Executive Privilege (29 page)

Evans shook his head. “We can’t determine the sex.”

Kineer looked around the room. “Any suggestions on what to do next?”

When no one answered Kineer smiled. “Do I have any volunteers who want to accuse a pregnant first lady of being a serial murderer?”

Keith Evans had survived gunfights and gone one-on-one with hardened psychopaths, but he still felt insecure as he followed the Secret Service agent up the stairs to the family quarters of the White House. The agent tried to convince himself that this would be like any other witness interview, but he failed miserably. He and Justice Kineer were not going to be grilling some two-bit drug dealer. They were going to be interrogating the first lady of the United States, an expectant mother who was married to the most powerful man in the world. Evans knew his career could go swirling down the toilet if he screwed up.

The Secret Service agent opened a door for Kineer and Evans, and they stepped into a cozy sitting room. The upholstered furniture sported a bright floral pattern that matched the drapes surrounding several floor-to-ceiling windows. Along the walls were a cherrywood writing desk and tall cupboards displaying pewter mugs and dinnerware from colonial times. Pastoral landscapes in gilt frames added to the feeling that the visitors were going to conduct their interview in the country home of an eighteenth-century American.

A man of average size, dressed in a dark blue business suit and sporting a trim, salt-and-pepper beard and wire-rimmed glasses was waiting at the door.

“Good afternoon, Mort,” Roy Kineer said to Morton Rickstein.

“Good afternoon, Judge,” Rickstein replied. The dapper lawyer and the former justice weren’t friends, but they’d bumped into each other often enough at social and legal functions to call themselves acquaintances.

“Do you know Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked.

“We’ve met on a few occasions,” Kineer answered, turning toward the woman seated in front of a tall window through which the sun shone. Claire Farrington’s back was straight and a smile of mild amusement played on her lips as she studied her visitors the way a queen might regard a supplicant from an outlying part of her realm.

Kineer had forgotten how large and powerful Claire Farrington looked. The first signs of motherhood did nothing to diminish his feeling that it would have been easy for her to overpower girls like Charlotte Walsh and Laurie Erickson.

“This is Keith Evans, Dr. Farrington,” Kineer said. “He’s with the FBI, but I had him seconded to me because he was the lead investigator in the D.C. Ripper case.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, Agent Evans,” Farrington said. “You did fine work apprehending Eric Loomis.”

“Thanks,” Evans said, noting that she hadn’t complimented him for arresting Charles Hawkins.

Kineer and Evans found a seat on a couch that was catty-corner to Claire Farrington’s high-backed chair. Evans placed his attaché case on the floor next to a coffee table made of dark polished wood.

“Why do you feel it’s necessary to interview Dr. Farrington?” Rickstein asked when Evans and the judge were comfortable.

“She’s a close personal friend of Charles Hawkins,” Justice Kineer answered.

“You don’t intend to call her as a witness, do you?”

“I can’t guarantee that. Dr. Farrington was with Mr. Hawkins on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder and may have evidence relevant to the case.”

“I understood that Mr. Hawkins has confessed and plans to plead guilty. If there’s not going to be a trial why would you need Dr. Farrington?”

“It’s not sufficient to obtain a confession,” Kineer said to the attorney before changing his focus from Rickstein to the first lady. “We have to be certain that Mr. Hawkins committed the crimes to which he’s confessing. Sometimes people confess to a crime they didn’t commit because they’re mentally ill or they want publicity or they’re covering up for the real perpetrator.”

Farrington’s expression and demeanor didn’t alter.

“Do you have any reason to doubt Mr. Hawkins’s confession?” Rickstein asked.

“There are parts of it that are causing us some concern so, unfortunately, we have to keep pressing our investigation.”

“What parts?” Rickstein asked.

Kineer smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t go into that at this time. Confidentiality and all that. You understand, Mort.”

“Sure. Why don’t we get on with this. You ask your questions and Dr. Farrington will answer them unless I tell her not to or she doesn’t want to.”

