Executive Privilege (25 page)

“Who are you?”

“Have you been following MurderGate?” Dana asked, using the name the press had given to the scandal.

Brad nodded.

“I’m the photographer who took the pictures of Farrington and Walsh that
Exposed
printed, and I’m certain that Charles Hawkins killed Walsh and Erickson under orders from the president.”

“Hawkins is the logical suspect, but we don’t have any proof.”

“It has to be him,” Dana insisted. “Farrington couldn’t have killed either woman. He was at the library fund-raiser in Salem when Erickson disappeared, and he was at the farm or with the Secret Service or his wife when Walsh was murdered.”

“I don’t think the Secret Service would lie to cover up a murder, but Farrington’s wife might.”

“The timing doesn’t work. Credible witnesses vouch for Farrington until he goes up to his room at the White House. If Claire Farrington lied when she said her husband was in bed with her, he would still have to get out of the White House without being seen. Then it would take at least forty-five minutes to get to the mall. That’s way past the time when Walsh was killed. No, I think we can rule out the president as the person who actually murdered Walsh.”

“So you’re going with Hawkins?” Brad asked.

“Hawkins came back to the governor’s mansion to get the information for Farrington’s speech. He was alone with Erickson. He came in the back door, which is next to the basement door, and the basement is where the laundry chute empties out. He gets the paper for the speech, murders Erickson, and puts her down the chute. Then he backs up his car to the basement door and puts her in the trunk.”

“What about Walsh?” Brad asked. “Hawkins went from the hotel to the farm and met with the president. Assuming that Farrington ordered him to kill Walsh, did he have time enough to do it?”

“Her car was disabled. She couldn’t drive off.”

“But Walsh had to have been killed soon after she returned to the mall. The news reports said that Walsh had Triple A but she never called them or anyone else to help her or pick her up.”

“Hawkins could have called someone from the farm and sent them to kill Walsh,” Cutler said. “The night Walsh was murdered two men tried to kill me for the pictures I took, and there have been other attempts on my life. So we know the president and Hawkins have access to assassins, and that’s the clincher.”

Brad looked confused. “I don’t get it.”

“Hawkins and the president have access to the CIA, Special Forces, and Defense intelligence operatives
now
, but they didn’t have access to those people when Erickson was murdered. Farrington was only the governor of Oregon then.”

“Hawkins was an army Ranger. He could have buddies from the military he could call on.”

“True, but no one but Hawkins was seen going into the governor’s mansion. He’s the one who claims to have been the last person to see Erickson alive. Erickson was tiny. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight against someone like Hawkins. If he was with her he wouldn’t have needed help. If Farrington wanted Erickson killed on the evening of the library fund-raiser, my bet is that Hawkins did it.”

“Do you know that there may have been a third murder?”

“What!”

Brad filled in Dana on the hit-and-run killing of Rhonda Pulaski and the disappearance of Tim Houston.

“Unfortunately, this is all speculation,” he said. “We don’t have any concrete evidence that Hawkins killed anyone. We don’t even have evidence that Farrington and Erickson were having sex. The only person who might be able to help us is Erickson’s mother, Marsha, and she refused to talk to me.”

“Tell me about that.”

As soon as Brad finished telling her about his visit to Marsha Erickson, Dana stood up.

“Get your coat,” she said.

“Where are we going?”

“To visit Mrs. Erickson.”

“It’s too late to go out there tonight. She lives in the country. She’ll probably be asleep.”

“She’ll wake up very quickly when she sees this,” Dana said as she hefted the gun. “She may have refused to talk to you, but I assure you she’s going to talk to me.”

Brad turned onto the road to Marsha Erickson’s house shortly before eleven-thirty. Dana ordered Brad to kill his lights, and they drove by moonlight until the house came into view.

“Stop here,” Dana commanded just before they reached the place where the road became the driveway.

“Did you see that car when you were here before?” Dana asked, pointing at a black SUV that was parked in front of the garage, facing back toward the road.

“No, but it could have been in the garage.”

“Then why isn’t it in the garage now, and why is it positioned for a getaway? Pull into those trees,” Dana told him.

