Missing Justice (4 page)

Everything, that was, except for my black leather, high-backed swivel chair. A good office chair is nearly impossible to come by when you work for the government. Most of the chairs around here had ceased being adjustable years ago and had funky-smelling upholstery fit for the county’s HAZMAT team. About a year ago, I had spent four full months sucking up to the facilities manager, begging for a decent chair. The campaign was not my proudest moment; let’s just say it involved me, a lunchtime knitting class, and a decade’s supply of ugly booties for the woman’s baby.

Now someone had taken my vacation as an opportunity to run off with the spoils of my labor. The culprit clearly lacked two essential pieces of information. First, I would stop at absolutely nothing to get that chair back. And second, I’d have no problem proving ownership. The day I got no, make that earned-my chair, I committed vandalism against county property by scratching my initials in a secret spot and vowing we’d be together forever.

But for now, I was stuck with a sorry-looking lump of stinky blue tweed on casters.

Otherwise, the new office was a step up. In my old office, I had an L-shaped yellow metal desk with a cork board hutch. Now I had an L-shaped gray metal desk with a cork board hutch, plus a matching gray file cabinet all to myself. Whoever had done the move had replicated my old office (minus my special chair) to a T, all the way down to the two pictures stuck in the corner of my cork board: one of Vinnie gnawing on his rubber Gumby doll, the other of my parents in front of their tree on my mom’s last Christmas.

I met Frist as requested in his new corner office, legal pad and pen in hand, ready for a fresh start in a new unit, with a promotion I had wanted since I joined the office. It took most attorneys five to seven years of good work and shameless ass kissing to get into MCU, and I’d done it in less than three with my pride largely intact. Given my Stanford law degree and three years in the Southern District of New York at the nation’s most prestigious U.S. Attorney’s Office, some would say I was actually running behind.

I took a seat across from Frist, trying not to think about the last time I was there with the office’s previous tenant.

True to his reputation, my new boss skipped the small talk and got down to business. “I thought we should touch base since you’re new to the Unit and I’m still getting used to this supervision gig. You know the deal: we handle all non domestic person felonies, basically murders, rapes, and aggravated assaults. Robberies we treat like property crimes and send down to the general felony unit. You can decide whether you want to bring any files over from your old DVD caseload, but I’d recommend against it. You’ll have your hands full enough here without having to juggle Drug and Vice.”

It took some concentration to focus on the substance of what Frist was saying. He had one of those deep voices you have to tuck your chin into your chest to impersonate, a common practice around the DA’s office. He sounded like that antiwar governor from Vermont who ran for president, but this proud conservative ex-marine would never oppose a war, let alone go to Vermont. Frist was booming something at me, but his eyes kept darting alternately between my breasts and somewhere just above my forehead.

“You’re starting out with something less than a regular load. Usually we’d give you the cases of whoever left, but O’Donnell obviously had some doozies that’d be hard to start out with. So I took over his caseload, kept about a quarter of mine, and gave you the rest. As the new person, you’ll be on screening duty.”

MCU’s screening assignment is a notorious time-waster. Paralegals dole out the incoming police reports among the various trial units: major crimes, gangs, drugs and vice, general felonies, domestic violence, and misdemeanors. But to make sure that no one misses a heavy charge and issues it as a throw-away, any report that even arguably establishes probable cause for a major person felony goes to MCU for screening. The problem is, cautious paralegals end up finding potential felonies in every run-of-the-mill assault. Now I’d be the one to waste hours separating the wheat from the chaff. So much for my big impressive step up in the prosecutorial food chain.

Frist covered a handful of issues he thought I should be aware of on the cases I’d inherited from him, then changed the subject. “Now, as for this Easterbrook matter, I talked to the boss. I don’t think he intended to throw you into the middle of things so quickly. You know, he figured the judge’d turn up in a couple of hours, and he wanted to make sure we did what we could in the meantime. But now this thing’s looking like it’s got real potential.”

