Close Case

by Alafair Burke

  “The protest cases again?” I asked.

  For Russ’s benefit, Jessica repeated what she had told me at the Justice Center about the property damage on Northwest 23rd. “I thought it was bad enough when a few of them looked like they might be felonies. But now it turns out that these losers did more than break a few windows. There were at least two random assaults: bad ones, too. A bystander took some home movies with his camcorder. Hopefully we’ll actually find the fuckers, but the media will have a heyday.”

  “It’s always a bigger story when there’s video,” Russ added.

  “Tell me about it. I’m getting calls from the press already, comparing it to the wilding in Central Park. Give me a break. The bureau’s telling me they’re still getting reports of other incidents up there, which are most likely connected, even though we’ll never be able to prove it. It’s a total nightmare. Duncan wants me to make sure we put a case together, and I can’t get the bureau to decide who’s going to do the work.”

  “What’s the problem?” I asked.

  “Typical bureaucratic bullshit. It’s not a major crime so they won’t do anything other than put the pictures out for the public. And the pictures aren’t worth a shit, so I know exactly what that’ll get us—a ton of calls saying maybe it’s this guy, maybe it’s not. I’ll be back to square one, begging the bureau to do the follow-up.”

  “What time did all this go down last night?”

  “It peaked around nine. Why?”

  I thought about the information we had so far on the Crenshaw case. Kids in the parking lot. “Nice car, Snoop.” Then I thought about my drive to Percy Crenshaw’s condominium earlier that morning, past the Zupan’s market on Northwest 23rd. It was only a short jump up the hill to the condos perched above.

  I also thought about the time Mike would have on his hands, since he couldn’t work on the Oregonian search warrant.

  “You know Mike Calabrese?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Jessica said. “Major Crimes Team.”

  “Want him to help?”

  It was a win-win situation for both of us. Or so it seemed.

  5

  The controversy preceding the search of Percy’s office turned out to be the most notable legal aspect of the search. David Bever could have saved us all a lot of time if he’d realized that Percy Crenshaw apparently didn’t believe in keeping a record—of anything.

  He recorded car mileage only by the distances traveled, no times or locations. He jotted down first names with no other indications of identity or importance. We took copies of the cell phone records and business expense reports we found in his files, hoping they might pan out down the road. But I believe the technical term for the rest of what we found is a whole mess of gobbledy gunk—a seemingly random collection of miscellaneous words, numbers, dates, and codes, the meaning of which most likely left this world with Percy.

  Chuck excused himself to make a call while I thanked the young reporter who helped us with the search. When Chuck found me waiting outside the building, he asked me if I had time to make another stop.

  I checked my watch, tempted by the idea of a break. Standing in Percy’s office just hours after his murder had gotten to me. “Sure, why not? It’s my birthday, right?”

  “It’s nothing fun, I’m afraid. I finally got through to Matt and told him we need to talk. He’s at home. Alison’s there too. I was thinking you could—”

  “Keep her occupied with girl talk while you check out the alibi? Chuck, it’s not like we’re best friends.”

  “No, but Matt and I are pretty damn close. He’s probably got some idea of what’s coming, but it’s going to be a hard enough conversation without worrying if Alison’s listening in.”

  He was right. Under the circumstances, the miserable task of sitting awkwardly with Alison fell squarely within both my girlfriend and MCU duties.

  Ten minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of their split-level ranch in the Burlingame neighborhood. Chuck smiled sadly at the sight of their mailbox, proudly (and clumsily) announcing the York/Madison-York household.

  “Did I ever tell you about the battle over that hyphen?”

  “I know Matt mocks her for it.” Everyone who knew them knew that. Matt regularly teased his wife, calling her Madison-York for not-so-short.

  “Alison wanted Matt to hyphenate too. She was really pushing for it. And, man, guys in the bureau just don’t do that. Matt Madison-York? No way.” He laughed to himself, no doubt recalling the good-natured shit Matt’s friends had given him. “I figured she’d eventually drop it, but to this day they both love to make a point of it.” He tapped the box as we passed.

