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
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.'
