Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  “There’s plenty of evidence that someone cleaned up. Just compare the hall and kitchen to the bedroom and living room. And you said that your informant ran plates that belonged to the Secret Service. If we’re talking about people in this town with enough clout to shut down a police investigation they’d be near the top of my list.”

  “We don’t know that the investigation was shut down. There may be a police report, 911 tapes, medical records. We should check. This could just be a domestic dispute. Maybe Cutler was dating someone who works for a federal agency and she went off.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” Sparks asked

  “Not really.”

  “What do we know? We’ve got a PI who writes down some license numbers. Why would she do that?”

  “She’s on a case; we’re talking about car licenses, so she’s tailing someone,” Evans answered.

  “Charlotte Walsh?”

  “That’s my guess. She asked my informant to run Walsh’s plate and she was surprised when he told her that another plate was registered to the Secret Service. She wouldn’t be surprised if she was tailing a Secret Service agent.”

  “So, somewhere, Walsh crosses paths with the Secret Service,” Sparks said.

  Evans walked to the door to the bedroom and looked it over again.

  “They were searching the apartment. Cutler came back and caught them,” he said.

  “She shoots a federal agent then runs,” Sparks said. “Either she shot him thinking she’d surprised an intruder or she shot in self-defense.”

  “She’s an ex-cop. If she found a burglar she’d hold him for the police whether she shot him or not.”

  “She shot a person she thought was a burglar, learned she’d shot a Fed, and ran because she was scared,” Sparks said.

  “What if it was self-defense? What if they were searching for something they thought Cutler had? She comes home and they try to force her to tell where it is and somehow she gets the drop on them.”

  “What were they looking for?”

  “If the intruders were Secret Service, it has to be something that connects Walsh to…Jesus, Maggie, Walsh worked for Farrington’s campaign, and the Secret Service guards the president.”

  “PIs take pictures of people they’re following,” Sparks said.

  Evans was quiet for a moment. “If Cutler was hiding pictures in this place they’d have found them. It’s too small.”

  “Unless Cutler interrupted the search before they got them.”

  “Or Cutler has them someplace else.”

  Evans’s cell phone rang and he snapped it open. While he was talking, Sparks looked around more carefully than she had the first time they’d gone through the apartment. She noticed that all of the trash baskets had been emptied and there were no scraps of paper with writing on them anywhere in sight. She pulled open the drawers of a desk in the living room and found them empty. And she didn’t see a computer. Whoever had gone through the apartment after the police left had been very thorough.

  “I had someone run Cutler’s phone records for her cell and home phones,” Evans said when he finished the call. “Fredricks looked them over and came up with something interesting. Does the name Dale Perry ring a bell?”

  Sparks thought for a moment before shaking her head.

  “He’s an attorney with a lot of political contacts, including several in the White House.”

  “There’s the Secret Service connection again,” Sparks said.

  “Cutler’s called him a few times this year and twice the week before Walsh was murdered. Some of the calls were to Perry’s private line at his office or his cell phone.”

  “Why would a small-time PI be calling a big shot lawyer with ties to the White House?”

  “Let’s ask him.”

  “One other interesting thing,” Evans said. “I asked Fredricks to get me Cutler’s file from the cops.”

  “What’s it say?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know; it’s classified.”

  “I bet this place is bigger than my apartment,” Maggie Sparks said as she looked around the reception area of Kendall, Barrett and Van Kirk.

  “I bet they pay more rent than you do, too,” Evans said.

  “I bet I could retire on what they pay in rent for a year.”

  Their ruminations on the reception area of Dale Perry’s law firm ended abruptly when a stunning blonde with a deep tan walked into reception dressed in a fire-engine red dress and sporting a lot of gold jewelry.

  “Agents Sparks and Evans?” she asked, flashing a radiant smile that would have lit up the room in a blackout.

  “I’m Keith Evans, and this is Margaret Sparks.”

  “I’m Irene Miles, Mr. Perry’s personal secretary.”

  I’ll bet you are, Maggie Sparks thought. Out loud she said, “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Miles. We’d like to speak with Mr. Perry.”

  “He’s waiting for you,” Miles said. “Would you like some coffee or tea? I can also bring you a caffe latte or a cappuccino.”

  The agents passed on the refreshments then followed Miles down a carpeted hallway where they found Dale Perry waiting in a large corner office decorated tastefully with antiques. Before leaving, Miles motioned the agents to a place on a couch under an exquisite oil painting of a French country village that looked a lot like a Cezanne Evans had seen in the National Gallery. The window behind Perry’s desk had a view of the White House. Evans wondered if Perry and the president flashed coded messages back and forth when the lawyer was lobbying for one of his clients.

  “Thanks for taking the time to see us, Mr. Perry.”

  The lawyer smiled. “When the receptionist told me who was in the waiting room I got curious. It’s not every day I get a visit from the FBI.”

  Evans smiled back. “Let me put you at ease. We’re not here to arrest you. Your name popped up in an investigation, and we’re hoping you can help us.”

  “I will if I’m able.”

  “Thanks. Do you know a woman named Dana Cutler?” Evans asked.

