Executive Privilege

Oregon/Washington, D.C.

Chapter Twenty-five

Claire had finished reading this evening’s installment of Peter Pan to Patrick when the president walked into his son’s bedroom.

“Do you think I could fly, Dad?” Patrick asked.

Chris saw the book they were reading. “Definitely,” he said, “if you were sprinkled with pixie dust.”

“Can you get some pixie dust?” Patrick asked hopefully.

Chris walked over to the bed and ruffled his son’s hair. “I’ll get the Department of Defense right on it. Now, hit the hay. I’ve got something I have to talk over with your mom.”

Claire tucked Patrick in and followed her husband into a sitting room near Patrick’s bedroom. The president shut the door. For the first time, Claire noticed that her husband was holding a rolled-up newspaper.

“We have a problem and I wanted to be the one to tell you.”

Christopher held the paper out to her. The bright red headline in Exposed read:

PRESIDENT’S LOVE TRYST WITH TEENAGE MURDER VICTIM EXPOSED.

Under the headline was a photograph of Charlotte Walsh yelling at someone who was half exposed in the doorway of a house and a second photograph of the president standing in front of the house.

Claire stared dumbstruck at the headline and the photographs.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

Christopher looked at the floor, unable to meet his wife’s uncomprehending gaze.

“I fucked up, Claire. I know I promised you I wouldn’t do this again, and I feel awful about betraying you but…”

“Someone photographed you?” Claire asked incredulously as she stared at him wide-eyed. “It wasn’t enough that you cheated on me? You had to make sure the world found out?”

The president continued to look at his shoes. “I…I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing you can say, you dumb bastard.”

Claire read the story beneath the photographs. Then she threw the paper onto the polished wood coffee table so hard it bounced.

“You have made me look ridiculous. You have disgraced me and your son. I’m an adult. I can survive this-God knows I survived your other affairs-but Patrick is a child.”

Chris was smart enough to stifle any urge to respond. Claire paced back and forth, her eyes blazing. Then she picked up the paper and threw it in her husband’s face. He made no move to protect himself and the tabloid fell to the floor.

Claire stood inches from him. “You fix this, you hear. You get this fixed. If you lose this election I will leave you. Do you understand me. You’ll be back in Portland chasing ambulances, and Patrick and I won’t be with you.”

Claire turned on her heel and walked out of the room. Just before she slammed the door, Christopher heard her say, “I hope she was worth it.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Brad smiled as soon as Ginny walked into the bar at the Shanghai Clipper. They had started meeting at the restaurant after work, and these get-togethers had become the best thing about his day. The worst part of his day was his job, which had gotten a lot tougher since his disastrous meeting the week before with Susan Tuchman. Brad thought that he might be unemployed if Richard Fuentes hadn’t told the Dragon Lady that Brad had done the right thing when he pursued their client’s claim of actual innocence and turned over the pinkies to Paul Baylor, the private forensic expert, instead of the police. But Fuentes wasn’t any happier than Tuchman that Brad had dug up the corpses and moved the pinkies before consulting with the partner who was supervising him.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ginny said as she dropped onto a chair across from Brad and grabbed a piece of a California roll.

“Not a problem,” said Brad, who was working on his second beer. Ginny noticed.

“Another bad day?”

“I swear Tuchman has ordered everyone to double my workload so I’ll quit.”

“Well don’t. You’re the only person in the firm who keeps me sane.”

“We should both quit.”

“I’ll be out the door as soon as you find me a sugar daddy to pay off my student loans.”

Brad sighed. “I do feel like an indentured servant sometimes.”

“Any word on the pinkies? Has Paul Baylor printed them?”

“I don’t know. Tuchman took me off the brief and assigned it to another associate. She wouldn’t even tell me who it is and she said I’ll be fired if she finds out I’ve done anything connected to Little’s case, including calling Baylor’s lab.”

“Boy is she a bitch.”

Brad shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anymore what she is. In the near future I’m probably not going to be working for her or anyone else in the firm. I figure I’m done for as soon as the partners conduct the next performance review.”

“Wait,” Ginny said as her attention was drawn suddenly to the television set above the bar.

“What?”

“Shush,” she commanded, holding up her hand for silence.

Brad turned toward the TV where a newscaster was talking about a story in a special edition of Exposed.

“…The photographs published in the supermarket tabloid show Miss Walsh arguing with President Farrington shortly before the medical examiner estimates she was killed. The American University coed is wearing the same clothes she had on when her body was discovered in a Dumpster in the rear of a suburban Maryland restaurant.

“The young woman was originally believed to be the victim of the D.C. Ripper, a serial killer who has been terrorizing the District of Columbia and the surrounding area for several months. A suspect in the Ripper case has been arrested but confidential sources have informed this station that there are reasons to believe that Charlotte Walsh was the victim of a copycat killer.

“Exposed claims that the meeting between Walsh and President Farrington took place on a farm in rural Virginia that the CIA uses as a safe house. The president has not commented on the newspaper article, leaving the public in the dark about why he was meeting a teenage college student at a CIA safe house and why he and Miss Walsh were arguing shortly before she was murdered.”

“Holy shit,” Ginny said.

“What?”

Ginny leaned toward Brad and lowered her voice. “Don’t you see it?”

“See what?”

“Charlotte Walsh, a teenager, has a relationship with Christopher Farrington and she’s murdered. Laurie Erickson, another teenage girl whom the president knew when he was the governor of Oregon, is murdered. In both cases the killer copies the MO of a notorious serial killer. That’s a pretty big coincidence, amigo.”

“Wait a minute, Ginny. I know you like playing detective, but we don’t know if any of what we just heard is true. The reporter said that Exposed is a supermarket tabloid. Those rags have real photographs of UFOs and Bigfoot. They probably phonied up the whole thing.”

“Bigfoot is one thing. Accusing the president of murder is something else.”

“Yeah, a way to sell a lot of newspapers, and they didn’t accuse Farrington of anything. They just said he had an argument with the student on the evening she was killed. You’re jumping to the conclusion that the Ripper didn’t kill her. The police haven’t said anything about that. Besides, what would we do if there is something to the story? The murder took place three thousand miles away.”

“But the two cases could be related. Remember I told you about the rumors that Farrington was having sex with Erickson?”

“Yeah, but that’s all they are, rumors.”

“Let’s suppose they’re true and he was sleeping with her. She threatens to go public, and Farrington decides to shut her up. The last person to see Erickson alive was Charles Hawkins, Farrington’s right-hand man and an ex-Ranger. Those guys are killing machines.

“The only reason Little was convicted for murdering Erickson was that MO evidence. The governor would want to be kept up-to-date on a serial murder case that was big news in Oregon. I bet Hawkins had access to the police reports, which means he’d know how to fake Little’s MO.”

“This is total speculation, Ginny, and how could we prove it’s true? Are you going to fly to Washington and give Hawkins the third degree? You wouldn’t even be able to get into the White House. Besides, if I start investigating this case again I’ll be fired. Solving murders is the job of the police.”

“The police are convinced that Clarence Little killed Laurie Erickson. They’d look bad if it turned out it was someone else, so they’re not going to give us the time of day. And can you just see the reaction if we marched into Central Precinct and demanded that a detective investigate the president of the United States for murder? No one is going to listen to us without rock solid proof.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“So we have to get some,” Ginny said.

“Hey, I hear there’s a sale on rock solid proof at Wal-Mart. Let’s head over.”

Ginny’s eyes narrowed and she looked angry. “Witty remarks are not your strong suit, Brad.”

“I’m just being realistic. I know you’re all excited about proving Little didn’t kill Laurie Erickson, but we’d become laughingstocks if we told anyone that we suspect Christopher Farrington is a serial killer.”

Ginny’s scowl disappeared. “You’re right. But there’s got to be something we can do.”

They both fell silent. Ginny popped another piece of sushi in her mouth and Brad sipped his beer thoughtfully.

“We could try to find Laurie Erickson’s mother and ask her if she was bought off by Farrington,” Brad said after a while.

Ginny’s face lit up. “You’re a genius.”

Brad relaxed, pleased that Ginny wasn’t angry at him anymore.

“That’s exactly what we’ll do,” Ginny said. “If Mrs. Erickson confirms the rumors that Farrington was sleeping with her daughter we’re halfway home. And we can try to find the teenager he was supposed to have had sex with when he was practicing law. If we can show that Farrington has a thing for teenage girls it would boost our credibility.”

Ginny’s excitement was contagious, and Brad felt his depression lift. Then he thought of something and he deflated.

“I can’t let you work with me on this, Ginny. I’ll have to see Mrs. Erickson alone.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tuchman doesn’t know you helped me find the bodies and the pinkies. She thinks I’m the only one involved in Little’s case. It’s my job that’s hanging by a thread. I don’t want her angry at you, too.”

Ginny reached across the table and placed her hand over Brad’s. “That’s sweet, but I am involved. If we turn out to be right what can Tuchman do? We’ll be heroes. We’d be famous. Remember what happened to Woodward and Bernstein when they brought down Nixon.”

“I’m not so certain about the way people would react, Ginny. Have you ever been in Tuchman’s office? She has a wall decorated with pictures of her and Farrington and other big political figures. If we bring down Farrington we’d also be bringing down his party and turning over the presidency to Maureen Gaylord. That won’t win us any friends at the firm. And I’m not so certain that I want to be friends with the people who run Gaylord’s party.”

Ginny frowned. “You have a point.”

“I’ll follow up. I’ve got nothing to lose. With the way Tuchman feels about me I’ll never make partner even if the firm doesn’t fire me right away. I’d feel awful if I got you in trouble.”

Ginny’s hand was still on his. She looked across the table and into Brad’s eyes. Brad felt his cheeks get hot but he didn’t look away.

“How do you think I’d feel if you were fired and I kept my job? I say we’re in this together, pardner. Think Titanic. I’m Kate Winslet and you’re Leonardo DiCaprio. If we go down, we go down together.”

“Uh, I don’t think you picked the right movie. Kate lived and Leonardo drowned.”

“Oh. Well I never was any good with movie trivia.”

“That’s okay. I get the point.”

Ginny tilted her head to one side and studied Brad. She still hadn’t removed her hand, and he hoped she never would.

“I think it’s your turn to pay the bill,” she said. “Then I think we should go to my apartment and talk about this some more…or not.”

Brad wished he could think of some witty repartee that would show Ginny how cool he was in situations like this, but Ginny had been right when she pointed out that witty remarks were not his strong point. Besides, he was too excited to think straight. He just signaled for the check.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Exposed was under siege. Arrayed behind barriers erected by the D.C. police were representatives of every branch of the media, foreign and domestic, screaming questions at anyone unfortunate enough to enter or leave the building. As Keith Evans drove by at a crawl to avoid running over some of the more ambitious correspondents he had a vision of a medieval siege in which catapults hurled fanatic reporters in feverish pursuit of a scoop through the Exposed building’s windows and brick walls.

A manned barricade stretched across the entrance to the newspaper’s parking lot. Evans flashed his credentials at the bored officer who leaned in his window. The policeman had been told to expect Evans. He pulled back the sawhorse and waved him through moments before a group of journalists surged forward like a school of piranhas lured by the scent of blood.

“I wish I had some raw steak to toss at them,” Maggie said as they got out of their car.

Gorman and another man were waiting in Gorman’s office on the second floor of the converted warehouse. The office walls were decorated with framed front pages displaying Exposed’s most outrageous headlines. Gorman stayed seated when the FBI agents were shown in, but his companion walked over and shook hands. He was a distinguished, white-haired gentleman in his midsixties. If his black pinstripe Ermenegildo Zegna suit and gold Patek Philippe watch were any indication, he was doing quite well.

“I’m Harvey Lang, Mr. Gorman’s attorney.”

“Keith Evans and Margaret Sparks. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lang.” He nodded toward the newspaper owner. “Mr. Gorman. Thanks for taking the time to see us.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“Actually, yes. You could have refused. But then we’d have to come to your house in the middle of the night and make you disappear into one of our secret prisons.”

Gorman’s eyes grew wide, and Evans laughed.

“That was just a little FBI humor. Actually, my partner and I left our rubber truncheons and cattle prods in the car. This whole conversation is off the record. You have enough people bugging you. I just want a minute of your time. Then we’re out of here.”

“What exactly do you want?” Lang asked.

“The name of the person who gave you the photographs you printed in your story about Charlotte Walsh and President Farrington,” Evans said, directing his answer at Exposed’s owner.

“I’m sorry. Those photographs were provided by a confidential source,” Lang said. “I’m sure you’re aware that such information is protected by the Freedom of the Press provision of the First Amendment.”

“What I’m aware of are the reporters who were sentenced to jail for contempt for taking that position, but I don’t think we have to resort to mortal combat for both of us to get what we want. I’m almost certain I know who took those pictures and I think she’s in great danger.”

Gorman’s features flickered from blank regard to concern and back in a heartbeat.

“None of us want to see this person hurt,” Evans continued, “so I have a plan that will let everyone get what they want.”

“Let’s hear it,” Lang said.

Evans focused on Patrick Gorman. “I’ll tell you the name of the person I think took the pictures. All I want you to do is confirm the name if I get it right. I also need to know where she might be. I wasn’t kidding when I said she’s in danger. I think someone may already have tried to kill her for those pictures.”

“What does Mr. Gorman get if he helps you?” Lang asked.

“Peace and quiet. No subpoenas, no grand jury, no time in a cold, damp cell while you run up your billable hours debating the First Amendment with an assistant United States attorney. What do you say?”

“I’d have to advise my client to refuse to cooperate in order to protect his source.”

Evans smiled at Gorman. “Why play games? I’m certain Dana Cutler gave you those photographs.” Gorman’s eyes shifted. “She was following Charlotte Walsh for Dale Perry, a lawyer who allegedly committed suicide a few days ago. We think someone attacked Cutler in her apartment on the evening she took the shots. The people who are after her don’t fool around. If you know anything that will help us find her, tell me. You don’t want her death on your conscience.”

“We met twice.”

“Pat-” Lang started, but Gorman held up his hand.

“They know already, Harvey, and I don’t want her hurt.”

“Amen to that,” Evans said.

“The first time we met she showed me some of the pictures. When I realized how big the story would be I agreed to her price.

“The next time we met I paid her for her story and the photographs. She told me she thought President Farrington was trying to kill her to get the pictures back. She hoped he’d stop once I published them.”

“Why did she think the president was behind the attempt on her life?”

“Two men were hiding in her apartment the night she took the pictures. They attacked her and demanded the photographs. She shot one of them and escaped. Only the president, Dale Perry, and his client knew about the pictures, and she couldn’t think of any reason why Perry or the client would try to kill her when they were expecting her to hand them over.

“When Miss Cutler learned that Charlotte Walsh had been murdered she met with Perry. She wanted him to negotiate a sale of the photographs to the president. She wanted money and assurances that she wouldn’t be killed. When she left the meeting with Perry there were men waiting for her but she got away.”

“Did she tell you the name of the person Perry was representing?”

“No. Perry never told her, and Cutler told me that she never discovered the identity of the client.”

“Where is Miss Cutler, Mr. Gorman?”

“I don’t know. She had no reason to tell me where she was going and I had no reason to ask.”

“Did we accomplish anything?” Sparks asked when they were back in their car.

“We’re filling in the blank spaces. Gorman confirmed that Cutler took the pictures of Walsh with Farrington and she told Gorman that the people who were in her apartment were after the pictures. The only people who would know about the existence of the pictures would be Perry and his client, who were expecting Cutler to give them to Perry, and the president. That’s pretty strong evidence that Farrington sent the people who attacked Cutler.”

“Cutler’s the key. We have to find her.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

When Charles Hawkins drove through the east gate of the White House, Travis “Jailbreak” Holliday was under a blanket, lying on the floor in the back of Hawkins’s car. This wasn’t easy. The Texas attorney was six four and weighed thirty pounds more than the 254 he’d packed on his big-boned frame when he’d starred at linebacker for the Longhorns.

Holliday had been given his nickname by a columnist for the Dallas Morning News, who had written a story claiming that hiring Holliday was like drawing a “Get Out of Jail Free” card in Monopoly. The columnist was upset that the defense attorney had just gained an acquittal for a wealthy rancher charged with killing his wife after branding her. Word was that Holliday’s closing argument was so confusing that a team at the Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton was still trying to figure it out.

Earlier in the evening, the lawyer had flown his private jet to Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland, where Air Force One is housed. Hawkins had been waiting in a drab Chevrolet, a make not used by the White House staff or the Secret Service and so less likely to be noticed. The guards at the east gate had been warned about the unorthodox method Hawkins was going to use to get the criminal defense attorney to his meeting with the president, so getting by them was easy. It was the reporters camped outside the west gate who worried Hawkins. In some circles, hiring Travis “Jailbreak” Holliday was the equivalent of an admission of guilt. News that Holliday had entered the White House would generate more bad press than an actual indictment.

After the guards at the east gate waved him through, Hawkins rode along the horseshoe-shaped driveway until the Rose Garden and the Oval Office came into sight. He parked in back of the mansion and helped Holliday out of the car. Then he directed the lawyer through a door that stood between the Oval Office and the State Dining Room and up a flight of stairs to a study in the private residence, where Christopher Farrington was waiting.

Holliday had not worn his trademark string tie, Stetson hat, and snakeskin boots for the White House meeting. He’d chosen a plain business suit to avoid attracting any more attention than his height and bulk usually did.

“Mr. President,” Holliday said, “it’s an honor.”

Hawkins noted that “Jailbreak” had lost a lot of the Texas twang that dominated his courtroom speech.

“Thank you for coming,” Farrington said as he crossed the room. “I apologize for the dramatics.”

“Not a problem,” Holliday answered with a wide smile. “Made me feel like I was in a James Bond movie.”

“Well, I’m pleased I could add a little excitement to your life. Mine has certainly been an adventure for the past few days. In case you didn’t hear the news, Senator Preston, one of Maureen Gaylord’s toadies, is demanding the appointment of an independent counsel to look into my connection to the murder of that poor young woman. Of course, Maureen is pretending to stand above the fray, saying that no one should rush to judgment. But her tone implies I’m another Ted Bundy, and there’s enough innuendo in every word she speaks to fill an edition of that rag Exposed.”

“I’m sorry you have to go through this, sir. Especially seeing as how you’re in the middle of an election and with everything else you have on your plate.”

“Thank you. Has Chuck gone over the business side of our relationship?”

“Yes, sir. The retainer was mighty generous, so let’s you and me forget about everything except how I’m going to help you out of the unfortunate situation in which you find yourself. And before we start talking, I’m going to ask Mr. Hawkins to leave us alone.”

He turned toward the president’s aide. “Anything the president tells me as my client is confidential, but he can lose the attorney-client privilege if a third party is sitting in on our conversation.”

“That’s not a problem,” Hawkins said. He started to leave but Farrington stopped him.

“I’m being a poor host,” the president said to Holliday. “You must be starving. Can I offer you something to eat?”