  Matt must have heard the county Crown Vic. He met us at the door. I expected him to look a lot worse. When I walked in on Roger with his six-foot-tall plaything, I had driven directly to my parents’ house and cried for four hours straight. My face resembled a puff pastry for two days.

  Matt seemed resolute by comparison. Aside from tell-tale shadows beneath his usually bright eyes, his appearance was normal—same neat blond hair, smooth-shaven face, and friendly smile.

  “Hey, man,” Chuck said, clasping Matt’s upper arm. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “I know the drill,” Matt said, opening the door farther to let us in.

  Matt took our coats, then told me Alison was out back, gesturing to the rear of the house. “I’m sure she’d appreciate some company.”

  I found Alison sitting on the porch in a rattan rocker just beyond the sliding glass doors of their kitchen. Her light-brown shoulder-length hair was pulled into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had the same clean-cut generic good looks as her husband.

  “Aren’t you cold out here?” I asked, opening the slider a crack. A green awning covered their back porch, deflecting the rain that Alison appeared to be watching.

  “No, this thing’s pretty cozy,” she said, holding up a U of O stadium blanket from her lap. “Matt told me you guys were coming by. Bureau’s got to make sure the jealous husband didn’t do it, right?”

  Alison had always struck me as more sweet than interesting, but this conversation was even more uncomfortable than anticipated. I doubted that anyone could pull off making light of this situation. Alison surely couldn’t.

  “Good thing I was at that baby shower, huh?” she added.

  “Let’s just go ahead and say it,” I said. “This is really…awkward, to say the least. We obviously feel bad for everyone involved.” I didn’t mention Percy by name.

  She rocked some more, watching the rain again. “I might not seem too sympathetic right now, Sam, but I hope you can leave us out of this,” she finally said.

  “I assume you understand why the police have to talk to both of you. No one’s trying to judge you or punish you.”

  “No, not that. I mean, after this. I was with my girlfriends. Matt was on duty, and he’s going over every last detail with Chuck right now, I’m sure. I hope that can be the end of the story.”

  She was envisioning an eventual trial against whoever did kill—what was the word for Percy in her life, her lover? Special friend? She was picturing a defense attorney dragging the two of them to the stand, detailing her trips to Vista Heights, using them to create reasonable doubt.

  She had reason to worry. I placed my hand lightly on her shoulder. I didn’t know Alison well, and I’m the last person to defend what she’d done. But I knew what a criminal trial might put them through, and I knew the Yorks well enough to see that neither of them deserved it.

  She covered my hand with hers, as if to say she understood there was only so much I could do. A few silent minutes later, Chuck slid the door open. “Hey, Alison.”

  She gave him a token wave over her shoulder, clearly not expecting him to reciprocate.

  “You about ready?” he asked me. “We’re done in here.”

  “Yeah. I’ve got to get back,” I said to Alison.

  She nodded and released her hand from mine, still rocking. I gave
her a final squeeze on her shoulder and followed Chuck to the car.

  He paused longer than necessary at the stop sign on their corner, then sighed loudly, physically shaking out his arms, as if that would purge the tension of the York household from his body.

  “You OK?”

  “I think so. Fuck, that was worse than I expected.”

  “His alibi’s good, though, right?” I was thinking again about trying to protect them at trial.

  “Yeah, no problem. He worked swing shift with overtime until two in the morning. I printed out a list of all his calls, and we walked through them one by one. Thanks to the protesters, he was busy.”

  “And how’s he doing?”

  That single question launched a response that continued during the entire drive downtown. Despite his rare display of verboseness, my boyfriend never did find the right combination of words to describe either his friend’s anguish or his own feelings of disloyalty as he ran through the details of Matt’s call-outs, each question a reminder that his wife had been sleeping with another man. Chuck didn’t know whether to feel bad for Matt or knock some sense into him for staying with Alison. As he pulled to the curb in front of the courthouse, the best he could manage in conclusion was, “It’s just really sad.”

