Missing Justice (30 page)

He was already trying to apologize, telling me he didn’t mean it the way it sounded. But, to me at that moment, there was only one possible meaning.

“The only slumming I ever did, Roger, was when I married you.”

I wanted the satisfaction of slamming the phone into a cradle, but all I had was my thumb against the disconnect button of my cordless.

I tried not to let his comment get to me. Not that Rogers opinion mattered, but I knew I wouldn’t even be a prosecutor if it weren’t for him. I graduated from law school planning on selling out as necessary to pay off my mountainous debt. But when I was offered a position as a federal prosecutor in New York, Roger was the one who told me I had to take it. And when he moved us to Portland for his Nike job and I couldn’t transfer into the U.S. Attorney’s Office here, he was the one who encouraged me to remain a prosecutor, even though the choice required a 50-percent pay cut and a serious hit in the prestige department. He paid off my loans in full, using the bundle we’d made selling the New York apartment his parents had given us. Then, when I kicked him out of the house and insisted on a quick divorce, he nearly floored me when he told my attorney to forget about the money. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if I had to represent corporate clients because of him.

I knew I’d been a bigger jerk than I should have been, but I didn’t know what to think about his criticism. It was easy to imagine the lawyer in Roger trying to psych me out so I wouldn’t subpoena Gunderson and disturb Jim Thorpe. On the other hand, Roger wasn’t the only person telling me I was wildly off the mark on this one.

The train was about to run right over Melvin Jackson, and I could do nothing to stop it. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to; I just wanted to make sure that we were heading in the right direction. But the bureau had essentially washed its hands of this case, and if I tried to haul Gunderson into the prelim, a quick call from Dunn Simon to the boss would get me overruled and probably fired. And, if Jackson really did it which he most likely did it would all be for nothing.

Luckily, I’d been doing this long enough to know that one of the best ways to wield power is to do it subtly.

I left a message for Graham Szlipkowsky to call me right away.

I had been home from a run for thirty minutes, my stomach was growling, and I was getting ready to cave in to takeout cravings when the phone rang.

“Hey, babe. At the risk of sounding pathetic, I’m beginning to miss you. If you’re willing to chance my cooking, how does a quiet dinner at your place sound?”

There’s something to be said about a man with good timing. Unfortunately, in this man’s case, that something was that he couldn’t cook. So we compromised. After a quick run to Fred Meyer, he was washing and chopping, and I was doing the stuff that mattered.

When we finally sat down at the table, he could tell I was exhausted.

“What’s up with you? Big party last night?”

“You bet. The orgy didn’t end till four; then I had to deal with the bikers. Between the meth and the Jack “

“Seriously, Sam, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’ve been working my ass off, and I’m tired.”

“Is this still on the Jackson case?” I nodded since I had a mouth full of sea bass. “What have you been digging around in? I thought that case was locked up.”

Add another to the list of people reminding me the case was cleared. “I’m just double-checking.”

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you tell me what you’re unsure about. I have some experience dealing with these kinds of things, you know.”

It would be nice to have his take on the case, but I didn’t want him to be in a position where he was torn between me and the department. When we eventually decided whether we could handle working on the same cases, I’d have to add that to my reasons for believing it was a bad idea.

For now, I was keeping it vague. “I’ve been looking into some things Clarissa might have been involved in, making sure they’re not related to the murder.”

“Does this have something to do with the conversation we had with Pink and the fax I sent to the property room on Friday?”

“Maybe. I haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

“I see. Let me be more specific. What exactly did that key open, and what was located inside?”

“Don’t interrogate me, Chuck.”

“You’re not giving me any choice, Sam. Getting information out of a perp is a cakewalk compared to a conversation with you these days.”

“Here’s an idea. You let me do my job, and I’ll talk to you as much as you want about anything else you choose.”

“I’m not trying to be a jerk, Sam. There are two separate issues here. One is the bureau being pissed off that you appear to have second thoughts on the case. I don’t give a shit about that. But the last time you left me in the dark about the poking around you were doing, you almost got killed. I’m worried about you. Please just tell me enough so I know you’re not playing cowboy again.”

