had earned his political
reputation.  When he took Roger's hand, I could tell his grip was firm.
"The decision was made before you interrupted me with the theatrics,
son.  We'll be asking for life without parole.  You might want to
consider knocking the last twelve minutes off Dr.  Easterbrook's bill.
Now, if it's all right with you, I'll walk you out so I can thank your
client for coming in."

We were still rehashing the events of the meeting when Duncan returned.
"Anyone got a problem with that?"

No problems.  "Very good then," he said, knocking on the table as he
walked out.  "Oh, and by the way, Samantha, your ex-husband's a major
asshole."

I don't think Duncan realized he was dropping a bombshell.  I
hightailed it out of the room while my coworkers were still begging for
the tawdry details of my short-lived marriage.

A few minutes later, Russ came into my office.

"I hope you didn't mind me sticking up for you back there.  I know you
had everything under control, but, Jesus, what a prick."

"And they say chivalry is dead," I said.

"Yeah, well don't let the word out.  I've got a reputation to
protect."

"Don't worry.  One act of semi decency won't make a dent," I said,
smiling.  "So I was surprised Duncan made a decision.  You think it was
because of the racial politics or to appease the husband?"

"Christ, Kincaid, you're almost as bad as your limousine-liberal ex.
Duncan might have done it because he thought it was the right thing to
do."

I suppose with politicians it's the decisions that count, not their
reasons for making them.

"So how long were you guys married?"  Russ asked.

I felt like I owed him at least the party line.  "Not long.  Things
were all right for a few years in New York, but they fell apart when we
moved to Portland."  Then I surprised myself by not stopping in the
usual place.  "We seemed to have a disagreement over the appropriate
use of his penis."

Russ almost spit out the coffee he had just sipped.

"Sorry," I said sheepishly.  "A little too much information?"

"No, just a well, it was a funny way of putting it.  You're not one of
those girls, are you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but I know I haven't been any
kind oigirl since I was seventeen years old."

"Excuse me, Gloria Steinem.  You're not one of those crazy women who
always goes after the bad boy, are you?  First it's that guy, now it's
Forbes.  You know something none of the other women around here know,
or do you just like to flirt with disaster?"

"I've known Chuck Forbes since I was fifteen years old, and he's
nothing like Roger Kirkpatrick."

The silence was not just uncomfortable.  It made me wonder what
everyone in the office must be thinking.  And saying.

"Sorry," he said, "it's none of my business.  You ready for the prelim
tomorrow?"

I was grateful for the change of subject.  "Piece of cake," I said.
"Was it just me, or did Roger seem reluctant to give us anything about
the owner of the Glenville property?"

Russ shrugged his shoulders.  "He's probably no different from the rest
of those private-firm fucks.  Acts like the big man, but when push
comes to shove he's scared shitless of his clients.  You don't need it,
but if you're really curious, call one of the paralegals in the
child-support enforcement unit.  They're pros at running down
property-owner records."

Maybe I would.

"If I don't see you, good luck tomorrow," he said.  "Do you know who
the judge is yet?"

"Prescott."

"Got news for you, Kincaid.  You could be looking at a long day."

Kate Prescott is the slowest judge in the courthouse.  A big
fund-raiser for the Democratic Party, she came to the bench a year ago
from a large corporate firm.  She tries to make up for her lack of
litigation experience by being thorough.  I had a plea fall apart once
in her courtroom when a transexual prostitute who'd been through the
system a hundred times finally gave up on the process.  In her words,
"Honey, if I knew it was gonna take this long, I'd have asked for my
trial.  If I'm losing time on the street, it might as well be
interesting."

If Prescott didn't move things along, Jackson's prelim could be
painful.

"Page me if you need anything," Russ offered.  "And, Kincaid, for what
it's worth, any guy who'd even think of stepping out on you is clearly
out of his mind."

Now that might ruin Russell Frist's tough-guy reputation.

Roger's show was not the only power play I'd have to contend with that
day.  As I was getting ready to leave, Duncan called.  Before he got to
the point, he had to dress me down for my outburst in the meeting.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, "it wasn't what you said that was the
problem.  He deserved every word of it.  But when I'm in the room,
you've got to trust that I'll handle it."

"Does this mean I'm fired?"

"I'll give you a Get Out of Jail Free card for that particular
outburst.  Your reward for being married to the jerk.  But, seriously,
over time I hope you'll stop trying to carry the load all on your
own."

"I'm independent, sir."

"Tell me about it.  So don't freak out that I'm calling to give you a
heads-up.  T. J. Caffrey just called.  He's rabid.  Seems your defense
attorney has subpoenaed him to the prelim."

I couldn't say I was surprised.  Slip knew he stood little chance of
getting the case kicked at a prelim.  He was trying to give us a
preview of the mess he'd create for us at trial.  Fortunately, Duncan's
own trial experience wasn't too far in the past for him to recognize it
was inevitable too.

"I told him there was nothing I could do," he said, "but his attorney
wants a courtesy sit-down with you tomorrow morning.  I told him you'd
oblige."

It gave me something to look forward to.

Nine.

Grace had left a voice mail while I was in Duncan's office.  "Hey,
Sammikins.  Want to grab some dinner tonight?  And before you say
you're busy, I'm just warning you; you're turning into one of those
women who dump their girlfriends when they're getting laid.  I'm
thinking cocktails and truffle fries."

That could only mean one place: 750 ml, a cool but cozy Pearl District
wine bar.  Even though we were the only declasse martini drinkers in
the joint, the main attraction was the french fries tossed in white
truffle oil.

Grace likes her drinks the color of Maybelline nail polish, and this
week's preference was a ginger-infused something or another.  Beach
vacations aside, I usually stick with the standards, switching
periodically between my favorite gin and my favorite vodka.  Tonight,
Bombay Sapphire beat out Grey Goose.

I tried to fight Grace when she told the bartender to jazz it up for
me, but Grace just couldn't help herself.  When a guy's that gorgeous,
she'll find any excuse to talk to him.

He turned away to muck up a perfectly good olive by stuffing it with
bleu cheese, and Grace's eyes were anywhere but on me.  "Ahem, my dear,
but I do believe you accused me today of ignoring my girlfriend in
favor of the boy du jour."

"Well, in your case, that'd be the boy du decade."

It dawned on me that her jab was accurate.  Literally.  Truly
pathetic.

"Now does this mean we're going to have an evening without the boy
talk?"  she asked.

"Unless you've got something."

She eyed the bartender again.  "Not yet," she said, smiling and taking
another sip of her pink drink.  In truth, Grace has a fairly routine
dating life, but she enjoys hamming up the sex goddess persona.  "So
why didn't I hear from you last night?  Another evening with Chuck?"

"I'm afraid so.  We're moving toward boring domesticity remarkably
quickly."

I thought about mentioning the weirdness with my father, but talking
about it would only upset me more.  The truth was, I knew I'd been
keeping myself busy to avoid calling him.  Part of me was afraid he
might actually tell me whatever he was holding back.  From the look on
his face the other night, it seemed pretty disturbing.

Instead, I talked about work, confessing my guilt over the accusatory
tone I'd used the previous day with Susan Kerr.

"Susan Kerr with sort of wild brown hair?  A little older than us?"

"Wild to you, maybe, but take a look at who you're talking to.
Actually, she had it pulled back when I saw her."

"That's because her hair's completely uncontrollable.  She's a
client."

"What do you think of her?"

"She's awesome my kind of chick.  Did you really accuse her of sleeping
with her dead friend's husband?  I don't even want to think about how
she handled that."

"No, luckily I kept that suspicion to myself and found out the visit
was perfectly innocuous.  But I did ask whether she thought it was
possible Clarissa was having an affair."

"I suspect even that was enough to set her off."  It was.

Grace shrugged her shoulders.  "She always speaks her mind.  She
started coming in probably a year before her husband died, right around
the time I opened.  When word started to leak he was losing it, she was
ferociously protective.  I remember her telling me about this one woman
who was the source of most of the gossip.  Susan found out the cow had
a nasty little coke habit, cornered her in the gym, and threatened to
out her unless she started singing another tune."

"I didn't realize the two of you were so close."

"We're not," she said with a laugh.  "But that's what Susan's like an
open book.  Hell, she seemed proud of it, and why shouldn't she be? She
was sticking up for her husband.  The sad part is, I heard later that
the husband got wind of what she'd done and had the nerve to take her
to task for it.  Rumor is, Susan got so pissed at the ungrateful fuck
she flung his humidor of Cubans into the fireplace."

"I guess I'll try not to make her mad," I said.  "She's worried that
the trial's going to turn into an attack on Clarissa's character."

"And, of course, there's no chance of that, right?"  Grace asked
facetiously.

"Let's just say between Susan Kerr and you the other day at Greek
Cusina, I've gotten the message."

She touched my forearm and smiled.  "I'm just giving you a hard time,
sweetie.  I know you do what you can.  What else has been going on?  Oh
my God, I almost forgot to ask any run-ins with Shoe Boy?"

I gave her a blow-by-blow of Roger's visit to the office.

"You had quite the busy day today, didn't you?  Have another
martini."

A second wouldn't kill me.  "He's screwing up my judgment.  I feel
total confidence in my case against Jackson.  Then he pisses me off,
and I find myself wanting to complicate things, just so we're not on
the same side."

"Sorry, hon, but it doesn't sound like there's much to complicate.  I
believe this one's what your buddies call a slam dunk."

I told her what Mrs.  Jackson said about her son's sudden employment at
a well-funded suburban construction site.

Grace shook her head.  "That's probably not unusual.  Development out
there has gotten so out of control it's attracting some pretty low-rent
people.  I wouldn't be surprised if some little outfit got in over its
head and tried to trim the budget by hiring the cheapest labor it could
find."

"Well, I'll tell you what complicates things.  One of Griffith's
political cronies has been subpoenaed by the defense and is going to
raise a stink tomorrow."

"Holy shit, Samantha.  If this case gets any hotter, you're going to
wind up on Court TV."

"No, Grace, you can't give me a new haircut."  She was disappointed
that I'd seen right through her.  It takes more than a martini or two
before I let her get too creative.

"So who's the crony?"

"I really can't say, Grace."

"Oh, yes, you will.  You can't tell me a little, then not disclose.
Against the rules."

It was pretty sensitive information, but, hell, this was Grace.  We
told each other everything.  I even told her about my most embarrassing
trial story, the time I reached into my suit jacket for my Sharpie pen
and pulled out a Tampax instead.  She never told a soul.

I leaned in so close to her ear that I almost fell off my bar stool.
She was shocked.

"Oh .. . my .. . God.  And he's supposed to be such a do-gooder."

"Maybe they're all pigs."

"Don't be bitter," she said, throwing her maraschino cherry stem at me.
Chewing on another french fry, she said, "Now if you're looking for
coincidences, he'd be what you're looking for."

"Maybe I should have passed up that second drink, because I'm not
following."

"You know.  The thing with the Metro Council."

I didn't know.

"A second ago, you said it was a coincidence that a fringy guy like
Jackson was working on the Glenville site.  But the real coincidence is
that your defendant dumped the victim on a property that's smack dab in
the middle of a Metro controversy."

"What's that office park got to do with Metro?"

"I told you all about this at Greek Cusina.  Remember?  The second
Lockworks I was going to open?  Not to be rude, Sam, but sometimes I
could swear that you can't chew and listen at the same time.  And given
the way we eat, that could be a major problem."

"Hey!  I was listening.  You weren't sure if the growth was going to
continue, but prices were already high, so you backed off."

"Right," she said, "and the reason prices are so high is that everyone
thinks Metro's going to expand the urban growth boundary right in that
area.  Hell, if Metro doesn't expand the boundary, I wouldn't be
surprised if prices actually fell out there."

"You didn't say anything about Metro before.  They're not really going
to change the urban growth boundary, are they?"  I asked.

"Do you pay any attention whatsoever to the local news?"  she asked.
I'd gotten spoiled during the few years that my local paper was The New
York Times, so I haven't given it up.  In theory, I'm extremely well
informed because I subscribe to it as well as the Oregonian.  Grace,
however, knew my habit of getting absorbed in the Times crossword
puzzle before ever hitting the local paper's metro page.

"Of course I do," I said.  "I know I was featured prominently in
several stories about a month ago.  And Monday I watched Gloria Flick's
report on the Easterbrook case, not to mention Shoe Boy's press
conference."

"Man, Gloria Flicks annoying."

"Damn straight.  It's the price I pay for being so impressively well
informed."

"So you must know that Metro is talking about expanding the urban
growth boundary."

Anywhere else in the country, that statement would sound a little like
You must know that Spock's Starfleet service number was S179-276.  But
to people who live in my city, the urban growth boundary is the secret
ingredient in Portland's warm gooey cinnamon bun.  The city's strong
neighborhood feel is what makes this place special, and those
neighborhoods would be gone by now if not for Metro.

I had read about proposals to expand the boundary by more than two
thousand acres but assumed it would never happen.  Grace informed me
otherwise.

"The assumption is that it will happen.  The population has exploded.
It will be a close vote, but everyone thinks the time is ripe for
expansion, and the place where it's most likely to happen is in
Glenville.  The land outside the boundary there is nothing special, so
the theory is that Metro can hand it over to developers without pissing
off the greens too much.  Unfortunately, the rest of the market shares
that same theory.  For the last couple of years, buyers have been
gobbling up land in the area on the gamble that the growth's going to
spread.  And from what you told me about your office park, it's right
at the line.  I wouldn't be surprised if the same owner bought the
adjacent rural land."

"So if the line moves," I said, "the owner cleans up.  And T. J.
Caffrey's one of eleven votes."

"Not only that, he's one of the swing votes.  He's good on the
environment, but he's pro-business.  In exchange for his vote, he can
probably set the terms about where the line gets moved."

That was definitely a coincidence.  I was suddenly looking forward to
my morning meeting pardon me, my "courtesy sit-down."

I called it a relatively early night so I could get some work done at
home and rescue Vinnie from boredom.

The only message on the machine was from Chuck.  "If it's not too late
when you get back, give me a call if you want me to come over.
Otherwise, have a good night, and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Apparently, Grace wasn't the only one resenting the time I'd been
devoting to Chuck.  Vinnie seemed pleased when I stayed put and
continued scratching him ferociously behind his goofy bat ears.  When
he finally started in with his familiar snorting sounds, I knew I was
back in his good graces.  I'd been so neglectful lately that I let him
stay on my lap with his Gumby while I prepped the Jackson prelim.  If
only my father were so easy to assuage.

Maybe it was the second martini, but my thoughts kept wandering to one
of the seemingly inconsequential questions I would ask Ray Johnson as
background.  "Where was Clarissa Easterbrook's body located?"

I fished my office phone directory out of my briefcase and left a
message for Jenna Markson, a paralegal in the child support enforcement
unit who was known for her dedication and investigative skills.  Maybe
she could satisfy my curiosity.

Seven thirty a.m. was the time Duncan had promised, so there I stood on
Friday morning in the office's front lobby, waiting for T. J. Caffrey
and his lawyer.  They finally arrived twenty minutes late, wholly
unapologetic for the delay.

I recognized Caffrey from the local paper, but I'd never seen him in
person.  Probably around fifty, he was known for his casual garb, but
today he'd chosen a suit and tie that looked good with his
salt-and-pepper hair.  He was a bit of a chubster, but I could see the
attraction.

The man running the show, though, was Ronald Fish.  A high-priced,
high-power trial attorney, Fish was the guy CEOs called in a pinch,
whether it was for corporate mismanagement or a sixteen-year-old girl
in the backseat.  He didn't even bother introducing himself.  He was
big enough in the civil litigation world that he assumed every lawyer
in the city already knew who he was and maybe he was right.

I checked my posture while I led them into the conference room.  In my
sling backs, I edged out the notoriously napoleonic power broker by a
full inch.  He straightened his trademark bow tie.  I chose to
interpret the nervous gesture as a very small leveling of the playing
field.

Make that a very, very small leveling.  Fish was ready to go the second
I shut the door.

"I won't take up your time, Ms.  Kincaid, because I know you've got a
court appearance to prepare for.  I was hoping I could convince you to
support Mr.  Caffrey's motion to quash the subpoena.  Duncan sounded
amenable to it when I spoke with him yesterday."

I noticed that the spineless Mr.  Caffrey had no problem letting his
attorney handle the talking.

"I believe what Duncan was amenable to was a meeting this morning at
seven thirty," I said, glancing at my watch, "as a courtesy to your
client.  As you know, the decision whether to grant your motion is
entirely in the trial court's discretion."

I had spent the early morning researching the issue.  There was no
clear correct legal answer to Caffrey's motion.  Most important from my
perspective, there was no risk the court's ruling on the motion could
lead to a reversal of Jackson's conviction down the road.

"It seems patently obvious to me, Ms.  Kincaid, that it would be in the
government's interest to prevent this Mr.  Sillipcow "

"Szlipkowski," I corrected.

"Yes, this public defender, from deflecting the court's attention from
the very strong evidence against the defendant."

"That's one way to look at it, but I plan on staying out of it."

"I'm not certain how else one could possibly look at it."

"Well," I began, "one might look at the defense's subpoena as an
opportunity to make certain the state's not missing something we should
know about prior to trial.  If, for example, your client was having an
affair with the victim and I'm not saying that he was then one might
believe it better to get that news out in court during the prelim,
rather than having a desperate defense attorney leak it to the media in
the middle of trial."

I watched Caffrey glance at his attorney.  Clearly he could tell this
sit-down was going nowhere.

"Or perhaps," I continued, "one might see this as an opportunity to
make certain, outside of the presence of the jury, that the state isn't
missing some off-the-wall defense theory that might take off at trial.
Something like a connection between the victim being found in Glenville
and Mr.  Caffrey's power to shape the future of suburban development
out there.  I don't know, something like that.  But, again, maybe it's
better heard now rather than later."

I didn't take my eyes off Caffrey's face.  Nothing.

I had no idea what his wooden affect said about his knowledge of the
case or any possible connection between Clarissa and development in
Glenville.  But I knew one thing: I'd never vote for T. J. Caffrey,
whatever his politics.  There was no doubt in my mind that this man had
some kind of relationship with Clarissa.  I had spent the week watching
Tara, Townsend, and Susan struggle with their profound grief.  But here
sat Caffrey observing this discussion like a Wimbledon match.

I excused myself to prepare for court and walked them to the exit.

News crews from all four local stations were waiting in front of the
Justice Center.  Fortunately, they weren't allowed in the courtrooms,
so they only polluted what the attorneys said before and after the main
event.

Slip and Roger were giving competing statements.  Slip was accusing the
police and prosecutors (I guess that would be me) of rushing to
judgment to comfort a nervous public that was demanding a quick arrest.
Roger, on the other hand, was grateful that the police had finally
gotten around to catching the right man.

When the cameras rushed over to me, I gave them the standard
prosecutorial line.  We're confident about the evidence, wouldn't be
going forward if we weren't, blah blah blah.  Because of the ethical
rules that govern the public statements of prosecutors, we never get to
say the good stuff.

Once we were in JC-3 before Judge Prescott, it was a whole other story.
In a prelim, the prosecutor runs the show, since the only relevant
question is whether the state's evidence, if believed in its entirety
by a jury, could support a conviction.  Slip most likely would try to
get some free discovery by squeezing in as much cross-examination as
Prescott would tolerate, but he'd know there was little to gain by
grandstanding this early in the process.  Roger was completely
irrelevant, sitting next to Townsend with the other observers.  I
couldn't help but wonder how much he was charging.

I wheeled my chair toward Slip.  "You subpoenaed Caffrey, huh?  I
assume you know that he'll move to quash."

"His lawyer wants to wait until I actually call Caffrey to the stand.
He's probably making sure it's not a bluff.  I told him I'd call him
when you were done presenting your evidence, so they wouldn't have to
wait."

"Hate to break it to you, Slip, but I doubt your courtesy's going to be
enough to win Ronald Fish over."

"I'm a good guy.  What can I say?"

Prescott took the bench and called the case.  Every other judge in the
county lets the prosecutor call the case, and we do it in about five
seconds flat, the words so routine that the court reporter has no
problems keeping up with the pace.  But Prescott treated even this
routine function like a constitutional moment.

When she was finally done, it was my turn for a quick opening
statement.

"Thank you, your honor.  Deputy District Attorney Samantha Kincaid for
the state.  As your honor is well aware, the only question here is
whether the state has sufficient evidence to hold the defendant over
for trial on the pending Aggravated Murder charge.  The ultimate
decision regarding the defendant's guilt must be made by the jury at
trial, and the jury is entitled to make its own determinations about
credibility.  Accordingly, the standard for today's hearing requires
the court to credit as true all testimony that benefits the state, and
to discredit any contradictory evidence from the defense, even if that
would not be your own assessment of the evidence were you to sit in
this case as a juror."

I went ahead and cited the controlling cases for good measure.  I would
never spell out the governing law as thoroughly for a more experienced
judge, but Prescott was still learning the basics of criminal law.  The
last thing I needed was for her to substitute her own opinion for the
jury's because I forgot to cover Criminal Procedure 101.

I gave a brief outline of the critical evidence and then called Ray
Johnson to the stand.

Ray looked dapper, as usual, in a lavender dress shirt and black
three-button suit.  Half that man's salary must go to the Saks men's
department.  He had removed the diamond stud from his ear for his
testimony.  Good call, given Prescott's transition from a corporate
culture.

We covered the evidence quickly despite our judicial assignment.  I
wasn't asking any questions that were objectionable, so there was no
reason for Prescott to get involved.

In straightforward question and answer format, Johnson and I covered
the critical points: Jackson's pending case, the letters he'd written
to Clarissa, the paint on Griffey and in Jackson's van, his employment
at the site where the body had been located, his statements, and the
weapon.  My criminologist would cover the fingerprint and blood
evidence.  It was more than enough.

I had decided to keep it simple.  Since we weren't alleging a sexual
assault as part of the charges, getting into the nonoxynol-9 and the
ME's opinion that Clarissa had been undressed when she was killed would
only muck it up.  If Slip chose to get into those complications, he ran
the risk of making his client look like a rapist and not just a
murderer.  Down the road, I'd have to worry about a jury thinking that
Clarissa's nudity was inconsistent with Jackson's motivation of
revenge.  But even a judge as inexperienced as Prescott knew that rape
was about exercising power over the victim, not sex.

I wasn't surprised when Slip chose to cross.  One of the only benefits
to the defense of a prelim is the chance to test the state's case and
its witnesses in advance of trial.  Here, Slip could risk asking
Johnson questions that might backfire if asked for the first time at
trial in front of the jury.  Some judges would cut off a prelim fishing
expedition at the start, but I knew Prescott would give Slip some
line.

"Good afternoon, Detective Johnson.  My name is Graham Szlipkowsky, and
I represent Mr.  Jackson."

It sounded funny to hear Slip pronounce his full name.  It had been a
couple of years since we'd had a formal hearing together.

"You arrested my client late on Tuesday night, is that right?"

"That's correct.  Technically, it was Wednesday morning."

"When you woke up on Tuesday morning, did you believe that my client
killed Clarissa Easterbrook?"

"I believed it was a possibility, yes."

Johnson was wasting his witness skills.  He's a master of spin, which
helps in front of a jury.  In a bench hearing, it was better to cut
through the crap.

"But you didn't believe you had probable cause, did you?  Or surely you
would have arrested him."

No doubt about it.  Slip was good.

"Prior to Tuesday evening, we had not yet made a determination of
probable cause, against Mr.  Jackson or anyone else."

"You said you thought it was possible on Tuesday morning that Mr.
Jackson killed Clarissa Easterbrook.  Who else would you say that
about?"

"Any number of people," Johnson said.  "We had not yet identified a
suspect, so at that point anyone was a possible suspect."

"How about the president of the United States.  Was he a suspect?"

"Not a likely one," Johnson said.  He threw me a look to let me know he
thought I should have objected, but he was going to have to sit through
it.  Judges are insulted by objections during a bench hearing.  If the
question's absurd, they believe they should be trusted to disregard it
on their own.  Slip's rhetorical question definitely fell within that
camp.

"What about the victim's husband, Townsend Easterbrook?  Isn't it true
that he was still a possible suspect?"

"I wouldn't call him a suspect."

Johnson was falling into the pattern that a lot of cops get into on the
stand.  They're so suspicious of defense attorneys that they fight
every point, even those that aren't damaging.

"But it's true, isn't it, that you were looking at him as a
possibility?"  Slip asked.

"We were interested in him, as we are always interested in anyone close
to a murder victim.  But, in this case, we were interested in excluding
Dr.  Easterbrook beyond any doubt, so we could focus the investigation
on more likely subjects.  Once he took the poly "

I wasn't surprised when Slip cut him off with the objection.  Johnson
knew better than that.  Polygraph results are inadmissible, whether
it's at trial or in a preliminary hearing.  It was an easy call, even
for Prescott.  "Sustained.  Do that in front of a jury, Detective
Johnson, and it's a mistrial.  Mr.  Szlip-kowsky, you can be assured
that I will disregard the witness's mention of any polygraph
examination that may have taken place."

"OK," Slip said, getting back on track.  "So the husband was someone
you were 'interested in," in your words.  What about Terrence Caffrey?
Were you looking at him?"

"I was in the process of trying to contact Mr.  Caffrey when the
evidence started to snowball against your client."

Johnson was giving Slip a preview of what he could expect at trial if
he pushed too hard on the stand.  A defense attorney's worst nightmare
is a cop who can turn any question into an opportunity to prejudice the
defendant.

"Your honor, please instruct witness to answer the questions presented
to him without editorializing."

Prescott flipped through the large binder she keeps with her on the
bench, then told Johnson, "Please refrain from providing nonresponsive
information."

See, that thing about the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth isn't quite right.  Witnesses are only allowed to provide the
truth when it's been specifically requested.

"Isn't it true that you were trying to contact Mr.  Caffrey to
determine if he was involved in Ms.  Easterbrook's murder?"

"No, I wouldn't put it like that."

"Since semantics seem so important to you this morning, Detective
Johnson, why don't you tell us why you were trying to talk to Mr.
Caffrey?"

"To determine whether he had relevant information."

"Isn't it true that you found Mr.  Caffrey s name in Ms.  Easterbrook's
phone records?"

"No, that is not true."

"Excuse me.  Isn't it true that you located a telephone number in Ms.
Easterbrook's phone records that you subsequently determined to be
associated with Mr.  Caffrey?"

"That's correct," Johnson conceded.  He was having a little too much
fun.  I'd need to talk to him about playing lawyer on the stand.

"And isn't it true that those records showed multiple calls between Mr.
Caffrey s telephone number and Ms.  Easterbrook's cellular phone?"

"Yes."

"And isn't it also true that you have evidence that Ms.  Easter-brook
had sexual relations with someone other than her husband?"

"If one considers rape sexual relations, then one could draw that
inference, yes."

"I'm sorry, Detective Johnson, are you saying that you are certain
beyond doubt that Ms.  Easterbrook was raped?"

"No, but that is one possibility, and I was uncomfortable describing
that possibility as one involving what you called sexual relations."

"Let's talk a little bit about what that evidence is," Slip said.  "In
the autopsy of Ms.  Easterbrook, the medical examiner found an anti
spermicide gel within her vaginal canal.  Correct?"

"That's correct."

"A gel that's often associated with condoms?"

"Yes."

"And, according to Ms.  Easterbrook's husband, the two of them did not
use condoms or any such gel in the course of their own marital
relations, is that right?"

The question clearly called for hearsay.  Under the rules, if Slip
wanted to introduce something Townsend said as true, he had to get it
from Townsend.  But I'd been hoping to spare him from testifying.  I
let it slide without objection, and Johnson conceded the point.

"Is it fair to say, Detective Johnson, that you at least wondered
whether Ms.  Easterbrook and Mr.  Caffrey were engaged in an
extramarital affair?"

"I considered it a possibility."

"In light of what was at least the possible connection between Mr.
Caffrey and the victim, did you ever question him to determine whether
he had relevant evidence?"

"No, I did not," Johnson said.

"Did you try to?"  Slip asked.

"Yes."

"How so?"

"I left a message on Tuesday afternoon with his scheduling
assistant."

I hadn't realized that Johnson had gotten around to making that call.
He must have seen to it right after the MCT meeting, before he learned
that Jackson worked in Glenville.

"Did you tell the assistant that you were calling about Ms.
Easterbrook?"  Slip asked.

"No, I did not."

"Did you tell the assistant anything about the nature of the call?"

"I believe I told him that I was calling about a pending criminal
investigation."

"A murder investigation?"

"No, I would not have said that.  Just a criminal investigation."

"Is that a fairly standard message that you leave when you're trying to
reach a potential witness?"

"Yes."

"And is there a reason why you say the call relates to a pending
criminal investigation, rather than just leave your name and number?"

"Sure.  Lets them know I'm not just fund-raising for the PBA.  Makes it
more likely I get a prompt callback."

"And, in this case, did you get your prompt callback?"

"I have not spoken with Mr.  Caffrey."

So the respectable T. J. Caffrey was a total slime.  What does it say
about a man's character when he'd hide from his lover's murder
investigation just to cover his own ass?  It did not, however, make him
a murderer.

"So if I understand you correctly," Slip said, "a man who may have been
having a special relationship with the victim on a murder case did not
call you back, even though he knew you were trying to contact him about
a pending criminal investigation.  Is that right?"

"That's correct.  But I have no way of knowing he got the message."

"Maybe we'll find that out later," Slip said.  "After Mr.  Caffrey
failed to get in touch with you after you left this message with his
assistant, did you continue your efforts to reach him?"

"No, I did not."

"To be clear," Slip said, "Terrence Caffrey is a member of the elected
Metro Council, correct?"

"That's correct."

"Did that have anything to do with your decision not to continue your
efforts to contact him about this case?"

"No, it did not."

Slip looked and sounded incredulous.  "If it wasn't because of this
man's power and political influence, why then did you not want to speak
with him, given what is at least the appearance of a close and
unexplained relationship between him and the victim?"

A tip to defense attorneys: Don't ever ask a cop a question that begins
with why.  It's an invitation for a subjective opinion and a quick way
to sink your client.  Johnson batted it out of the park.  "I stopped
trying to reach Caffrey when it became clear to me that your client
murdered Clarissa Easterbrook.  To question him at that point about the
nature of his association with her would have been exploitative, more
like daytime television than a legitimate investigation.  Or maybe a
defense attorney."

Slip was on his feet immediately, but even Prescott knew that Johnson's
answer was, just as Slip had requested, responsive.

