Missing Justice (39 page)

But I was too late. The door swung shut behind me, and I heard a lock slip into place. “Sorry, Samantha, but you’ve got shitty timing. Ten minutes later, and I would’ve been on my way to the airport. But, as it turns out, I’ve got a flight to catch, so you’re going to have to wait right here.”

I banged the palm of my hand against the door. “Susan, don’t do this. My God, you just told me this room was airtight.”

“And it is. But you haven’t given me a lot of choices here. And don’t try to tell me that if I open the door you’ll let me go.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me!” I yelled into the door. “I promise, I will let you go. I’ll wait two hours before I tell anyone. You’re talking about my life.”

“Forget it, Sam. We both know that’s not in your nature. Hell, if you were that easy, I could have just paid you off and I wouldn’t have to run.”

“Don’t run, Susan. We can work out a cooperation agreement. You can start over.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffed. “That’s how all this shit began. Those last few years with Herbie, I took care of everything, and I did it my own way. Starting over, as you say. I distanced myself from his old friends and all of the wheels they grease to get ahead, and guess what?” She was no longer talking to me, so I didn’t bother answering. “That’s right, by the time Herbie died, we were flat busted. I couldn’t go broke; everyone would know. A few calls to Gunderson and Matthews, and I was back in the black. It was so easy, but then everything fell apart.”

“I understand, Susan. I know how much Clarissa meant to you, and you’ve got information to trade. Just let me out of here.”

The sound of my voice seemed to knock away any remorse she had started to feel.

“If I were you, Sam, I’d try breaking off some of those wood strips. Maybe you can wedge them through the seal at the bottom of the door and buy yourself some time. Otherwise, I’m told you’ve only got about fifteen minutes.”

Bizarre. Even at this moment, there was Susan Kerr, trying to be helpful. Without any other options, I followed her advice. I tried pulling on the thin strips of wood that made up the stemware holders but couldn’t get enough torque to break them. Then I adopted a different strategy, hooking the heel of my shoe on a rail of wood running along the floor and stepping on it with all my weight. After a few tries, my body weight won, making me grateful for those eight pounds I can never quite drop.

I crammed the jagged edge of the broken wood beneath the cellar door, wiggling and pushing the rail until I felt the tight rubber seal around the door begin to give about it. Outside, I could hear Susan making trips up and down the stairs, probably removing from the house whatever documents she had taken from the files.

“Oh, hey, there you go, Sam. Looks like it’s working. You keep at it. Get your head down by the floor if you need to.” This woman was the Martha Stewart of murderous lunatics. I had an image of her as an aerobics instructor at the Mac Club, cheering clients on in the same way.

I broke another piece of wood and wedged it a few inches from the other one, trying to create a large enough gap to get some air in. I tried to convince myself that I was only out of breath from the physical exertion, but I was beginning to panic.

I lay flat on the floor, getting my nose and mouth as close as I could to the small crack I had made beneath the door. I started to relax when I was sure that I could feel air coming in from the basement. I took a few deep breaths and felt my pulse slow from pounding to a moderate race.

I told myself I was going to be OK. I had air, and I was patient. But then I wondered just how patient I would need to be. The footsteps on the stairs had stopped. If Susan had left for her flight, when would anyone find me? Chuck was expecting my call, but he had no idea where I’d been heading. If he went to bed assuming I’d blown him off, would anyone come in the morning? For all I knew, Susan had told her housekeeper and contractors to take the week off.

I needed to find a way out of here.

I kicked my shoes off and climbed on top of a shelf, holding on to the bottle slots for balance. I knocked on the wood panels on the ceiling, listening for any hollow space above, but I never did have an ear for such things. Explains why I can never buy a good melon. I raised both hands above me and pushed as hard as I could. The panel didn’t give, but I couldn’t tell if it was because the wine room ceiling was built against the ceiling of the original basement, or simply because I hadn’t pushed hard enough to pop the panel up.

I tried again but felt light-headed after the push. It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn I was running out of air.

I jumped back down to the floor, taking another series of long, deep breaths. It definitely helped. I’d rest a little more, then try the ceiling again.