“A medium-rare steak, a side of fries, and a Johnnie Walker Black Label on the rocks would be mighty nice.”

“Chuck, ask the kitchen what they can do,” Farrington said.

“Can you tell me what I’m facing?” Farrington asked as soon as the door closed behind his friend.

“Well, sir, I did a little reading up on this independent counsel thing. It seems that until 1978, your predecessors appointed special prosecutors to look into scandals in their administrations. Grant started it in 1875 when he had General John B. Henderson investigate the so-called Whiskey Ring. Then you had Garfield, Teddy Roosevelt, Truman, and Nixon appointing special prosecutors. Trouble was if the president appointed the fellow, he could also unappoint him, like Nixon did when he fired Archibald Cox in the Saturday Night Massacre. So, in 1978, Congress passed the Ethics in Government Act and left the selection of the independent counsel up to the Special Division of the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia, a panel of three circuit court judges created specially to handle independent counsel matters. This independent counsel is charged with investigating and prosecuting certain designated high-ranking executive branch officials, including you.

“The Act is triggered when the attorney general receives information of possible criminal conduct by a covered person. The AG conducts a preliminary investigation. If credible evidence of criminal conduct is found or if it’s determined that the AG has a conflict of interest an application is filed with the court asking for appointment of an independent counsel.”

“I hired you to take care of this problem. Do you think you’ll be able to do it?”

“I usually can, Mr. President, I usually can.”

“God damn it, Chuck, the situation is getting out of hand,” the president complained two hours later when Hawkins walked into the third-floor study after making sure that Travis Holliday would be returned to Andrews Air Force Base without being seen.

“Didn’t you hit it off with Holliday?”

“No, no, Holiday is fine. That’s not what concerns me. The latest polls show I’m dropping like a rock. Holliday says the investigation by the independent counsel can drag on for years. That means it will be front-page news with no clear resolution long after the election. We’ve got to get the FBI to clear me of killing Walsh or hiring someone to do it.”

“There’s still the Ripper.”

“He was arraigned. Every channel covered it. He made a point of claiming that someone was trying to frame him for Charlotte’s murder.”

“What about Cutler?”

“What about her?”

“You’ve read her file. She’s an ex-mental patient. She was following Walsh. She knew where she was parked.”

“What possible motive would she have for killing Charlotte?”

Hawkins shrugged. “That’s for the FBI and the independent counsel to figure out. Don’t forget, Cutler is on the run. That’s what guilty people do.”

“No, no, Chuck. We can’t send an innocent person to prison.”

“We’ve done it before.”

“Clarence Little is a mass murderer.”

Hawkins leaned forward and stared directly into his friend’s eyes. “Your son and unborn child need you. Claire needs you. This country needs you. If Cutler has to be sacrificed it’s a small price to pay.”

“I don’t know, Chuck.”

“I do. You run a strong campaign and steer this country to greatness. Let me handle this.”

The president found the first lady in the sitting room that adjoined their bedroom sipping a cup of tea while she read a novel. When he entered the room, Claire placed her book next to the tea service that rested on the small walnut end table at her elbow.

“How did everything go?” Claire asked. She was calm, and none of the fury that had greeted his confession of infidelity was in evidence.

Christopher sank onto a chair on the other side of the end table.

“We’ll be okay,” he said as he poured himself a cup of tea. “Holliday is smart and he knows what he’s doing. He had all sorts of ideas.”

“Good. Maureen is behind this scandal. The voters will see she’s trying to smear you, and her plan will backfire.”

“I certainly hope so. My God, the press is calling the investigation MurderGate. Every time I try to talk about my platform all I get are questions about Charlotte Walsh.”

“Are you and Clem working on your speech?”

“Yeah. It sounds pretty good. God willing, I’ll nail Maureen at the press conference and we can put this inquisition behind us.”

Claire reached across the small table, and Chris held her hand.

“I love you,” Claire said. “I have complete faith in you. You will crush Maureen Gaylord. On the day after the election, you will still be the president of the United States and our baby will be born in the White House.”

“I hope you’re right,” Christopher said in a voice that lacked conviction.

Claire squeezed his hand hard. “I know I am,” she said.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“Jake Teeny?” Keith Evans asked the suntanned man in the T-shirt and jeans who answered the door of the suburban ranch house.

“Yes?” Teeny answered, eyeing the agent suspiciously. The photojournalist was five nine with wavy brown hair and hard brown eyes. Evans judged him to be in his midthirties, but he still had the thick chest and narrow waist of someone who stayed in top shape, and his skin had the rugged, leathery look that comes from being baked by harsh suns and blasted dry by cruel winds.

Evans flashed his credentials. “I’m with the FBI, Mr. Teeny, and I’d like your help in an investigation I’m conducting.”

Teeny looked confused. Evans smiled.

“Don’t worry. You’re not involved as far as we know, but your name came up and-like I said-I’d appreciate your help. May I come in?”

“Sure,” Teeny answered as he stepped aside to clear a path for the agent. “Excuse the mess. I’ve been out of the country on assignment and I just got in twenty minutes ago.”

Camera equipment and traveling bags were strewn around the entryway. Evans walked around them and followed Teeny into the living room.

“So, what’s this investigation about?” Teeny asked when they were seated.

“Have you heard of the D.C. Ripper?”

“Sure.”

“And do you know Dana Cutler?”

“Dana? What does she have to do with the Ripper?”

“We came across her name in connection with one of the Ripper’s victims. We’ve tried to find her, but we’ve been unsuccessful. One thing we did get was her phone records, and we found numerous calls to your number.”

“Dana and I are good friends. We call each other frequently.”

“And she stays over?”

“Yeah, on occasion. How did you know that?”

“Her car is parked two houses down. I thought she might be here.”

“She might, but I just got in so I can’t say one way or the other.”

“Could you look through the house to see if she’s staying here?”

“Look, Dana is a good friend. What do you think she’s done? I’m not going to help you if it’s going to get her in trouble.”

“Have you read the article in Exposed?”

Teeny smiled. “They don’t sell Exposed in Afghanistan.”

“Is that where you just were?”

Teeny nodded.

“Okay. Well, I’ll fill you in. A young woman named Charlotte Walsh was murdered by the D.C. Ripper. Miss Cutler works as a private investigator on occasion, doesn’t she?”

Teeny nodded.

“We think she may have been following Miss Walsh around the time she was killed. We know she took photographs of her with President Farrington shortly before Charlotte Walsh died.”

“The president?”

“The story has been front-page news. We want to know what Miss Cutler saw, but we can’t find her. Can you please look around and see if she’s been staying here?”

Teeny led Evans to the bedroom first. “She was supposed to housesit for me while I was away and it looks like she did,” he said, pointing to the women’s undergarments and clothing strewn around the room. Teeny smiled. “Dana isn’t the neatest person. I’m always after her to straighten up.”

In the bathroom, Teeny pointed out Dana’s toiletries.

“She’s probably coming back because her toothbrush and hairbrush are here.”

“Does Miss Cutler have more than one means of transportation?”

“You mean besides her car?”

“Right.”

Teeny suddenly remembered something. “I have a Harley. I let her borrow it the night I went away.”

“So she might be riding the Harley.”

“That would be my guess if her car’s outside.”

“Can you give me the license number of your bike and check to see if it’s here?”

Teeny rattled off the number while he led Evans to the garage. The bike was gone. Teeny had just finished describing the Harley when Evans’s cell phone rang.

“I’ve got to take this,” he apologized. Then he opened the phone and went outside so Teeny couldn’t hear him. Roman Hipple, his supervisor, was calling.

“How soon can you get back to headquarters?” Hipple asked.

“Half hour, maybe less.”

“Well get back here. Justice Roy Kineer has been appointed as the independent counsel in this Charlotte Walsh thing, and he wants you seconded to him because you know all about the Ripper case.”

Evans returned to the garage, thanked Teeny for his cooperation, and promised the worried boyfriend that he would do his best to find Cutler. As soon as he was in his car Evans put out an APB on the Harley.

Roy Kineer looked more like the fifth Marx Brother than a towering legal genius or one of the most powerful men in the United States, which he’d been when he was the chief justice of the Supreme Court. He was partially bald with a fringe of long gray-flecked black hair that always looked uncombed. His Coke bottle glasses and overbite gave him a goofy appearance, and he was always grinning, as if he’d figured out a joke no one else could understand. All in all, Kineer was not someone who was taken seriously unless you knew his biography.

The judge had been born in Cleveland to working-class parents who had been slow to recognize their son’s genius. In fact, they suspected Roy was not too bright, because he was poorly coordinated and didn’t speak until he was three. Once he did speak there was no denying that their child was special. Roy had been first in his class in high school and first in his class at MIT, where he’d majored in physics. After a year at Oxford, Kineer chose law over the sciences and finished a predictable first in his class at Harvard, where he was the editor of the Law Review. After a clerkship at the United States Supreme Court, Kineer surprised everyone by going to work for an organization that handled death penalty cases in the Deep South. Kineer argued three successful appeals before the court in which he’d clerked before joining the faculty at Yale Law School.

Never one to sit on the sidelines, Kineer became actively involved in politics as the legal advisor to Randall Spaulding, the United States senator from Connecticut who went on to become the attorney general of the United States. As soon as he was appointed attorney general, Spaulding asked Kineer to be his solicitor general and argue the position of the United States before the Supreme Court. When the justice for whom Kineer had clerked resigned, the president appointed Kineer, the finest legal mind in the country, to take his place.

The ex-justice’s professional credentials were perfect, and his personal life was without blemish. He was a grandfather of four, father of two and happily married for thirty-five years. No scandal had ever touched him. In other words, he was the perfect person to investigate a president of the United States who was suspected of being a murderer.

“Come in. Have a seat,” Kineer said enthusiastically when Keith Evans walked into the small, windowless conference room at FBI headquarters that Kineer had chosen for their meeting.

“Mr. Chief Justice,” Evans answered nervously as he shook the legend’s hand.

“It’s Roy. We’re going to file the honorifics away for the duration.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kineer laughed. “No ‘sirs’ either. Please sit down.”

Evans had expected a meeting with a lot of people, but he and the judge were alone in the room and there wasn’t a scrap of paper on the conference table. This didn’t surprise Evans, who knew Kineer was supposed to have a photographic memory.

“Do you know why I’m meeting with you before I meet with anyone else, Keith? You don’t mind if I call you Keith instead of Agent Evans, do you?”

“I guess I can do away with the title if you can.”

Kineer grinned. “Good. So, do you know why you’re the first person I selected for this project?”

“No.”

“I’ve been told that you know more about the Ripper investigation than anyone in D.C.”

“That’s probably true.”

Kineer nodded. Then he leaned back and fixed his eyes on the FBI agent.

“Is Christopher Farrington a murderer?”

Evans thought for a moment before answering. “If President Farrington was a plumber or a doctor, no one would raise an eyebrow if we considered him a suspect. He and Walsh argued shortly before she was murdered. If they were sleeping together we have the mother of all motives. Have you seen the polls?”

Kineer nodded.

“An angry teenage mistress and a popular pregnant wife equal a politician’s worst nightmare. Of course, I don’t think Farrington did the deed himself. But I don’t doubt that he could find someone to do it for him.”

Evans paused to compose his thoughts, and Kineer waited patiently.

“What I’ve just told you is what anyone who has read Exposed would know, but I was looking into the president’s involvement with Charlotte Walsh before Exposed broke their story.”

Kineer’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Evans with new respect. The respect increased as Evans told him about the tip that led him to Andy Zipay, the cover-up of the shooting at Dana Cutler’s apartment, and his belief that Eric Loomis-the man he’d arrested for the Ripper killings-had not murdered Charlotte Walsh. Then he told Kineer about the connection between Dale Perry and Dana Cutler.

“Now that’s interesting,” Kineer said when Evans was done. “What do you think we should do next?”

“I’d like to talk to the Secret Service agents who were with President Farrington when Walsh visited the safe house so we can eliminate the president’s direct involvement in the murder. I also want to eliminate Eric Loomis as Walsh’s killer if I can. I’ve put out an APB on the motorcycle I think Cutler is riding. Cutler may be the key here. She told Patrick Gorman that there have been two attempts on her life since she photographed Farrington with Walsh. I want to know what Cutler saw that makes her so dangerous to someone.”

“You said that Agent Sparks has been working with you?”

“Yes.”

“Is she a good investigator?”

“I think so.”

“Then I’ll have her assigned to my office. Put what you’ve told me in writing then set up interviews with the Secret Service agents. If you need a subpoena, or anything else for that matter, see me.”

“There is one thing. I’ve tried to get Dana Cutler’s file from the D.C. police, but it’s classified, and they’re making me jump through all sorts of hoops.”

“I’ll see if I can expedite the process.”

“Thanks.”

“This will be an exciting project, Keith. If we conclude that the president was involved with Charlotte Walsh’s murder we’re going to be part of history, and people will be reading about our exploits long after we’re gone.”

Chapter Thirty

Brad Miller had not had a chance to carry on his clandestine inquiry into the Little case because Susan Tuchman had kept him buried under case files. He knew she was trying to make him quit, but he was determined that he would not give her the satisfaction. He was equally determined not to give her an excuse to fire him. His insane workload meant he was staying at the office long after everyone else had gone home, including Ginny. If one thing was going to break his resolve it would be that his work was keeping him from her.

The night they’d gone to her place from the Shanghai Clipper they had fallen into each other’s arms before the door to her apartment had closed. Brad had been nervous when they were finally in bed, but Ginny had been so kind and patient that the sex had ended up being great. Or maybe it was being with Ginny that was great.

Brad decided that it was too early to compare sex with Ginny and sex with Bridget Malloy, since he’d only slept with Ginny once. He remembered that the sex had also been great the first time he and Bridget made love. In fact-for a while-sex with Bridget had been a mind-blowing whirlwind of discovery. That was when he was besotted and-he decided later-she was interested enough to give it her all. As Bridget’s interest cooled so did the frequency and the experimental nature of their intercourse. They’d pretty much settled into very fast missionary couplings before Bridget broke up with him the first time.

When they made love again after the second incarnation of their relationship Brad thought the sex was still pretty good. Then Bridget started making excuses for avoiding his bed. This, she finally confessed as they approached their second breakup, was because she was sleeping with an artist who lived in Chelsea. Bridget claimed that she was cheating because of her fear of commitment.

The third time they started seeing each other the sex had come to feel like an obligation.

Being with Ginny had helped Brad see that he’d been fooling himself about his feelings for Bridget during most of their relationship, and he was finally able to accept the fact that he’d been obsessed with a Bridget who had never really existed. He was lucky that Bridget had called off their wedding, which would have been the start of a marriage that was doomed to failure.

While spacing out during an assessment of a tax-avoidance scheme a partner had dreamed up for a wealthy client, Brad decided that the major difference between Ginny and Bridget was that Bridget was self-absorbed while Ginny was just plain nice. He arrived at this conclusion at 2:13 in the afternoon and was about to return to the tax code when an annoying clang signaled the arrival of e-mail on his computer. Brad brought up the message and smiled when he saw it was from Ginny. The message read: COFFEE NOW! OUR FAVORITE PLACE.

Brad found Ginny in the rear of the coffee shop at Broadway and Washington where they’d gotten together after his first meeting with Clarence Little. She was sipping a caffe latte, and Brad waved to her as he started toward the counter to order. Ginny smiled and pointed at the cup of black coffee she’d bought for him. Brad tried to remember if Bridget had ever done something so inconsequential yet so considerate during all of the time they’d been together and came up blank.

“I was beginning to think I’d never see you again with the hours I’m putting in,” Brad said when he arrived at the table.

“This too shall pass. Tuchman will find another associate to torture, and she’ll lose interest in you. Just hang in there.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it. I’d start hunting for another job but I don’t have time with my workload. So, do you have a reason for this secret rendezvous or do you just miss me?”

“I do miss you but that’s not the only reason I dragged you to our favorite caffeine salon. Guess what I discovered?”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with Clarence, does it?” Brad asked, alarmed.

“It does, but don’t worry. I figured a lot of it out online. And I didn’t use a computer at the office.”

“Figured what out?”

“What happened to the teenage client Farrington was rumored to have been sleeping with. You know what the Portland Clarion is, right?”

“The alternative newspaper?”

Ginny nodded. “When Farrington ran for governor the Clarion printed an article about the rumors of sexual impropriety. The client’s name was Rhonda Pulaski, and she was injured in a skiing accident on Mount Hood. Farrington sued the ski lodge operator, claiming they’d incorrectly marked a trail that Pulaski wasn’t skilled enough to ski down. The case was settled out of court for a sum in the high six figures.

“The day he received the check for the settlement Farrington rented a Town Car and picked up Pulaski at her high school. On the way, he showed the check to the chauffeur, Tim Houston, and bragged about the settlement. Houston told the paper that Farrington had been drinking and brought a bottle of champagne to Pulaski’s school. Houston thought that was really inappropriate.

“Instead of taking Pulaski straight home, Farrington had the chauffeur cruise around. There was an opaque window between the backseat and the driver’s seat, so Houston couldn’t see what happened between Pulaski and Farrington, but he claims to have heard them having sex.”

“What did Pulaski say?”

“Her parents wouldn’t let the police or the paper talk to her, and no charges were brought. Farrington threatened to sue the newspaper. The Clarion runs on a shoestring and defending a lawsuit would have bankrupted it, so they printed a retraction. I called the paper. The reporter who wrote the piece isn’t there anymore, but Frieda Bancroft, the editor, is still around. I wanted to talk to Houston, but she said he disappeared. No one knows where he is.”

“What about Pulaski?”

Ginny lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Are you ready for this? She’s dead. The victim of a hit-and-run driver who was never found. The car was though. It had been stolen. The cops think the thief was joyriding, but the car had been thoroughly cleaned so there were no prints, hairs, fibers, nothing to use to trace the driver. So Pulaski is dead and the only other witness is gone, maybe permanently.”

“I get less interested in pursuing this every minute,” Brad said nervously.

“Don’t be a sissy.”

“You’re confusing cowardice and prudence. If we’re right, Farrington is responsible for the deaths of three teenage girls and a chauffeur. I don’t want to add two associates to his total.”

“Farrington doesn’t even know we exist.”

“Yet. If we keep poking around, eventually we’ll appear on his radar.”

“Brad, this is too important to drop. Do you really want a murderer running America? If he’s responsible for all these killings we have to do something. Once we go to the authorities Farrington won’t have any reason to come after us. We’ll turn over everything we know to the police. We’re not witnesses. Killing us wouldn’t help his defense.”

“You forget revenge, which has always been a pretty strong motive for murder.”

“Farrington is too busy to bother with us. We’re the smallest of fry. He’s already worrying about the independent counsel’s investigation of the Walsh murder. If he has to worry about the Erickson and Pulaski cases he won’t have time to think about us.”

“You’re probably right, but do you want to take a chance that you’re wrong when the consequences could be that we end up dead?”