When they were hidden Dana took her ankle gun out of the holster and held it out to Brad.

“What’s that for?” he asked, making no move to touch the weapon.

“Do you know how to shoot?”

“No. I’ve never even held a gun.”

“If you have to use this, aim at the chest and keep shooting.”

“I’m not shooting anyone,” Brad answered, alarmed.

“Brad, I hope to heaven that the SUV belongs to Marsha Erickson because the people who are after me will not hesitate to kill you. So you’d better lose the knee-jerk liberal attitude about gun control fast.”

Brad stared at the weapon for a moment before grasping it with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if Dana had handed him a dead animal. She got out of Brad’s car.

“If you hear shots, call 911, report a break-in, then get out of here. Do not follow me inside under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. If you hear shots, take off fast.”

Dana shut the door and jogged toward the back of Marsha Erickson’s house. As she turned the corner she heard a high-pitched scream. There was a sliding door in the living room that opened onto a back patio. The lock had been jimmied and the door was open wide enough to admit her. The living room was dark, but light bled into it from a short hall.

“Bring her into the living room,” Dana heard a man say. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t have time to think about where she’d heard it. She dashed behind a large armchair and crouched down. Seconds later, a thick-set man dragged Marsha Erickson toward the living room. Erickson’s hands and ankles were secured by plastic handcuffs, but she was fighting him and the man had to brace himself to move her along the carpet. The blond man from her apartment who had shot at Dana from the speedboat followed Erickson into the living room.

“Help me with this bitch. She weighs a fucking ton,” Erickson’s tormentor complained.

The blond man hit Erickson in the stomach and she stopped struggling as she was forced to gasp for air. The blond grabbed her legs and helped his partner get their victim onto the living room rug. Then he knelt by her head and spoke to her in the calm tone you would use with a recalcitrant child.

“You behave, Fatty, and we’ll make this painless. Give us any shit and you’ll take a long time to die. Understand?”

Erickson had gotten her wind back and she croaked out a yes.

“Good,” the blond said. Then he smashed a gloved fist into Erickson’s nose. Dana heard cartilage crack and blood gushed out.

“That’s for giving us a hard time.”

The blond turned to his companion. “Smash up some stuff. Make it look like a burglary.”

The thick-set man started toward the television. Dana stood up and shot him. He was falling when the blond dove behind the sofa. Her second shot went wide and blasted a vase to pieces. The blond fired back, and Dana’s left shoulder felt like it had been smashed by a ball-peen hammer. She fell on her back and her gun flew out of her hand.

“You!” the blond said as he walked toward her.

“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Dana said, grimacing with pain.

“Woulda, shoulda, coulda.” The man laughed. “Hey, we all have regrets. I regret not fucking you when I had the chance. Now the opportunity presents itself again and you’re all bloody, which—believe me—is a big turnoff. So, I guess I’ll just have to kill you instead.”

Over the blond’s shoulder, Dana saw Brad creeping across the patio. She pulled her legs up and curled into a fetal position.

“Please, don’t kill me,” she begged as she slid her hand toward her ankle.

“Uh, uh, babe. You know that old saw about ‘Fool me once…’? That ankle gun thing was great the first time, but it’s not going to work again. So very slowly lift up your pant leg and toss the piece over here.”

“I don’t have the gun.”

“Pardon me if I don’t believe you.”

Dana raised her pants cuff slowly. “Where is it?” the man demanded.

“Put up your hands,” Brad said, his voice shaking so badly he could barely get the words out.

“Don’t talk! Kill him!” Dana yelled at Brad, who was holding the ankle gun in both hands, trying to keep it steady.

The blond whirled and fired. A bullet whizzed by Brad’s ear and the glass in the sliding door exploded. Brad closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger again and again until it clicked on an empty chamber. When he opened his eyes there was no one standing in front of him. He looked down and his knees buckled. The blond man was stretched out on the floor, facedown, moaning.

