Missing Justice (6 page)

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 from 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,

the silence was probably part of the strategy. I was quiet because I couldn’t help but think of Grace and how lost I’d be if anything ever happened to her.

“I want to believe that there’s an explanation,” Susan said, “but I keep coming back to what I know is true. This is totally unlike Clarissa. She’s so … responsible. Predictable. She’d never go off like this without telling someone: Tara, Townsend, me, her parents. She’s surrounded by people who are close to her. She’d never let us worry this way. Something terrible must have happened.”

This time, the silence that followed wasn’t enough to prod Susan into speaking, so Johnson gave a gentle nudge. “Everything we’ve learned about the case so far leads us to think that we’re investigating a crime here, not just a missing person. Part of what we’re doing now is putting together a timeline for the last few days. Maybe you can start by telling us about the last time you talked to Clarissa.”

“Sure. It was just Saturday. Townsend was working at the hospital nothing new there so Clarissa had the whole day free. We had a late lunch, then went to the Nordstrom anniversary sale.”

“How was her mood?” Johnson asked.

“Same old Clarissa. Fun, talkative, sweet. Afraid to spend money.” Susan paused and smiled. “Sorry. If you knew Clarissa… well, you’d know what I mean. Best sale of the year, and I had to talk her into buying a couple of sweaters. She’s very practical.”

Susan and Clarissa clearly lived in a different world from most of us. I’d seen Clarissa’s closet, after all. I couldn’t imagine what Susan’s must be packed with.

“Any financial problems that you know of?” Johnson asked.

Susan laughed. “Oh, God, no. She and Townsend do fine. It’s just Clarissa’s way. We grew up in southeast Portland, you know. About half a step up from the trailer parks. Well, she was half a step up. I was basically right in there. She worked her way out by studying hard and putting herself through school.”

“Did you go to school together?” I asked.

She laughed again. “Sure through high school. If you’re asking how I dealt with my generational income challenge, I won’t waste your time by making it sound heroic. I was lucky enough to be the prettiest aerobics instructor at the Multnomah Athletic Club when my husband Herbie decided to settle down. We were married for ten years before he passed away. I’ve always felt a little guilty for having at least as much as Clarissa when I can barely balance a checkbook.”

I had to hand it to her. Susan Kerr had a hell of a personality. There’s something reassuring about a person who is so comfortable about who and what she is.

“So when exactly was she with you on Saturday?” Walker asked.

“I picked her up at her house around one. We had a long lunch, probably until three, then shopped at Lloyd Center until I dropped her off around seven.”

“Can you think of anything unusual that came up?” Walker was quicker to move to narrow questions than I would have been.

“Like what?” she asked.

“Anything,” he said. “Someone following her, a run-in with someone, something she seemed worried about. Things like that.”

“Anything at all that you think possibly could be helpful,” I added.

She shook her head. “No. We certainly didn’t notice it if someone was following us. I mean, who would follow us?” Susan’s comment seemed to trigger her own memory. “Well, actually, about a month ago, she did mention some guy in her caseload who was getting a little creepy. She usually writes off the stuff people say to her as nothing, but this guy had her a bit unnerved. I told her to call the police if she was really worried, but I don’t think she ever did. She told me a few days ago that she hadn’t heard anything else from him; I forgot to ask her about it on Saturday.” She was no doubt wondering whether she’d ever have another chance.

“Her assistant at the office mentioned something similar to me, but she couldn’t give me the file. Do you remember anything else about the case?” I asked.

“I don’t recall whether she ever used his name. The irony is that Clarissa actually felt sorry for the guy, but there wasn’t anything she could do for him. He was getting evicted from public housing under some policy that lets them kick you out if someone visits you with drugs?”

I could tell she wasn’t sure if she had it right, so I nodded to let her know that I was familiar with the policy.

“Anyway, it was a big mess. Clarissa didn’t think she could stop the city from doing it, but the guy said he’d lose custody of his kids if he didn’t have a place for them to live. She was worried that if she called the police about the letters and it turned out that he was only blowing off some steam, she’d make it even harder for him to keep his kids.”

“Do you know what he did that had her on edge?” I asked.