The third time they started seeing each other the sex had come to feel like an obligation.
Being with Ginny had helped Brad see that he’d been fooling himself about his feelings for Bridget during most of their relationship, and he was finally able to accept the fact that he’d been obsessed with a Bridget who had never really existed. He was lucky that Bridget had called off their wedding, which would have been the start of a marriage that was doomed to failure.
While spacing out during an assessment of a tax-avoidance scheme a partner had dreamed up for a wealthy client, Brad decided that the major difference between Ginny and Bridget was that Bridget was self-absorbed while Ginny was just plain nice. He arrived at this conclusion at 2:13 in the afternoon and was about to return to the tax code when an annoying clang signaled the arrival of e-mail on his computer. Brad brought up the message and smiled when he saw it was from Ginny. The message read: COFFEE NOW! OUR FAVORITE PLACE.
Brad found Ginny in the rear of the coffee shop at Broadway and Washington where they’d gotten together after his first meeting with Clarence Little. She was sipping a caffe latte, and Brad waved to her as he started toward the counter to order. Ginny smiled and pointed at the cup of black coffee she’d bought for him. Brad tried to remember if Bridget had ever done something so inconsequential yet so considerate during all of the time they’d been together and came up blank.
“I was beginning to think I’d never see you again with the hours I’m putting in,” Brad said when he arrived at the table.
“This too shall pass. Tuchman will find another associate to torture, and she’ll lose interest in you. Just hang in there.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth it. I’d start hunting for another job but I don’t have time with my workload. So, do you have a reason for this secret rendezvous or do you just miss me?”
“I do miss you but that’s not the only reason I dragged you to our favorite caffeine salon. Guess what I discovered?”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Clarence, does it?” Brad asked, alarmed.
“It does, but don’t worry. I figured a lot of it out online. And I didn’t use a computer at the office.”
“Figured what out?”
“What happened to the teenage client Farrington was rumored to have been sleeping with. You know what the Portland Clarion is, right?”
“The alternative newspaper?”
Ginny nodded. “When Farrington ran for governor the Clarion printed an article about the rumors of sexual impropriety. The client’s name was Rhonda Pulaski, and she was injured in a skiing accident on Mount Hood. Farrington sued the ski lodge operator, claiming they’d incorrectly marked a trail that Pulaski wasn’t skilled enough to ski down. The case was settled out of court for a sum in the high six figures.
“The day he received the check for the settlement Farrington rented a Town Car and picked up Pulaski at her high school. On the way, he showed the check to the chauffeur, Tim Houston, and bragged about the settlement. Houston told the paper that Farrington had been drinking and brought a bottle of champagne to Pulaski’s school. Houston thought that was really inappropriate.
“Instead of taking Pulaski straight home, Farrington had the chauffeur cruise around. There was an opaque window between the backseat and the driver’s seat, so Houston couldn’t see what happened between Pulaski and Farrington, but he claims to have heard them having sex.”
“What did Pulaski say?”
“Her parents wouldn’t let the police or the paper talk to her, and no charges were brought. Farrington threatened to sue the newspaper. The Clarion runs on a shoestring and defending a lawsuit would have bankrupted it, so they printed a retraction. I called the paper. The reporter who wrote the piece isn’t there anymore, but Frieda Bancroft, the editor, is still around. I wanted to talk to Houston, but she said he disappeared. No one knows where he is.”
“What about Pulaski?”
Ginny lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Are you ready for this? She’s dead. The victim of a hit-and-run driver who was never found. The car was though. It had been stolen. The cops think the thief was joyriding, but the car had been thoroughly cleaned so there were no prints, hairs, fibers, nothing to use to trace the driver. So Pulaski is dead and the only other witness is gone, maybe permanently.”
“I get less interested in pursuing this every minute,” Brad said nervously.
“Don’t be a sissy.”
“You’re confusing cowardice and prudence. If we’re right, Farrington is responsible for the deaths of three teenage girls and a chauffeur. I don’t want to add two associates to his total.”
“Farrington doesn’t even know we exist.”
“Yet. If we keep poking around, eventually we’ll appear on his radar.”
“Brad, this is too important to drop. Do you really want a murderer running America? If he’s responsible for all these killings we have to do something. Once we go to the authorities Farrington won’t have any reason to come after us. We’ll turn over everything we know to the police. We’re not witnesses. Killing us wouldn’t help his defense.”
“You forget revenge, which has always been a pretty strong motive for murder.”
