Executive Privilege

Washington, D.C.

Chapter Forty-two

Brad got back to his apartment just before three after spending the morning and early afternoon at a law firm interviewing for a job. As soon as he checked for phone messages and e-mail, he changed into running gear. Now that all he had was free time, he was finally able to keep his resolution to exercise.

Working out hadn’t been easy right after the shoot-out. Every time he left his apartment he had to run a gauntlet of reporters who wanted to know what had happened at the Erickson house. Television vans crowded the parking lot at his apartment complex and reporters tied up his phone lines at all hours. Brad wanted to tell everybody what he knew about the Clarence Little case, but Keith Evans had explained that the independent counsel’s investigation could be compromised if he talked to the press, so Brad had been forced to stick to “no comment.”

Shortly after the last reporter called him about the shoot-out, a reporter from the Portland Clarion, Portland’s alternative newspaper, phoned to ask Brad to comment on Paul Baylor’s report, which had concluded that Peggy Farmer’s pinkie was in with the rest of the fingers, but Laurie Erickson’s was nowhere to be found. Brad knew about the report because Ginny had used her feminine wiles to get information out of the associate Tuchman had assigned to take over Little’s appeal, but he had no idea how the reporter had learned about the pinkies. When the reporter said that a confidential source had given him the information Brad suspected immediately that the leak originated with Ginny. His suspicions grew stronger when the reporter told him that the anonymous caller had suggested that Brad had been fired for pursuing the Little case too vigorously because of Susan Tuchman’s ties to the president.

A few days later, a scathing editorial in the Clarion condemned Tuchman for firing an associate who’d gone above and beyond the call of duty to try to prove that a client had been unjustly convicted of murder. The editorial pointed out that Brad had put principle above public opinion by risking his life to see justice done even though his client was detestable.

Brad showered when he finished his run. Then he called Ginny to discuss their plans for the evening.

“Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton.”

“Ginny Striker, please.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?’

“Jeremy Reid of Penzler Electronics.”

“One moment, please.”

Brad waited for Ginny to answer.

“Hey,” he said.

“Thank goodness you were smart enough to use an alias. You have no idea how persona non grata you are around here since the Clarion published that editorial.”

“Tuchman deserves everything she gets.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but it would mean my job if anyone found out we were dating.”

“Is that what we’re doing? I thought I was bartering food for sex.”

“Pig. So, how was the interview?”

“Good. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Will you want to go to the movie straight from work or will you have enough time to go home, change, and come back downtown.”

“I’m not certain I’ll have time for a movie and dinner. I’ll call you when I’ve got a handle on my workload. Are you going to be at home?”

“That’s where I am now. I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Okay. Let me try to clear my desk. I’ll see you soon.”

Brad felt a little guilty that Ginny had to work while he spent his days as he pleased. Besides running, he’d hiked in the mountains and at the coast and had gone to an occasional movie. Then there were the pleasant afternoons sitting on his deck reading a book and sipping a cool drink. The life of leisure sure beat toiling away in the bowels of Reed, Briggs, but Brad knew those days were numbered. He’d have to get a job soon if he wanted to feed himself and keep a roof over his head.

Ginny joined him on the weekends when work permitted and he’d been spending his nights at her place when she wasn’t too tired. Brad was a fair chef. On two occasions he’d spent an afternoon working up an elaborate menu for their evening meal. Ginny had paid him back with some of the best sex ever and all the office gossip she could dig up.

Another way Brad spent his time when he wasn’t hiking, cooking, or looking for work was by keeping up with the independent counsel’s investigation. He’d absorbed every piece of information about it in Exposed, the New York Times, and other media outlets. He knew more about the case than most. While they were driving to Marsha Erickson’s house Dana Cutler had told him what had happened after Dale Perry hired her to tail Charlotte Walsh. Most of that information had been in Exposed, but Brad had learned about the shoot-out at the motel, which had happened after she’d given Patrick Gorman the story.

Keith Evans checked in on Brad from time to time because Brad was a witness. When they talked, Brad pumped the FBI agent for news, but Evans was tight-lipped and Brad rarely got any information that the media didn’t have.

To kill time until Ginny called, Brad read about new evidence against Charles Hawkins that the New York Times had unearthed. A photographer had snapped a shot in the meeting room at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. The photograph showed Hawkins off to one side answering his cell phone as the first lady finished posing with the last contributor in front of President Roosevelt’s clock. The clock read 9:37, which was around the time Dana Cutler said she’d phoned her mystery client with the news that Charlotte Walsh was returning to the Dulles Towne Center lot from the farm.

Something about the photo bothered Brad, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He wandered into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it out on the deck. While he watched the traffic on the river he sipped from his cup and worried the problem, but nothing came to him. He was still stumped when Ginny called.

Brad was lost in a swamp, fighting his way through mud that sucked at his shoes and vines so thick that he could barely see where he was going. The heat was unbearable-a heavy blanket that wrapped around him, making it hard to move or breathe. From somewhere in the swamp two women begged him for help and he despaired that there wasn’t time to rescue both of them. He wanted to give up but he couldn’t.

In the dream, Ginny stood next to him. Instead of offering encouragement, she calmly informed him, “It just can’t be done. There isn’t enough time to go one place then get to the other.”

Brad shot up in bed, his heart pounding. He knew what had bothered him the day before. When he spoke to Ginny after returning from his run Brad had asked if she had enough time to go home and change before coming downtown or if she was just going to go to the movie straight from work. Ginny had told him that she might not have time to go to a movie and eat dinner.

Brad groped for the light on his nightstand and turned it on. He was bathed in sweat, and his breathing was labored. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to calm down. The important thing was to hold on to the dream. In it Brad was panicky because there wasn’t enough time to be in two places at one time. His subconscious was trying to point out that on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder Charles Hawkins had been faced with the same predicament. Had everyone been going at this case the wrong way?

The clock on Brad’s nightstand said it was 5:58. He knew there was no way he could get back to sleep, so he went into the bathroom and prepared to face the day. While he brushed his teeth, Brad made a plan of action. He would eat breakfast then reread everything that bore on the time element. Just as he ducked under the medium hot spray in the shower a sudden thought distracted him. He paused, the bar of soap in his hand and water cascading down his face and chest. There had been something in Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report that had made no impression on him when he read it. Now the memory triggered a really scary idea.

After finishing in the bathroom, Brad put up coffee and toasted a bagel. As soon as he was done with breakfast, he started reviewing the file in Clarence Little’s case and the articles about the Erickson and Walsh murders he had collected. It was almost eight when he finished reading the item he’d intentionally saved for last, Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report. Brad sat back and stared at the wall across from the couch. A colorful print he’d purchased from a street artist in Greenwich Village hung over the fireplace, but he didn’t see it. His thoughts were elsewhere.

When he’d worked the problem through, Brad went into his bedroom and got his appointment book. A few weeks ago, one of the partners had ordered him to call a doctor at home in the evening after court had recessed in a medical malpractice trial. He’d written the number in his book. The witness was the only doctor he knew in Portland. When the doctor picked up the phone, Brad asked him a question. When the doctor answered it, Brad felt sick. He hung up and sat quietly for a few moments. Then he found Keith Evans’s card and dialed his cell phone. The agent answered after a few rings.

“This is Brad Miller. I’m calling from Portland.”

“What’s up, Brad?”

“I had an idea.”

“Yes,” Evans prodded when Brad hesitated.

“It’s kind of crazy.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Can you answer a question about the autopsy report in Charlotte Walsh’s case first?”

