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 f
rom 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,
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