“Farrington is too busy to bother with us. We’re the smallest of fry. He’s already worrying about the independent counsel’s investigation of the Walsh murder. If he has to worry about the Erickson and Pulaski cases he won’t have time to think about us.”
“You’re probably right, but do you want to take a chance that you’re wrong when the consequences could be that we end up dead?”
“As I see it, the only thing we’re going to do is try to find Laurie Erickson’s mother. If she doesn’t talk to us, that’s that. If she implicates Farrington, we go to the cops or the FBI and they’ll take it from there.”
“We aren’t doing anything. I told you I’d talk to Mrs. Erickson myself so you wouldn’t get in trouble with Tuchman.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
Brad nodded. “You’re right about how important this is. But talking to Erickson is all we’re going to do, right? After that we forget about the Clarence Little case, agreed?”
Brad stuck out his hand, and Ginny shook it. Brad held on and looked her in the eye. Ginny looked back and didn’t blink. Brad still thought she was lying.
Chapter Thirty-one
Unlike an incoming attorney general of the United States who starts his tenure with an existing office, staff, and equipment, an independent counsel starts with nothing but the piece of paper appointing him. On an independent counsel’s first day on the job he does not have computers or telephones or desks on which to put them. He has to locate and lease office space then fill it with furniture, equipment, investigators, books, and lawyers. This explained why Keith Evans was using a room in an inexpensive motel on the outskirts of Washington, D.C., to conduct his interview with Irving Lasker, the head of the Secret Service detail that guarded President Farrington at the farmhouse in Virginia.
Lasker was a wiry, stern-looking, middle-aged man with tight skin, sunken cheeks, and bright blue eyes that Evans half-believed could beam death rays. From his crew cut and the way he held himself, Evans guessed the Secret Service agent was ex-military.
Lasker sat stiff backed on a chair with gold casters that was upholstered in imitation red leather. Evans sat on a similar chair. The two men were separated by a round wooden table over which hung a cheap brass light fixture. Cars sped by on a freeway through the window on Keith’s left. To his right were a queen-size bed and an armoire containing a television that showed in-room movies. The room was dark and depressing and smelled of cleaning fluid.
“Sorry about the accommodations,” Evans said, using the apology as an icebreaker. “Justice Kineer’s out house hunting as we speak and we don’t have a big enough budget to rent at the Willard.”
“Understood,” Lasker answered tersely. Keith hoped the interview wouldn’t be as difficult as Lasker’s dem
eanor suggested.
“Thanks for bringing the log,” Evans said.
“The log was mentioned in the subpoena.”
“Yes, but you could have given us a hard time.”
“That’s not in my job description, Agent Evans. Ask me your questions and I’ll answer them truthfully, as long as they don’t concern protection procedures or security arrangements.”
Evans scanned the log on which were recorded the times and identities of the people who had entered and left the safe house.
“It says here that you brought the president to the farm at eight P.M.”
“That’s right. He was in the car with me.”
“No one else arrived until Walsh showed up?”
Lasker nodded.
“Then Walsh arrives at nine and leaves at nine-thirty-six.”
“That seems right.”
“Who drove her?”
“Sam Harcourt.”
“Is Agent Harcourt here?”
“He’s waiting in the lobby.”
“After Miss Walsh got out of the car did you hear anything that the president said to her or she said to him?”
“Not when she arrived. I was outside. When she left, I heard her yell at President Farrington.”
“What did she say?”
“Threats. He thought he could use her then toss her away. He’d be sorry. Stuff like that. I don’t remember the exact words.”
“What, if anything, did the president say?”
“He didn’t get emotional. I think he told her to calm down. Again, I can’t remember the exact words.”
“Okay, then Walsh is driven away?”
“By Agent Harcourt. He picked her up from the Dulles Towne Center mall and returned her to her car.”
“Did the president say anything after Miss Walsh left the farm?”
“Not about her, or, at least, not to me.”
“Tell me about the woman in the woods.”
“Okay. Right about the time Miss Walsh left, Bruno Culbertson spotted a woman in the woods taking pictures. He chased her, and she hid and hit him from behind. Richard Sanborne and I chased her and Sanborne wrote down what he believed to be the woman’s license plate number.”
“Did you discover who owned the car?”
“If Agent Sanborne wrote down the number correctly the car that drove away from the farm is registered to a Dana Cutler.”
“Did you or anyone to your knowledge follow up on the possibility that Miss Cutler was the person who took the pictures?”
“Mr. Hawkins told us that he’d be following up.”
“That’s Charles Hawkins, the president’s aide?”
