Executive Privilege (18 page)

“True.”

The trip that started at the Chain Bridge ended at the spear-tipped wrought-iron gate that blocked the driveway to Perry’s house.

“You call on the intercom,” Evans said. “I don’t think he likes me, and you’re young and sexy.”

“That’s two strikes. Ask me to bring you coffee and I’m slapping you with a sexual harassment suit.”

Evans smiled and Sparks leaned out of her window and spoke into a metal box affixed to the wall. They waited, but there was no answer. Sparks noticed a small gap between the two edges of the gate. Out of curiosity, she got out of the car and pushed. The gate eased backward. Sparks pushed harder, and the gate opened enough for Evans to drive through.

“What do you think is going on?” Sparks asked when she was back in the car.

“I don’t know, but the gate shouldn’t open like that, and someone should have answered the intercom.”

Evans experienced a nervous tingle in his gut when Perry’s house came into view. Most of the three-story brick Colonial was dark.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Sparks said.

A driveway curved in front of a portico supported by white columns that contrasted pleasantly with the red brick walls. When Evans got out of the car, it was so quiet he could hear the river flowing behind the estate and the wind pushing through the heavy-leafed trees.

Evans walked under the portico and pressed the doorbell. The agents could hear the bell echo through the house but no one came to the door. Evans leaned forward and tried the doorknob. The door opened. He looked at Sparks, and the agents took out their guns.

Even in shadow the entryway of Perry’s house was impressive. A crystal chandelier hung over a floor laid out in a checkerboard pattern of black and white marble. A polished oak banister curved upward to the second floor along marble stairs. Evans imagined the elegance of the foyer when it was bombarded by the refracted light that would pour from the massive light fixture.

“Mr. Perry,” Evans called loudly. No one answered.

“There,” Sparks said, aiming her weapon down a hall that ran to the right of the staircase. Evans took the point and the agents moved cautiously down a narrow hall toward the light coming from a room at the end. Evans motioned Sparks to one side of the door. When the door was almost open, Evans slid into the room with his gun leading the way, but he knew instantly that the weapon wasn’t necessary. Dale Perry, the room’s only occupant, sat at his desk, his head back and his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. His right arm hung straight down, and the fingers of his right hand almost touched the smooth side of a .38 Special. An ugly bloodstained wound at his temple was an advertisement for the cause of his death. Evans felt Perry’s neck for a pulse. Then he straightened up and holstered his weapon.

“Call 911.” He sighed. “Tell them we’ve discovered an apparent suicide.”

It was the third item on the eleven o’clock news after the lead story about the arrest of the Ripper and a discussion of Claire Farrington’s pregnancy. Dana Cutler heard it while she was sitting on the bed in her motel room with her back against the headboard eating another ham and cheese sandwich. She lost her appetite when the anchorwoman announced the suicide of prominent D.C. attorney Dale Perry.

According to the news report, Perry had worked until 6
P.M.
then driven home. His butler said that it was unusual for his employer to come home before eight, and Perry’s chef said that he hadn’t prepared dinner because he had been told that Perry was eating with a client and would be home late. Perry had given his staff the night off with no explanation. Although there would be no official determination of the cause of death until the autopsy was complete, an unidentified source had told a reporter for the station that the death looked like a suicide.

A few things occurred to Dana as she considered the implications of Perry’s death. According to the stories about Walsh’s murder, unidentified sources had told the press that the coed had been abducted from her car in the parking lot of the Dulles Towne Center mall. If Walsh was a Ripper victim that was one thing, but if the Ripper hadn’t killed her, Dana wondered how the killer knew Walsh had parked at the mall and where she was parked. Dale Perry’s mysterious client knew. Dana had phoned the client with the information. With Perry dead it would be impossible to learn the client’s identity.

Dana was certain that Dale Perry was no suicide and that she would die as soon as she was found by the men who’d killed Perry. Dana had been counting on selling her pictures to the president in exchange for money and a guarantee of safety, but with the president undertaking a scorched earth policy it looked like that option was off the table. What to do? Only one other option occurred to her.

