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hell.

While Flick continued to feign concern, Gore-Tex explained that the

police had refused to rule out any possibilities.  Although this was

formally a missing persons case, they were moving forward on the

assumption that foul play might be involved.  Trying to fill air time

before the press conference, the rain-soaked rookie correspondent

touched upon Clarissa's position with the city.  "We're hearing,

Gloria, that Clarissa Easterbrook, as an administrative law judge, is

not the kind of judge that many of us would envision, in a courthouse,

presiding over trials.  Rather, she hears appeals from the

administrative decisions of city agencies.  Because many of those

matters are considered routine and, in fact, somewhat bureaucratic,

police are discouraging the media from speculating that Judge

Easterbrook's disappearance could be related to her official

position."

The viewing public was spared any further attempt to explain the boring

work of an administrative law judge when Clarissa Easterbrook's family

assumed its place behind a podium that had been set up in the

Easterbrook driveway.

Joining Tara and Townsend were an older couple I imagined were

Clarissa's parents, along with a woman I didn't recognize.  Townsend

tentatively approached the mike.  Make that about ten mikes.  Unlike

Tara, he had changed clothes, but the bags under his eyes were every

bit as pronounced.

As the attending surgeon at the state's teaching hospital, Townsend was

probably used to speaking to a crowd.  But today he seemed focused on

merely making it through the notes he carried to the podium.  His voice

lacked affect, and he didn't look up once from his reading:

"My wife, Clarissa Easterbrook, has not been seen since six o'clock

yesterday morning.  She disappeared somewhere between then and last

night at approximately six-thirty p.m."  when I returned home.  We

believe she was wearing a pink silk turtleneck sweater, charcoal-gray

pants, and black loafers, one of which was found on Taylor's Ferry

Drive early this morning.  Our dog was discovered last night in the

same area, near the Chart House restaurant.  We are asking anyone who

may have seen her, or seen anything in that vicinity that might be

related to her disappearance, to please call the police immediately.

Clarissa, we love you and we miss you, and we want you to come home to

us safe.

"Behind me are Clarissa's sister, Tara Carney; her parents, Mel and

Alice Carney; and her dearest friend, Susan Kerr.  On behalf of all of

us, I'd like to thank everyone who is helping in this search effort.

Members of the Portland Police Bureau and the Multnomah County District

Attorney's Office were here late last night, and the media have been

great about getting Clarissa's picture out there and asking for

information.  We're very grateful for all the support and concern that

has been shown for Clarissa and our family.  Thank you again."

Whoever wrote the script was savvy enough to know how to play the game

of political institutions.  Appear supportive of the police department

and the DA's office early on, and you'll have all the more leverage

down the road if you threaten to turn.  Reporters were shouting out

questions now, but there wasn't much for Townsend to add.  Yes, it was

certainly possible that something might have happened to her while she

was walking the dog, but the police were not ruling out other

possibilities.  No, there hadn't been any ransom demands or other

communications about the disappearance.

Once the family retreated into the house, the station ran more pictures

of Clarissa and repeated the description of her clothing.  Nordstrom

had come through.  From the montage of photographs at a picnic with

Townsend, at Cannon Beach with Griffey, on the lap of a shopping-mall

Santa Claus with Tara I began to feel I knew this woman.  She was aging

gracefully, keeping her hair blond but neatly bobbed, allowing the

wrinkles to show beneath a light dusting of makeup.  And in every

picture she had the same big, generous smile that had greeted me the

one time I had met her at a women's bar conference a couple of years

ago.  I couldn't bear to watch.

As I was clicking the TV off, Russell Frist stuck his perfectly

salt-and-peppered head into the conference room.  "Welcome back,

Kincaid, and welcome to the Unit.  The boss tells me you're in the

thick of things already."

The District Attorney must have called Frist first thing this morning.

Recently appointed supervisor of the Major Crimes Unit, my new boss had

a reputation for screaming at other lawyers and making them cry, but

also for being a good prosecutor.  I had vowed to keep an open mind

about him, but sitting there beneath his gaze, I found myself

intimidated.  At six foot three and a good two-twenty, Frist put in

enough time at the gym to test the seams of his well-cut suit.

It wasn't surprising that Frist referred to the trial unit that

prosecuted all person felonies as "the Unit."  He'd been handling major

crimes for at least fifteen years, so other kinds of cases had no doubt

stopped mattering to him long ago.

"Looks like it," I said.  "When he sent me out to the Easter-brooks'

last night for some hand-holding, I don't think either one of us

thought it was going to turn into something like this, literally

overnight."

"Well, we should talk.  Give me about fifteen minutes, then meet in my

office?"

Fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get any actual work done, so I

continued making my way through the pile of mail that had accumulated

over the past month.  As un pampered county employees, we usually have

to take care of our own office moves when we change rotations, but

someone had been nice enough to relocate my things from my old office

down the hall at the Drug and Vice Division to what used to be Frist's

office in major crimes.

Everything, that was, except for my black leather, high-backed swivel

chair.  A good office chair is nearly impossible to come by when you

work for the government.  Most of the chairs around here had ceased

being adjustable years ago and had funky-smelling upholstery fit for

the county's HAZMAT team.  About a year ago, I had spent four full

months sucking up to the facilities manager, begging for a decent

chair.  The campaign was not my proudest moment; let's just say it

involved me, a lunchtime knitting class, and a decade's supply of ugly

booties for the woman's baby.

Now someone had taken my vacation as an opportunity to run off with the

spoils of my labor.  The culprit clearly lacked two essential pieces of

information.  First, I would stop at absolutely nothing to get that

chair back.  And second, I'd have no problem proving ownership.  The

day I got no, make that earned- my chair, I committed vandalism against

county property by scratching my initials in a secret spot and vowing

we'd be together forever.

But for now, I was stuck with a sorry-looking lump of stinky blue tweed

on casters.

Otherwise, the new office was a step up.  In my old office, I had an

L-shaped yellow metal desk with a cork board hutch.  Now I had an