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MISSING JUSTICE

Alafair Burke

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Orion, an imprint of the

Orion Publishing Group Ltd.

Copyright 2004 by Alafair Burke

For Jim, Andree, and Pamala

One.

If it's true that dreams come from the id, then my id is not

particularly creative.

The dream that makes its way into my bed tonight is the same one that

has troubled my sleep almost every night for the past month.  Once

again, I relive the events that led to the deaths of three men.

The walls of the stairway pass as a man follows me upstairs.  I force

myself to focus on my own movements, trying to block out thoughts of

the other man downstairs, armed and determined to kill me when I

return.

Time slows as I duck beside my bed, reach for the pistol hidden in my

nightstand, and rise up to surprise him.  The .25 caliber automatic

breaks the silence; more shots follow downstairs.  Glass shatters.

Heavy footsteps thunder through the house.  In the dream, I see bullets

rip through flesh and muscle, the scene tinted red like blood smeared

across my retinas.

I usually wake during the chaos.  Tonight, though, the silence returns,

and I walk past the dead bodies to my kitchen.  I open the pantry door

and find a woman whose face I know only from photographs and a brief

introduction two years ago.  She is crouched on the floor with her head

between her knees.  When she looks up at me and reaches for my hand,

the phone rings, and I'm back in my bedroom.

It is four o'clock in the morning, and as usual I wake up chilly,

having kicked my comforter deep into the crevice between my mattress

and the foot board of my maple sleigh bed.  I fumble for the phone on

my nightstand, still ringing in the dark.

"This better be worth it," I say.

It's Detective Raymond Johnson of the Portland Police Bureau's Major

Crimes Team.  A member of the search team has found a woman's

size-seven black Cole Haan loafer in the gutter, but Clarissa

Easterbrook is still missing.

The call came only eight hours after my boss, District Attorney Duncan

Griffith, had first summoned me to the Easterbrook home.  It was my

first call-out after a month-long hiatus and a new promotion from the

Drug and Vice Division into Major Crimes.  I was told it would just be

some quick PR work to transition me back into the office.

So far, the transition had been rough.

When I pulled into the Easterbrook driveway that first evening, I cut

the engine and sat for a few last quiet moments in my Jetta.  Noticing

Detective Johnson waiting for me at the front window, I took a deep

breath, released the steering wheel, and climbed out of the car,

grabbing my briefcase from the passenger seat as I exhaled.

I climbed a series of steep slate steps, a trek made necessary by the

home's impressive hillside location.  Despite the spring mist, I was

able to take in the exterior.  Dr.  Townsend Easter brook was clearly

no slouch.  I wasn't sure which was bigger, the double-door entranceway

or the Expedition I'd parked next to.

Johnson opened one of the doors before I'd had a chance to use either

of the square pewter knockers.  I could make out voices at the back of

the house; Johnson kept his own down.  "Sat in that car so long,

Kincaid, thought something might be wrong with your feet."

At least my first case back on the job brought some familiar faces.  I

had met Raymond Johnson and his partner, Jack Walker, only two months

ago, when I was a mere drug and vice deputy.  But given the history,

however recent, I felt a bond with these guys the gun ky kind that

threatens to stick around for good.

"You must not have given up all hope, Johnson.  You were waiting at the

door."

"I was beginning to wonder, but then you tripped something off walking

up the path, and I heard a voice somewhere announcing a visitor. George

fucking Jetson house.  Gives me the creeps."

The Easterbrook home wasn't exactly cozy, but I'd take it.  Neutral

colors, steel, and low sleek furniture the place was a twenty-first

century update on 1960s kitsch.

With any luck, Clarissa Easterbrook would turn up soon, and there'd be

no need to disrupt all this coolness.

Johnson caught my eye as I studied the house.  "Look at you, girl.

You're almost as dark as I am."  He grabbed my hand and held it next to

the back of his.  Not even close.  Johnson's beautiful skin is about as

dark as it comes.

"Yeah, but you're still better looking."

He laughed but it was true.  He also dressed better than me more

Hollywood red carpet than police precinct lineoleum.  Griffith dragged

you back from Maui just for this?"

"I flew in last night.  I sort of assumed I'd have Sunday to myself

before I headed back in tomorrow, but the boss must have thought it

would do me good to get some hand-holding practice while we wait for

Easterbrook to turn up.  You know, ease me out of drug cases into the

new gig."

"They usually do," Johnson said.  "Turn up, I mean.  She probably went

shopping and lost track of time or went out for a drink with the

girls."

"Right, because, of course, that's all women do in their spare time:

shopping and girl talk."

"This is going to take some getting used to, Kincaid, after seven years

of MCT work with O'Donnell."

I didn't react to the mention of my predecessor.  "Just doing my part

to lead you down the path of enlightenment, Ray.  Clarissa

Easterbrook's an administrative law judge, not some bored housewife."

"Oh, so it's only women lawyers who excel beyond malls and gossip.  Got

it.  Note to all detectives," he said, as if he were speaking into a

dictation recorder, "the new Major Crimes Unit DA says it's still OK to

diss housewives."  He dropped the routine and cocked a finger at me.

"Busted!"

There was no arguing it, so I laughed instead.  "Who's in the back?"  I

asked, leaning my head toward the ongoing murmurs.

"Walker's back there with the husband and the sister.  We got here

about half an hour ago, and the sister showed up right after.  We

haven't been able to do much more than try to calm them down.  We need

to start working on the timeline, though.  I stayed out here to wait

for you.  I suspect Dr.  Easterbrook's still getting used to having a

brother in the house."

It was unusual to have MCT involved so early in a missing persons case,

but Walker and Johnson were here from the bureaus Major Crimes Team for

the same reason I was: to make sure that our offices looked responsive

and concerned when the missing judge showed up and to triple-check that

the investigation was perfect, just in case she didn't.

"Sounds good.  I'll do my part for the family and any press, but for

now you guys take the lead on interviews."

"Music to my ears, Kincaid."

He began walking toward the back of the house, but I stopped him with a

hand on his elbow.  "I assume you're keeping things gentle for now,

just in case.  And absolutely no searches, not even with consent."  If