Two.

By 7 a.m. the next morning, I was watching my first Major Crimes Unit

case unfold on television.� Nothing like an attractive, professional,

missing white woman to satisfy the hunger of the viewing masses.

I sat in the eighth-floor conference room of the Multnomah County

District Attorney's Office, location of the office's only TV set,

flipping channels in a futile attempt to track the coverage.� Out of

principle, I boycotted the Fox affiliate for running the tagline case

of a real-life Cinderella?� in a graphic beneath the talking head.� I

finally gave up and settled on the local morning show, which seemed to

be covering the story in the most detail.

Cut to some guy named Jake Spottiswoode, so-called field correspondent,

also known as the kid right out of college who gets sent with his

Columbia Gore-Tex jacket into the rain.

"Good morning, Gloria.� Behind me in southwest Portland is the home of

Dr.� Townsend Easterbrook and his missing wife,

Administrative Law Judge Clarissa Easterbrook.� Dr.� Easter-brook

reported the mysterious disappearance yesterday evening, shortly after

returning from a day of surgery at OHSU.

"Residents of this quiet neighborhood are fearing the worst," Gore-Tex

continued, "since learning that one of Judge Easter-brook's shoes was

discovered in the street on Taylor's Ferry Road last night.� That

discovery was particularly ominous given that the shoe was found only

half a mile from where her dog was found earlier in the night, alone

but still on his leash.� The community is helping police in the search

effort and say they still hold out hope that Judge Easterbrook will be

found safe and unharmed.� We've been told that the family will be

coming outside any minute to make a statement."

"Jake, what can you tell us about what Clarissa Easterbrook might have

been doing before she disappeared?� Was she walking the dog?"� Watching

Gloria Flick lean forward and dramatically furrow her brow, I

remembered why I never watch this show.� Gloria Flick was annoying as

hell.

While Flick continued to feign concern, Gore-Tex explained that the

police had refused to rule out any possibilities.� Although this was

formally a missing persons case, they were moving forward on the

assumption that foul play might be involved.� Trying to fill air time

before the press conference, the rain-soaked rookie correspondent

touched upon Clarissa's position with the city.� "We're hearing,

Gloria, that Clarissa Easterbrook, as an administrative law judge, is

not the kind of judge that many of us would envision, in a courthouse,

presiding over trials.� Rather, she hears appeals from the

administrative decisions of city agencies.� Because many of those

matters are considered routine and, in fact, somewhat bureaucratic,

police are discouraging the media from speculating that Judge

Easterbrook's disappearance could be related to her official

position."

The viewing public was spared any further attempt to explain the boring

work of an administrative law judge when Clarissa Easterbrook's family

assumed its place behind a podium that had been set up in the

Easterbrook driveway.

Joining Tara and Townsend were an older couple I imagined were

Clarissa's parents, along with a woman I didn't recognize.� Townsend

tentatively approached the mike.� Make that about ten mikes.� Unlike

Tara, he had changed clothes, but the bags under his eyes were every

bit as pronounced.

As the attending surgeon at the state's teaching hospital, Townsend was

probably used to speaking to a crowd.� But today he seemed focused on

merely making it through the notes he carried to the podium.� His voice

lacked affect, and he didn't look up once from his reading:

"My wife, Clarissa Easterbrook, has not been seen since six o'clock

yesterday morning.� She disappeared somewhere between then and last

night at approximately six-thirty p.m."� when I returned home.� We

believe she was wearing a pink silk turtleneck sweater, charcoal-gray

pants, and black loafers, one of which was found on Taylor's Ferry

Drive early this morning.� Our dog was discovered last night in the

same area, near the Chart House restaurant.� We are asking anyone who

may have seen her, or seen anything in that vicinity that might be

related to her disappearance, to please call the police immediately.

Clarissa, we love you and we miss you, and we want you to come home to

us safe.

"Behind me are Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney; her parents, Mel and

Alice Carney; and her dearest friend, Susan Kerr.� On behalf of all of

us, I'd like to thank everyone who is helping in this search effort.