  Perry’s smile stayed on his lips but he shifted in his seat. “She’s a private investigator.”

  “Does she work for your firm?”

  “She’s not employed by Kendall, Barrett, but I have contracted with her on occasion when I needed help on a project.”

  “Has she worked for any of the other partners?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Perry definitely looked uncomfortable.

  “Doesn’t Kendall, Barrett have in-house investigators?” Maggie asked.

  “We do.”

  “Then why would you need Miss Cutler?”

  Perry wasn’t smiling anymore. “If I answered that question I would have to violate the confidences of my clients. That would be unethical.”

  “I can understand your concern,” Evans said, “but we’re worried about Miss Cutler. Her name came up in connection with a murder investigation. We tried to interview her, but she’s missing. We’re concerned for her safety.”

  “Who was murdered?”

  “A young woman named Charlotte Walsh. We have reason to believe that Miss Cutler was following her. Was she tailing Miss Walsh on your instructions?”

  “I just explained that I can’t discuss the firm’s business.”

  “Then she was working for the firm on this case?”

  Perry looked annoyed. “I didn’t say that. I am forbidden by the rules of conduct that govern my profession to either confirm or deny any involvement Miss Cutler may or may not have had with this Walsh individual.”

  “Would you be willing to tell me the last time you spoke to Miss Cutler?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you want to help us find her? She may be in danger.”

  “I’ll help any way I can as long as it doesn’t involve discussing the business of Kendall, Barrett. In my opinion, your inquiry is doing just that.”

  Evans frowned. “How can the business of your firm possibly be affe
cted by you telling me the last time you spoke to Dana Cutler?”

  “Are you aware that I am a personal friend of the attorney general and the director of the FBI?”

  “No, sir, I’m not.”

  “I feel your questions are verging on harassment. I’ve taken time from my day to talk to you, but I am very busy and this interview is terminated.”

  Evans stared directly at Perry for a moment. Then he stood up.

  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to provide more assistance.”

  Evans smiled. “Don’t worry, sir. I thought this meeting was very informative.”

  Perry must have pressed a button under his desk because Irene Miles opened the door and held it in a way that suggested she expected them to leave. Sparks and Evans didn’t say a word until they were standing at the elevator bank.

  “I think we just got the bum’s rush,” Maggie said.

  “That we did, but Perry told us more than he wanted to.”

  “He’s worried about something.”

  “That’s for certain, and it concerns Charlotte Walsh.”

  Evans was about to follow up on his thought when his cell phone rang. He looked at the readout.

  “We’ve got to go back to headquarters,” he said as soon as he broke the connection. “That was Kyle. They’ve figured out how to find the Ripper.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Half an hour after leaving Dale Perry’s law office, Keith Evans walked into the conference room that had been assigned to the Ripper Task Force. The energy in the room would have run the lights in the city for a year. Everyone was in motion, talking excitedly on their phones, pacing with purpose, or energetically punching computer keys.

  “What’s up, people?” Evans asked, and everyone started talking at once about polyvinyl siloxane, also known as PVS, the substance that had been found in the mouths of every Ripper victim with the exception of Charlotte Walsh.

  “It’s the impression material a dentist uses when he’s going to have a crown or a bridge made for a patient,” explained Kyle Hernandez, a former soccer star at UCLA with a chemistry degree. “It’s soft when the dentist places it over a patient’s teeth. After it sets it’s removed from the mouth, and die stone, which is like a very hard plaster, is poured into the impression. Then the PVS, which is very elastic, is lifted off. The die stone model is scanned using a computer, and a robot mills the crown from porcelain or a technician makes a bridge or crown using a lost wax technique. We think we found minute traces of PVS in the victims’ mouths because someone used it for a model. When the PVS was removed from the mouth small traces remained.”

  “How does this help us find the Ripper?” Evans asked.

  “Dentists work closely with the technician who’s going to use the model. Sometimes they have the tech come to their office while the patient is there. Sometimes they’ll send a full-face photograph to the tech.”

  “Do these technicians have access to personal information about the patient like an address or phone number?”

  Hernandez grinned and nodded. “They could. Say they’re standing next to the dentist while they’re examining the patient and the patient’s file is sitting on a table. All the tech would have to do is take a peek. Or it could be something as simple as the dentist introducing the patient to the technician.”

  Now Evans was as excited as everyone else. “Did all of the victims have dental appointments shortly before they were killed?”

  “Bingo!” Hernandez answered as his grin widened. “But they all went to different dentists…”

  “…who used the same lab,” Evans said, finishing the agent’s sentence with a flourish.

  “Sally Braman is at the lab now talking with the owner, and Bob Conaway from the U.S. attorney’s office is ready to draft a search warrant application as soon as we give him an affidavit laying out probable cause.”

  Evans smiled. “Good work people. Let’s hope this is the end of the line.”

  “He’s two blocks away in a tan Toyota van, turning onto King Road…now,” the agent tailing Eric Loomis’s van reported.