“I will if I can.”

“Is there any evidence that Walsh received a stab wound to her brainstem?”

Evans was silent for a moment while he tried to recall the details of the report.

“Yes, I think there was something about that in the report,” he answered. “Why?”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say but I think you have a problem.”

Chapter Forty-three

The events that followed Brad’s call to Keith Evans would have been very exciting if Brad wasn’t scared to death. First there was the black car filled with very serious FBI agents that spirited him away from his apartment less than an hour after Evans ended their call. Then there was the nonstop flight on the FBI jet to a military airfield somewhere near Washington, D.C., followed by the drive from the airfield to the safe house where Dana Cutler was living and the warning to stay inside and away from the windows so snipers would not have a good shot. And then there was the most terrifying part of the whole affair for someone who was a good but not great attorney-explaining his theory to retired United States Supreme Court Justice Roy Kineer, one of the greatest minds in jurisprudential history.

Brad guessed that Justice Kineer had a lot of practice greeting awe-struck neophyte attorneys because Kineer did everything he could to put Brad at ease when Keith Evans ushered him and Dana Cutler into the conference room at the offices of the independent counsel.

“Mr. Miller, thank you so much for coming,” the judge said as he extended his hand and flashed a big smile. “Agent Evans was effusive in his praise for your deductive abilities, and I’m very anxious to hear your theory.”

Brad couldn’t think of anything to say so he flashed a nervous smile.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Kineer asked. “We have coffee, tea, and soft drinks, and we might even be able to rustle up a latte, or whatever is popular in your neck of the woods? I hear there’s a Starbucks not far from here.”

“Actually, New York is my neck of the woods. I just moved to Portland. So black coffee would be great, if it’s no trouble?”

Kineer’s smile shifted to Dana. “I’m also very pleased to finally meet you, Miss Cutler. Can I get you something?”

“I’m fine.”

“No thanks to Charles Hawkins from what I hear. It seems that you’ve had several close calls.”

The judge sent a young assistant to get Brad’s coffee. Then he turned to the nervous attorney.

“Let’s get down to business, Brad. Can you sit by me? I’m a little hard of hearing.”

Kineer went to the head of a small conference table. Evans sat at the other end with Cutler beside him. A middle-aged man and a woman in her early thirties sat across from Brad. The man had a notepad in front of him. The woman looked intense. Kineer introduced them as staff attorneys.

“So, what do you have for us?” he asked Brad, who suddenly doubted every clever deduction he’d made. It had been one thing to speculate about the case in his apartment and another to explain it to Roy Kineer.

“I could be way off base on this,” Brad hedged.

“Mr. Miller, I respect people who think outside the box. You can get A’s on law school exams by having a good memory, but you can’t ace a real case without exercising a little creativity. So let’s have it. The worst thing that will happen is that you’ll be wrong.” Kineer smiled. “If you are I promise it will not go on your permanent record. And if you’re right-and Agent Evans thinks you may be-then you’ll have saved us all from looking like fools.”

“Okay. We know that President Farrington couldn’t have personally killed Charlotte Walsh.”

“Agreed,” Kineer said.

“Well, Mr. Hawkins couldn’t have done it either. It takes about forty-five minutes to go from the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel to the Dulles Towne Center mall, about an hour to go from the mall to the safe house, and roughly an hour to go from the hotel to the CIA safe house. The picture in the New York Times proves that Hawkins was still at the hotel at nine-thirty-seven.

“We know that Charlotte Walsh was dropped off at the mall around eleven and the Secret Service logged Hawkins in at the farm at eleven-fifteen. If Hawkins got to the mall around ten-thirty and waited to kill Walsh at eleven, there’s no way he could have gotten to the safe house at eleven-fifteen. If he went from the hotel to the farm and arrived at eleven-fifteen, there’s no way he could have killed Walsh after she returned to her car.”

“We’ve already worked that out,” the judge said, “but it’s encouraging to see that you know enough about the case to come to the same conclusion.”

“Okay, well, Hawkins has men who are willing to commit murder for him. He sent them to Dana’s apartment, Marsha Erickson’s house, the hospital, and the motel in West Virginia. So Hawkins could still be guilty of Walsh’s murder as an aider and abettor. But there’s a problem with this theory. The earliest Hawkins could have learned about the location of Walsh’s car in the mall was eight, when Cutler phoned in her report, but there’s no record of anyone phoning to retrieve voice messages from any spot in the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel that’s connected to Hawkins until the call that was made from the suite adjoining the first lady’s suite around nine-forty-five. If Hawkins didn’t learn the location of Walsh’s car until then, he would have had to find Tierney and organize the hit fast enough to get Tierney to the mall before eleven. I guess that’s possible, but it would be hard.

“Also, Tierney denies that he or any of his team killed Walsh. He could be lying, but seeing that he’s already admitted to several murders it wouldn’t make much sense to deny killing Walsh.”

“We’re with you so far, Brad,” Kineer said.

“Once I realized that President Farrington and Hawkins couldn’t have murdered Walsh personally and it was improbable that men working for Hawkins or the president had committed the murder I started to wonder if everyone wasn’t approaching the case from the wrong direction. We’ve been assuming that Rhonda Pulaski, Laurie Erickson, and Charlotte Walsh were murdered because they were a threat to Christopher Farrington’s political career, but they all have something else in common. Farrington was cheating on his wife with each of them, and that gave Claire Farrington one of the oldest motives in the book to kill them. When that thought occurred to me I remembered something I’d read in Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report.

“According to the medical examiner, Erickson was almost decapitated when Clarence Little hacked away at every inch of her neck with a sharp object, tearing the skin to ribbons. The report also said that Little had sliced off several body parts after Erickson was dead. The only point about which the medical examiner had any question was the discovery of a subdural hemorrhage over the brainstem for which he could find no source.

“I asked a doctor in Portland about the subdural hemorrhage. He said that sticking a sharp object into the base of the back of the neck between the skull and the first cervical vertebra would sever the spinal cord and cause instant death without much bleeding. If the medical examiner didn’t remove the brain, the only evidence of the cause of death would be a subdural hemorrhage.

“The ME in Oregon was sloppy and had his pathology assistant remove the brain. That’s why he didn’t look at the injury in situ. He couldn’t see the entry wound for the sharp object because the neck had been hacked to pieces, and he didn’t find a source for the subdural hemorrhage because he was so certain that Little murdered Erickson that he didn’t pay attention to the spinal cord injury.

“I asked Agent Evans about the Walsh autopsy report. He told me that there were a large number of slashing wounds all around the neck, which is similar to what was done to Laurie Erickson’s neck. He also told me about a difference between the way Walsh was assaulted and the assaults on the other Ripper victims. The other victims were mutilated before they died, but most of Walsh’s wounds were postmortem.

“Now, here’s the crucial piece of information from Walsh’s autopsy: she died because a sharp instrument was thrust into the base of the back of her neck between the skull and the first cervical vertebra, just as in the Erickson case. This severed Walsh’s spinal cord and caused instant death but hardly any bleeding. The doctor who conducted the Walsh autopsy found the wound when he took out the brain.

“I asked the doctor in Portland if a scalpel could have been used to kill Laurie Erickson. He said it would do the trick. Claire Farrington is a medical doctor. She’d have a scalpel and would know how to use it to kill someone in the manner in which Erickson and Walsh died. Dr. Claire Farrington had the means and motive to kill both women.”

“Didn’t Mr. Hawkins see Erickson alive when Dr. Farrington was at the library fund-raiser?” Kineer asked.

