Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  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 a
gain. 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 librar
y 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.