  Evans, Sparks, and two other agents were across the street from Loomis’s house in an unmarked car. A SWAT team was hiding behind Loomis’s detached garage and would seize him as soon as Evans told them Loomis was out of the van. He tried to calm down, but he felt like he’d been injected with methamphetamine. His hands were shaking, his palms were damp, and the way his heart was racing he was certain he’d flunk his yearly physical. He shut his eyes and pictured a clear mountain lake surrounded by green meadows and domed by a blue sky dotted with white, puffy clouds. The meditation technique failed miserably as soon as the agent tailing Loomis announced that the lab technician was turning onto Humboldt Street and would be pulling into his driveway momentarily.

  Loomis’s house was a Dutch Colonial that had been built on a quarter-acre lot. There were two floors above ground and a basement, which was entered from a mudroom on the side of the house opposite the garage. A narrow alley separated the garage from the house. Doors on the side of the garage and the house opened into the alley. This meant that Loomis could park in the garage and carry his victims into the basement with little risk that he would be seen.

  The van slowed down as it approached the house. Loomis used a remote to raise the garage door, and moments later he was inside.

  “Now,” Evans said the moment Loomis shut the van’s door behind him. Four agents in SWAT black rushed inside the garage, and the tailing car swung in front of the van to block an escape attempt.

  “FBI, FBI!” Evans heard the SWAT team shout as he sprinted across the street. The men who’d come through the front of the garage trapped Loomis against the van just as the side door to the garage jerked open. Evans lost sight of Loomis as more agents surrounded him. By the time he entered the garage Loomis was flattened against the side of the van and his hands were cuffed behind him.

  The SWAT members parted leaving him face to face with his prisoner. Evans had checked for a criminal record and found two traffic tickets. Loomis’s record was as unexciting as his appearance. If he had to use one word to describe the prisoner it would be “soft.” The lab technician was five ten and flabby. His hair looked limp, and he wore thick glasses with a black plastic frame. An unimpressive mustache graced his upper lip and a scraggy goatee hid a weak chin.

  “Eric Loomis?” Evans asked.

  Loomis looked dazed. “What…what is this?” he stuttered.

  “Are you Eric Loomis?” Evans repeated.

  “Yes, but…”

  “Mr. Loomis, I have a search warrant for your home. With your permission, one of my men will use your keys to open your door.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you don’t help us by letting us use your keys and telling us the combination for your alarm, we’ll have to break, in and that could cause damage to your door.”

  “Wait a second. What’s going on? Why do you want to search my house?” Loomis asked, his voice rising.

  “Will you give us permission to use your keys?”

  Loomis was sweating and looked panicky. His head jerked around. Everywhere were men in black with menacing countenances.

  “I don’t know,” he managed.

  “Very well, Mr. Loomis, since you’re unwilling to cooperate I’ll have one of my men break the window in your side door.”

  “Wait, don’t. The keys are in my pocket. Don’t break anything.”

  Evans nodded, and Maggie Sparks stepped forward. When Loomis saw that an attractive woman was going to search him, he flushed and looked even more anxious. When Sparks fished in his pocket for his set of keys Loomis grew rigid.

  “The combination, please,” Evans commanded.

  Sparks opened the door and shut off the alarm, and Loomis was herded into the living room and placed in an armchair. The prisoner was docile, head down, eyes on the floor. Evans left two agents with him then organiz
ed a search of the house. As soon as the search teams dispersed, Evans and Sparks headed for the basement. The first thing that hit them when they opened the door was the smell of rotting meat. Evans slipped on a surgical mask, Tyvek booties, and latex gloves. Then he turned on the light at the top of the stairs and walked down cautiously with his weapon drawn. Everyone assumed that the Ripper was a loner, but you never knew.

  The first thing Evans noticed was the soundproofing. Loomis had made sure that the neighbors would not hear his victims scream. The next thing he noticed was the shelf against the wall. Arrayed across it were four glass jars. In each jar was a model of a set of teeth. Evans froze on the stairs when he saw the teeth and so did Sparks. In the silence they heard labored breathing.

  The basement had the feel of an operating room. Bloodstains covered the floor, and a table covered with surgical tools stood to one side. But it wasn’t these implements that drew the eye, nor was it the two large dog cages that stood against one of the walls. What stunned Evans and Sparks was the dental chair that was positioned in the center of the room and the naked, gagged woman who was manacled to it.

  Jessica Vasquez was hungry and dehydrated but she appeared to be unharmed with the exception of some bruises she’d received when Loomis kidnapped her from a mall parking lot several days earlier. Evans and Sparks talked to Vasquez while they waited for the ambulance to take her to the hospital. She told them that Loomis had kept her in one of the dog cages without food or water for two days and never spoke to her during her ordeal. One evening, he’d drugged her and taken impressions of her teeth before returning her to the cage. This morning, he had manacled her to the chair and fitted her with a leather S &M mask with a ball gag before he went to the lab.

  “I know I should feel elated, but I just feel sick and exhausted,” Evans told Maggie as they watched the ambulance carrying Vasquez disappear around the corner.

  “Hey, get a grip. We saved Jessica Vasquez’s life and captured a truly evil man. You should feel proud of what we accomplished.”

  “But I don’t. I just feel sad because of what those other poor souls went through.”