Members of the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District

Attorney's Office were here late last night, and the media have been

great about getting Clarissa's picture out there and asking for

information.� We're very grateful for all the support and concern that

has been shown for Clarissa and our family.� Thank you again."

Whoever wrote the script was savvy enough to know how to play the game

of political institutions.� Appear supportive of the police department

and the DA's office early on, and you'll have all the more leverage

down the road if you threaten to turn.� Reporters were shouting out

questions now, but there wasn't much for Townsend to add.� Yes, it was

certainly possible that something might have happened to her while she

was walking the dog, but the police were not ruling out other

possibilities.� No, there hadn't been any ransom demands or other

communications about the disappearance.

Once the family retreated into the house, the station ran more pictures

of Clarissa and repeated the description of her clothing.� Nordstrom

had come through.� From the montage of photographs at a picnic with

Townsend, at Cannon Beach with Griffey, on the lap of a shopping-mall

Santa Claus with Tara I began to feel I knew this woman.� She was aging

gracefully, keeping her hair blond but neatly bobbed, allowing the

wrinkles to show beneath a light dusting of makeup.� And in every

picture she had the same big, generous smile that had greeted me the

one time I had met her at a women's bar conference a couple of years

ago.� I couldn't bear to watch.

As I was clicking the TV off, Russell Frist stuck his perfectly

salt-and-peppered head into the conference room.� "Welcome back,

Kincaid, and welcome to the Unit.� The boss tells me you're in the

thick of things already."

The District Attorney must have called Frist first thing this morning.

Recently appointed supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit, my new boss had

a reputation for screaming at other lawyers and making them cry, but

also for being a good prosecutor.� I had vowed to keep an open mind

about him, but sitting there beneath his gaze, I found myself

intimidated.� At six foot three and a good two-twenty, Frist put in

enough time at the gym to test the seams of his well-cut suit.

It wasn't surprising that Frist referred to the trial unit that

prosecuted all person felonies as "the Unit."� He'd been handling major

crimes for at least fifteen years, so other kinds of cases had no doubt

stopped mattering to him long ago.

"Looks like it," I said.� "When he sent me out to the Easter-brooks'

last night for some hand-holding, I don't think either one of us

thought it was going to turn into something like this, literally

overnight."

"Well, we should talk.� Give me about fifteen minutes, then meet in my

office?"

Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get any actual work done, so I

continued making my way through the pile of mail that had accumulated

over the past month.� As un pampered county employees, we usually have

to take care of our own office moves when we change rotations, but

someone had been nice enough to relocate my things from my old office

down the hall at the Drug and Vice Division to what used to be Frist's

office in major crimes.

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.

"Yeah, guilty of being a rich muckety-muck.� I did a little recon on

our girl.� She makes the Easterbrooks look like Jerry Springer trailer

trash."

"Careful, Ray.� Not all of us can afford those Hugo Boss suits you

strut around in."

"The point is, she's loaded.� I thought we might cut through some of

the predictable bullshit if you talked to her."

"No problem.� It's my first day cooped up in the office, so the sooner

the better."� As usual, Johnson was right: Lots of rich people find

speaking to the police beneath them.� Depending on who Susan Kerr

turned out to be, she might expect a personal call from District

Attorney Duncan Griffith or even from the mayor herself.

I hung up, pleased that I hadn't given in to the urge to ask Ray if

he'd seen Chuck this morning.� I was surprised I hadn't heard from him

yet.

I'd managed to reject only another three cases before my thoughts

drifted back to Clarissa Easterbrook.� If she was still alive, what was

she doing right now?

I paged Johnson, and he returned the call right away.� "Didn't I just

talk to you?"� he asked.

"Have you thought about searching Easterbrook's office?"

"I thought you wanted to play things cool with him for now," he said.

I realized that he thought I was talking about Townsend.� "No,

Clarissa's office.� Maybe there's something there that would at least

give us some leads."