The offices of
Exposed
, Washington, D.C.’s largest circulation supermarket tabloid, occupied two floors of a remodeled warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of the city that teetered between decay and gentrification. The inflated prices paid by upwardly mobile young professionals for rehabilitated row houses had sent rents soaring and the old established neighborhood businesses scurrying. As a result, trendy new restaurants and boutiques were interspersed with lots filled with construction equipment and abandoned storefronts.

Patrick Gorman, the owner and editor of
Exposed
, was a grossly obese man with heavy jowls, a massive stomach, and the permanent crimson complexion of an alcoholic. He had purchased the warehouse for a song when his only neighbors were junkies and the homeless. If he chose to sell he could make a fortune, but he had too much fun peddling phony news stories to people who needed to believe in miracles, the existence of legendary creatures, and the idea that the rich and famous led lives more unhappy and tumultuous than their own. Real news was about death and destruction.
Exposed
reported on a world filled with wonder.

Gorman was in high spirits when he left the
Exposed
building a little after eight at night. Headlines touting Elvis sightings always sold, but the lead story in this week’s paper had Elvis boarding a UFO, a one-two punch that was guaranteed to boost circulation. There was a small parking lot in the rear of the building. The security guard opened the door for Gorman and watched him waddle over to his car. Though most of the neighborhood’s unsavory characters had fled there were still some vagrants who were too lazy to go elsewhere, so you could never be too careful. Gorman struggled into the front seat of his Cadillac. As soon as his door was locked he waved at the guard, who waved back before returning to his desk in the lobby to watch Gorman leave on one of his monitors. Gorman was thinking about the profits he anticipated from next week’s sales when he felt the muzzle of a gun press into his right temple.

“Don’t be frightened, Mr. Gorman,” said a voice from the backseat.

“Don’t hurt me,” Gorman begged.

“Don’t worry,” Dana said as she shucked off the blanket that had concealed her. “My name is Dana Cutler and I’m here to help you win a Pulitzer Prize.”

Oh, great, Gorman thought. I’m being held captive by a lunatic. Out loud, he said, “Winning a Pulitzer has always been one of my fondest wishes.”

“Good. Now drive out of the lot before the security guard gets suspicious and pull into the first side street so we can talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Gorman said as he made odd faces in hopes that the security guard would realize something was wrong.

“I can see what you’re doing in the rearview mirror. Cut it out and drive. I told you, I’m not here to hurt you. I have a business proposition. Take me up on it and you’ll be famous.”

Gorman was certain his captor was delusional and he decided that he couldn’t risk upsetting her. He drove out of the lot and turned into the first street, which made up one side of a construction site for more upscale condos. Dana told him to park in the shadows between two streetlights.

“Okay, Ms. Cutler, what do you want?”

“Have you been following the Ripper case?”

“Of course. We’ve carried a story about it in every issue since he was identified as a serial killer.”

Gorman almost added “It was great while it lasted,” but thought better of it.

“The police think the Ripper had six victims,” Dana said.

“Right.”

“I think there were five. Charlotte Walsh was murdered by a copycat killer, and I know the killer’s identity.”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“It’s more than a theory. I can prove it.”

“And you want to sell me the proof?” he guessed.

“Exactly. So tell me, how much you think it would be worth to get your hands on proof that the president of the United States was having an affair with Charlotte Walsh and was with her on the evening she was murdered?”

The president! She was definitely nuts, Gorman thought.

“A lot of money,” Gorman said out loud to humor Dana.

“See, we agree on something. How much is a lot?”

“Uh, I don’t know, fifty thousand dollars.”

“I’d say more like one hundred and fifty thousand.”

“That sounds fair. Why don’t I drop you someplace and I’ll start getting the money together?”