“As I see it, the only thing we’re going to do is try to find Laurie Erickson’s mother. If she doesn’t talk to us, that’s that. If she implicates Farrington, we go to the cops or the FBI and they’ll take it from there.”

“We aren’t doing anything. I told you I’d talk to Mrs. Erickson myself so you wouldn’t get in trouble with Tuchman.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

Brad nodded. “You’re right about how important this is. But talking to Erickson is all we’re going to do, right? After that we forget about the Clarence Little case, agreed?”

Brad stuck out his hand, and Ginny shook it. Brad held on and looked her in the eye. Ginny looked back and didn’t blink. Brad still thought she was lying.

Chapter Thirty-one

Unlike an incoming attorney general of the United States who starts his tenure with an existing office, staff, and equipment, an independent counsel starts with nothing but the piece of paper appointing him. On an independent counsel’s first day on the job he does not have computers or telephones or desks on which to put them. He has to locate and lease office space then fill it with furniture, equipment, investigators, books, and lawyers. This explained why Keith Evans was using a room in an inexpensive motel on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., to conduct his interview with Irving Lasker, the head of the Secret Service detail that guarded President Farrington at the farmhouse in Virginia.

Lasker was a wiry, stern-looking, middle-aged man with tight skin, sunken cheeks, and bright blue eyes that Evans half-believed could beam death rays. From his crew cut and the way he held himself, Evans guessed the Secret Service agent was ex-military.

Lasker sat stiff backed on a chair with gold casters that was upholstered in imitation red leather. Evans sat on a similar chair. The two men were separated by a round wooden table over which hung a cheap brass light fixture. Cars sped by on a freeway through the window on Keith’s left. To his right were a queen-size bed and an armoire containing a television that showed in-room movies. The room was dark and depressing and smelled of cleaning fluid.

“Sorry about the accommodations,” Evans said, using the apology as an icebreaker. “Justice Kineer’s out house hunting as we speak and we don’t have a big enough budget to rent at the Willard.”

“Understood,” Lasker answered tersely. Keith hoped the interview wouldn’t be as difficult as Lasker’s demeanor suggested.

“Thanks for bringing the log,” Evans said.

“The log was mentioned in the subpoena.”

“Yes, but you could have given us a hard time.”

“That’s not in my job description, Agent Evans. Ask me your questions and I’ll answer them truthfully, as long as they don’t concern protection procedures or security arrangements.”

Evans scanned the log on which were recorded the times and identities of the people who had entered and left the safe house.

“It says here that you brought the president to the farm at eight P.M.”

“That’s right. He was in the car with me.”

“No one else arrived until Walsh showed up?”

Lasker nodded.

“Then Walsh arrives at nine and leaves at nine-thirty-six.”

“That seems right.”

“Who drove her?”

“Sam Harcourt.”

“Is Agent Harcourt here?”

“He’s waiting in the lobby.”

“After Miss Walsh got out of the car did you hear anything that the president said to her or she said to him?”

“Not when she arrived. I was outside. When she left, I heard her yell at President Farrington.”

“What did she say?”

“Threats. He thought he could use her then toss her away. He’d be sorry. Stuff like that. I don’t remember the exact words.”

“What, if anything, did the president say?”

“He didn’t get emotional. I think he told her to calm down. Again, I can’t remember the exact words.”

“Okay, then Walsh is driven away?”

“By Agent Harcourt. He picked her up from the Dulles Towne Center mall and returned her to her car.”

“Did the president say anything after Miss Walsh left the farm?”

“Not about her, or, at least, not to me.”

“Tell me about the woman in the woods.”

“Okay. Right about the time Miss Walsh left, Bruno Culbertson spotted a woman in the woods taking pictures. He chased her, and she hid and hit him from behind. Richard Sanborne and I chased her and Sanborne wrote down what he believed to be the woman’s license plate number.”

“Did you discover who owned the car?”

“If Agent Sanborne wrote down the number correctly the car that drove away from the farm is registered to a Dana Cutler.”

“Did you or anyone to your knowledge follow up on the possibility that Miss Cutler was the person who took the pictures?”

“Mr. Hawkins told us that he’d be following up.”

“That’s Charles Hawkins, the president’s aide?”

“Yes.”

“Wouldn’t the Secret Service normally follow up on potential threats to the president?”

“Yes, but President Farrington instructed us to leave the investigation to his aide.”

“President Farrington told you this himself?”

Lasker nodded. Evans thought that this was very unusual and that it might be a key piece of evidence in the investigation.

“Has an arrest warrant been issued for Dana Cutler for assaulting a federal officer?”

“The Secret Service hasn’t requested one.”

“Why not?”

“We don’t know for certain that Cutler struck Bruno. He didn’t get a good look at the woman he was chasing, and he didn’t see who hit him. Rich Sanborne isn’t certain about the license number. Then Mr. Hawkins told us to drop the matter.”

“So Cutler’s not a fugitive?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“The log says that Mr. Hawkins arrived at the farm at eleven-fifteen P.M.”

“That sounds right,” Lasker said.

“Did he drive himself or was someone with him?”

“He was alone.”

“Did you hear any part of his conversation with the president?”

“No. President Farrington was in the library. Mr. Hawkins joined him. I was outside the house.”

“The log says that Mr. Hawkins left the farm at eleven-fifty.”

“That sounds right.”

“When did you leave the farm to drive the president back to the White House?”

“Shortly after midnight.”

“When did you arrive at the White House?”

“Somewhere around one in the morning.”

“Was President Farrington in your presence from the time he arrived at the farm until he returned to the White House?”

“If you’re asking whether he could have murdered the Walsh girl between eight and one, the answer is no.”

Secret Service Agent Sam Harcourt was forty-two. There was gray mixed into his jet-black hair, lines on his face, and his eyes were as alert as those of the other Secret Service agents with whom Evans had come in contact. It seemed to him that these men and women were on the alert for any trouble no matter what situation they were in. He wondered if they ever relaxed.

“You were the agent assigned to pick up Charlotte Walsh at the Dulles Towne Center mall and return her there?”

“Yes.”

Evans had the distinct impression that something was bothering Harcourt.

“You seem…I don’t know, upset,” Evans said.

Harcourt stiffened. “Of course I’m upset. She was a nice kid and she was tortured to death.”

“So, you liked her?”

“I really didn’t get a chance to know her. I guess I should have said that she seemed like a nice kid. We were only together during the trips to and from the mall and she didn’t talk much, especially on the trip back.”

“Her mood was different going to the farm and coming back?”

“Definitely. She was excited on the way to the farm. Not that she talked much, but I could see her in the rearview mirror.”

“When she did talk, what did she say?”

“Nothing important. Where are we going, how much longer, that kind of thing. I was instructed not to talk to her, so I never initiated a conversation.”

“Who told you not to talk to Walsh?”

“Agent Lasker. He headed up the detail. He said the president didn’t want me to chat with Walsh, so I didn’t.”

Once again, Evans sensed that Harcourt was angry about something.

“Was Miss Walsh’s mood different on the return trip?”

“Definitely. She was very upset. I could see her crying for part of the ride.”

“Did she explain why she was upset?”

“No, and I didn’t ask because of my orders.”

“Did you have any conversation with her?”

“I remember asking if she was okay and if she wanted some water, but she said she was fine and she turned down the water.”

“Agent Harcourt, did you hear or see anything that would lead you to believe that Miss Walsh had engaged in sexual relations with the president?”

Harcourt hesitated.

“If you know something about this you have to tell us. The independent counsel is charged with determining if the president had any involvement in Miss Walsh’s death. If they were intimate and she was angry at him, the president would have a motive.”

Harcourt took a deep breath. “When Walsh came out of the house she was very angry. I could hear what she said because she was standing right next to the driver’s door. She yelled at the president. She said, ‘You can’t just fuck me then toss me away like a used tissue.’ That’s a direct quote.”

Evans studied the agent, whose face was flushed. “You seem more upset than I’d expect. You seem angry. Is there something else you know that’s made you critical of President Farrington that concerns Miss Walsh?”

Harcourt nodded. Then he looked directly at Evans. “I was on the president’s detail when he went to Chicago for a fund-raiser. I can’t remember the exact date but it wasn’t that long ago. I saw Charles Hawkins smuggle Walsh into the president’s suite. She was in there about an hour when Hawkins showed up again to collect her. They went up and down by a service elevator that goes to the kitchen.”

“Do you know if they had sex?”

“No. I never went into the suite while she was inside.”

“Is there anything else?”

Harcourt shook his head. “It’s just not right. I’m a Christian and I don’t hold with this behavior. He’s a married man and Miss Walsh was very young.”

“I understand why you’d be upset. Tell me, when you got back to her car did you see anything suspicious?”

“No, and I’ve thought about that a lot. I was worried that there might have been something I could have done to save her.”

“What do you think now?”

“Honestly, I can’t say I saw anything that would help your investigation. I dropped her off, I waited until she was in her car, then I left.”

“So you didn’t see anyone lurking around?”

“No, but there were cars parked in the vicinity of her car. Someone could have been hiding in one of them or behind one of them and I wouldn’t have known.”

“Did you see Miss Walsh drive off?”

Harcourt’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t, and now that I think about it, I didn’t see her headlights come on.”

“If she was upset she may have been sitting in her car trying to calm down before she drove off.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s a damn shame that a nice kid like that is dead.”

Evans pressed for more evidence about the president’s infidelities but Harcourt didn’t have any further useful information.

When he was finished interviewing the last Secret Service agent Evans checked his cell phone for messages. There was one from Sparks asking him to call her.

“Hey, Maggie, what’s up?” Evans asked when Sparks picked up.

“Did you put out an APB on a Harley?”

“Yeah.”

“A cop just called in from Webster’s Corner, West Virginia. The bike’s been spotted at the Traveler’s Rest Motel.”

Chapter Thirty-two

When Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks followed the Webster’s Corner cop around the side of the Traveler’s Rest, Dana Cutler was sitting at a picnic table finishing off her evening meal. Until then, Dana had been at peace. The sun was just starting to set, and a gentle breeze was rustling the surface of the river that ran behind the motel. There was birdsong in the air and a quarter mile to the east, a speedboat was stirring up the blue-green water.

Dana cursed herself for not sensing that something was wrong earlier in the day when she saw the same cop stop at the motel office after cruising by twice. The Harley was parked a twenty-five-yard dash away, and the money belt with the cash Gorman had paid her was cinched around her waist. Dana stood so she could make a break for it if they gave her a chance.

“Miss Cutler?” Evans asked pleasantly.

“Who wants to know?” Dana asked. Her instincts told her to go for her gun but the cop’s hand was hovering over his sidearm and she figured the odds were against her. She might have tried to shoot her way out anyway, but Evans and Sparks didn’t scare her the way she’d been scared by the men in her apartment and the men in the alley behind The 911. Dana decided that the two suits weren’t going to kill her with the cop as a witness.

“I’m Keith Evans. I’m with the FBI.” Evans handed Cutler his card. “This is Margaret Sparks, my partner. We’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Evans smiled. “Conking a Secret Service agent on the skull, for starters.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s okay. We aren’t here to arrest you. No one has filed a complaint. I’ve been assigned to assist the independent counsel in his investigation of the president’s possible involvement in the murder of Charlotte Walsh. We’re here to offer our protection. From what I hear, there have been two attempts on your life already. You’ve been lucky so far, but the men who’ve tried to kill you will find you if we did.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about and you’re interrupting my dinner.”

“Watch your lip,” the cop said. “That bike you’re riding isn’t registered to a woman. If I get the word, you’ll be in the lockup until we find out if you’re riding a stolen vehicle.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Officer Boudreaux,” Evans said, “but there’s no need to play hardball with Miss Cutler. We just want to talk to her. In fact, we’ll take it from here.”

“I just don’t like her attitude, is all,” the policeman insisted sullenly.

While Evans was talking to the officer, Dana’s eyes were drawn to the two men in the speedboat. There was something familiar about them. One man was steering the boat and the other man was scanning the shoreline with binoculars. The binoculars turned toward her and fixed in that position for a moment. Then the man spoke into some object that could have been a cell phone or a walkie-talkie.

The boat drew close enough for Dana to hear the hum of its motor at the same time the rumble of other engines pulled her attention toward the highway. The policeman was walking back the way he’d come when two motorcycles tore around the corner. Dana drew three conclusions simultaneously: the man in the speedboat with the binoculars looked very much like the blond, long-haired man who’d threatened her in her apartment; the man steering the boat looked like the man she’d shot in her apartment; and the men on the bikes were armed.

“Get down,” Dana screamed just as the gunman on the lead bike shot the policeman through the eye.

Evans and Sparks were slow to react because their backs were to the bikes but Dana dropped to the ground, drew her gun from its place at the small of her back, and drilled the second gunman just as he was drawing a bead on Evans. His bike flipped in the air, wheels spinning, then skidded on its side across the grass. Dana aimed at the other rider. The bike roared by. Dana’s shot went wide. She started to roll onto her stomach to take a second shot when a corner of the table exploded. A splinter from the table stabbed Sparks in the cheek and she fell to the ground.

“The boat!” Evans screamed as he dragged Sparks behind the table. Dana glanced toward the river and saw the blond take aim with a high-powered rifle. Evans squatted, grabbed the edge of the table, and heaved it over so that the top was shielding them. A second bullet tore through the wood just missing him but Dana paid no attention because the gunman on the motorcycle was making another pass. He was hunched over his handlebars to present as small a target as possible as he aimed his weapon. Dana fired until her gun was empty. One of the shots hit the motorcycle’s rear wheel and the bike pitched forward, sending the shooter into space. He crashed to the ground and tried to sit up. Dana grabbed her ankle gun and ran at him, firing nonstop. Two rounds caught the killer in the face. He collapsed onto his back just as a round from the rifle whizzed by Dana’s ear. She hit the ground and rolled back to the table next to Evans. Sparks writhed on the ground beside them, gritted her teeth, and pressed her hand to the right side of her face, which was covered with blood. The boat was close now. Evans took careful aim and shot at the man at the wheel. The shot missed but it shattered the windshield. The driver ducked and the boat swung back and forth. The blond lost his balance and tilted sideways, almost dropping the rifle. The driver wrenched the boat around and headed upriver. Evans collapsed on his backside and sucked air.

“Call for backup and an ambulance for your partner,” Dana ordered as she ran to the policeman.

“The cop is dead,” she shouted at Evans, who was speaking into his cell phone.

“So are the shooters,” Dana said after checking the two riders. “How’s your partner?”

“I’m okay,” Sparks said between clenched teeth. “This just hurts like hell.”

“The ambulance is on its way,” Evans said.

“Good. I’m out of here,” Dana said.

“Wait,” Evans said as he aimed his gun at Dana.

“You’re going to have to shoot me because I’m not waiting for more of Farrington’s killers to take me out.”

Evans lowered his gun. “We’ll put you in the witness protection program.”

“Which is run by the Justice Department, which is part of the executive branch whose boss is Christopher Farrington? No thanks.”

Dana turned and ran to her Harley. She wheeled it toward the front of her room so she could grab her gear.

“Are you letting her go?” Sparks asked.

“The alternative was shooting her, and she did save our lives.”

“You saved mine,” Sparks said.

Evans blushed. “Nah, I was trying to use you as a human shield but I couldn’t boost you up in time.”

Sparks tried to smile but a spasm of pain made her grit her teeth. Keith heard sirens in the distance.

“Here comes the cavalry,” he said.

Chapter Thirty-three

In junior high school, Brad had erased a file with a term paper on it. After that, he’d been a fanatic about backing up important files and taking the disc wherever he went in case a fire, theft, tsunami, earthquake, or other disaster deprived him of his hard drive. Susan Tuchman had ordered Brad to turn over the Little file along with the file on his computer that contained his notes, but Tuchman had never asked Brad if he had a backup disc. Brad was certain the disc contained a recent address for Marsha Erickson, Laurie’s mother, he had found in the trial lawyer’s file. He was right but there was no phone number. When he tried to get a number from directory assistance he was told that it was unlisted. That was why he was using precious time on a Sunday driving down a narrow dirt road located halfway between Portland and the coast instead of working or, better yet, watching the Yankees play Boston.

Oregon oaks created a leafy canopy over the dirt track, casting it in shadow. Through the trees Brad could see low-lying hills and a clear blue sky. Below the hills were cultivated fields divided into fire-blackened squares, where field burning had been used to enrich the soil, and other squares of wheat yellow and jade green. Brad wished he could share the gorgeous scenery with Ginny, but he knew he had to conduct his interview alone to protect her job.

An unspectacular ranch-style house was waiting for Brad at the end of the road. The yard did not look like it had been tended recently, and the paint on the house was peeling. Brad parked in the gravel driveway and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chimes echo in the interior of the house. When there was no answer he rang the bell again. Moments later, he saw a shape moving toward him through the frosted glass on one side of the door.

“Who are you?” a woman asked. It was only one in the afternoon but her speech was slurred.

“I’m Brad Miller, ma’am. I’m an associate with the Reed, Briggs law firm in Portland.”

Erickson had worked as a legal secretary for Christopher Farrington, so Brad hoped that the firm’s name would impress her. A moment after he’d said the magic words the front door opened. In a photograph of Marsha Erickson taken shortly after her daughter’s murder she looked a little heavy but nothing like the grossly overweight woman in the red-, yellow-, and blue-flower print muumuu who stood before him. Rings of fat circled her neck, she had a double chin, and her eyes, which were almost hidden beneath fleshy folds, were bloodshot.

“What does Reed, Briggs want with me?” she asked belligerently. Her breath left no doubt about why she was swaying and why her words ran together.

“Reed, Briggs is a very successful law firm but we don’t want the public to see us as simply a money machine,” Brad answered, remembering the pep talk Susan Tuchman had given before dumping the Little case on him. “In order to give back to the people of Oregon we take on pro bono projects, and I’ve been assigned to one.”

“Are you going to get to the point?” Erickson asked impatiently.

“Yes, well, could we step inside? It’s a little hot out here.”

“No, we can not. I’m not letting you in until you tell me why you’re here.”

“It’s Clarence Little, ma’am. I was assigned his appeal in the Ninth Circuit from a denial of habeas corpus.”

The blood drained from Erickson’s face.

“We have reason to believe that Mr. Little may not have been responsible for your daughter’s death,” Brad blurted out, afraid that Erickson was going to shut the door in his face.

“Who sent you?” Erickson asked, her voice trembling.

“Reed, Briggs,” Brad said as he handed her his card. “I just have a few questions I wanted to ask you about your daughter’s relationship with President Farrington.”

Erickson’s head jerked up at the mention of the president. “No, no. You have to leave.”

“But-”

“Leave or I’ll call the police.”

“Mrs. Erickson, did Christopher Farrington bother your daughter sexually?”

Marsha Erickson stared at Brad. She looked terrified. “You have to go,” she said as she stepped back into the house.

“But Mrs. Erickson-”

“You have to go.”

