Susans last name?'
Tara looked disappointed. 'Susan Kerr, a friend of my sister. I've
already tried calling her, and all I got was the machine.'
A store clerk would be able to determine from the item numbers what
clothes Clarissa purchased Saturday. It wouldn't be easy to get that
information at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night, but it was worth
trying.
'We'll track someone down from the store,' I suggested, looking toward
Ray and Jack. 'Can't we pull a number for someone at Nordstrom out of
PPDS?' The Portland Police Data System compiled information from every
city police report and was the handiest source for accessing an
individual's contact information.
Within a few minutes, Walker had the home telephone number of a store
manager mentioned in a recent theft case. A manager would not be
involved in your average shoplifting case, but this one had been
unusual. An employee at one of the local thrift stores had bilked
Nordstrom out of thousands of dollars in cash by taking advantage of
its famously tolerant return policy. The bureau estimated that every
Nordstrom brand dress shirt donated to the thrift store during the last
two years had been returned to Nordstrom stores for cash by either the
employee or one of her friends.
Hopefully the manager would be sufficiently grateful to the bureau for
cracking the case that he'd forgive us for calling him after ten
o'clock at night. Walker made the call on his cell to leave the
Easterbrooks' line open, just in case.
As it turned out, the Easterbrook phone rang just a few minutes later.
I found myself watching Townsend to see how he responded. Did he
really expect the caller to be Clarissa? Or did he act like a man who
already knew we wouldn't be hearing from her? So far he seemed legit,
if dazed. He hadn't made any of the obvious slipups, the ones you see
on Court TV: using the past tense, buying diamonds for another woman,
selling the wife's stuff, things like that.
Whoever was calling, it wasn't Clarissa. Listening to one side of the
conversation was frustrating. 'I see.... Where was he? ... No, in
fact, she's ... missing' Townsend's voice cracked on that one. 'The
police are here now.. .. Yes, that's terribly kind of you, if you
don't mind.' Some more earnest thank-yous and a goodbye, and Townsend
set the phone back on its base.
'That was a fellow who lives a few streets down. He works with me at
the hospital. He and his wife were leaving the Chart House and found a
dog running in the parking lot with its leash on. It's Griffey.'
Walker had reached the Nordstrom manager, who generously offered to
meet him at the store to track down what Clarissa Easterbrook had
purchased yesterday and was we hoped still wearing.
About fifteen minutes after Walker left, a voice similar to the one
that announces my e-mails at home declared, 'Good evening. You have a
visitor.' Ray was right. Creepy George Jetson house.
I looked out the living room window to see a man in his fifties
struggling to keep up with an excited yellow Lab dashing up the slope
to the front door, straining against the leash. A woman of roughly the
same age followed.
When Easterbrook opened the door, the Lab finally pulled free from his
temporary handler, dragging his leash behind him. He leaped on
Easterbrook's chest, nearly knocking him over. He was a sticky mess
from the drizzle, but you could tell he was a well-cared-for dog.
Townsend absently convinced Griffey to lie down by the fountain, though
the panting and tail thumping revealed that he was still excited to be
home.
A dog like Griffey probably had an advanced degree from obedience
school, unlike my dropout, Vinnie. Vinnie was actually expelled. Or,
more accurately, I was. When it became clear to the teacher that,
despite her instructions, I caved to Vinnie's every demand to avoid his
strategic peeing episodes, she suggested that I re-enroll my French
bulldog when I felt more committed to the process. Two years later,
Vinnie and I have come to mutually agreeable terms. He has a doggie
door to the backyard, an automatic feeder, and a rubber Gumby doll that
he treats like his baby, but if I don't come home in time to cuddle him
and hear about his day, there's hell to pay. Griffey, on the other
hand, appeared to do whatever Easterbrook told him.
Easterbrook introduced Griffey's new friends as Dr. and Mrs. Jonathon
Fletcher. I guess you have to give up both your first and last names
when you marry a physician. Dr. Fletcher's looks said doctor more
than Townsend Easterbrook's. In contrast with the flashy Expedition
and high-tech house, I noticed that the Fletchers pulled up in a Volvo
station wagon.
Mrs. Dr. Fletcher did her best to provide comfort. 'I'm certain
Clarissa's just fine, Townsend. A misunderstanding, is all. We just
have to find her, and that's that. Now, when's the last time you saw
her?'
She made it sound like we were trying to track down a lost set of
keys.
'This morning,' Townsend said. 'She was still in bed. I had
back-to-back surgeries, and when I got home she was gone.'
'Well, dear, I'm surprised you even get a chance to operate anymore.
Jonathon tells me how busy you are, developing the new transplant unit.
Sounds like that's going extremely well.'
Apparently Mrs. Dr. Fletcher was so used to her job as
conversationalist to her husband's colleagues that she was slipping
into autopilot. Understandably, Townsend cut her off.
'Who knows? Still so much to do,' he said. Translation: Who the fuck
cares about the hospital right now? 'I didn't even realize Griffey was
gone until a couple of hours ago. When did you find him?'
'Right around ten,' Dr. Fletcher said. 'A group of us were leaving
our function at the Chart House, and this feisty fellow was running
around in the parking lot. Initially, everyone assumed he escaped from
one of the neighborhood yards or something. But then someone noticed
he was dragging a leash. Our friend went after him, figuring someone
had lost hold of him. When he checked the tag, what do you know? Our
own Griffey Easterbrook.'