Just when I’d regained my balance on the shelf again, I heard more footsteps in the house. These sounded like they were on the floor right above me. Then I heard a voice. I couldn’t make out what the person was saying, but from the low register, I was pretty sure it was a man. I pounded my fists against the ceiling, yelling at the top of my lungs. I hopped back down for a few more breaths, then climbed up and made some more noise.

As I heard movement on the basement stairs again, I began pounding on the cellar door.

“Samantha, baby. Is that you?”

This time the voice was right on the other side of the door, and tears welled in my eyes when I recognized it. Then I heard metal against metal, but I kept listening to my father’s voice telling me not to worry, that everything would be OK. And I knew he was right.

My father’s grip was so tight, I thought I had a better chance at oxygen in the wine room.

“I’m so glad I found you. I knew it. When Chuck told me you were out with a witness, I felt it in my gut. I got here as soon as I could, and I knew something was wrong when I saw her leaving.”

“Dad, wait. I’ve got to stop her.” I took the stairs two at a time and used the kitchen phone to call 911. “My name’s Samantha Kincaid. I’m a deputy in the Major Crimes Unit at the DA’s office, and I was just kidnapped by a woman named Susan Kerr.” The dispatcher was trying to cut me off so she could do the usual Q and A format for these calls. I kept on talking right over her. “Kerr s a white female, shoulder-length dark brown hair, approximately forty years old. About five-seven, one hundred and twenty pounds. I’m calling from her house, but she left here for the airport about ten minutes ago to flee the jurisdiction. I don’t know what airline. You need to get officers out there right away to stop her. MCT knows who she is, and I’ll page them directly. Don’t bother sending an officer to the house; I can file a report later.”

I hung up, knowing that she could play back the tape if she missed any of the information.

My next call was to Chuck.

He was happy to hear my voice. “Thirty minutes on the dot. You ready for margaritas?”

If only. “Susan Kerr killed Clarissa Easterbrook. She locked me in her basement and is on her way to the airport. You’ve got to get out there right now. I’ll call Johnson too and tell him to hook up with you.” Chuck lived in northwest Portland and would be a few minutes behind Susan, but if Ray was at his house in north Portland, he might actually beat Susan to the airport.

“Whoa, back up, Sam. She locked you in the basement?”

“Yes, but I’m fine. I guess you told Dad where I might’ve gone, and he showed up” I still didn’t know why, I realized “and let me out.”

“Wait a second, I didn’t tell your dad anything. And how do you know she killed Clarissa?”

“Please, Chuck. I’m begging you. Just go to the airport, find her, and hook her up for kidnapping me. I’ll explain the rest later. Now go. Don’t let her get away.”

“All right, I’m going right now. Love you.”

“You too,” I said, hanging up before either of us had even realized what we’d just said to each other.

I didn’t have time to savor the moment. I needed to call Johnson so he could back up the man I loved.

I gave him the same bare-bones explanation.

“Wait a second. She locked you in the basement?”

Chuck had asked the same question. Why did everyone find it so hard to believe?

“Yes, in a wine cellar her construction workers were putting together. The thing’s airtight. I was lucky to get out alive.”

“And she’s on her way to the airport?”

“That’s what she said. Maybe she meant to throw me off, but it’s all we’ve got.”

“I’m leaving right now. We’ll hold her on the kidnap. And, Sam, don’t worry about a thing. That crazy bitch had better hope patrol finds her before Chuck and I do.”

When I hung up, I saw that my father was standing in the doorway waiting. “They’re going after her?”

JOQ

I nodded and exhaled.

“So, Dad, obviously I’m grateful,” I said, smiling expectantly, “but what exactly are you doing here?”

“You ran off from the house so suddenly, and you had that glint in your eye. I was afraid of whatever you might try stirring up. Then Chuck called looking for you, and I assumed he’d catch you at your place. But then when he called again and said you’d gone out on a witness interview I don’t know, I felt like I needed to find you. It was just a hunch, but I thought I’d at least check.”