Erickson slammed the door shut, leaving Brad alone.

Ginny and Brad were sitting side by side on secondhand lawn chairs on the tiny balcony outside Ginny’s living room window. Three stories below people strolled along the sidewalks of Portland’s fashionable Pearl District where savvy developers had converted warehouses into expensive condos and apartments and lured in upscale eateries, art galleries, and chic boutiques. Ginny justified the high rent she paid for her small one-bedroom by pointing to the money she saved on gas by walking or taking the trolley to work.

“It doesn’t sound like you learned much,” Ginny said when Brad finished filling her in on his visit to Marsha Erickson.

“I learned that Marsha Erickson is scared to death of Christopher Farrington,” Brad answered. “I bet he paid her off and she’s smart enough to know that you don’t double-cross the president of the United States.”

“I bet you would have learned a lot more if I’d been along. She would have related better to a woman.”

“I don’t think so. I’m not kidding when I say she was scared. As soon as I mentioned Farrington she panicked.”

“Damn.”

“I tried.”

Ginny took hold of his hand. “I know you did, and you’re probably right about her not talking to me, either.” She sighed. “Without Erickson’s mother we have nothing.”

“We tried our best. Now all we can do is hope that Paul Baylor proves that Laurie Erickson’s pinkie isn’t in the Mason jar and whoever Tuchman’s got working on the case goes to the police.”

“There’s not much chance of that with the Dragon Lady supervising. You said yourself that she’s Farrington’s big buddy.”

“If I tell you something will you promise not to get mad at me?” Brad asked Ginny.

“That would depend on what you tell me.”

“I’m relieved that Mrs. Erickson wouldn’t talk to me and that we have no further leads. I don’t like Clarence Little one bit. He’s a sick bastard who deserves to be on death row. This case is probably going to cost me my job, and it might have put your position with the firm in jeopardy if Tuchman learned you’ve been helping me, so I’m glad it’s over for us. There, I’ve said my piece. If you want to hate me, go right ahead.”

Ginny squeezed Brad’s hand. “I don’t hate you and I’m sorry the case has caused you so much trouble. It’s just that…Damn it, I believe in our system of justice. If it’s going to mean anything at all it’s got to work for scum like Little as well as for the decent people who get in trouble. But you’re right, enough is enough. I won’t get on you anymore about the case. I’ll even take some of your workload off your hands so you can catch up.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know, but two of the partners I work with are on vacation, so I’ve got some free time. And I want you to have some free time because I’m horny.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“Damn, I was hoping to catch a few innings of the Yankee game.”

Ginny stood up and put her hands on her hips. “Who would you rather sleep with, me or George Steinbrenner?”

“How long do I have to make up my mind?” Brad asked with a grin.

Ginny grabbed Brad by the ear and pulled him to his feet. “Get in the bedroom, Bradford Miller, before I really get mad.”

Chapter Thirty-four

Dana Cutler drove aimlessly to give the adrenaline in her system time to subside. Then she gassed up and headed for Pennsylvania. She spent the night sleeping in a farmer’s field then drove through Ohio on back roads, spending the next night in an abandoned warehouse outside of Columbus. Dana was in the middle of a meal at a fast-food place in Des Moines, Iowa, when she decided that she couldn’t keep running. She had a lot of money, but it would be gone eventually, and the forces hunting her were much better at finding people than she was at escaping detection. She knew that for a fact after what had happened at the Traveler’s Rest. If she was going to survive, she was going to have to fight back, but how?

Dana abandoned Jake’s bike in the rear of the restaurant. She felt bad about ditching the Harley, but she couldn’t risk riding it anymore. She vowed to buy Jake a new one if this one wasn’t returned to him and if she wasn’t dead or in prison.

After dyeing her auburn hair jet-black in the bathroom of a gas station, Dana put on the glasses she’d saved from her escape from The 911 and changed into a plain, loose-fitting print dress that made her look poor and pathetic. Then she walked a mile to the public library on Grand Avenue, intent on learning as much as she could about Christopher Farrington in the hope that the key to her survival lay somewhere in Farrington’s past.

Any president has access to scores of trained killers. He is, after all, the commander in chief of the armed forces of the United States. But there’s a difference between sending an army to fight a country’s enemies and murdering a college coed. Dana didn’t doubt that Farrington had access to people who would obey the order of a president to kill a helpless civilian, but where would he have found such a person on short notice? Unless Farrington had planned to kill Charlotte Walsh before he asked her to come to the farm, the decision had been made after she left the farm and before she returned to her car in the mall parking lot. That suggested that the killer was someone very close to the president.

Dana followed a young couple inside and wandered through the library until she located an open computer. She logged on with the password from the motel and started to Google “Christopher Farrington,” but she stopped in midstroke. At the motel, she’d been reading something when the TV news report of Charlotte Walsh’s death interrupted her. What was it? Dana shut her eyes and tried to remember. A murder! That was it. Charles Hawkins had been a witness in a murder case in Oregon, something to do with a teenage babysitter.

Dana’s fingers flew over the keyboard. In a few moments she had the case name. Seconds later, she had a number of hits by using the name “Clarence Little.” The more she learned about the murder of Laurie Erickson the more confident she was that Charles Hawkins and the president had copied Little’s modus operandi in Oregon and Eric Loomis’s in D.C. to cover up the murders of two teenagers who had become threats to Farrington. A newspaper story informed her that Clarence Little was challenging his conviction for the murder of Laurie Erickson by claiming an alibi for the time of Erickson’s death. Eric Loomis was denying that he was culpable for Charlotte Walsh’s death. Dana saw a pattern starting to develop. Later that evening, she got on a bus headed for Portland, Oregon, where Brad Miller, the attorney of record for Clarence Little, was practicing law.

Chapter Thirty-five

Keith Evans stayed at the hospital with Maggie Sparks while the doctors stitched up her cheek. The wound was nasty but the damage was all cosmetic. Maggie joked that the scar would make her look tough. Evans drove her home after she was discharged and offered to stay with her, but she said she’d be fine. When Evans finally got to sleep it was three in the morning and he didn’t get up until eight.

At the office, Evans was bombarded with questions as soon as he stepped out of the elevator. He assured everyone that he and Maggie were okay. He had almost reached his office when Justice Kineer’s secretary grabbed him and led him to the justice’s office for a private, detailed account of the motel shoot-out.

Evans finally made it to his office at ten-thirty. The first thing he noticed was a thick folder sitting squarely in the center of his desk. He sat down and read the tab. It was Dana Cutler’s classified file. Evans opened it and blinked. He found himself looking at photographs that documented a scene so gruesome that it took a while for his brain to process it.

Three men were sprawled on the floor in different parts of a rec room. There was a pool table in the middle of the scene, and Evans noticed a pool cue on the floor next to the right arm of one of the victims, a burly, bearded man wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. When he looked closer, Evans realized that the man’s right hand was not connected to the arm. He also noticed several deep, slashing wounds on the man’s face, neck, chest, and legs. The body was drenched in blood.

Evans shuffled through the stack of photographs. The other men had also been hacked to pieces. Evans tried to remember if he’d ever seen such carnage and the closest he could come to it was an act of Russian Mafia vengeance that had wiped out an entire family. But those murders had been carried out unemotionally in an orderly manner because the executioners had been interested in sending a message. These killings suggested pure savagery.

A second set of photographs portrayed a fourth victim who had been discovered in the basement. A chain that ended in an open manacle lay near his body. A close-up of the victim’s face showed a jagged piece of glass protruding from the man’s left eye and several bullet holes in his face.

There was an audiocassette of Dana Cutler’s statement in the file and a transcript of the tape. Before listening to the tape, Evans read through the police reports. A squad of D.C. narcotics detectives had responded to a call from Dana that directed them to a house in a rural area near the Maryland shore. The narcotics officers had lost contact with her three days before when the meth cook she was traveling with gave them the slip. The reporting officer noted that Dana spoke in a monotone and could barely be heard. She refused to discuss what had happened when asked and restricted her conversation to directions that would bring the police to her.

When the police arrived at the house they found Dana sitting in the rec room near the phone staring into space. She was naked and covered in gore. A blood-soaked ax lay at her feet next to two.357 Magnum handguns. The dead men all had lengthy police records and had been arrested for or charged with multiple assaults, rapes, and murders. A report written after talking to the physician who had treated Dana at the hospital informed Evans that she had suffered several savage beatings over every part of her body and had been raped repeatedly. She had been transferred to a psychiatric hospital as soon as her physical problems had been treated.

Evans put the cassette in a tape recorder and pressed the play button. He had to turn the volume up because Dana spoke in a voice that was barely audible and she slurred her words, giving the impression that she was drugged or exhausted. The interview was conducted by Detective Aubrey Carmichael, who asked Dana what had happened after she arrived at the meth lab.

“They hit me,” Dana answered.

“Hit you how?” Aubrey asked.

“On the head. I don’t remember much. When I came to I was chained by the leg to the wall in the basement.”

“What happened after you woke up?”

“They beat me and they raped me. I was naked. They kept me naked.”

Evans heard sobs on the tape. Aubrey offered Dana water. There was no sound on the tape for a while. Then the conversation resumed.

“How did you escape?” the detective asked.

“Brady was drinking beer while he waited to rape me.”

“Brady is the cook?”

“Yes. He put the bottle down. It was empty. He forgot to take it with him. He came down later to rape me again. He was alone. He…he was in me. His eyes were closed. When he opened them I…”

“It’s okay. We can fill in the details when you’re better.”

“I won’t be better. Not ever.”

Evans lost contact with his surroundings as he listened to Dana Cutler describe her walk up the cellar steps with Brady’s Magnum in one hand and an ax in the other. She had taken the other gang members by surprise while they were playing pool and shot them in their legs and shoulders, disabling them. Then she’d taken the ax to each of them. Dana’s account was sketchy because she didn’t remember a lot of what she’d done.

Reports from the mental hospital characterized her as suffering post-traumatic stress disorder and extreme depression. Dana experienced recurring nightmares and flashbacks. She had become an outpatient almost a year after being admitted.

“Jesus Christ,” Evans muttered when he finished the file. He could not begin to imagine what Dana had felt during her ordeal and he felt an overwhelming need to find her and protect her.

Chapter Thirty-six

“We have problems,” Charles Hawkins told President Farrington.

“I don’t want to hear about any problems now, Chuck. I’ve got to go on television in ten minutes and try to save my campaign.”

“You need to hear this. Cutler escaped again.”

Farrington gaped at his friend. “What’s wrong with you? She’s one woman.”

“She’s very resourceful.”

“You’ve got to eliminate her. She can blow the story I’m going to tell the American people to pieces. I need Cutler dead.”

“Calm down. We’ll get her.”

Farrington fumed silently for a moment. Then he noticed that Hawkins looked like he had more to say.

“Out with it. What else happened?”

“Two of our men were killed, a cop was killed, too, and an FBI agent was wounded.”

“She was involved in the shoot-out in West Virginia?”

Hawkins nodded.

“That’s been the lead on every news show. With a dead cop and a wounded FBI agent the investigation will be massive.”

“Don’t worry. I’m on top of it.”

“You’d better be.” Farrington shook his head. “A dead cop and a wounded FBI agent. How could this happen?”

“Look, it’s too bad about the cop and the agent, but they’re collateral damage. The important thing is that there’s nothing pointing toward the White House and there won’t be. Our men can’t be traced. They don’t carry ID on a mission, and their prints have been erased from the system.”

“Is there any more bad news?”

“There is one other minor problem. Marsha Erickson was told to call Dale Perry if there was ever any trouble. She didn’t know he was dead and she called him. Mort Rickstein handled the call. She told him that Brad Miller, an associate with the Reed, Briggs firm in Oregon, tried to pump her for information about you and Laurie Erickson.”

“What did she tell Miller?” Farrington asked, alarmed.

“Nothing. She refused to talk to him just like we told her to do if anyone ever asked about her daughter. And we don’t have to worry about the associate. Mort is a friend of Susan Tuchman. She’s been supervising this kid. She promised to read him the riot act.”

Farrington smiled. “Poor bastard. If Sue is on his case we won’t have to worry.”

“Too true, but I am concerned about Erickson. She’s a lush. She won’t be able to deal with the pressure if her daughter’s case gets reopened.”

A bead of sweat marred Farrington’s makeup, which had been carefully applied just before Hawkins had come in and banished the makeup artist.

“My God! If anyone links Laurie’s murder to Charlotte’s…”

“They won’t. I’ll take care of it like I always do. So don’t worry. Concentrate on your speech. While you’re winning over the public I’ll be taking care of the loose ends.”

Hawkins spent a few more minutes calming his friend. Then he left him and used a secure White House line to make a call.

“Hey,” he said to the man who answered. “Remember that potential problem we discussed? Why don’t you take care of it? And do not fuck up this time.”

When Christopher Farrington stared into the lens of the television camera he felt certain that he looked humble and contrite because his press secretary, Clem Hutchins, had secretly flown in one of the best acting coaches in New York to train him to look humble and contrite on cue. Standing at Farrington’s shoulder was Claire Meadows Farrington, obviously with child and the very model of the loving and supportive wife.

“My fellow Americans, several days ago a Washington, D.C., newspaper published a story that implied that I’d had an extramarital affair with a young woman named Charlotte Walsh. What made this story so sad was the tragic fact that Miss Walsh’s life was snuffed out by a degenerate criminal, who, fortunately, has been captured, due to the brilliant work of an FBI task force.

“I could stonewall the newspaper’s allegations but that would mean stonewalling you, the American public, the very people I am asking to trust me with shepherding our country through the next four years. How can I ask you to trust me with your vote if I’m not willing to discuss these accusations with you openly and honestly?”

Farrington bowed his head, as he’d been instructed to do. Then he took a breath, as if he was composing himself, and once again addressed his audience.

“I met Miss Walsh briefly at my campaign headquarters where she was a volunteer. Without my knowledge, she told my assistant, Charles Hawkins, that she wanted to help our campaign by pretending to be a supporter of Senator Maureen Gaylord and infiltrating her headquarters. Mr. Hawkins told her that it would be unethical to spy on Senator Gaylord, and he rejected the offer. Unfortunately, Miss Walsh volunteered at Senator Gaylord’s headquarters despite Mr. Hawkins’s stern warning that she should not do so.

“The newspaper story appeared in Exposed, a weekly supermarket tabloid that is not known for honesty in reporting. The so-called facts behind the story were credited to an unnamed source, and no effort was made to check on the truth of the allegations before the story was printed.

“The story in Exposed featured photographs that showed me and Miss Walsh together. On the evening that the photographs were taken, Miss Walsh phoned Mr. Hawkins and told him-without revealing how she had obtained them-that she had copies of documents that proved that Senator Gaylord had a secret slush fund that clearly violated the campaign financing laws. She offered to bring these documents to him. Mr. Hawkins was supposed to accompany me to a farm where I was to take part in a meeting involving matters of state security, the details of which I cannot discuss tonight. He arranged to have Miss Walsh driven to the farm where the pictures were taken.

“Unexpected events conspired to create the situation in which I find myself. First, I asked my wife to represent me at a fund-raiser at which I was supposed to speak. Just before I left for my meeting, Claire told me she was pregnant. I was overjoyed but I was also concerned about her speaking in public in her delicate condition.”

Farrington smiled warmly. “Those of you who know the first lady know that she is as tough as nails. You don’t get to be an all-American and a medical doctor if you can’t handle pressure. Claire assured me that she would be fine, but I insisted that Mr. Hawkins accompany her. Chuck is one of our oldest and dearest friends and I wanted to make certain that he would be with Claire should anything go wrong.”

At this strategic moment, Claire, as instructed, gazed lovingly at her husband and took his hand. The president returned her adoring gaze with one of his own. Then he returned to his audience.

“When I arrived at the farm I learned that the people I was supposed to meet had been forced to cancel at the last minute. Then Miss Walsh arrived. Mr. Hawkins had briefed me about his conversation with her, but I had forgotten about Miss Walsh because of the excitement over Claire’s pregnancy and my preparations for the meeting.

“Miss Walsh and I went upstairs to discuss the documents she had brought. As soon as we were alone, Miss Walsh gave me what she claimed was a list of secret contributors to Senator Gaylord’s campaign. Then she told me that she had posed as a volunteer to infiltrate Senator Gaylord’s campaign headquarters and had stolen the list from the desk of Reginald Styles, Senator Gaylord’s campaign manager. As soon as I learned what she had done I told her that I could not accept the list because it was stolen property. At that point Miss Walsh began to make sexual advances toward me.

“Presidents are also human beings, and Miss Walsh was very attractive. I admit to you that I was tempted, but I swear to you that I fought the temptation to betray my wife. I told her to stop what she was doing. I explained that I had just learned that my wife was expecting our second child and that I loved her very much and would never cheat on her. I told Miss Walsh that her behavior was very inappropriate and I reiterated that stealing from Senator Gaylord was illegal. Then I asked her to leave.

“At this point, Miss Walsh started yelling at me. I left the room, and Miss Walsh continued her tirade as she descended the stairs. She implied she had just slept with me and stormed out of the house, shouting. This was extremely embarrassing, but in light of what we have discovered since the incident, I believe I can offer an explanation for her behavior. I believe that Miss Walsh planned to help my opponent’s campaign all along.

“When Miss Walsh left the upstairs room she also left the alleged slush fund document. An analysis of the document has led us to conclude that the list is a fake. Had we gone public with this list my campaign would have been embarrassed. I do not know if Senator Gaylord or people working for her used Miss Walsh to try and create a scandal that would assist the senator in winning the presidency or if this plan was solely of Miss Walsh’s devising. I do know that very few people knew where Miss Walsh was supposed to meet Mr. Hawkins, yet a photographer conveniently appeared at the farm and took pictures which made it appear that Miss Walsh and I were having a lover’s spat. Then these pictures conveniently appeared in Exposed.”

The president squeezed Claire’s hand and looked directly into the camera lens.

“One mistake that those behind this scheme made was to believe that I would cheat to win an election. They also erred when they decided that I would violate my marriage vows. Finally, they miscalculated when they concluded that you, the American public, would believe this smear.

“Claire Farrington is the most important person in my life; she is my life. I would never disgrace her, my son, Patrick, or the child Claire is carrying by engaging in the disgraceful conduct that the story that appeared in Exposed suggested. This is what I swear to you, my fellow Americans, and I trust you to judge if I am sincere, I trust you to see through the veil of lies that someone has woven. Thank you.”

Farrington nodded to the camera and exited, holding Claire’s hand. As soon as they were off camera, Claire turned to her husband.

“You were magnificent.”

“Clem and Chuck wrote the speech,” Chris said, blushing.

“But you delivered it. I can’t wait to see the polls.”