“Oh, my God! I shot him,” Brad said. He dropped the gun and groped for the wall so he wouldn’t collapse.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Dana said between clenched teeth. “All of your shots missed, which is pretty amazing from less than ten feet. You were a good diversion, though. While he was focused on you, I got my gun back.”

Brad looked disappointed. Dana rolled her eyes. “Will you get this asshole’s gun and call 911, like I told you to do before? And get an ambulance for me and Mrs. Erickson.”

Dana dragged herself into a sitting position and braced her back against the sofa so she could keep an eye on the blond as Brad inched cautiously toward the wounded man.

“I shot him six times, for Christ’s sake,” Dana said. “Just get the gun.”

“Sorry, but I’ve never been in a shoot-out. I’m a little shaken.”

“What you are is an idiot. Didn’t I tell you to get the hell out of here if you heard shots?”

“I am an idiot,” Brad said as he grabbed the wounded man’s gun, “but it worked out okay, didn’t it?”

Dana sighed. “Yeah. I owe you. Now call the ambulance.”

Brad dialed 911 on his cell. He felt light-headed and a little nauseated, but he was able to hold it together while he talked to the dispatcher. As soon as he was through with the call, he knelt down to work on the plastic cuffs that bound Mrs. Erickson.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Marsha Erickson’s face was a mass of blood, and she had trouble focusing. Brad felt awful. He was certain that his first visit had triggered the chain of events that had led to the beating. When Erickson recognized him her eyes widened.

“You!”

“I’m really sorry about this.”

“What have you done to me?”

“I haven’t done anything. Christopher Farrington sent those men to kill you. You’d be dead if we hadn’t come by.”

“No one would have come here if you hadn’t shown up in the first place.”

“That’s bullshit,” Dana said. “You’re a loose end that Christopher Farrington needed to tie up. He’d have tried to kill you even if Miller had never visited you. If you want to stay alive you’d better think about telling what you know about your daughter and the president.”

Pain was making Dana woozy, and she was having difficulty keeping her gun trained on the blond. She knew she might pass out, which meant that Brad Miller would have to handle the situation. She didn’t have much faith in his ability to do that. If the wounded man was in any condition to fight, he’d eat Brad for lunch.

Then there was the problem of the police. The locals would never believe that the president had sent the men she’d shot. They would consider this a burglary gone bad. If Mrs. Erickson turned on them the police might even arrest her and Brad. Dana decided to take a chance. She fished out her wallet and tossed it to Brad.

“There’s a card in there with the number of Keith Evans, an FBI agent who’s working for the independent counsel. Call him, then give me the phone. If I black out, tell him that we have the man who shot at him from the speedboat. Tell him to get someone down here fast to take over from the local police if he wants witnesses who can tie the president to Charlotte Walsh’s murder.”

Brad dialed the number. Evans answered after three rings. Brad handed Dana the phone. She laid the gun by her side and took it.

“Agent Evans, this is Dana Cutler. Brad Miller, an associate with a Portland law firm, is with me. I just shot two men who were trying to kill Marsha Erickson, a witness who can prove the president was involved in a murder in Oregon when he was governor.”

“That’s not true,” Marsha Erickson yelled.

Dana covered the cell phone. “One more peep and I’ll have my friend tape your mouth shut.”

Dana uncovered the mouthpiece. “I want you to send some agents here fast because the local police are on the way. Brad will tell you the hospital they’re taking me and Marsha Erickson to. Get guards on our rooms and the room where they’re taking the survivor. He’s the guy who shot at us from the speedboat.”

“Where are you?”

Dana gave him the address and how to get to it. Then she had Brad read her Erickson’s home phone number. She repeated it to Evans.

“I’m ready to cooperate,” Dana said. “I want protection for me, Miller, and the witness.”

“Are you okay?” Evans asked. “You sound funny.”

“No, I’m bleeding from a shoulder wound and I might pass out. But I hear sirens and I think I’ll be okay. Now stop talking and get some agents here fast. And make certain that you can trust them, because, at best, the president is going to try and take control. At worst, he’s going to try and kill us all.”