My next witness was Heidi Chung from the crime lab.  Heidi must be
pushing forty but could be mistaken for a teenager.  In trial, I always
spend some time on her impressive credentials to be certain that the
jurors understand that she's a pro.  Prescott, however, had seen Chung
enough to know she knew her stuff.

By the time Heidi was done, there could be no doubt about it.  The
hammer Johnson pulled from Jackson's closet had been the one that
killed Clarissa, and two of the unidentified latent prints pulled from
the Easterbrooks' door knocker had been left by Jackson's right index
and middle fingers.

Slip couldn't do much to Heidi on cross.  Sure, there were no prints on
the hammer, but wiping down a weapon is easy and a lot more obvious
than remembering to clean the door knocker.

When he was done, I rested.  Given my low standard of proof, there was
no point giving him a look at my entire case in chief and a chance to
test all my witnesses for weak spots.  And, thankfully, there was no
need to call Townsend to the stand.  I'd managed to cover all the
important stuff with my two pros.

Even though he had told me about his intentions all along, part of me
was still surprised when Slip told Prescott he'd be calling witnesses
before we moved to arguments.  I half thought he was bluffing, since he
had absolutely nothing to gain from the move.  The judge was
essentially required to disregard any testimony that helped the
defense, since at trial it was possible that the jurors would not find
it credible.

Maybe Slip was using the prelim as a formal version of the usual
posturing that goes on between the prosecution and the defense: trying
to make his case look good in the hope of getting me to give Jackson a
plea.  Or maybe he hoped Prescott was inexperienced enough to make the
call herself.

"Call your first witness, Mr.  Szlipkowsky."

"There's one complication, your honor.  One of my witnesses is moving
to quash the subpoena I served on him yesterday.  If I may make a
suggestion, perhaps I could call just one witness now, and we could
take up the motion to quash after a lunch recess."

"That would be fine.  Please proceed."  That simple plan would have
taken Prescott fifteen minutes to conjure on her own.

"The defense calls Nelly Giacoma."

Unlike Ray, Nelly hadn't toned down the fashion statements for the
courtroom.  I watched Judge Prescott eye her from head to toe, pausing
extra long for the ankle tattoo.  I couldn't wait until Prescott
learned that this funky chick with a nose ring and hot-pink pixie cut
was a law school graduate.  And I couldn't wait to hear what Nelly
could possibly offer to the case.

Slip's initial questions established Nelly's working relationship with
Clarissa and her job responsibilities.  Bo-ring.

Then he pulled out a document, a move that never fails to get my
attention.

"Do you recognize this document, Ms.  Giacoma?"

"Yes.  It's a letter to Judge Easterbrook that I received at the office
on Wednesday."

Slip gave me a copy and had the original marked as evidence.  I
recognized the scrawl from the other letters he'd written.  This one
was comparatively brief:

Dear Judge,

What does it take to get your at tension  I am making good money and
have proof to show you.  I will do ALL I can do to save my family.
PLEASE understand that.

"The letter is signed Melvin Jackson, is that correct?"  Slip asked.

"Yes."

"And it relates to a pending case about his eviction from public
housing."

"It's a threat relating to his pending case, yes."

Nelly was growing on me.  I have an affinity for women who talk back.
The letter was indeed a threat, very much like the ones Jackson had
been sending for weeks.

"And is this the envelope that the letter arrived in?"  Slip asked.

I restrained myself from objecting to the dangling preposition and
waited while Slip marked the envelope as evidence.

"Yes."

"Could you please identify the date on the envelope's postmark?"

Nelly did.  The date was the previous Monday, the morning after
Clarissa died.

The panic was momentary.  After a few seconds, Slip's cheap trick was
apparent.  I used my cross to make sure the judge saw it too.

"Hi, Nelly.  Samantha Kincaid.  We met earlier this week."

"I remember."

"You've used the mail before, right?"

"Of course."

"And in your experience, are post offices open on Saturday nights and
Sundays?"

"No, they're not."

"So a letter mailed on Saturday evening would be postmarked "

"On Monday."

A lunch hour from a court hearing isn't much of a break.  In an office
where we're each entirely on our own, each precious minute of recess
must be spent on the research and follow-up that supporting attorneys
would do in a large law firm.  Every time I go to trial, I lose a few
pounds from the combination of adrenaline and starvation.

I stopped at the mini-mart on my way into the courthouse and grabbed a
Diet Coke, yogurt, and banana.  I wolfed down the food in the elevator
and sneaked the Diet Coke into the law library.  I spent half an hour
in the stacks, confirming the research I had done on Caffrey's motion
to quash.  This would be a fight between Caffrey and Slip.  If Prescott
asked for my opinion, I'd cite the cases I found, making it clear that
it was entirely in her discretion.

Before I left again for the Justice Center, I ran up to my office to
check messages.

The first was from Susan Kerr.  "Hi, Samantha.  Susan Kern I'm sorry to
bother you again.  I know you're busy, but I didn't know who else to
talk to.  Can you call me if you have a chance?  Thanks."  I hit the
nine button to save the message, then went to the next one.  It was
from Jenna Markson, the child-support paralegal I had called last
night.

"Hi, Samantha.  It's Jenna.  I had a chance to run that property you
asked about when I was doing some other record searches.  The owner's a
corporation called Gunderson Development, Incorporated.  I checked with
the corporate registry division of the Secretary of State, and the
registered officer is a guy named Larry Gunderson."

I scribbled his name and the name of his company on a Post-it note
while I listened to the rest of Jenna's message.

"I went ahead and ran his financials.  It looks like he was a bit of a
wheeler-dealer until he went Chapter Eleven about ten years ago.  My
guess is that Gunderson Development is little more than Mr.  Gunderson
himself.  Let me know if you need anything else.  Oh, and Samantha,
don't tell anyone else I ran the financials.  We only have access to
that database for child-support investigations."

Now I understood why the attorneys all rave about Jenna.  She'd
probably been running defendants for everyone in the office, telling
each of them it was an exception.

I looked at my watch.  I only had three minutes to get my butt out of
the courthouse, across the street, and into the Justice Center, but
Grace's comments about the Glenville property last night were still
bothering me.

I hit six to respond to Jenna's message.  At the beep, I said, "Hey,
Jenna.  Samantha Kincaid in Major Crimes.  Thanks for the information
on Gunderson.  Could you do me one more favor?  Can you see who owns
the adjacent parcels?  Sorry for the extra work, but I forgot to bring
it up earlier."

I hit the pound key twice to send the message, hung up, and grabbed
what I needed for court, making a vow to myself as I ran out the door.
If Gunderson didn't own the rural property beyond the urban growth
boundary, I'd let it drop.

Ten.

Word must have spread about T. J. Caffrey, because the TV crews were
back.  Asked to comment on the anticipated motion to quash, I said I
was not going to address matters that had not yet been brought to
court.  It sounded more civilized than, "You mean that coward s motion
to squirm out of testifying?  No comment."

Back in the courtroom, I noticed that Roger had returned without his
client.  Under the circumstances, I couldn't blame Townsend for wanting
to avoid sitting in the same room with Caffrey.

When the motion was argued, I stayed out of it as planned, but I found
myself rooting for Slip.  As much as I hated the idea of letting the
defense use Caffrey as a distraction, I deplored even more the idea of
Caffrey invoking the legal process to protect his ass politically.
Fish's polka-dotted bow tie wasn't helping matters.

I watched Caffrey occasionally catch himself chewing his lower lip
while his attorney argued the motion.  When Fish had finished his
presentation, he summarized his principal point.  "Your honor, Mr.
Szlipkowski's subpoena would add nothing to this case other than an
opportunity to question a high-profile public figure under oath about
private matters, a spectacle that should be permitted only if there is
a clear showing of the need for the information.  Mr.  Szlipkowski has
made no showing at all, let alone a clear one.  Put simply, even if he
were to establish what he alleges a contention that we are not
conceding it would have no bearing whatsoever on the question of Mr.
Jackson's guilt."

Put simply, Fish was insinuating that the subpoena was setting up a
political perjury trap.  He couldn't have spun it any better,
especially for a big party Democrat like Prescott.  There wasn't a soul
among the party faithful who wasn't wary about demanding answers about
sex under oath.

Slip did his best, but in the end, it was all a big so-what?  So what
if Clarissa and Caffrey talked?  So what if they were even boffing each
other?  There was no other reason to believe that Caffrey knew anything
about Clarissa's murder.

Except, of course, that nagging coincidence that she was found and
Jackson worked at a property whose value would be determined by T. J.
Caffrey's vote.

Prescott being Prescott, she had to take a break in chambers before
issuing her ruling.  When she finally retook the bench, it was clear
that Fish's spin had taken.  She quashed the subpoena, thanked Caffrey
for being present in the event she had decided otherwise, and told him
he was free to leave.

Hopefully, the news crews would be waiting for him outside, yelling the
questions on the street that he'd bullied his way out of in the
courtroom.

Slip had played his last card.  He did his best to gnaw away at the
medical examiner's report, arguing that the state should be barred from
proceeding until they reconciled their theory of the case with the fact
that Clarissa had been dressed after she was killed.  But, in the end,
we all knew that wasn't the law.  He'd have to do that kind of gnawing
in front of the jury.

"Does the defense have any more witnesses?"  Prescott asked.

"Not for this afternoon, your honor," Slip replied, "but we had assumed
that the hearing would continue until Monday.  I would like to have the
weekend to reconsider.  As your honor knows, the parties were given
only a day to prepare by Judge Levinson."

Any other judge in the courthouse would have ripped Slip a new one for
assuming anything about the length of the hearing.  To judges who have
forgotten what it's like to practice, the lack of time to prepare is
never an excuse for a lack of preparation.

Prescott, however, had no problem with it.  "I was planning on taking
the weekend to consider my decision, so here's what we'll do: Reconvene
here Monday morning at nine.  If either party wishes to submit
additional evidence, the record remains open.  Otherwise, I will
announce my decision then.  And, in the event that it makes a
difference to the lawyers, I have formed a tentative opinion based on
what I've heard today."

She was sending a message to Slip.  He was going down in flames, but
she was going to give him a reprieve before pulling the trigger.

Slip caught up with me on the staircase.  "What'd you think about
Caffrey?"

"He's a skunk, Slip, but he's not your murderer.  For your sake, you
might want to reconsider your Plan B before trial."

"Maybe Plan B is for the two of us to sit down and talk.  Got time for
a drink after work?"

"Sure.  Right at five?"  I'd been up late enough the night before
working on the prelim.  I wasn't about to spend my entire Friday night
talking about the case.

"Meet you at Higgin's.  You still drinking martinis straight up?"

"Damn straight."

"You're my kind of woman, Kincaid."

"Let's see what you've got to say after we have our little chat."

Whatever Slip's plan had been for the prelim, it had clearly failed.
Prescott may have thrown him a line, but we both knew he was in no
position to grab it.  I was sure the meeting at Hig-gin's would be a
fish for a plea.

I had three new voice mails back at the office.  The first was from
Jenna Markson.  "It's Jenna again about your question on the property
adjacent to your crime scene.  You were right.  Gun-derson Development
owns another hundred and twenty acres west of the property he's
building on.  Gunderson purchased all the land at once as four separate
parcels.  You probably already know this, but the other parcels are
mandatory rural.  That's probably why he's not building on them."

At least, not until they were re designated as ripe for development.

"I'm sending my printouts about this to you interoffice mail," she
said.  "Let me know if you need anything else."

The next message was from Nelly.  "This is Nelly Giacoma.  Judge
Easterbrook's clerk?  I testified today in the hearing you had on
Jackson?"

I've noticed that the people I remember assume I don't know them, while
the people I've forgotten think we're best pals.

"I overheard something after the hearing and think I should talk to you
about it.  I'm at City Hall right now, but I'm leaving in a few
minutes."  She had left her home telephone number and asked me to call
over the weekend.  I noted the time of her message, only fifteen
minutes ago.  Maybe I could still catch her.

The third call was from Russell Frist.  "I just got done with my grand
jury.  Looks like you're still out, so I'm assuming you're still in
your prelim.  Jesus, with Prescott running the show, she might hold you
over until Monday.  Anyway, I was calling to see if you were up to
having a drink after work.  Let me know how it went."

As much as I was warming to my new boss, fifty-plus hours a week at the
courthouse is enough time for me to talk with my coworkers.  I'd update
him on the case, but we'd do it on the clock.

First, I was calling Nelly.  The voice that answered sounded flustered.
"Oh, I'm glad you caught me.  I was just about to leave, and I was
worried you'd call while I was out running around."

"Well, it sounded important."

"I don't know whether it is or not, but I really can't talk about it
here.  Can you meet me somewhere?"

I looked at my watch.  If I was going to make my meeting with Slip, it
was going to have to be quick.  "Can you leave right now?  The SBC
behind the courthouse?"

Seattle's Best Coffee isn't my usual choice, but it was only steps
away.

"Meet on the other side of the elevators in the building lobby," she
said.  "It's less likely someone will see us there."

I dialed the general number for MCT.  Nelly might want to sneak around
like the Spy Kids, but I'd need a witness for whatever was about to go
down.  It was probably nothing, but attorneys can't testify in their
own cases.  With my luck, Nelly would show up and confess.

"Forbes."

"Chuck, it's Samantha.  Is Ray around?"

"That's all I get?  I never heard from you last night."

"Sorry.  When I got back from dinner, I still had a bunch of work to
do.  And right now I really need to talk to Ray.  Is he around?"

"Nope.  Might've left already."  Their usual shift, which they rarely
could stick to, ended at four.

"Is anyone else there?"

"You mean someone other than me?  Sure, there's bodies here."

"Anyone on the Jackson case?  Walker or Calabrese?"

"Sorry, babe, just me.  I'm getting the feeling that's not the answer
you're looking for."

Damn.  I had tried to minimize Chuck's involvement on the case, but now
I didn't have much of a choice.  I told him I didn't have time to
explain anything but needed him to meet me and Nelly.

"Far as the department's concerned, the case is cleared, Sam.  The
lieutenant will look at any OT we put in on it, and that might ripple
back to your office.  You sure?"

See, this is why it's not wise for us to work together.  His heart was
in the right place, but Chuck was questioning my judgment when any
other cop would be happy at the chance for easy time-and-a-half.  "You
don't need to tell me how it works.  Just meet me over there."

When he got to the corner where I was waiting, he tried to give me a
peck on the lips, but I held a hand up.

I led the way up the escalator to the main lobby.  Nelly was already
waiting.

She was visibly alarmed that I wasn't alone, and seemed even more
uncomfortable when I told her Chuck was a cop.  For a second, I thought
I was going to have to give her the "I'm not your lawyer, so there's no
privilege" speech, but Nelly had obviously been paying attention during
her ethics classes.  "I guess even if I talked just to you, you could
turn around and tell him everything anyway."

"And I would.  Now why don't you go ahead and tell me what's going on.
You sounded pretty worked up on the phone."

She looked around the lobby to confirm that no city hall types were
around.  "I don't know whether to be worked up over it or not.  But
when I got back to the office after I testified, Dennis Coakley was in
Judge Loutrell's office.  He's the chief administrative judge."

I nodded.

"I've been helping him out, now that I'm down to one judge.  Anyway,
they were talking about Judge Easterbrook and were saying something
about privileged information.  I don't think they heard me come in at
first, but then when the phone rang and I answered, they closed the
judge's door."

"Could you tell what kind of information they were talking about?"

"No, but it sounded like the judge thought they should tell you about
it, and Coakley was saying they couldn't because it was privileged."

"They were talking about me specifically?"

"Well, I don't know if Judge Loutrell knew your name, but he said
something about telling the DA, and then Coakley said something like,
"We can't tell her anything that's privileged.""

"And you don't have any idea what they could have been referring to?"

"No.  I knew Coakley had reviewed Judge Easterbrook's files for
privileged materials, but he said he didn't have to remove anything."

Nelly stopped talking, but I could tell from the way she ended the
sentence that she had cut herself off.

"But?"

"I went back to the chambers and searched Judge Easterbrook's office. I
didn't find any files other than the ones you already saw, but I did
find a key."

"To what?"

She reached into her jacket pocket and removed a tiny silver key.  "I
don't know, but it looks like it could fit a safe deposit box.

I found it in the drawer she keeps her personal junk in.  She used to
throw her purse in there during the day with some makeup and a
hairbrush, that kind of thing.

"It's probably nothing," she said, "but I was still getting over my
nerves from testifying, and when I heard them talking about the case
and then shutting the door, I got majorly paranoid.  I was in her
office searching like crazy.  I opened her compact, and this was in the
bottom with the puff.  At the time, it felt important but now I guess
it sounds a little stupid."

It was definitely worth looking into.  Given its location, the key had
clearly been important to Clarissa.  I took it, gave Nelly my home
number, and asked her to call if she overheard anything else about the
case.

"For what it's worth," she said before turning away, "you were great in
court today.  I think Judge Easterbrook would have really trusted you
to handle this case."

Chuck gave me a look but knew me well enough not to comment on the
compliment.  When we were leaving the building, he said, "You'd look
kind of cute with a haircut like that.  Maybe purple instead of the hot
pink."

"You're into that kind of thing, are you?"

"Nope.  Can I have my kiss now?"  he asked.

"Not a chance.  You know my views on PDA."  There is a reason for every
rule, and the reason for this one is that the only adults I ever see
making out in public are ugly.  I doubt there's a cause-and-effect
relationship, but I'd rather not risk it.

He mock-sighed, then turned his attention to the key I was rotating
between my fingers.  "You want me to tag that and put it in the
property room?"

"That's OK.  I'm going to hold on to it."

"Why do I get the feeling that you're about to make some mischief?
After that run-in you had with Johnson the other day,

he's not going to like it if you do anything to mess up what's standing
as a perfectly good case."

So Johnson had told the rest of them about the dress-down.  "And why do
I get the feeling that if Russell Frist made the same call you'd keep
any doubts you had to yourself?"

He looked away for a few seconds.  When he turned back toward me, he
pushed my hair behind my ear and said, "Sorry, Kincaid, but you're so
much cuter than he is.  I'll try to get used to it."

"About that PDA you wanted?"  I said, leaning into him.

"Uh-huh?"

"Come over around nine.  We'll order a pizza, and I'll display some
affection in private."

I had just enough time to touch base with Russell before meeting Slip.
I found him chatting in his office with the other MCU boys.

"Sorry, I'll come back."

"No, that's all right," he said, waving me in.  "Sorry, guys, but we
need to talk about a case real quick."

They all filed out without saying a word to me, clearly disappointed
that they'd have to move the socializing to a smaller office.

"How'd it go today?"

I filled him in on the preliminary hearing and Slip's request to meet
with me at the end of the day.

"He's probably hoping for a quick plea," he said.  "If he offers to
take a life sentence to avoid the death penalty, you're going to find
yourself in a bind.  You want me to come along?"

Duncan hadn't formally announced his decision not to seek a death
sentence, but I knew his mind was made up.  Letting

Jackson enter a plea without that information might not violate the
ethics rules, but it still seemed sleazy.

"That's all right.  It's just talk for now.  I won't make a deal
without running it by you and Duncan."

"Anything else?"  he asked.

I decided not to hold back on him.  I told him about my conversation
with Nelly and the key she'd given me.  "I might ask Johnson to track
it down for me, find out what she was hiding."

"Don't even think about it, Sam.  How many times do I have to tell you?
The case is cleared.  You eat up bureau overtime chasing down what's
probably a stupid luggage key, and there's going to be pressure to rein
you in.  Save us both the headache."

I pulled the key from my pocket and showed it to him.  "It's not a
luggage key.  It looks like it's for a safe deposit box."

"Jesus Christ, Kincaid.  Why isn't that in the police property room?
You can't go lugging evidence around in your pocket.  Get it through
your head: You're the prosecutor, not Jackson's defense attorney.  You
put that in the property room, make sure Slip gets a copy of the
receipt in discovery, and forget about it."

In the spirit of cooperating with my new, relatively decent supervisor,
I would put the key away as instructed, but I wasn't about to forget
about it.

It took the guy in the precinct property room less than five minutes to
add the key to the other evidence seized in the Jackson case and
complete a supplemental report to document the addition.  I pocketed
two photocopies of the supplemental, one for the file and one for some
mischief-making.

Slip was waiting at the bar at Higgin's, looking at his watch.  "You
starting to think I was standing you up?"  "There are a couple of
people in your office who find that sort of thing humorous," he said.

"And do I strike you as one of them?"

"Nope.  That's why I waited."

We ordered our drinks at the bar and found a quiet table in the corner.
Higgin's looks exactly like the kind of bar where you'd expect lawyers
to meet after work to talk cases.  Dark wood, brass fixtures, the
works.

"So how've you been, Sam?  I haven't seen you much since you handed my
ass to me in trial about a year ago."

I wrinkled my nose.  "I don't remember it being quite that bad."

"So tell me the truth.  How many times have you pulled that "Don't take
it out on my case that I'm young' shit?"

"Only with you, Slip.  Had to do something to level the playing field
against your cords and tennies."

I have this thing I do to counteract the shtick that some of the older
attorneys have developed over the years.  In my final closing, I give
the jury my best doe-eyed look, even turning slightly pigeon-toed if I
can get away with it.  Then I say something like, "I might not have as
much trial experience as the defense attorney, but don't take it out on
this case.  The evidence is there, etc.  etc."  It gets the jury back
on track, and is a lot more subtle than saying, "I'm not as slimy as
the rest of these guys."

In my last trial with Slip, he'd gone after my cops on a reverse drug
buy.  I suppose it's the only tack for a defense attorney to take when
his client insists on putting his word against an undercover officer's.
When little innocent me got done with the jury, they saw things the way
they really were.

"Well, it's a cute trick, Kincaid.  I wanted to haul out your power
resume and hold it up against my University of Oregon degree."

"As much as I enjoy your company, Slip, I assume we're not here to
reminisce.  What's up?"

"The Jackson case, of course."

"What about it?"

No attorney ever wants to be the first to say plea.  It's a sign you
don't have faith in your case.  I'd sit here all night if I had to, but
Slip was the one who'd asked for this meeting.

"It's fishy."

Now that was not what I was expecting.

I plucked a ten from my wallet and put it on the table as I stood to
leave.  I had planned on giving Slip the report from the property room
to make sure Clarissa's secret key didn't get lost among the discovery,
but now that I knew his agenda, it was time to go.  That old saying
about family describes how I feel about my cases: Only I can bad-mouth
them.  I got enough argument from defense attorneys during the workday;
I wasn't about to spend my Friday night on this.

"Please stay, Sam.  I thought you knew me well enough, but ask around
the courthouse if you have to; I don't bullshit.  Posture one too many
times, and you can never get a prosecutor to listen to you again."

That was his reputation.

"Hear me out," he said.  "I know it rarely happens, but I really am
starting to think this guy's being set up.  And it's a good set-up.
He's poor, and he's black, and your victim is incredibly
sympathetic."

I was still standing with my briefcase, but I hadn't walked away.

"Honestly, I'm scared shitless I'm going to lose this case and never be
able to sleep again."

I think I had been fearing the same thing.  I sat down again, and he
started his pitch.

"What's bothering me most is how neatly it all adds up.  What's a guy
who lives hand-to-mouth doing getting a phone call one day on a fancy
new development job?"

"Easy," I said.  "Developers are greedy and will try to save money
wherever they can.  What do they care who does the landscaping?"

There was too much evidence against Jackson for that one nagging point
to prove a setup, especially since Grace had explained it wasn't
particularly unusual for developers to use day labor.  I told Slip he'd
need to explain away the most incriminating pieces before I could take
him seriously.

"Without waiving privilege?"  he asked.

I gave him my word.

"First of all, we've got that thing your cops keep calling an
admission."

"It's a classic admission, Slip.  The police kick the door, and your
guy blurts out, "I know what you're looking for."  Leads them right to
the paint."

"Right.  He leads them to the paint.  If he's giving himself up, why
doesn't he point them to the hammer?  Because he didn't know it was
there."

"But what made him think they were there for the paint?  Because he saw
the early news stories about paint being on the dog," I said, answering
my own question.

"No, Sam, because he stole it.  He's been keeping his nose so clean he
thought the police were barging in over a couple of cans of paint he
took from the building site.  He was going to paint his mom's house."

"Isn't that sweet?"

"You're starting to sound as insensitive as the rest of your office."

"Sorry, Slip, but I'm not buying it.  A judge he's threatening turns up
dead, and when the police look at him, he thinks it's for petty
theft?"

"He didn't know the woman was dead.  This is not a man who keeps up
with the news.  I'm telling you, I believe him.  You've got to
understand, the only thing that drives this guy is keeping his kids. He
thought if he got caught with the paint, he'd lose the Glenville job
and it would hurt him with everything else that's going on.  I guess
one of the other workers at the site saw him take it, so when the
police showed up, he assumed the guy had ratted."

Now that was interesting.  It would tie whatever Slip was talking about
back to the property.  "What do you mean someone saw him?"

"He noticed that some workers had left a couple buckets of paint
outside on Friday, so he went back with his truck to pick them up.  He
says another worker was still there and saw him.  Melvin started to
make up a story, but the guy told him to go ahead; he wouldn't tell
anyone."

"Does he know who the man was?"

"Since we're being so honest with each other, all he could tell me was
'some white guy."  But, c'mon, there are lawyers in your office who've
given a witness a lineup with worse initial statements.  Get me some
pictures and I'll see what I can do."

I shook my head.  "There's a ton of people working down there.  And it
doesn't do you any good anyway.  So what if he stole the paint?  It's
still on the victim's dog, so he's still tied to the victim's
disappearance."

Unless, of course, the mystery man who spotted him with the paint had
something to do with it.

"Let me ask you something," I said, "what does Jackson say about how he
got the job?"

Slip pulled a file from his briefcase.  "I was getting there.  Melvin
runs an ad in the Penny Power classifieds.  Two lines only costs a few
bucks, and he occasionally gets a home maintenance job, that sort of
thing.  Well, last Monday, he gets a phone call from a Billy Minkins.
Melvin's pretty sure about the name, but he never actually met him.  He
hired Melvin as an independent contractor for twenty bucks an hour,
more than Melvin's ever made."

I scribbled down the name on a cocktail napkin.

"The check he got is from a company called Gunderson Development."

I didn't need to write that one down.

"I didn't find a listing for either Minkins or the company," Slip said,
"but you're probably in a better position to track someone down.  Maybe
you can get a picture of Minkins, see if he's the one who told Melvin
to take the paint."

"You're pushing your luck, Slip.  I'm here to listen.  Don't tell me
how to do my job.  Tell me about the fingerprint on the door."

If Slip was convinced Melvin was innocent, he must have an explanation
for the print.

"Melvin went to the house Wednesday night.  He was so excited about the
new job, he thought it might help if he talked to her in person."

That's what Melvin's mother had said.

"How'd he know where she lived?"  I asked.

Slip looked down then looked back to me.  "Let's just say that part
doesn't help me so much."

"I'm going to assume he did something stalkerish, like follow her home
at some point."

Slip's silence was enough.

"So what happened when he knocked?"  I asked.

"Nothing.  No one was home.  After he left, he realized that showing up
on her front door was probably not the wisest litigation strategy."

"But threatening letters are?"

"I never said Melvin was rational," he said, "just innocent.  By the
way, he tells me he mailed that last letter Monday morning,

and I believe him.  And, I know you can explain it away if you need to,
but you've got to admit that Melvin as a sex offender doesn't ring
true.  That leaves you having to explain how your vie got dressed after
she died.  Come on, Samantha, part of you has a hinky feeling about
this."

I let the comment go.  I didn't need him telling a judge down the road
that I had supposedly expressed doubt about the prosecution.  "How come
I haven't heard anything about an alibi?"

"That part doesn't help either," he said.

"Slip, that's usually shorthand for sitting alone by himself, with no
one to verify it."

"The kids go to church with Grandma on Sundays.  You know those
Baptists; it's an all-day thing."

"And I assume under your theory, someone planted the hammer," I said.

"There are no prints on it.  And you heard Johnson.  He tried to call
Caffrey before he homed in on Melvin.  If Caffrey was doing your
victim, he'd know about Melvin.  That's plenty of time to dump the
hammer.  And, hell, Caffrey's powerful enough to have someone do it for
him.  Melvin was at the mall with the kids from six to nine that
night."

Now that I heard Slip's attempt to explain the things that had been
nagging at me, it sounded ridiculous.

"How does someone get inside the apartment?  My cops didn't see any
sign of a break-in."

"Melvin doesn't bolt the door, and you should see the locks on public
housing.  It took my investigator about four seconds to slip it with a
credit card."

It still didn't sound right.  The framing of a defendant is rare
enough, but the way Slip spelled it out, this one involved not only
someone from the property site but also an elected official.  It didn't
fly without a connection between the two.

not

Maybe Slip would find one.  I fished the property receipt out of my bag
and scribbled my home phone number on the back.

"Here's a present," I said.  "Don't say I never did anything for you.

I had some work to do this weekend too, but first I needed to track
down the envelope that Jenna Markson had sent interoffice.

Searching for it in my office, I remembered that I still hadn't
returned Susan Kerr's call from the morning.  Better to do it now than
to call her over the weekend or let it sit until Monday.

She thanked me for calling.  "I feel stupid bothering you when you're
in the middle of the hearing, but I "

"Don't worry about it, Susan.  What's up?"

"I was just wondering how Townsend was at the hearing today."

"He was there with his lawyer, but as it turned out he didn't need to
testify."

"Is that good?"

"Sure.  Court proceedings are always difficult for victims."

"But when you first said he didn't need to testify, you said it in a
way that suggested you were particularly appreciative.  Was there a
reason for that?"

I wouldn't normally run down my victim's husband, but Susan and Tara
had already expressed concern about Town-send's recent appearance, so
it wasn't like I was saying something new.  "Well, quite honestly, he
didn't look like he was up to it."

"So you can see it too."  Susan sounded relieved.  "I was wondering if
it was just my imagination.  I'm really starting to worry about him.
When I was with the family last night, he was totally out of it, but I
only saw him have one drink."

I thought about it.  Townsend had seemed almost drunk at the death
penalty meeting, but I hadn't smelled any alcohol on him, either then
or today in court.

"Maybe it's just lack of sleep," I offered.  "And he might still be
suffering from shock."

"You're probably right.  Well, it's the end of a long day, and I'm sure
you want to go home.  I was really only calling to see if you could try
to protect Townsend in court today, but as it turned out it wasn't
necessary."

"Sorry I didn't get back to you sooner."

"Not a problem.  I'm just glad you think what he's going through is
normal.  You've probably seen a lot more of this than I have,
fortunately."

