'Right,' she said, 'and the reason prices are so high is that everyone
thinks Metro's going to expand the urban growth boundary right in that
area. Hell, if Metro doesn't expand the boundary, I wouldn't be
surprised if prices actually fell out there.'
'You didn't say anything about Metro before. They're not really going
to change the urban growth boundary, are they?' I asked.
'Do you pay any attention whatsoever to the local news?' she asked.
I'd gotten spoiled during the few years that my local paper was The New
York Times, so I haven't given it up. In theory, I'm extremely well
informed because I subscribe to it as well as the Oregonian. Grace,
however, knew my habit of getting absorbed in the Times crossword
puzzle before ever hitting the local paper's metro page.
'Of course I do,' I said. 'I know I was featured prominently in
several stories about a month ago. And Monday I watched Gloria Flick's
report on the Easterbrook case, not to mention Shoe Boy's press
conference.'
'Man, Gloria Flicks annoying.'
'Damn straight. It's the price I pay for being so impressively well
informed.'
'So you must know that Metro is talking about expanding the urban
growth boundary.'
Anywhere else in the country, that statement would sound a little like
You must know that Spock's Starfleet service number was S179-276. But
to people who live in my city, the urban growth boundary is the secret
ingredient in Portland's warm gooey cinnamon bun. The city's strong
neighborhood feel is what makes this place special, and those
neighborhoods would be gone by now if not for Metro.
I had read about proposals to expand the boundary by more than two
thousand acres but assumed it would never happen. Grace informed me
otherwise.
'The assumption is that it will happen. The population has exploded.
It will be a close vote, but everyone thinks the time is ripe for
expansion, and the place where it's most likely to happen is in
Glenville. The land outside the boundary there is nothing special, so
the theory is that Metro can hand it over to developers without pissing
off the greens too much. Unfortunately, the rest of the market shares
that same theory. For the last couple of years, buyers have been
gobbling up land in the area on the gamble that the growth's going to
spread. And from what you told me about your office park, it's right
at the line. I wouldn't be surprised if the same owner bought the
adjacent rural land.'
'So if the line moves,' I said, 'the owner cleans up. And T. J.
Caffrey's one of eleven votes.'
'Not only that, he's one of the swing votes. He's good on the
environment, but he's pro-business. In exchange for his vote, he can
probably set the terms about where the line gets moved.'
That was definitely a coincidence. I was suddenly looking forward to
my morning meeting pardon me, my 'courtesy sit-down.'
I called it a relatively early night so I could get some work done at
home and rescue Vinnie from boredom.
The only message on the machine was from Chuck. 'If it's not too late
when you get back, give me a call if you want me to come over.
Otherwise, have a good night, and I'll talk to you tomorrow.'
Apparently, Grace wasn't the only one resenting the time I'd been
devoting to Chuck. Vinnie seemed pleased when I stayed put and
continued scratching him ferociously behind his goofy bat ears. When
he finally started in with his familiar snorting sounds, I knew I was
back in his good graces. I'd been so neglectful lately that I let him
stay on my lap with his Gumby while I prepped the Jackson prelim. If
only my father were so easy to assuage.
Maybe it was the second martini, but my thoughts kept wandering to one
of the seemingly inconsequential questions I would ask Ray Johnson as
background. 'Where was Clarissa Easterbrook's body located?'
I fished my office phone directory out of my briefcase and left a
message for Jenna Markson, a paralegal in the child support enforcement
unit who was known for her dedication and investigative skills. Maybe
she could satisfy my curiosity.
Seven thirty a.m. was the time Duncan had promised, so there I stood on
Friday morning in the office's front lobby, waiting for T. J. Caffrey
and his lawyer. They finally arrived twenty minutes late, wholly
unapologetic for the delay.
I recognized Caffrey from the local paper, but I'd never seen him in
person. Probably around fifty, he was known for his casual garb, but
today he'd chosen a suit and tie that looked good with his
salt-and-pepper hair. He was a bit of a chubster, but I could see the
attraction.
The man running the show, though, was Ronald Fish. A high-priced,
high-power trial attorney, Fish was the guy CEOs called in a pinch,