“We only have Hawkins’s word that Erickson was alive when he saw her. What if Dr. Farrington dosed her son so he would sleep all night then killed Laurie just before she left for the library, wrapped her in bedsheets, and dropped her down the laundry chute? At the fund-raiser, she tells Hawkins what she’s done. Hawkins rushes back to the governor’s mansion on the pretext of retrieving his notes, gets rid of the body, and makes the murder look like the work of Clarence Little.”

“Why would Hawkins do that?” Kineer asked.

“Three reasons. One, he’s been in love with Dr. Farrington since college; two, he’s fanatically loyal to the Farringtons; and three”-Brad paused-“he’d done it before.

“Judge, I have no evidence to prove this-not one iota of proof-but the police never figured out who killed Rhonda Pulaski. What if Claire Farrington ran her down and told Charles Hawkins? What if Hawkins sanitized the hit-and-run car to protect Claire then got rid of the chauffeur?”

“That’s an interesting idea, but, as you just said, there’s no evidence to support your theory. Hawkins is taking full responsibility for the Pulaski and Houston murders.”

“True, but President Farrington wouldn’t have had the money to pay off the Pulaski family to keep them from going to the authorities after they learned that he was sexually involved with their daughter. He’d have had to turn to his wife, who was from a wealthy family. If he did, you can bet that Dr. Farrington knew what was going on.”

“You can’t get an indictment with guesses so why don’t we move on to Charlotte Walsh. Assuming you’re right about Dr. Farrington killing Laurie Erickson, how did she murder Charlotte Walsh when she was asleep in her suite at the Theodore Roosevelt?”

“Agent Evans told me that Claire Farrington went into her suite around ten and left a little after one. No one checked on her during that time. Dr. Farrington asked Hawkins to reserve adjoining suites. What if she suspected that her husband was having an affair with Charlotte Walsh? Maybe someone saw them together in Chicago. She could have been the person who asked Dale Perry to hire someone to follow Walsh and report to her.”

“You’re saying that Claire Farrington was Dale Perry’s mystery client?”

“Yes. We know that President Farrington called Hawkins from the farm as soon as Charlotte Walsh stormed out. I think that was the call he took at nine-thirty-seven, when Dr. Farrington was posing with the contributors in front of the clock. Hawkins had bad reception. The Secret Service later saw him come out of the suite adjoining Dr. Farrington’s suite. I think he ended up using the landline in that suite to find out about the president’s call.

“I think Claire Farrington tried to check her voice messages on her cell phone once she was alone in her suite and found that she couldn’t connect because of the bad reception. She could have used the phone in the adjoining suite so it would not appear that calls were made from her suite and learned where Walsh parked her car. She could have arranged for someone who knew about the adjoining suites, like Dale Perry, to leave a change of clothes in the suite and a vehicle somewhere on the street. Dr. Farrington could have gone through the adjoining suite, out the door, and down the stairwell. She would have been able to get to the mall just before Walsh arrived and would have had time to disable Walsh’s car, kill her with the scalpel, and call on Hawkins again to get rid of the body. Then she could tell Hawkins that Dale Perry knew too much and Hawkins could have arranged to have him killed in a way that looked like a suicide.”

“That’s a lot of ‘ifs,’” Kineer said.

Brad had grown more confident as he spoke, more certain that he was right.

“What are the odds of two women who live a continent apart and have connections to Christopher Farrington being stabbed with a scalpel in the space between the skull and first cervical vertebra before having their necks mutilated to hide the entrance wound?” Brad asked the judge. “What are the odds that two different murderers a continent apart would make their killings of these two women look like the work of an active serial killer?

“What’s more, if the killers wanted the police to think that Little and Loomis killed Erickson and Walsh why use a method to murder them that was totally alien to their MOs? On the other hand, it makes perfect sense if the victims were intentionally killed with the strike to the brainstem and the decisions to mimic Little and Loomis were made after the victims were dead.”

“Point taken, but we’re still dealing with a lot of speculation. What do you think, Keith?”

“I think there’s a lot to what Brad’s said. We’ve checked the phone records of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. Two calls were made from the suite adjoining the suite where Claire Farrington took her nap. They were made around ten in the evening, but they were made within five minutes of each other. Unfortunately, we can’t pinpoint the time that the Secret Service agents saw Hawkins leave the adjoining suite so we can’t prove that he didn’t make both calls, but the time interval suggests two different callers.

“And we’ve also come up with this,” Evans said as he handed copies of two grainy, black-and-white photographs to Justice Kineer. In one picture a person in jeans and wearing gloves and a hooded sweatshirt was going up a flight of stairs. In the other, the same person was going down.

“These were taken by a surveillance camera in the stairwell leading down to the lobby of the Theodore Roosevelt shortly after ten. I’ve had an agent make a trial run for me. A person leaving at this time and driving at night when the traffic would be minimal could get to the spot in the mall where Walsh parked in enough time to disable Walsh’s vehicle and hide herself.”

“Is there any way to determine if this person is a man or a woman?” Kineer asked. “I can’t tell.”

Evans shook his head. “We can’t determine the sex.”

Kineer looked around the room. “Any suggestions on what to do next?”

When no one answered Kineer smiled. “Do I have any volunteers who want to accuse a pregnant first lady of being a serial murderer?”

Chapter Forty-four

Keith Evans had survived gunfights and gone one-on-one with hardened psychopaths, but he still felt insecure as he followed the Secret Service agent up the stairs to the family quarters of the White House. The agent tried to convince himself that this would be like any other witness interview, but he failed miserably. He and Justice Kineer were not going to be grilling some two-bit drug dealer. They were going to be interrogating the first lady of the United States, an expectant mother who was married to the most powerful man in the world. Evans knew his career could go swirling down the toilet if he screwed up.

The Secret Service agent opened a door for Kineer and Evans, and they stepped into a cozy sitting room. The upholstered furniture sported a bright floral pattern that matched the drapes surrounding several floor-to-ceiling windows. Along the walls were a cherrywood writing desk and tall cupboards displaying pewter mugs and dinnerware from colonial times. Pastoral landscapes in gilt frames added to the feeling that the visitors were going to conduct their interview in the country home of an eighteenth-century American.

A man of average size, dressed in a dark blue business suit and sporting a trim, salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rimmed glasses was waiting at the door.

“Good afternoon, Mort,” Roy Kineer said to Morton Rickstein.

“Good afternoon, Judge,” Rickstein replied. The dapper lawyer and the former justice weren’t friends, but they’d bumped into each other often enough at social and legal functions to call themselves acquaintances.

“Do you know Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked.

“We’ve met on a few occasions,” Kineer answered, turning toward the woman seated in front of a tall window through which the sun shone. Claire Farrington’s back was straight and a smile of mild amusement played on her lips as she studied her visitors the way a queen might regard a supplicant from an outlying part of her realm.

Kineer had forgotten how large and powerful Claire Farrington looked. The first signs of motherhood did nothing to diminish his feeling that it would have been easy for her to overpower girls like Charlotte Walsh and Laurie Erickson.

“This is Keith Evans, Dr. Farrington,” Kineer said. “He’s with the FBI, but I had him seconded to me because he was the lead investigator in the D.C. Ripper case.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Evans,” Farrington said. “You did fine work apprehending Eric Loomis.”

“Thanks,” Evans said, noting that she hadn’t complimented him for arresting Charles Hawkins.

Kineer and Evans found a seat on a couch that was catty-corner to Claire Farrington’s high-backed chair. Evans placed his attaché case on the floor next to a coffee table made of dark polished wood.