Actually, I hadn't.  I had no idea what normal behavior was from a man
whose wife had been murdered.  And Townsend was a man with access to
his own personal prescription pad.

"Still, Susan, you should probably keep an eye out for him and ask
Clarissa's family to do the same.  He could be prescribing himself
medication."

"I was wondering the same thing but didn't want to say it.  He could
lose his license for that, couldn't he?"

"Maybe not under the circumstances, but let's not get ahead of
ourselves.  Just keep your eyes open, maybe check the medicine
cabinets, that kind of thing."  Then I remembered I wasn't just a
sympathetic human being; I was a prosecutor.  "Look around if you
choose to as a private party, I mean, not as an agent of the
government."

I could almost hear a small smile.  "I get what you're saying.  And,
Samantha, thanks a lot."

"No problem."

I hung up pleased that I had earned Susan's trust.  Even though
prosecutors aren't victims' attorneys, they should in most cases be
their advocates.  If I could handle a busy caseload and still find time
and compassion for the people in that caseload, I'd be proud of my
job.

I went back to searching for the envelope from Jenna Mark-son, working
backward from my office, starting with the mail slots on the sixth
floor.  It could have been worse.  The envelope hadn't made it into the
slot for MCU, but I found it when I pawed through a bin of mail left in
front of the boxes.  The mail guy had probably checked out at precisely
5 p.m.

Inside I found the printouts Jenna had run on Gunderson.  They
contained exactly what I was looking for: a list of the properties
Gunderson had owned when he had filed for Chapter 11.

It was too late to get into the public library's archives to do the
research I was planning, so I headed home for a long run before Chuck
was scheduled to show up.  By the time I finished, I had mustered up
the energy to call my father, but all I got was his machine.  I hung up
without leaving a message.

When Chuck showed up twenty minutes late with beer on his breath, I was
good and didn't ask him where he'd been.  Then he was better and
apologized for being late, explaining how he'd gotten trapped at a
sit-down with Calabrese.  Apparently Mike and his wife were having a
hard time adjusting to life with a new baby.

We were total gluttons and ordered a large pie from Pizza-cata half
pepperoni for him, half goat cheese and artichoke for me.  An hour and
a bottle of chianti later, we were starting to fool around on the sofa
while Chris Matthews and his guests played hardball.  Some folks might
have a problem getting turned on with talking heads going at each other
in the background, but with Chuck and me, anything could lead to
fore-play, even those icky surgery shows.  One minute I'm trying to
grab the remote from him, and the next, we've got our own doctor show
going on my coffee table.

Around the time Chuck had flung my bra into the empty pizza box and I
was beyond caring, the phone rang.  I started to wiggle out from
beneath him, but his warm breath in my ear stopped me.  "Don't even try
it."

I heard my own voice on the machine.  "You've reached Sam and Vinnie.
Maybe we're home, maybe not.  At the tone, proceed at your own risk."

"Hi uh, sorry to call so late.  I'm going to assume that's a joke so I
can hold on to my remaining self-esteem in the event no one picks up.
This is a message for Samantha Kincaid."

See?  It works.  Ever since Roger moved out and Vinnie moved in, my
Frenchie had been my other half on the all-important outgoing message.
No reason to advertise your woman-alone status to every creep out there
dialing random numbers for kicks.

"This is Graham Szlipkowski."

My wiggling resumed.  In fact, it escalated to an outright scramble.
When Chuck realized I was serious about getting to the phone, he sat
up, clearly frustrated.

By the time I picked up, I heard Slip say, "I'm sorry to bother you on
the weekend, but I need you to contact "

"Slip, it's Samantha."

"You mean I made the cut?  I've earned some honors in my career, but
"

"Slip, it's eleven o'clock on a Friday night.  Get to the point."

"I looked at the present you dropped on me this afternoon.  Needless to
say, I want to check it out, the sooner the better."

"So check it out," I said, "and tell me if you find anything."

"That's why I'm calling so late.  I want to track it down with the
banks tomorrow, but the bureau won't release the key to my investigator
without your OK."

"That's fine.  Whom do I need to call?"

"I'm sorry about this, but they need a fax."

What a pain in the ass.  I jotted down the fax number for the property
room and assured him I'd figure out something.

When I hung up, Chuck threw me a skeptical look.  "Why do I have a
feeling that I don't want to know why a defense attorney's calling you
at home?"

"Because you probably don't."

"Most guys, their girlfriend gets a phone call from another man late at
night, it means one thing.  If only I had it so good.  Just promise me
you're not doing anything dangerous."

"Hardly, unless you consider clerical work dangerous."  I tried to hide
my glee that he'd used the girlfriend word.  Down the road, he'd need
to settle on more mature verbiage.  For now, though, I reveled in the
general sentiment.

"Get back over here, then," he said.

"Sorry.  I've got one more thing to do.  I can either drive to Kinko's
or figure out how to send a fax on my computer."

"You have no idea how to use your computer, do you?"

"Sure.  It's a giant typewriter with a button that puts me on the
Internet."

"I'll make a deal with you.  I'll send your fax and you turn off
Matthews and get your ass in bed.  And no sleeping."

It was a win-win situation.

OOl

Eleven.

I kicked Chuck out the next morning so I could get to work, but not
before convincing him to pull DMV photos of Larry Gunderson and Billy
Minkins for me.

At first he balked.  "My lieutenant will be all over me about Saturday
OT on Jackson," he said, "unless, of course, I can tell him why it was
essential."

When that didn't get an explanation out of me about who Gunderson and
Minkins were and why I wanted their pictures, he finally relented.  I
was ready to go by noon.

I'd get the pictures to Slip soon enough, but my first priority was the
downtown public library.

No doubt about it, the library crowd's an interesting one: Birkenstock
moms, amateur academics, and burnt-out hippie homeless people, all in
one quiet beautiful place.

I pulled the volumes I was looking for and searched for an empty table.
Finding a work spot was not an easy task, given my criteria: no
children, schizoids, or stinky people.

I finally dumped the books on a corner table, retrieved a county map
and the envelope from Jenna Markson from my briefcase, and settled in
for what I thought would be the first day in a full weekend of
research.  As it turned out, the task at hand tracking down Gunderson's
stake in the urban growth boundary over the years was easier than I had
imagined.

First, I marked all of Gunderson's seven properties on the map. Without
exception, the properties would have been considered the boonies when I
was a kid, but they had been developed by the time I was out of
college.  The next step was to figure out where the properties fell
along the growth boundary.

Fortunately, the library maintained a series of maps depicting the
original boundary line and all the changes made in the twenty-five
years since.  The trend became obvious immediately.  Six of Gunderson's
seven properties fell just inside the original boundary line.  The land
would have been rural at the time, then made valuable by the sudden
restriction against future growth.  The seventh was brought within the
urban area after the first boundary expansion.

Either Larry Gunderson was the luckiest landowner in Portland or I was
on to something.

I found a records librarian and asked her if she could pull the
legislative history for the Smart Growth Act, which had established the
original growth boundary in the summer of 1980.  She looked at me like
I had to be kidding, then sighed heavily and walked away when she
realized I wasn't.

A good hour later, she reemerged with a handcart stacked with ragged
and dusty binders.  "I can't tell you exactly where it is in here, but
each binder has an index by bill number.  Do you need help finding the
number too?"

"No, I've got it.  Thank you so much.  I really appreciate it."

I gathered from her look of confusion that she rarely heard those
words.

The rest of the afternoon was spent wading through hundreds of pages of
legislative findings, debates, floor speeches, and other forms of word
combinations that hardly deserve to be called part of the English
language.  Most of the talk was about whether to limit urban growth and
how.  What captured my attention, however, were the pages detailing the
debates about where to draw the boundary line itself.  I couldn't make
sense of it all, so I fell back on my handy dandy anti confusion
treatment, list-making.

Using a legal pad, I listed the various property areas in dispute, then
located each on my map.  Four of the six Gunderson properties within
the eventual boundary had not been included for development under the
original proposal.

Next I turned to the legislators involved in the debates, noting their
names and where they stood on permitting development within each
disputed geographic area.  For the most part, predictable
pro-development and pro-environment patterns emerged, with the act's
opponents favoring open development across the board while proponents
favored restrictions.  But one legislator was clearly pushing the
expansions that favored Gunderson more than he was pushing others:
Representative Clifford Brigg.

I went back to the records librarian and asked for anything she could
give me on Brigg within six months of August 1980.

"Unfortunately," she said, "the articles from back then aren't
computerized, so you're going to have to do it by hand."  She led me to
a table in another corner that contained the old microfilm machines,
pulled a couple of notebooks from a nearby shelf, and explained they
were the indexes of Oregonian articles from 1980 through 1981.  If I
made a list of the ones I wanted to see, she'd pull the rolls of
microfilm I needed.

If it involved making a list, I could handle it.

Brigg was no stranger to the press.  Some of the articles appeared to
concern the growth legislation, but most seemed campaign-related.  It
must have been a reelection year.

I requested all the articles that looked like they might relate to the
growth boundary and a handful of the ones about the campaign.

My new best friend had the rolls of film in just a few minutes.  After
a quick refresher course on how to use the machine, I jumped in,
turning first to the stories on the growth legislation.

Most of the articles were brief, containing competing sound bites from
developers and environmentalists, with a few remarks from legislators
thrown in for flavor.  But a longer feature offered a good overview of
the debate and Brigg's role in it.

The first section of the article described the rapid growth that was
swallowing rural land along the 1-5 corridor from Salem to Seattle.
Although the last decade had seen only an 8 percent increase in the
population of the Willamette Valley, the geography of the urban area
had sprawled 22 percent.

The article explained the Smart Growth Act and the general policy
arguments on each side of the debate.  Planned growth versus the free
market, environmental preservation versus human use of land, the
collective good versus individual choice, open space versus affordable
housing, blah blah blah.

Then the writer got to Brigg:

The future of the Smart Growth Act is likely to be determined by a
handful of moderate legislators who appear to favor the theory of an
urban growth boundary but who are focusing upon the particularities of
how that boundary will be drawn.  Key among these detail-oriented
legislators is Rep.  Clifford Brigg.  Staff members to several other
legislators report that Brigg has been active behind the scenes,
working to ensure that the line is drawn to his satisfaction before he
lends his support.  In a statement issued in response to inquiries from
the Oregonian about these reports, Brigg stated, "If we publicly
debated every bit of minutia about every piece of legislation, we'd
never get any work done as a body.  So, yes, I have been talking to my
colleagues about what I'd like to see in this legislation for me to
support it.  I'm in favor of the idea, but we need to do it right.  My
eventual vote will be public and open to scrutiny."

As Brigg put it, all he was trying to do was to make sure that the line
was drawn properly, so the prettiest, most sacred land wasn't turned
into a Kmart.  It sounded perfectly logical, but was it coincidence
that Clifford Brigg's notion of smart growth just happened to deliver a
windfall to Gunderson?

Once I finished plodding through the Smart Growth articles, I had just
enough time to take a quick look at the reelection stories before the
library closed.  The campaign pieces were quaint compared to today's
politics: Brigg eats ice cream at a strawberry social, Brigg feeds
ducks at the Rhododendron Gardens, Brigg is in favor of a new fire
station.

Then, in the background of the next photograph, I saw a familiar face
in an unfamiliar uniform.  The shot was a closeup of Brigg shaking
hands with a former secretary of state who had come to town for a
commencement speech.  The face in the background was my father's.

When I picture my father in his work gear, I see him in his standard
green forest-ranger togs.  Not that I'd remember it, but I didn't think
I'd ever seen him in the Oregon State Police dress blues he wore in the
photograph.  Those would have been the exception even when he was a
state trooper.  For just a second, I enjoyed the chance to see my
father as he was then.  His light brown hair was silver now, and his
face was thinner, but he was still just as handsome.  I looked at the
date of the article.  Dad left the state for the forest service just
two months later.

Then, for reasons I didn't fully understand, I found myself wishing I
hadn't stumbled onto this picture at all.  What was my father doing
with a man like Clifford Brigg?

I looked up to give my eyes a rest and to stretch my neck.  When I had
reached into a full extension on my right, I noticed a man standing by
the table where my books of legislative history were still open.  Did
he want my table, the books, or maybe just to stand there being
weird?

Before I made it across the room he had disappeared behind a bookshelf
next to the table.  I took a quick tour of the floor, but he was
nowhere to be found.  Damn.  There had been something familiar about
him, but there was no way I was going to place him without a second
look.

I put an end to the search when the friendly librarian started making
the rounds to tell everyone that the doors would be closing in ten
minutes.  I noticed that she looked directly at me when she mentioned
our ability to support our local library by cleaning up after
ourselves.

I stole a final look at the photograph of my father.  I felt foolish.
My occasionally overactive imagination was at it again.  No mystery men
were following me, and my father wasn't wrapped up in anything
nefarious with Clifford Brigg.  Surely he was there as security for the
event.

I pushed print on the machine before tucking away the film.  Dad would
get a kick out of the picture, and he might even have some background
to share on Brigg.  In the meantime, I had earned a night off.

One advantage to being a woman alone should be the occasional luxury of
coming home and falling straight to sleep.  By the time I finished my
night out with Grace three Nordstrom shopping bags, two martinis, and a
slice of lemon cheesecake later I was exhausted.

But I had the usual crap to attend to.  My phone was ringing as I
walked in the door, and Vinnie had left a little message of his own for
me, right inside his doggie door to make sure I knew it was
intentional.

"It's after midnight," I said to my caller, "way past any reasonable
notion of call cutoffs."

"It's Graham Szlipkowsky."

"And how's my favorite defense attorney doing on this very late
evening?"  I held the phone between my ear and shoulder while I began
scooping, scrubbing, and disinfecting my tile, Vinnie watching
contentedly from the nearby wicker chair.

"He's very sorry to be calling you."

"Not a problem.  What's up?"

"I wanted to make sure you're going to be around tomorrow.  We need to
talk."

"We are talking."

"No, I need to show you something.  Can you come to my office?"

I was too tired to try to pry the information out of him.  If he was
going to insist on meeting, better to get it over with.  "Fine," I
said, "but let's make it early.  I'll meet you at seven."

"a.m.?  When do you sleep, Kincaid?"

"Who says I sleep?"  I said, hanging up.

So much for a full Sunday off.

We met at his office at seven sharp.  I noticed that in his khakis and
navy pullover, he dressed better on the weekend than he did at the
courthouse.

"It better be good, Slip."

"I don't know if it's good, but it's definitely notable."

My usual Sunday routine of reading the New York Times over dim sum at
Fong Chong was notable.  This had better top it.

Slip led me into a small library that appeared to double as a
lunchroom, coffee bar, and chat area.  There was a tiny television on
the countertop.  Four men in jellybean colored T-shirts were wiggling
up a storm with a room full of toddlers.

"You better have something better for me than a show that transforms
perfectly cute kids into annoying little freaks."

"Very funny," he said, hitting a button that turned the screen to an
even blue.  "I think this is big, Samantha."

"Enough with the dramatics.  Just show me why you brought me here."

He pulled a plastic Gap bag from a nearby chair and set it on the card
table in the center of the room.

"My investigator found a safe deposit box at First Coast Bank rented by
Clarissa Easterbrook.  The key was a match."

"And that's what he found?"  I asked, looking at the bag.

He nodded.

"And how exactly did your investigator convince the bank to turn over
the contents of a safe deposit box that didn't belong to him?"

"Do you really need to know?"

The truth was, I didn't.  If there was any legal violation, it was
probably only civil.  Anyway, courts don't care if evidence is obtained
illegally, as long as the government's hands were clean.

He pulled out a manila folder, a videotape, and a computer disc.

He handed me the folder first.  Inside were photocopies of what
appeared to be a case file for Gunderson Development v. City of
Portland.

Slip must have seen a flash of recognition cross my face.  "Does that
mean something to you?"

"I'm not sure yet," I said, flipping through it.  This little joint
venture definitely fell outside the lines of normal procedure.  I
wasn't about to tell him everything until I figured out for myself how
the pieces fit together.

From what I could gather in my quick review, the city had denied
Gunderson's request for a variance to convert an historically
significant building into condominiums.  Gunderson appealed, arguing
that the city employee who denied the request had been untrained,
filling in for the usual specialist who was on maternity leave.
Gunderson argued that the employee had failed to consider whether his
redevelopment plan preserved the original architecture to a significant
degree, which was required to obtain a variance.

I didn't know squat about administrative law, but Gunderson's appeal
looked like a major loser.  No judge administrative or not wants to be
in the business of second-guessing the discretionary decisions made by
front-line bureaucratic implementers.

But Clarissa had agreed with Gunderson.  Result?  Gunderson threw some
plumbing and a few walls into a run-down old church and ended up with
condominiums that probably sold for four hundred dollars a square
foot.

The case sounded familiar.  Had I seen it when I reviewed Clarissa's
files at City Hall?  I looked at the dates.  Clarissa had ruled in
favor of Gunderson almost four months ago, and I had only seen the
cases that were currently pending.

At the end of the file I found a page of handwritten notes.  They were
dated a week before Clarissa's death and were in the same slanted
scrawl I'd seen in Clarissa's files.

Tt/ DC about Gunderson appeal.  He advd me city would not reopen.  We
agreed re Grice.

Something about the file was still tugging at a corner of a memory.
Each time I thought I was close to plucking out the thought, I'd lose
hold of it entirely.  "What else?"

He held up the floppy disc.  "I've got to give this back to my
investigator.  It's password protected."

"And the video?"

"That's the doozie."

Slip popped the videotape into the built-in VCR beneath the small
television screen.  The blue screen turned to static, then to a shaky
image of a couple walking out a door.

It was Clarissa Easterbrook and T. J. Caffrey.  Caffrey looked around
but apparently didn't see whoever was holding the camera.  He held
Clarissa's face and then kissed her.  It was long but gentle.  I felt
my eyes shift away instinctively from their private moment, but I
forced myself to focus.

Their faces still close, they spoke a few words to each other.  Then
the camera followed as Caffrey walked Clarissa to her car, giving her
one last kiss before she got in.  He hopped into his car, and the two
drove away.  The camera panned outward to show the backdrop, a
two-story motel with doors that edged the parking lot.  A sign at the
road declared it to be the Village Motor Inn.

When the screen went to static and then back to blue, I looked at Slip.
"It's a motel north of Vancouver," he explained, "about thirty miles
out."

They'd gone all the way to Washington to avoid being spotted.
Obviously, they hadn't been careful enough.

"I guess that confirms the affair," I said.  "You think someone was
blackmailing her?  I hate to break it to you, Slip, but it might've
been Jackson."  If sympathy and threatening letters didn't do the
trick, a videotape like this one might.  He had followed Clarissa at
least once before.

"If it's blackmail," he said, "what do you make of this?"  Slip handed
me a brown padded envelope addressed to Mr.  and Mrs.  Terrence J.
Caffrey on a street in Eastmoreland.  "The video was inside that
envelope."

There was no postmark.

"Maybe it was hand-delivered, and Caffrey showed it to Clarissa?"

"Possible.  Or maybe Clarissa was going to mail it and never got around
to it."

I thought about it.  Tara had gotten the impression that Clarissa's
mystery man was reluctant to live happily ever after with her.  Maybe
Clarissa was playing hardball?  I had seen obsession inspire crazier
actions against a supposed loved one.

The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't know everything yet, a
state of knowledge I was never good at accepting.

Before I left, I gave Slip the photographs of Gunderson and Minkins
that Chuck had pulled for me.  I kept their PPDS reports for myself.
Gunderson was sixty-five with a clean record.  Minkins was thirty, on
probation for a forged check.

My eyes stayed on Minkins's picture.  When Chuck gave it to me
yesterday morning, I hadn't given it a second glance.  But now he
looked familiar.  The guy by my table in the library.  With shorter
hair and a closer shave, he could've been Minkins.  On the other hand,
he could've been yet another lanky guy with dark hair and a mustache. I
might have to arrange an in-person look-see.

For now, I wanted to know what Jackson could tell me.  "Have your guy
take a look at these.  See if he recognizes them from the site."

Slip glanced at the photographs.  "Are you going to tell me who they
are?"

"Nope."

When I left Slip's office, I called my father to make sure he was home.
I wasn't sure I could make it over for dinner, I told him, but I needed
to talk to him now, if he didn't mind.

Five minutes later, he was pouring me a glass of iced tea as we sat
together at the breakfast nook.  We both had finally adjusted to the
clean tabletop.  When my mother was still living,

this was the place where she stacked her books, mail, and bills.  Now
that my father was in charge of running the house, those things piled
up in the den.

"Look what I found."  I handed him a copy of the newspaper article,
showing him in the background at the college commencement.  "You look
very handsome."

Something dark crossed my father's face.  "Where'd you find that old
thing?"

"I came across it when I was going through some old newspaper articles
at the library trying to tie up some loose ends."

"Well, thanks, Sammy.  I'll hold on to it.  I forgot what I looked like
back then.  Not too shabby in my day, was I?"

"I think it's safe to say you were a full-blown hot tie Dad.  I was
actually hoping to talk to you about it.  Were you doing security for
the commencement?"

Dad shook his head.  "I was driving one of the bigwigs.  We did a lot
of that in OSP."

"Who were you driving?"

"Oh, who can even remember?  That was so long ago.  What's this about,
honI'm not sure yet.  A couple of names keep coming up on something I'm
looking into, and one of them is Clifford Brigg.  What do you remember
about him?"

Dad put the article face down on the table.  "Not a lot.  I left OSP
when you were just a little kid, and I never looked back.  I remember
reading that Brigg died oh, that must have been more than fifteen years
ago."

"But what was he like back then?  What was his reputation?"

"I'm sorry, Samantha, but I told you before, I don't want to talk about
this.  What's past is past."

No, he told me he didn't want to talk about his reasons for leaving
OSP.  The knot I'd felt when I first found the article began to settle
its way back into my stomach.  "Dad, does this have something to do
with why you moved over to the forest service?  Because that's what you
told me before that you didn't want to talk about."

He was silent for a moment, as if he were mulling something over in his
head before speaking.  "I didn't say anything other than I don't want
to talk about it.  End of discussion."

End of discussion?  I hadn't heard him say that since I was in junior
high school and he forbade me from taking the Greyhound with Grace for
a Duran Duran concert in Seattle.  Grace's mother had nixed the idea
too, so we caved.

This time I wouldn't quit so easily.  "Dad, I hope you know there's
nothing you can't tell me.  Obviously this picture is upsetting to you,
and it's got something to do with our conversation the other day about
Mom "

"It's got nothing to do with your mother."

"OK, whatever, but something about this upsets you.  I wish you'd talk
to me about it."  I couldn't believe I even had to say that to him.  As
long as I could remember, his favorite pastime was to tell me things.
Anything.  When I was a kid, it took all he could handle not to divulge
where Mom had hidden the Christmas presents.

Now he wouldn't talk to me about a legislator who had died when I was
in high school.

"Dad, I came across these articles doing research on the East-erbrook
investigation.  If you know something, you have to tell me.  It could
be important.  Melvin Jackson might be innocent."

"If anyone's innocent, it's you, and you're the one I'm worried about.
It's these people, Sam.  These people.  They'll eat you alive to
advance their agenda."

"What people?  Dad, don't leave me in the dark."

He stood up, walked to the kitchen sink, and stared out the window for
a minute, and then another, without saying a word to me.  Then he sat
across from me again.

"I did security for Clifford Brigg.  The man was well, he was a son of
a bitch.  Pardon my language.  He's dead and gone, but if anyone
associated with him is injecting himself into your investigation
please, Sam, just walk away."

"Why, Dad?  The least you can do is tell me why."

"I can't, Sam.  I just can't."

"And I just can't walk away."

I left my father with whatever secrets he was holding on to and drove
to my office, feeling incredibly lonely.  Part of me wanted to lie on
my couch, watch TV, and cry, but I knew I needed to work.

I made a list of everything I knew about Clarissa, Gunderson, the
Glenville property, Caffrey, Townsend, and Jackson.  Then I used lines
to connect facts that might be related, like Clarissa's ruling on the
Gunderson case, Gunderson's stake in the urban growth boundary, and
Clarissa's affair with Cafferty.

Before I knew it, my legal pad was so filled with overlapping lines
that I couldn't read anything.  Frustrated, I finally circled my pen
around the entire list over and over again until I popped a hole in the
paper.  What the hell were you up to, Clarissa?

Making sense of everything I'd learned over the weekend was going to
take some legwork.  I paged Johnson.

I tried to keep it simple, telling him about Clarissa's safe deposit
box.  "I was hoping you'd have another go at Caffrey since you never
got in touch with him the first time.  We need to find out what
Clarissa was doing with that videotape."

Johnson obviously didn't share my enthusiasm.  "Sorry, Sam, but I'm
working other cases now.  I can't pull off to put in more time on
Jackson."

"Do you know if Walker can do it?  I've got the rest of the prelim
tomorrow."  I had a hard time hiding my frustration.  The

Major Crimes Team owed its existence to the District Attorney's
insistence on sufficient investigative support for cases carrying
mandatory minimum sentences.

"That's going to be a problem too.  Look, since it's you, I'll give it
to you straight.  When we saw the lieutenant this morning, he told us
that any overtime on Jackson needed to go through him."

"Did he say why?"  The bureau could be stingy on overtime, but I'd
never heard of an order to run each minute through the supervisor.

"I got the impression someone had put some extra time into the case
after it was cleared.  But I know it wasn't me, and it also wasn't
Jack.  You know anything about that?"

"Chuck went with me to pick up the key from Clarissa's assistant, but
it only took a few minutes."

"And why didn't you call me or Walker?  We're the leads."

"I did call you, but you weren't in."  He didn't respond.  "Look, do we
have a problem here?"

"Just remember how you felt when I went around you for the polygraph.
You've got my pager number."

"I didn't go around you, Ray.  It was a quick walk across the street,
and Chuck happened to be in."  Again with the silence.  "If you want to
say something, just say it."

"I just think it's funny how you say your old buddy just happened to be
in when you wanted something done on a cleared case.  Maybe part of you
knew I wouldn't be too happy about doing work that's going to bite me
in the ass down the road."

"And how's that?"

"When you tell me three months from now that you're pleading the case
down because of something the defense attorney's twisting around.  You
know, it's always those little extra details stupid things like a safe
deposit key or the occasional extramarital roll in the sheets.  Stuff
that we both know or at least I know doesn't change the fact that
Melvin Jackson's guilty."

"I don't know what to say, Ray.  I wasn't trying to hide anything from
you, or I wouldn't have called you just now.  And I wouldn't ask you to
do something if I didn't think it was important."

"If you want to call the LT, that's fine with me," Ray said.  "But for
now, we're not supposed to be working a cleared case.  I don't want to
get stuck between my boss and your office."

Neither did I, I thought, as I hung up.  One thing was for sure: I
wouldn't be getting any more help from the bureau.

The notes that Clarissa stashed in her safe deposit box mentioned a
case she referred to as Grice.  It still felt familiar.

I found my own notes from the review of Clarissa's files.  It didn't
take long to realize where I'd seen Grice's name before.  It was in the
list of cases from which Clarissa had recused herself.  According to my
notes, Grice Construction was the company that had complained that the
city had unfairly denied its request to rehabilitate some Pearl Street
buildings.  The date of Clarissa's recusal was the same day she had
apparently talked to DC about both the Grice case and the case
involving Gunderson's own rehabilitation program.  If DC was Coakley,
that might explain what Nelly overheard at City Hall.

I didn't know the details yet, but it was becoming clear that Gunderson
had some kind of connection to Clarissa.

Good thing I knew who his lawyer was.  I even had his home number.

I was surprised when a woman answered.  When I asked to speak to Roger,
she asked who was calling.  I was tempted to tell her she was right to
be suspicious, but I gave her the boring answer instead.

"It's for you," she hollered.  "Someone named Samantha Kincaid."

I wasn't sure which was worse, to be known as the evil ex-wife or not
to be known at all.

"Hello?"

"Is that company, Roger, or a roommate?"

"Something in between, actually, but I assume the point of the question
was more in the asking than the answering.  If you're calling about
Townsend, yes, we plan on being there tomorrow."

"Nice to know, but that's not why I called.  I want to talk to Larry
Gunderson."

It always feels good to show another attorney you know more than he
thought you did.  But this time it was especially rewarding.

"Why would you be calling me about that?"

There were lots of bad things to be said about Roger, but lawyering
skills were not among them.  His question was perfect in its ambiguity,
neither denying nor confirming knowledge of Gunderson.

"Because you said Dunn Simon represented him.  Remember?  That's how
you got Melvin Jackson's name?  If you're saying you're not Gunderson's
lawyer, that's fine.  I'll contact him directly."  I read Gunderson's
street address from my PPDS printout.

"I'm not actually Gunderson's lawyer.  One of my partners is, Jim
Thorpe."

I remembered seeing his name on Gunderson's appeal.  "Fine.  I'll call
him.  What's his home number?"

"Jesus, Samantha.  What's your problem?  Can't this wait until
tomorrow?"

"XT

Nope.

Roger might have come into the firm as a partner, but he was still
junior to a corner office guy like Thorpe.  Junior partners who hand
out home phone numbers to government lawyers stay in the middle of the
hallway.

"Fine.  Tell me what you want to know, and I'll talk to Jim and get
back to you."

I could hear his house guest slash live-in beginning to whine in the
background.  Apparently Roger had found what he never had in me someone
who needed his undivided attention to be happy.

I didn't show him all my cards, just enough to ensure I'd get
Gunderson's attention.  "It turns out that in addition to being Melvin
Jackson's employer and the owner of the property where Clarissa's body
was found, Gunderson also had a case in front of Clarissa a few months
ago.  In light of that, I think we should at least talk to him about
how Jackson happened to find himself on Gunderson's radar."

"I'll get back to you, but don't hold your breath.  Given the
insinuation, he's more likely to be insulted."

It had to have been one of the fastest decisions ever made by a lawyer
who gets paid by the hour.  Eleven minutes later, my phone rang.

"It's Jim's call, and he advised Gunderson to enjoy the rest of his
weekend.  If you want to work something out for this week, get in touch
with Jim at the office tomorrow."

"Unbelievable, Roger.  I've got the rest of the preliminary hearing
tomorrow, and you guys think it's a good idea to tell your client to be
uncooperative.  Does Thorpe know enough about criminal practice to
understand how suspicious it makes Gunderson look?"

"To you, maybe.  Quite frankly, I don't see the problem."

"Well, since I'm handling the case, I guess my opinion has to matter to
you on this one."