When I first started in the DA’s office, I was sickened by how excited the career prosecutors seemed to get over a juicy incoming murder case. I swore I’d never treat human tragedy as career fodder. But it had since become clear to me that attorneys who have stuck with this job for any amount of time handle it one of two ways: They either get off on the adrenaline of their files or they become apathetic. Compassion is a straight path to burnout. I wasn’t yet to the point where I looked at a person’s murder simply as a trial challenge, but, when I did, I’d rather approach my cases as a passionate competitor like Frist than yet another of the lazy plea-bargaining bureaucrats we keep around here.

But precisely because Frist was competitive, he wanted in on this one. “Go ahead and ride the case solo while she’s missing, but if a body turns up, you don’t want this as your first murder.”

I opened my mouth, but Frist was all over me. “Zip it, Kincaid. I know you’re hungry, but you can forget about running this on your own. And don’t think I’m picking on you for being new. Or because you’re a woman.”

Out the window went the staples of my reliable boss-fighting arsenal. Clearly I’d need to be more creative.

“We always have two attorneys on any death penalty case,” he explained, “which this may very well be, if it’s a kidnap gone wrong. And Clarissa Easterbrook isn’t exactly your typical murder victim. Every person out there who thinks he can benefit will be crawling up our asses to scrutinize every aspect of this investigation and prosecution.”

“Is it still my case, or should I go ahead and tell MCT to call you the next time they find a shoe in the gutter at four o’clock in the morning?”

“Nice try,” Frist said, shaking his head and smiling. “But whereas some people who held this job in the past were lazy fucks who’d rather play golf than practice law, I want to make sure we do things right around here, even if we all have to work our asses off. Including me. So keep your MCT phone calls, and we’ll talk later about how to split the work if the need should arise. I never said who’d be first chair, now, did I?”

I said “fine” but couldn’t resist being a little pouty about it.

As I was leaving his office, Frist dropped a closing comment to my back. “Besides, Kincaid, from what I hear, MCT’s got an inside line to you in the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, my pager number,” I said, pretending not to recognize his not-so-subtle allusion to Detective Chuck Forbes. Despite my every attempt to be discreet, the whole world seemed to know we had something going on.

“Sorry. That was probably what human resources would call ‘inappropriate.” Color me repentant.” He placed his hand dramatically over his heart. “Seriously, when you’re ready, we’ll need to talk about how you want to handle that. We can keep you off his cases or not, whatever you think is … appropriate.”

I knew he was being fair, but inside I cringed. I pride myself on not letting my personal life interfere with my job. In the two years since my divorce, I had complied with my self-imposed prohibition against dating cops and DAs. It’s hard enough for a woman barely out of her twenties to be taken seriously as a prosecutor. If cops and colleagues start to look at you as dating prey, you’re toast.

I headed straight to Alice Gerstein’s desk to pick up some of the weekend custodies. As the senior paralegal in the unit and possibly the most competent member of the DA’s office, Alice had already entered today’s new cases into our internal data system. We only had until two o’clock this afternoon to present probable cause affidavits to the court on anyone arrested over the weekend without a warrant, so issuing custodies was always the first priority of the day.

Alice welcomed me with a fat Redweld file marked mcu screening. I struggled to hold it in one hand, my coffee in the other. Judging by its weight, the file held close to thirty cases. “Could you give me a few of the regular unit custodies too? You know, so I can use them to break up the monotony a little?”

Alice was no pushover. “Sorry. Frist has got me under strict orders. The newbie doesn’t get any real cases until the screens are finished. I know for sure that at least Luke is absolutely delighted by your addition to the unit. All last week, he was counting down the days.”

I usually resent it when the all-female staff tries to enforce the office’s rules against me, because it’s common knowledge that most of them let the rules slide with their favorite male attorneys. But Alice is a soldier in what she sees as the daily war of keeping this place running, so I sucked it up and headed back to my office with the dregs. If Luke Grossman had stuck it out, so would I. About an hour later, I was reading my nineteenth police report, the closest one yet to a major crime. Alas, it turned out to be another no complaint to be shipped off to the Domestic Violence Unit. The victim called 911 to report that he was walking down the street, minding his own business, when a woman shot an arrow at him from a balcony overhead. That’s right, an arrow. What we call in this business a weapon, triggering major crime jurisdiction.