“Why do you feel it’s necessary to interview Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked when Evans and the judge were comfortable.

“She’s a close personal friend of Charles Hawkins,” Justice Kineer answered.

“You don’t intend to call her as a witness, do you?”

“I can’t guarantee that. Dr. Farrington was with Mr. Hawkins on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder and may have evidence relevant to the case.”

“I understood that Mr. Hawkins has confessed and plans to plead guilty. If there’s not going to be a trial why would you need Dr. Farrington?”

“It’s not sufficient to obtain a confession,” Kineer said to the attorney before changing his focus from Rickstein to the first lady. “We have to be certain that Mr. Hawkins committed the crimes to which he’s confessing. Sometimes people confess to a crime they didn’t commit because they’re mentally ill or they want publicity or they’re covering up for the real perpetrator.”

Farrington’s expression and demeanor didn’t alter.

“Do you have any reason to doubt Mr. Hawkins’s confession?” Rickstein asked.

“There are parts of it that are causing us some concern so, unfortunately, we have to keep pressing our investigation.”

“What parts?” Rickstein asked.

Kineer smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t go into that at this time. Confidentiality and all that. You understand, Mort.”

“Sure. Why don’t we get on with this. You ask your questions and Dr. Farrington will answer them unless I tell her not to or she doesn’t want to.”

“Fair enough,” Kineer said. He turned to Evans. “Keith knows more about the cases so he’ll be asking the questions. Keith?”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us. I know you’re really busy,” Evans said.

“Chuck is a dear friend. I can’t believe what’s happening to him.”

Evans nodded sympathetically. “Where did you two meet?”

“We were all in the same year at OSU.”

“Oregon State University?”

“Yes. And we were all athletes. He and Chris were on the basketball team, and I played volleyball.”

“I hear you were very good.”

“Yes, I was,” Claire answered without hesitation.

“Was Mr. Hawkins very good?”

“Not particularly. He wasn’t a starter like Chris. He had some good games but most of the time he rode the bench.”

“I understand you and Mr. Hawkins dated in college.”

“Yes.”

“Did you go out with the president at OSU?”

“We double-dated, Chuck and me and Chris with whoever he was dating.”

“So the president and Mr. Hawkins were close?”

“Yes.”

“Did the president have a steady girlfriend in college?”

A look of distaste changed the first lady’s features for a second and then it was gone.

Claire answered stiffly. “Chris was the big man on campus and found it easy to attract women.”

“When did you start going out with the president?” Evans asked.

“Isn’t this getting a bit far afield?” Rickstein asked. “Dr. Farrington has a busy schedule, and she’s been gracious enough to set aside this time for you, but we’ll be here forever if you go over information that’s readily available in every magazine and newspaper that’s been covering the campaign.”

“Good point,” Evans conceded. “Dr. Farrington, would you say that Mr. Hawkins is intensely loyal to you and the president?”

“We helped him through some very tough times after he got out of the military and he’s always been grateful.”

“So he would do anything for you and Mr. Farrington?”

“I can’t speak for Chuck.”

“He wouldn’t hesitate to help you if you were in trouble?”

“Again, I can’t speak for Mr. Hawkins.”

“Has he helped you or the president with personal problems?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Hawkins has confessed to murdering Rhonda Pulaski and Tim Houston.”

The first lady stiffened. “What has that got to do with me?”

“The Pulaskis were paid to keep quiet about your husband’s sexual relationship with their teenage daughter…”

“My husband represented Miss Pulaski in a lawsuit, a successful lawsuit. She got greedy and tried to blackmail him with an outrageous allegation. No one was paid off.”

“The Pulaskis say they were paid to keep quiet.”

“Then they’re lying.”

“Agent Evans,” Rickstein interrupted, “Mr. Hawkins confessed to the murders. I don’t see what the first lady had to do with it.”

“Dr. Farrington, did you give your husband money to pay off the Pulaskis?” Evans asked.

“I’m not going to answer any more questions about those people.”

“I think we can move on, Keith,” Kineer said amiably.

“Did you notice anything unusual in Mr. Hawkins’s demeanor on the evening of the fund-raiser at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel?”

“No, but I was preoccupied with my speech and I wasn’t feeling well. I had a bad bout of morning sickness.”

“So I understand. In fact, you’d reserved a suite at the hotel for just this contingency, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“On the day of the fund-raiser.”

“Yes.”

“Two suites, actually? Adjoining suites?”

“That’s correct. We needed to make certain that no one was next door for security reasons.”

“I understand that Mr. Hawkins made the arrangements.”

“Yes.”

“The Secret Service told us that you stopped to use the ladies’ room on your way to your photo op because you weren’t feeling well.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you happen to check your cell phone for messages when you were in the ladies’ room?”

The first lady hesitated and eyed Evans suspiciously before responding with a terse, “No.”

Evans pulled two black-and-white photographs out of his attaché case and held them up so Dr. Farrington and Mort Rickstein could see them. In one picture a person in jeans and wearing gloves and a hooded sweatshirt was going up a flight of stairs. In the other, the same person was going down.

“Do you have an idea who this person is?” the agent asked.

Dr. Farrington leaned forward and studied the photograph for a few seconds. Then she shook her head.

“I’m sorry but I don’t recognize this man.”

“We’re not one hundred percent certain it is a man,” Evans said. “It could be a tall woman.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Hawkins?” Mort Rickstein asked.

“We’re not certain it has anything to do with him.”

“Then why are you showing these pictures to me?” Dr. Farrington asked.

“The pictures were recorded by a security camera in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel shortly after ten on the evening of the fund-raiser you attended. There’s a door to the stairwell opposite the suite adjoining the one in which you were resting. Dale Perry drew away the Secret Service agent who was watching the stairwell exit on two occasions that evening. If someone wanted to sneak in or out of the hotel by using the stairwell they would have had an opportunity when the guard wasn’t watching the stairwell door.”

“Why would that matter to me? I was asleep from ten to shortly before one.”

“Did you ever go into the adjoining suite to use the phone?”

“No, why would I? There was a phone on the nightstand in the suite where I was taking my nap. I would have used that phone if I wanted to make a call.”

Rickstein looked suspicious. “What’s going on here?”

“Two calls were made from the suite adjoining the suite where Dr. Farrington was taking her nap. Mr. Hawkins made one of the calls around ten. We’re trying to figure out if he made both calls,” Keith said.

Rickstein frowned. “I thought this interview was going to be about Chuck Hawkins but I’m beginning to suspect that you have another agenda, Roy.”

“Certain facts have come to light that have led us to believe that Dr. Farrington may be involved in the Pulaski, Erickson, and Walsh cases.”

Rickstein looked astonished. “Involved how?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be more specific,” Kineer answered.

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate this meeting.”

Evans had been watching Claire Farrington closely during this exchange. She had said nothing, but she had stared hard at Roy Kineer with a look that Evans interpreted as pure hate.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Farrington,” Justice Kineer said. “Thank you for taking time to meet with us.”

Farrington didn’t answer. A moment after the FBI agent and the judge walked out of the sitting room, the door opened and Mort Rickstein stepped out.

“Hold up, Roy,” he called out.

Kineer and Evans turned around.

“What’s going on?” Rickstein demanded when he caught up to them.

“Just what I said.”

“You don’t really suspect Claire of having some kind of direct involvement in these killings?”

“We have some evidence that points that way.”

For a moment, Rickstein looked dumbfounded. The he got control of himself.

