Executive Privilege (31 page)

By midnight there were no cars in the remote section of the mall parking lot where Charlotte Walsh had been murdered. Dana waited in the shadows behind a light several rows from the spot where she’d told Claire Farrington to meet her. An hour and a quarter after Dana began her surveillance a car pulled in near the spot where Charlotte Walsh had parked her car. Irving Lasker got out. The first lady waited in the car while the Secret Service agent scoped out the area. When he gave the okay she got out and walked to the spot where Charlotte Walsh had parked. Farrington was dressed in jeans and a lightweight tan jacket. A baseball cap with the brim pulled down covered her hair. Dana waited a few beats then walked over to them with her hands held out from her sides.

“I assume you want to search me for weapons,” she said. Lasker nodded then searched her thoroughly. When he was certain that Dana was unarmed he stepped away from the investigator.

“We need some privacy, Irv,” Farrington said.

Lasker joined the driver, who was standing next to the car and scanning the lot.

“Let’s see the photograph,” Farrington said without preamble when she was sure that her escorts couldn’t hear her.

Dana took an envelope out of her jacket pocket and handed it to the first lady. Farrington took a photograph out of the envelope and studied it. Someone had pasted a picture of her face into the hood of the sweatshirt. This job wasn’t as well executed as the first and the fakery was even more obvious.

Farrington held up the photograph and looked over her shoulder at Lasker.

“Can you hold this, please,” she asked, using the signal they’d agreed on earlier in the evening. Lasker and the other agent walked over casually. When he was a few steps from Farrington Lasker drew his gun, and the first lady stepped behind the other agent.

“You’re under arrest, Miss Cutler, for extortion.”

A triumphant smile lit up Claire Farrington’s face. “You must think I’m awfully stupid. I didn’t murder Charlotte Walsh, so I knew that the pictures you sent me were fakes. An expert has confirmed this.”

Farrington was about to continue when three cars appeared at the side of the mall and headed their way.

“Get in the car,” Lasker told his charge.

“You don’t have to worry about the first lady,” Dana said. “That’s the FBI. I arranged for them to be here.”

Farrington looked confused. Lasker ordered her to get into the car again and she obeyed, but her eyes never left the cars, which stopped moments later. Keith Evans got out and held up his identification.

“Hey, Agent Lasker, remember me?”

“What are you doing here, Evans?”

“Before I answer that, I have a few questions I need to ask you,” Evans said in a tone low enough so Farrington could not hear him. “How did you know where to go tonight?”

“The first lady told me.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She wanted to go to this mall.”

“What did she say or do when you got to the mall?”

“She directed us to a spot in the parking lot.”

“What were her exact words?”

“I don’t remember her exact words, but as best I can recall, she told us to drive around the corner of the mall and go to this row. Then she had us stop near this parking space.”

“She gave you specific directions?”

“Yes. Now what’s going on?”

“I’m afraid the first lady is in a lot of trouble,” Evans said.

“Hey, wait,” Lasker said as Evans and Sparks walked to the back of Farrington’s car.

“Please don’t interfere, Agent Lasker,” Evans said. The FBI agents from the other cars moved in on Lasker and the driver, and the Secret Service agents realized they were outnumbered.

Claire had lowered her window in an attempt to hear what was being said.

“Good evening, Dr. Farrington,” Evans said.

“Good evening, Agent Evans. We’ve just arrested Dana Cutler for trying to extort three million dollars from me for a set of photographs allegedly showing me murdering Charlotte Walsh. Unfortunately for her, I knew the photographs couldn’t be real and I had them examined by an expert.”

Evans smiled. “The photos are faked and we know Miss Cutler asked you to pay three million dollars for them, but she wasn’t extorting money from you. She was helping us prove that you murdered Charlotte Walsh.”

Farrington looked amused. “How would a set of phony photographs do that?”

“Oh, the photographs wouldn’t. We would never introduce them at a trial as direct evidence. On the other hand, they did lure you to this parking lot. Agent Lasker just told me that you knew the exact spot where Charlotte Walsh parked, the spot where she was murdered. Mind telling us how you learned that information?”

Farrington started to say something but she caught herself.

“That’s okay,” Evans said. “You don’t have to talk to me. In fact, you have a right to remain silent because anything you say can and will be used in court to convict you. You also have a right to an attorney. If you can’t afford a lawyer, the court will appoint one to represent you.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Is it? Charlotte Walsh’s body was found in a Dumpster behind a restaurant in Maryland. As far as the public knows that was where she was murdered. There were rumors that she was killed here, but we were very hush-hush about the location in the lot. We towed the car without the press learning where it was discovered. In fact, very few people knew the exact spot where she was killed.”