"Sam, if you're doing this because you're pissed off at me, I'm sorry I
said some harsh things about your office at the meeting, but they
weren't directed at you personally.  I was only trying to get Duncan's
attention.  Hell, you're the one who told me at one time all he cared
about was politics."  He laughed, but I didn't see what was funny.
"Can't you just be happy that you finally got the promotion you wanted
and that your first big case came together?  I realize I'm not the best
messenger for this, but you're not acting like yourself on this one."

"You're a piss-poor messenger, Roger.  You don't even know me
anymore."

"Well, you're not acting like the person I used to know.  Look at the
evidence: You've got a fingerprint, the weapon, motive, something
approaching a confession.  Prescott all but told you on Friday she'd
hold Jackson over.  And you're spending your Sunday night chasing down
figments of your imagination.  Gunderson's just some guy who gave
Jackson a job."

"And who happened to have an appeal in front of the victim."

"And how long ago was that, Samantha?  And how many cases did
Easterbrook hear on a monthly basis?  It's like you're trying to make
your job harder than it is I don't know maybe to recapture some of the
glory days back in New York."

It was a telephonic slap in the face.  Before Roger took the job at
Nike, I had been an up-and-comer in the busiest federal prosecutors
office in the country, on my way to handling complex high-stakes
conspiracies.  We both knew that in the world of lawyers who never stop
measuring themselves against one another, I had suffered a serious slip
down the ladder when we moved to Portland.

He was already trying to apologize, telling me he didn't mean it the
way it sounded.  But, to me at that moment, there was only one possible
meaning.

"The only slumming I ever did, Roger, was when I married you."

I wanted the satisfaction of slamming the phone into a cradle, but all
I had was my thumb against the disconnect button of my cordless.

I tried not to let his comment get to me.  Not that Rogers opinion
mattered, but I knew I wouldn't even be a prosecutor if it weren't for
him.  I graduated from law school planning on selling out as necessary
to pay off my mountainous debt.  But when I was offered a position as a
federal prosecutor in New York, Roger was the one who told me I had to
take it.  And when he moved us to Portland for his Nike job and I
couldn't transfer into the U.S. Attorney's Office here, he was the one
who encouraged me to remain a prosecutor, even though the choice
required a 50-percent pay cut and a serious hit in the prestige
department.  He paid off my loans in full, using the bundle we'd made
selling the New York apartment his parents had given us.  Then, when I
kicked him out of the house and insisted on a quick divorce, he nearly
floored me when he told my attorney to forget about the money.  He
wouldn't be able to live with himself if I had to represent corporate
clients because of him.

I knew I'd been a bigger jerk than I should have been, but I didn't
know what to think about his criticism.  It was easy to imagine the
lawyer in Roger trying to psych me out so I wouldn't subpoena Gunderson
and disturb Jim Thorpe.  On the other hand, Roger wasn't the only
person telling me I was wildly off the mark on this one.

The train was about to run right over Melvin Jackson, and I could do
nothing to stop it.  I wasn't even sure I wanted to; I just wanted to
make sure that we were heading in the right direction.  But the bureau
had essentially washed its hands of this case, and if I tried to haul
Gunderson into the prelim, a quick call from Dunn Simon to the boss
would get me overruled and probably fired.  And, if Jackson really did
it which he most likely did it would all be for nothing.

Luckily, I'd been doing this long enough to know that one of the best
ways to wield power is to do it subtly.

I left a message for Graham Szlipkowsky to call me right away.

I had been home from a run for thirty minutes, my stomach was growling,
and I was getting ready to cave in to take-out cravings when the phone
rang.

"Hey, babe.  At the risk of sounding pathetic, I'm beginning to miss
you.  If you're willing to chance my cooking, how does a quiet dinner
at your place sound?"

There's something to be said about a man with good timing.
Unfortunately, in this man's case, that something was that he couldn't
cook.  So we compromised.  After a quick run to Fred Meyer, he was
washing and chopping, and I was doing the stuff that mattered.

When we finally sat down at the table, he could tell I was exhausted.

"What's up with you?  Big party last night?"

"You bet.  The orgy didn't end till four; then I had to deal with the
bikers.  Between the meth and the Jack "

"Seriously, Sam, what's going on?"

"Nothing.  I've been working my ass off, and I'm tired."

"Is this still on the Jackson case?"  I nodded since I had a mouth full
of sea bass.  "What have you been digging around in?  I thought that
case was locked up."

Add another to the list of people reminding me the case was cleared.
"I'm just double-checking."

"Here's an idea.  Why don't you tell me what you're unsure about.  I
have some experience dealing with these kinds of things, you know."

It would be nice to have his take on the case, but I didn't want him to
be in a position where he was torn between me and the department.  When
we eventually decided whether we could handle working on the same
cases, I'd have to add that to my reasons for believing it was a bad
idea.

For now, I was keeping it vague.  "I've been looking into some things
Clarissa might have been involved in, making sure they're not related
to the murder."

"Does this have something to do with the conversation we had with Pink
and the fax I sent to the property room on Friday?"

"Maybe.  I haven't quite figured it out yet."

"I see.  Let me be more specific.  What exactly did that key open, and
what was located inside?"

"Don't interrogate me, Chuck."

"You're not giving me any choice, Sam.  Getting information out of a
perp is a cakewalk compared to a conversation with you these days."

"Here's an idea.  You let me do my job, and I'll talk to you as much as
you want about anything else you choose."

"I'm not trying to be a jerk, Sam.  There are two separate issues here.
One is the bureau being pissed off that you appear to have second
thoughts on the case.  I don't give a shit about that.  But the last
time you left me in the dark about the poking around you were doing,
you almost got killed.  I'm worried about you.  Please just tell me
enough so I know you're not playing cowboy again."

"If you're going to worry about me every time I'm dealing with bad
people, this is never going to work."

"Sam, this isn't about you going after bad guys.  Don't you get it?  I
love it that you do what you do.  You could be making half a million
bucks a year by now as some corporate drone, but that's not who you
are, and that's great.  But you have a tendency to want to go it alone,
no matter how wacky the plan.  I don't want you to get hurt again."

"Look, it's fine.  What happened before was different.  I went in blind
knowing someone was out of custody and angry at me, to say the least.
Right now, the worst that's going to happen to me is that I ruffle a
few political feathers."  I left out the part about the mystery man at
the library, since I wasn't actually sure that it was Billy Minkins or
that he had been watching me.  "I'm taking enough crap from my father
about this.  I don't need it from you too."

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were our forks against the
plates and Vinnie breathing under the table.

"Ever since I got this case, he's been on a trip about so-called
powerful people and the way they can take away everything from me if I
get in their way.  He's always been suspicious of authority "

Chuck was laughing, and I looked at him to see if he was going to
continue listening to me.  "Sorry," he explained, "but that sounded
funny, coming from you."

"Well, I guess we know where I get it.  Anyway, I assumed he was
worried that someone as influential as Townsend would be calling for my
head if I screwed things up.  But then this morning I asked him about
some work he did when I was a kid, and he got all quiet and weird. I've
never seen him like this before."

"What did you ask him?"

"Nothing, really.  When I was doing that research at the library, I
came across an old newspaper clipping of him when he was with OSP.  I
asked him about this legislator he used to drive, and he clammed up."

"Who was the legislator?"

"A guy named Clifford Brigg."

"Never heard of him."  Chuck was familiar with political circles
through his father, but Brigg's time was long ago.  He didn't offer to
ask about him, and I didn't ask.  Chuck and his father weren't exactly
close; the former governor, Charles London Forbes, Sr."  made little
effort to conceal his disappointment with Chuck's career choice.  "Did
you try to talk to him about it?"

"Of course."

He looked at me skeptically.  "For more than a couple of minutes?"

"A few."  Having been on the other side of my impatience before, Chuck
knew I had a tendency to give up when I was frustrated.  "The more I
pushed him to talk to me, the more he pushed me to lay off him and get
off this case.  Then we both realized we weren't getting anywhere."

"You Kincaids are a stubborn people.  What did someone put in the water
supply at that house?"

"Whatever the hospital put in your baby formula."

"You should try to talk to him about it again.  But in the end, Sam, if
he wants to keep something private, you need to respect that."

"I know.  Honestly?  I think the reason I haven't talked to him since
then is that I don't want to see that look on his face again.  It's
like he was ashamed of something.  Seeing that was absolutely horrible.
I thought I was going to lose it."

The phone rang, saving me from having to talk anymore about my father.
I kissed Chuck on the cheek on my way to the kitchen to answer it.

It was Slip.

"Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you.  I spent my entire day
down at Inverness trying to see Melvin.  And people wonder why defense
attorneys hardly speak to their clients."

"So, what'd you find out?"

"Well, I showed him the two pictures you gave me.  He's never seen the
old guy, but the younger one might be the worker who saw him take the
paint."

"How good was the ID?  And no puffing.  You know I'm out on a limb."

"The truth?  It could've been stronger.  But it was probably just as
good as any cross-racial ID your cops get before they firm it up for
the courtroom."

Jackson hadn't ruled Minkins out.  If he was high up enough with
Gunderson to have hired Jackson, he could also be in on the setup.  If,
of course, there was a setup.

"Anything else?"

"My investigator's got some computer whiz working on the floppy disc.
I'm going to feel like a total idiot if I wind up paying this guy out
of my own pocket, and the disc turns out to be the family grocery list.
And speaking of total idiots, that's what I felt like when Jackson
asked me why I was showing him those pictures and I couldn't say
anything.  Now that I spent my Sunday with the other jailhouse
groupies, why don't you let me in on the secret."

"Hold on a second."  I made it look like I needed something from my
desk and went upstairs so Chuck wouldn't overhear.  "Got anything up
your sleeve for court tomorrow?"

He laughed.  "Yeah, my piece of shit watch.  Prescott's obviously
inclined to find PC, and I don't have squat.  The best I can hope for
is to buy more time."

More time was what we both needed.  Getting anyone to take a second
look at the case against Jackson was hard enough as things stood.  If
Prescott found probable cause without at least a bend in the road, it
would be impossible.

"I'll tell you who the men in the pictures are if you'll do something
for me.  I've got an idea that might help both of us."

Twelve.

I was finishing some last minute prep in my office Monday morning when
Jessica Walters walked in.

"Hey, there.  Thought I'd stop in and see how you're holding up after a
week in here with the boys."

"Crazier by the day, but I'm sticking it out."

"Good for you.  You want to grab some coffee?"

I held up my Starbucks commuter cup.  "Already went, but definitely
some other time.  I'm getting ready to go back in on the Jackson
prelim."

The legal pad I'd been using on Sunday was at the edge of my desk, the
top page barely legible from all the black ink.  Walters saw it and
laughed.  "A woman after my own heart.  Do those notes actually mean
anything to you?"

I laughed too.  "No.  But maybe if you scribble enough, it's like a
giant Rorschach."  I held the pad up to her.  "Tell me, Ms.  Walters,
what do you see in this one?"

She squinted at it, exaggeratedy furrowing her brow.  "Let me see." But
then her expression turned serious.  "Grice?  You have a case on
someone named Grice?"

"No, just a name that came up in an investigation."

"It's not Max Grice, is it?"

"Actually, I don't know the first name."  I hadn't written it in my
notes, and I hadn't called Nelly yet to try to get another look at the
file.

"Oh-kay?"  She said it slowly, inviting an explanation for why I
wouldn't know the first name of someone involved in one of my cases.

"Why?  Who's Max Grice?"

"A major pain in my ass is who Max Grice is.  Some schlep per
contractor who's been bitching to anyone who will listen about his
business problems.  I wanted to blow him off, but you know the boss.
Any allegation of official misconduct gets a thorough vetting.  I'm
probably going to wind up letting the guy have a say in front of the
grand jury, then I'll tell them to no-bill it."

"What kind of misconduct?"

"The guy's paranoid.  I guess there's this process they have to go
through to get permission to make certain changes to historically
significant properties, which includes just about every old building in
the central corridor.  His company's request got declined, and he's
claiming that someone at City Hall's on the take, since other companies
don't seem to have any problems."

"Why would that come to you?"

"It shouldn't.  There's a city process the guy's using, and the police
could potentially investigate the allegation as a crime if there were
any meat there.  But this guy called Duncan personally, so now I'm
stuck trying to find a palatable way to dump it.  Technically Gangs is
the white-collar unit."

The reality, of course, was that this office had never prosecuted a
significant white-collar criminal.  Those cases went to the feds, and
the small-time embezzlers simply got away with n, the victims brushed
off with an explanation that the theft was "a civil matter" or an
"employment issue."

But now wasn't the time to hash out office filing decisions.  I wanted
to know more about Grice.

"So if someone called the switchboard and asked for whoever dealt with
white-collar crime or government corruption or something like that, Liz
would connect them to you?"

"She should."

"Then I think I know why Clarissa Easterbrook called you.  Is Max
Grice's company called Grice Construction?"

"I'd have to double-check, but that sounds right."

"Clarissa recused herself from a case where Grice Construction appealed
an adverse decision relating lo a remodel of a Pearl District
warehouse."

"That'd be my guy."

And the guy was complaining about the very program that had been at
issue in Gunderson's case in front of Clarissa.  A case where Gunderson
had won because of Clarissa's decision.

I looked at my watch.  "I've got to go over to the Justice Center.  But
can you get me a copy of whatever you have on Grice?"

"No problem."

Roger was already waiting in the courtroom with Townsend.  In the row
in front of them, two men I recognized as Gunderson and Minkins sat
with a lawyer type I assumed was Jim Thorpe.  I should get a kickback
for all the fees I was bringing in to Dunn Simon.

I noticed that four of the five of them watched me as I passed.  Men
tend to do that when there's nothing else going on.  Although they all
looked unhappy, Roger looked particularly pissed.  At a formal level,
I'd hidden my role in what brought them here, but Roger knew me well
enough to suspect something.

The fifth guy, Minkins, was still wearing his hat and turned his head
the other way when I walked by.  That's what we lawyers call
consciousness of guilt.  Like a suspect who flees, Minkins was hiding
something.  I was pretty certain that the something was his snooping
around at the library.

Judge Prescott walked out of her chambers promptly at ten.  She noticed
Gunderson et al.  in the front row.  "I see we've got some newcomers,
but where, pray tell, is Mr.  Szlipkowsky?"

"I haven't heard anything, your honor," I said, "but I'm sure he'll be
here.  He left me a message last night saying he had subpoenaed some
additional witnesses."

I heard someone huff behind me and guessed it was probably Gunderson.

Prescott ordered her clerk to tell her as soon as Slip arrived and then
headed back to her chambers.  Some judges enjoy the chitchat that goes
on with the lawyers before proceedings commence.  Not Prescott.

Her departure left the courtroom awkwardly silent.  Since I was
supposedly an innocent, I figured I'd better play the role of
cooperative prosecutor.  When I walked back toward Roger and Townsend,
I noticed that, once again, Minkins looked away.

"Hi, Townsend.  How are you holding up?"

"Fine," he mumbled, "under the circumstances.  Thanks."  Then he went
back to staring at the bench in front of him.

"Well, I don't think you'll have to testify today.  The defense
attorney said he served some subpoenas last night, but his message
didn't say anything about calling you."

He just nodded.  I was beginning to think he might actually be on
something.  Roger rolled his eyes at me.  "I went ahead and told
Townsend about the subpoenas.  As you can imagine, Jim Thorpe called me
right away when they were served."

"So I assume the two of you have talked about the possible conflicts of
interest involved.  I mean, Dunn Simon is now representing multiple
witnesses in the same case."

Big surprise.  According to Roger, they'd already discussed the matter,
and the whole lot were snug as bugs with the current situation.  That's
the problem with a rule that lets the conflicted lawyer be the one who
discusses the conflict with the clients; I seriously doubted if
Townsend had gotten the big picture.  If he was in a position to
understand how wrapped up Gunderson was in his wife's life, he wouldn't
feel so comfortable about sharing a lawyer with him.

Before Roger got a chance to grill me about the coincidence of Slip's
eve-of-hearing decision, I heard tennis shoes squeaking outside the
courtroom.  The door wrenched open, and in walked Slip, out of breath,
using one hand to hold all his belongings while his other hand fumbled
to fasten his belt buckle.

A nice person would have rushed over to help him.  I bent over
laughing.

"I'm sorry, but that looks really bad."

"And they say men have dirty minds.  I was already running late, and
then I got stuck at security.  It's getting as bad as the airport down
there."

He shoved his briefcase in my arms so he could finish the belt, then
started to steer me into the hallway.  We never made it to the door.

"Nice of you to join us this morning, Mr.  Szlipkowsky."  Prescott was
out of her chambers and ready to go.

"My apologies, your honor.  I was delayed at security."

"And yet everyone else managed to be here on time.  Amazing.  Don't let
it happen again."  As she was telling the sheriffs deputy to bring
Jackson in from the holding cell, Slip continued to throw me eager
looks.  He definitely wanted to talk.

"I'm sorry, counselors, is there a problem?"

We both shook our heads like kids who've been caught roughhousing in
the classroom.  Whatever Slip had to say to me, it was going to have to
wait.

Jackson took his place at the defense table, looking the worse for wear
after nearly a week in jail.

Prescott called the case and put us back on the record.  "OK, when we
left on Friday, it was unclear whether the parties intended to call
additional witnesses before I ruled.  Where do things stand now?  I see
Jim Thorpe is with us this morning from Dunn Simon."

Thorpe started to rise, but Slip beat him to the punch.  When a court's
viewing a dispute cold, it's always better to get your side out
first.

"Your honor, last night my investigator delivered subpoenas to Larry
Gunderson and William Minkins.  Larry Gunderson is president of
Gunderson Development, which owns the property where Ms.  Easterbrook's
body was found and where my client was employed as a landscaper.  Mr.
Minkins is an employee at Gunderson and hired my client to work at the
site.  As I have investigated this case, it has become clear to me that
both Mr.  Gunderson and Mr.  Minkins hold relevant evidence that casts
serious doubt on the guilt of my client.  Just to give you one example
"

Prescott cut him off.  "Wait a second.  No need to get into your
proffer before there's been an objection.  Mr.  Thorpe, why don't you
go ahead and approach?  Your clients may remain seated."

"Good morning, your honor.  Jim Thorpe from Dunn Simon, representing
Gunderson Construction, its principal officer Larry Gunderson, and its
employee William Minkins.  I understand that your honor quashed a
subpoena on Friday in this case after Mr.  Szlipkowsky tried to haul in
a member of the Metro Council for a fishing expedition.  This morning,
he's at it again with my clients.  They know nothing about this case,
have been pulled away from business on absolutely no notice, and wish
to be relieved from this court's jurisdiction forthwith."

Forthwith?  That's why big-firm lawyers often get their asses handed to
them in jury trials.  Who the hell says forthwith?

Prescott sighed and gave Slip a look to kill.  I wasn't sure how she'd
done it, but somehow it seemed as if her bun had been pulled back even
more tightly during Thorpe's statement.  "Now, Mr.  Szlipkowsky, why
don't you proceed with your proffer "

"Excuse me, your honor," I interrupted.  "I just wanted to make sure
all the parties realized that the media are present in the
courtroom."

I gestured toward Dan Manning from the Oregonian at the back of the
room, sitting with a few others who presumably were also reporters.
Cameras aren't permitted in Oregon courtrooms, and lawyers who don't
spend a lot of time around the courthouse don't always recognize the
media.  Just me, trying to be helpful.

It got the response from Thorpe that I wanted.  "In that case, your
honor, we request that the proffer be delivered in chambers.  Whatever
Mr.  Szlipkowsky is about to say is groundless speculation, and the
damage to my client would be further aggravated if it were repeated in
the media."

Thorpe, Gunderson, Minkins, Slip, and I followed Prescott through the
door behind the bench.  I got a better look at Minkins when he passed
me.  He could definitely be the guy from the library, but I still
wasn't positive.

Since Roger was there as Townsend's attorney, he had to stay outside.
All to the good, since he knew better than Thorpe how devious I could
be.  Jackson stayed put too.  I'd long gotten used to the criminal
justice systems practice of leaving the defendant at the counsel table,
just in case he was beginning to think his presence was relevant.

Slip and I were at the back of the pack, and no one seemed to be paying
attention to us.  He scribbled something on the corner of his legal
pad, ripped it off, and passed it to me as I walked through the door
behind him.  By then, Prescott was sitting at her desk, so I slipped
the page into a folder.  If the teacher caught us passing notes, we'd
get the grown-up equivalent of detention, and whatever was on that
piece of paper would be public information.

"Let's hear it, Mr.  Szlipkowsky."

"Melvin Jackson is presumed innocent.  So presume just for a moment,
your honor, that someone other than Melvin Jackson killed Clarissa
Easterbrook.  If that's true, as I believe it is, then let's be honest
that someone did a pretty good job setting up my client.  My client was
upset with the victim, he worked where the body was found, paint from
his van was found on her dog, and then, of course, the weapon's the
icing on the cake.  As I delved into the question of who might be in a
position to accomplish such a setup, I kept coming back to the
construction site in Glenville."

Slip continued to spell out the coincidences for her.  Jackson, his
landscaping business a fly-by-night operation in the penny newspapers,
suddenly gets a call from Minkins asking him to work on a
multimillion-dollar project by Gunderson Development.  Minkins sees him
take paint from the property, and later that paint turns up on
Clarissa's dog.  When Clarissa's body is found at the property, it's
Gunderson Development that makes sure the police get Melvin's name. And
then it turns out that Jackson's not the only person with business in
front of Clarissa Easterbrook; a case in which Easterbrook ruled on
behalf of Gunderson had her troubled enough that she kept a copy of the
case file under lock and key.

Prescott raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised by the amount of detail
in the proffer.  The problem was that the proffer was enough to raise
eyebrows, but Slip still didn't have enough to tie everything together.
It was, in Thorpe's words, pure speculation.  Prescott's ruling could
go either way.  Convincing her to pull the trigger and put the
witnesses in the chair would be a matter of strategy.

First, we had to sit through Thorpe's diatribe.  "To suggest that my
clients had anything whatsoever to do with Ms.  Easter-brook's murder
is outrageous.  Mr.  Szlipkowsky should be grateful that Mr.  Gunderson
hasn't sued him for slander."  Thorpe handed the judge, Slip, and me
copies of an affidavit signed by a Lee Block.  I had to admit, I was
impressed by the work Dunn Simon had done in the hours that had passed
since the subpoenas were served.  "As you can see," Thorpe explained,
"Mr.  Gunderson was in Bend, Oregon, looking at a property all day on
the Sunday when Ms.  Easterbrook disappeared.  Mr.  Minkins was in the
casino at Chinook Winds until four p.m. that day.  We are working on
locating a videotape to substantiate that, and I'm confident we will
have it by the end of the day."

The plan was working.  Without even getting a ruling on the subpoenas,
the attorney who refused to let me talk to Gunderson and Minkins
informally had just locked them into alibis for the time of Clarissa's
death.  Go figure.

Having set up the facts he wanted to rely on, Thorpe launched into his
argument.  He took the predictable route, borrowing many of the same
points made by Bow Tie on Friday.

I opened the folder on my lap to sneak a glance at the note that Slip
had passed me.  The man's handwriting was as sloppy as his attire, but
I made it out: Disc = finances of OHSU pediatric wing.

I tried to pull my concentration back to Thorpe, who was using words
like ludicrous, preposterous, and farcical.  If Dunn Simon was charging
by the word, he should have checked his thesaurus and added cockamamy
and wacky while he was at it.

Why had Clarissa kept the financial records from Townsends hospital
wing in her safe deposit box?  Maybe they were his backup records and
she was keeping them for him, but would she really tell him about a
safe deposit box that contained a video of Caffrey and her at a motel?
If she wasn't holding them for Townsend, why was she holding them at
all?  It didn't make any sense.

"Ms.  Kincaid.  Does your office have a position on this?"

"I'm sorry, your honor.  On what?"

Slip looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

"Well, as I understand it," the judge said, "Mr.  Thorpe's principal
argument is that the defense's argument is one big paranoid delusion
and that, in any event, Mr.  Szlipkowsky has failed to draw any kind of
nexus between the folks at Gunderson and this supposed frame-up.
Correct me if I'm misstating it, Mr.  Thorpe, but he's essentially
arguing that the starting point for the alleged conspiracy would have
to be knowledge of Mr.  Jackson's animus toward Ms.  Easterbrook.  And
I haven't heard the defense articulate any reason to believe that the
Gunderson company would have that knowledge.  It happened to have a
case decided by her, but so do hundreds of other companies doing
business in the city.  Before I rule, I'd like to hear where you stand
on the motion."

Something about what she said was bothering me, but I needed to get the
plan back on track.  "Obviously, this is a matter for the court's
discretion, your honor, but it strikes me that the issue we're looking
at is different from the one your honor ruled on last Friday.  The
previous subpoena struck me as an attempt to introduce inflammatory
information about possible activities in the victim's personal life,
without ever tying those activities concretely to the victims murder or
to Mr.  Szlip-kowsky's client.

"Here, in contrast, Mr.  Szlipkowsky has provided specific information
that appears to raise questions that I would be inclined to pursue at
least in some form prior to trial.  Let me be clear: I am still
confident of our case against Mr.  Jackson.  But what I don't want to
see is a situation where we'll be dealing with these same issues down
the road at trial in front of a jury who might be misled or confused.
Quite frankly, if the court were to grant Mr.  Thorpe's motion, my
office might be inclined to serve grand jury subpoenas instead.  In the
event that possibility affects the court's exercise of its discretion,
I thought I should be forthright about my intentions."

"Well, thank you, Ms.  Kincaid, for your candor.  It certainly wouldn't
make sense to have the witnesses leave, just to return tomorrow for a
grand jury session."

While I was getting brownie points for my honesty, Thorpe was working
his way into the doghouse.

"That doesn't make any sense at all, your honor.  If you decide to
quash these subpoenas, you should quash any subpoenas that Ms.  Kincaid
might order in the future."

Prescott, Slip, and I just looked at him.  In addition to being rude,
Thorpe's statement was simply wrong.  Courts live with the fiction that
grand juries are independent of the judicial and prosecutorial systems.
Convincing a judge to quash a subpoena to appear in court was one
thing; convincing her to mess with the grand jury was quite another.

While Prescott corrected Thorpe's misunderstanding, I thought more
about what was bothering me.  Prescott was right.  If Gunderson was
behind this setup, he had to have known about Jackson's letters.

My immediate attention, though, was on the subpoenas.  Thorpe hadn't
thrown in the towel yet, and we were moving into part two of the plan,
the good part.

"With all due respect, your honor" lawyers should never say this, since
what they're essentially saying is I have no respect for you, your
honor "I don't see how the court's decision about this hearing should
be affected by something that the district attorney may or may not do
in a separate grand jury proceeding.  And if we're going ahead and
playing that game, the reality is I can always instruct my clients to
invoke their Fifth Amendment rights either today or at a subsequent
grand jury hearing."

Oh, yeah.  As I'd hoped, Thorpe had been the first to mention the Fifth
Amendment.  It was time for my move.

"Actually, your honor, on that point: I don't want to get too far ahead
of ourselves here, but in the event Mr.  Gunderson and Mr.  Minkins are
ordered to testify either today or at a subsequent grand jury hearing
it strikes me that it may not be appropriate for the two of them to
share counsel."  I looked down at a PPDS printout.  "I see here that
Mr.  Minkins is on probation for forging a check.  His probation
officer might not be happy about a failure to cooperate with a murder
investigation or gambling, for that matter, since Mr.  Thorpe has said
his client was in a casino just eight days ago.  As a matter of fair
process, Mr.  Minkins should at least have an attorney who is thinking
solely about Mr.  Minkins's best interests."

They had good poker faces, but I could've sworn that Gunderson looked
afraid, and Minkins looked mad.  And they both looked nervous.

Prescott must have seen it too, because she suddenly displayed a
decisiveness I'd never before witnessed in her.  "I am not going to
quash the subpoenas.  Although I granted a similar motion filed by a
different witness last Friday, I believe that the defense's desire to
question Mr.  Gunderson and Mr.  Minkins is distinguishable.  The
questioning does not raise the same issues of privacy implicated by the
earlier subpoena, and the defense has articulated a plausible nexus
between these witnesses and this offense.  Although it is not a nexus
that has in any way been proven, I believe the defense should be
entitled to at least question these witnesses further to determine
whether they possess relevant exculpatory evidence.  As for potential
harm to the witnesses, Mr.  Thorpe, you said so yourself: They can
always invoke if they believe the questioning is likely to incriminate
them."

Thorpe was clearly stunned, but he did his best to cover.  "I'd like a
moment to confer with my clients, your honor, to determine how they
would like to proceed."

"Of course.  We'll reconvene here in ninety minutes.  And, with respect
to Ms.  Kincaid's observations about the appropriateness of joint
representation, if either of your clients wishes to speak to me in
chambers about that matter, I will be available and can assist in
obtaining substitute counsel if necessary.  Ms.  Kincaid, you might
want to stay nearby, in the event you're needed."

Prescott had gone one step further than I expected.  If Min-kins had
missed the point of my earlier comments, Prescott's certainly set the
stage for Minkins to jump ship.

As we left chambers, Thorpe said something to Roger, who then excused
himself from Townsend, no doubt so he could accompany his partner and
Slip's next witnesses back to some conference room at Dunn Simon.

"Roger, I was hoping we could talk before you leave," I said.  "I need
to speak to Townsend about something."

"Now's not exactly a good time, Samantha.  Jim told me about the stunt
you pulled back there.  I don't know what you're up to, but don't say a
word to Dr.  Easterbrook while I'm gone, or I'll have your bar ticket.
On my instructions, he's going home."

I stood by the door and watched them head down the hall.  By the time
they got to the elevator, Jim and Roger were already playing referees
between Gunderson and Minkins.

I turned to my favorite flannel-and-cords guy.  "Hey, Slip.  You
gamble?"

Thirteen.

I won the bet.  Minkins called Judge Prescott just forty minutes later
from a pay phone in the lobby of the Dunn Simon building.  Slip had
guessed it would take an hour.

I spent some of the time talking to Slip.  He gave me a copy of the
spreadsheets he'd printed out from Clarissa's mystery disc.  Based on a
quick scan, I had to agree that nothing interesting popped out, except,
of course, the fact that the data had been password-protected in a safe
deposit box.

I thought about the security system on the Easterbrook house.  Maybe
they were cautious enough to keep something as innocuous as a backup
file under lock and key.  But would Clarissa really stow a copy of her
husband's file alongside a video of a tryst with her boyfriend?