Charles Hawkins hung around listening to the reporters long enough to get a sense for how well the speech had gone over. There was a lot of skepticism but there were a significant number of media members who seemed to have bought what Farrington had been selling and others who weren’t certain where the truth lay. Hawkins believed that the American public was much more gullible than the press, who were by and large professional skeptics. The chances were good that the story would fly with the voters if a substantial portion of the press corps was buying it. The only fly in the ointment was Dana Cutler, who had seen the lights go out in the bedroom of the farmhouse and knew how long they’d been out, which was something you couldn’t tell from the pictures that Exposed had published. Another problem Cutler presented was that she could testify that she’d been hired by Dale Perry and not by someone working for Senator Gaylord.

Hawkins left the press room and started toward his office when a large man with sandy hair stepped into his path.

“Mr. Hawkins,” Keith Evans said as he displayed his credentials, “can I have a few minutes of your time?”

“I’m really very busy. What’s this about?”

“My name is Keith Evans and I’m the FBI agent-in-charge of the Ripper Task Force.”

“Oh, yes. That was good work.”

“Thanks. I hope we’ve been doing a good job of keeping the White House up-to-date on the Ripper case. I tried to make sure you had a complete set of our investigative reports.”

“The president appreciates the excellent job you’ve done. So, what did you want to see me about? Is there some way we can help with the Ripper?”

“I’m not here to talk about Eric Loomis. I’m on temporary assignment to Justice Kineer, the independent counsel.”

Hawkins’s friendly smile disappeared. “You mean the grand inquisitor, don’t you? What makes you think I’d cooperate with Maureen Gaylord’s witch hunt?”

Evans laughed. “We like to think of our investigation as an official inquiry authorized by an act of Congress. And I only have a few general questions for you.”

“Such as?”

“In his speech, the president said that you invited Charlotte Walsh to the safe house.”

“That’s what the president said.”

“Then President Farrington asked you to accompany his wife to the fund-raiser.”

“You know all this from the speech.”

“Right. What I don’t know is what you and the president talked about when you got to the farmhouse.”

Hawkins flashed a cold smile. “I’m sure you appreciate that I can’t discuss conversations I’ve had with the president of the United States.”

“You’re not an attorney or a priest, are you?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t have any privilege that makes your conversations confidential.”

“What’s your next question?”

“I can get a subpoena.”

“Do what you have to do, Agent Evans.”

Evans could see that Hawkins wasn’t going to cave in, so he moved on.

“Where did you go after you left the safe house?”

“You know, you should be looking at Senator Gaylord and her people.”

“For what reason?”

“I’m not an idiot, Agent Evans. Our little exchange before you told me you were working for Kineer revealed that I knew about the Ripper’s MO and would be able to fake a copycat killing, as suggested by the story in Exposed. I’m guessing that Gaylord’s people had the same information and an excellent motive to get rid of Walsh to keep her from testifying that Gaylord put her up to her stunt at the farm.”

“That’s interesting. I hadn’t thought of that. Thank you.”

“Now, if there’s nothing else…”

“Actually I did have one more thing I wanted to ask you about.”

“What’s that?”

“Chicago.”

“What about Chicago?” Hawkins asked cautiously.

“Did you bring Charlotte Walsh to see the president in Chicago or was it another member of your staff?”

All emotion vanished from Hawkins’s features. One moment Evans had been talking to a human being and the next moment he was standing opposite a machine.

“It’s been nice talking to you,” Hawkins said. “Tell the members of the Ripper Task Force that they did a great job and the president appreciates it.”

Hawkins turned his back on the agent and walked away. Evans watched him disappear before strolling over to the members of the press corps who were still around. He’d spotted Harold Whitehead earlier. Whitehead worked for the Washington Post, and they’d run into each other several times since Evans moved to D.C. The reporter was in his early sixties, and he’d been working in the newspaper business before the big corporations and twenty-four-hour news channels had converted the news from information to entertainment, as he constantly reminded people. Early in his career, he’d reported from war zones and visited the scenes of disasters, but a bad hip and a serious heart attack had ended his globe-trotting days and landed him on the political beat.

“I hear you’re working with Kineer at the independent counsel,” Harry said.

“You hear correctly,” Evans answered as the men shook hands.

“So, did Farrington off the coed?”

“As soon as I find out, you’ll be the first to know. Are you up for a beer?”

“Always,” Whitehead said as he eyed Evans suspiciously. Reporters sought out heads of serial killer task forces and the right-hand men of independent counsels, not vice versa.

“You know The Schooner in Adams Morgan?” Evans asked.

“Sure.”

“See you there.”

During the drive from the White House to the bar, Evans thought about Maggie Sparks. While he’d waited with her for the ambulance, Evans realized that she meant a lot to him. He’d thought about all the reasons he’d given himself for not trying to get to know her better and he’d decided that none of them made sense. He vowed that he would find out how she felt about him when he had some time to breathe.

The Adams Morgan section of Washington was funky and crowded with jazz nightclubs, pizza parlors, Ethiopian restaurants, and bars. While many of the local bars catered to young professionals or college kids, the clientele of The Schooner were laborers, firefighters, cops, and gentlemen who were between jobs. Evans arrived at the bar at ten past two. Harold had beaten him by twelve minutes, and the agent found the reporter nursing a beer in a booth in the back.

“Okay, Keith, what’s this about?”

“Can’t a guy buy another guy a beer without a hidden agenda?”

“You’re an underpaid government employee, Evans, and you’ve got alimony payments. You don’t make enough money to treat me to a beer.”

“Sad but true.”

“So?”

“We’re off the record or you don’t get your beer.”

“Prick.”

“Well?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Whitehead answered grudgingly.

“It’s Charles Hawkins. I want to know as much as you can tell me about him.”

“What’s your interest in the Farringtons’ attack dog?”

“We’re trying to figure out what happened on the evening Charlotte Walsh was killed. I asked Hawkins about it and I got nowhere. We know he was at the farmhouse after Walsh left, but he won’t tell me anything. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“A very dangerous guy, according to the rumors. A former army Ranger with combat experience.”

“You called him ‘the Farringtons’ attack dog.’”

Whitehead nodded. “Hawkins is completely dedicated to the Farringtons. There’s nothing he won’t do for them. He’s like those knights of the Round Table, totally devoted to the king and queen. Hawkins could have turned his relationship with the president to his advantage, but I’ve never heard a hint that he’s made a penny off of it. I think he would consider it dishonorable.”

“Now that you mention it, he doesn’t dress for success like some of the other movers and shakers I’ve met.”

“His relationship with the Farringtons makes Hawkins one of the most influential men in Washington, but you’d never guess the power he wields by looking at him. He buys his suits off the rack, doesn’t wear a Rolex like every other Washington player, and still drives a Volvo he bought before Farrington became governor of Oregon.”

“How did Hawkins and the president meet?”

“They both went to Oregon State. The president was the star of a basketball team that made it to the Sweet Sixteen. Hawkins played, too, but he rode the bench most of the time. They both excelled in the classroom, but, from what I hear, Hawkins was a plodder while academics came naturally to Farrington. The biggest difference between the two was self-confidence, which Farrington had in spades and Hawkins lacked. The people who knew them at OSU told me that Farrington had a clear vision of his future, but Hawkins had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, so he enlisted in the army.”

“I remember reading somewhere that Claire Farrington went to OSU, too.”

“Hawkins met her there. She was a star on the volleyball team. They started dating their senior year. Claire had met the president when she and Chuck double-dated with him. She and Farrington lost touch after college. During his second year in law school, Farrington ran into Claire at a party hosted by an intern at the medical school where she was studying. By the time Hawkins left the army, Claire and Christopher were an item.”

“Was he angry when he learned that Farrington had stolen his girl?”

“Hawkins had bigger problems when he left the military. He was wounded in action, and he returned to Portland depressed and hooked on painkillers. The only people who cared about him were Claire and Christopher. Claire got him into rehab and helped him recover. Christopher represented him for free when he had legal problems with the VA. When Hawkins got out of rehab, Farrington asked him to work on his state senate campaign and to be his best man. From what I hear, Hawkins wasn’t bitter that Farrington ended up with his girl.”

“Did Hawkins ever marry?”

“No. You see him with women from time to time at fund-raisers or parties but the rumors are that Claire was the love of his life.”

“Sounds a little sad, don’t you think?”

“Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for Hawkins. He’s got no morals where the Farringtons are concerned. The guy’s got a screw loose if you ask me.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Good morning, Brad,” Susan Tuchman said.

“Good morning,” Brad answered nervously as he took a seat opposite his nemesis. The Dragon Lady was dressed in a black pants suit and black turtleneck and looked the way a supervillain in a comic book would look if her secret identity was a senior partner in a really big law firm.

“I’m getting very good reports about your work,” Tuchman told him with a smile that was intended to lull Brad into a false sense of security. “I hear you’re burning the midnight oil and producing high-quality research.”

“Thank you,” Brad answered as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

Tuchman leaned forward and smiled brightly. “I hope you don’t feel that we’re overworking you.”

“No. I expected to work hard when I was hired.” Brad forced a smile. “That’s what associates are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes indeed. That’s why you get the big bucks right out of school when you really don’t know anything about the practice of law. But it looks like you’re earning your pay. I hear that you’re working so hard that you caught up with your caseload.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve caught up,” Brad said, terrified that Tuchman was about to assign him another huge project. “I’ve just made a dent in it.”

“Enough of a dent to spend Sunday in the countryside,” Tuchman said calmly. “My memory isn’t what it used to be, Brad. Remind me; didn’t I specifically order you to have no further involvement in the Clarence Little case?”

“Yes.”

Tuchman leaned back and examined Brad like a bug collector trying to figure out the best place to stick the next pin into a truly pathetic specimen.

“Have you heard of Kendall, Barrett and Van Kirk?”

“It’s a big firm in Washington, D.C., isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. I received a disturbing call from Morton Rickstein. He’s a senior partner at Kendall, Barrett and a good friend. We defended an antitrust suit several years back and got to know each other very well. Anyway, Mort called me this morning. It seems a client of the firm called him. A Marsha Erickson. Do you know who she is?”

“Yes,” Brad answered as his heart dropped into his shoe.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t she the mother of the young woman Clarence Little was convicted of killing?”

“Yes.”

“She was a witness in the case, wasn’t she?”

Brad was tired of being the victim in Tuchman’s game of cat and mouse, so he just nodded.

“According to Mort, Mrs. Erickson was very upset, Brad. No, let me be accurate here. Mort said she was very, very upset. It seems an associate from this law firm came to her house and harassed her Sunday afternoon.”

“I didn’t harass her. I just asked her a few questions. I didn’t know she’d get so excited.”

Tuchman looked confused. “Let me make sure I understand your position. You don’t think that dredging up the memory of a murdered child on a Sunday morning-just showing up unannounced, out of the blue, and reminding Mrs. Erickson that her lovely daughter was horribly tortured to death-you didn’t think that would upset her?”

“Well I knew it was possible, but I-”

Tuchman held up her hand. She wasn’t smiling now. “So you admit that you are the associate who caused Mrs. Erickson so much pain that she called her attorney in Washington, D.C., to complain?”

“I went out there, but-”

“Stop. I don’t need to know any more. You were under specific orders from me to cease and desist from any involvement in the Little case. By your own admission you questioned a witness in the case this Sunday. I am very disappointed in you, Brad, and, as much as it grieves me, I will be forced to discuss this matter at the next partners’ meeting.”

“Ms. Tuchman, you can fire me if you want to, but you should know why I’ve been pursuing the Little case even after you told me to stop. If you’re going to complain about me to the partners you should know all of the facts.”

Tuchman leaned back and made a steeple of her fingers. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”

“Okay, well, this is going to sound crazy-well, not crazy but hard to believe-but I’m convinced there’s something to it.”

“You might want to get to the point, Mr. Miller. I’ve got a conference call in five minutes.”

“Okay, right. I don’t think Clarence Little killed Laurie Erickson. I think the killer used his MO to make everyone think Little murdered her. I also think the same murderer pulled the same stunt in Washington, D.C. There was a murder there recently. You probably know about it. It’s all over the news. Charlotte Walsh was having an affair with President Farrington and the police think the D.C. Ripper murdered her shortly after Miss Walsh had sex with-”

“Stop right there,” Tuchman said angrily. “You’re repeating unfounded rumors spread by a supermarket scandal sheet about someone who is a close personal friend.”

Brad figured he had nothing to lose so he took a deep breath and jumped in with both feet.

“I know he’s your friend, but President Farrington may be involved with two murders. I think he was having sex with Laurie Erickson, and Mrs. Erickson was paid off to keep quiet about it. I think someone working for President Farrington murdered Laurie Erickson and Charlotte Walsh and used the MOs of local serial killers to throw the police off the track.”

Tuchman didn’t look angry anymore. She looked dumbfounded.

“I know you’re insubordinate, Mr. Miller, but I never suspected that you were also…Well, you’ve left me speechless. I don’t really know how to categorize your bizarre behavior.”

“What about the independent counsel? The Congress thinks the president may have been involved in Walsh’s death.”

“Correction, Mr. Miller, one of the two parties in Congress is accusing our president of immoral conduct, and that party doesn’t believe that Chris is guilty of anything. It believes that this witch hunt will help Maureen Gaylord win the presidency.”

Tuchman’s face looked like a storm front had just crossed it. If she’d seen anything funny in Brad’s theories a moment ago she’d lost her sense of humor.

“Now get this straight,” she said, leaning forward and jabbing a finger in Brad’s direction. “Your time with this firm is probably over, but you are not to spend what’s left of it spreading gossip about a great man. This firm will not aid and abet Maureen Gaylord’s shameless ploy. Do you hear me?”

“I-”

“I’ve wasted enough time. I have work to do. Our meeting is over. I will be in touch with you soon concerning your future with Reed, Briggs.”

“What are you going to do?” Ginny asked.

Brad shrugged. He’d walked to Ginny’s office as soon as he left Tuchman, and they were sitting in it with the door closed.

“I’ve made some friends at other firms. Two of them helped me set up interviews, but I don’t know if anyone will hire me after they read the letters from Reed, Briggs about my job performance that Tuchman is going to write.”

“Your job performance is excellent. Your problem is Susan Tuchman. She’s a narrow-minded bully.”

“She’s also one of the most respected lawyers in Portland. I may have to give serious thought about going into some other profession, like shining shoes or running a supermarket checkout.”

“You’ll be fine. Anyone who’s interviewing you will understand why you got a raw deal. You were fired for representing a client too zealously.”

“By accusing the president of the United States of murder. You can bet that Tuchman will share that tidbit with any possible future employer who asks for a reference.”

“You know, getting fired from Reed, Briggs might not be all that bad. You really don’t fit in here. You’re too nice. And you’re smart enough to get another job. I’ve made some friends, too. I’ll give them a call.”

“Thanks.” Brad stood up. “I’m going back to my office and try to clear my desk so I can go home.”

“You can stay with me tonight. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“Let me think about that. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready to leave.”

Brad trudged down the hall to his office with his shoulders hunched and his head down, as if he was expecting a blow. Rumors traveled fast at Reed, Briggs and he imagined that everyone he passed was waiting to whisper behind his back as soon as he was out of earshot.

“Brad,” his secretary said as soon as she saw him.

“Yeah, Sally?”

“A woman has been calling. She says she wants to talk to you, but she won’t leave her name or a number.”

“Did she say what it was about?”

“No, she just said she’d call back.”

“I don’t want to talk to anyone. In fact, hold all my calls.”

Brad closed the door to his office, slumped on his chair, and looked at the mountain of work on his blotter. He knew it was his imagination, but the pile seemed higher than he remembered it being when he went to meet Susan Tuchman. Could files reproduce like rabbits? They certainly seemed to. He knew there was no end to them. Legal work spewed from the bowels of Reed, Briggs like rotten fruit from an evil horn of plenty. The only good thing about his situation was the strong odds that he would not be harvesting this paper crop for long. Maybe Ginny was right. Maybe moving on was not a bad thing. He sighed. Good or bad, moving on was definitely in his future. For now, he had to get back to the fields if he wanted to keep getting the paychecks he needed for food and shelter.

Brad walked home from the office because it was the only way he could get any exercise. His vow to work out several times a week had gone unfulfilled, buried under the Everest of paperwork Susan Tuchman had dumped on him. He wished he was walking to Ginny’s place, but he’d taken a rain check. He was so tired when he called it quits at the office that he didn’t have the energy for anything except sleep.

Brad opened the door to his apartment, switched on the light, and dragged himself into the kitchen to prepare a snack. He paused for a moment in front of the refrigerator to watch a tanker churn its way down the Willamette River toward Swan Island. Brad loved his view, night or day. When sunset made Mount Hood and the Willamette disappear, the glow on the east side of the city and the lights on the slow-moving river traffic brought Brad a feeling of peace. This feeling suddenly changed to unease. Something was wrong. Brad squinted at the darkened living room and realized that part of the view was obscured by the silhouette of a head. He jumped back and grabbed a knife from the wooden holder on the kitchen counter.

A black shape rose from the couch. “Please put down the knife, Mr. Miller. My weapon is bigger than yours.”

The shape morphed into a woman holding a gun. Brad’s heart skipped a beat, and he found it hard to breathe. The woman was tall and athletic. She wore tight jeans and a black and red TRAILBLAZER T-shirt under a black satin TRAILBLAZER jacket. Her piercing green eyes and the grim set to her mouth gave Brad the immediate impression that she was not someone to mess with.

“You can relax. My name is Dana Cutler, and I just want to talk to you, not kill you.”

“What’s this about?”

“The knife,” Dana said, gesturing with her gun at Brad’s hand. He looked down, surprised to see he was still gripping the shaft.

“Let’s continue this conversation in the living room,” Dana said as she switched on the lights and motioned Brad into an armchair. She ordered him to keep his hands, palm down, on the armrests and sat facing him on the couch.

“No sudden moves. I’d hate to shoot you.”

Brad eyed Dana’s gun nervously. “How did you get in?”

“Easily. You don’t have an alarm, and the lock was child’s play.”

“If you’re a burglar, I don’t have anything worth stealing. If you want to hire a lawyer, I don’t handle criminal cases.”

“You’re handling one, Clarence Little.”

Brad hid his surprise. “Actually, I’m not,” he said. “I was taken off the case. If you want to talk to someone about that case, you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“When were you taken off the case?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why?”

“My supervising attorney felt I was getting too involved.”

“Involved how?”

“I can’t really discuss that. I’d have to reveal attorney-client confidences.”

“Are we in court, Brad? Do you think the rules of evidence apply when the person asking you a question is aiming a loaded gun at your balls?”

“Good point,” Brad answered nervously.

“I’m glad you agree. Now tell me what you were doing that got you canned.”

“I decided that Clarence Little may not have murdered Laurie Erickson and I was gathering evidence of his innocence.”

“Why don’t you think Little is guilty?” Dana asked, intrigued by the direction their conversation was going.

“First off, he says he didn’t do it.”

“He’s on death row. What did you expect him to say?”

“Yeah, but he had proof.”

Brad explained about finding the bodies in the woods and the pinkie collection. He was careful to keep Ginny’s name out of his narrative.