"It's looking like she was snatched from the neighborhood, so we've

been working from that area out.� The office has been less of a

priority, but, yeah, you're right, we should at least check it out.

I'll get someone on it."

"Don't worry about it.� I'll do it and call you when it's okay to go

in."

"Really, Kincaid, it's all right.� I know you're new to this, but DAs

don't usually do any of the runaround work.� One of the perks of the

job, right?� Bossing cops around?"

"Trust me, there will come a time when you rue the day you encouraged

me to be bossier.� I'm not doing this to take the load off you; I'm

doing it because I'm going stir crazy in this new rotation.� Plus, I

have a feeling that if you guys storm into a judge's office with a

search warrant, the chief judge will be on the phone to Duncan

demanding my head."

"We're talking about me, Kincaid.� I don't storm.� I slide."� He

dragged out the vowel in his last word.

"You get the drift."

"That I do.� Go to it, then.� Call me when you need me."

I buzzed through the rest of my screens, the promise of doing some real

work motivating me like a creme briilee waiting at the end of a bad

meal.

When I was done, I called the mayor's office.� Although Clarissa's

position entitled her to be called Judge, hearings officers are

actually part of city administration.� Anyone who disagrees with a city

agency's decision has to take an administrative appeal to a city

hearings officer before he can sue before a "real" judge.� In short,

when it comes to city bureaucracy, a judge like Clarissa Easterbrook is

the last stop before the courthouse.

I explained the situation to the mayor's administrative assistant, who

referred me to Clarence Loutrell, the chief administrative hearings

officer.

Hanging up the phone, I swiveled my chair around to look out the

window.� Okay, it was more of a cranking than a swivel with this

particular chair, but it was enough for me to see that there wasn't a

break from the rain yet.� I generally prefer to handle this kind of

thing face-to-face.� It's harder for someone to reject a request in

person than to say no to a faceless voice on the telephone.

Fuck it.� The walk in the humidity was sure to leave me with a puffy

head of cotton-ball hair for the rest of the day, but four hours at a

desk after two weeks on the beach had me yearning to get out.� Besides,

I could put my hair through a wind tunnel, and it wouldn't matter.

Clean clothes and a lack of BOis about all you need to meet minimum

standards for the courthouse crowd.

I signed myself out on the MCU white board without explanation,

following my practice of staking out ground early in a new job the way

Vinnie pees everywhere he goes to mark territory.� No way was I going

to join the kiss-ups who leave notes on the board detailing their

precise location.� That's what pagers were for.

I kicked off my black Ferragamo sling backs and threw them in my

briefcase while I shoved my stockinged feet into my New Balances.� I'd

lost enough of my good shoes to Portland's damp streets.

On my way out, I swung by my old office in DVD.� Kirsten

Holloway, newly promoted from the misdemeanor unit, had already covered

the place with her wedding photos and stuffed animals.� She would learn

her lesson quickly.� By the end of the week, anonymous pranksters would

be sure to have her cute little animals posed in backbreaking positions

violating the laws of thirty-six states.� I didn't even want to think

about the Post-it notes she'd find stuck around the bride and groom. In

the meantime, no sign of my beloved chair.

I entered City Hall from its new Fourth Avenue entrance.� The city had

completed what seemed like endless remodeling about a year ago.� What

used to be a dingy back entrance through a metal door was now the main

entrance, hugged by pink pillars and a rose garden.

The refurbished City Hall beat the hell out of my rundown courthouse.

The renovation had exposed the building's original marble tile and

woodwork.� To the extent that there was any natural light on this

crummy day, it flooded into the lobby through the atrium skylights. The

tiled staircases that had once been enclosed in a stairwell were now

open, exposing five floors of original copper handrails and plating.

I took the stairs to the third floor, then ducked into the corner to

switch my shoes.� Judge Loutrell's office was in the suite at the end

of the hall.

I was in luck, or so it seemed.� After a short call, Loutrell's

secretary told me he was in and willing to see me.� Even though I

should have made an appointment, of course.

