“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 indictm
ent.
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.”
Executive Privilege Page 18