“Has the forensic expert printed the fingers yet?”

“I don’t know. I’m under strict orders to stay away from the case. I’m probably going to be fired because of it.”

“Am I missing something? How can they fire you for trying to prove your client is innocent?”

“There’s a little more to it.”

Dana Cutler listened intently to Brad as he explained his theory that Christopher Farrington had ordered Charles Hawkins to use Clarence Little’s MO to frame the serial killer for the murder of Laurie Erickson and his belief that Hawkins had replicated the plan by using the Ripper MO when he murdered Charlotte Walsh.

“Fascinating,” Dana said when Brad finished. “I’ve come to the same conclusion.”

“You have?”

“I came at the problem from a different direction, but I think it’s significant that we both arrived at the same place.”

Curiosity replaced fear as Brad’s dominant emotion. “Why the melodrama?” he asked. “Breaking and entering, and holding me at gunpoint.”

“There have been several attempts on my life, so meeting in public places during the day is out. This seemed like the best bet for privacy.”

“Who are you?”

“Have you been following MurderGate?” Dana asked, using the name the press had given to the scandal.

Brad nodded.

“I’m the photographer who took the pictures of Farrington and Walsh that Exposed printed, and I’m certain that Charles Hawkins killed Walsh and Erickson under orders from the president.”

“Hawkins is the logical suspect, but we don’t have any proof.”

“It has to be him,” Dana insisted. “Farrington couldn’t have killed either woman. He was at the library fund-raiser in Salem when Erickson disappeared, and he was at the farm or with the Secret Service or his wife when Walsh was murdered.”

“I don’t think the Secret Service would lie to cover up a murder, but Farrington’s wife might.”

“The timing doesn’t work. Credible witnesses vouch for Farrington until he goes up to his room at the White House. If Claire Farrington lied when she said her husband was in bed with her, he would still have to get out of the White House without being seen. Then it would take at least forty-five minutes to get to the mall. That’s way past the time when Walsh was killed. No, I think we can rule out the president as the person who actually murdered Walsh.”

“So you’re going with Hawkins?” Brad asked.

“Hawkins came back to the governor’s mansion to get the information for Farrington’s speech. He was alone with Erickson. He came in the back door, which is next to the basement door, and the basement is where the laundry chute empties out. He gets the paper for the speech, murders Erickson, and puts her down the chute. Then he backs up his car to the basement door and puts her in the trunk.”

“What about Walsh?” Brad asked. “Hawkins went from the hotel to the farm and met with the president. Assuming that Farrington ordered him to kill Walsh, did he have time enough to do it?”

“Her car was disabled. She couldn’t drive off.”

“But Walsh had to have been killed soon after she returned to the mall. The news reports said that Walsh had Triple A but she never called them or anyone else to help her or pick her up.”

“Hawkins could have called someone from the farm and sent them to kill Walsh,” Cutler said. “The night Walsh was murdered two men tried to kill me for the pictures I took, and there have been other attempts on my life. So we know the president and Hawkins have access to assassins, and that’s the clincher.”

Brad looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Hawkins and the president have access to the CIA, Special Forces, and Defense intelligence operatives now, but they didn’t have access to those people when Erickson was murdered. Farrington was only the governor of Oregon then.”

“Hawkins was an army Ranger. He could have buddies from the military he could call on.”

“True, but no one but Hawkins was seen going into the governor’s mansion. He’s the one who claims to have been the last person to see Erickson alive. Erickson was tiny. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight against someone like Hawkins. If he was with her he wouldn’t have needed help. If Farrington wanted Erickson killed on the evening of the library fund-raiser, my bet is that Hawkins did it.”

“Do you know that there may have been a third murder?”

“What!”

Brad filled in Dana on the hit-and-run killing of Rhonda Pulaski and the disappearance of Tim Houston.

“Unfortunately, this is all speculation,” he said. “We don’t have any concrete evidence that Hawkins killed anyone. We don’t even have evidence that Farrington and Erickson were having sex. The only person who might be able to help us is Erickson’s mother, Marsha, and she refused to talk to me.”

“Tell me about that.”

As soon as Brad finished telling her about his visit to Marsha Erickson, Dana stood up.

“Get your coat,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“To visit Mrs. Erickson.”

“It’s too late to go out there tonight. She lives in the country. She’ll probably be asleep.”

“She’ll wake up very quickly when she sees this,” Dana said as she hefted the gun. “She may have refused to talk to you, but I assure you she’s going to talk to me.”

Brad turned onto the road to Marsha Erickson’s house shortly before eleven-thirty. Dana ordered Brad to kill his lights, and they drove by moonlight until the house came into view.

“Stop here,” Dana commanded just before they reached the place where the road became the driveway.

“Did you see that car when you were here before?” Dana asked, pointing at a black SUV that was parked in front of the garage, facing back toward the road.

“No, but it could have been in the garage.”

“Then why isn’t it in the garage now, and why is it positioned for a getaway? Pull into those trees,” Dana told him.

When they were hidden Dana took her ankle gun out of the holster and held it out to Brad.

“What’s that for?” he asked, making no move to touch the weapon.

“Do you know how to shoot?”

“No. I’ve never even held a gun.”

“If you have to use this, aim at the chest and keep shooting.”

“I’m not shooting anyone,” Brad answered, alarmed.

“Brad, I hope to heaven that the SUV belongs to Marsha Erickson because the people who are after me will not hesitate to kill you. So you’d better lose the knee-jerk liberal attitude about gun control fast.”

Brad stared at the weapon for a moment before grasping it with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if Dana had handed him a dead animal. She got out of Brad’s car.

“If you hear shots, call 911, report a break-in, then get out of here. Do not follow me inside under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but-”

“No buts. If you hear shots, take off fast.”

Dana shut the door and jogged toward the back of Marsha Erickson’s house. As she turned the corner she heard a high-pitched scream. There was a sliding door in the living room that opened onto a back patio. The lock had been jimmied and the door was open wide enough to admit her. The living room was dark, but light bled into it from a short hall.

“Bring her into the living room,” Dana heard a man say. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t have time to think about where she’d heard it. She dashed behind a large armchair and crouched down. Seconds later, a thick-set man dragged Marsha Erickson toward the living room. Erickson’s hands and ankles were secured by plastic handcuffs, but she was fighting him and the man had to brace himself to move her along the carpet. The blond man from her apartment who had shot at Dana from the speedboat followed Erickson into the living room.

“Help me with this bitch. She weighs a fucking ton,” Erickson’s tormentor complained.

The blond man hit Erickson in the stomach and she stopped struggling as she was forced to gasp for air. The blond grabbed her legs and helped his partner get their victim onto the living room rug. Then he knelt by her head and spoke to her in the calm tone you would use with a recalcitrant child.

“You behave, Fatty, and we’ll make this painless. Give us any shit and you’ll take a long time to die. Understand?”

Erickson had gotten her wind back and she croaked out a yes.

“Good,” the blond said. Then he smashed a gloved fist into Erickson’s nose. Dana heard cartilage crack and blood gushed out.

“That’s for giving us a hard time.”

The blond turned to his companion. “Smash up some stuff. Make it look like a burglary.”

The thick-set man started toward the television. Dana stood up and shot him. He was falling when the blond dove behind the sofa. Her second shot went wide and blasted a vase to pieces. The blond fired back, and Dana’s left shoulder felt like it had been smashed by a ball-peen hammer. She fell on her back and her gun flew out of her hand.

“You!” the blond said as he walked toward her.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Dana said, grimacing with pain.

“Woulda, shoulda, coulda.” The man laughed. “Hey, we all have regrets. I regret not fucking you when I had the chance. Now the opportunity presents itself again and you’re all bloody, which-believe me-is a big turnoff. So, I guess I’ll just have to kill you instead.”

Over the blond’s shoulder, Dana saw Brad creeping across the patio. She pulled her legs up and curled into a fetal position.

“Please, don’t kill me,” she begged as she slid her hand toward her ankle.

“Uh, uh, babe. You know that old saw about ‘Fool me once…’? That ankle gun thing was great the first time, but it’s not going to work again. So very slowly lift up your pant leg and toss the piece over here.”

“I don’t have the gun.”

“Pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

Dana raised her pants cuff slowly. “Where is it?” the man demanded.

“Put up your hands,” Brad said, his voice shaking so badly he could barely get the words out.

“Don’t talk! Kill him!” Dana yelled at Brad, who was holding the ankle gun in both hands, trying to keep it steady.

The blond whirled and fired. A bullet whizzed by Brad’s ear and the glass in the sliding door exploded. Brad closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger again and again until it clicked on an empty chamber. When he opened his eyes there was no one standing in front of him. He looked down and his knees buckled. The blond man was stretched out on the floor, facedown, moaning.

“Oh, my God! I shot him,” Brad said. He dropped the gun and groped for the wall so he wouldn’t collapse.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dana said between clenched teeth. “All of your shots missed, which is pretty amazing from less than ten feet. You were a good diversion, though. While he was focused on you, I got my gun back.”

Brad looked disappointed. Dana rolled her eyes. “Will you get this asshole’s gun and call 911, like I told you to do before? And get an ambulance for me and Mrs. Erickson.”

Dana dragged herself into a sitting position and braced her back against the sofa so she could keep an eye on the blond as Brad inched cautiously toward the wounded man.

“I shot him six times, for Christ’s sake,” Dana said. “Just get the gun.”

“Sorry, but I’ve never been in a shoot-out. I’m a little shaken.”

“What you are is an idiot. Didn’t I tell you to get the hell out of here if you heard shots?”

“I am an idiot,” Brad said as he grabbed the wounded man’s gun, “but it worked out okay, didn’t it?”

Dana sighed. “Yeah. I owe you. Now call the ambulance.”

Brad dialed 911 on his cell. He felt light-headed and a little nauseated, but he was able to hold it together while he talked to the dispatcher. As soon as he was through with the call, he knelt down to work on the plastic cuffs that bound Mrs. Erickson.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Marsha Erickson’s face was a mass of blood, and she had trouble focusing. Brad felt awful. He was certain that his first visit had triggered the chain of events that had led to the beating. When Erickson recognized him her eyes widened.

“You!”

“I’m really sorry about this.”

“What have you done to me?”

“I haven’t done anything. Christopher Farrington sent those men to kill you. You’d be dead if we hadn’t come by.”

“No one would have come here if you hadn’t shown up in the first place.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dana said. “You’re a loose end that Christopher Farrington needed to tie up. He’d have tried to kill you even if Miller had never visited you. If you want to stay alive you’d better think about telling what you know about your daughter and the president.”

Pain was making Dana woozy, and she was having difficulty keeping her gun trained on the blond. She knew she might pass out, which meant that Brad Miller would have to handle the situation. She didn’t have much faith in his ability to do that. If the wounded man was in any condition to fight, he’d eat Brad for lunch.

Then there was the problem of the police. The locals would never believe that the president had sent the men she’d shot. They would consider this a burglary gone bad. If Mrs. Erickson turned on them the police might even arrest her and Brad. Dana decided to take a chance. She fished out her wallet and tossed it to Brad.

“There’s a card in there with the number of Keith Evans, an FBI agent who’s working for the independent counsel. Call him, then give me the phone. If I black out, tell him that we have the man who shot at him from the speedboat. Tell him to get someone down here fast to take over from the local police if he wants witnesses who can tie the president to Charlotte Walsh’s murder.”

Brad dialed the number. Evans answered after three rings. Brad handed Dana the phone. She laid the gun by her side and took it.

“Agent Evans, this is Dana Cutler. Brad Miller, an associate with a Portland law firm, is with me. I just shot two men who were trying to kill Marsha Erickson, a witness who can prove the president was involved in a murder in Oregon when he was governor.”

“That’s not true,” Marsha Erickson yelled.

Dana covered the cell phone. “One more peep and I’ll have my friend tape your mouth shut.”

Dana uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want you to send some agents here fast because the local police are on the way. Brad will tell you the hospital they’re taking me and Marsha Erickson to. Get guards on our rooms and the room where they’re taking the survivor. He’s the guy who shot at us from the speedboat.”

“Where are you?”

Dana gave him the address and how to get to it. Then she had Brad read her Erickson’s home phone number. She repeated it to Evans.

“I’m ready to cooperate,” Dana said. “I want protection for me, Miller, and the witness.”

“Are you okay?” Evans asked. “You sound funny.”

“No, I’m bleeding from a shoulder wound and I might pass out. But I hear sirens and I think I’ll be okay. Now stop talking and get some agents here fast. And make certain that you can trust them, because, at best, the president is going to try and take control. At worst, he’s going to try and kill us all.”

Chapter Thirty-eight

Brad was pacing the fifth-floor corridor of the St. Francis Medical Center waiting to learn how Dana Cutler’s surgery had gone when the elevator doors opened and Susan Tuchman stormed out. Her eyes lasered in on Brad, and he could almost see the red dot marking the spot on his heart where Tuchman was going to shoot her death ray.

“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you mucking around in the Little case?” Tuchman said as she bore down on him.

Brad faced the onslaught with utter calm. Until this moment, Brad’s encounters with Susan Tuchman had either unnerved or depressed him. But the verbal bullets of the furious attorney lacked the power to frighten someone who had just survived a shoot-out featuring live ammunition.

“Did you hear my question, Mr. Miller?” Tuchman asked as she halted inches from him.

“Why are you here?”

“Instead of worrying about why I’m here, you should be worrying about where you’re going to be working tomorrow. So let me put your mind at ease. You don’t have to worry about your tenure at Reed, Briggs anymore. As of this moment, you are no longer our employee. You’re fired.”

“Good,” Brad said coolly. “I don’t think working at your sweatshop is that great.”

Tuchman blinked. This was hardly the reaction she’d expected.

“I’d still like an answer to my question,” Brad persisted. “Why have you suddenly appeared in this hospital in the middle of the night?”

“That is none of your business, Mr. Miller.”

“Did your buddy at Kendall, Barrett tell you to shut down Marsha Erickson?”

“This conversation is over,” Tuchman said as she walked by him.

“Mrs. Erickson would be dead if I’d paid any attention to your unethical order to ignore the possible innocence of a Reed, Briggs client,” Brad yelled after her, but Tuchman paid no attention and kept walking toward the nurses’ station.

Brad wished he had the power to make Tuchman answer, but he didn’t. His job was gone along with his salary and any prestige that being an associate at Reed, Briggs might have conferred. He’d been fired, which could have an impact on his future as an attorney. Brad didn’t care. He had his dignity and his integrity, and truth be told, he was relieved that he would not have to toil fourteen hours a day solving boring problems for unappreciative egomaniacs.

The elevator doors opened again to reveal a large man with thinning sandy hair who matched the description of Keith Evans that Dana Cutler had given him. A very attractive woman sporting wicked-looking stitches on her right cheek accompanied him.

“Agent Evans?” Brad asked.

The man stopped. “Brad Miller?”

“Yes.”

“Pleased to meet you. This is my partner, Margaret Sparks. We flew out as fast as we could. How is Dana Cutler doing?”

“She’s in surgery. She was shot in the shoulder. The doctor told me that she lost a lot of blood but she’ll recover. He just doesn’t know how badly her shoulder was injured.”

“Can you fill me in on what’s been going on out here?”

“That can wait until we head off Susan Tuchman. She’s a very powerful attorney who works for Reed, Briggs, the state’s biggest law firm. I’m certain she’s going to Marsha Erickson’s room to try to get her to stonewall you.”

Evans smiled. “She may have a problem.”

When they arrived at Marsha Erickson’s room, an irate Susan Tuchman was berating a solid young man who stood in front of the patient’s door.

“I do understand that you’re an attorney, ma’am, but my orders are to admit no one except medical personnel,” Erickson’s guard said.

“Give me the name of your superior,” Tuchman demanded.

“Hi. I’m Keith Evans, and I ordered the guard for Mrs. Erickson. What’s the problem?”

Tuchman’s anger turned to confusion when she saw Brad standing beside Evans, but she recovered quickly.

“I am Susan Tuchman, Mrs. Erickson’s attorney, and I have a right to speak to her.”

“You might, if she was under arrest, but she’s a victim, so she doesn’t need a lawyer.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Tuchman said.

Evans smiled patiently. “Not in this case, Ms. Tuchman. A real judge will have to decide whether you can see Mrs. Erickson. But I’m curious. Have you represented Mrs. Erickson in the past?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think you’re Mrs. Erickson’s lawyer?”

“I’m afraid that’s privileged.”

Evans nodded. “I respect that. But I’m still confused. I’ve been in contact with the police, the agents I sent to Mrs. Erickson’s house, and the hospital. According to my information, Mrs. Erickson hasn’t phoned anyone tonight. If you’ve never represented her and she didn’t ask you to come here, why should we let you see her?”

Tuchman looked unsure of herself for the first time since Brad had met her. She didn’t appear to know what to say. Evans smiled again.

“I’m sorry you had to lose sleep, Ms. Tuchman, but there’s not much you can do here.”

“I was contacted by Morton Rickstein of Kendall, Barrett, a Washington, D.C., law firm. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“I certainly have,” Evans said.

“Kendall, Barrett represents Mrs. Erickson, and Mr. Rickstein asked me to stand in for him until he arrives. I hope that satisfies you, Agent Evans. Now, please let me speak to my client.”

“We still have a problem. If Mrs. Erickson didn’t phone for help, she didn’t ask Mr. Rickstein to represent her either. So, we’re back to square one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

Tuchman looked furious, but she was smart enough to know when to back down.

“I will be in touch with your superiors, Agent Evans. Good night.”

“It looks like you’re not going to get your way, for once,” Brad said.

Tuchman glared at him then stomped off without saying another word. Evans turned to Brad.

“Before I talk to Mrs. Erickson, I think it would be a good idea if you told me why you think President Farrington was involved with the murder of her daughter.”

Marsha Erickson was a mess. Her broken nose was bandaged, her right cheek had been stitched, and her bruised and bloodshot eyes followed the agents warily when Evans and Sparks walked into her room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Erickson. How are you feeling?” Evans said.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Evans heard the tremor in her voice and smiled to calm her. He was certain that she’d been crying.

“We’re not anyone you have to fear. I’m Keith Evans, an FBI agent assigned to the independent counsel’s office. This is my partner, Margaret Sparks. We’re here to guard you from the people who are trying to kill you. I’ve made sure that agents will be posted outside your door as long as you’re in the hospital, and I’m here to offer you protection when you’re discharged.”

“What do I have to do to get protected?” Erickson asked, her suspicions edging aside her fear.

“Mrs. Erickson, the United States Congress has charged our office with the task of determining President Farrington’s involvement-if any-in the murder of a young woman named Charlotte Walsh. I assume you’re aware of the matter, since it’s been front-page news.”

Erickson nodded warily.

“You know about the D.C. Ripper, the serial killer?”

Erickson nodded again.