Brad was pacing the fifth-floor corridor of the St. Francis Medical Center waiting to learn how Dana Cutler’s surgery had gone when the elevator doors opened and Susan Tuchman stormed out. Her eyes lasered in on Brad, and he could almost see the red dot marking the spot on his heart where Tuchman was going to shoot her death ray.

“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you mucking around in the
Little
case?” Tuchman said as she bore down on him.

Brad faced the onslaught with utter calm. Until this moment, Brad’s encounters with Susan Tuchman had either unnerved or depressed him. But the verbal bullets of the furious attorney lacked the power to frighten someone who had just survived a shoot-out featuring live ammunition.

“Did you hear my question, Mr. Miller?” Tuchman asked as she halted inches from him.

“Why are you here?”

“Instead of worrying about why I’m here, you should be worrying about where you’re going to be working tomorrow. So let me put your mind at ease. You don’t have to worry about your tenure at Reed, Briggs anymore. As of this moment, you are no longer our employee. You’re fired.”

“Good,” Brad said coolly. “I don’t think working at your sweatshop is that great.”

Tuchman blinked. This was hardly the reaction she’d expected.

“I’d still like an answer to my question,” Brad persisted. “Why have you suddenly appeared in this hospital in the middle of the night?”

“That is none of your business, Mr. Miller.”

“Did your buddy at Kendall, Barrett tell you to shut down Marsha Erickson?”

“This conversation is over,” Tuchman said as she walked by him.

“Mrs. Erickson would be dead if I’d paid any attention to your unethical order to ignore the possible innocence of a Reed, Briggs client,” Brad yelled after her, but Tuchman paid no attention and kept walking toward the nurses’ station.

Brad wished he had the power to make Tuchman answer, but he didn’t. His job was gone along with his salary and any prestige that being an associate at Reed, Briggs might have conferred. He’d been fired, which could have an impact on his future as an attorney. Brad didn’t care. He had his dignity and his integrity, and truth be told, he was relieved that he would not have to toil fourteen hours a day solving boring problems for unappreciative egomaniacs.

The elevator doors opened again to reveal a large man with thinning sandy hair who matched the description of Keith Evans that Dana Cutler had given him. A very attractive woman sporting wicked-looking stitches on her right cheek accompanied him.

“Agent Evans?” Brad asked.

The man stopped. “Brad Miller?”

“Yes.”

“Pleased to meet you. This is my partner, Margaret Sparks. We flew out as fast as we could. How is Dana Cutler doing?”

“She’s in surgery. She was shot in the shoulder. The doctor told me that she lost a lot of blood but she’ll recover. He just doesn’t know how badly her shoulder was injured.”

“Can you fill me in on what’s been going on out here?”

“That can wait until we head off Susan Tuchman. She’s a very powerful attorney who works for Reed, Briggs, the state’s biggest law firm. I’m certain she’s going to Marsha Erickson’s room to try to get her to stonewall you.”

Evans smiled. “She may have a problem.”

When they arrived at Marsha Erickson’s room, an irate Susan Tuchman was berating a solid young man who stood in front of the patient’s door.

“I do understand that you’re an attorney, ma’am, but my orders are to admit no one except medical personnel,” Erickson’s guard said.

“Give me the name of your superior,” Tuchman demanded.

“Hi. I’m Keith Evans, and I ordered the guard for Mrs. Erickson. What’s the problem?”

Tuchman’s anger turned to confusion when she saw Brad standing beside Evans, but she recovered quickly.

“I am Susan Tuchman, Mrs. Erickson’s attorney, and I have a right to speak to her.”

“You might, if she was under arrest, but she’s a victim, so she doesn’t need a lawyer.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Tuchman said.

Evans smiled patiently. “Not in this case, Ms. Tuchman. A real judge will have to decide whether you can see Mrs. Erickson. But I’m curious. Have you represented Mrs. Erickson in the past?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think you’re Mrs. Erickson’s lawyer?”

“I’m afraid that’s privileged.”

Evans nodded. “I respect that. But I’m still confused. I’ve been in contact with the police, the agents I sent to Mrs. Erickson’s house, and the hospital. According to my information, Mrs. Erickson hasn’t phoned anyone tonight. If you’ve never represented her and she didn’t ask you to come here, why should we let you see her?”