Loutrell rose from his desk to greet me.� He was tall and thin, balding

but trying hard to conceal it with his last few wisps of white hair.� I

shook his hand and introduced myself as a Deputy District Attorney.

"I'm sure you already know that Clarissa Easterbrook has been reported

missing."

"Yes.� I was shocked when I heard it on the news this morning.� It's

just not like Clarissa to be gone like this."

"That's what others have been telling us as well, so the police are

investigating every possibility.� For now, they're focusing primarily

on Judge Easterbrook's neighborhood, but since I work at the courthouse

and was in the area, I thought I'd see if anyone she works with might

have any theories about where she could be or people the police should

be talking to."

"Gosh, not offhand.� I wish I could help, but I didn't talk to Clarissa

much and I don't know much about her personal life."

"What about her professional life?� Has there been anything unusual

lately for her at work?"

"Not that I can think of.� Like I said, we didn't talk much, and all of

us work pretty independently.� I'm the chief administrative officer,

but that doesn't mean much other than filling out some forms and

whatnot."

Now came the tricky part.� "I'm sure it's a long shot that her

disappearance would have anything to do with work, but we want to make

sure we cover all the bases early on.� What would be really helpful to

the investigation is to take a look in Judge Easterbrook's office.� You

know, just to make sure nothing seems out of the ordinary."

I was about halfway through the request when Loutrell began to finger

the pen resting on his leather desk pad.� By the time I was finished,

he had picked it up and was twisting the cap around in circles.

"Well, yes, I can see why that would be an important part of what

you're trying to do.� But I'm sure you understand that I can't just

open up one of our hearing officers' offices for you."

"Judge Loutrell, one of your coworkers is missing.� From everything

I've heard, including what you just told me, this is not a woman who

would run off without some explanation.� One of her shoes was found in

a gutter.� All I'm asking for is the chance to rule out the possibility

that this had anything to do with her work so the police can focus on

more likely possibilities."

"I understand all that, Ms.� Kincaid, but I'm sure you understand that

there are privacy issues at stake."

"Clarissa Easterbrook is not a private attorney.� She doesn't have any

clients, so we're not talking about privileged material.� The only

privacy rights at issue are Clarissa Easterbrook's, and I think it's

safe to say that she'd want us to take a look under these

circumstances."

"I just don't know."� He was still twisting the pen cap.

"I can have the police apply for a search warrant if you think that's a

more appropriate procedure."� I managed to make it sound like an offer

to be helpful instead of a threat.

"I just don't think this is something I should be handling."

"The mayor's office pointed me to you.� You're the chief administrative

hearings officer."

"And I told you that title means little in this context.� I think you

should talk to the City Attorney's Office."

I thought about arguing but decided it was a waste of time.� Loutrell

was a timid bureaucrat who was more concerned about straying beyond his

authority than finding Clarissa Easterbrook.� He had also said the

magic attorney word: The City Attorney represented all city agencies,

including the hearings officers.� If Loutrell told me to go to his

attorney, I didn't have much choice.

Luckily, the City Attorney's Office was just one floor up.� When I

explained to the receptionist what I needed, however, she told me I'd

need to talk to the City Attorney himself, Dennis Coakley, who wasn't

going to be back until the end of the day.� I left my name and number

and did my best to encourage her to get the message to him as soon as

possible.

On my way back down, I noticed the listing for Clarissa

Easterbrook's office on a sign at the third-floor landing.� I followed

the arrow to the left, away from Loutrell's office, and found the suite

number I was looking for.

A receptionist with a pierced nose and red pixie haircut was busy

juggling calls, repeating, "City hearings department, please hold."

After three times she exhaled loudly and looked up.� "Welcome to my

world.� How can I help you?"

At least she had a sense of humor about it.� I gave her my best

empathetic smile and introduced myself.� She made the connection to

Clarissa's disappearance on her own.� "Oh my God.� I have been going

crazy in here this morning.� I didn't listen to the news this morning

and came in early, before anyone else was around.� The calls started

around seven-thirty, and I was, like, What do you mean she's missing? I

had to go out to my car and listen to the news on the radio. Finally,

someone came in this morning at nine to explain the situation to me.