“Fair enough,” Kineer said. He turned to Evans. “Keith knows more about the cases so he’ll be asking the questions. Keith?”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to us. I know you’re really busy,” Evans said.

“Chuck is a dear friend. I can’t believe what’s happening to him.”

Evans nodded sympathetically. “Where did you two meet?”

“We were all in the same year at OSU.”

“Oregon State University?”

“Yes. And we were all athletes. He and Chris were on the basketball team, and I played volleyball.”

“I hear you were very good.”

“Yes, I was,” Claire answered without hesitation.

“Was Mr. Hawkins very good?”

“Not particularly. He wasn’t a starter like Chris. He had some good games but most of the time he rode the bench.”

“I understand you and Mr. Hawkins dated in college.”

“Yes.”

“Did you go out with the president at OSU?”

“We double-dated, Chuck and me and Chris with whoever he was dating.”

“So the president and Mr. Hawkins were close?”

“Yes.”

“Did the president have a steady girlfriend in college?”

A look of distaste changed the first lady’s features for a second and then it was gone.

Claire answered stiffly. “Chris was the big man on campus and found it easy to attract women.”

“When did you start going out with the president?” Evans asked.

“Isn’t this getting a bit far afield?” Rickstein asked. “Dr. Farrington has a busy schedule, and she’s been gracious enough to set aside this time for you, but we’ll be here forever if you go over information that’s readily available in every magazine and newspaper that’s been covering the campaign.”

“Good point,” Evans conceded. “Dr. Farrington, would you say that Mr. Hawkins is intensely loyal to you and the president?”

“We helped him through some very tough times after he got out of the military and he’s always been grateful.”

“So he would do anything for you and Mr. Farrington?”

“I can’t speak for Chuck.”

“He wouldn’t hesitate to help you if you were in trouble?”

“Again, I can’t speak for Mr. Hawkins.”

“Has he helped you or the president with personal problems?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Hawkins has confessed to murdering Rhonda Pulaski and Tim Houston.”

The first lady stiffened. “What has that got to do with me?”

“The Pulaskis were paid to keep quiet about your husband’s sexual relationship with their teenage daughter…”

“My husband represented Miss Pulaski in a lawsuit, a
successful
lawsuit. She got greedy and tried to blackmail him with an outrageous allegation. No one was paid off.”

“The Pulaskis say they were paid to keep quiet.”

“Then they’re lying.”

“Agent Evans,” Rickstein interrupted, “Mr. Hawkins confessed to the murders. I don’t see what the first lady had to do with it.”

“Dr. Farrington, did you give your husband money to pay off the Pulaskis?” Evans asked.

“I’m not going to answer any more questions about those people.”

“I think we can move on, Keith,” Kineer said amiably.

“Did you notice anything unusual in Mr. Hawkins’s demeanor on the evening of the fund-raiser at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel?”

“No, but I was preoccupied with my speech and I wasn’t feeling well. I had a bad bout of morning sickness.”

“So I understand. In fact, you’d reserved a suite at the hotel for just this contingency, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“On the day of the fund-raiser.”

“Yes.”

“Two suites, actually? Adjoining suites?”

“That’s correct. We needed to make certain that no one was next door for security reasons.”

“I understand that Mr. Hawkins made the arrangements.”

“Yes.”

“The Secret Service told us that you stopped to use the ladies’ room on your way to your photo op because you weren’t feeling well.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you happen to check your cell phone for messages when you were in the ladies’ room?”

The first lady hesitated and eyed Evans suspiciously before responding with a terse, “No.”

Evans pulled two black-and-white photographs out of his attaché case and held them up so Dr. Farrington and Mort Rickstein could see them. In one picture a person in jeans and wearing gloves and a hooded sweatshirt was going up a flight of stairs. In the other, the same person was going down.

“Do you have an idea who this person is?” the agent asked.

Dr. Farrington leaned forward and studied the photograph for a few seconds. Then she shook her head.

“I’m sorry but I don’t recognize this man.”

“We’re not one hundred percent certain it is a man,” Evans said. “It could be a tall woman.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Hawkins?” Mort Rickstein asked.

