a backup of her husband's data in the same place as the other things.
But, earlier, it made me wonder if maybe Townsend had something to do
with it. Maybe Gunderson coughs up money for the hospital in exchange
for Clarissa's help, something like that."
"And he lets her sleep with Caffrey so she can deliver his vote for
Gunderson? I don't see it."
Me neither. On the other hand, according to everyone who knew him, the
pathetic guy we'd been talking to the past week wasn't the same man
Clarissa Easterbrook had married.
We talked it through but kept going around in circles.
When I finally retrieved my gym bag from under the desk, Russ handed me
my briefcase. "So where are you going, if you don't mind me asking?"
I wasn't ready to answer that question yet. "Sounded like Duncan was
going to steer the meeting toward a holding pattern. Let the news sink
in and the personalities calm down."
"I know," he said. "I was there, remember?"
"It may have been a mistake to drag Gunderson into the murder case, but
now he knows we're looking at him on the bribery. Not the best
situation for the preservation of inculpatory evidence."
"You mean Slip's mistake," he said.
"Right."
"Well, you heard the boss: Nothing's happening until decisions get made
at the highest level," he said, like we were still shooting the
breeze.
"But maybe someone could poke around a little on the side. Just to see
what falls loose," I said.
"Maybe."
"You mind if I take the rest of the day as personal time?"
"Not if you need it," he said. "Just tell me what you find out."
9R9
Fourteen.
By the time I got to Metro Council headquarters, Terrence Caffrey's
office was already locked down. Metro was probably only a part-time
legislative gig.
I took a chance and drove past the address I had copied from the
mailing envelope Slip had found in Clarissa's safe deposit box. T. J.
Caffrey and his family lived in a brick colonial just a couple of
houses south of Reed College. A woman probably Caffrey's wife was
planting bulbs along the front walk. A mini-van and a Toyota Avalon
were parked in the driveway.
Two cars hopefully meant two drivers.
I wanted to talk to Caffrey alone, but I was willing to do it the hard
way if necessary. I parked my Jetta around the corner on Woodstock
Boulevard, confident that it blended in among the students' cars across
from the library.
I looked at my watch. I'd give it an hour before I knocked on the
front door.
Fifty-five minutes later, the front yard was empty, my stomach was in
knots, and my self-imposed boldness deadline was preparing to bend.
Chuck had been paging me, and I hadn't called him back out of fear that
he'd convince me to take the night off and abandon my stakeout. Then I
got lucky.
The gardener walked out the front door holding a toddler and a Meier &
Frank shopping bag, yelling back to someone inside. A little boy
probably four years old followed her. She strapped them both into the
minivan, threw the bags in front, and drove off.
I didn't know how many kids Caffrey had, but most folks stop at two
nowadays. Then it dawned on me he might not even be there. What woman
in her right mind takes her children on a mall run when she could leave
them at home with their dad?
There was only one way to find out. I mustered my courage, got out of
the car, marched to the front door, and panicked.
Just when I was about to bail, Caffrey opened the door. "I thought I
saw someone. Can I help? Oh, Ms. Kincaid. It's you."
He looked down the street, no doubt to make sure the missus had left.
"I'm not trying to cause you any problems."
"As I know you're aware, my lawyer quashed that subpoena."
"Well, that's just it. The subpoena was served by the defense to
require you to testify under oath at the preliminary hearing. I just
want to talk to you, but I need to know if you're still represented."
"Ronald Fish is my lawyer. I'm sure you remember the very
uncomfortable meeting we had Friday morning."
Of course I did, but that wasn't what I was getting at.
"I guess what I'm asking you, Mr. Caffrey, is whether you hired an
attorney specifically because of the subpoena, or are you telling me
that you've retained counsel to defend you in all matters involving
Clarissa Easterbrook?"
Caffrey was savvy enough to know that, as I had worded it, the latter
sounded bad. It sounded well, guilty. By now, he may even have heard
the news about witnesses taking the Fifth at the prelim. In the news,
they always make that sound like a confession.
I was taking advantage of a loophole in the rule against contacting a
represented party, but I was squarely on legal ground. And I had no
respect for a guy who was more worried about his own political future
than the murder of a woman he'd been sleeping with.
"No," he said, without hesitation. "I thought I should have a lawyer
for the courtroom proceedings, but I've got no problem speaking to you
informally. Within limits, that is. I've only got about ten
minutes."
He was giving me a warning signal. I needed to be gone before the wife
came home. Press too far, and I'd be out of here. With the rules of
the game defined, he asked me in.
"Since time is short, I'm not going to waste it pushing you to answer a
question I think we both know is pointless." As I spoke, he folded his
hands in his lap and looked down at them. At least he seemed to have
some shame about his cowardice. "I think Clarissa got herself in
trouble on one of her cases at work, something to do with Gunderson
Development. And I also think she talked to the City Attorney about
it."
"Gunderson Development had a case in front of Clarissa?"
I told him about the file, including the note about Clarissa's
conversation with DC. The skin on his hands creased as he tightened
the resistance in his fingers. I was on to something, and he was
surprised by it.
I went for broke. "Clarissa also had a videotape of the two of you
leaving the Village Motor Inn, and it was in an envelope addressed to
this house. She was blackmailing you, wasn't she?
Was it so you'd leave your wife, or was she trying to pressure your
vote for Gunderson?"
He was no longer surprised. He was downright flabbergasted. He was
looking at me like I had just invited him to a fund-raiser for Satan.
"No?" I sounded pitiful.