"I can't believe you didn't come forward." The words must have leaped
from the most spiteful part of my brain, straight out the mouth, no
filter. I regretted saying them aloud immediately, but I didn't want
to feel sorry for this man. Whatever he said, he had betrayed not only
his wife and children but also Clarissa.
Instead of throwing me out of his house, Caffrey made me feel even
worse. "I suppose it's understandable that you judge me. Certainly
it's nothing I haven't done myself."
I got into the car trying to find some satisfaction in the facts I'd
confirmed: Clarissa was on the take, the nonoxynol was Caffrey s, and
it looked like Clarissa had gotten Melvin the job with Gunderson.
But then I realized that Caffrey had raised as many questions as he'd
answered. If the spermicide was from Friday, why was Clarissa's
sweater off when she was attacked? And if Clarissa was tired of being
tangled up with Gunderson, what was she planning to do on Saturday to
sever the ties?
Clarissa had gotten home from shopping around seven, but we'd been so
focused on Clarissa's whereabouts on Sunday, we'd never pressed
Townsend about whether anything had happened Saturday night. And I
couldn't talk to Townsend without going through Roger.
But I wasn't totally out of the game yet. Roger may have told me to
stay away from his client, but there might still be a way to find out
what he had to say.
Raymond Johnson picked up on the first ring.
"Hey, Raymond. Samantha Kincaid."
"Your ears burning?"
"No. What's up?"
"You've been quite the topic of conversation around here today. The
lieutenant's at City Hall now for the big powwow. I assume you know
about it."
Johnson must not have heard I was off the case yet. There was no point
telling him now, since it would only put him in a difficult situation.
"I think everything's under control."
"News to me," he said. "Last I heard, you were floating conspiracy
theories about Jackson being innocent."
"No, the defense did that. I helped convince Prescott to hold Jackson
over for trial. We need to make sure we can counter everything the
defense is saying, that's all. Duncan will work it out with your
lieutenant."
"I hope that's it, Kincaid, because we believe in this case, you
know."
"I realize that. We're on the same side here, Johnson. It's just a
matter of cleaning up some details."
"Just making sure. Now, you were actually calling me about something,
weren't you?"
"Yeah. The defense attorney was making noise this morning about
Townsend, but while everything's up in the air, his lawyer's not
letting us talk to him. Do you have a copy of his polygraph
examination?"
"Sure. We always get those if they're willing to turn it over. The
guy he used is top-notch. Retired FBI."
"I want to see what he asked. See if there's anything there about what
Clarissa did on Saturday, maybe in the background questions."
"Not that I remember," he said. "She went to Nordstrom with her
girlfriend."
"I know that. I just want to see the questions and answers, OK? I'll
be there in about fifteen minutes."
The polygrapher had included eleven items: eight dummies and the three
money questions. Just as Roger said, the three critical questions put
Townsend in the clear: Were you at OHSU on Sunday? Did you kill your
wife, Clarissa Easterbrook? Did you hire, solicit, order, or ask
anyone to kill your wife, Clarissa Easterbrook? Yes, no, no. Truthful
on all three.
For current purposes, I was interested in the dummies, hoping to find
something about whether Clarissa had left the house Saturday night or
whether they'd had visitors. Unfortunately, the questions weren't
helpfuclass="underline" name, birthday, address, the basics. Nothing detailed a
timeline.
If Townsend knew what Clarissa was up to with Gunderson, I wasn't
finding that out with this polygraph. If he weren't represented, I
could probably shake him up with the little I already knew, but I
wasn't anywhere close to having the goods it would take to rattle
Roger. I suppose that's why people hire lawyers.
I was going to have to live with the fact that I might not be able to
wrap this one up by myself. There were other people who could handle
the wrapping just fine. Russ Frist was at least as capable as I was,
and he'd make sure that my stunts with Szlipkowsky wouldn't ruin the
Jackson prosecution. I didn't have complete confidence that the bureau
would make the Gunderson investigation a priority, but Russ knew some
questions needed to be answered before the Jackson trial. Once those
answers started rolling in, I had to believe that someone would pay
attention Jessica Walters, or maybe the Attorney General's Office.
Maybe Duncan would even let me get involved again.
But for now, I thought as I pulled out of the Justice Center parking
lot, I was tired of beating my head against the wall. I had lingering
issues in my personal life to deal with, too.
Tension with my father was foreign to me, and I still hadn't figured
out a way to move past it. But he had extended the olive branch by
calling me this morning, and I owed it to him to return the gesture.
I don't know why I did it, but, perhaps for the first time in my life,
I knocked on the front door of the house I grew up in.
"Hey, look at you. What a surprise. Come on in. Did you lose your
key?"
"I couldn't find ... I just wasn't sure .. . well, you know."
He gave me a sad smile, and my eyes welled up looking into his. Then
he got teary-eyed too, and that did it. I burst out crying in front of
my father for the first time since I had walked in on Roger and then
driven straight to my parents' house.
Just as he had then, he sat me on his couch, put his arm around me, and
rocked me, telling me everything would be OK before I'd even told him
what was wrong. When I finally quieted down to the point of quiet
sniffles and deep breaths, he asked me what happened and why I wasn't
at work.
"Nothing," I said, wiping my cheeks with my sleeves, "it'll be fine. I
just want to be here right now if that's OK."
"It's more than OK. It's a treat. You hungry? I could make
something."
I still hadn't eaten lunch, but it wasn't even four o'clock. If I ate
dinner now, I'd be hungry again before bed, then I'd be up all night.
"That's all right," I said. "Can you stomach a couple hands of
cribbage?"
My mother had been the cribbage player, passing the habit down to me so
she'd have someone to play with other than my father, who never hid the