Missing Justice (16 page)

I shook my head in disbelief. Part of me wanted to unleash to tell him how much I resented the guilt I’d felt all day about last night, to tell him he could keep his supposed apology. It only served to raise the issue again in a whole new light. But I didn’t want to say anything that I’d regret.

Instead, I kept a measured voice. “Dad, I told you before that the MCU is where I want to be. That means I’ll be dealing with bad guys, and if some of them happen to be important and influential, so be it. In fact, I would think that you’d prefer me to prosecute the privileged.”

“I obviously didn’t do very well getting my point across. I was trying to explain what my worries had been, but that I know that you’re going to be better than I was at handling the pressures that might come with a case like this.”

“Oh, come on, Dad. You know that’s not true.”

“No,” he said, “you said it last night I hung up OSP.”

“You were in a different situation. You had a wife, a child.” He shook his head, and I could tell he wanted me to drop the pep talk. “I was old enough to remember what it was like. Mom was pressuring you

“

I stopped mid-sentence when I saw the look on his face. It was clear I’d said something wrong.

“I’m not sure what you think you remember, sweetheart, but your mother never pressured me.”

“Dad, it’s OK. It doesn’t make me think any less of her. She was worried about you getting hurt.”

“Sam, just stop it. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then why did you leave OSP?” I asked. Once again, this conversation was getting us nowhere.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s get dinner started.”

Everyone close to me Grace, Chuck, Roger (back in the day) has always complained that I change the subject when the going gets rough. I guess it runs in the family.

“Not yet. I want to know what this is about. You’re upset, and it apparently has something to do with why you moved over to the forest service.”

“I promised I would support you in your job, and I’m going to keep my promise. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Dad, I remember you and Mom arguing right around when you changed jobs. It was the only time you did argue, in fact. You tried to keep it from me, but I’d hear you in your room “

He laughed. “If you think we didn’t argue over the years, we kept it from you better than we thought.”

“Thick walls,” I said, knocking on the one behind me. He was changing the subject again, and not very convincingly either. My parents’ marriage had been as solid as they come. Even before I made the mistake of walking down the aisle of doom with Roger, I’d known that we’d never come close.

Whatever was going on now, I could prod Dad all night and he would still never budge. So I grabbed a bag of vegetables from the counter and began chopping.

By the time Chuck arrived, the salad was tossed and the salmon was broiled. After pumping palms, slapping backs, and a few other male welcoming rituals, he found me in the kitchen, took one look at the pink fish, and whispered in my ear, “If I swear you’re not fat, can we please have some steak?”

The man knew me so well. “I’m in no condition to run after this evening, so the least we can do is eat something healthy.”

“What was this evening?” Dad called out from the living room. “Must have been big to keep you from running.”

Chuck winked and mouthed the word big at me.

I rolled my eyes. “No more work talk tonight.” I put dinner on the table, and for the next two hours we talked about Hawaii, my dad’s computer, movies, and politics. We made it through the conversation with no shootings, no bodies, no demons from the past just three normal people sharing a meal.

As ten o’clock approached, Dad clicked on the local news, and I moved to the kitchen to take on the dishes.

As the familiar staccato theme song faded out, I heard an anchor report: “In our top story tonight, new developments in the investigation into the death of Judge Clarissa Easterbrook. Find out why her husband is railing against the Portland Police Bureau.” I ran into the living room just in time to catch: “But first, Morley Rutherford’s going to tell us what we can expect in the way of weather tomorrow. Morley?”

I resisted the urge to throw my sudsy sponge at Morley Rutherford’s fat freckled head while he droned on with his entirely predictable springtime weather report. Why not kick off the news with an announcement that the earths going to rotate tomorrow?

Once Morley wrapped up with his seven-day graphic of clouds and showers, the camera finally cut back to the anchor. “At a surprise news conference held just moments ago, the husband of slain judge Clarissa Easterbrook accused the Portland Police Bureau of focusing the investigation on him rather than looking for the real killer.”