“But how’d you know to come “

“I’m going to get to that. I’m just telling you what I saw. When I turned the corner, I saw her carrying bags out to the car, even though your car was obviously still there. I knew right then that something was seriously wrong. If I’d been packing, I would have stopped her, but I was more worried about you.”

“Well, thank God. The last thing we need is another Kincaid shoot-out.” He smiled, but I could tell he was mad at himself for letting her get away. “Dad, you did the right thing. Chuck and Ray will get her.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

I looked at him, waiting for him to get to the rest of the explanation. “Dad, you still need to tell me what’s going on. How did you know to come here! What do you know about Susan Kerr that you haven’t told me?”

I could tell he was trying to find a way to say it to me. He was finally ready to talk.

Sixteen.

It wasn’t easy for my father to get through his story; I had to prod him along occasionally like any reluctant witness. But as I finally understood it, my father’s concern about my involvement in the Easterbrook case began the morning of the first press conference, which he had caught on the local news.

He recognized the woman standing near the podium, the one in the light blue suit. He never knew her personally, but the man she eventually married had changed the course of his life back when she was probably still a teenager. Given the connection, he couldn’t help but notice their marriage announcement and the occasional reports about their many community activities that followed over the years. Yes, the woman in the blue suit on the television was definitely Mrs. Herbert Kerr.

As an Oregon State Police officer in 1979, he found himself pulling escort duty for Representative Clifford Brigg. Brigg would ride in the back of Dad’s highway patrol car, using the time to read the paper, confer with other bigwigs, or occasionally sneak in a round of footsie with his large-breasted, short-skirted so-called legislative aide. He paid little attention to my father, but my father paid plenty of attention to Brigg. It was his job.

On a sunny afternoon in July 1980, my father drove Brigg to Salem from a press event in downtown Portland to announce the groundbreaking of a new office building. As usual, Brigg was multitasking, this time meeting with major campaign supporter Herbert Kerr during the ride. Watching the two discreetly in his rearview mirror, Dad saw Kerr slip an envelope to Brigg. From the way Brigg stuffed it into his coat pocket, my father concluded that the deal was rotten.

Others would have let it drop, convincing themselves that it was either none of their business or nothing to worry about. Or perhaps they’d seek cover before talking, reporting the observation to a supervisor or perhaps anonymously to the press, happy to let someone else steer the course. But not my father.

The next time he had Brigg in the car to himself, he made the mistake of confronting him. I don’t know how my father expected Brigg to react. Maybe he was naive enough back then to believe he’d come clean and return the money. But, instead, Brigg denied any wrongdoing. He gave Dad a choice. He could let the matter slide, in which case Brigg and his cronies would make sure he worked his way straight up the OSP ladder. Or he could repeat the story, in which case Brigg’s legislative aide was prepared to file a complaint that my father had groped her.

My father’s face tightened at the memory, his palms working the edge of the kitchen table where we sat. “You should have seen his girlfriend when she told me later the things she was willing to say if it came down to it. These were truly ugly people, Sam.” Herbert Kerr would back up Brigg’s denial, and my father’s career would be ruined.

The arguments he had with my mother were not, as I had inferred, about his hours or the physical dangers of police work. The truth was that they didn’t see eye to eye about Clifford Brigg and his threats.

To my father, the choice he’d been given was no choice at all. He wanted to blow the whistle, career be damned. He’d work as a janitor if he had to.

“And Mom?” I asked.

One look at his face, and it all became clear to me. Mom was a good woman, about as good as they’re made. But she and Dad didn’t always approach the world from the same perspective. She loved my father, but part of her probably wished he’d earned more money or recognition. She was ecstatic when I announced my engagement to Roger, while my father feigned acceptance. And, although she never said as much, she no doubt wondered how different her life would have been if she could have quit teaching and pursued her passion for painting.

Dad didn’t need to fill in the blanks. My mother must have wanted him to play the game and accept Brigg s deal.

But instead, my father hung up the state system and found a quiet, humble job with the federal forest service. He told my mother about his decision only after he had given notice at OSP. He hoped Brigg and Kerr were smart enough to see the move as a sign that he planned on going silently, and he had been right. He never heard another word about it.