“There’s an old saying about not missing when you aim at a king. That goes for a queen, too. If I were you, I wouldn’t breathe a word of your suspicions to anyone unless you’ve got one hundred percent proof of wrongdoing.”

“Don’t worry, Mort. I take my position very seriously. I won’t aim at your client until I’m certain that I can’t miss.”

Rickstein stared hard at the jurist. Then he shook his head and walked back toward the sitting room.

“What do you think?” Kineer asked when the lawyer was out of earshot.

“I think it’s first lady, a hundred; independent counsel, zero.”

“I agree. I also think she’s in this up to her neck, but we may not be able to prove it.”

“At least we know why Hawkins flipped so quickly,” Evans said. “It was the phone calls. He didn’t want us thinking about the possibility that Dr. Farrington had used the phone in the adjoining suite to retrieve Cutler’s voice messages.”

“Hawkins is the only person who can nail Claire Farrington,” Kineer said. “Do you think we can turn him?”

“This guy is a samurai, Judge. He’s going to die for his emperor and empress.”

“So, what do we do?”

Evans shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The president had a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but he hurried up to his living quarters as soon as it was over to find out why Justice Kineer had met with his wife that afternoon. Claire was waiting in their bedroom.

“What happened?” he asked anxiously.

“I think they know,” Claire said calmly.

Farrington dropped heavily into an armchair. He looked stricken.

Claire smiled. “They know, but they can’t prove a thing, Chris. You don’t have to worry. We’ll be fine.”

Farrington looked up. “What if they…?”

“They won’t. Be strong. Look where we are,” she said, moving her hand across the expanse of the room. “I knew we’d be here one day. No one is going to take this away from us.”

Claire’s features closed up like a steel door sealing in the contents of a safe. When she was like this, his wife frightened him.

“No one,” she repeated in a voice so cold that there was no doubt about the lengths she would go to keep him in the White House and to keep any woman from interfering with her marriage.

Chapter Forty-five

Dana Cutler and Brad Miller were watching CNN’s coverage of Charles Hawkins’s guilty plea when Keith Evans walked into the living room of the safe house. Hawkins had insisted on pleading immediately in Maryland state court to the murder of Charlotte Walsh. Gary Bischoff had refused to represent Hawkins, so he’d retained a new lawyer whose smile when he faced the television cameras suggested that he wasn’t the least bit troubled by pleading a client who might be innocent to a capital murder charge.

“Why aren’t you at the courthouse?” Brad asked.

“I couldn’t do it. It’s too depressing. Hawkins is taking the heat for the Farringtons, and he’s probably going to spend the rest of his life in prison or be executed for crimes he didn’t commit.”

“It’s not like he’s completely innocent, Keith,” Brad said. “He probably murdered Houston, the chauffeur, and he sent those men to kill Dana. At minimum he covered up for Claire Farrington when she killed Rhonda Pulaski, leaving her free to kill Erickson and Walsh.”

“Murders she’ll never pay for because of Hawkins,” Evans answered bitterly.

“In life, unlike the movies, there are often untidy endings,” Dana Cutler said.

“You’re not giving up, are you?” Brad asked.

“No, and neither is Justice Kineer. We’re forging on with our investigation. We’re just not doing very well. But enough of this discouraging news.” Evans smiled. “I’m here to tell you that you’ll be going back to your lives this afternoon. With Hawkins pleading, we don’t think you’re in danger anymore. Brad, you’ve got a first-class ticket back to Portland. Dana, you’ll have to settle for me driving you back to your apartment in my heap.”

“I’m so anxious to get out of house arrest I’d ride a tricycle home,” Dana said.

“It’s been a privilege knowing both of you,” the agent told them. “I’m just sorry your efforts didn’t result in the Farringtons paying for their crimes.”

“Yet,” Brad said.

“From your lips to God’s ears,” Evans said.

Brad and Dana went upstairs to pack. Dana came down first, and she and Evans engaged in small talk while they waited for Brad to return. The trio traded good-byes, then Brad got into a car and disappeared in the direction of the airport.

“Ready?” Evans asked Dana.

She tossed the duffel bag with her clothes into the backseat of Evans’s car and got in beside him.

“What are your plans?” Evans asked when they’d been driving for a while.

“The same plans I had before I became entangled with the powerful and famous; stay below the radar and earn enough to feed myself and pay my rent.”

“I wish you luck. I guess you’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime.”

“I had my full quota of excitement long before Dale Perry hired me,” Dana answered grimly.

Evans focused on the road, ashamed that he had forgotten what Dana Cutler had gone through. If Cutler was upset with him she didn’t show it, and she seemed lost in thought during the rest of the drive.

“Do you happen to have copies of the photos showing the mystery person in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel?” Dana asked when Evans parked in front of her apartment.

“Why?”

“I’d prefer not to say. But I’d appreciate getting copies of the photos and a complete set of the police reports detailing the crime scene at the Dulles Towne Center mall.”

Evans studied the private detective. Dana’s features revealed nothing.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Evans said.

Dana nodded. Then she was out of the car and inside her building. As soon as she closed her apartment door behind her Dana pulled out her cell phone.

“Jake, it’s me, Dana,” she said as soon as Teeny picked up.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Dana was pleased that he sounded worried.

“It’s a long story and I want to tell it to you, but my car is parked down the street from your house and I don’t have any wheels.”

“Where’s my Harley?”

“That’s another long story.”

“Do you know that the FBI questioned me? What have you gotten yourself into?”

“Come over and I’ll tell you. We’ll go out for dinner, my treat. Believe me, the story is worth the trip. Oh, and please bring the envelope I left on the desk in your study with the DVD.”

Jake hung up and Dana carried her duffel bag into the bedroom. She was glad that she had someone like Jake to turn to, and it didn’t hurt that he was a genius at anything to do with photography. As she sorted through her clothes she mulled over the idea that had been brewing since Keith Evans told her that Claire Farrington was going to get away with murder. Dana’s heart went out to Rhonda Pulaski, Laurie Erickson, and Charlotte Walsh. They had all been good kids, and they’d died way too young. Dana was outraged that Claire Farrington had taken their lives and she felt white-hot anger every time she realized how close she’d come to joining the first lady’s collection of corpses.

There weren’t many good things that had come out of her hideous experience in the basement of the meth lab, but being so close to dying that you said good-bye to life did free you of the fear of death. That didn’t mean that you wanted to die, and Dana vowed to make Claire Farrington pay for taking her right to live so lightly.

Chapter Forty-six

Morton Rickstein was exhausted. It was 9:30 P.M. and he’d been in his office since 7:30 A.M. preparing for a deposition. Normally Rickstein dressed impeccably, but he was so tired that he didn’t bother to roll down his shirtsleeves when he put on his jacket, and he left his tie at half-mast before grabbing his briefcase and trudging to the elevator that would take him to the parking garage. On the ride down Rickstein thought about how good it would feel to sit in his den with a scotch on the rocks.

The elevator doors opened, and Rickstein walked into the garage. He worked late frequently but he’d never gotten use to the eerie quiet of the underground lot at this time of night. Most of the cars were gone and much of the garage was in shadow. Rickstein imagined things unholy hiding in the pitch-black recesses and caught himself glancing furtively at the thick, concrete pillars that supported the roof. A killer could hide behind them, completely unseen, until an unsuspecting victim passed by.

There were three pillars between the elevator and his car and the lawyer tensed as he passed each one. Rickstein fished his electronic key out of his pocket and used the remote to unlock his car doors so he could get inside as quickly as possible. He heard the reassuring beep and hurried his step. When he arrived at his Lexus unharmed, he let out a breath and bent down to open the driver’s door.