“If you’re going to worry about me every time I’m dealing with bad people, this is never going to work.”

“Sam, this isn’t about you going after bad guys. Don’t you get it? I love it that you do what you do. You could be making half a million bucks a year by now as some corporate drone, but that’s not who you are, and that’s great. But you have a tendency to want to go it alone, no matter how wacky the plan. I don’t want you to get hurt again.”

“Look, it’s fine. What happened before was different. I went in blind knowing someone was out of custody and angry at me, to say the least. Right now, the worst that’s going to happen to me is that I ruffle a few political feathers.” I left out the part about the mystery man at the library, since I wasn’t actually sure that it was Billy Minkins or that he had been watching me. “I’m taking enough crap from my father about this. I don’t need it from you too.”

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were our forks against the plates and Vinnie breathing under the table.

“Ever since I got this case, he’s been on a trip about so-called powerful people and the way they can take away everything from me if I get in their way. He’s always been suspicious of authority “

Chuck was laughing, and I looked at him to see if he was going to continue listening to me. “Sorry,” he explained, “but that sounded funny, coming from you.”

“Well, I guess we know where I get it. Anyway, I assumed he was worried that someone as influential as Townsend would be calling for my head if I screwed things up. But then this morning I asked him about some work he did when I was a kid, and he got all quiet and weird. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“What did you ask him?”

“Nothing, really. When I was doing that research at the library, I came across an old newspaper clipping of him when he was with OSP. I asked him about this legislator he used to drive, and he clammed up.”

“Who was the legislator?”

“A guy named Clifford Brigg.”

“Never heard of him.” Chuck was familiar with political circles through his father, but Brigg’s time was long ago. He didn’t offer to ask about him, and I didn’t ask. Chuck and his father weren’t exactly close; the former governor, Charles London Forbes, Sr.” made little effort to conceal his disappointment with Chuck’s career choice. “Did you try to talk to him about it?”

“Of course.”

He looked at me skeptically. “For more than a couple of minutes?”

“A few.” Having been on the other side of my impatience before, Chuck knew I had a tendency to give up when I was frustrated. “The more I pushed him to talk to me, the more he pushed me to lay off him and get off this case. Then we both realized we weren’t getting anywhere.”

“You Kincaids are a stubborn people. What did someone put in the water supply at that house?”

“Whatever the hospital put in your baby formula.”

“You should try to talk to him about it again. But in the end, Sam, if he wants to keep something private, you need to respect that.”

“I know. Honestly? I think the reason I haven’t talked to him since then is that I don’t want to see that look on his face again. It’s like he was ashamed of something. Seeing that was absolutely horrible. I thought I was going to lose it.”

The phone rang, saving me from having to talk anymore about my father. I kissed Chuck on the cheek on my way to the kitchen to answer it.

It was Slip.

“Sorry it took me awhile to get back to you. I spent my entire day down at Inverness trying to see Melvin. And people wonder why defense attorneys hardly speak to their clients.”

“So, what’d you find out?”

“Well, I showed him the two pictures you gave me. He’s never seen the old guy, but the younger one might be the worker who saw him take the paint.”

“How good was the ID? And no puffing. You know I’m out on a limb.”

“The truth? It could’ve been stronger. But it was probably just as good as any cross-racial ID your cops get before they firm it up for the courtroom.”

Jackson hadn’t ruled Minkins out. If he was high up enough with Gunderson to have hired Jackson, he could also be in on the setup. If, of course, there was a setup.

“Anything else?”

“My investigator’s got some computer whiz working on the floppy disc. I’m going to feel like a total idiot if I wind up paying this guy out of my own pocket, and the disc turns out to be the family grocery list. And speaking of total idiots, that’s what I felt like when Jackson asked me why I was showing him those pictures and I couldn’t say anything. Now that I spent my Sunday with the other jailhouse groupies, why don’t you let me in on the secret.”