Dana laughed. “I know you think I’m crazy, but it’s insulting that you also think I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t—”

“It’s okay. I know how crazy I sound. So it’s time to show you the proof.”

Dana handed Gorman an envelope filled with the best shots from the farmhouse and some other photographs of Charlotte Walsh.

“I’m a private detective,” Dana explained. “A few days before she was murdered, I was given an assignment to follow Walsh and report to a client on everything she did. And don’t ask me for the client’s identity. I don’t know it.

“The night she was murdered I followed Walsh to the Dulles Towne Center mall. A car arrived and she got in. I followed Walsh into the Virginia countryside to a farmhouse. There were armed guards patrolling the grounds and a car registered to the Secret Service parked outside. I have shots of the license plate of the car used by the Secret Service. I’d advise you to run the plate yourself. Some of these shots also show the weapons the guards were carrying. Check out the weapons carried by the Secret Service and you’ll find they’re the same type.

“Walsh went upstairs. She was with a man. The lights in the room went off long enough for them to have sex. When the lights came back on, Walsh was angry. She stormed out of the house and yelled at someone inside. I have a clear picture of the man. It’s Christopher Farrington.”

Gorman had been shuffling through the photographs in the envelope during Dana’s narration. He froze when he came to the photograph of the president staring after the car that was returning Walsh to the mall. Dana saw the reaction and smiled. She knew she had him.

“These pictures have a date and time on them. Walsh left before midnight of the day her body was discovered in the Dumpster. The Ripper could have killed her, I guess, but think about it. Farrington is running an election campaign, his wife’s pregnant, and his mistress—a teenager—is upset with him. Then the one person who could destroy his election chances just happens to be the random victim of a serial killer. That would certainly be a piece of good fortune, would it not?”

Gorman stared at the time and date stamp.

“So, Pat, are you ready to do business?”

“
Why me
? The
Washington Post
can pay a lot more, and they’d print your proof immediately. I publish a weekly.”

“You’ll put out a special edition if we do business. That’s one of my conditions.”

“Okay, but you still haven’t explained why you want to do business with
Exposed
. Our credibility isn’t the best. Aren’t you afraid the White House will just claim this is a hoax?”

“You know who Dale Perry is?”

“The lawyer who committed suicide.”

“Only I don’t think he did. Dale is the man who hired me to follow Walsh for his client. I was spotted when I took these pictures. A few hours after I took the shots, two men attacked me in my apartment and demanded the pictures. I shot one of them and escaped.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I wish I was. Several nights later, I met Dale at a bar to arrange for the sale of the photos to the president. More men were waiting for me when I left, but I managed to slip by them. The fact that Dale is dead tells me that the president isn’t buying. I need money fast so I can go on the run. You’re the owner of
Exposed
. If I talk to the
Post
it will take time to get the money. For the amount I want, a
Post
reporter would have to talk to his editor, who would have to get permission from the board of directors. Then they wouldn’t pay until they’d investigated. The longer I wait, the greater the chance Farrington’s men will find me. I need those pictures published fast. Once they’re front-page news the president won’t have any reason—other than revenge—to want me dead. And he’d be the prime suspect if I die. My only hope of staying alive is that the scandal will make Farrington forget about me.”

“How do I know these are real? It’s easy to fake digital pictures.”

“You publish stories about Bigfoot and alien abductions, Gorman. Why do you care if they’re real?”

“Because this story isn’t about Bigfoot. You don’t call the president of the United States a murderer without unimpeachable proof.”

“Fair enough, Pat. Check the clothing.”

Gorman looked puzzled.

“The pictures of Walsh show the clothes she was wearing when she went to the farmhouse. The Ripper’s victims were all found fully clothed. Find out if the clothes on the corpse are the same as the clothing in my photographs.”

Gorman was quiet for a moment. Then he turned in his seat so he was facing Dana.

“I’m not going to print these pictures if this is hoax, but if they’re real I’ll go after this story with everything I have.”