“Charles Hawkins…”

“Confessed to a crime he could not have committed. We can prove it was impossible for him to do it. He didn’t have time to go from the hotel to the farm, meet the president at eleven-fifteen, and murder Miss Walsh in this lot at eleven. But you had time to sneak out of the hotel after Dale Perry diverted the guard at the stairwell, come here, kill Miss Walsh, and return to the hotel before one.”

“This conversation is over,” Farrington told the agents before calling to Lasker.

“Irv, please take me back to the White House.”

“Sorry, Dr. Farrington, that’s not going to happen right now,” Keith Evans said. “I’m placing you under arrest. We’ll do this quietly. I’ve already arranged to have a judge available, and Mort Rickstein will be meeting you at the federal courthouse. Given who you are, I bet he’ll be able to get you released immediately. Everyone in this country will be fascinated to find out what happens after that.”

Dana finished giving a detailed statement to the FBI at three in the morning. She should have been exhausted but she drove away from the office of the independent counsel on a high that acted like a triple shot of espresso. Charlotte Walsh, Laurie Erickson, and Rhonda Pulaski had been avenged. Their spirits could rest easily because she had nailed Claire Farrington.

Dana was still too excited for sleep when she parked in Jake Teeny’s driveway. Jake opened the front door before she could get out her key.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his concern obvious in his voice and on his face.

Dana pulled Jake to her and kissed him. Jake tightened, surprised by the ferocity of the kiss. Then he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her. “I love you,” Dana said. “I’ve loved you for a long time but I’ve been too fucked-up to tell you.”

Jake pushed Dana to arm’s length. He stared at her, as if uncertain that he’d heard her correctly. Dana’s high disappeared in an instant. She’d spoken without thinking, and she knew that when she’d said she loved him, she’d just messed up whatever it was that she and Jake had together.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have…”

“No, I love you, too. I’ve just…With all that happened to you…”

Dana’s heart began to beat again. She felt lighter than air. It was going to be all right. She put a hand on Jake’s cheek.

“You’re my rock, Jake, my anchor. You kept me going when I wanted to give up, when I didn’t care what happened to me. But you cared.”

“It’s easy to care for you. You’re very special.”

“Shit,” Dana said, wiping away a tear that had suddenly strayed down her cheek. Jake kissed her hand then he kissed the spot where the tear had appeared.

“I’m no good at this mushy stuff,” Dana said.

“Then don’t talk,” Jake told her as he took her hand and led her inside. For once Dana Cutler surrendered without a fight.

The next morning, Dana awoke with the sun. Jake was sound asleep and she crept out of bed, dressed quietly, and left a note on the kitchen table so Jake wouldn’t worry. With the help of Keith Evans and the FBI, Jake’s Harley had been retrieved. Dana pushed it onto the street and didn’t start it until she was certain the noise wouldn’t disturb her lover’s slumber. As soon as she could, Dana opened it up and sped toward her destination.

The meth cook had brought Dana to the farmhouse after sundown and she had been rescued before dawn, so she’d only seen the place where she’d been brutalized at night. It was less frightening in the strong light of the sun—an abandoned, dilapidated structure punished by neglect, separated from a field of high and wild grass by a desolate dirt yard.

The steps up which Dana climbed to the front porch creaked underfoot and the cold fall wind blew the remaining scraps of crime scene tape out and away where they stuck to the front door. Dana tried the handle and the door opened. Her heart was beating wildly and she could feel the heat of panic when she walked into the front room. A floorboard creaked underfoot, the sunlight illuminated spiderwebs and dust devils that spun across the floor in the wake of the cold, fast-moving air.

Dana took a deep breath and forced herself to walk into the kitchen. She stood in front of the door to the basement, staring at it. It was just a door, she told herself, and the basement was just a basement, a place of concrete and cheap shelving. There would be ghosts down there only if she allowed them to exist.

Dana grabbed the knob and opened the door. The electricity had been turned off, but she’d brought a flashlight. The beam illuminated the steps. Some light filtered through the narrow, grime-covered windows. Dana stopped at the bottom of the stairs and shined her light on the space where she’d lain, naked and terrified, for three days while she had been raped and beaten. She felt sick so she squeezed her eyes tight and breathed in slowly and deeply. While her eyes were still closed, she conjured up Jake’s face. She made her vision smile and she remembered how good it felt to nestle in his arms. He’d made her feel safe.