I spent the remaining half hour thinking about everything I had learned
about Clarissa this week.  Based on what I'd heard, it was hard to
imagine that she'd sell her office to someone like Gunderson.  But
ultimately I could picture it.  After all, there had been times when I
wondered whether the cops and lawyers

I knew were always squeaky clean.  You never know how a person's
circumstances might affect their decisions.  A few years of pushing
through the morass of boredom I saw in Clarissa's files, and your
average person might not see the harm if a couple of arbitrary,
meaningless decisions went the wrong way.

So what had been Clarissa's circumstances?  Maybe she felt guilty about
her affair and wanted the money if in fact there had been any money to
make it up to Townsend.  Or maybe the money was to help her leave
Townsend and start a life with T. J. Caffrey.

Judge Prescott's clerk finally saved me from my aimless speculation
when she told me about the call from Minkins.

Prescott handled the stress well.  She made a quick call to Thorpe to
confirm that he was aware of Minkins's decision, then found the nearest
defense attorney in the hallway to stand in as counsel.  The short
straw went to Lisa Lopez, one of the most liberal cop-haters in the
PD's office.  If you need a defense attorney who can cut through the
crap and pull a recalcitrant defendant to the plea table, Lopez is a
pain in the ass.  But here, we'd paint the picture of a
down-on-his-luck chump-change cheat, eager to flip the switch on the
big bad white-collar criminals in exchange for a walk.  Lisa'd be all
over it.

Prescott gave Lisa a chance to talk to Minkins alone.  I called
Minkins's probation officer to make sure I wasn't missing anything. The
PO had never heard of him and told me to do what I needed to do.

A half hour later, I was sitting with Lopez and Minkins in a jury room.
Lisa cut to the chase.  "Before he says anything, I want full
transactional immunity," she said.

She knew that was impossible.  Transactional immunity is the brass ring
of plea deals, and no one ever receives it.  Hand that over to a
defendant, and he can boast of every bad thing he ever did, and you can
never touch him for any of it.

"First of all, you know that's not going to happen," I told her.  "More
important, you know that what I'm willing to give him depends on what
he's got to say."

"Are you in a position to give him a walk?"

I was nervous about making a deal without talking to Russell.  But if I
called him now, not only would I look weak, but he might screw things
up and stop the flow of information.  I steeled my courage.  This was
no different than what I'd done hundreds of times before with drug
informants.

"Again, it depends on what he's got to say.  Can he give me PC for
murder?"  With probable cause for someone other than Jackson, I'd have
enough to make arrests and obtain search warrants.

"No," she said without hesitation, apparently surprised that I had even
entertained that as a possibility.  Minkins eyed her suspiciously, and
I got the feeling that he would've offered to say whatever was
necessary to save his ass.

"No promises," I said.  "You've got to take your chances or take the
stand.  Up to you."

Lisa nodded at Minkins, and he said what he had to say.

"First off, I got nothing to do with anyone dying.  Swear to God, to
this day I still don't know what the fuck's going on.  But far as I can
tell, you think someone set up this Jackson for a fall.  As to that
point, what I can add is that Larry handed me the dude's number a
couple weeks ago and told me to hire him.  Didn't matter what the terms
were.  Gunderson owed a friend a favor, and that meant I had to get
Jackson on-site.  Turned out not to be a problem.  The guy jumped at
it."

"Did he say who the friend was?"  I asked.

"No clue."

Most likely a cover story Gunderson gave Minkins just to get Jackson on
the property.

"Anyway," he continued, "Jackson gave his information to a girl we use
for personnel-related stuff, and that's about all I had to do with him.
Then Friday I'm working at the site late, checking out the status of
things, and I see Jackson packing away some paint into his van.  I
didn't recognize him, so I asked the guy his name.  I remembered it
from when Larry told me to hire him, so I told him, Go ahead and take
it.  Then I called Larry."

"What was his reaction?"

"Nothing special.  Just thanked me for telling him about it.  Next
thing I know, we got a body on our hands Monday and Jackson's getting
arrested for it."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"So I'm not a good Samaritan.  Sue me."

I wasn't buying it.  If his decisions today said anything about his
behavior generally, Minkins was self-interested.  No way did he sit
there silently while Gunderson dragged him into the middle of this.

"You're leaving something out.  How'd you wind up at the library?"

He pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling.  "So you did make me.  I
was beginning to wonder."

Sucker.

"When I saw the news about Jackson, I asked Larry what the fuck was
going on.  All he said was and I remember this "Take a lesson from it,
Billy, and keep your mouth shut."  Scared the shit out of me.  So I
started doing some snooping around of my own.  Figured if I got the
goods on whoever pulled that shit on Jackson and the lady judge, they
couldn't pull anything on me."

"And what did you find out?"

"Not a lot.  I know Larry's leveraged up the ass trying to keep the
bills paid.  And I know you were doing some serious research into the
urban growth boundary."

"You're still not telling me why you were following me, Billy."

"It was stupid, OK?  I watched the news Friday about the hearing, and
they said something about there being a shooting at your house last
month.  I was thinking about trying to work something out with you, so
I went by Saturday morning, just because I wasn't doing nothing else.
Then I saw you driving away.  Next thing I know, I'm following you
around the library.  When I saw what you was working on, I realized I
didn't have a fucking clue about what was going on, and I was like to
get myself in more trouble than be able to help myself."

"But now you're coming clean anyway."

"Well, when you said what you said earlier, I figured it was about the
only choice I had.  Larry sure as hell ain't gonna take care of me."

It sounded credible.  I could see a guy like Billy Minkins feeling
desperate enough to follow me around while he tried to figure out what
to do.  Thanks to the local news, anyone who was curious could find out
what block I lived on from a search of the Internet.

"Did you tell Gunderson about the library?"  I asked.

"No way.  I hightailed it out of there and laid low.  I ain't saying
I'm perfect.  Hell, it's not like I'm blind it's not every businessman
who's gonna let a guy like me take care of an operation.  But no way
did I sign up to be in the middle of a murder trial and whatever crap
led up to it."

"You certainly don't sound like someone who trusts Larry Gunderson.
How'd you hook up with him anyway?"

Minkins let out a chuckle.  "AA.  Court-ordered after my check-writing
scheme went awry.  I couldn't get work after that, and Larry'd been in
the program for years.  Fucking ironic, ain't it?"

There's a reason guys like Minkins wind up in the system.  Instead of
taking some responsibility for the decision that led him to this room,
he had found a way to blame it on the only chance a court had given him
to get his life under control.  But Minkins seemed to think I liked
him, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Do you know of any connection between Gunderson and Clarissa
Easterbrook?"

"Other than her body being found there?  Nope."

"Do you know anything about Gunderson paying bribes or kickbacks to her
or any other public officials?"

"Nope, but I wouldn't put it past him."

"Are you going to bother telling me what you're fishing for, Kincaid?"
Leave it to Lisa Lopez to think she's not doing her job unless she
butts in every once in a while.

"Me telling you what I think isn't part of this deal," I said.  "What
matters is your client telling me what he knows, and I'm trying to make
sure he's done that."

I asked a few more questions, but I couldn't get anything more out of
him.

Lopez could tell the debriefing was coming to a close.  "There you go,
Kincaid.  Billy never even broke the law, so I want assurances that he
doesn't face potential prosecution.  And his PO better not jam him up,
either."

"But he hasn't given me anything, Lisa.  He said it himself.  He
doesn't know what happened."

"You've got more than you had before.  And he might not know all the
details, but that's because he doesn't have anything to do with it."

She was right.  That's the problem with our system of flipping.  Those
who have the most to trade are the ones least deserving of a break.  If
Minkins was telling the truth, he had some serious moral shortcomings
but he wasn't a murderer.

"Fine, but only after he passes a poly."

Billy Minkins had his own priorities.  "And I want some protection."

"Explain it to him.  Lisa.  I'm not exactly running a witness
protection program here."

"Fuck that noise," Minkins said.  "I get the impression you don't know
any more about what's going on than I do.  You turn me loose after
Gunderson knows I cut a deal, and I might wind up like that judge of
yours."

Shoot.  Why didn't I think of that?

There was only one way to swing this, and it all depended on how badly
Billy wanted protection.  As it turned out, he was more scared than I
thought.

Lisa and I told Prescott's clerk that we were ready and returned to the
courtroom.  Thorpe and Gunderson were already there, presumably waiting
for Slip to call Gunderson to the stand pursuant to the subpoena.

"We're back on the record," Judge Prescott made clear.  "Mr.  Minkins
has chosen to proceed with separate counsel, and he is now present and
represented by Lisa Lopez.  The motion to quash the subpoenas served
upon Larry Gunderson and William Minkins is quashed.  Mr.  Szlipkowsky,
you may proceed to question your witnesses."

This had happened too quickly.  I hadn't had a chance to talk to Slip.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that the fifty-fifty odds would fall my
way.

"The defense calls Larry Gunderson to the stand."

I exhaled a sigh of relief, and Jim Thorpe rose.  "Excuse me, your
honor.  It was my understanding that the purpose of the prosecutor's
conference with Ms.  Lopez was to determine whether Mr.  Minkins was
offering testimony that would warrant an offer of immunity to him.  As
your honor is well aware, such conferences often invite fabrications,
especially where as in Mr.  Minkins's situation the person being
questioned is

OTJ

on probation and therefore subject to the whim of law enforcement.  It
only seems fair that my client should know what occurred in that
conference before being questioned."

Somewhere along the road, when I wasn't looking, Prescott had truly
come into her own.  Without asking any guidance from the other
attorneys, she reached the right conclusion.  "Mr.  Gunderson is merely
a witness in these proceedings, not the accused.  He has no standing to
request information about other witness's potential testimony.  Please
instruct your client to take the witness seat."

Thorpe whispered some last minute advice in his ear and Gunderson took
the stand.  Short, round, and balding, he might have appeared jolly
under happier circumstances.  But here, his expression was stern but
concerned as he repeated the same response to each of Slip's questions:
"On the advice of counsel, I decline to answer pursuant to my Fifth
Amendment rights."

Although typically the bane of my existence, today the words were music
to my ears.  Larry Gunderson, the supposedly disinterested landowner,
was invoking his rights.  It was better than anything I could have
hoped for.

When Slip had finished his list of questions, he called Minkins to the
stand.  To everyone's surprise (well, maybe not everyone's), Minkins
also invoked his Fifth Amendment rights.  When the questioning was
done, I rose.

"Your honor, at this point, I would request that the sheriff's deputy
place Mr.  Minkins in custody on a probation detainer pursuant to the
request of his probation officer."

"This is ludicrous, your honor."  I wasn't surprised at Lisa's acting
skills.  Having seen her profess her faith in her clients time and time
again in court, I knew she could pull it off.  "Ms.  Kincaid is
obviously penalizing my client for invoking his Fifth Amendment
rights."

"Ms.  Lopez is forgetting, your honor, that Mr.  Minkins was a defense
witness, not a suspect.  The State is continuing to pursue its case
against the defendant, Melvin Jackson, and is simply informing the
court of a decision by the probation department.  The probation officer
has already faxed a formal detainer to the sheriff's department.  He is
concerned about Mr.  Thorpe s earlier representation about Mr.
Minkins's whereabouts at the time of the offense.  The witness is on
supervision for a forgery that arose from an alcohol and gambling
addiction."

Moments later, Minkins was led away in cuffs, where he'd be safe and
sound in a relatively clean and comfortable county holding cell until I
told his PO it was time for a hearing.  It wasn't the Four Seasons, but
it provided the protection Minkins was after.

Larry Gunderson's head looked like it was about to explode.  My guess
was that he had been tempted to perjure his way through the
questioning, but was smart enough to play it safe once he assumed that
Minkins had given him up.  It's nearly impossible to make your way
through an interrogation when you don't know what cards the questioner
has already drawn.  Any screwups would be under oath and on the record,
preventing him from wiggling around at a trial down the road.

Lisa threw me a glance before leaving the courtroom.  Other lawyers
might have worried about the long-term repercussions of crossing
another attorney, especially one as powerful as Jim Thorpe.  But Lisa
Lopez, ever the true believer, did what was best for Minkins.

"Unless someone has further need of Mr.  Thorpe and his client,"
Prescott said, "the two of you are free to leave as well."  They almost
looked surprised when no one spoke up.

With the witnesses gone, Prescott asked Slip if he had any additional
witnesses.

"No, your honor."

"Rebuttal, Ms.  Kincaid."

"None."

Slip and I went through the motions on argument.  He wove the strongest
conspiracy story he could given the information he had.  I stood by my
case against Jackson, emphasizing that any questions about possible
conspiracies must be decided by the jury.  If anyone from the office
called Prescott to check up on me, it would look like I'd played my
proper role in the system.  I wasn't looking for a dismissal against
Jackson, just enough of a reaction from the court to get my office's
attention.

When we were done arguing, Judge Prescott gave me what I needed.

"All right, I don't know what exactly happened in here today, but I'm
ready to rule."

When I got back to my office, I was greeted by a note on my chair.  See
me ASAP.  And, no, that doesn't mean after a quick run.  Russ.

I didn't go for a run, but I did take a second to check my voice mail:
two defense attorneys, a victim, and my father.  Since I had changed my
outgoing message to say I'd be in court all day, the callbacks could
wait.

In Russell's office, I did my best to look worn out from my crazy
morning.  "Hey, there.  I'm finally out of the Jackson prelim."  I held
up the note he'd left for me.

"What the hell's going on over there?  Your gem of an ex-husband called
Duncan a couple of hours ago claiming you were sabotaging your own
case.  Something about you telling the defense attorney to subpoena
some clients you called him about over the weekend?"

Russell had been good to me so far, so I almost felt bad about lying to
him.  Almost.  "Roger's got his head up his ass.  The defense
subpoenaed the same witnesses I asked him about, because anyone giving
a second thought about this case would be asking the same questions. If
anyone should be in trouble, it's him.  He's thinking more about the
other clients than he is about Townsend."

"Sounds like a conflict," he said.

"I thought so too, but apparently all the clients signed off on it."

"So what was the end result?"  he asked.

"Prescott found probable cause, but not without a fight.  She said on
the record that the defense had raised serious questions about whether
we had the entire story, and that we skated through only because the
standard of proof's so low.  Oh, yeah, and the media were in the
courtroom."

"You're fucking shitting me."

"I shit you not.  After the morning I've had, I am in a strictly non
shitting mode of communication."  I did my best to sound upset, but now
I had the office right where I needed it.  No way would Duncan permit
the bureau to continue ignoring the evidence pointing to Gunderson.

"I'm almost afraid to ask: Who are these witnesses?"

"Larry Gunderson, who owns the Glenville construction site, and Billy
Minkins, who works for him."

"For the love of God, Kincaid.  Not this again.  The defendant's mom
says one thing to you 'my boy ain't never had a job so good' and ever
since then you can't let it drop."

His Mrs.  Jackson impersonation wasn't half bad.

"It's more than that, Russ."  But before I got a chance to explain it
all to him, his phone rang.  Checking the caller ID, he decided to
answer it.

"Hi, Duncan .. . Yeah, she's right here..  .. No, Prescott found
probable cause, but it's a little more complicated than that..  .. OK,
yeah, we'll be right down."  Russ hopped out of his chair as he hung
up.  "I'll do what I can for you, Samantha, but if I were you I'd hold
my nose and pucker up, because you've got some serious ass-kissing in
front of you."

In the couple of minutes it took to run down the back stairs to
Duncan's office, I managed to give Russ at least the big picture.  I
left out the part about my role in steering Slip's action, but I did
tell him about the contents of Clarissa's safe deposit box and
Gunderson's stake in the urban growth boundary.

"So what's your theory?"

"I'm not done telling you everything yet."

"Reader's Digest version, Kincaid.  Duncan's waiting for us."

"I think Clarissa had some kind of deal with Gunderson where she agreed
to rule in his favor on his appeal.  I also think that Gunderson has a
lot to lose if the urban growth boundary doesn't expand in Glenville,
and that Clarissa's affair with Caffrey had something to do with that.
For whatever reason, though, Clarissa was thinking about blowing the
whistle "

A voice cut me off.  "Where the hell are they?"  Shit.  It was Duncan
standing in the hallway, apparently counting the seconds to make sure
we weren't dillydallying.

"I think that's for us, kid," Russ said.  "Let's do this."

My pulse started to accelerate the minute I sat on Duncan Griffith's
leather sofa.  If what they say about state-dependent learning is true,
his office would eventually begin to trigger an automatic gag reflex in
me.

He wasn't helping to calm my nerves.  "Sounds like you've had a busy
morning, Samantha."

"Yes, although not nearly as chaotic as Roger Kirkpatrick apparently
led you to believe.  Russ told me that Roger called you."

97 R

"Well, he called me, but the bigger problem is Jim Thorpe, who called
the chief of police, the mayor, and everyone else who was willing to
listen.  The way I understand it, Kirkpatrick's pissed on behalf of
Townsend, because he doesn't want to see the prosecution of his wife's
murderer derailed.  And Thorpe's pissed because his client's being
dragged through a three-ring circus.  Do you want to explain to me why
you're sabotaging your own case?"

"I did nothing of the sort.  The defense threw us some curve balls
today, and I still managed to swing the probable cause finding."  It
was hard to keep a straight face with the sports metaphor.

"According to Kirkpatrick, you called him Sunday afternoon asking to
talk to this Gunderson fellow.  Then, when he said no, lo and behold,
the defense attorney ups and subpoenas the guy.  You want to explain
that to me?"

I gave him the same version I gave Frist the one where Slip and I are
equally savvy and wind up on the same track.  I also gave him a rundown
on what Minkins had confirmed about Gunderson and what I still
suspected.

By the time I was finished, Duncan's eyes were pressed shut, his right
palm pressed against his temple.  "That's one a hell of mess, all
right," he said, his eyes still shut.  Then, opening them to look at
me, he said, "We'll talk about your role in this in a second, but first
things first.  Russ, the last time I checked, you were working this
case too.  What do you think?"

"I don't like it," Russ said.  "But I think the defense has dug up
enough that we have to look into it.  If we ignore it, Szlip-kowsky
will haul it all out in front of a jury, and we'll look like we're
steamrolling a poor black guy to cover up some white-collar dirty
laundry."

For a second, I thought I'd stroked out and was having delusions.  I
looked down.  Nope, I was still wearing panty hose and my calves were
still puffy.  This was definitely not heaven.  But my supervisor was
actually defending me to our boss.

"You guys can't possibly be telling me that you buy this conspiracy
theory shit," Duncan said.  "Planted evidence, for Christ's sake?"

"I don't know what to think," I said, "but I agree with Russ.  We can't
ignore it.  How many times have I heard in this office that only the
guilty lawyer up?  You should have seen Gunderson in there.  He invoked
to every question.  He's definitely hiding something, and if he takes
the Fifth in front of a jury, we're toast.  Jackson will walk, and so
will any hope we have of trying someone else for the same crime."

Duncan thought about it, his prosecutorial instincts kicking in.
Prosecutors share a belief system resembling a kind of secular faith,
and a central tenet of that system is that a witness who invokes is
hiding something.  Maybe not the thing you're looking for, but
something.  In our church of prosecutors, it's the equivalent of the
truth shall set you free.

"Help me think this thing through," he said.  "If it's all connected,
the victim and Gunderson had some kind of arrangement, and Gunderson
killed her because she was planning to talk?"

"Right," I said.  "I think it went beyond that one appeal Clarissa
heard.  I think her affair with Caffrey fits in somehow.  He's a swing
vote on whether to expand suburban development, an issue Gunderson
stands to profit from.  A lot.  It would explain the videotape Clarissa
had of her and Caffrey coming out of the motel.  Maybe she was
blackmailing him but couldn't go through with it."

"And they set up Melvin Jackson as the bad guy?"  Russ asked.

"It certainly wouldn't be the first time a white criminal took
advantage of stereotypes."  We'd all seen the stories before.  When
that woman sunk her kids in the river, the first thing she said was
that some black guy took them and everyone immediately believed her.

Duncan did not look happy.  "Well, I guess we're going to need to look
into this guy's business dealings, but the police aren't going to like
it if it means trashing the case against Jackson.  Any possibility the
guy had a deal with the victim but didn 't set up Jackson?"

"I don't see it," I said.  "If Gunderson was bribing Clarissa, it's too
much of a coincidence that Jackson winds up working for Gunderson and
putting Clarissa's body there."

Russ was shaking his head.  "No, there is a way.  You told me early on,
Sam, that you thought Clarissa felt sorry for Jackson, at least
initially, right?"

"Right.  She had notes in her file showing she'd done some legal
research trying to find a theory she could use to rule for him."

"OK," Frist continued.  "So what if you're right, and she's on the take
with Gunderson?  Maybe she calls in a marker of her own and gets
Jackson the job."

Minkins did, after all, say that Gunderson had told him he was hiring
Jackson as a favor to a friend.  I followed Frist's theory.  "But
Jackson didn't know that, of course, and is still pissed off about his
eviction."

"He kills her, dumps her at the site, and everything else falls into
place."

"Except the part where Gunderson tells Minkins to keep his mouth shut
when Clarissa's body turned up," I said.

"But think about it.  Gunderson knows he's crooked on the bribery
scheme, and all of the sudden the other half of the equation winds up
dead on his property.  Maybe he used it to scare Minkins into staying
quiet about the Jackson hire, which might have shown a connection
between the victim and the company."

5B1

I completed the thought.  "Which might've revealed whatever quid pro
quo they had."

"Or maybe Minkins made that part up," he added.  "It wouldn't be the
first time an informant threw in a little extra to help the case."

Man.  First Russ defends me, then he outsmarts me.  It's a crazy world,
this one we live in.  A world where Clarissa Easter-brook might have
used her position with Gunderson to help out Jackson, only to have him
kidnap and murder her.

I was frustrated that I hadn't seen it earlier.  I had been so focused
on figuring out the connection between Gunderson and Clarissa that I
had just assumed that it was related to Clarissa's death.  But I had
never been able to figure out how Gunderson knew about Jackson in order
to frame him.

Russ's scenario gave our office a reason to send the cops back out to
work: We still think Jackson did it, we could say, but we need to find
out what Gunderson was up to so the defense doesn't blindside the
jury.

The truth was, my gut was telling me that I'd been wrong about Jackson.
He did it.  I'd never forgive myself if Slip actually got Jackson off
using information I'd hand-delivered.

"The way things stand now," I said, "I think we need to get MCT back on
this right away."  I told Duncan about Prescott's comments in the
courtroom and the near certainty that the news would be breaking
imminently.

"That's just great.  She had to make sure that my day was fully fucked.
All right, here's the deal.  Thorpe's got everyone's attention on this
thing.  I'm supposed to meet at City Hall this afternoon with the MCT
lieutenant, the mayor, and the city attorney to determine how to
proceed."

Noting our looks of disbelief, he said, "I know, it's overkill.  But
the bureau already took an embarrassing hit on this case and doesn't
want it going down the drain, the city attorney's worried about getting
sued, and the mayor well, the mayor's probably going to make sure we
don't all kill each other.  If I had to guess, with so many offices
involved, it could take a couple days before anything happens, but
Jackson's not going anywhere, right?"

I shook my head.

"The defense attorney's not going to make any noise?"

I shook my head again.  "But are you going to make MCT follow up on the
Gunderson angle?"  I asked.

"Like I said, Kincaid, I doubt anything's going to happen for a couple
of days."

"But, in a couple of days, that's what you're expecting, right?"

"Not that I owe you an explanation, Samantha, but no, I wasn't planning
on asking MCT to look at a possible corruption case, because that's not
MCT's jurisdiction.  We'll get the bureau on it, and we'll get some
answers by the time of trial, but that's good enough for now."

Now I saw Duncan's take on the situation.  If the corruption involving
Gunderson wasn't related to the Jackson murder case, there was no
reason to start a beef with MCT about opening a closed case.  The
problem was, the bureau wouldn't be under the gun to see the Gunderson
investigation through.

"Duncan, I think it is appropriate to ask MCT to do the work.  It's
Jackson's defense attorney who's trying to set up Gunderson as the
killer, so it's the detectives on that case who are going to be
motivated to get to the bottom of it.  If they find out that Gunderson
was bribing Clarissa and blackmailing Caffrey but didn't set up
Jackson, everyone will be happy."

"You don't get it, Samantha," he said.  "MCT's not going to be happy
about anything that makes this case any more complicated than it needs
to be.  And if we ask them to look into Gunderson Development, it looks
like we believe there's actually a connection between Gunderson and the
murder.  And we don't."  His point was a good one, but I wanted the
work done well, and I wanted it done soon.  "And, for the record, Sam:
slight problem claiming Szlipkowsky came up with these witnesses on his
own.  How'd he know to serve the subpoenas on Jim Thorpe?"

Crap.  I thought Slip had served Gunderson and Minkins directly.
Apparently, he was willing to flirt with unconventional-ity, but wasn't
about to bypass retained counsel.  The problem, of course, was that it
looked like his knowledge of the representation came from me.

I couldn't remember saying anything to Slip last night about Thorpe.
But I did remember something else.

"Probably because Jim Thorpe represented Gunderson Development on the
appeal in front of Clarissa.  His name was in the file Slip found in
her safe deposit box."

Duncan didn't like it, but he knew he couldn't prove I had done
anything wrong.

"Anything else?"  he asked.

The last thing I wanted to do was set him off.  But I couldn't let him
go into that meeting without telling him about Min-kins's immunity deal
and the OHSU financial records in the safe deposit box.  If those facts
eventually came out later, he'd look foolish in front of the bureau and
the mayor, and whoever put him in that position namely, moi would pay
the price.

"Well, there's a few other details you should probably know about," I
said.

"Details?  Why do I have a feeling that, coming from you, Samantha,
those details are going to be something like a pin that fell out of the
grenade?"

I told him about my secret immunity deal with Minkins.

"Did you know about this, Frist?"

"No, sir, I didn't."

I couldn't bear to look at him.

"Big surprise," Duncan said, shaking his head.  "Before I lose it, let
me get this straight: You let a witness invoke on the stand, knowing
you had given him immunity, without telling the defense attorney?  No,
forget about the defense attorney, without telling the judge?"

I never thought about it that way.  I knew I was keeping something from
Gunderson, but I didn't owe him any information unless and until he was
a criminal defendant.  I had thought about Slip at the time, but
figured I'd explain it all to him later, and he wouldn't mind under the
circumstances.

But, from a technical perspective, I had misled the court.  Once a
witness has immunity, he's got no Fifth Amendment rights, so
technically Minkins should have answered all of Slip's questions.  Even
if Slip didn't mind the lost opportunity, Judge Prescott wouldn't be
pleased that I used her courtroom to dupe Gunderson.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"See, that proves we've got a problem, Samantha.  You're better than
that.  I know you've got a tendency to go your own way, but this is
something different.  I don't know if it's the new caseload, the
ex-husband, the mess that went down last month but for whatever reason,
you've lost your judgment on this one."

I couldn't hold my tongue any longer.  "No, I haven't, and this is no
different from what goes on around here every day.  We can do whatever
we want on our cases as long as no one's paying attention, but the
minute someone raises an eyebrow, we're second-guessed at every turn.
And if you're not part of the club, you're third- and fourth-guessed.
And now it's even worse, Duncan, because you've personalized it.  Maybe
I've made some mistakes, but don't suggest there's something wrong with
my motives."

"You're the one choosing to make it personal, Samantha.  You need to
take emotion out of this."

If I had a dollar for every time a pissed-off man told me I

was being emotional, I wouldn't have to deal with angry men any more.
Apparently rage is only an emotion when combined with estrogen.

"I'll call Judge Prescott and take my licks, but I don't hear anyone
suggesting what I should have done as an alternative.  If Gunderson was
involved in Clarissa's death, telling him that Minkins flipped wouldn't
just jeopardize our investigation, it would've put our informant at
risk."

Duncan was no longer in the mood to argue.  He didn't need to; he was
the boss.  "I'll give some thought to all this, Samantha but right now
we both need to cool our heels.  Until you hear further: Russ, you
handle anything having to do with Clarissa Easterbrook.  And call
Prescott.  It's better she hear about this from you as the MCU
supervisor."

I had expected Duncan to kick me off the case.  Maybe it was even the
right thing to do, given some of the calls I'd made.  But having Frist
apologize to a judge for something I'd done?  I started to interrupt,
but Duncan signalled for me to keep quiet.

"No, Samantha, I'm not risking it.  If you're not apologetic enough,
she's just going to pick up the phone and complain to me.  If you're
lucky, she'll figure you're in enough trouble at home not to report you
to the bar."

I shook my head.

"I know what you're thinking.  If you want to resign, that's up to you.
Alternatively, you could turn your attention and your talent to the
many other cases assigned to you.  Your decision."

All the earlier huffing and puffing aside, it had come down to this the
ultimate trump card.  Unfortunately, Duncan had seen me in action
enough these past weeks to know that, when push came to shove, I'd
rather put up with the crap I take here than fight over corporate money
with attorneys like Roger and Jim Thorpe.  Maybe Grace would give me a
job sweeping up hair at Lockworks.

"I'll let you know."  Then I walked out of his office, leaving him
there with Melvin Jackson's new prosecutor.

I had hoped to be out of the building before Russ made it up to the
eighth floor, but he managed to catch me while I was still getting my
things together.  One more reason not to keep such a messy office.

"Don't worry about the call to Prescott," he said.  "I won't make you
look like a jerk."

"I think Duncan already took care of that," I said, throwing my pumps
in my gym bag.  One of them didn't quite make it in and hit Frist in
the leg.

"Easy now.  For what it's worth, it would've been a lot worse if Duncan
didn't actually like you."

"If you didn't notice, I just got kicked off my first murder trial," I
said, pulling the pictures of Vinnie and my family from my cork board
and tucking them safely away in my briefcase, just in case.

"Yes, but you walked out with your job and the case on track, and with
very minimal ass-kissing.  I know you'd rather hang on to it, but I
won't bungle it."

"Better not," I said, laughing, while I pulled my rain slicker on.

"You're obviously going somewhere, but before you leave, why don't you
let me in on the parts you edited out for Duncan."

I did my best to look confused.

"Cut the shit, Samantha.  I can tell you're leaving something out.  If
you need me to go into cross-examination mode, I'll point out that you
told Duncan there were some details you left out.  As in plural.  And
you clearly had more to say to me before we got pulled into Duncan's,
but I don't think it was the secret immunity deal, because you
obviously didn't realize it was going to be so explosive.  So spill it:
What were you saving up for last?"

What the hell.  He'd stuck by me so far.

"Earlier, I thought it was a big deal, but now that you've convinced me
I had my head up my ass" he laughed too "anyway, it's probably nothing,
but the safe deposit box that had the videotape and the Gunderson
file?"

He nodded.