  By seven o’clock, I was already tired. Apparently you don’t need to be legally married to become a boring old married person.

  At my father’s insistence, we were celebrating my birthday at his house. “No reservations required. No smoking,” he had said. At my insistence, only my four favorite people were invited: Dad, Grace, Chuck, and Vinnie. OK, so maybe Vinnie’s not a person, but he makes for way better company than most of those who technically qualify.

  Dad met Chuck and me at the door in a blue sweater and chinos. I kissed him on the cheek. “You wore that sweater for me, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, this old thing?” he said jokingly. I was forever telling my father how handsome he looked in blue. It brought out the color in his kind eyes and contrasted nicely with his silver hair. With his handsome looks and good health, he could probably find himself a girlfriend if he wanted one. But, almost three years after we had lost my mom to cancer, he still wasn’t ready, and that was just fine by me.

  By the time he and Chuck finished their backslap-nota-hug thing, Vinnie had finally caught up with us, hoisting his squatty legs and fat little torso over the final porch step. He doesn’t like to be carried.

  As usual, Dad had fired up mass quantities of hot beef on the Weber. In honor of the special occasion, he had even prepared all the necessary fixin’s: garlic bread, mac and Velveeta, and baked potatoes with every imaginable fat form crammed inside. Not a real vegetable in sight.

  “Looks yum, Dad, but is there anything for Grace to eat?”

  “If she won’t eat steak, she can drink her dinner.” Dad pointed to the multiple bottles of wine he’d purchased for the evening. “I doubt she’ll mind.”

  Dad had known Grace since we were nine years old and was convinced she was an anorexic lush. The sickening truth was that thin, fit Grace ate as much as she wanted. And she wasn’t a lush. She just drank. A lot. Boatloads, really. But a lush can’t suck down four martinis and still cut a perfect broom-straight bob.

  To my disgust, though, skinny beautiful Grace had just begun a weeklong “purification regime” requiring a mix of all-fruit, all-veggie, and seemingly impossible soy protein days. I didn’t care to know all the details, but I was pretty sure that a beef-slab-and-chocolate-cake night was not in the plan.

  Chuck was crouched next to the dog bed in the corner of the dining room, coaxing Vinnie to accept a Milk Bone. After years of indifference, Chuck the new roommate was now faced with the difficult task of winning the affections of my little man. In the last week, Vinnie had peed in Chuck’s gym bag, pooped in his slippers, and gnawed on every article of clothing that Chuck had left within reach. As far as I could tell, the only training accomplished was strictly canine-to-human. No more dirty man-clothes on my bedroom floor. Good dog.

  I wished I knew how to tell a dog to cut a guy some slack, though. Vinnie was usually remarkably in tune with human emotions, but Chuck was doing a good job hiding how upset he was about Matt York’s situation. I stared at Vinnie, willing him to take the damn treat.

  Chuck finally gave up when Grace walked in. In fact, her barely recognizable appearance stopped us all dead in our tracks. Her natural spiral curls had been straightened to blades, a line of heavy bangs edged her eyebrows, and her ever-changing hair color had morphed to flaming cranberry. Think Vidal Sassoon meets Jolly Rancher.

  “You’ve finally done it,” Chuck declared. “You’ve sucked down enough of those Cosmopolitan martinis to marinate your roots.”

  Grace looked at him the way you’d look at a child who was intentionally testing your patience—which pretty much describes Chuck. In the time I had learned to let Chuck make me happy instead of nuts, Grace had come to appreciate Chuck, but only for his role in my life.

  “As a gift to Sam, I’ll refrain from commenting on the smashing ensemble you’ve selected for this special evening,” she said. Chuck was decked out in a black Motorhead T-shirt and faded jeans, complete with a tear beneath the right rear pocket.

  “Actually, I kind of like the short part over your forehead like that,” Chuck offered. “You look younger somehow. You can’t see the wrinkles anymore.”