The phone's been ringing off the hook."

"What kind of calls?"� I asked.

"Reporters, mostly.� I don't know what they expect me to tell them.

I've been reading the prepared statement I was given.� Hold on a sec,

okay?"� She jumped back to juggle the phones, telling each caller,

"Clarissa Easterbrook is an important member of the city community.� We

hope for her speedy return, and our thoughts and prayers are with her

family at this critical time."� As she repeated the line, she handed me

a memo from Clarence Loutrell with the typed-out statement.

Once she'd gotten through the on-hold callers, she let the phone ring

unanswered while we spoke.

"Seems like a small office.� You must be pretty close to her."

"I guess.� I started here last fall.� I work for her and one of the

other hearings officers, Dave Olick.� I'm pretty much their entire

staff.� I do the phones, the secretarial work, any legal research that

comes up.� I graduated last spring from Lewis and Clark.

It wasn't exactly my dream job after law school, but it's a job, at

least.� I'm Nelly by the way.� Nelly Giacoma."

The Portland legal market, like legal markets everywhere, was getting

tight.� I wasn't surprised that a recent law graduate might have to

clerk for an administrative law judge for a while.� This one's nose

ring, lollipop hair, and what I now saw was a yin-yang symbol tattooed

on her ankle probably didn't help.

"Since I'm across the street at the courthouse, I just dropped by to

see if the people who worked with Clarissa had any thoughts on where

she might be, that kind of thing."

Nelly shook her head slowly while she spoke.� "No, I just have no idea.

Everything was fine last week.� She was working when I left at five

Friday, and she said she'd see me on Monday."

"You can't think of anything unusual that's happened lately?� Something

that might be connected somehow?"

"Well, about a month ago, some guy on one of her cases sort of blew up

at her."

"Do you know anything about the case?"� I asked.

"Not really.� The guy was getting evicted, but I don't know what the

issue was."

"If you could pull the file, I can go through it while you get some of

those calls."� I tilted my head toward her phone, which was still

ringing.

"Gee, I don't think I can just let you go through the file."

"At least parts of it are public record."

"But I don't think the whole thing is, especially when the case is

still pending.� Besides, I don't even know what case it is.� I'd have

to go through all the files and try to find it.� I better check with

Judge Loutrell and get back to you."

I picked her brain for more about the ticked-off evicted guy or for any

other cases of note, but didn't get any further.� "What about stuff

outside of work?� Did you talk to Clarissa enough to know anything

about her personal life?"

"Well, I know she's married."

Oh, yeah, they were best friends, all right.

"And how did that seem to be going?"� I asked.

"Good, I guess.� Clarissa's pretty private, though.� Or she is with me,

at least.� We're pretty much employer-employee.� But she's really,

really nice.� I hope she's all right.� I'm sure she is, isn't she?"

I nodded and smiled, doing my best to appear unworried.� When I said

goodbye, Nelly apologized that she couldn't be more helpful but assured

me she'd talk to Loutrell about going through the files.� I handed her

my card, but I knew she wouldn't get back to me.� Loutrell would

forward the request to Dennis Coakley, leaving me in the same spot I

was already in.

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.

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.

Inside, I found two Polaroids of my chair and a series of ransom notes

written with letters cut from magazines.

"I know."� My worn-out Harvard T-shirt and jeans didn't make the best

ensemble for our first post-divorce face-to-face, but confidence is the

ultimate accessory.

"No, she's not."� It was Russ.� "What's embarrassing is your attempt to

bully this office.� You assume that because we're prosecutors, we're a

bunch of bloodthirsty rednecks.� As for the bureau's delay homing in on

Jackson, your client wasn't exactly forthcoming.� The cops had to get

their information from the workers on the site, and funny they seemed

to be under the impression that it was union work."