Clarissa Easterbrook had encountered anything criminal, everyone close
to her would become a suspect, especially her husband. We couldn't do
anything now that might jeopardize our investigation down the road.
"I should've known it was too good to be true. All DAs just got to
have their say. It's in the blood." I could tell from his smile that
he wasn't annoyed. "No worries, now."
We made our way to the kitchen, walking past a built-in rock fountain
that served as a room divider. The Easterbrooks had sprung for marble
countertops and stainless steel, Sub-Zero everything, but it looked
like no one ever cooked here. In fact, as far as I could tell, no one
even lived here. The only hint of disorder was in a corner of the
kitchen, where the contents of a canvas book bag were spread out on the
counter next to a frazzled-looking brunette. She had a cell phone to
one ear and an index finger in the other.
Jack Walker greeted us. With his short sleeves, striped tie, and bald
head, he had enough of the cop look going to make up for his partner.
"Welcome back. You look great," he said into my ear as he shook my
hand with a friendly squeeze. "Dr. Easterbrook, this is Deputy
District Attorney Samantha Kincaid."
There are women who would describe Townsend Easterbrook as
good-looking. His brown hair was worn just long enough and with just
enough gray at the temples to suggest a lack of attention to
appearance, but the Brooks Brothers clothes told another story. On the
spectrum between sloppy apathetic and sloppy preppy, there was no
question where this man fell.
He seemed alarmed by the introduction. At first I assumed he was
nervous. I quickly realized it was something else entirely.
"Please, call me Townsend. Gosh, I apologize if I was staring. I
recognized you from the news, but it took me a moment to draw the
connection."
It hadn't dawned on me that, at least for the foreseeable future,
former strangers would know me as the local Annie Oakley. One more
daily annoyance. Terrific.
"I'm sorry to meet you under these circumstances, Dr. East-erbrook.
Duncan had to be in Salem tonight, but he wanted me to assure you that
our office will do everything within our power to help find your
wife."
When Griffith called, he had insisted that I use his first name with
the family and assure Dr. Easterbrook that he would have been here
personally if he weren't locked in legislative hearings. Other missing
people might disappear with little or no official response, but Dr.
Easterbrook's phone call to 911 had ripped like a lightning bolt
through the power echelon. The wife was sure to turn up, but this was
Griffith's chance to say I feel your pain.
And Easterbrook clearly was in pain. "Thank you for coming so
quickly," he said, his voice shaking. "I feel foolish now that you're
all here, but we weren't sure what we should be doing. Clarissa's
sister and I have been calling everyone we can possibly think of."
"That's your sister-in-law?" I asked, looking toward the woman in the
corner, still clutching the phone.
"Yes. Tara. She came in from The Dalles. I called her earlier to see
if she'd heard from Clarissa today. Then I called her again when I saw
that our dog, Griffey, was gone, too."
Walker tapped the pocket-size notebook he held in his hand with a
dainty gold pen that didn't suit him. Most likely a gift from one of
his six daughters, it looked tiny between his sausage fingers. "Dr.
Easterbrook was just telling me he got home from the hospital at
six-thirty tonight. His wife was home when he left this morning at
six."
A twelve-hour day probably wasn't unusual for the attending surgeon at
Oregon Health Sciences University's teaching hospital, even on a
Sunday. Looking at him now, though, it was hard to imagine him
steadying a scalpel just four hours ago.
Easterbrook continued where he must have left off. "She was still in
bed when I left. Sort of awake but still asleep." He was staring
blankly in front of him, probably remembering how cute his wife is when
she is sleepy. "She hadn't mentioned any plans, so when I got home and
she wasn't here, I assumed she went out to the market. We usually have
dinner in on Sundays, as long as I'm home."
"You've checked for her car," Walker said. It was more of a statement
than a question.
"Right. That was the first thing I did once I was out of my scrubs: I
changed clothes and walked down to the garage. When I saw the Lexus, I
thought she must have walked somewhere. I tried her cell, but I kept
getting her voice mail. Finally, around eight, I thought to look out
back for Griffey. When I saw he was gone too, I drove around the
neighborhood for what must have been an hour. I finally got so worried
I called the police."
In the corner, Clarissa's sister snapped her cell phone shut and blew
her bangs from her eyes. "That's it. I've called everyone," she said,
looking up. "Oh, sorry. I didn't realize anyone else was here."
"From the District Attorney's office," Townsend explained. Ms.
Kincaid, this is Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney."
It was hard to see the resemblance. My guess is they were both pushing
forty, Tara perhaps a little harder, but they had been different kinds
of years. Clarissa was a thin frosted blonde who favored pastel suits
and high heels. Tara's dark brown pageboy framed a round face, and she
looked at ease at least physically in her dark green sweat suit and
sneakers.
She acknowledged me with a nod. "I called everyone I can think of, and
no one's heard from her today. This just isn't like her."
"She's never gone out for the day without telling someone?" Walker
asked.
They both shook their heads in frustration. "Nothing like this at
all," Townsend said. "She often runs late at work during the week, we
both do. But she wouldn't just leave the house like this on the
weekend. With the dog, for hours? Something must be wrong."
We asked all the other obvious questions, but Tara and Townsend had
covered the bases before dialing 911. They had knocked on doors, but
the neighbors hadn't noticed anything. Clarissa hadn't left a note.
They didn't even know what she was wearing, because when Townsend left
that morning she was still in her pajamas.
Her purse and keys were missing along with Griffey, but Townsend
doubted she was walking the dog. She always walked him in the morning,
and sometimes they walked him together after dinner if they were both
home. But she didn't take Griffey out alone after dark. Anyway, we
were talking about ten-minute potty trips, not all-night strolls.
Walker was rising from his chair. "Finding out how she's dressed is a
priority." He was shifting into action mode. "If we go through some
of her things, do you think you might be able to figure out what she's
wearing?"
"You would be the one to go through your wife's belongings I corrected.
We had to keep this by the book. "I think what Detective Walker's
suggesting is that you might be able to tell what clothes are missing
if you look at what's here."