“At first, we thought that Miss Walsh was a victim of the Ripper. Now we think that the person who killed her copied the MO of the Ripper to throw us off the track. We also have evidence that suggests that President Farrington may have been having an affair with Miss Walsh.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“A serial killer named Clarence Little was convicted of kidnapping and murdering your daughter while she was babysitting for Christopher Farrington when he was the governor of Oregon. We have evidence that suggests that someone else killed Laurie and copied Mr. Little’s MO in the same way that someone may have copied the MO of the D.C. Ripper in the Walsh case.

“I know you’ve been through hell. You’ve had to deal with the death of a child and this vicious attack. I don’t want to cause you any more pain, but I have to ask. Do you have any reason to believe that President Farrington was intimate with your daughter?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, for several reasons, the most important being that telling us the truth will keep you alive. I know what happened at your house. You’d be dead if Dana Cutler and Brad Miller hadn’t saved you. If you continue to protect Christopher Farrington, and he’s behind this attack, it won’t help you stay alive. He’ll always be better off with you dead. Then you can never tell what you know.

“And you won’t be able to keep your secret anyway. The independent counsel has subpoena powers. I can always take you in front of a grand jury. If you don’t answer questions there, you could be sent to jail for contempt. I really don’t want to resort to that option because I feel very sorry about all you’ve gone through. It would be cruel to punish you that way. But I am prepared to do what I must to learn what you know.

“If you think about it, your interests and our interests are the same. We both want you alive. And here’s something to think about. Once we know what you know, the president won’t have any reason to kill you because the cat will be out of the bag. So, what do you say?”

Erickson looked down at her blanket, and Evans let her think. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears.

“I don’t know what to do. He was so good to me and he said he didn’t do those things. He said he was paying me the money because I was always a good secretary and because he felt bad that Laurie was kidnapped from his house.”

“But you had reason to disbelieve him, didn’t you?” Evans asked gently.

Erickson bit her lip. Then she nodded.

“Why didn’t you believe Farrington was telling the truth?”

Erickson tried to speak, but she was too choked up. There was a glass of water on her nightstand. Sparks handed it to her. She took a sip. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and wept.

“She was all I had, and she was so good. When she told me…” Erickson shook her head. “I feel so guilty. I wouldn’t believe her. I told her she was a liar and I promised to punish her if she ever said anything like that again. But she’d never lied to me before. Not about anything important. I should have believed her.”

“What did she tell you, Mrs. Erickson?” Evans asked.

“She told me…She said Chris-the governor-had bothered her.”

“When was this?”

“Months before-I don’t remember exactly-but months before she was…”

“Take your time.”

Erickson sipped some more water.

“Can you tell us exactly what your daughter told you? Did she describe how Governor Farrington was bothering her?”

Erickson nodded. “She said that he was touching her in places, her breasts. Sometimes he would put his arm around her shoulder and pull her close. She said he tried to kiss her once.”

“Did she say she resisted?”

“Yes, she told me she didn’t like it.”

“How did she react when you told her you thought she was lying?”

“She was very upset. She cried and she…she swore at me.”

“Did you ever bring up the subject again?”

“No.”

“Did she?”

“No.” Erickson shook her head and took more water. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I should have believed her, but I was afraid. And, at first, I didn’t believe her. Chris had been so good to me-to us. When my husband left me he made sure I’d be okay financially. He handled the divorce for free. He was good to Laurie, too. He bought her nice presents for her birthday and…”

Erickson stopped. She seemed exhausted.

“Did you notice any changes in your daughter between the time she made the complaint and the time of her death?”

“Yes. She grew distant, cold. She started wearing makeup and dressing differently, more grown-up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Provocatively.”

“Sexy?” Sparks asked.

“Yes. And she was, I don’t know, more adult. I was upset by the way she was acting. I spoke to her about it, but that always led to arguments.”

“Did she ever mention the governor again? Did she complain about him?”

Erickson shook her head.

“Mrs. Erickson,” Evans said, “I’ve heard rumors about another girl Mr. Farrington may have molested, a Rhonda Pulaski. Do you know anything about that?”

Erickson wouldn’t look Evans in the eye. “I heard some things when I was his secretary at the law firm and the case was in the office. There was gossip, but I didn’t believe that either.”

“Don’t get down on yourself,” Evans said. “It’s always hard to believe the worst about someone you know well.”

Erickson didn’t respond.

“Mrs. Erickson, you said that Mr. Farrington paid you money after your daughter died.”

“Yes.”

“Were there any conditions attached to receiving the money?”

“I had to promise that I would never tell that he was paying me and I had to promise that I would never discuss anything about Laurie and the governor with anyone. If I did, the payments would stop. That’s why I was frightened when the lawyer showed up.”

“Brad Miller?”

“Yes. That money is all I have. And the house. President Farrington owns my house. I’d lose that, too.”

“Who sent you the money?”

“Dale Perry. He was a lawyer with the Kendall, Barrett law firm in Washington, D.C. They told me he died.”

“That’s true.”

“He was from Oregon. He knew Chris in college. He told me that the governor was doing this from the heart, that he didn’t have to. It was to help me.”

“Did you sign an agreement when you received the money?”

“Yes.”

“There was an actual paper you signed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“Mr. Perry said he would send it to me, but he never did.”

“Did you ask for it?”

“What with the funeral and all, I forgot for a while. Then the money came each month and I didn’t think I needed the paper.”

Evans hid his excitement. He would subpoena the document to prove that Farrington had bought Erickson’s silence and he would subpoena bank records to document the payments. He was about to continue questioning Mrs. Erickson when the door opened and a thick-necked agent stuck his head into the room.

“We have a problem. The John Doe lawyered up.”

“How did he do that?” Evans asked. “I left strict instructions that he was not allowed to call out.”

“He didn’t. He’s still out from the operation. This guy just showed up. He says his name is Joseph Aiello and he claims ‘Doe’ retained him.”

“This is like that stunt in the circus,” Sparks said, “but instead of clowns coming out of the little car, we have lawyers.”

Evans’s brow furrowed. Sparks was right. Too many lawyers were showing up on too short notice. How did Rickstein, who was three thousand miles away, know about a shoot-out in the boonies in Oregon? Why would someone tell him about it in the wee hours of the morning? The person who sent “John Doe” to kill Marsha Erickson would know something had happened when “John” didn’t report in, and he could have learned that “Doe” had been shot and was at St. Francis Medical Center if he was monitoring the police bands. Which meant…

Evans turned to the agent. “If you’re here, who’s guarding ‘John Doe’?”

The agent looked flustered. “I told him he couldn’t go in.”

“Shit. Maggie, you stay here and I’ll take care of this.”

Evans followed the agent down the corridor.

“That’s him,” the agent said, pointing at a bald, heavyset man dressed in an expensive, three-piece suit and wearing wire-rimmed glasses who was limping away from “John Doe’s” room. As soon as the agent spoke, Aiello spun toward them and fired. Evans dove behind a cart stacked with towels and drew his gun. He hadn’t heard a shot but the agent was down and blood was oozing from a ragged hole between his eyes.

A silencer, Evans thought. That meant he was dealing with a professional, and that also meant “John Doe” was probably dead.

Evans peeked around the cart and saw Aiello limp around a corner. He raced after him. Just as he rounded the corner, Aiello collided with a nurse. She fell back and Aiello tried to open an exit door. Evans fired. His shots echoed through the corridor seconds before the nurse screamed and Aiello fell to the floor. Evans closed in on the hit man seconds before Maggie Sparks raced around the corner.

Chapter Thirty-nine

At the crime scene, as best he could remember, Brad had told his tale to representatives of the state police and two police officers, a detective, and a deputy district attorney from the county where the shooting had occurred. At the hospital, in addition to Agents Evans and Sparks, he remembered being questioned by an assistant United States attorney, but he was certain he’d forgotten somebody. By the time Brad finished telling the last interested representative of a law enforcement agency what had happened at Marsha Erickson’s house he was running on fumes.

Between interviews, Brad called Ginny to tell her enough about what had happened to upset her. He’d assured her that he was okay and he promised to come by as soon as he could, which is why Brad drove to Ginny’s apartment when Evans told him he could go home. Even though it was 3:30 A.M., Ginny opened the door before Brad finished knocking. She threw her arms around his neck and they clung together.

“Hey, I’m okay. Not a scratch,” he assured her.

“I never thought I might get you killed when I insisted we look into Little’s claim. I’m so glad this is over.”

“It is, and in more ways than one. I had a run-in with Susan Tuchman at the hospital.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Rickstein, the lawyer from the D.C. firm, sent her to represent Marsha Erickson, but the FBI wouldn’t let Tuchman see her. She was really pissed when she left.”

“I’ll bet.”

“I was the first person she saw when she walked out of the elevator. Tuchman may be a lot of things but dumb isn’t one of them. She knew right away that I’d disobeyed her order to stay away from the Little case, so she canned me.”

“Oh, Brad. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’m not. It was inevitable. I’m actually happy I’m out of Reed, Briggs. I never fit in. I’m just worried that Tuchman will bad-mouth me and I won’t be able to find another job as a lawyer. I guess I can always hang out a shingle.”

“Don’t worry about a job. From what you told me on the phone, you saved Marsha Erickson’s life. You’re a hero. People will admire you for what you did. You proved you’ll go the distance for a client.”

Brad flashed a rueful smile. “I hope I don’t have to promise to shoot it out with opposing counsel to get a job. One gunfight is enough for a lifetime.”

Ginny touched his cheek. “You’re going to come out on top. You’ll see.”

“I’ll worry about employment tomorrow. Right now I’m famished.”

“I can take care of that. Let’s go into the kitchen.”

Brad watched her walk away from him, and he smiled. Ginny was sexy and nice and everything a man could want in a woman. He decided that this was a perfect time to tell her.

“You know, there was a moment there when I thought I was going to die. It made me very sad because that would mean not seeing you again, and I want to see a lot of you in the future.”

“That’s not a double entendre, is it?”

Brad laughed. “Have I ever told you you’re a pervert? Here I’m trying to be romantic and you’re making lewd jokes.”

“Sorry,” Ginny said, flashing a wicked smile. “I promise that I’ll never bring up the subject of sex again.”

“You don’t have to go that far, but I hope I won’t insult you if I say that my interests right now lie solely in the area of food and sleep.”

“I’ll get you some food, but you don’t get to sleep until you tell me everything that happened tonight.”

The sun was starting to come up, and Keith Evans’s energy level was way down. He was jet-lagged from his cross-country flight in the FBI jet and he had sustained himself on doughnuts, a wretched tuna fish sandwich, and foul coffee. Evans had insisted that Maggie go to their hotel for some much needed rest. He envied her. He was ready to trade all of his worldly possessions for a decent meal, a shower, and eight hours of sleep. Unfortunately, there was work to be done.

On balance, if he discounted his personal state of well-being, things had gone well. Marsha Erickson was cooperating, and Dana Cutler’s wound wasn’t serious. They had lost “John Doe,” but they had the man who’d killed him, a swap Evans hoped would work in their favor.

“What’s Aiello’s condition?” Evans asked the agent who was guarding the killer’s room.

“The last doctor I spoke to said he’d be coming out of the anesthesia soon. That was half an hour ago. The doctor said he was lucky. None of the bullets hit a major organ.”

We’re lucky, too, Evans thought ruefully. If I was any kind of shot we wouldn’t have a witness.

Evans opened the door. Aiello watched him with a pair of dull, blue eyes as he crossed the room and stood beside his bed. Evans guessed he would be a tough guy. How tough remained to be seen.

“I’m Keith Evans with the independent counsel’s office. How are you feeling?”

The man didn’t answer.

“I have good news and bad news, Joe.” Evans paused. “You don’t mind if I call you Joe or Aiello, do you? I’m certain they’re not your real names, but it’s the best I can do before we get a report on your prints.”

The prisoner still didn’t answer.

“Okay, have it your own way. So, what would you like to hear first, the good news or the bad news?”

Evans waited a beat. “Since you won’t make up your mind, I’ll give you the good news. The doctors say you’re going to pull through. That’s also the bad news, because you’ll be standing trial in federal court for murdering an FBI agent and in Oregon for murdering our witness. That means you’re a candidate for the death penalty. But there’s more good news. Now, you’re the witness. If you’re smart you can avoid a lethal injection.”

“You think you’re funny, don’t you,” the man managed. His words were slurred from the residual effects of the anesthetic.

“You’re right. I can be a wiseguy at times. I should cut the humor and get serious. So, seriously, Joe, I would love to watch you die for killing a decent young man whose shoes you aren’t fit to shine, but I have to ignore my personal desires and do my job. Professionally, I’m much more interested in the people who sent you to kill our witness than I am in sending you away. Tell me everything you know and we’ll deal. Clam up and you die.”

“We’ll see,” the man said. His dry lips cracked into a smile that told the agent Aiello thought Evans was incredibly naive.

“You think your friends will protect you but they won’t,” Evans said. “Facing a death sentence is a big motivation to talk, so you’ve become a problem. Think about the way your boss has been solving problems. Cutler was a witness who could hurt him. What did he do? He sent you and the man you just murdered to kill Cutler.”

Aiello’s eyes shifted, and Evans noticed.

“Yeah, Joe, we showed Dana Cutler your photo and she says you’re definitely the guy she shot in her apartment and one of the people who attacked her in West Virginia from the speedboat. The doctors say you have a recent scar on your thigh that’s consistent with a bullet wound. Coincidentally, it’s right where Cutler says she shot you.”

Aiello remained quiet.

“You can clam up, but do some thinking, too. Think about what happened when your buddy was arrested. You were sent to kill him because your boss can’t afford to leave witnesses alive. Now, you’re the witness, which means you’ve become a huge liability. As soon as he learns you’re alive, he’ll send more men to silence you. He has to. He can’t afford to let you talk.”

The smile stayed on the killer’s lips but it shrunk in size as Evans’s words registered.

“There are only two ways you can go, lawyer up or cooperate. If you choose door number one, you die. If you aren’t killed awaiting trial, they’ll take you out in prison after a conviction or you’ll be murdered in the free world if you’re acquitted. Cooperate and we’ll try to put away the men who want you dead, and we’ll work very hard to keep you alive. What do you say?”

“Fuck you.”

“Hey, Joe, I’m way too exhausted to fuck right now. What I do plan to do is take a shower, get some rest, then eat a hearty breakfast. After that, I’ll be back to talk some more. While I’m gone, I suggest you think about what I said.”

Chapter Forty

A week after the West Coast shoot-outs at the hospital and Marsha Erickson’s house, Erickson and Dana Cutler were tucked away in separate safe houses near Washington, D.C., and Keith Evans was swimming, once again, in the humid, ninety-degree heat of the nation’s capital. At nine o’clock Friday morning, fortified by a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, grits, and black coffee, Evans seated himself across from Charles Hawkins and his attorney, Gary Bischoff, in a conference room at the office of the independent counsel. With Evans were a court reporter, Maggie Sparks, and Gordon Buss, an assistant United States attorney.

Bischoff was a lanky man with curly, salt-and-pepper hair. He ran marathons for a hobby, and his cheeks were as hollow and his eye sockets as deep set as the victim of an African famine. Bischoff was dressed in an expensive suit that was tailor made to fit his skeletal frame, but Hawkins, true to form, was attired in a cheap mismatched jacket and slacks. Evans thought the president’s advisor looked less self-confident than he had when they’d spoken at his boss’s press conference.

“Would you like to tell us why you’ve summoned my client to this meeting?” Bischoff asked when the introductions were completed.

“Sure,” Evans replied. “We think he’s responsible for a couple of murders and attempted murders in Virginia, Maryland, the District of Columbia, West Virginia, and Oregon.”

Evans paused and counted on his fingers. When he was satisfied, he nodded.

“Yeah, those are the jurisdictions to which he can expect to be extradited. I don’t think I missed any. If I did, they’ll come after him, so you’ll find out where they are.

“Now, there are also some assaults in there and a burglary or two, and I’m certain I’ve forgotten a few more charges. Mr. Buss is the criminal lawyer. He can tell you all of the possible crimes Mr. Hawkins will be charged with committing, or you can talk to the DAs who’ll be filing the indictments.”

Bischoff had been practicing criminal law at the highest levels for thirty years, so he’d been around the block. Evans amused him and he laughed.

“You obviously haven’t seen Mr. Hawkins’s schedule. I don’t think he’s got time to brush his teeth, let alone run around the country killing people.”

“I didn’t say he committed all of these crimes himself.” Evans shifted his gaze to Hawkins. “He had help. For instance, he sent a fellow who posed as a lawyer and used the alias ‘Joseph Aiello’ to St. Francis Medical Center in Portland, Oregon, to murder one of his hit men, who we were lucky enough to capture. ‘Aiello’ killed our witness, but he didn’t get away. Now he’s spilling his guts, and he has a lot of interesting things to say about Mr. Hawkins.”

“A man facing the death penalty will say a lot of things,” Bischoff offered.

“True, but here’s something for your client to think about. Aiello’s real name is Oscar Tierney. Oscar’s prints aren’t on file. If he hadn’t given us his real name we wouldn’t have been able to figure it out, so you know he’s talking to us. He also says that he and the fellow he killed at the hospital are part of a black ops squad that operates out of the CIA. One of his assignments was to kill Dana Cutler, who he’d been led to believe was a spy for the Chinese. He claims that your client told him that Cutler was going to use the photos of Farrington and Walsh to blackmail the president into making decisions that would not have been in the national interest. I’ll give you Tierney’s statement by and by and you can learn how your client is able to commit mass murder while helping run the country.”

Bischoff smiled patiently. “That sounds like the type of story someone would concoct if they were caught in the act and had no defense.”

“Yeah, it would be far-fetched if Dana Cutler, the first person Tierney was sent to kill, hadn’t told us that Tierney wanted her to give him the photos she’d taken of the president in flagrante delicto. This was less than three hours after Cutler took the pictures, and it was around two in the morning. The only people who knew about those photos at that time were Cutler, who took them, the president, the Secret Service agents who were guarding the president, and your client. Cutler doesn’t have a suicide wish, so she didn’t send Tierney to her apartment. That sort of narrows the suspects, don’t you think?”

“I hope you didn’t ask Mr. Hawkins here expecting him to confess to these outrageous accusations.”

“That would save me a lot of time and effort. It might also help Mr. Hawkins avoid the death penalty if he confesses and clarifies President Farrington’s role in his criminal enterprises.”

“Do you have any other evidence that leads you to believe that Mr. Hawkins is a modern-day Al Capone?”

“You bet, and I’ll give him a preview of our case so he can make a reasoned decision about cooperating. Of course, the investigation is ongoing, so we’ll get more evidence soon, but here’s some of what we have right now.”

“We’re all ears.”

Evans directed his words at Hawkins, who listened without expression.

“When Mr. Hawkins got out of the army, President Farrington was practicing law and having sex with a high school girl named Rhonda Pulaski. Pulaski was not only underage, she was also a client. If any of that ever came out you can imagine what would have happened to our commander in chief. He’d face prison and disbarment, not to mention a big fat civil suit. And those possibilities were looming on the horizon because Farrington had screwed Miss Pulaski in the back of a limousine driven by Tim Houston, a man who was so appalled by the president’s behavior that he went to the police.