The footage cut to Townsend at a podium in front of his house. “When I learned yesterday that some monster had killed my beloved Clarissa” his voice broke and his hands trembled, but he continued to read from the statement in front of him “I thought that nothing in the world could ever be worse than at that moment. But the course of the Portland Police Bureaus investigation has convinced me that there is a more horrific possibility, and that would be if the person or people responsible for her death were not brought to justice. The police tell me they have no suspects in my wife’s death, but they spent hours in our home with a search warrant, interrogated our friends looking for problems that did not exist in our marriage, and asked me to take a polygraph examination, suggesting that they would not be able to investigate other suspects fully until I proved my innocence. So that is why I am standing here tonight.

“I have not even buried my wife” he wiped away a tear and swallowed but kept his eyes on his notes “and I am here in front of cameras, forced to deny something that is inconceivable to me. I did not and could not ever hurt Clarissa.”

The words themselves were no different from the typical denials always issued in these cases, some truthful, some not. A bet placed at this point in the game would reflect nothing but hunch. That Townsend was seeking to tip those odds became clear when a familiar face replaced his at the podium.

I shushed Chuck and my father. Their outraged comments were drowning out the voice I had hoped never to hear again. “Good evening. My name is Roger Kirkpatrick.”

My ex-husband hadn’t aged. It was probably a deal with the devil. He had the same short preppy haircut he’d worn in New York, before his commitment to a “freer” lifestyle in Oregon had caused him to grow his brown curls into what I had called the Doogie Howser look.

He proceeded to announce that he and his firm, Dunn Simon, had been retained by Townsend Easterbrook to oversee a team of private investigators and to help ensure that the police sought out the real killers instead of harassing the victim’s family and friends. Then he went for broke.

“To satisfy the police department’s baseless suspicions, Dr. Easterbrook submitted voluntarily this afternoon to a polygraph examination administered by retired FBI agent Jim Thornton, a recognized expert in the field. Agent Thornton has certified,” he said, holding up a paper I assumed was an affidavit from Thornton, “that Dr. Easterbrook’s answers were truthful. He had nothing whatsoever to do with his wife’s death, and the police have wasted precious time by doubting him. No one should have to prove his own innocence, but Dr. Easterbrook has. Now it’s time for the Portland Police Bureau to join the search for justice by finding whoever is responsible for this terrible loss.”

Just as abruptly as he’d appeared, Roger was gone, replaced by the anchor. “Dr. Easterbrook’s attorney concluded his remarks by saying that his firm had begun its own investigation and would share its work with law enforcement.”

“The only thing he knows how to share is his diAs furious as I was, the natural instinct to behave in front of my father silenced me. I couldn’t even hit the mute button, thanks to my ridiculous yellow rubber gloves. I gave up, threw the remote on the sofa, and headed into the kitchen to exchange the gloves for something more helpful.

By the time I had sucked down half a pint of Cherry Garcia ice cream, I was ready to talk again, but Chuck and my father had already covered all the bases: Why hadn’t Townsend gone through the police? A surprise press conference only creates more conflict. Just how legit was this polygraph? Depends on the questions, the equipment, and the administrator. And, the doozy of the night, why the hell had Townsend hired Shoe Boy? He doesn’t even practice criminal law. Did Townsend know his new attorney was my ex-husband? Surely Roger would have told him.

I figured since they’d finished all the objective analysis, I could jump to the part that was anything but. “You know what? He wins. I’m off the case. I’m telling Frist tomorrow.”

My father said nothing. Neither did Chuck.

Fine, I’d do the pep talk myself. No, self, I said in my head, you need to finish what you started. Don’t let him get the best of you. Act like a professional. Then the coach in me found a winning theme, one that deserved to be spoken aloud: “You know, what if Townsend actually did it? Imagine Roger and me in trial together.”

Chuck put his hand on my shoulder. “Maybe it’s best if you did recuse yourself.”

“Forget it. I’m not letting him chase me off my own case.” When I beat Roger during our first-year moot trial competition at Stanford, he attributed the win to the side slit in my skirt. I should have known to stay away. Handing him his ass in trial (and in pants) would be sweet satisfaction.

