Missing Justice
( Samantha Kincaid - 2 )
Alafair Burke
Deputy District Attorney Samantha Kincaid walks into her office in Portland's Drug and Vice Division one Monday morning to find three police officers waiting for her. A thirteen-year-old girl has been brutally attacked and left for dead on the city's outskirts. Given the lack of evidence, most lawyers would settle for an assault charge; Samantha, unnerved by the viciousness of the crime, decides to go for attempted murder. As Sam prepares for the trial, she uncovers a dangerous trail leading to an earlier high-profile death penalty case, a prostitution ring of underage girls, and a possible serial killer. And she finds her judgement - not only in matters of the law but in her personal life - called into question...
MISSING JUSTICE
Alafair Burke
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Orion, an imprint of the
Orion Publishing Group Ltd.
Copyright 2004 by Alafair Burke
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
<
br /> 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