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
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