“Hold on a second.” I made it look like I needed something from my desk and went upstairs so Chuck wouldn’t overhear. “Got anything up your sleeve for court tomorrow?”

He laughed. “Yeah, my piece of shit watch. Prescott’s obviously inclined to find PC, and I don’t have squat. The best I can hope for is to buy more time.”

More time was what we both needed. Getting anyone to take a second look at the case against Jackson was hard enough as things stood. If Prescott found probable cause without at least a bend in the road, it would be impossible.

“I’ll tell you who the men in the pictures are if you’ll do something for me. I’ve got an idea that might help both of us.”

Twelve.

I was finishing some last minute prep in my office Monday morning when Jessica Walters walked in.

“Hey, there. Thought I’d stop in and see how you’re holding up after a week in here with the boys.”

“Crazier by the day, but I’m sticking it out.”

“Good for you. You want to grab some coffee?”

I held up my Starbucks commuter cup. “Already went, but definitely some other time. I’m getting ready to go back in on the Jackson prelim.”

The legal pad I’d been using on Sunday was at the edge of my desk, the top page barely legible from all the black ink. Walters saw it and laughed. “A woman after my own heart. Do those notes actually mean anything to you?”

I laughed too. “No. But maybe if you scribble enough, it’s like a giant Rorschach.” I held the pad up to her. “Tell me, Ms. Walters, what do you see in this one?”

She squinted at it, exaggeratedy furrowing her brow. “Let me see.” But then her expression turned serious. “Grice? You have a case on someone named Grice?”

“No, just a name that came up in an investigation.”

“It’s not Max Grice, is it?”

“Actually, I don’t know the first name.” I hadn’t written it in my notes, and I hadn’t called Nelly yet to try to get another look at the file.

“Oh-kay?” She said it slowly, inviting an explanation for why I wouldn’t know the first name of someone involved in one of my cases.

“Why? Who’s Max Grice?”

“A major pain in my ass is who Max Grice is. Some schlep per contractor who’s been bitching to anyone who will listen about his business problems. I wanted to blow him off, but you know the boss. Any allegation of official misconduct gets a thorough vetting. I’m probably going to wind up letting the guy have a say in front of the grand jury, then I’ll tell them to no-bill it.”

“What kind of misconduct?”

“The guy’s paranoid. I guess there’s this process they have to go through to get permission to make certain changes to historically significant properties, which includes just about every old building in the central corridor. His company’s request got declined, and he’s claiming that someone at City Hall’s on the take, since other companies don’t seem to have any problems.”

“Why would that come to you?”

“It shouldn’t. There’s a city process the guy’s using, and the police could potentially investigate the allegation as a crime if there were any meat there. But this guy called Duncan personally, so now I’m stuck trying to find a palatable way to dump it. Technically Gangs is the white-collar unit.”

The reality, of course, was that this office had never prosecuted a significant white-collar criminal. Those cases went to the feds, and the small-time embezzlers simply got away with n, the victims brushed off with an explanation that the theft was “a civil matter” or an “employment issue.”

But now wasn’t the time to hash out office filing decisions. I wanted to know more about Grice.

“So if someone called the switchboard and asked for whoever dealt with white-collar crime or government corruption or something like that, Liz would connect them to you?”

“She should.”

“Then I think I know why Clarissa Easterbrook called you. Is Max Grice’s company called Grice Construction?”

“I’d have to double-check, but that sounds right.”

“Clarissa recused herself from a case where Grice Construction appealed an adverse decision relating lo a remodel of a Pearl District warehouse.”

“That’d be my guy.”

And the guy was complaining about the very program that had been at issue in Gunderson’s case in front of Clarissa. A case where Gunderson had won because of Clarissa’s decision.

I looked at my watch. “I’ve got to go over to the Justice Center. But can you get me a copy of whatever you have on Grice?”

“No problem.”

Roger was already waiting in the courtroom with Townsend. In the row in front of them, two men I recognized as Gunderson and Minkins sat with a lawyer type I assumed was Jim Thorpe. I should get a kickback for all the fees I was bringing in to Dunn Simon.