"Well, the one other item in the box was a password-protected floppy
disc containing the budget information for Townsend's new hospital
wing."

"And how does that fit in with everything we just talked about
downstairs?"

"It doesn't.  If you're right, it just so happens that Clarissa stored
a backup of her husband's data in the same place as the other things.
But, earlier, it made me wonder if maybe Townsend had something to do
with it.  Maybe Gunderson coughs up money for the hospital in exchange
for Clarissa's help, something like that."

"And he lets her sleep with Caffrey so she can deliver his vote for
Gunderson?  I don't see it."

Me neither.  On the other hand, according to everyone who knew him, the
pathetic guy we'd been talking to the past week wasn't the same man
Clarissa Easterbrook had married.

We talked it through but kept going around in circles.

When I finally retrieved my gym bag from under the desk, Russ handed me
my briefcase.  "So where are you going, if you don't mind me asking?"

I wasn't ready to answer that question yet.  "Sounded like Duncan was
going to steer the meeting toward a holding pattern.  Let the news sink
in and the personalities calm down."

"I know," he said.  "I was there, remember?"

"It may have been a mistake to drag Gunderson into the murder case, but
now he knows we're looking at him on the bribery.  Not the best
situation for the preservation of inculpatory evidence."

"You mean Slip's mistake," he said.

"Right."

"Well, you heard the boss: Nothing's happening until decisions get made
at the highest level," he said, like we were still shooting the
breeze.

"But maybe someone could poke around a little on the side.  Just to see
what falls loose," I said.

"Maybe."

"You mind if I take the rest of the day as personal time?"

"Not if you need it," he said.  "Just tell me what you find out."

9R9

Fourteen.

By the time I got to Metro Council headquarters, Terrence Caffrey's
office was already locked down.  Metro was probably only a part-time
legislative gig.

I took a chance and drove past the address I had copied from the
mailing envelope Slip had found in Clarissa's safe deposit box.  T. J.
Caffrey and his family lived in a brick colonial just a couple of
houses south of Reed College.  A woman probably Caffrey's wife was
planting bulbs along the front walk.  A mini-van and a Toyota Avalon
were parked in the driveway.

Two cars hopefully meant two drivers.

I wanted to talk to Caffrey alone, but I was willing to do it the hard
way if necessary.  I parked my Jetta around the corner on Woodstock
Boulevard, confident that it blended in among the students' cars across
from the library.

I looked at my watch.  I'd give it an hour before I knocked on the
front door.

Fifty-five minutes later, the front yard was empty, my stomach was in
knots, and my self-imposed boldness deadline was preparing to bend.
Chuck had been paging me, and I hadn't called him back out of fear that
he'd convince me to take the night off and abandon my stakeout.  Then I
got lucky.

The gardener walked out the front door holding a toddler and a Meier &
Frank shopping bag, yelling back to someone inside.  A little boy
probably four years old followed her.  She strapped them both into the
minivan, threw the bags in front, and drove off.

I didn't know how many kids Caffrey had, but most folks stop at two
nowadays.  Then it dawned on me he might not even be there.  What woman
in her right mind takes her children on a mall run when she could leave
them at home with their dad?

There was only one way to find out.  I mustered my courage, got out of
the car, marched to the front door, and panicked.

Just when I was about to bail, Caffrey opened the door.  "I thought I
saw someone.  Can I help?  Oh, Ms.  Kincaid.  It's you."

He looked down the street, no doubt to make sure the missus had left.

"I'm not trying to cause you any problems."

"As I know you're aware, my lawyer quashed that subpoena."

"Well, that's just it.  The subpoena was served by the defense to
require you to testify under oath at the preliminary hearing.  I just
want to talk to you, but I need to know if you're still represented."

"Ronald Fish is my lawyer.  I'm sure you remember the very
uncomfortable meeting we had Friday morning."

Of course I did, but that wasn't what I was getting at.

"I guess what I'm asking you, Mr.  Caffrey, is whether you hired an
attorney specifically because of the subpoena, or are you telling me
that you've retained counsel to defend you in all matters involving
Clarissa Easterbrook?"

Caffrey was savvy enough to know that, as I had worded it, the latter
sounded bad.  It sounded well, guilty.  By now, he may even have heard
the news about witnesses taking the Fifth at the prelim.  In the news,
they always make that sound like a confession.

I was taking advantage of a loophole in the rule against contacting a
represented party, but I was squarely on legal ground.  And I had no
respect for a guy who was more worried about his own political future
than the murder of a woman he'd been sleeping with.

"No," he said, without hesitation.  "I thought I should have a lawyer
for the courtroom proceedings, but I've got no problem speaking to you
informally.  Within limits, that is.  I've only got about ten
minutes."

He was giving me a warning signal.  I needed to be gone before the wife
came home.  Press too far, and I'd be out of here.  With the rules of
the game defined, he asked me in.

"Since time is short, I'm not going to waste it pushing you to answer a
question I think we both know is pointless."  As I spoke, he folded his
hands in his lap and looked down at them.  At least he seemed to have
some shame about his cowardice.  "I think Clarissa got herself in
trouble on one of her cases at work, something to do with Gunderson
Development.  And I also think she talked to the City Attorney about
it."

"Gunderson Development had a case in front of Clarissa?"

I told him about the file, including the note about Clarissa's
conversation with DC.  The skin on his hands creased as he tightened
the resistance in his fingers.  I was on to something, and he was
surprised by it.

I went for broke.  "Clarissa also had a videotape of the two of you
leaving the Village Motor Inn, and it was in an envelope addressed to
this house.  She was blackmailing you, wasn't she?

Was it so you'd leave your wife, or was she trying to pressure your
vote for Gunderson?"

He was no longer surprised.  He was downright flabbergasted.  He was
looking at me like I had just invited him to a fund-raiser for Satan.

"No?"  I sounded pitiful.

He shook his head, then said what his expression had already made
obvious.  "Clarissa was not blackmailing me."

"But you do know something that might be related to her death."  I
could state the obvious too.

When a few moments passed and he realized that I wasn't going to
interrupt the silence, he finally spoke up.  "Clarissa wasn't perfect.
No one is."

"Is that why you haven't said anything?  With all due respect, making
sure we get the guy who killed Clarissa is a hell of a lot more
important than preserving her reputation."

"I've been tearing myself apart.  When she first disappeared, I didn't
know what to do.  But then it sounded like the evidence against Jackson
was so strong, I felt I'd be dragging Clarissa through the dirt for no
reason."

The fact that he got to keep his own name clean may have factored in as
well.

"Look, the case against Jackson is strong, but the defense is arguing
that someone set him up.  I started to believe it myself, but it looks
like whatever Clarissa had going with Gunderson wasn't involved in her
death.  But I think it did have something to do with your upcoming vote
on the urban growth boundary."

"If it's not related to her death, why does it even matter at this
point?"

"I hope I don't need to explain to you, of all people, that if
Gunderson was blackmailing or bribing a public official, he should be
punished."  The argument seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"And if we don't find out for ourselves what was going on between
Clarissa and Gunderson, then the defense attorney can use innuendo and
speculation to confuse the jury at trial.  I don't want Jackson to
walk."

The possibility of Clarissa's murderer going unpunished seemed to be
more persuasive.  "It doesn't have anything to do with my vote."  He
was clearly insulted at what he perceived as the insinuation. "Clarissa
never talked to me about that.  Just like I never tried to tell her
what to do on her cases.  But I think she did have a connection to this
Gunderson you're talking about."

He stopped, but I did nothing to disturb the silence.

"A few weeks ago, she told me she rigged an appeal for someone.  I
don't know the details of the case, but I know she ruled in his favor
when she shouldn't have.  I was shocked when she told me.  It was
totally unlike her."

"Did she tell you why she did it?"

"No.  I think she only told me because she was worried about something
else, some newer problem.  She said the arrangement was supposed to be
the one case, but it hadn't ended at that.  They wanted something else,
but she wouldn't say what.  I begged her to talk to me about what was
going on, but she wouldn't.  She said she was going to handle it
herself."

"How was she handling it?"

"I'm not sure.  I know she went to Dennis Coakley so she could clear
herself from any other cases where she might be pressured, but I don't
know if she told him the full extent of what she did.  The next thing I
knew, she said she had figured out a way to get out of the position she
was in, but that there was a risk that people would learn about well,
about our friendship."

"Did she talk to anyone else about it?"  I asked.

"Not that I know of.  I doubt it.  She was incredibly embarrassed.
Ashamed.  She was trying to find a way to get herself back on the right
track without losing everything.  God, in retrospect, it explained why
she'd been so damn .. . good those last couple of weeks. You know she
actually felt sorry for that monster?"

"For Gunderson?"

"No, for Melvin Jackson.  Well, she never told me his name, but she did
tell me his whole sad story.  She called HAP to see if zero tolerance
really meant zero tolerance.  She called SCF to see if he was really
going to lose his kids.  Hell, she was even talking about finding the
man a job to make sure he'd be on his feet when he was evicted.  At the
time, I asked her why she didn't just rule in his favor.  But that was
before I knew she'd already gone down that road before.  I guess she
wasn't willing to bend the law again, even for what she thought was a
good cause."

Despite what Clarissa had done for Gunderson, I respected her even more
now that I knew what she'd gone through.  She died doing everything she
could to turn her life around, looking for redemption by helping a man
like Melvin Jackson, a man who showed his gratitude by bashing her head
in with a hammer.

"How long had you been .. . close?"  I asked.

"Almost seven months."  It was clearly painful for him to talk about
this, and I had allowed the conversation to get off track.  Just then,
my pager vibrated.  Chuck again.  I turned the thing off.

"When she said people might find out about your friendship, I imagine
that must have alarmed you a great deal."

"Perhaps not as much as you might think.  I had very real feelings for
Clarissa.  Think what you want about me, but she was truly a decent
person.  She was under so much stress the guilt over what we were
doing, combined with whatever she was involved in I could tell it was
tearing her apart.  Obviously,

I pressed her to tell me what our relationship had to do with her
problem, but she refused.  In the end, I told her to do what she had to
do."

"When was that?"

"The Friday night before she disappeared."

I tried to think of any other information I needed from him while he
was being so cooperative.  I had a newfound respect for cops.  This
off-the-cuff stuff was much harder than the questioning I was used to
with a legal pad and the artificial setting of a courthouse on my
side.

"I know I gave you my assurances that I wasn't going to push on certain
topics, but there's one other thing I need to know."  I explained the
ME's report of nonoxynol-9 in Clarissa's vaginal canal.  "It's very
intrusive, I know, but is it possible that was due to her relationship
with you?"

He bumbled around awkwardly trying to find the right words, but he
finally got the point across.  He and Clarissa had used a condom on
Friday night.

"We met well, let's be frank we met at the hotel you mentioned on the
videotape you found.  Her husband was at the hospital late."  I noticed
he didn't use Townsend's name.  "She was in good spirits, although a
little nervous.  She said that on Saturday she was finally going to
clear herself from this problem she was having.  I braced myself all
weekend for some news, wondering if I needed to sit down with my own
family.  But then I woke up Monday to the news she was missing.  I
still can't believe I'll never see her again."

"I can't believe you didn't come forward."  The words must have leaped
from the most spiteful part of my brain, straight out the mouth, no
filter.  I regretted saying them aloud immediately, but I didn't want
to feel sorry for this man.  Whatever he said, he had betrayed not only
his wife and children but also Clarissa.

Instead of throwing me out of his house, Caffrey made me feel even
worse.  "I suppose it's understandable that you judge me.  Certainly
it's nothing I haven't done myself."

I got into the car trying to find some satisfaction in the facts I'd
confirmed: Clarissa was on the take, the nonoxynol was Caffrey s, and
it looked like Clarissa had gotten Melvin the job with Gunderson.

But then I realized that Caffrey had raised as many questions as he'd
answered.  If the spermicide was from Friday, why was Clarissa's
sweater off when she was attacked?  And if Clarissa was tired of being
tangled up with Gunderson, what was she planning to do on Saturday to
sever the ties?

Clarissa had gotten home from shopping around seven, but we'd been so
focused on Clarissa's whereabouts on Sunday, we'd never pressed
Townsend about whether anything had happened Saturday night.  And I
couldn't talk to Townsend without going through Roger.

But I wasn't totally out of the game yet.  Roger may have told me to
stay away from his client, but there might still be a way to find out
what he had to say.

Raymond Johnson picked up on the first ring.

"Hey, Raymond.  Samantha Kincaid."

"Your ears burning?"

"No.  What's up?"

"You've been quite the topic of conversation around here today.  The
lieutenant's at City Hall now for the big powwow.  I assume you know
about it."

Johnson must not have heard I was off the case yet.  There was no point
telling him now, since it would only put him in a difficult situation.
"I think everything's under control."

"News to me," he said.  "Last I heard, you were floating conspiracy
theories about Jackson being innocent."

"No, the defense did that.  I helped convince Prescott to hold Jackson
over for trial.  We need to make sure we can counter everything the
defense is saying, that's all.  Duncan will work it out with your
lieutenant."

"I hope that's it, Kincaid, because we believe in this case, you
know."

"I realize that.  We're on the same side here, Johnson.  It's just a
matter of cleaning up some details."

"Just making sure.  Now, you were actually calling me about something,
weren't you?"

"Yeah.  The defense attorney was making noise this morning about
Townsend, but while everything's up in the air, his lawyer's not
letting us talk to him.  Do you have a copy of his polygraph
examination?"

"Sure.  We always get those if they're willing to turn it over.  The
guy he used is top-notch.  Retired FBI."

"I want to see what he asked.  See if there's anything there about what
Clarissa did on Saturday, maybe in the background questions."

"Not that I remember," he said.  "She went to Nordstrom with her
girlfriend."

"I know that.  I just want to see the questions and answers, OK?  I'll
be there in about fifteen minutes."

The polygrapher had included eleven items: eight dummies and the three
money questions.  Just as Roger said, the three critical questions put
Townsend in the clear: Were you at OHSU on Sunday?  Did you kill your
wife, Clarissa Easterbrook?  Did you hire, solicit, order, or ask
anyone to kill your wife, Clarissa Easterbrook?  Yes, no, no.  Truthful
on all three.

For current purposes, I was interested in the dummies, hoping to find
something about whether Clarissa had left the house Saturday night or
whether they'd had visitors.  Unfortunately, the questions weren't
helpful: name, birthday, address, the basics.  Nothing detailed a
timeline.

If Townsend knew what Clarissa was up to with Gunderson, I wasn't
finding that out with this polygraph.  If he weren't represented, I
could probably shake him up with the little I already knew, but I
wasn't anywhere close to having the goods it would take to rattle
Roger.  I suppose that's why people hire lawyers.

I was going to have to live with the fact that I might not be able to
wrap this one up by myself.  There were other people who could handle
the wrapping just fine.  Russ Frist was at least as capable as I was,
and he'd make sure that my stunts with Szlipkowsky wouldn't ruin the
Jackson prosecution.  I didn't have complete confidence that the bureau
would make the Gunderson investigation a priority, but Russ knew some
questions needed to be answered before the Jackson trial.  Once those
answers started rolling in, I had to believe that someone would pay
attention Jessica Walters, or maybe the Attorney General's Office.
Maybe Duncan would even let me get involved again.

But for now, I thought as I pulled out of the Justice Center parking
lot, I was tired of beating my head against the wall.  I had lingering
issues in my personal life to deal with, too.

Tension with my father was foreign to me, and I still hadn't figured
out a way to move past it.  But he had extended the olive branch by
calling me this morning, and I owed it to him to return the gesture.

I don't know why I did it, but, perhaps for the first time in my life,
I knocked on the front door of the house I grew up in.

"Hey, look at you.  What a surprise.  Come on in.  Did you lose your
key?"

"I couldn't find ... I just wasn't sure .. . well, you know."

He gave me a sad smile, and my eyes welled up looking into his.  Then
he got teary-eyed too, and that did it.  I burst out crying in front of
my father for the first time since I had walked in on Roger and then
driven straight to my parents' house.

Just as he had then, he sat me on his couch, put his arm around me, and
rocked me, telling me everything would be OK before I'd even told him
what was wrong.  When I finally quieted down to the point of quiet
sniffles and deep breaths, he asked me what happened and why I wasn't
at work.

"Nothing," I said, wiping my cheeks with my sleeves, "it'll be fine.  I
just want to be here right now if that's OK."

"It's more than OK.  It's a treat.  You hungry?  I could make
something."

I still hadn't eaten lunch, but it wasn't even four o'clock.  If I ate
dinner now, I'd be hungry again before bed, then I'd be up all night.
"That's all right," I said.  "Can you stomach a couple hands of
cribbage?"

My mother had been the cribbage player, passing the habit down to me so
she'd have someone to play with other than my father, who never hid the
fact that he played only to make her happy.

After I soundly trounced him, he insisted that I begin to shuffle more
thoroughly.  I was on my sixth waterfall when I finally brought up my
reason for being out of the office in the middle of the afternoon.  I
didn't bog him down in the legal details, but I gave him the gist: I'd
persuaded the defense attorney to raise a stink about a bribe the
victim was taking, and now I'd been tossed off the case.

To his surprise, though, when he started in on Duncan, I

actually defended the decision.  "I don't know, Dad.  It might've been
for the best.  For a first homicide case, it was probably a little too
much for me to handle on my own."

"You were doing the right thing, but it happened to lead you to the
doorstep of some people who don't want a hard-working prosecutor
looking into their business deals.  Who knows?  Duncan may have pulled
you off because he's in the pocket of this guy what did you say his
name was?"

"Gunderson, Dad.  And Duncan can be political, but he's not on the
take."

"You'd be surprised, Samantha.  The people who get into a position like
Duncan's most of them would sell their own mothers to get an advantage.
This is exactly what I was worried about.  You challenged the wrong
people, and now they won't be happy until your credibility is run into
the ground."

Just then, my pager buzzed.  I didn't recognize the number, so I
ignored it.

"No one's trying to ruin my credibility, Dad," I said, shutting off the
signal.  "I got removed from one case, and it was because I blew it.  I
got so wrapped up in the Gunderson angle that I forgot who the bad guy
was.  I used Jackson's defense attorney to prove my hunch was right,
but in the process I handed him a defense theory that might get his
client acquitted."

Dad nodded to appease me, but I could see that he disagreed.

"I can tell something's on your mind, Dad.  Go ahead and say it."

He chose his words carefully.  "You said you forgot who the bad guy
was, but I don't see what's good about this Gunderson fellow.  Even if
you're right and he didn't set up Jackson, that doesn't make him a good
guy."

Now it was my turn to sigh with exasperation.  "All I meant was that he
wasn't as bad as Jackson."  He looked at me skeptically.

"Oh, come on, Dad.  Gunderson slipped a low-level city judge a few
bucks so he could develop some old building.  Jackson killed a woman.
There's no comparison."

"But that's how these people get away with things, Sammy.  There's
always someone out there who's scarier, who's more threatening.  And
every time someone whose heart is in the right place someone like you
finally starts to go after the white-collar types, out comes a bogeyman
to prey on the public's darkest fears.  As long as the world's afraid
to walk in their neighborhood at night because of Melvin Jackson, guys
like Gunderson can always say, "Hey, I'm not so bad.  The police should
be going after that guy over there.""

"But Jackson is worse.  If my probing around Gunderson means Jackson
gets off, it wasn't worth it."

Dad shook his head.

"What?"

"I just don't buy into the assumption that there has to be a trade-off.
That sounds like something Griffith came up with so he could sweep his
pal Gunderson out of the mess you were about to create for him."

"It doesn't have to be a trade-off, Dad.  He said he'd make sure the
bureau looked into it."

"But who in the bureau's going to do that?  I mean, you're always
talking about how good Chuck is at his job.  Will he be the one to work
on it?"

"No," I conceded, "because it's not under MCT's jurisdiction."

"Right," he said.  "It'll go to some overburdened detective who's got
his hands full of burgs and car thefts and whatever other property
crimes have been thrown at him.  You won't stand a chance of making a
case stick against Gunderson."

This conversation was echoing some of the broader debates we'd had
about the allocation of law enforcement resources.

I knew how frustrated Dad was, for example, that some of the
highest-profile white-collar perps remained unindicted years after
their scandals erupted.  And I knew he saw a link between corporate
practices that thwart the American dreams of everyday workers and the
desperation that causes people to rob, sell drugs, or even kill, like
Melvin Jackson.  To Dad, economic crimes and street crimes were
inseparable, each feeding the continuation of the other.

"I don't get it, Dad.  You originally begged me to stay away from this
case because I might wind up stepping on the toes of someone with
influence.  But now it sounds like you want me to go after
Gunderson."

"The only reason I was worried was that I knew something like this
would happen if you started scrutinizing the wrong people.  And, sure
enough "

"You told me so?"  I said, with a small laugh.

"No," he said, also laughing.  "I was worried that if something like
that were to happen, your office wouldn't back you.  That's what I
meant when I said 'sure enough."  So, yeah, someone needs to go after
Gunderson, but it should be someone who's not going to get hung out to
dry."

My pager buzzed again, the same number as before.  Someone was being
terribly pushy, considering I didn't know them well enough to recognize
their phone number.

"Duncan said he'll get the bureau to look into it," I said.  For an
attorney who makes her living persuading people I'm right, it was lame.
Even I didn't sound convinced, and, from Dad's expression, he clearly
wasn't either.  "OK, so maybe it's going to fall through the cracks," I
conceded.  "At this point, I can live with that."

For only the second time in my life, my father looked disappointed in
me.  The expression had been there for just a moment,

but it was enough to bring me back to that day in second grade, when
the principal called him after I teased the poorest girl in school for
wearing the same jeans three days in a row.

"What, Dad?  What do you expect me to do?"

"I want you to take care of yourself, Samantha.  But, in the process,
don't tell yourself something you know isn't true."

"So you want me to be self-interested but mad about it?  That's totally
messed up," I said, laughing.

He smiled, but his eyes were still serious.  "You've always had a way
of putting things."

And he had always had a way of forcing me to acknowledge the truth.  I
knew in my heart that Gunderson wouldn't be indicted, and I had tried
to comfort myself that an ending with Gunderson walking away would
still be just.  It wouldn't.

I rose from the couch, kissing the top of his head.

"You're heading out?"  he asked, surprised.  "I thought you'd stay for
dinner."

"Not tonight.  But don't worry.  I'm good."

Before I could even take out my cell phone to call the impatient pager,
the device hummed again, this time to the number we used to dial into
the office voice mail system, followed by my extension.  Apparently
someone wanted me to check my messages.

It was Russ Frist.  "Don't ignore your pager again, Kincaid.  Next time
it might be a murder call-out.  I know you're officially off the case,
but I wanted to let you know that Duncan called me.  He met with the
bigwigs all afternoon and laid out where we stand.  The agreement is to
ask the defense to stipulate to a continuance while the Attorney
General's corporate affairs department investigates Gunderson.  I'll
let you know if I hear anything else."

He left his home number in case I needed anything.  "Oh .. . and I'm
assuming you're coming back to work tomorrow.  I noticed you took the
pictures from your cork board, but maybe you're out buying new frames
for them with your time off."

I would indeed be in tomorrow, but I wasn't going to wait for the AG's
office to do something.  I may have gotten kicked off of the Jackson
case, but I wasn't going to stand by while Duncan and the bureau found
a way to ignore whatever Gunderson and Clarissa had been up to.  I hit
the 9 button on my keypad to save Russ's message, just in case I needed
him later.

Fifteen.

If I was going to get any answers, I needed more information so I could
ask the right questions.  I drove straight to City Hall.

I had just missed closing time, and security wouldn't let me in.  But I
got lucky.  Clarence Loutrell actually answered when I called his
office.

"Judge Loutrell, it's Samantha Kincaid from the District Attorney's
Office."

"Oh, sure, from the other day.  Yes, well, would you mind calling
tomorrow morning?  My secretary left for the day.  I picked up because
I was expecting my wife."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid it can't wait."

"Unless it's a real emergency, I'm afraid it's going to have to.  I was
just about to head home for the evening.  Promised to help at the house
with some things.  You know."

Actually, I didn't, since I did just about everything myself.  But
Loutrell didn't need to hear about my domestic issues.

"That's fine.  I'll call tomorrow," I said.  Too bad for him, he didn't
know I'd already checked with security.  After five, all employees had
to exit through the Fourth Avenue doors.  I planted myself on a bench
across the street in the park, hoping he meant it when he said he was
leaving soon.

As it turned out, he must have walked out right after we hung up.  I
jaywalked across traffic to catch up with him at the corner, pulling
out a copy of Clarissa's memo from my briefcase while I walked.  He
didn't hide his dismay when he saw me.

"I'm sorry, but I really do need to speak to you.  I'll talk as you
walk to the car if I have to."  I handed him the copy of the memo.
"Apparently Clarissa had a discussion with Dennis Coakley about an
appeal filed by Gunderson Development.  She cared about it enough to
lock a copy of the file and this memo in a safe deposit box.  I need to
know why she took such a special interest in the case, and I thought,
as chief administrative judge, you might have some idea."

I left out the fact that Nelly overheard him with Coakley arguing over
whether to tell me about it.  Nelly said that Loutrell sounded like he
wanted to talk to me, so I hoped I could get what I needed without
diming Nelly up.

"I'm sorry, but if Clarissa had such a discussion with Dennis and I'm
neither confirming nor denying that she did the conversation would
clearly be privileged."  He was walking so quickly I had to alter my
stride to a slow jog.

"And, I'm sorry, Judge Loutrell, but now Clarissa's dead."

"Attorney/client privilege survives the client's death."  I got the
impression he was parroting back the words he'd heard from Coakley.

"It does, but unlike the City Attorney, you never represented Clarissa
Easterbrook.  You're just her coworker.  Even if her conversations with
Coakley were privileged, what you know is fair game if she came to you
about her concerns first."

He knew I was right about the law.  On the other hand, he was still
thinking through what Coakley might say in response.  One more push
would do it.

"If it makes a difference, I already know, but I need confirmation."
That one always worked on my junkie drug informants, and it was enough
at least to get him to stop walking.  "Clarissa was biased on the
appeal.  She ruled for Gunderson as a favor of some kind.  That's why
she recused herself from a case filed by Grice Constuction.  Grice was
complaining about unfairness in the urban rehabilitation project, and
Clarissa knew from personal experience that at least one company was
getting preferential treatment."

Still nothing.  If the push didn't do it, maybe a shove would.

"I can have a grand jury subpoena at your house this evening, but I
really don't think that's going to be necessary."

I pictured him imagining the scene at home tonight if I followed
through on my threat and his wife were to learn that it was
preventable.

"All you need is confirmation?"

"Yep."  I couldn't believe I was actually going to get it.

And, sure enough, I didn't.  "Well, too bad," he said.  "I can't
confirm something so completely ridiculous.  She may have talked to
Coakley about the case, but you are entirely off base.  My God, what
you're suggesting is offensive."

See how that works?  In the course of denying the part of my theory
that surprised him, he had confirmed the rest of it.

"But she did talk to Coakley about the Gunderson case.  Why?"

He looked at his watch, looked at me, then rolled his eyes.  "Coakley
can be nuts about privilege for reasons I don't always understand.  But
you're right.  She came to me first.  She said she had something she
needed to talk to me about.  She'd ruled on a case a few months earlier
without realizing that the claimant had donated money to her husband's
hospital wing.  If she'd known about the potential conflict at the time
the case was assigned to her, she should've recused herself.  I told
her to talk to Coakley to see if he wanted to reopen the case.  I won't
tell you that part of the conversation, since he thinks it's
privileged, but, let's just say that the Gunderson case wasn't
reopened, and Clarissa recused herself from the Grice matter because of
the potential appearance of a conflict."

"I get the impression that you don't share Coakley's concerns about
privilege."

Loutrell shrugged.  "Dennis is Dennis.  He sees potential city
liability around every corner, but he's well-intentioned.  I actually
considered calling you last week about this.  The media were
insinuating that something was going on between Clarissa and T. J.
Caffrey which I know nothing about, by the way and for some reason the
conversation with Clarissa stuck in my mind."

"I'm missing the connection," I said.

He shook his head quickly as if to shake the suggestion away.  "Not a
connection, really.  It was just that Clarissa seemed so serious about
the matter when she raised it with us, particularly when she was
talking about how important the hospital wing was to her husband.  She
seemed unreasonably upset by the situation, considering how innocuous
it was.  I think my imagination got the best of me, and I started
wondering if maybe the entire situation had something to do with the
state of her marriage.  By the time Coakley spelled out his bogus
privilege concerns, it just didn't seem like anything worth bothering
you about."

People don't realize that a criminal case is rarely built on a single
piece of evidence, relying instead on tens and hundreds of clues in
context, each by itself insignificant.  Too many helpful witnesses show
up late in the game, because they didn't want to bother the police with
insignificant information.  In the meantime, the wackos flood the phone
lines with visions and premonitions.

Clarissa may not have given Coakley and Loutrell a full blown
admission, but at least I was on the right track.

From City Hall, I made a stealth pop into my office to grab copies of
the Gunderson case file, the information Jessica Walters had copied for
me detailing Max Grice's complaints, and the financial records for the
hospital wing.  Within thirty minutes, I had gathered everything I
needed for my research and was nestled back in my home office and ready
to start filling in the missing pieces.

Based on Jessica's notes about Max Grice, he wasn't a happy camper.  At
the heart of his discontent was a woman named Jane Wessler, city
licensing official for the Office of Landmarks Preservation at City
Hall.  Three years ago, as a nod to preservationists, the office had
designated an area surrounding the train station an historic district,
seeking to protect the small neighborhood from the
warehouse-to-luxury-loft conversions that marked the nearby and rapidly
expanding Pearl District.  As a result of the designation, the Railroad
District, located at the eastern edge of trendy northwest Portland,
still remains an enclave for starving artists, aging hippies, and other
eccentrics who are happier in the neighborhood's traditionally
industrial atmosphere than with high-end yuppified retail, restaurant,
and residential development.

One year after the designation, however, the preservation office
created a licensing provision that permitted developers to obtain
special-use licenses for approved "urban renewal" projects that were
consistent with the architectural history of the Railroad District. For
the first sixteen months of that program,

Jane Wessler was in charge of deciding which projects qualified as
special uses.  Grice's three proposals, in her view, did not.

Grice, however, was persistent.  After seeing several similar projects
in the neighborhood approved, Grice filed a request under the Oregon
Public Information Act for the names of all companies who applied for
special-use licenses and for Wessler s determination on each
application.  Using the data, Grice had tried to make the case to
Jessica Walters that Wessler was on the take.  I looked at the list he
had compiled.  Maybe there was a trend; a few companies were three for
three while Grice had no luck at all.  But I could see why Jessica had
decided there was nothing criminal; with so few examples, it was
impossible to tell if it was just coincidence.