“We’re not certain it has anything to do with him.”

“Then why are you showing these pictures to me?” Dr. Farrington asked.

“The pictures were recorded by a security camera in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel shortly after ten on the evening of the fund-raiser you attended. There’s a door to the stairwell opposite the suite adjoining the one in which you were resting. Dale Perry drew away the Secret Service agent who was watching the stairwell exit on two occasions that evening. If someone wanted to sneak in or out of the hotel by using the stairwell they would have had an opportunity when the guard wasn’t watching the stairwell door.”

“Why would that matter to me? I was asleep from ten to shortly before one.”

“Did you ever go into the adjoining suite to use the phone?”

“No, why would I? There was a phone on the nightstand in the suite where I was taking my nap. I would have used that phone if I wanted to make a call.”

Rickstein looked suspicious. “What’s going on here?”

“Two calls were made from the suite adjoining the suite where Dr. Farrington was taking her nap. Mr. Hawkins made one of the calls around ten. We’re trying to figure out if he made both calls,” Keith said.

Rickstein frowned. “I thought this interview was going to be about Chuck Hawkins but I’m beginning to suspect that you have another agenda, Roy.”

“Certain facts have come to light that have led us to believe that Dr. Farrington may be involved in the Pulaski, Erickson, and Walsh cases.”

Rickstein looked astonished. “Involved how?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be more specific,” Kineer answered.

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate this meeting.”

Evans had been watching Claire Farrington closely during this exchange. She had said nothing, but she had stared hard at Roy Kineer with a look that Evans interpreted as pure hate.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Farrington,” Justice Kineer said. “Thank you for taking time to meet with us.”

Farrington didn’t answer. A moment after the FBI agent and the judge walked out of the sitting room, the door opened and Mort Rickstein stepped out.

“Hold up, Roy,” he called out.

Kineer and Evans turned around.

“What’s going on?” Rickstein demanded when he caught up to them.

“Just what I said.”

“You don’t really suspect Claire of having some kind of direct involvement in these killings?”

“We have some evidence that points that way.”

For a moment, Rickstein looked dumbfounded. The he got control of himself.

“There’s an old saying about not missing when you aim at a king. That goes for a queen, too. If I were you, I wouldn’t breathe a word of your suspicions to anyone unless you’ve got one hundred percent proof of wrongdoing.”

“Don’t worry, Mort. I take my position very seriously. I won’t aim at your client until I’m certain that I can’t miss.”

Rickstein stared hard at the jurist. Then he shook his head and walked back toward the sitting room.

“What do you think?” Kineer asked when the lawyer was out of earshot.

“I think it’s first lady, a hundred; independent counsel, zero.”

“I agree. I also think she’s in this up to her neck, but we may not be able to prove it.”

“At least we know why Hawkins flipped so quickly,” Evans said. “It was the phone calls. He didn’t want us thinking about the possibility that Dr. Farrington had used the phone in the adjoining suite to retrieve Cutler’s voice messages.”

“Hawkins is the only person who can nail Claire Farrington,” Kineer said. “Do you think we can turn him?”

“This guy is a samurai, Judge. He’s going to die for his emperor and empress.”

“So, what do we do?”

Evans shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The president had a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but he hurried up to his living quarters as soon as it was over to find out why Justice Kineer had met with his wife that afternoon. Claire was waiting in their bedroom.

“What happened?” he asked anxiously.

“I think they know,” Claire said calmly.

Farrington dropped heavily into an armchair. He looked stricken.

Claire smiled. “They know, but they can’t prove a thing, Chris. You don’t have to worry. We’ll be fine.”

Farrington looked up. “What if they…?”

“They won’t. Be strong. Look where we are,” she said, moving her hand across the expanse of the room. “I knew we’d be here one day. No one is going to take this away from us.”

Claire’s features closed up like a steel door sealing in the contents of a safe. When she was like this, his wife frightened him.

“No one,” she repeated in a voice so cold that there was no doubt about the lengths she would go to keep him in the White House and to keep any woman from interfering with her marriage.