“Mr. Rickstein.”

The lawyer swung around, his heart seizing in his chest. A woman had appeared out of nowhere. She looked like a hard case in her black jeans and motorcycle jacket.

“Sorry if I frightened you. My name is Dana Cutler. I’m a private investigator, and I’ve worked for your firm. I did most of my work for Dale Perry.”

It took a second for Rickstein to recognize the name and connect it to the client of Dale Perry who had called to complain about being harassed by a Reed, Briggs associate. Dana Cutler was the woman who’d been involved in the shoot-out at Marsha Erickson’s house in Oregon.

“Look, Miss Cutler, I’ve had a long day. Call my secretary tomorrow and make an appointment if you have something to discuss with me.”

“This can’t wait. My business concerns another Kendall, Barrett client, Claire Farrington.”

Dana extended her hand toward Rickstein. In it was a manila envelope.

“I want you to give this to the first lady. There is a photograph and a cell phone in the package. You’re free to have the cell phone examined to make sure it’s not a bomb, but I’d advise you against looking at the photograph. You’re better off not knowing what it shows. It might interfere with your ability to represent your client.

“When you give the envelope to Dr. Farrington tell her that I lied to the police when I said I didn’t go back to the parking lot at the Dulles Towne Center mall. I wasn’t planning on going back when I left her the voice message, but I got curious. Tell her I took several very interesting photographs that aren’t in the envelope. I’ll call her on the cell phone and tell her how she can get the pictures.”

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m not going to involve myself in it.”

“I can’t think of any other way to communicate with Dr. Farrington. People like me can’t just ring the doorbell at the White House and ask to meet with the first lady.”

“What you’re suggesting sounds like blackmail and I will not assist you. Furthermore, if I hear you’re persisting in this scheme I’ll go to the police and let them deal with you.”

“You really don’t want to do that, Mr. Rickstein. Not if you’re concerned about the best interests of your client. Remember the photographs in Exposed that caused President Farrington’s problems? I took them, and I tried to be fair. Before I went anywhere else I met with Mr. Perry and offered to sell the photos to the president. Dale and the president double-crossed me, so I sold them to Exposed. The stories in Exposed are probably going to cost Farrington the election. The picture in that envelope could cost your client her life. So you decide what to do, but make it fast. If you turn me down I’ll call Patrick Gorman at Exposed. He gave me the number of his home phone after the success he had with my first batch of candid snapshots.”

The morning after her meeting with Rickstein, Dana called the lawyer at his office to find out when he was going to meet with Claire Farrington. Dana figured that Rickstein would hand over the envelope in the first ten minutes of the meeting along with her message. Once Dr. Farrington got a glimpse of the photograph she would ask Rickstein to leave because she wouldn’t want to risk the lawyer seeing it or overhearing her conversation with Dana. Dana calculated that the first lady would begin studying the picture about fifteen minutes after Rickstein’s arrival. That’s when she placed the call. She wanted Farrington to see the picture, but she didn’t want to give her a lot of time to think before making her demands.

The first lady answered the phone after two rings.

“Dr. Farrington?”

“Who else would have this phone?” Farrington asked angrily.

“Getting upset won’t solve your problem. This is strictly a business proposition for me. I tried to explain that to Dale Perry and your husband but they decided it would be better to kill me than meet my very reasonable demands. Look where that got them. Dale’s dead, and your husband is probably going to be out of a job come November. I can guarantee he’ll lose the election and you’ll go to prison by selling the photos of you at the Dulles Towne Center lot to Exposed, but they don’t pay nearly as well as you will.”

“What do you want?”

“Three million dollars wired today to the account number you’ll find in the envelope. If the money is safely in my account you get the pictures.”

“I have no idea what you think these photographs have to do with me. They just show someone in a sweatshirt opening a car door. You can’t see the person’s face. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.”

Dana laughed. “I can see you’re worried that I’m taping this conversation. I’m not. But if it makes you feel better I won’t ask you to say anything incriminating.

“Getting back to the reasons you’ll pay, there’s no question that the person in my pictures is identical to the figure in the stairwell at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. More important, there is a very nice photograph I didn’t give you for fear that Mort Rickstein’s curiosity would get the better of him. In this photograph, the hood is back just enough to see you staring menacingly into Charlotte Walsh’s car. Enlarge that baby and you’re assured of a date with the executioner.”

“I don’t believe you have pictures that would affect me in the least. But even if I wanted to purchase your pictures, there’s no way I can get three million dollars together today. And I certainly wouldn’t pay a blackmailer a red cent without seeing these pictures you claim are so incriminating.”

“If you want to see the pictures before paying I’ll meet you tonight at midnight in the Dulles Towne Center lot at the spot where Charlotte Walsh parked. It’s wide open at night, and I’ll be able to make sure that you’re alone.”

“It would be extraordinarily difficult for me to get to you without a Secret Service escort.”

“Tell them you don’t want an escort.”

“It’s not that simple. The Secret Service won’t follow my orders if I might be in danger. An agent will have to come with me.”

“All right, you can have an agent drive you, but if you’re planning to arrest me or have me killed, think twice. I know this is a horrible cliché, but I really did give a second set of pictures to a lawyer who’ll send them to Exposed if I meet with an untimely death.”

“Your demands are ridiculous. If I was concerned about your insane accusations I would also be concerned that you’d ask for more money as soon as I paid you. Blackmailers never stop their demands once they’ve got you hooked.”

“Good point, but you have no choice but to trust me. I don’t think you’d enjoy being perp-walked out of the White House on national television. And if you’re still pissed off, think of our transaction this way: the three million is for the mental distress I’ve suffered from trying to stay alive these past weeks. I’m sure a jury would award me more than that if I sued you. But a lawsuit would take years. I prefer one fast transaction.

“And you really don’t have to worry about me coming back for more. If you’ve been briefed on my background you know why I quit the police force. Pay me and I’m out of your life. All I want is to be left alone. Three million dollars will set me up for life.”

Claire Farrington held the cell phone in her hands for several seconds after Dana Cutler ended their call. Then she laid it down next to her on the couch and stared at the photograph of the hooded person standing next to Charlotte Walsh’s car. The photo looked as if it had been taken from a distance from the driver’s side of Walsh’s car. It showed a hooded figure standing next to the driver’s door. Something about the picture bothered her. She didn’t see it for a few seconds. Then she realized that the hooded figure in the photograph was identical to the hooded figure in the surveillance photo taken in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel.

Claire stared intently at the picture for a few more moments. She smiled. Now she was certain that the picture was as phony as Dana Cutler’s story. The hooded figure was standing so that her right hand appeared to be on the door handle. That was wrong. When she killed Walsh she had grabbed the handle with her left hand so she could pull the door past her left side. If she’d opened the door with her right hand it would have been between her and Walsh.

In Cutler’s last voicemail message she’d said that she was finished following Walsh. That had been the truth. Cutler had not been in the lot when she killed Walsh. The first lady breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know how Cutler had faked the picture, but she knew the picture wasn’t real. Claire buzzed Irving Lasker.

A few minutes later, Lasker was seated next to Farrington.

“Irv, do you know how to fake a photograph or do you know someone who does?”

“I know a little bit about it.”

Farrington handed Lasker the photograph. “How would you make the person in the hood look like he was standing next to this car if he really wasn’t?” she asked.