Tuchman looked unsure of herself for the first time since Brad had met her. She didn’t appear to know what to say. Evans smiled again.

“I’m sorry you had to lose sleep, Ms. Tuchman, but there’s not much you can do here.”

“I was contacted by Morton Rickstein of Kendall, Barrett, a Washington, D.C., law firm. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“I certainly have,” Evans said.

“Kendall, Barrett represents Mrs. Erickson, and Mr. Rickstein asked me to stand in for him until he arrives. I hope that satisfies you, Agent Evans. Now, please let me speak to my client.”

“We still have a problem. If Mrs. Erickson didn’t phone for help, she didn’t ask Mr. Rickstein to represent her either. So, we’re back to square one. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

Tuchman looked furious, but she was smart enough to know when to back down.

“I will be in touch with your superiors, Agent Evans. Good night.”

“It looks like you’re not going to get your way, for once,” Brad said.

Tuchman glared at him then stomped off without saying another word. Evans turned to Brad.

“Before I talk to Mrs. Erickson, I think it would be a good idea if you told me why you think President Farrington was involved with the murder of her daughter.”

Marsha Erickson was a mess. Her broken nose was bandaged, her right cheek had been stitched, and her bruised and bloodshot eyes followed the agents warily when Evans and Sparks walked into her room.

“Good evening, Mrs. Erickson. How are you feeling?” Evans said.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Evans heard the tremor in her voice and smiled to calm her. He was certain that she’d been crying.

“We’re not anyone you have to fear. I’m Keith Evans, an FBI agent assigned to the independent counsel’s office. This is my partner, Margaret Sparks. We’re here to guard you from the people who are trying to kill you. I’ve made sure that agents will be posted outside your door as long as you’re in the hospital, and I’m here to offer you protection when you’re discharged.”

“What do I have to do to get protected?” Erickson asked, her suspicions edging aside her fear.

“Mrs. Erickson, the United States Congress has charged our office with the task of determining President Farrington’s involvement—if any—in the murder of a young woman named Charlotte Walsh. I assume you’re aware of the matter, since it’s been front-page news.”

Erickson nodded warily.

“You know about the D.C. Ripper, the serial killer?”

Erickson nodded again.

“At first, we thought that Miss Walsh was a victim of the Ripper. Now we think that the person who killed her copied the MO of the Ripper to throw us off the track. We also have evidence that suggests that President Farrington may have been having an affair with Miss Walsh.”

“What does this have to do with me?”

“A serial killer named Clarence Little was convicted of kidnapping and murdering your daughter while she was babysitting for Christopher Farrington when he was the governor of Oregon. We have evidence that suggests that someone else killed Laurie and copied Mr. Little’s MO in the same way that someone may have copied the MO of the D.C. Ripper in the Walsh case.

“I know you’ve been through hell. You’ve had to deal with the death of a child and this vicious attack. I don’t want to cause you any more pain, but I have to ask. Do you have any reason to believe that President Farrington was intimate with your daughter?”

“I can’t talk about that.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to, for several reasons, the most important being that telling us the truth will keep you alive. I know what happened at your house. You’d be dead if Dana Cutler and Brad Miller hadn’t saved you. If you continue to protect Christopher Farrington, and he’s behind this attack, it won’t help you stay alive. He’ll always be better off with you dead. Then you can never tell what you know.

“And you won’t be able to keep your secret anyway. The independent counsel has subpoena powers. I can always take you in front of a grand jury. If you don’t answer questions there, you could be sent to jail for contempt. I really don’t want to resort to that option because I feel very sorry about all you’ve gone through. It would be cruel to punish you that way. But I am prepared to do what I must to learn what you know.

“If you think about it, your interests and our interests are the same. We both want you alive. And here’s something to think about. Once we know what you know, the president won’t have any reason to kill you because the cat will be out of the bag. So, what do you say?”

Erickson looked down at her blanket, and Evans let her think. When she looked up, her eyes were filled with tears.