  I looked at Chuck and shook my head. Grace just stared at him. “Well, I like it,” she announced, flipping a few locks from her shoulder. “Sam’s birthday had me feeling old by osmosis. I wanted a bold change.”

  Mission accomplished, I thought. But like a good best friend, I’d wait until we were alone to break the news: She had officially crossed the fine line that separates fashionably individualistic from drag-queen territory.

  And, like a good best friend, Grace broke from her purification regime and defiled herself with macaroni and chocolate cake. She, Chuck, Dad, and I spent the evening around the table, swapping stories, playing pinochle, and, most of all, laughing. Grace even convinced me to join her for a commemorative belting-out of Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive,” empty cabernet bottles substituting for the hairbrushes we’d once used as microphones.

  The revelry was almost enough to make me forget not just the morose silence of the Yorks’ house but even the scene in Percy Crenshaw’s office earlier that afternoon. Half a year in MCU had hardened me to the horrible acts we humans can commit against each other. Stabbings, shootings, even sex offenses are everyday work now. But death still gets me. The permanence of it. The total, complete finality. And, in the case of a murder, the utter senselessness.

  On my first murder call-out, I had felt the magnitude of the loss the minute I saw the woman’s body, discarded so hastily at the edge of a construction site. But, as time in the MCU ring has passed, it now takes more blows for me to feel the impact. Today, that moment had come while Chuck and I were standing in Percy’s space—the room where he’d researched, created, and written.

  The notes we had gone there to scour had been a bust, but we had seen so much more than we intended. The photograph of him with his mother at college graduation, framed and presented so proudly on his desktop. The screen-saver image of two kids in Little League gear—nephews, according to one of the reporters. A Father’s Day card drawn for him by one of the fatherless kids at the Boys and Girls Club. Surveying those and the other mementos Percy kept—as we all keep near us as tiny glimpses into the lives we are living—was apparently what I needed to regain the passion and compassion I’d felt so instinctively on that first call-out.

  And I wanted to find it. To feel it. I have colleagues who have learned to suppress that response forever, and they’re grateful for the ability. But that’s not who I want to be. Not yet, at least. So after work, and before my birthday party, I had hidden from Chuck in our shower and let myself cry for Percy.

  And when I was through, I carefully tucked those feelings back inside
, close enough to the surface to help me be there for Percy but deep enough so I could enjoy the people I loved on my birthday. If the time ever came when I could no longer strike that balance, I might have to talk to Grace about my backup plan of shampooing clients at Lockworks. For now, I was managing.

  By eleven o’clock, the wine was gone, the dishes were washed, and even Gloria Gaynor was tired. Grace was hugging my father goodbye and Chuck was trying desperately to cajole a sneering Vinnie out of his dog bed, when Chuck’s cell phone interrupted.

  “Lucky save,” I called out behind him, as he left the room to answer. I scooped up my now-compliant Frenchie and placed him in a laundry basket with the gifts I had been given—in spite of my explicit instructions.

  Chuck’s call was a short one, but I could tell from the look he gave me when he returned to the dining room that something was up. We said a quick final goodbye to Dad; then Chuck broke the news to me on the porch.

  The night was still young. We were going to East Precinct.

  Before its designation as an interstate freeway, the stretch of I-84 running east from the bridges of downtown Portland to the gorges of the Columbia was labeled Highway 30. Despite the renumbering, the federalization, and the widening and ramping of a freeway through the middle of the city’s eastside neighborhoods, longtime locals still call the road the Banfield.

  For our drive to East Precinct, Chuck eschewed the Banfield—as he usually does in favor of a straight shot down Division Street. He has never explained his aversion to the interstate, but I suspect it has something to do with Governor Charles Landon Forbes’s opposition to the project’s proposal more than twenty years ago. Chuck and his former-governor father aren’t what you’d call close these days, but some of a son’s earliest impressions are as much a part of him as his blood type and eye color.