"I guess they know you're the best."
"One way to look at it," she said.
"Or they're just pricks."
She clinked her water glass against mine.
For the next fifteen minutes, I sat back and listened to Grace's
stories about beautiful people who aren't as beautiful as they want to
be. The whining, the temper tantrums, the unrepentant displays of
vanity. I had packed away half of my chicken gyro by the time she
finished telling me her latest Hollywood story. Grace has become the
preferred stylist for the film productions that increasingly choose to
go on location in Portland. Apparently, someone with too much money
offered Grace a big wad of dough to do body waxing for an eye-candy
movie being shot in the Columbia Gorge about windsurfers. Fortunately,
Grace had enough money to take a pass.
"In addition to the obvious yuck factor, most of the half-naked
unknowns are teenagers," she explained.
"I would've thought that was right up your alley, Grace. You're
ripening pretty well into a dirty old woman." I had teased Grace
endlessly in Hawaii each time her gaze predictably and shamelessly
followed whatever young stud crossed our field of vision. I plowed
through the entire Jack Reacher series during our poolside time; Grace
was still working on the same novel on our flight back to Oregon.
"As tempting as that sounds, there's a little too much Oedipal
potential there. Better stay put in the city for now. Check out men
my own age." She gave me that cute little wink she somehow manages to
pull off when she's being cheeky. "Now can we please knock off the
chitchat and get down to business? What have you been working on? I
want every last detail."
Because of my job, Grace's skin has thickened to violence through
osmosis. When I first started handling compelling prostitution cases
in DVD, she saw me through more than a few long nights.
My ex-husband once told me I shouldn't talk about my cases while people
were eating; it wasn't polite dinner conversation, whatever the hell
that is. Down the road, I returned the favor by telling him it wasn't
exactly polite dinner behavior to use our dining room table to screw
the professional volleyball player he picked up at his new job at Nike.
Now, Shoe Boy was a distant memory, and Grace listened to my stories
whether we were eating or not.
I brought her up to speed on the Easterbrook case, then told her about
my unproductive morning reviewing files. She wanted to know how the
police could begin to tackle a case with no weapon, no witnesses, and
no physical evidence. I explained MCT's strategy of following up on
facts that make the case unique.
She was bothered. "I understand what you're saying about the
statistical odds that the murder has something to do with whatever the
victim might have been involved in, but there's still something about
it that rubs me the wrong way. It's like you're investigating the
victim, blaming her for getting killed."
"Right, but would you feel that way if it wasn't someone like Clarissa
Easterbrook? Someone who looks like us and has a good job and does the
kinds of things we do? When the victim's a doped-out street person,
wouldn't you automatically assume that the lifestyle had something to
do with the fact that she happened to show up dead?"
"But then you're talking about someone who you know was involved in
activities that can be dangerous. There's no reason to believe that
this woman was a drug addict or a prostitute or sleeping with someone
else's husband."
"So the police snoop around to find out whether she was. Despite what
people think, the odds of getting swiped off the street by a total
stranger are so slim it would be irresponsible for the police to assume
that scenario without at least looking into the possibility that
something about the victim got her killed."
"Well, do me a favor. If I show up dead, don't let anyone snoop
through my life."
"How about you do me a favor and don't show up dead?"
"OK, but if I do, I'll try to make it somewhere interesting. Then you
could bypass the personal stuff and follow up on the location as the
angle. Maybe some abandoned castle in the Swiss Alps."
"A little outside my jurisdiction," I said. "And stop being so
morbid."
"Said the proverbial kettle."
"We can't both be dark. I need my Grace to balance me out a little."
"Fine, but I want to go back to your case. What's so interesting about
the location?"
I did my best to describe the place where Clarissa had been found and
told her Johnson's theory that it may have been someone familiar with
the construction site. She was conspicuously quiet. "What?" I
asked.
"Nothing. I'm just trying to catch up with you. Your food's nearly
gone and I still have my entire lunch to eat."
"Thanks for pointing that out, skinny girl."
"Don't mention it."
"Seriously, what were you thinking about?"
"I think there are probably a lot more people who know about that
location than you might assume."
"Grace, it's all the way out on the edge of Glenville."
"Right, where lots and lots of people live and work. Sam, you've only
lived in northeast Portland and never ventured beyond the city center.
Where do your cops live?"
"Johnson lives up by the University of Portland. I think Walker lives
in Gresham." That put Ray in north Portland, not far from my own
Alameda neighborhood, and Jack out in the county's east suburbs.
"And Glenville's all the way on the southwest edge of the county, which
is why the three of you think the fastest growing city in the State of
Oregon is the boonies. You guys might see it as Timbuktu, but a
hundred thousand people know the land out there as well as you know
Alameda."
"When did you become such a Glenvillean? Grace Hannigan, are you
shopping at Burlington Coat Factory without telling me? Or maybe a new
man one with a minivan and a cul-de-sac?"
"Perish the thought," she said. "If you must know, I was looking into
opening another Lockworks out there. There's a boom right now, and
most of it from people with money who need haircuts."
"So are you doing it?"
"Nah. Too big a risk. When I bought the warehouse, I knew in my gut
that the Pearl was going up. I didn't know just how far up I hit the
lottery in that sense but I knew I was ahead of the market. With
Glenville, the market's already full of people gambling that the
growth's going to continue. It didn't make sense to get in this late
in the game."
"So no Lockworks for Glenville."