According to Jessica's notes, Grice had resubmitted his applications
after Wessler left for a yearlong maternity leave, but the city had
refused to reconsider the original decisions.  That must have been the
appeal from which Clarissa had recused herself.

I took another look at Grice's list.  No mention of Gunderson.

Next, I turned to Clarissa's copy of Gunderson's case file.  I'd read
through it when Slip had first shown it to me in his office, but I
wanted to see how it fit together with Grice's complaint.  Gunderson's
Railroad District project had also been rejected by the city, but by a
different licensing official, a month after Wessler went on leave.
Unlike Grice, however, Gunderson had appealed, and Clarissa had
reversed the decision.

Then I spread out the pages of financial information Slip's
investigator had printed from Clarissa's password-protected disc.  The
text at the top of each page identified the spreadsheet as the budget
for the Lucy Hilton Pediatric Center.  Lots of money coming in, but no
substantial expenditures yet.  That made sense, given that the center
was still in the planning process.  From what I knew, the project had
been dropped at one point because of the bad economy, but Townsend had
resurrected it as his baby.

Whatever he was doing, it seemed to be working.  There were pages of
entries for donations, large and small, from individuals, corporations,
and the major local foundations.  But no money from Larry Gunderson or
Gunderson Development.

I took a break and grabbed a Diet Coke from the kitchen.  This time
Vinnie followed me upstairs, sprawling himself beneath the desk near my
feet.  When I stopped scratching him behind his ears and returned to my
documents, he looked up at me and snorted.  It was as close as he could
come to saying, "Snoozapalooza."

"Tell me about it, little man," I said, rubbing my eyes with the palms
of my hands.  For some reason, Clarissa had kept a copy of the
Gunderson file, Townsend's financial records, and the videotape of her
and Caffrey together under lock and key.  If there was a connection,
where was it?

I studied the list of the hospital donors again and finally saw it: a
name.  The MTK Group had made a donation of $100,000 to Townsend's pet
cause.  I reopened Jessica's file on Grice.  There, on Grice's list of
companies affected by the decisions of Jane Wessler, was the MTK Group:
three renewal projects in the Railroad District, and every one of them
approved.  So what the hell was the MTK Group?

I called the corporate filing division of the Secretary of State's
office, hoping to get the company's basic registration information, but
their business hours were long over.  Then I called information, but
there were no listings under MTK.  I even tried an Internet search.
Bupkes.

I cross-referenced Grice's list of development companies with
Townsend's list of donors but didn't find any additional overlap.

More than ever, I missed the resources of the U.S. Attorney's

Office.  What I needed was access to LEXIS/NEXIS.  From what I could
remember, NEXIS's public records database included corporate filing
information from all fifty states.  Unfortunately, Duncan never saw fit
to include the service in the office's budget.  If we needed legal
research, we did it the old-fashioned way.

Out of desperation, I pulled up the LEXIS/NEXIS Web site on my computer
and tried my old federal password.  Part of me was relieved when it
didn't work.  Getting busted by the feds wouldn't exactly help my
current professional standing.

Then I remembered that the computer research sites all give free
passwords to law students and judicial clerks.  It's the legal
profession's equivalent to a dealer handing out drugs on the
playground.  Once the kids are hooked on an easy fix, they'll pay
anything for more.

I found Nelly Giacoma's home number where I'd jotted it in the file.

"Nelly, hi, it's Samantha Kincaid from the District Attorney's
Office."

"Oh, hey there.  Congratulations on your PC determination.  I heard
about it on the news."

"Thanks.  It was pretty much what we expected, though."

"Right," she said.  "So did you ever figure out what the key was that I
gave you?"

"We did, actually, and that's sort of why I'm calling.  Clarissa had
some documents in a safe deposit box.  I'm trying to make sense of
them, but I need to do some NEXIS research."

"Urn, sure, I don't see why not.  I'm not doing anything tonight
anyway."

What a trooper.  "No," I said, laughing.  "I don't expect you to do it
for me.  I just need to get onto the system.  Believe it or not, you
lose all that fancy stuff if you join a prosecutor's office."

"You're kidding.  How do you get anything done?"

"I usually manage, but I need to look at some public records that are
hard to get after business hours.  Do you think it would be OK if I
used your password?"

She didn't need to think about it long.  "What the hell?  It's not like
it costs the city anything, and I hardly use it anyway."

I jotted down the series of letters and numbers she gave me, thanking
her profusely before I hung up.

First, I perused the Public Records library.  This was perfect.  I had
access not only to the corporate registry information of all fifty
states but to records of all civil court judgments and property liens
filed.

I looked up the information that MTK had filed with the Oregon
Secretary of State.  According to the filings, the president of the
corporation was Carl Matthews.  The name didn't ring a bell.  I
searched next for Gunderson Development.  Larry Gunderson was listed as
both the president and secretary of the corporation, which usually
signaled a one-man operation.  The Gunderson listing also included an
entry for a former corporate name of Gunderson Construction, Inc."  as
well as for Gunderson Construction's bankruptcy dissolution years
earlier.

I switched to the database of recorded judgments.  That's when my
search got more interesting.  Typing in gunderson development had
yielded nothing, but my search for the former gunderson construction
turned up twenty-seven civil judgments, each one representing a
judgment against the company.  No wonder the guy had filed for
bankruptcy.  On the fourteenth hit I had a connection, a judgment of
$126,000 against Gunderson Construction in favor of the MTK Group.

So ten years ago, Gunderson and MTK had enough business together that
it led to a judgment against Gunderson.  Now they were both doing
business in the Railroad District.  MTK had obtained Railroad District
development licenses from Wessler and had given money to the hospital
wing.  Clarissa had helped

Gunderson get a license to build in the Railroad District and had kept
a copy of his appeal in the same safe deposit box as the hospital wing
records.  But if there was a connection between donations to the
hospital wing and licenses to develop the Railroad District, how did
Gunderson manage to win his appeal without donating to the cause?

I turned back to the screen and accessed the news files.  Then,
starting at the top of the list of Townsend's donors, I ran search
after search for any Oregonian articles containing the word gunderson
and the name of each donor.  Somewhere there had to be a link.

The work was tedious, but it finally paid off.  A couple named Thomas
and Diane Curtin had made a generous donation of $50,000 to the
hospital wing.  According to the announcement of the Curtins' marriage
two years ago, the generous wife was the daughter of Portland developer
Larry Gunderson.

Having grown up in Portland, I know the place can be incestuous. People
joke that it's more like a big room than a small city.  But my head was
beginning to hurt from the points of connection among Gunderson, MTK,
the Railroad District project, the urban growth boundary, and
Townsend's new hospital wing.  I did my best to keep track of them,
drawing lines and making notes until I finally gave up and threw my pen
at the wall of my office.

After I apologized to Vinnie for the disturbance, I took another look
at my list of players and the various lines between and among them.  If
Clarissa had sold her ruling on Gunderson's appeal in exchange for the
donation, what, if anything, did she have to do with the MTK Group?

I jumped back to the corporate registrations to see if either Larry
Gunderson or Carl Matthews, the president of MTK, was registered as an
agent or officer for any other corporations.  It wouldn't be unusual
for a small businessman to be associated with more than one company
over his lifetime.

My search for Gunderson's name turned up only the listings for
Gunderson Development and Gunderson Construction, but Carl Matthews s
name also yielded two results: one for the the MTK Group and one for a
company called Columbia Holding Company.  I clicked on the hypertext of
the company name.

The first few lines of the entry showed that Columbia Holding Company
was an inactive Oregon corporation, with a corporate filing date nearly
twenty-five years ago.  When I scrolled down farther, I had to reread
the text twice to make sure my eyes weren't playing tricks on me.  The
secretary of the now defunct company was Carl Matthews, current
president of the MTK Group.  The president was none other than Herbert
Kerr.

I had found my connection.

Susan Kerr's Mercedes was parked in her driveway.  I had risked a
complete waste of time by driving up without calling ahead, but I knew
from experience that surprise confrontations were my best chance of
getting information from the uncooperative.  Susan was the link.  She
was Clarissa's best friend.  She was connected to Carl Matthews and the
MTK Group through her husband.  And she had been helping Townsend raise
money for the hospital wing.  It couldn't be a coincidence.  She had to
know more than she was telling.  But, once again, she was protecting
her friends and maybe even herself.

I circled the block to steel my resolve.  I wasn't going to accept any
lame stories about shielding Townsend in his grief or defending
Clarissa's memory.  It was time for someone involved in whatever this
scheme was to flip, and the someone was going to be Susan.  If I had to
haul her into a grand jury tomorrow, I'd find a way to do it, Duncan be
damned.

I'd gotten myself good and pumped up and was ready to home in for the
kill when I registered a faint buzzing sound.  It stopped, then started
again.  My cell phone.  I must have forgotten to turn the ringer on
after I had silenced it during court.

It was Chuck.

"Hey, sweetie.  Can't talk right now.  I'm in the zone."

"The zone for what?  Ignoring everyone close to you?"

I looked at my watch.  How did it get so late?  "I'm sorry.  I
completely lost track of time."

"I've been trying to call you all afternoon.  I think I scared the be
jesus out of your father.  I called him freaking out about where you
were, but I guess you'd just left there before I talked to him.  You
all right?"

I looked at the tiny screen on the face of my cell phone and, sure
enough, saw a little envelope indicating unchecked messages.

"I'm fine.  The day's just been a little crazy."

"More than a little crazy, babe.  I was running around all day on a
rape out in Rockwood, but when I got back the guys were in a tizzy
about something that happened at the Jackson prelim."

"Really, it's fine.  Roger got pissed about something that happened,
Duncan took me off the case "

"What?  No one told me that.  You're not fighting it?"

"No.  Look, Chuck.  I promise I'll explain everything to you later.
Tonight, even, if you're willing to come over."  I realized as I was
extending the invitation how nice it would be to curl up with him and
finally relax tonight.  "I'll call as soon as I'm out of here.  I
promise."

"And where exactly is here?"

"Nothing important.  Just an interview, something I've been meaning to
take care of."  I didn't have time for the riot act he'd surely read me
if he knew my errand related to the Jackson case.  I could tell him the
full story after I saved the day.

"Fine," he conceded.  "It'll give me time to call your father and
apologize for getting so freaked out."

"One quick flip of a witness, and I'll be done in time for Mexican take
out and margaritas?"

"Ooh, now that sounds good."

"It's a plan.  I'll call you in probably thirty minutes."

I flipped the phone shut, turned the corner, and parked next to Susan's
Mercedes, still in the zone.

I rang the doorbell, and Susan peeked out through a small window at the
top of the door before opening up.

"Samantha," she said, looking at her watch, "what a nice surprise. Come
on in."  She stepped aside so I could enter.

I started to turn right toward the sitting area where we'd met last
time, but once the door was shut she led me in the other direction,
through the kitchen at the back of the house.  "Have a seat," she said,
gesturing toward the padded stools surrounding a generous island at the
center of the room.  "Can I get you something?  I'm terrific with
take-out leftovers."

"No, I'm fine.  Thank you."

"You sure?  Tuna nicoise salad from the Pasta Company.  It's my
favorite, and there's still half a salad left."

"No, I'm sure."

"Suit yourself," she said.  "So what happened in court today?  I tried
talking to Townsend a few hours ago, but he wasn't saying much, and
quite frankly what he had to say wasn't making much sense.  The defense
is arguing that Clarissa took a bribe?"

"More than just an argument.  The Attorney General's Office is going to
look into the possibility."

Her dismay appeared genuine.  "Townsend didn't say anything like that.
He said something about a continuance on Jackson's case because of what
happened today in court, but nothing about an Attorney General
investigation."

"Did Clarissa ever mention Larry Gunderson or Gunderson Development to
you?"

She shook her head.

"It looks like Clarissa had some kind of arrangement with Gunderson on
an appeal he had before her."

"I can't believe Townsend didn't tell me this.  He probably knew I'd go
ballistic at the mere suggestion of such a thing."

"I think you might know more about this than you've been willing to
admit, Susan."

She looked at me as if I were kidding.  Then, in case I missed the
look, she said, "You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope.  No more kidding, Susan, and no more protecting Townsend and
Clarissa or even yourself.  I know what's been going on, and it's time
for people to start owning up.  If you were involved somehow, we'll
work something out.  I can help you.  But you'll be a lot better off
telling me what you know before someone else beats you to the punch."

"Samantha, honestly, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Well, I do.  I know, for example, that a woman named Jane Wessler was
helping developers get special-use permits for projects in the Railroad
District.  And I know that when Wessler left and Gunderson found
himself without a permit, Clarissa made sure he got one.  And I know
that in exchange for all this help, developers were contributing to
Townsend's hospital wing, the project you were helping him with."

"If Townsend convinced Clarissa to do something like that, he certainly
didn't tell me about it."

"Come off it, Susan.  I know how much you've helped him with the
fund-raising.  You told me you'd never heard of Larry Gunderson, but
who's Diane Curtin?  And what's the MTK Group?"

She clearly wasn't used to being confronted this way.  I was reminded
of days back in law school, when students would come under fire by a
probing professor.  But like any good student, Susan regained her
composure and presented a rational, coherent response.

"That's what this is about?  The MTK Group?  That's a company run by
some of Herbie's old business buddies.  And, yes, I did hit them up on
Townsend's behalf, and, yes, they responded generously.  I'm good at
fund-raising.  That is, after all, why I was helping Townsend."

"And what about Diane Curtin?  And what about the MTK Group's Railroad
District projects?"

She laughed.  "If you think I have any idea what Herbie's friends
actually do to earn the money I help them spend, you are terribly
mistaken.  As for Diana Curtin "

"Diane," I corrected.

"Whatever.  It sounds familiar, but you're going to have to give me
more information."

"You told me you hadn't heard of Gunderson "

"And I hadn't until just now, that is," she said.

"Diane Curtin's his daughter, and she and her husband, Thomas, are also
among your generous contributors."

"Well, that explains where I've heard of her, then."

"So why don't you tell me why Gunderson's daughter just happens to
write a fifty-thousand-dollar check to Townsend days before Clarissa
rules in his favor?"

She looked at me incredulously.  "I like you, Samantha, I really do.
But you are seriously pissing me off right now."

I shook my head and had to laugh.  It was hard not to like her back.
"Not a nice feeling, is it?"

"No, it's not," she said, laughing as well.  "I don't know what you
think I know, but you're totally off base.  And you're lucky I'm not
easily offended."

"And you're lucky I'm not either.  There are too many coincidences
here.  I think you knew Gunderson through Herbie and his friends, and
that you might have thrown Clarissa and Town-send his way when
Gunderson didn't get the license he needed.  If we get this squared
away, it doesn't need to be messy.  But if it drags out, you can bet
that Jackson's defense attorney will do everything he can to haul each
and every one of you into court."

She looked at me, mulling over what I'd said.  "There might be
something, but it's not what you're suggesting, at least not my part of
it.  In fact, I didn't even realize the possibility of it until just
now when you were talking about MTK."

"So explain it to me."

"What about Townsend?  He'll lose everything.  His hospital
appointment, his reputation.  He could even lose his license."

"And all that's still going to happen if this comes out at Jackson's
trial.  But if we take that road, Jackson might go free."

She swallowed before she spoke next.  "Gunderson," she said.  "You say
there's some connection between him and MTK?"

I nodded.

"About a year ago, Carl Matthews he's the president of MTK "

I nodded again.

"You have done your research," she said.  "Carl Matthews and Herbie
were friends from way back, and when Carl and his wife had a party
about a year ago, I took Townsend and Clarissa so Townsend and I could
talk up the new hospital wing to Carl.  There were a ton of guests
there.  Maybe Gunderson was one of them.  Townsend could have met him
then."

I pulled the photograph of Gunderson from my briefcase.

"Maybe he looks familiar," she said.  "It was quite a while ago, and I
really wasn't paying attention, but he might have been there."

So much for a conclusive ID.  "Was your husband involved in MTK?"  I
asked, tucking the photo away.

"Sure," she said, seeming to assume that I'd already known.  "He was
the K. Matthews, Tykeson, and Kerr.  The boys made lots of money back
in the day.  Tykeson's retired, and Herbie s gone, of course, but the
letters live on through Carl."

"So are you part of the company then?"

"Oh, God, no.  The estate handled all that stuff, but Carl essentially
bought Herbie's interest in the company after he died."

"Did you know that MTK had a judgment against Gunderson's old company
'back in the day," as you say?"

That seemed to take her by surprise.  "Like I said, I've never heard of
Gunderson.  But I can see why you said there were so many coincidences
here.  Maybe I was wrong about that dinner party, then.  I can't
imagine Gunderson would pal around with someone who sued him, right?"

"Not unless they've put the bad blood behind them.  The judgment was
taken right before Gunderson filed bankruptcy.  I guess he's worked his
way up since then."

"Well, that makes a little more sense.  I mean, if a guy's going to
file bankruptcy, it doesn't hurt if his partners are at the front of
the line."

I hadn't thought about it from that perspective before.  If someone
knew he was about to go under, high-dollar civil judgments against him
would help soften the blow for his business buddies by helping them
recover at least some of the money through the bankruptcy court.

"I can give you Carl Matthews's phone number," Susan offered.  "I'm
sure he wouldn't mind talking to you about Gunderson."

"Susan, I just got done telling you Matthews might also be part of
this."

"Or maybe he's not," she said.  "You won't know until you ask him, will
you?"

No longer on the defensive, Susan Kerr was back to taking care of
everybody.  She was jotting down a phone number from the Rolodex on her
kitchen counter.  "I can also print out a list of all of the donors I
know about for the hospital project."

"Sure," I said.  "I've got one already, but yours might be more
up-to-date."

"And I've got a bunch of Herbie's old files and books and things
downstairs if you've got any interest in them.  Who knows, maybe he's
got something on Gunderson, right?"

She started toward the basement, and as I trailed behind her down the
stairs, I wondered when the tide had shifted.  Talking to Chuck, I had
been convinced that I would be leaving this house with a cooperating
witness, armed with the substantiated facts I'd need to build a case
against Gunderson and whoever else was involved.  Now, I was tiptoeing
through Susan's basement, trying not to lose one of my fancy new shoes
in the construction chaos, on my way to leaving with nothing but yet
another pile of documents.  How did that happen?

I checked out the basement while Susan began dredging through some old
file cabinets in the corner, pulling out piles of paper and stacking
them next to her.  From what I could tell, she was completely
refinishing the place into a home gym and a walk-in wine cellar.

"Wow," I said, peeking in.  "There must be room in here for a thousand
bottles."

"Twelve hundred actually.  Go ahead.  Check it out."

I stepped into the room, stroking the smooth mahogany cubbies.  "This
is amazing," I said.

"Ridiculously over indulgent she said, looking back at me.  "But Herbie
and I had always talked about it, and since I was redoing the basement
anyway, I figured it was time to go nuts.  Cute shoes, by the way."

I looked down at the pointy-toed mules Grace had convinced me to buy
the other night.  They weren't exactly practical, and I was still
figuring out how to walk in them, but they were definitely cute.

"Thanks.  Nordstrom anniversary sale," I said, still proud of my little
purchase.

"Best sale of the year."  She was stacking more and more documents next
to her, and I was wondering how I'd ever carry them out, let alone read
them.  "Clarissa and I always went on the very first day.  Annual
tradition."

"So what happened this year?"  I said, running my fingers up and down
the mahogany stemware shelves.

"Nothing.  We splurged just like always."

"Well, you must not have gotten enough, if you went back again last
Saturday."

"Right," she said, after a second.  "But we did that half the time
anyway.  You know, you exercise a little bit of willpower, but three
days later you've just got to go back and buy everything you left
behind."

It all sounded good, but I'd registered that telling pause.  Susan was
lying.

I quickly changed the subject.  "So do these things really help keep
the wine fresh, or is it just for show?"

"A little bit of both."  I half listened to her explanation about air
seals, ventilation systems, and temperature controls, but I was still
trying to figure out why her pregnant pause about the Saturday
afternoon trip to Nordstrom seemed so meaningful.  Still playing with
the smooth shelves, I realized what I'd been missing all along.  I had
assumed a lecture from Duncan was the worst thing that could happen to
me by confronting Susan Kerr, but I'd been wrong.  I needed to get out
of here.  Immediately.

But I was too late.  The door swung shut behind me, and I heard a lock
slip into place.  "Sorry, Samantha, but you've got shitty timing.  Ten
minutes later, and I would've been on my way to the airport.  But, as
it turns out, I've got a flight to catch, so you're going to have to
wait right here."

I banged the palm of my hand against the door.  "Susan, don't do this.
My God, you just told me this room was airtight."

"And it is.  But you haven't given me a lot of choices here.  And don't
try to tell me that if I open the door you'll let me go."

"You're scaring the shit out of me!"  I yelled into the door.  "I
promise, I will let you go.  I'll wait two hours before I tell anyone.
You're talking about my life."

"Forget it, Sam.  We both know that's not in your nature.  Hell, if you
were that easy, I could have just paid you off and I wouldn't have to
run."

"Don't run, Susan.  We can work out a cooperation agreement.  You can
start over."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed.  "That's how all this shit began.  Those
last few years with Herbie, I took care of everything, and I did it my
own way.  Starting over, as you say.  I distanced myself from his old
friends and all of the wheels they grease to get ahead, and guess
what?"  She was no longer talking to me, so I didn't bother answering.
"That's right, by the time Herbie died, we were flat busted.  I
couldn't go broke; everyone would know.  A few calls to Gunderson and
Matthews, and I was back in the black.  It was so easy, but then
everything fell apart."

"I understand, Susan.  I know how much Clarissa meant to you, and
you've got information to trade.  Just let me out of here."

The sound of my voice seemed to knock away any remorse she had started
to feel.

"If I were you, Sam, I'd try breaking off some of those wood strips.
Maybe you can wedge them through the seal at the bottom of the door and
buy yourself some time.  Otherwise, I'm told you've only got about
fifteen minutes."

Bizarre.  Even at this moment, there was Susan Kerr, trying to be
helpful.  Without any other options, I followed her advice.  I tried
pulling on the thin strips of wood that made up the stemware holders
but couldn't get enough torque to break them.  Then I adopted a
different strategy, hooking the heel of my shoe on a rail of wood
running along the floor and stepping on it with all my weight.  After a
few tries, my body weight won, making me grateful for those eight
pounds I can never quite drop.

I crammed the jagged edge of the broken wood beneath the cellar door,
wiggling and pushing the rail until I felt the tight rubber seal around
the door begin to give about it.  Outside, I could hear Susan making
trips up and down the stairs, probably removing from the house whatever
documents she had taken from the files.

"Oh, hey, there you go, Sam.  Looks like it's working.  You keep at it.
Get your head down by the floor if you need to."  This woman was the
Martha Stewart of murderous lunatics.  I had an image of her as an
aerobics instructor at the Mac Club, cheering clients on in the same
way.

I broke another piece of wood and wedged it a few inches from the other
one, trying to create a large enough gap to get some air in.  I tried
to convince myself that I was only out of breath from the physical
exertion, but I was beginning to panic.

I lay flat on the floor, getting my nose and mouth as close as I could
to the small crack I had made beneath the door.  I started to relax
when I was sure that I could feel air coming in from the basement.  I
took a few deep breaths and felt my pulse slow from pounding to a
moderate race.

I told myself I was going to be OK.  I had air, and I was patient.  But
then I wondered just how patient I would need to be.  The footsteps on
the stairs had stopped.  If Susan had left for her flight, when would
anyone find me?  Chuck was expecting my call, but he had no idea where
I'd been heading.  If he went to bed assuming I'd blown him off, would
anyone come in the morning?  For all I knew, Susan had told her
housekeeper and contractors to take the week off.

I needed to find a way out of here.

I kicked my shoes off and climbed on top of a shelf, holding on to the
bottle slots for balance.  I knocked on the wood panels on the ceiling,
listening for any hollow space above, but I never did have an ear for
such things.  Explains why I can never buy a good melon.  I raised both
hands above me and pushed as hard as I could.  The panel didn't give,
but I couldn't tell if it was because the wine room ceiling was built
against the ceiling of the original basement, or simply because I
hadn't pushed hard enough to pop the panel up.

I tried again but felt light-headed after the push.  It might have been
my imagination, but I could have sworn I was running out of air.

I jumped back down to the floor, taking another series of long, deep
breaths.  It definitely helped.  I'd rest a little more, then try the
ceiling again.

Just when I'd regained my balance on the shelf again, I heard more
footsteps in the house.  These sounded like they were on the floor
right above me.  Then I heard a voice.  I couldn't make out what the
person was saying, but from the low register, I was pretty sure it was
a man.  I pounded my fists against the ceiling, yelling at the top of
my lungs.  I hopped back down for a few more breaths, then climbed up
and made some more noise.

As I heard movement on the basement stairs again, I began pounding on
the cellar door.

"Samantha, baby.  Is that you?"

This time the voice was right on the other side of the door, and tears
welled in my eyes when I recognized it.  Then I heard metal against
metal, but I kept listening to my father's voice telling me not to
worry, that everything would be OK.  And I knew he was right.

My father's grip was so tight, I thought I had a better chance at
oxygen in the wine room.

"I'm so glad I found you.  I knew it.  When Chuck told me you were out
with a witness, I felt it in my gut.  I got here as soon as I could,
and I knew something was wrong when I saw her leaving."

"Dad, wait.  I've got to stop her."  I took the stairs two at a time
and used the kitchen phone to call 911.  "My name's Samantha Kincaid.
I'm a deputy in the Major Crimes Unit at the DA's office, and I was
just kidnapped by a woman named Susan Kerr."  The dispatcher was trying
to cut me off so she could do the usual Q and A format for these calls.
I kept on talking right over her.  "Kerr s a white female,
shoulder-length dark brown hair, approximately forty years old.  About
five-seven, one hundred and twenty pounds.  I'm calling from her house,
but she left here for the airport about ten minutes ago to flee the
jurisdiction.  I don't know what airline.  You need to get officers out
there right away to stop her.  MCT knows who she is, and I'll page them
directly.  Don't bother sending an officer to the house; I can file a
report later."

I hung up, knowing that she could play back the tape if she missed any
of the information.

My next call was to Chuck.

He was happy to hear my voice.  "Thirty minutes on the dot.  You ready
for margaritas?"

If only.  "Susan Kerr killed Clarissa Easterbrook.  She locked me in
her basement and is on her way to the airport.  You've got to get out
there right now.  I'll call Johnson too and tell him to hook up with
you."  Chuck lived in northwest Portland and would be a few minutes
behind Susan, but if Ray was at his house in north Portland, he might
actually beat Susan to the airport.

"Whoa, back up, Sam.  She locked you in the basement?"

"Yes, but I'm fine.  I guess you told Dad where I might've gone, and he
showed up" I still didn't know why, I realized "and let me out."

"Wait a second, I didn't tell your dad anything.  And how do you know
she killed Clarissa?"

"Please, Chuck.  I'm begging you.  Just go to the airport, find her,
and hook her up for kidnapping me.  I'll explain the rest later.  Now
go.  Don't let her get away."

"All right, I'm going right now.  Love you."

"You too," I said, hanging up before either of us had even realized
what we'd just said to each other.

I didn't have time to savor the moment.  I needed to call Johnson so he
could back up the man I loved.

I gave him the same bare-bones explanation.

"Wait a second.  She locked you in the basement?"

Chuck had asked the same question.  Why did everyone find it so hard to
believe?

"Yes, in a wine cellar her construction workers were putting together.
The thing's airtight.  I was lucky to get out alive."

"And she's on her way to the airport?"

"That's what she said.  Maybe she meant to throw me off, but it's all
we've got."

"I'm leaving right now.  We'll hold her on the kidnap.  And, Sam, don't
worry about a thing.  That crazy bitch had better hope patrol finds her
before Chuck and I do."

When I hung up, I saw that my father was standing in the doorway
waiting.  "They're going after her?"

JOQ

I nodded and exhaled.

"So, Dad, obviously I'm grateful," I said, smiling expectantly, "but
what exactly are you doing here?"

"You ran off from the house so suddenly, and you had that glint in your
eye.  I was afraid of whatever you might try stirring up.  Then Chuck
called looking for you, and I assumed he'd catch you at your place. But
then when he called again and said you'd gone out on a witness
interview I don't know, I felt like I needed to find you.  It was just
a hunch, but I thought I'd at least check."

"But how'd you know to come "

"I'm going to get to that.  I'm just telling you what I saw.  When I
turned the corner, I saw her carrying bags out to the car, even though
your car was obviously still there.  I knew right then that something
was seriously wrong.  If I'd been packing, I would have stopped her,
but I was more worried about you."

"Well, thank God.  The last thing we need is another Kincaid
shoot-out."  He smiled, but I could tell he was mad at himself for
letting her get away.  "Dad, you did the right thing.  Chuck and Ray
will get her."

"Yeah, you're probably right."

I looked at him, waiting for him to get to the rest of the explanation.
"Dad, you still need to tell me what's going on.  How did you know to
come here!  What do you know about Susan Kerr that you haven't told
me?"

I could tell he was trying to find a way to say it to me.  He was
finally ready to talk.

Sixteen.

It wasn't easy for my father to get through his story; I had to prod
him along occasionally like any reluctant witness.  But as I finally
understood it, my father's concern about my involvement in the
Easterbrook case began the morning of the first press conference, which
he had caught on the local news.

He recognized the woman standing near the podium, the one in the light
blue suit.  He never knew her personally, but the man she eventually
married had changed the course of his life back when she was probably
still a teenager.  Given the connection, he couldn't help but notice
their marriage announcement and the occasional reports about their many
community activities that followed over the years.  Yes, the woman in
the blue suit on the television was definitely Mrs.  Herbert Kerr.

As an Oregon State Police officer in 1979, he found himself pulling
escort duty for Representative Clifford Brigg.  Brigg would ride in the
back of Dad's highway patrol car, using the time to read the paper,
confer with other bigwigs, or occasionally sneak in a round of footsie
with his large-breasted, short-skirted so-called legislative aide.  He
paid little attention to my father, but my father paid plenty of
attention to Brigg.  It was his job.

On a sunny afternoon in July 1980, my father drove Brigg to Salem from
a press event in downtown Portland to announce the groundbreaking of a
new office building.  As usual, Brigg was multitasking, this time
meeting with major campaign supporter Herbert Kerr during the ride.
Watching the two discreetly in his rearview mirror, Dad saw Kerr slip
an envelope to Brigg.  From the way Brigg stuffed it into his coat
pocket, my father concluded that the deal was rotten.