“I don’t know what to do. He was so good to me and he said he didn’t do those things. He said he was paying me the money because I was always a good secretary and because he felt bad that Laurie was kidnapped from his house.”

“But you had reason to disbelieve him, didn’t you?” Evans asked gently.

Erickson bit her lip. Then she nodded.

“Why didn’t you believe Farrington was telling the truth?”

Erickson tried to speak, but she was too choked up. There was a glass of water on her nightstand. Sparks handed it to her. She took a sip. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and wept.

“She was all I had, and she was so good. When she told me…” Erickson shook her head. “I feel so guilty. I wouldn’t believe her. I told her she was a liar and I promised to punish her if she ever said anything like that again. But she’d never lied to me before. Not about anything important. I should have believed her.”

“What did she tell you, Mrs. Erickson?” Evans asked.

“She told me…She said Chris—the governor—had bothered her.”

“When was this?”

“Months before—I don’t remember exactly—but months before she was…”

“Take your time.”

Erickson sipped some more water.

“Can you tell us exactly what your daughter told you? Did she describe how Governor Farrington was bothering her?”

Erickson nodded. “She said that he was touching her in places, her breasts. Sometimes he would put his arm around her shoulder and pull her close. She said he tried to kiss her once.”

“Did she say she resisted?”

“Yes, she told me she didn’t like it.”

“How did she react when you told her you thought she was lying?”

“She was very upset. She cried and she…she swore at me.”

“Did you ever bring up the subject again?”

“No.”

“Did she?”

“No.” Erickson shook her head and took more water. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I should have believed her, but I was afraid. And, at first, I didn’t believe her. Chris had been so good to me—to us. When my husband left me he made sure I’d be okay financially. He handled the divorce for free. He was good to Laurie, too. He bought her nice presents for her birthday and…”

Erickson stopped. She seemed exhausted.

“Did you notice any changes in your daughter between the time she made the complaint and the time of her death?”

“Yes. She grew distant, cold. She started wearing makeup and dressing differently, more grown-up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Provocatively.”

“Sexy?” Sparks asked.

“Yes. And she was, I don’t know, more adult. I was upset by the way she was acting. I spoke to her about it, but that always led to arguments.”

“Did she ever mention the governor again? Did she complain about him?”

Erickson shook her head.

“Mrs. Erickson,” Evans said, “I’ve heard rumors about another girl Mr. Farrington may have molested, a Rhonda Pulaski. Do you know anything about that?”

Erickson wouldn’t look Evans in the eye. “I heard some things when I was his secretary at the law firm and the case was in the office. There was gossip, but I didn’t believe that either.”

“Don’t get down on yourself,” Evans said. “It’s always hard to believe the worst about someone you know well.”

Erickson didn’t respond.

“Mrs. Erickson, you said that Mr. Farrington paid you money after your daughter died.”

“Yes.”

“Were there any conditions attached to receiving the money?”

“I had to promise that I would never tell that he was paying me and I had to promise that I would never discuss anything about Laurie and the governor with anyone. If I did, the payments would stop. That’s why I was frightened when the lawyer showed up.”

“Brad Miller?”

“Yes. That money is all I have. And the house. President Farrington owns my house. I’d lose that, too.”

“Who sent you the money?”

“Dale Perry. He was a lawyer with the Kendall, Barrett law firm in Washington, D.C. They told me he died.”

“That’s true.”

“He was from Oregon. He knew Chris in college. He told me that the governor was doing this from the heart, that he didn’t have to. It was to help me.”

“Did you sign an agreement when you received the money?”

“Yes.”

“There was an actual paper you signed?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a copy?”

“Mr. Perry said he would send it to me, but he never did.”

“Did you ask for it?”

“What with the funeral and all, I forgot for a while. Then the money came each month and I didn’t think I needed the paper.”

Evans hid his excitement. He would subpoena the document to prove that Farrington had bought Erickson’s silence and he would subpoena bank records to document the payments. He was about to continue questioning Mrs. Erickson when the door opened and a thick-necked agent stuck his head into the room.