Dana opened her eyes, and she smiled. She felt safe now. There were no ghosts, just dust, spiderwebs, and concrete, nothing that could hurt her. Dana was filled with a sense of peace. Last night she had set free the restless spirits of the three girls Claire Farrington had murdered. Today she had set her own spirit free from the fears that had tried to make her dead inside.

Brad Miller wrapped his arm around Ginny Striker’s shoulders, and they huddled together as they struggled through the election night crowd mobbing the lobby of the Benson Hotel in downtown Portland and walked outside into the light rain that had been falling all evening. There had been no suspense in Maureen Gaylord’s win. It had been a sure thing after the first lady’s arrest. And the situation had gotten worse for the president when the Pulaskis and Marsha Erickson had appeared on every television show that would have them to tell how they’d been paid off by Christopher Farrington to keep quiet about his sexual involvement with their daughters.

“I guess the American people don’t want a serial murderer and a sex pervert in the White House,” Ginny had said when NBC declared Ohio firmly in Gaylord’s camp, wrapping up the electoral vote for the senator. Even Oregon had voted overwhelmingly against the only native son to lead the nation.

“I only hope they both end up in prison,” Brad said.

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“It’s what they deserve.”

“The rich and powerful seem to be able to commit crimes with impunity,” Ginny said as they worked their way free of the rowdy crowd in front of the hotel.

“Some of the legal analysts think the case against Claire Farrington is too weak to win a conviction,” Brad said. He sounded disheartened.

Ginny gripped his biceps tightly and squeezed. “That’s not our problem anymore. I’m just glad this is over. I’m looking forward to a fresh start.”

“I hope you like your job at your D.C. firm better than your tenure at Reed, Briggs,” Brad said.

“I probably won’t, but I still have loans to pay off and rent to pay and I can’t count on you for much.”

Brad grinned. It was true. Brad’s clerkship at the United States Supreme Court was not going to pay anywhere near what Ginny would earn, but it would open the door to every legal job in the country when he was through.

“Do you mind that I’m marrying you for your money?” Brad asked.

“I thought you were only interested in my body.”

“There’s that, too. Now if you could only cook, you’d be perfect.”

“For a kept man you’re pretty picky. You should be satisfied with what you’ve got.”

“I guess you’ll do until a rich, sexy woman with a degree from Cordon Bleu comes along.”

Ginny swatted him on the head, and he kissed her. Life was pretty good and his only real worry was that he would let down Justice Kineer, who’d obtained the position at the Court for him. He knew that the other clerks would be editors in chief from law reviews at Harvard, Penn, NYU, and other super law schools, and he was a little nervous about his place in this pantheon of intellect. But every time he worried about his ability to perform his job he remembered Justice Kineer’s assurance that he would have chosen someone who’d successfully faced down assassins, brought down a first lady, and proved that the former chief justice of the United States had his head up his butt over any academic nerd.

During the drive to Brad’s apartment the rainstorm got worse. The couple rushed from Brad’s parking spot to his front door, crouching to escape the downpour. Brad flipped on the light in his entryway as soon as they were inside.

“I’m going to the powder room to dry my hair,” Ginny said.

“I’ll put up the water for tea.”

Brad took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. He was about to go into the kitchen when he spotted a slender white envelope lying on the entryway floor. He stooped down and picked it up. His name and address were handwritten, and there was no return address. There was also no stamp, so the letter had been hand delivered and slipped under his door. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of lined, yellow legal paper. Brad read what was written on it and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

Brad crumpled the envelope and the letter and hurried to the garbage pail in the kitchen. He pushed them under the other trash to make certain that Ginny would never see Clarence Little’s letter.

“Hey, you’re shivering,” Ginny said when she walked into the kitchen. “Let me do something about that.”

Ginny wrapped her arms around Brad and snuggled against him. Usually, Ginny made him believe that everything was going to be all right, but her hug couldn’t dispel the feeling of dread created by Little’s letter. How did he know about Ginny? Who had delivered the letter? Anger replaced dread as Brad realized that Clarence was bored and was playing mind games with him again. He would expect Brad to rush to Salem to discuss the letter. Well, he wasn’t going to go. He would let Clarence sit in his cell alone, waiting for his day of execution. No more fun and games for Mr. Little. Not at Brad’s expense, anyway.

Brad pressed Ginny to him. Then he kissed her ferociously.

“Whoa, mister, what’s gotten into you?”

“It’s what’s not in me anymore, Ginny. You’ve chased my demons away. Bridget Malloy, Clarence Little, Susan Tuchman, they’ve all moved on to bother someone else. From now on, it’s just you and me, kid.”

Ginny smiled and kissed Brad. He smiled back. Life was good, and he had a feeling it was going to get better.