Bad news for me, the 911 call turned out to be woefully incomplete. For example, he left out the fact that the archer was his ex-girlfriend who, by the way, was on Portland State’s archery team and had a restraining order against her ex. He also forgot to mention that the weapon to wit, one arrow had a pink rubber Power Puff Girl eraser popped onto the tip. No wonder the patrol officer’s only arrest was of Newman himself, for violating the restraining order. At the arrestee’s insistence, his complaint was written up, even as he was transported to and booked at the county detention center.

I scrawled my initials next to a big fat red mcu declined stamp in the file’s log notes and then went ahead and no complain ted the potential misdemeanor charges as well. No use making someone in DV waste their time with Newman’s whining.

My phone rang just as I was tossing the file into my out box.

“Kincaid.” The butch phone answer is one of the small but very cool perks of being a prosecutor.

“How you doing there, Kincaid? I was afraid your extension might not have moved with you.”

I recognized Ray Johnson’s voice. How could he be so chipper when he’d undoubtedly been at the Easterbrook house most of the night?

“Pretty amazing. The county somehow manages to keep all the phones straight, but I still have to share a copy of the evidence code with the entire unit. What’s up? Don’t tell me. Judge Easterbrook turned up alive and well, rambling about a probe from little green men?”

“Nope. My instinct tells me that’s not going to happen, not even that first part. One good sign, though, is that the husband’s schedule checks out at OHSU. Three back-to-back surgeries. He’s accounted for from seven a.m. to six p.m. No strange behavior.”

“You mean it’s a good sign for him.”

“And a good sign for our vie. If the husband didn’t do her, she’s less likely to be dead.” The bizarre mathematics of murder in a world where most violence against women is inflicted by husbands and lovers.

But Johnson wasn’t ready to clear Townsend Easterbrook. “On the other hand, maybe it happened in the morning, and the guy goes off to work like it’s nothing. Wouldn’t be the first time. And, of course, the alibi’s meaningless if he hired someone.

“I also got some preliminary info from the crime lab. They picked up some unidentified latents around the house, but the one match they got in AFIS was with the one Walker left on the door knocker. Other than that, the only thing they’ve got is on our boy, Griffey. Remember that gnarly-looking scum the sister found on the dog?”

“Sure, clay or something.” My hopes were up. Cases had been solved before by the unique composition of dirt left behind at a scene. Or, in this instance, on a dog.

“Nope, not clay. Paint.”

Interesting. Dogs out walking in the rain don’t usually come home with body paint.

“And how are we going to find out where that paint might’ve come from?” I asked.

“One of the lab guys is getting together with some paint geek from Home Depot. They’ve got a color-match computer. It’s a long shot, but they might be able to tell us the brand name if there’s a perfect match. From there, we could check the stores for any recent orders. In any event, they’ll make us up a paint chip, so if we ever do have something to match it against, we won’t have to use the dog hair. In the meantime, the PIOs going to put a call out in the next press briefing for tips. Hopefully, we’ll get some reports of a neighbor who was painting in the area. Even if we don’t get our bad guy, it might at least help us figure out where the dog has been.”

Better the bureau’s Public Information Office than me. I try to stay away from the media.

“Any other news?”

“Nothing of any use. Looks like Griffey’s the only mutt with anything to contribute. We called a K-9 unit out there this morning to see if one of their dogs could pick up a scent on

Clarissa. No luck. The handler told me the scent was long gone. Probably the rain.”

“Any luck getting in touch with Susan Kerr?” It would be helpful to see if Clarissa’s friend had noticed anything unusual when they went shopping on Saturday.

“Haven’t managed to reach her yet.”

“She’s around,” I said. “She was with the family at the press conference this morning.”

“I know. She called my desk this morning; probably got my name from Tara. I missed her when I called her back, though. When I catch up with her, you want to go out on the interview with me?”

“Any reason to figure she’s a suspect?” DAs don’t usually tag along on witness interviews.