said, "but let's make it early. I'll meet you at seven."
"a.m.? When do you sleep, Kincaid?"
"Who says I sleep?" I said, hanging up.
So much for a full Sunday off.
We met at his office at seven sharp. I noticed that in his khakis and
navy pullover, he dressed better on the weekend than he did at the
courthouse.
"It better be good, Slip."
"I don't know if it's good, but it's definitely notable."
My usual Sunday routine of reading the New York Times over dim sum at
Fong Chong was notable. This had better top it.
Slip led me into a small library that appeared to double as a
lunchroom, coffee bar, and chat area. There was a tiny television on
the countertop. Four men in jellybean colored T-shirts were wiggling
up a storm with a room full of toddlers.
"You better have something better for me than a show that transforms
perfectly cute kids into annoying little freaks."
"Very funny," he said, hitting a button that turned the screen to an
even blue. "I think this is big, Samantha."
"Enough with the dramatics. Just show me why you brought me here."
He pulled a plastic Gap bag from a nearby chair and set it on the card
table in the center of the room.
"My investigator found a safe deposit box at First Coast Bank rented by
Clarissa Easterbrook. The key was a match."
"And that's what he found?" I asked, looking at the bag.
He nodded.
"And how exactly did your investigator convince the bank to turn over
the contents of a safe deposit box that didn't belong to him?"
"Do you really need to know?"
The truth was, I didn't. If there was any legal violation, it was
probably only civil. Anyway, courts don't care if evidence is obtained
illegally, as long as the government's hands were clean.
He pulled out a manila folder, a videotape, and a computer disc.
He handed me the folder first. Inside were photocopies of what
appeared to be a case file for Gunderson Development v. City of
Portland.
Slip must have seen a flash of recognition cross my face. "Does that
mean something to you?"
"I'm not sure yet," I said, flipping through it. This little joint
venture definitely fell outside the lines of normal procedure. I
wasn't about to tell him everything until I figured out for myself how
the pieces fit together.
From what I could gather in my quick review, the city had denied
Gunderson's request for a variance to convert an historically
significant building into condominiums. Gunderson appealed, arguing
that the city employee who denied the request had been untrained,
filling in for the usual specialist who was on maternity leave.
Gunderson argued that the employee had failed to consider whether his
redevelopment plan preserved the original architecture to a significant
degree, which was required to obtain a variance.
I didn't know squat about administrative law, but Gunderson's appeal
looked like a major loser. No judge administrative or not wants to be
in the business of second-guessing the discretionary decisions made by
front-line bureaucratic implementers.
But Clarissa had agreed with Gunderson. Result? Gunderson threw some
plumbing and a few walls into a run-down old church and ended up with
condominiums that probably sold for four hundred dollars a square
foot.
The case sounded familiar. Had I seen it when I reviewed Clarissa's
files at City Hall? I looked at the dates. Clarissa had ruled in
favor of Gunderson almost four months ago, and I had only seen the
cases that were currently pending.
At the end of the file I found a page of handwritten notes. They were
dated a week before Clarissa's death and were in the same slanted
scrawl I'd seen in Clarissa's files.
Tt/ DC about Gunderson appeal. He advd me city would not reopen. We
agreed re Grice.
Something about the file was still tugging at a corner of a memory.
Each time I thought I was close to plucking out the thought, I'd lose
hold of it entirely. "What else?"
He held up the floppy disc. "I've got to give this back to my
investigator. It's password protected."
"And the video?"
"That's the doozie."
Slip popped the videotape into the built-in VCR beneath the small
television screen. The blue screen turned to static, then to a shaky
image of a couple walking out a door.
It was Clarissa Easterbrook and T. J. Caffrey. Caffrey looked around
but apparently didn't see whoever was holding the camera. He held
Clarissa's face and then kissed her. It was long but gentle. I felt
my eyes shift away instinctively from their private moment, but I
forced myself to focus.
Their faces still close, they spoke a few words to each other. Then
the camera followed as Caffrey walked Clarissa to her car, giving her
one last kiss before she got in. He hopped into his car, and the two
drove away. The camera panned outward to show the backdrop, a
two-story motel with doors that edged the parking lot. A sign at the
road declared it to be the Village Motor Inn.
When the screen went to static and then back to blue, I looked at Slip.
"It's a motel north of Vancouver," he explained, "about thirty miles
out."
They'd gone all the way to Washington to avoid being spotted.
Obviously, they hadn't been careful enough.
"I guess that confirms the affair," I said. "You think someone was
blackmailing her? I hate to break it to you, Slip, but it might've
been Jackson." If sympathy and threatening letters didn't do the
trick, a videotape like this one might. He had followed Clarissa at
least once before.
"If it's blackmail," he said, "what do you make of this?" Slip handed
me a brown padded envelope addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Terrence J.
Caffrey on a street in Eastmoreland. "The video was inside that
envelope."
There was no postmark.
"Maybe it was hand-delivered, and Caffrey showed it to Clarissa?"
"Possible. Or maybe Clarissa was going to mail it and never got around
to it."
I thought about it. Tara had gotten the impression that Clarissa's
mystery man was reluctant to live happily ever after with her. Maybe
Clarissa was playing hardball? I had seen obsession inspire crazier
actions against a supposed loved one.
The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't know everything yet, a
state of knowledge I was never good at accepting.
Before I left, I gave Slip the photographs of Gunderson and Minkins