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?"