“Mr. Hawkins owed the Farringtons a lot and he was extremely loyal. We think he made the problem go away by buying off the Pulaski family and killing Rhonda Pulaski and Houston.”

“Can you prove any of this?” Bischoff asked.

“We’re working on it.”

The lawyer returned the smile. “Why don’t you tell us about something you can prove?”

Evans ignored the taunt. “When Farrington was practicing law he had a secretary named Marsha Erickson, who had a daughter named Laurie. Farrington brought Marsha with him to the governor’s mansion when he was elected governor of Oregon. Laurie was in high school and was about the same age as Rhonda Pulaski. Farrington started noticing her, and not in a good way. Soon, he was coming on to her. Are you starting to see a pattern, Gary?”

“Go on,” Bischoff answered blandly.

“My pleasure. Eventually, Farrington had sex with Laurie. That’s when she became a threat to Farrington’s political future. One evening, the governor was scheduled to attend a fund-raiser at the Salem Library. Laurie was babysitting the governor’s son. Your client returned to the governor’s mansion on the pretext of getting some notes for the governor’s speech and murdered Laurie Erickson.

“A serial killer named Clarence Little was killing women in the Salem area at this time. Your client had access to police reports that detailed Little’s MO, and he made the murder look like Little’s work. Little was convicted of murdering Laurie and sentenced to death. We now have forensic and other evidence that strongly suggests that Little did not kill Laurie Erickson.

“Mr. Hawkins testified at Little’s trial that he was with Laurie around the time she went missing. By his own admission, he’s the last person who saw her alive. No one else was seen entering the grounds of the mansion after Mr. Hawkins left.”

“Is this man Little still on death row because of the Erickson case?” Bischoff asked.

“He is.”

“So, you have no proof that my client murdered Pulaski, and a jury found Little guilty of killing Erickson,” the attorney summed up.

“Yup.”

“You know, this would make a great movie-Mission Impossible XII say-but I’m more interested in hearing the type of evidence that would be admissible at a trial.”

“Okay, I’ll talk about a case I’m sure you’re familiar with. It’s the reason an independent counsel was created. Charlotte Walsh was a student at American University who was very attractive and about the same age as Laurie Erickson and Rhonda Pulaski were when Farrington was involved with them. Walsh was majoring in poli-sci, and she went to work at Farrington’s campaign headquarters. We think Farrington had your client bring Walsh to Chicago to convince her to become a spy in Senator Maureen Gaylord’s campaign. We think that the president had sex with Walsh in Chicago, but we know she quit the Farrington campaign when she came back to D.C. and promptly volunteered at Maureen Gaylord’s headquarters.

“On the night she was murdered, Walsh stole documents from Gaylord’s campaign headquarters and arranged to give them to the president at a farm in Virginia that the CIA uses as a safe house. Walsh was instructed to park in the lot at the Dulles Towne Center mall. A Secret Service agent picked her up and took her to the farm.

“Farrington was supposed to appear at a campaign fund-raiser in the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel, but he talked his wife into going in his place. Just before he was leaving the White House, the first lady told him she was pregnant. Farrington told Mr. Hawkins to go to the event with Dr. Farrington.”

Evans looked directly at Hawkins, who met his eye without flinching.

“You know Dale Perry, don’t you, Mr. Hawkins?”

Bischoff held up his hand and addressed his client. “Don’t answer that, Chuck.

“Mr. Evans, I instruct you to desist from asking Charles Hawkins, my client, any questions,” the lawyer said, making certain that the stenographer got the prohibition on the record. “If you want him to answer a question, please direct it to me first and I’ll advise him whether he should answer it.”

“That’s okay with me,” Evans answered, “but it doesn’t matter what your client says about his relationship with Perry. They were in the same class at Oregon State University. We have several witnesses who’ll confirm that Perry, Christopher Farrington, and your client were friends. After college, Mr. Hawkins went into the army and President Farrington went to law school in Oregon. Mr. Perry went to law school at the University of Chicago. After law school, he went to work for the Kendall, Barrett law firm.

“A client hired Dale Perry to make arrangements to have Miss Walsh followed. By hiring a lawyer, the client could use the attorney-client privilege to shield his identity. Perry hired Dana Cutler, who is a PI, to tail Walsh but didn’t tell her who she was working for. The client wanted pictures of everyone Walsh met, and he wanted Cutler to give him a running report when Walsh went somewhere or did something. To facilitate the reporting Perry bought two cell phones. He gave one to the client and one to Cutler. Cutler was ordered to leave voice messages when she had something to report.

“On the evening that Walsh was murdered, Cutler followed her to the Dulles Towne Center parking lot and reported the position of Walsh’s car in the lot. That means that the client was one of a small group of people who knew the exact location where Walsh would be after she left the farm. Cutler followed the Secret Service agent and Walsh to the farm where she met President Farrington. Cutler reported to the client when Walsh left the farm to return to the mall, but a guard spotted Cutler, and she couldn’t continue following Walsh.

“Dana Cutler hung on to the cell phone Dale Perry gave her. She also gave us the number she called to leave the voice mail messages for the client and she gave us the date and time she called the client with the information about the location of Walsh’s car. Once we had the client’s number we were able to identify the cell phone provider. The cell phone provider stored the voice mail messages from Ms. Cutler on a backup computer and gave them to us along with the time they were retrieved.

“When a person wants to retrieve voice mail messages that have been left on his cell phone he dials a remote voice mail retrieval number for the provider’s voice mail system from his cell phone. The system will ask the caller for a password. After the person punches in the password he’s given his messages. The cell phone provider was able to give us the mystery client’s remote voice mail retrieval number, but the provider did not have a record of telephone calls to the client’s voice mail system between the time Cutler left the message explaining where Walsh was parked and the time she was murdered. They had no record because there was bad reception that night. Bad reception is common, and it can be intermittent. In this case, the client couldn’t use his cell phone to call for his messages and he was forced to use a landline to retrieve them.

“As soon as we suspected that Mr. Hawkins was the mystery client we tried to learn where he was when Cutler left the message with the location of Walsh’s car. We learned that he was at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. One of the Secret Service agents remembers him getting a call on his cell phone around nine-forty. The agent also remembers Mr. Hawkins complaining about the reception and leaving to try to get a clear signal.

“The hotel confirmed that Mr. Hawkins reserved a suite for Dr. Farrington so the first lady could rest if her pregnancy fatigued her. He also reserved an adjoining suite for security purposes. Several Secret Service agents remember Mr. Hawkins coming out of one of the two suites he reserved shortly after complaining about the poor reception on his cell phone.

“We went to the phone company and asked for a record of all calls to the cell phone company voice mail retrieval system telephone number in the D.C. area on the date and time in question. There were thousands of calls because everyone using the cell phone provider would call that number to get their voice mail, but only a few calls were made from the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. Once we’d confirmed that calls had been made from the hotel we got the hotel records to see from what rooms the calls had been made. One room was in the suite adjoining Dr. Farrington’s suite.”

Evans stopped talking. Bischoff waited until it became obvious that the agent was finished presenting as much of his case as he was going to reveal.

“That’s it?” the lawyer asked.

“I think I’ve given Mr. Hawkins enough to think about for the time being.”

“You’re going to indict Chuck based on the word of a man facing multiple death sentences and a cell phone call?”

“We have other evidence that I’m not prepared to reveal at this time,” Evans bluffed.

The lawyer stood. “This has been very entertaining, but Mr. Hawkins and I have busy schedules.”

“I understand, but you should understand this. I really want Mr. Hawkins. The only reason I would even think of cutting a deal with him is my belief that the president may be involved. If he is, the only way your client is going to come out of this alive is by cooperating, and I’m not going to wait very long for your call.”

“I’ll let you know Mr. Hawkins’s position as soon as we’ve had a chance to confer,” Bischoff said as he ushered his client out of the office.

“What do you think?” Evans asked Maggie Sparks and Gordon Buss as soon as the door closed.

“I wouldn’t wait by the phone,” the AUSA answered. “You’ve got as much of a chance of cutting a deal with Hawkins as I do with Osama bin Laden.”

“Do you agree, Maggie?” Evans asked.

“I think the next time you talk to Hawkins he’ll be sitting in the witness box in a federal court.”

Evans sighed. “You’re probably right. I knew it was a long shot, but I had to try.”

Roy Kineer wasn’t in, so Evans couldn’t report on his meeting with Hawkins and Bischoff right away. Instead he went back to his office and read over a report he’d received from Oregon that morning. Clarence Little’s pinkie collection had been printed. Laurie Erickson’s pinkie was not a part of it, but Peggy Farmer’s was. The report concluded that it was highly improbable that Little would have been able to kill Farmer and her boyfriend in Central Oregon and return to Salem in time to kill Laurie Erickson. The report cheered up Evans, who felt that the interview with Hawkins had been a complete bust.

Shortly before noon, Kineer’s secretary told Evans that Justice Kineer was back and wanted to be briefed about the meeting. Evans spent an hour with the judge before his boss left to have lunch with several members of the House Judiciary Committee.

Evans had his secretary pick up a sandwich for him, which he ate at his desk. He was halfway through it when the receptionist buzzed to tell him that Gary Bischoff was on the phone. Evans was surprised.

“What’s up, Gary?”

“Are you busy?” Bischoff asked. Evans thought he sounded upset.

“No, why?”

“We need to talk. Can you come to my office?”

“When?”

“Right now. Hawkins wants to cut a deal.”

Evans was stunned. “Okay,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant.

“And come alone. This is between the three of us.”

“I’ll be there.”

Bischoff hung up without saying good-bye. Evans stared out the window, but he didn’t see a thing. He had to believe that Hawkins was thinking of pleading guilty against the advice of his counsel, but he couldn’t think of what he’d said that would have frightened a man as powerful as Hawkins into negotiating a guilty plea.

Chapter Forty-one

Gary Bischoff ’s law office occupied part of the first floor of an elegant red brick Federalist-style house on a quiet, tree-lined street in Georgetown. The stately home had been built in 1826 by a wealthy merchant, but Keith Evans was too preoccupied to pay any attention to the antiques, oil paintings, and period furniture that Bischoff used to furnish the place.

Bischoff ’s secretary showed the agent into an office in the back that looked out through leaded windows on a beautifully maintained garden where a very attractive woman was sunbathing in a lime bikini. Evans remembered reading that some years ago Bischoff and his first wife had been involved in a bloody divorce. He guessed that the woman in the backyard was Bischoff ’s trophy wife, which would explain Bischoff ’s rigorous exercise routine. She was at least fifteen years younger than the lawyer, who appeared to have aged since the morning meeting.

“I want you to understand that I’ve advised Mr. Hawkins against this course of action,” Bischoff said, straining to maintain a professional demeanor, “but he’s the client and he makes the ultimate decision on how he’ll proceed.”

“Okay, Gary, I understand.”

Evans studied Hawkins, who was sitting in a high-backed armchair, one leg crossed over the other, looking calm to the same degree that his attorney was agitated.

“Can I speak directly to Mr. Hawkins?”

Bischoff waved a hand at Evans, signaling that he wanted nothing to do with what was going to occur.

“Mr. Hawkins, may I record this conversation?” Evans asked as he took a cassette recorder out of his jacket pocket.

Hawkins nodded. Evans stated the date, the time, the place where the interview was being conducted, and the names of all present. Then he gave Hawkins his Miranda warnings.

“Mr. Hawkins, why are we here?” Evans asked as soon as Hawkins acknowledged the warnings.

“I want to plead guilty to the charges.”

“All of them?” Evans asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“I’ll have to see the indictments before I can answer that. But I’m prepared to accept responsibility for the crimes I committed.”

“You understand that conviction for some of these crimes can carry a death sentence?”

“Yes.”

“Gary says that he’s advised you that this meeting is not in your best interest. Is that true?”

“He told me that you don’t have much of a case. It’s his opinion that it would be very difficult for a prosecutor to get a conviction.”

“So why do you want to confess?”

“I’m Catholic. I have a conscience. I’ve done terrible things, and I want to atone for them.”

Evans didn’t buy the religious angle, but he wasn’t going to stop Hawkins if he wanted to confess.

“I don’t want to put words in your mouth,” the agent said, “so why don’t you tell me what crimes you believe you’ve committed?”

“Chuck, don’t do this,” Bischoff begged. “At least let me try to negotiate some concessions from the government.”

“I appreciate your concern, Gary, but I know what I’m doing. If the authorities want to show me mercy, they will. I’m in God’s hands now and I’m prepared to accept whatever He sees fit to give me.”

Evans got the impression that the attorney and his client had debated Hawkins’s position many times before his arrival, with Bischoff losing the argument every time.

“You were right about everything,” Hawkins told Evans. “I killed Rhonda Pulaski, Tim Houston-”

“That’s the chauffeur who saw President Farrington having sex with Pulaski?”

Hawkins’s features tightened. When he spoke his tone was as cold as his eyes.

“Let’s get one thing straight. I’m guilty of many things, but disloyalty to Christopher Farrington is not one of them. He’s not responsible for my actions and I will not discuss him. If you insist on asking about the president of the United States this meeting will end.”

“Okay, I accept that. Go ahead.”

“I killed Mr. Houston. I also murdered Laurie Erickson and Charlotte Walsh.”

“Why did you kill Erickson?”

“She was going to make false accusations against the president. She demanded money. Even though the accusations were false his career would have been ruined.”

“How did you kill Erickson?”

“I left the papers for Chris’s speech in my office in the mansion on purpose to give me an excuse to return. She was very slender. I knocked her out, wrapped her in sheets, and sent her down the laundry chute. I bound and gagged her in the basement, smuggled her out the basement door, put her in the trunk of my car, and returned to the fund-raiser. I’d read the police reports of Clarence Little’s crimes. Later that night, I duplicated his modus operandi.”

“Was Laurie Erickson alive during the fund-raiser?”

Hawkins nodded, and the image of the terrified girl, bound and gagged in suffocating darkness, made it difficult for Evans to maintain his composure.

“What about Charlotte Walsh?”

“Cutler sent me a voice mail telling me where she’d parked. I disabled her car and waited until she came back to the lot. Then I knocked her out, bound and gagged her, put her in my trunk, and drove to the farm to meet with the president.”

“Was Walsh in your trunk while you were at the farm?”

Hawkins nodded.

“She was alive?”

Hawkins nodded again. “As soon as I could get away I killed her, duplicating the Ripper’s MO. Then I left her in the Dumpster.”

“Why did you have Dale Perry hire Cutler?”

“I didn’t trust Walsh. I knew what had happened with Pulaski and Erickson. Those girls were a threat to the president’s career. He’s a great man. The country needs him. I couldn’t let those whores bring him down.”

For the first time, Hawkins’s voice trembled with emotion. Evans might have some questions about Farrington’s involvement, but he had no doubt about the depth of Hawkins’s commitment to the president.

“If you already felt that Walsh was a threat, why did you need to have her followed?”

“I don’t think you need to know that.”

Evans could see that there were problems with Hawkins’s story, but he decided that he wouldn’t pressure Hawkins now. He’d let him talk himself out, put him behind bars, and hit him again when he’d had a nice taste of jail.

“Did Dale Perry commit suicide, did you kill him, or did you order Oscar Tierney or someone else to go after Cutler?”

“I don’t want to discuss Dale Perry’s death.”

“We’re going to cut Tierney a deal, so it won’t hurt him.”

“I may not have made myself clear, Agent Evans. I will tell you what I did but I will not implicate anyone else in a crime. I’m prepared to die for what I’ve done, but I won’t take anyone down with me. And don’t waste your time trying to persuade me to change my mind. I’m going to be executed, so there really isn’t anything you can use to threaten me.”

Evans saw nothing that convinced him that the president’s aide could be moved.

“Mr. Hawkins, based on what you’ve told me I’m going to place you under arrest on kidnapping charges for taking Charlotte Walsh across state lines. We’ll sort out all of the charges and the jurisdictional disputes later. Would you please stand and place your hands behind your back.”

Hawkins did as he was told, and Evans snapped on a pair of cuffs.

“Maggie,” Evans said into his cell phone, “I’m at Gary Bischoff ’s office. I need you and Gordon down here. Charles Hawkins has confessed to several murders.”

Evans paused while Sparks said something.

“I’ll go into it later. We need to book Hawkins, and I have to brief Justice Kineer. Can you get him back to headquarters for a meeting?”

Evans hung up and turned his attention back to the president’s aide.

“I appreciate your honesty, Mr. Hawkins, but I think your loyalty to the president is misplaced. Your loyalty shouldn’t be to the man but to the office and to the country Christopher Farrington swore to serve. If the president conspired with you to commit the crimes to which you’ve confessed he has betrayed his oath and he has betrayed the American people.”

Justice Kineer had deserted his congressional lunch companions in the middle of their meal after telling Maggie Sparks to have a war council assembled by the time he returned to the office. When Keith Evans, Gordon Buss, and Maggie Sparks returned from booking Hawkins into jail they found the conference room packed with lawyers and investigators waiting to hear what had happened.

“Give me your best shot about what’s going on here,” Kineer asked Evans when the agent finished his summary of his meeting with Hawkins and Bischoff.

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Hawkins is falling on his sword to protect the president.”

“Convicting Hawkins will be a hollow victory if Farrington is involved in the death of those girls and he skates. Can we do anything to prevent that from happening?” Kineer asked.

“Hawkins is the key,” Evans said. “I can’t think of anyone who can nail Farrington if Hawkins clams up, and believe me I’ve been thinking of nothing else since Hawkins told me he wouldn’t talk about Farrington.”

Kineer looked around the conference room. “Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we all give this our undivided attention because our mission is to determine what involvement, if any, President Farrington has in these murders. If he’s innocent, so be it. If he’s guilty, we have to prove it. We need to decide if we can do that without Hawkins’s cooperation. Does anyone have any bright ideas?”

After forty-five minutes of unproductive discussion Kineer shooed everyone but Evans out of the room.

“I notice you didn’t have much to add to our discussion,” the judge said.

“I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“Is Farrington guilty, Keith?”

The excitement Keith had felt when Hawkins confessed had died away and the agent looked depressed.

“My gut tells me he is, but I don’t think we can touch him if Hawkins won’t talk.”

“Can he be made to talk?”

“It’s going to be tough. Hawkins is fanatically loyal. He’s idolized Farrington since his college days, and he feels that he owes him his life. He has no family. He has acquaintances but no friends except for the Farringtons. Everything in his life revolves around the president and it has for a long time. I think he’s going to say that he committed all of these crimes on his own. Everyone will believe him because he’ll come off looking like a crazed killer who deluded himself into believing that the murders were necessary.

“But say he changes his story and implicates Farrington. The president’s lawyer will crucify Hawkins by reading back all of the statements in which he exonerates Farrington. I think he’s got us, judge.”