“You’d use Photoshop software. First you’d scan the photo of the car and the photo of the man in the hood into your computer. Then you’d use a technique called feathering to manipulate the pixels on either side of the images. Feathering will make an image blurry at the line where the images are being pasted together. You take one or two pixels on either side of the image and feather them together. The image will look real.”

“Is there a way to tell if feathering has been used to join the hooded person to the scene with the car in this picture?”

“Sure. You just magnify it. If the picture was created with feathering, the pixels won’t look clear and crisp like they would in a real photo.”

“Please have someone check this photograph and get back to me. And I need this done immediately.”

As soon as Lasker left the room, the first lady smiled. Ignoring Dana Cutler was the wise course of action, but Dana had crushed Chris’s chances of keeping the presidency when she went to Exposed. She had to pay for that. If the photograph turned out to be a fake-and Claire was certain it would-she would meet Dana at midnight. But the meeting would definitely not go the way Miss Cutler thought it would.

Chapter Forty-seven

By midnight there were no cars in the remote section of the mall parking lot where Charlotte Walsh had been murdered. Dana waited in the shadows behind a light several rows from the spot where she’d told Claire Farrington to meet her. An hour and a quarter after Dana began her surveillance a car pulled in near the spot where Charlotte Walsh had parked her car. Irving Lasker got out. The first lady waited in the car while the Secret Service agent scoped out the area. When he gave the okay she got out and walked to the spot where Charlotte Walsh had parked. Farrington was dressed in jeans and a lightweight tan jacket. A baseball cap with the brim pulled down covered her hair. Dana waited a few beats then walked over to them with her hands held out from her sides.

“I assume you want to search me for weapons,” she said. Lasker nodded then searched her thoroughly. When he was certain that Dana was unarmed he stepped away from the investigator.

“We need some privacy, Irv,” Farrington said.

Lasker joined the driver, who was standing next to the car and scanning the lot.

“Let’s see the photograph,” Farrington said without preamble when she was sure that her escorts couldn’t hear her.

Dana took an envelope out of her jacket pocket and handed it to the first lady. Farrington took a photograph out of the envelope and studied it. Someone had pasted a picture of her face into the hood of the sweatshirt. This job wasn’t as well executed as the first and the fakery was even more obvious.

Farrington held up the photograph and looked over her shoulder at Lasker.

“Can you hold this, please,” she asked, using the signal they’d agreed on earlier in the evening. Lasker and the other agent walked over casually. When he was a few steps from Farrington Lasker drew his gun, and the first lady stepped behind the other agent.

“You’re under arrest, Miss Cutler, for extortion.”

A triumphant smile lit up Claire Farrington’s face. “You must think I’m awfully stupid. I didn’t murder Charlotte Walsh, so I knew that the pictures you sent me were fakes. An expert has confirmed this.”

Farrington was about to continue when three cars appeared at the side of the mall and headed their way.

“Get in the car,” Lasker told his charge.

“You don’t have to worry about the first lady,” Dana said. “That’s the FBI. I arranged for them to be here.”

Farrington looked confused. Lasker ordered her to get into the car again and she obeyed, but her eyes never left the cars, which stopped moments later. Keith Evans got out and held up his identification.

“Hey, Agent Lasker, remember me?”

“What are you doing here, Evans?”

“Before I answer that, I have a few questions I need to ask you,” Evans said in a tone low enough so Farrington could not hear him. “How did you know where to go tonight?”

“The first lady told me.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She wanted to go to this mall.”

“What did she say or do when you got to the mall?”

“She directed us to a spot in the parking lot.”

“What were her exact words?”

“I don’t remember her exact words, but as best I can recall, she told us to drive around the corner of the mall and go to this row. Then she had us stop near this parking space.”

“She gave you specific directions?”

“Yes. Now what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid the first lady is in a lot of trouble,” Evans said.

“Hey, wait,” Lasker said as Evans and Sparks walked to the back of Farrington’s car.

“Please don’t interfere, Agent Lasker,” Evans said. The FBI agents from the other cars moved in on Lasker and the driver, and the Secret Service agents realized they were outnumbered.

Claire had lowered her window in an attempt to hear what was being said.

“Good evening, Dr. Farrington,” Evans said.

“Good evening, Agent Evans. We’ve just arrested Dana Cutler for trying to extort three million dollars from me for a set of photographs allegedly showing me murdering Charlotte Walsh. Unfortunately for her, I knew the photographs couldn’t be real and I had them examined by an expert.”

Evans smiled. “The photos are faked and we know Miss Cutler asked you to pay three million dollars for them, but she wasn’t extorting money from you. She was helping us prove that you murdered Charlotte Walsh.”

Farrington looked amused. “How would a set of phony photographs do that?”

“Oh, the photographs wouldn’t. We would never introduce them at a trial as direct evidence. On the other hand, they did lure you to this parking lot. Agent Lasker just told me that you knew the exact spot where Charlotte Walsh parked, the spot where she was murdered. Mind telling us how you learned that information?”

Farrington started to say something but she caught herself.

“That’s okay,” Evans said. “You don’t have to talk to me. In fact, you have a right to remain silent because anything you say can and will be used in court to convict you. You also have a right to an attorney. If you can’t afford a lawyer, the court will appoint one to represent you.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Is it? Charlotte Walsh’s body was found in a Dumpster behind a restaurant in Maryland. As far as the public knows that was where she was murdered. There were rumors that she was killed here, but we were very hush-hush about the location in the lot. We towed the car without the press learning where it was discovered. In fact, very few people knew the exact spot where she was killed.”

“Charles Hawkins…”

“Confessed to a crime he could not have committed. We can prove it was impossible for him to do it. He didn’t have time to go from the hotel to the farm, meet the president at eleven-fifteen, and murder Miss Walsh in this lot at eleven. But you had time to sneak out of the hotel after Dale Perry diverted the guard at the stairwell, come here, kill Miss Walsh, and return to the hotel before one.”

“This conversation is over,” Farrington told the agents before calling to Lasker.

“Irv, please take me back to the White House.”

“Sorry, Dr. Farrington, that’s not going to happen right now,” Keith Evans said. “I’m placing you under arrest. We’ll do this quietly. I’ve already arranged to have a judge available, and Mort Rickstein will be meeting you at the federal courthouse. Given who you are, I bet he’ll be able to get you released immediately. Everyone in this country will be fascinated to find out what happens after that.”

Chapter Forty-eight

Dana finished giving a detailed statement to the FBI at three in the morning. She should have been exhausted but she drove away from the office of the independent counsel on a high that acted like a triple shot of espresso. Charlotte Walsh, Laurie Erickson, and Rhonda Pulaski had been avenged. Their spirits could rest easily because she had nailed Claire Farrington.

Dana was still too excited for sleep when she parked in Jake Teeny’s driveway. Jake opened the front door before she could get out her key.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his concern obvious in his voice and on his face.

Dana pulled Jake to her and kissed him. Jake tightened, surprised by the ferocity of the kiss. Then he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. “I love you,” Dana said. “I’ve loved you for a long time but I’ve been too fucked-up to tell you.”

Jake pushed Dana to arm’s length. He stared at her, as if uncertain that he’d heard her correctly. Dana’s high disappeared in an instant. She’d spoken without thinking, and she knew that when she’d said she loved him, she’d just messed up whatever it was that she and Jake had together.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have…”

“No, I love you, too. I’ve just…With all that happened to you…”

Dana’s heart began to beat again. She felt lighter than air. It was going to be all right. She put a hand on Jake’s cheek.