My dad was noticeably quiet. As Chuck carried his coffee mug into the kitchen, I looked at him and raised my eyebrows. So?

“It’s up to you, Sam. I’ll support you either way.”

“But, what about “

“Unh-unh. Don’t use this to revisit what we put to rest earlier. This is about you and your case, not me.” When he turned the television back on, I knew I wasn’t getting any further with him, so I tried my luck in the kitchen with Chuck.

As I hugged him from behind, my pager buzzed. He felt it too.

“Duty calls, counselor.”

I recognized the number as MCT’s. No doubt it was Johnson breaking the news about the press conference. He could wait a few minutes.

“What’s going on with you? You got awfully quiet in there.”

“Nothing’s going on.” He kept his back to me.

“What are you upset about?”

“It’s fine, Samantha. Don’t worry about it.”

Samantha? Chuck’s got plenty of names for me: Kincaid, Sam, Sammy, babe, the list goes on. But Samantha? Things were not fine. “Is this about Roger? You can’t possibly be jealous.”

“See, I knew you’d turn it into that, Sam. That’s why I wasn’t going to say anything. Suddenly I’m an overbearing jealous pig with testosterone poisoning.”

“Not quite that bad. More like a piglet.” He didn’t laugh. “Seriously, Chuck, what’s going on?”

“Johnson and Walker are doing all the legwork on this case, and Mike and I are stuck on the sidelines because of what I’ve got going with you. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t have a problem with that. But now that Roger’s involved, maybe you should at least consider the possibility that you should be the one to step aside.”

My pager buzzed again. Johnson was probably waiting for my call before leaving the precinct.

“I did. You were sitting right there. The first thing I said was I’m off the case. Now I think I should stay on it. There will be plenty of cases you work that will go to another DA. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even decide it’s all right to work together.”

“Why do you say it that way: Who knows? Like it’s so crazy for us both to work a case? How come you trust your judgment going against your ex-husband, but you can’t be on the same team with me?”

More buzzing. “Honestly? Because my ex-husband’s an asshole, and dealing with assholes is pretty much what I do for a living. You, my dear, are dangerous for a whole different reason,” I said, leaning close. “I don’t always think straight when it conics to you.”

He placed his hands on my shoulders and smiled, then pushed a strand of hair behind my right ear. “Consider me assuaged, Kincaid,” he said, kissing my earlobe. “Now call whoever the hell’s been paging you. You think I haven’t notice you staring down at that thing?”

Johnson picked up on the first ring. “I got a call from the husband’s lawyer. We fucked up big-time. I need you to sign a warrant on Melvin Jackson.”

Portland’s one of those towns that shuts down at 10 p.m. My Jetta was one of the few cars on the Morrison Bridge, and I walked into MCT ten minutes after I left my father’s.

Johnson was standing at the printer, proofreading pages as they spooled. “This is just about done. The search is for his apartment, and he’s also got a Dodge Caravan registered to him.”

“Back up. What the hell’s going on?”

“The husband’s people dug up something we missed. They’re back there,” he said, gesturing to an interview room down the hall.

“They’re here?”

Then, with his usual spot-on timing, my ex-husband walked into the room. “Detective, I oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You’re looking well, Samantha.”

“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.

He, on the other hand, hadn’t changed out of the suit he’d worn for the press conference. And, sure enough, close up, I was able to confirm it: the red power tie was the one I’d placed in his stocking on our last Christmas together.

“No introductions necessary, I see,” Johnson said.

“Samantha and I went to law school together “

“And were briefly in the same marriage,” I added.

Johnson looked amused, and Roger seemed uncomfortable. Score.

“I’m at Dunn Simon now, Samantha. I wasn’t sure if you’d heard.”

“Saw it on the news, in fact, about half an hour ago.” I couldn’t stomach letting him know I’d read about his move from Nike to the Portland powerhouse firm in the Oregon State Bar bulletin a year ago.

“The firm made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he boasted.

“From what I remember, Roger, there weren’t a lot of offers you could refuse.”