Others would have let it drop, convincing themselves that it was either
none of their business or nothing to worry about.  Or perhaps they'd
seek cover before talking, reporting the observation to a supervisor or
perhaps anonymously to the press, happy to let someone else steer the
course.  But not my father.

The next time he had Brigg in the car to himself, he made the mistake
of confronting him.  I don't know how my father expected Brigg to
react.  Maybe he was naive enough back then to believe he'd come clean
and return the money.  But, instead, Brigg denied any wrongdoing.  He
gave Dad a choice.  He could let the matter slide, in which case Brigg
and his cronies would make sure he worked his way straight up the OSP
ladder.  Or he could repeat the story, in which case Brigg's
legislative aide was prepared to file a complaint that my father had
groped her.

My father's face tightened at the memory, his palms working the edge of
the kitchen table where we sat.  "You should have seen his girlfriend
when she told me later the things she was willing to say if it came
down to it.  These were truly ugly people, Sam."  Herbert Kerr would
back up Brigg's denial, and my father's career would be ruined.

The arguments he had with my mother were not, as I had inferred, about
his hours or the physical dangers of police work.  The truth was that
they didn't see eye to eye about Clifford Brigg and his threats.

To my father, the choice he'd been given was no choice at all.  He
wanted to blow the whistle, career be damned.  He'd work as a janitor
if he had to.

"And Mom?"  I asked.

One look at his face, and it all became clear to me.  Mom was a good
woman, about as good as they're made.  But she and Dad didn't always
approach the world from the same perspective.  She loved my father, but
part of her probably wished he'd earned more money or recognition.  She
was ecstatic when I announced my engagement to Roger, while my father
feigned acceptance.  And, although she never said as much, she no doubt
wondered how different her life would have been if she could have quit
teaching and pursued her passion for painting.

Dad didn't need to fill in the blanks.  My mother must have wanted him
to play the game and accept Brigg s deal.

But instead, my father hung up the state system and found a quiet,
humble job with the federal forest service.  He told my mother about
his decision only after he had given notice at OSP.  He hoped Brigg and
Kerr were smart enough to see the move as a sign that he planned on
going silently, and he had been right.  He never heard another word
about it.

"Not from him, at least," I had said.

He did his best to explain that my mother's concerns were for me.  She
didn't believe Dad could run away from the problem.  And since he
wouldn't be able to convince anyone that he'd seen something
suspicious, he might as well get what he could out of Brigg and Kerr.

But for my father, the decision wasn't about pragmatism.  Brigg was
forcing a choice between the two most important components of his
character dedication to his family, and an unwavering commitment to
good over evil.

My father had found a third way.  He should have been proud.  He had
avoided accepting the favors of corrupt men like Brigg and Kerr, and he
had refused to let martyrdom destroy his reputation and family.  But to
him, his departure from OSP felt cowardly an easy way to tell himself
that he'd rejected a deal with the devil, without actually confronting
Brigg.  It was the kind of moral equivocation he despised.

When he saw Susan Kerr on television that Monday morning, the
unfairness of the choice Brigg had given him and the shame of his
response came flooding back.  His instinct was to save me.  If someone
was going to stumble onto the secrets of someone like Clarissa and her
friends, Dad reasoned, let it be someone other than his daughter.  His
family had paid their dues.

I felt a wave of anger.  I had suspected all along that someone was
blackmailing Clarissa; if he'd shared his story about Brigg and Kerr
earlier, I might have made the connection to Susan instead of spinning
my wheels all week.  Maybe I hadn't been particularly forthcoming with
details of my own about the case, but it would have been easy enough
for him to bring me into the loop.

I understood why he'd been struggling, though.  From his perspective,
the pit in his stomach had seemed irrational, a sour remnant of his own
mistakes.  Why, after all, should he have assumed that a woman who
married Herbert Kerr years after his own encounter with the man was
herself corrupt?  Nevertheless, his instincts were what they were and
he'd been right.

My plan was to call information to find the closest Pasta Company, but
then I had a better idea.  I pulled the garbage can from beneath the
kitchen sink.  On top of the heap lay a take-out bag with the receipt
still inside.  Tuna nicoise salad, just as she'd said.

I used Susan's phone to call a sergeant I knew at central precinct.  He
agreed to send a patrol officer to meet me at the restaurant with the
pictures I needed.

Pulling out of the driveway, I waved to Dad in my rearview mirror.  He
followed me to the bottom of the west hills, letting loose a final honk
before going his own way.

At the light at Fourteenth and Salmon, I paged the medical examiner,
Dr.  Jeffrey Sandier.  We'd never worked together before, so I had to
explain who I was and what I was calling about before we got down to
business.  But then the business was quick.

"Just how sure are you on the time of death?"  I asked.

"Time of death's never as certain as they make it sound on TV shows.
You draw inferences from the forensic evidence, but in the end, it's
exactly that an inference.  I often tell people that in my thirty-eight
years of experience I've only seen one case where I could pinpoint the
exact moment of death.  And that was because the defendant unplugged a
clock from the wall and used it to bash in the victim's skull."

For a disgusting story, it was actually pretty cute.

"So what about Easterbrook?  You calculated time of death based upon
her stomach contents?"

"Exactly.  By the time she was found, her body temperature was already
down to the ambient temperature at the crime scene, so her liver
temperature was of no use.  Rigor mortis had already come and gone,
which would normally signal at least thirty hours postmortem, usually
more like thirty-six."

"But she was found Monday afternoon, putting her death at Sunday
morning, not Sunday afternoon."

"You're still assuming more precision than exists.  I said it would
normally be thirty-six hours or so, but change the facts and it could
be entirely different.  Say, for example, there was significant
physical exertion immediately before death.  Through the exertion, the
victim's already depleting her body of the chemical that keeps her
muscles relaxed.  So the stiffness sets in sooner, quickening the
entire process."

I could see why the DAs all said that Sandier was a pro on the witness
stand.  No jargon or scary science stuff.

"Here," he explained, "we got lucky.  Once Johnson told me he knew what
time the victim ate lunch, I went by that instead.  Death stops
digestion.  Based on the state of her stomach contents, she died an
hour or two after she ate."

"What if Johnson was wrong about the time?"

"It's just like any other system of inferences.  Garbage in, garbage
out."

"Is it possible she died Saturday night?"  I asked.

"Sure.  Like I said, this isn't down-to-the-minute stuff, especially
once you're past the first twenty-four hours.  To reconcile the
physical state of the corpse with what Johnson told me about the
victim's lunch on Sunday, I had to make certain assumptions, like the
physical exertion before death that I mentioned early.  I also assumed
she was kept somewhere warm, which was consistent with what we knew
about the body being moved.  With the very same state of deterioration,
sure, the death could have occurred on Saturday, especially if the body
were kept in a relatively cool atmosphere."

I had a feeling I knew exactly where that cool spot was.

When I pulled into the Pasta Company parking lot, a young patrol
officer was already waiting for me.  I still had a quick call to make,
though.  I dialed into my voice mail box at work and jotted down Russ
Frist's home telephone number.

I got lucky.  Unlike most of the lawyers on the office homicide
call-out list, Frist apparently didn't screen his evening calls.

"Russ, it's Samantha Kincaid."

"You better not be calling me to give notice."

"That depends on how you react to what I'm about to tell you."  I
spelled everything out for him.  "Johnson and Forbes are on their way
to the airport, but I need you to get together with Calabrese and
Walker for a search warrant for Susan's house.  Make sure the judge
approves destruction if necessary.  I've got a feeling the crime lab
will find blood evidence beneath a wine cellar she's got going over
there."

"And where are you off to?"  he asked.

"To get you the rest of the evidence you're going to need for that
warrant."

The dinner rush was over by now, so I was able to walk right up to the
hostess desk.  Unfortunately, when I got there, the two girls at the
counter felt free to ignore me while they finished discussing the
pressing issue of the day whether the new waiter had been checking out
Stacy, another hostess who was supposedly a "skank."  Given that these
two appeared to have all skank bases covered, that was saying a lot.

I waited patiently until the one with the hoop through her navel made
eye contact with me, but they immediately resumed chatting.  I resisted
the temptation to grab the edge of the other girl's purposefully
exposed thong underwear and deliver the mother of all wedgies. Instead,
I got their attention by using my District Attorney badge.

"Hey.  Girls.  I need the two of you to plug back into the world that
doesn't revolve around you and pay attention.  Were either of you
working a week ago Saturday night?"

They rolled their eyes at each other to be cute, but they at least
seemed to be listening.  "We both were," said Thong.

"Yeah, Saturday's like totally crazy around here."  Belly

Button obviously thought I was like totally clueless for so not knowing
that.

I showed them the DMV photographs of Clarissa and Susan that the
officer from central precinct had run for me.  "Do you remember seeing
them in here together?"

The idea of doing something that might get someone else in trouble
seemed to appeal to them and they actually took a close look at the
photographs.  Unfortunately, their facial expressions remained
completely vapid.  Nope, not the slightest bit of recognition.  On the
other hand, these girls probably paid little attention to women outside
of their age range of competition.

I was reaching for the photographs when one of the waiters stopped by
to complain that the hostesses had put too many screaming kids in his
section.  When he noticed the badge I was still holding, he leaned in
to take a look at the pictures.

"Cool, man.  You got some Matlock action going on here or what?"  He
pushed his long highlighted bangs from his forehead to get a closer
peek.

"Are you even old enough to remember that show?"  I asked.

"Syndication, senorita."

"And I apparently remind you of Andy Griffith?"

"Sure, if he was a little younger with a knockout fern bod."

I know, I'm a total hypocrite.  You take all those characteristics that
infuriate me in a teenage girl and bundle them together in a
nice-looking boy package, and I'm done.

"I was hoping someone here might recognize these women from last
weekend," I said, pointing to the pictures.

"Yeah, I remember those birds.  That one was pretty well preserved for
her age, if you know what I mean," he said, gesturing toward
Clarissa.

This one definitely had a thing for mature women.  God bless him.

"Do you remember what day that was?"

"Not exactly.  But if it was last weekend, it was Saturday.  Sundays
for wind surfing.  Yeah, that definitely could have been Saturday.  I
remember it was the lunch menu, and I don't work days except
Saturday."

"Do you remember what time?"

"Weekend lunch menu's good till four, and I don't come in until two.
You do the math."

"Do you remember what they ordered?"

He laughed and pushed the hair back again.  "I don't have nearly that
many brain cells left."

When you looked like this guy, you probably didn't need them.  "Is it
possible the well-preserved one had linguine with browned butter?"

"Yeah, might have been something like that.  "Cause I remember the
other one saying something bitchy about the pasta.  She was one of
those salad-with-the-dressing-on-the-side types.  You chicks can be
terrible to each other, you know?"

He had no idea.

It wasn't the perfect ID, but it was enough for probable cause.  I
called Russ as soon as I left the restaurant.

Before I even made it to the precinct, I got a call from Chuck.  "We
found her on a flight roster for American Airlines, outbound to JFK.
She had a one-way ticket to Portugal."

"Otherwise known as one of the last few lovely retirement areas that
puts up a fuss about extraditions.  So you've got her?"

"It took a fight, but we finally convinced the airline to hold the
flight.  We're bringing her in now."

"Is she talking?"

"Not yet.  Ray's putting her in the car.  We figured we'd wait until we
got her in the box downtown."

Once they had her in a holding room, Russ and I watched the questioning
through a one-way mirror.  Susan played it cool.  According to her, she
"might" have gotten tied up in a scheme Townsend had with Gunderson,
but Chuck and Ray were nuts if they thought she'd do anything to hurt
Clarissa.

Then Walker called my cell with some preliminary feedback from the
search at her house.

"I don't know how you figured it out, Kincaid, but it's just like you
said.  We found a copy of the video of Clarissa and Caffrey.  It was
right there in the entertainment center with a bunch of yoga tapes. And
the lab guys are saying there's some seepage in the concrete beneath
that wine room.  It could definitely be blood, but it's going to take
awhile to confirm it."

"No sign of those documents I saw piled next to the file cabinet in the
basement?"

"Nothing."  Johnson didn't find them in Susan's car either.  She must
have dumped them somewhere on her way to the airport.

"Sorry you can't be here for the questioning," I said.  "You might've
gotten a second chance at catching the look."

"Yeah, right.  That's OK, as long as I get to see a different kind of
look the look on Jackson's face when we release him.  I feel like shit
we had the wrong guy; every cop's worst nightmare, right?"

"Should be.  But you didn't know, Jack.  Susan Kerr sent us off track
from the very beginning."

"Well, you did real good, Kincaid."

"Thanks," I said, flipping my phone shut so I could pass the word on to
the rest of the team.

Russ and I watched Johnson and Chuck break the news to Susan.  She'd
already met the nice Ray at her house, so Chuck was playing the bad
cop.  If I hadn't been so nervous, it might have been fun to watch his
performance.

The MCT guys were pros.  They told her about the videotape first,
reeling her in with questions about the bribery scheme before
confronting her with the murder.

"It's not what you think," she said, changing to a resigned tone. "This
was all Townsend and Gunderson.  Townsend found out about Clarissa's
affair and used it to guilt-trip Clarissa into ruling for Gunderson in
exchange for the hospital donation."

Like all coconspirators, she was spinning a version that undoubtedly
shifted the blame from herself but which nevertheless contained some
undercurrent of truth.

"So what was the videotape for?"  Chuck asked.  "And what were you
doing with it?"

"Clarissa brought it over here a couple of weeks ago to show me.  She
must have left it.  Townsend initially had it made to get an upper hand
in the divorce, but then he told her he'd mail it to Caffrey s wife
unless she convinced Caffrey to vote in favor of development in
Glenville.  I guess Gunderson stood to make a lot of money, and
Townsend would be rewarded in kind."

"Could that be it?"  Russ asked me.

I shook my head.  "If Gunderson and Townsend hooked up at a cocktail
party and reached this one-time deal to help Gunderson's Railroad
District project, how would Gunderson even know that Clarissa could get
to Caffrey?  Or if Townsend's the one who thought of this, how would he
know that Gunderson had investments out in Glenville?  It doesn't make
any sense."

"So what's your theory?"

"Susan's the link.  She pretends she's a trophy widow, but she learned
everything she knows from Herbie.  I think she, Gunderson, and MTK are
all still in bed together.  They were bribing Jane Wessler at the city
for the Railroad District licenses.  When

Wessler went on maternity leave without giving Gunderson his permit,
Susan turned to Clarissa.  I always thought it was weird that Clarissa
hadn't told Susan about her relationship with Caffrey.  I think she
did, and that her best friend turned around and used it to convince her
that she owed this to Townsend.  Then even that wasn't enough.  She got
that videotape and told Clarissa she'd mail it to Caffrey's wife if
Clarissa didn't deliver Caffrey's vote."

Back in the holding room, Susan's explanations continued to contain
just enough truth to confirm at least part of what I suspected.  Chuck
and Ray had broken the news to her about the blood in the basement.

Her demeanor changed again, and this time she feigned sadness for the
loss of her friend.  She even managed to shed some tears.  "It wasn't
me.  It was Townsend.  Clarissa called me Saturday, completely
hysterical.  I guess she told him that morning that she wasn't going to
go along with Gunderson anymore.  If they were going to mail the
videotape, she was willing to go to the police.  She was over here
telling me about it when Townsend showed up.  They went down to the
basement to have a private conversation, and the next thing I knew
there was yelling.  It sounded like a terrible struggle.  I ran
downstairs."  Her voice cracked for effect.  "Oh, my God, I couldn't
believe it.  Townsend told me I had to help him, or he'd tell everyone
I'd been in on it.  I realized how it would look.  My house, my
husband's old business partner I panicked."

"You didn't panic."  Chuck spoke quietly, but was convincingly
disgusted.  "You went shopping, Susan.  You went and picked out an
outfit to dress your dead friend in, so it would look like she died
Sunday.  You hired carpenters for a fucking remodel.  Don't lay this
all on Townsend."

I made a mental note to have a handwriting analyst check the charge
receipt for Clarissa's purchases last Saturday at

Nordstrom.  My guess is that the signature would be close, but not
quite right.  I was also pretty sure that, as much as Susan had joked
about Clarissa being the reluctant shopper, we'd find out that Susan
hadn't bought anything for herself that day.

"But it was his idea," Susan was insisting.  "He's the doctor.  He's
the one who cooked up this whole thing about using the food in her
stomach.  You tell me, how could I come up with that myself?  I still
don't even understand it."

Russ poked me in the side with his elbow.  "She's got a point there."

I nodded.  "Sure.  Townsend came up with the idea of throwing us off
with the take-out container from Sunday, but she's still the doer.  You
met Townsend.  It had to have been the other way around.  Clarissa
confronts Susan; Susan kills Clarissa and then tells Townsend he'd
better help or she'll pin it all on him."

"It would certainly explain why the guy's been a walking corpse.  But
what about the poly?"

"He passed it because of the questions."  I told him about the
transcript of Townsend's interview.  He was asked if he'd been at the
hospital Sunday, if he killed Clarissa, and if he hired, solicited,
ordered, or asked anyone to kill her.  But they neglected to ask the
money question: "Do you know who killed your wife?"

Chuck was asking Susan to walk them through the rest of the plan.

"Townsend called Gunderson to come over for Clarissa's .. . to get
Clarissa," said Susan.  "He came over and took Clarissa to the
Glenville property, then stashed the hammer at Jackson's."

"And how would Gunderson know that Jackson had a grudge against
Clarissa?  Your story's not adding up."  Chuck did a better bad cop
routine than most.  His tone struck the perfect balance between anger
and dismissiveness.

"She's cooperating, OK?"  Johnson said.

Susan looked at Johnson.  She probably recognized the routine, but she
played along anyway.  "Townsend told him about Jackson."

"And Jackson just happened to work for Gunderson?  Wrong again,
Susan."

"Clarissa got Gunderson to give Jackson a job.  I told you she felt
sorry for the guy.  I think she was probably trying to turn what she'd
done into some kind of good deed.  Karma and all."

"God, she's good," I said.

"Maybe," Russ said, "but I still can't believe she hasn't law-ye red
up."

I shook my head and smiled.  "That's because you don't know Susan Kerr.
She thinks she's way too smart for all of this.  She's been
manipulating people her whole life, getting away with it every time.
And she probably figures, Hey, she's a woman, she's in here first;
she'll be the one to get the deal.  She's convinced Gunderson and
Townsend will go down, and she'll waltz out with a few months of local
jail."

"That's not going to happen, is it."  It wasn't a question.

"No way," I said.

"Ready to call Duncan?"

"Let's do it."

It took a good forty-five minutes, but we finally laid it all out for
the boss.

"And you think we've got PC for Townsend and Gunderson?"  "I do," Russ
said.  "We've got a coconspirator implicating Townsend directly in the
murder, and at the very least she's implicating Gunderson in the
cover-up.  Add the circumstantial evidence of the various connections
between everyone, and we've got enough for warrants."

"Start working on search warrants," Duncan said, "but call their
lawyers and give them an hour to turn themselves in."

"What?"  I screeched into the speakerphone.  "You've got to be kidding.
This is a murder case, Duncan."

"No shit, Samantha.  But we're not dealing with a bunch of gang bangers
here.  You don't need a perp walk on this one.  They'll turn themselves
in."

"Right," I said.  "Just like Susan Kerr did.  In case you forgot, we
pulled her off a plane after she tried to kill me."

"Don't be dramatic.  She locked you in a room," Duncan argued.

I looked at Russ and shook my head.  "Yeah, Duncan, without any air."

"Look, Samantha.  You're new to this.  We let guys TSI all the time,
even in murder cases.  Russ, if you're worried about it, call the
airlines and make sure they know not to let these guys fly out.  But
giving them an hour's not going to kill anyone."

If only he'd been right.

When the deadline came, Gunderson was there with Thorpe, but Roger had
been stood up.  We dispatched cars immediately, but we were too late.
Townsend Easterbrook was dead.

Seventeen.

A week later, I attended the funeral with Chuck and my father.

I don't know why I went or why I made anyone come with me.  Maybe
because death was still new to me.  Or maybe part of me actually felt
sorry for him.

Susan Kerr may have tried to put all the blame on Townsend, but in the
end he had the last laugh.  He had found one decent concluding act to
his life.  He left a note.  He'd probably written it as the final dose
of painkillers settled in, but I was confident it was reliable.  Unlike
most coconspirators, Townsend no longer had a reason to point the
finger at others.  He just wanted, finally, to tell the truth.

These are my words, not his, but the truth went something like this:
Townsend Easterbrook had believed that building the pediatric wing was
the most important accomplishment of his life.  He knew he'd earned his
position more for his administrative skills than his healing ones, and
the new wing was his way of securing a legacy at the hospital.  Several
months earlier,

Susan Kerr had offered to help, and Townsend had happily accepted.  The
money came rolling in.

But then, on the Friday before Clarissa's death, he discovered the
deal's strings.  Clarissa sat him down and told him that, in exchange
for Susan's generosity, she had rigged a decision in favor of a company
in which Susan had an interest.  She said she'd done it to help the
hospital wing and out of loyalty to Susan, but now things had gone too
far.  Susan was asking her to do even more, and Clarissa planned to say
no.  The money would dry up.

Townsend told her to put her foot down.  Screw Susan.  They'd build the
wing without her.

But that's not what happened.  Clarissa left the house to meet Susan on
Saturday for lunch.  A couple of hours later, Townsend got a call.
Something was wrong with Clarissa, Susan said.  He needed to come
over.

When he got there, Clarissa was dead, lying in a pool of blood in the
basement.  Susan claimed that Clarissa had tried to destroy some
documents and attacked her when Susan put up a fight.  According to
Susan, it was self-defense.

While Townsend was still reeling, Susan said she'd blame it all on him
if he told anyone Clarissa had been with her that day.  The documents
detailed the connection between Clarissa's thrown case and the
donations to the hospital project.  Townsend would lose everything.
Then she told him something he'd never even suspected Clarissa had been
cheating on him.  Guilt over the affair was the reason she'd been
willing to fix Gunderson's case in the first place.  Susan even had a
videotape to back the story up.

Because Clarissa had died shortly after lunch, all they needed to do
was make sure her body wasn't found for a day or so, and make it look
as if she'd eaten her Saturday meal on Sunday.  As a doctor, Townsend
knew some of the rules about determining time of death "garbage in,
garbage out," as Dr.  Sandier had put it.

Townsend ensured that the police found a fresh take-out container in
the house by using a short break between surgeries to dash to the
nearby Pasta Company.  He'd also set up the initial call-out by leaving
Clarissa's loafer to be found in the gutter, and dropping Griffey, on
his leash, along Taylor's Ferry Drive.  Susan had taken care of the
rest.  She'd shown up at the house Saturday night with an empty
Nordstrom shopping bag to put in Clarissa's dressing room.  She told
Townsend she'd make sure the body wasn't found until Monday.  He
realized that the medical examiner would figure out her clothes had
been switched, but it didn't seem to bother investigators.  And when
the evidence against Melvin Jackson came out, he assumed that Susan
must have set up the plan ahead of time.  By then, he was too out of
his mind on OxyContin to figure a way out.

He'd been considering suicide for days, but Roger's call on Monday
night had sealed the deal.  He took the pills, wrote his letter, placed
a plastic bag over his head, and let go of the situation.  Whether we'd
get the note in at trial remained to be seen, but I knew in my heart it
held all the answers.

The services were modest, arranged as a courtesy by Dr.  and Mrs.
Jonathon Fletcher.  Townsend's death had made headlines, as had Susan's
arrest and Jackson's release, but so far the official explanation for
his suicide and its relationship to those other events was under
wraps.

Clarissas family chose not to attend.  From what Tara had told me, she
and her parents were still coming to terms with the idea that Clarissa
had been killed by people they'd treated as family.  The only eulogists
were Townsend's professional acquaintances.  They remembered his
commitment to patients and his love for Clarissa, careful to keep their
comments general enough that they reflected a relationship that once
was.

Roger found me in the lobby of the funeral home.  I told Chuck and Dad
I'd meet them in a second.

"I'm surprised you came," he said.

I shrugged.

"I hope you realize that I didn't know," he said.  "If I had "

"Don't worry about it.  I know.  I was fooled too, remember?"

"I should have sensed it, though.  I could have talked him into coming
forward."

"Really, Roger, you don't need to say anything.  It's fine."

We stood there awkwardly while he searched for something else to say.

"So Jackson's out, huh?"

"Released last Wednesday," I said.  "Took a couple days, but he
couldn't be happier."  He hadn't been the only one.  Mrs.  Jackson was
waiting in the lobby with Melvin's kids.  She burst into tears with the
first look at her freed son, and before long we all lost it.  Walker
insisted the sniffle I overheard was from allergies, but I knew
better.

"Is the poor guy still getting evicted?"

"Some people are working on it."  Dennis Coakley of all people was
intervening with HAP to hammer out an agreement for Melvin and the kids
to stay in public housing.

"So how does your case look?"  How strange that after our years
together, this conversation would be like any typical one between
lawyers.

"Not too bad," I said.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do to help you lay the
foundation for Townsend's letter.  I was the last one to talk to him, I
guess."

"All right, thanks."

"You've probably got enough evidence without it.  Jim Thorpe's been
keeping me up to date," he said by way of explanation.

Gunderson had already cut a deal for three years on bribery and abuse
of corpse for helping Susan move the body.  It was a gift, but, in the
end, we were never able to prove he'd been in on the murder.  In
exchange, he had delivered the goods.  Gunderson had come to suspect
that Susan wasn't quite as loyal as his old pal Herbie and recently
began taping their conversations.  The recordings of Susan telling
Gunderson to hire Jackson a week before the murder and to come to her
house the night Clarissa died would be gold at trial.  Add the
documents he had confirming Susan's investment in Gunderson
Development, and we had motive to go with opportunity.  As for means,
we'd ask the jury to infer from the blood in the house that she had hit
Clarissa in the head and then planted the hammer at Jackson's.

"We'll see, right?"  Roger knew me too well not to sense the impatience
in my voice.

"I'm holding you up.  Just humor me on one more question: Was it
premeditated?"

Gunderson had confirmed that Susan was the one who asked him to hire
Jackson, but we knew Clarissa was trying to find a job for Melvin.
Susan may very well have made the request on her behalf.  And from what
our shrinks were telling us about Susan, she was far more likely to
kill in a rage triggered by what she saw as Clarissa's betrayal.  The
more closely we looked into her background, the more stories we were
hearing like the one Grace had told me about Susan burning her
husband's favorite humidor.  My best guess was that, in Susan's
screwed-up mind, she'd done Clarissa and Townsend a favor by hooking
them up with Gunderson.

"I don't think we'll ever know," I said, "but my gut tells me it
wasn't."

"Well, you've always had good instincts."  More awkward silence.  "So
I'll see you later, I guess."

"Yeah, maybe."

He stopped me before I walked out.  "I know it's not my business, but I
couldn't help but notice that you came with Forbes."

I followed the direction of his glance to Chuck and my father in the
parking lot.  "You're right.  On both counts."

He nodded.  "I guess the two of you always were close."

"Uh-huh."  It wasn't the most articulate response, but talking to my
ex-husband about my boyfriend was awkward, to say the least.

"You know, Sam," he said, "it might not matter to you anymore, but I do
feel bad about what happened between us."

So that's what he'd been hemming and hawing about.  As if "what
happened" had involved both of us?

"If it makes it any easier, she didn't even mean anything to me."

I looked at the floor while I summoned my patience.  There was nothing
to gain by fighting him.  "I always knew that, Roger.  And that's why I
couldn't stay with you."

I left him then, wondering if I'd ever get over the fact that a man who
loved me as much as he knew how to love another person had thrown it
all away for someone who hadn't even mattered.

Outside, I was greeted by the sun for the first time in weeks.  Dad put
his arm around me.  "You OK there?"

"I'm good," I said, walking to the car.  "Less sad than I was a few
hours ago.  Maybe it's because the rain finally stopped."

"Maybe," he said.  He gestured to the lobby.  "What was that about?"

I paused, wondering the same thing.  "Nothing that mattered.  We talked
about the case a little."  I looked at Chuck and smiled.

"You mean the case where you're the star witness?"  I could always
count on Chuck to lighten the mood.

"That would be the one."  I was still off the case I couldn't testify
and prosecute but Russ had assured me I could help plan the trial.
Looking Susan Kerr in the eye and giving evidence against her would be
even more rewarding than sitting first chair.

If my first two weeks in MCU were any indication, my first major trial
would come soon enough.  In the meantime, I was happy to wait it out.

Author's Note

Striking the optimal balance between fact and fiction is a real writing
challenge.  Readers notice when a defendant gets off on inconceivable
grounds or when the cops get a warrant with nothing approaching
probable cause.  And not only do they notice, they feel cheated.  On
the other hand, too much loyalty to reality makes for dry novels.

Samantha Kincaid's life is based on fact.  Unless I mess it up, you
won't find her making nonexistent objections or prosecuting laws that
would never make the books.  Along the way, I even ask for help to make
sure I've got my facts straight.  For the answers, I thank Larry
Lewman, Deputy State Medical Examiner for the State of Oregon;
Multnomah County Deputy District Attorneys Josh Lamborn, Jim Mclntyre,
and John Bradley; and Hofstra Law School professors Nora Demleitner and
Matt Bodie.  If I bungled something they told me, it's my fault, not
theirs.

The smart growth plan at the heart of Missing Justice is also based on
fact.  When Samantha Kincaid describes Portland's urban growth boundary
as the "secret ingredient in Portland's warm gooey cinnamon bun," she
speaks from my heart.  I did, however, exercise some artistic license.
The legislation creating Portland's urban growth boundary is not called
the Smart Growth Act; the Metro Council is not just a part-time gig;
and there is neither an Oregon suburb called Glenville nor a Portland
neighborhood called the Railroad District, let alone a development
licensing program based in it.  In other words, the book's still
fiction.

And a better book it is thanks to the continued dedication and talent
of Jennifer Barth, Maggie Richards, and John Sterling at Henry Holt.
Their support, hard work, and creativity have made all the difference,
and I'm forever grateful.

A former deputy district attorney in Portland, Oregon, Alafair Burke
now teaches criminal law at Hofstra School of Law and lives in New York
City.  She is the daughter of acclaimed crime writer James Lee Burke.
Missing Justice is her second novel.  It follows her acclaimed debut
judgment.  Calls.

www.alafairburke.com

Jacket Design www.blacksheep-uk.com Jacket photograph Corbis