“You’re my rock, Jake, my anchor. You kept me going when I wanted to give up, when I didn’t care what happened to me. But you cared.”

“It’s easy to care for you. You’re very special.”

“Shit,” Dana said, wiping away a tear that had suddenly strayed down her cheek. Jake kissed her hand then he kissed the spot where the tear had appeared.

“I’m no good at this mushy stuff,” Dana said.

“Then don’t talk,” Jake told her as he took her hand and led her inside. For once Dana Cutler surrendered without a fight.

The next morning, Dana awoke with the sun. Jake was sound asleep and she crept out of bed, dressed quietly, and left a note on the kitchen table so Jake wouldn’t worry. With the help of Keith Evans and the FBI, Jake’s Harley had been retrieved. Dana pushed it onto the street and didn’t start it until she was certain the noise wouldn’t disturb her lover’s slumber. As soon as she could, Dana opened it up and sped toward her destination.

The meth cook had brought Dana to the farmhouse after sundown and she had been rescued before dawn, so she’d only seen the place where she’d been brutalized at night. It was less frightening in the strong light of the sun-an abandoned, dilapidated structure punished by neglect, separated from a field of high and wild grass by a desolate dirt yard.

The steps up which Dana climbed to the front porch creaked underfoot and the cold fall wind blew the remaining scraps of crime scene tape out and away where they stuck to the front door. Dana tried the handle and the door opened. Her heart was beating wildly and she could feel the heat of panic when she walked into the front room. A floorboard creaked underfoot, the sunlight illuminated spiderwebs and dust devils that spun across the floor in the wake of the cold, fast-moving air.

Dana took a deep breath and forced herself to walk into the kitchen. She stood in front of the door to the basement, staring at it. It was just a door, she told herself, and the basement was just a basement, a place of concrete and cheap shelving. There would be ghosts down there only if she allowed them to exist.

Dana grabbed the knob and opened the door. The electricity had been turned off, but she’d brought a flashlight. The beam illuminated the steps. Some light filtered through the narrow, grime-covered windows. Dana stopped at the bottom of the stairs and shined her light on the space where she’d lain, naked and terrified, for three days while she had been raped and beaten. She felt sick so she squeezed her eyes tight and breathed in slowly and deeply. While her eyes were still closed, she conjured up Jake’s face. She made her vision smile and she remembered how good it felt to nestle in his arms. He’d made her feel safe.

Dana opened her eyes, and she smiled. She felt safe now. There were no ghosts, just dust, spiderwebs, and concrete, nothing that could hurt her. Dana was filled with a sense of peace. Last night she had set free the restless spirits of the three girls Claire Farrington had murdered. Today she had set her own spirit free from the fears that had tried to make her dead inside.

Chapter Forty-nine

Brad Miller wrapped his arm around Ginny Striker’s shoulders, and they huddled together as they struggled through the election night crowd mobbing the lobby of the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland and walked outside into the light rain that had been falling all evening. There had been no suspense in Maureen Gaylord’s win. It had been a sure thing after the first lady’s arrest. And the situation had gotten worse for the president when the Pulaskis and Marsha Erickson had appeared on every television show that would have them to tell how they’d been paid off by Christopher Farrington to keep quiet about his sexual involvement with their daughters.

“I guess the American people don’t want a serial murderer and a sex pervert in the White House,” Ginny had said when NBC declared Ohio firmly in Gaylord’s camp, wrapping up the electoral vote for the senator. Even Oregon had voted overwhelmingly against the only native son to lead the nation.

“I only hope they both end up in prison,” Brad said.

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’s what they deserve.”

“The rich and powerful seem to be able to commit crimes with impunity,” Ginny said as they worked their way free of the rowdy crowd in front of the hotel.

“Some of the legal analysts think the case against Claire Farrington is too weak to win a conviction,” Brad said. He sounded disheartened.

Ginny gripped his biceps tightly and squeezed. “That’s not our problem anymore. I’m just glad this is over. I’m looking forward to a fresh start.”

“I hope you like your job at your D.C. firm better than your tenure at Reed, Briggs,” Brad said.

“I probably won’t, but I still have loans to pay off and rent to pay and I can’t count on you for much.”

Brad grinned. It was true. Brad’s clerkship at the United States Supreme Court was not going to pay anywhere near what Ginny would earn, but it would open the door to every legal job in the country when he was through.

“Do you mind that I’m marrying you for your money?” Brad asked.

“I thought you were only interested in my body.”

“There’s that, too. Now if you could only cook, you’d be perfect.”

“For a kept man you’re pretty picky. You should be satisfied with what you’ve got.”

“I guess you’ll do until a rich, sexy woman with a degree from Cordon Bleu comes along.”

Ginny swatted him on the head, and he kissed her. Life was pretty good and his only real worry was that he would let down Justice Kineer, who’d obtained the position at the Court for him. He knew that the other clerks would be editors in chief from law reviews at Harvard, Penn, NYU, and other super law schools, and he was a little nervous about his place in this pantheon of intellect. But every time he worried about his ability to perform his job he remembered Justice Kineer’s assurance that he would have chosen someone who’d successfully faced down assassins, brought down a first lady, and proved that the former chief justice of the United States had his head up his butt over any academic nerd.

During the drive to Brad’s apartment the rainstorm got worse. The couple rushed from Brad’s parking spot to his front door, crouching to escape the downpour. Brad flipped on the light in his entryway as soon as they were inside.

“I’m going to the powder room to dry my hair,” Ginny said.

“I’ll put up the water for tea.”

Brad took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. He was about to go into the kitchen when he spotted a slender white envelope lying on the entryway floor. He stooped down and picked it up. His name and address were handwritten, and there was no return address. There was also no stamp, so the letter had been hand delivered and slipped under his door. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of lined, yellow legal paper. Brad read what was written on it and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Dear Brad,

I knew I was right to trust you. I’ve just learned that my conviction for the murder of the Erickson girl is going to be set aside and that’s all due to your hard work. I’ll still be executed but I can live with that, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’d invite you to the execution but I know you’re squeamish. My only regret is that I didn’t get to go to court to overturn the conviction. I might have seen my lovely pinkie collection one last time. Oh well, one can’t have everything. Good luck on your new job and on your marriage to the lovely Ginny. She’s a sweetheart. Too bad I won’t get a chance to know her.

Your Friend, Clarence

Brad crumpled the envelope and the letter and hurried to the garbage pail in the kitchen. He pushed them under the other trash to make certain that Ginny would never see Clarence Little’s letter.

“Hey, you’re shivering,” Ginny said when she walked into the kitchen. “Let me do something about that.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around Brad and snuggled against him. Usually, Ginny made him believe that everything was going to be all right, but her hug couldn’t dispel the feeling of dread created by Little’s letter. How did he know about Ginny? Who had delivered the letter? Anger replaced dread as Brad realized that Clarence was bored and was playing mind games with him again. He would expect Brad to rush to Salem to discuss the letter. Well, he wasn’t going to go. He would let Clarence sit in his cell alone, waiting for his day of execution. No more fun and games for Mr. Little. Not at Brad’s expense, anyway.

Brad pressed Ginny to him. Then he kissed her ferociously.

“Whoa, mister, what’s gotten into you?”

“It’s what’s not in me anymore, Ginny. You’ve chased my demons away. Bridget Malloy, Clarence Little, Susan Tuchman, they’ve all moved on to bother someone else. From now on, it’s just you and me, kid.”

Ginny smiled and kissed Brad. He smiled back. Life was good, and he had a feeling it was going to get better.