Missing Justice sk-2

by Alafair Burke

  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 misunderstandi
ngs, 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."