Executive Privilege (19 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PRESIDENT’S LOVE TRYST WITH TEENAGE MURDER VICTIM
EXPOSED
.

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

Claire stared dumbstruck at the headline and the photographs.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Another bad day?”

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

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

“We should both quit.”

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

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

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

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

“Boy is she a bitch.”

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Holy shit,” Ginny said.

“What?”

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

“See what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what I’ve been saying.”

“So we have to get some,” Ginny said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

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

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

Ginny frowned. “You have a point.”

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s okay. I get the point.”

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

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

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

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.”