“Yes.”
“Wouldn’t the Secret Service normally follow up on potential threats to the president?”
“Yes, but President Farrington instructed us to leave the investigation to his aide.”
“President Farrington told you this himself?”
Lasker nodded. Evans thought that this was very unusual and that it might be a key piece of evidence in the investigation.
“Has an arrest warrant been issued for Dana Cutler for assaulting a federal officer?”
“The Secret Service hasn’t requested one.”
“Why not?”
“We don’t know for certain that Cutler struck Bruno. He didn’t get a good look at the woman he was chasing, and he didn’t see who hit him. Rich Sanborne isn’t certain about the license number. Then Mr. Hawkins told us to drop the matter.”
“So Cutler’s not a fugitive?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“The log says that Mr. Hawkins arrived at the farm at eleven-fifteen P.M.”
“That sounds right,” Lasker said.
“Did he drive himself or was someone with him?”
“He was alone.”
“Did you hear any part of his conversation with the president?”
“No. President Farrington was in the library. Mr. Hawkins joined him. I was outside the house.”
“The log says that Mr. Hawkins left the farm at eleven-fifty.”
“That sounds right.”
“When did you leave the farm to drive the president back to the White House?”
“Shortly after midnight.”
“When did you arrive at the White House?”
“Somewhere around one in the morning.”
“Was President Farrington in your presence from the time he arrived at the farm until he returned to the White House?”
“If you’re asking whether he could have murdered the Walsh girl between eight and one, the answer is no.”
Secret Service Agent Sam Harcourt was forty-two. There was gray mixed into his jet-black hair, lines on his face, and his eyes were as alert as those of the other Secret Service agents with whom Evans had come in contact. It seemed to him that these men and women were on the alert for any trouble no matter what situation they were in. He wondered if they ever relaxed.
“You were the agent assigned to pick up Charlotte Walsh at the Dulles Towne Center mall and return her there?”
“Yes.”
Evans had the distinct impression that something was bothering Harcourt.
“You seem…I don’t know, upset,” Evans said.
Harcourt stiffened. “Of course I’m upset. She was a nice kid and she was tortured to death.”
“So, you liked her?”
“I really didn’t get a chance to know her. I guess I should have said that she seemed like a nice kid. We were only together during the trips to and from the mall and she didn’t talk much, especially on the trip back.”
“Her mood was different going to the farm and coming back?”
“Definitely. She was excited on the way to the farm. Not that she talked much, but I could see her in the rearview mirror.”
“When she did talk, what did she say?”
“Nothing important. Where are we going, how much longer, that kind of thing. I was instructed not to talk to her, so I never initiated a conversation.”
“Who told you not to talk to Walsh?”
“Agent Lasker. He headed up the detail. He said the president didn’t want me to chat with Walsh, so I didn’t.”
Once again, Evans sensed that Harcourt was angry about something.
“Was Miss Walsh’s mood different on the return trip?”
“Definitely. She was very upset. I could see her crying for part of the ride.”
“Did she explain why she was upset?”
“No, and I didn’t ask because of my orders.”
“Did you have any conversation with her?”
“I remember asking if she was okay and if she wanted some water, but she said she was fine and she turned down the water.”
“Agent Harcourt, did you hear or see anything that would lead you to believe that Miss Walsh had engaged in sexual relations with the president?”
Harcourt hesitated.
“If you know something about this you have to tell us. The independent counsel is charged with determining if the president had any involvement in Miss Walsh’s death. If they were intimate and she was angry at him, the president would have a motive.”
Harcourt took a deep breath. “When Walsh came out of the house she was very angry. I could hear what she said because she was standing right next to the driver’s door. She yelled at the president. She said, ‘You can’t just fuck me then toss me away like a used tissue.’ That’s a direct quote.”
Evans studied the agent, whose face was flushed. “You seem more upset than I’d expect. You seem angry. Is there something else you know that’s made you critical of President Farrington that concerns Miss Walsh?”
Harcourt nodded. Then he looked directly at Evans. “I was on the president’s detail when he went to Chicago for a fund-raiser. I can’t remember the exact date but it wasn’t that long ago. I saw Charles Hawkins smuggle Walsh into the president’s suite. She was in there about an hour when Hawkins showed up again to collect her. They went
up and down by a service elevator that goes to the kitchen.”
“Do you know if they had sex?”
“No. I never went into the suite while she was inside.”
“Is there anything else?”
Harcourt shook his head. “It’s just not right. I’m a Christian and I don’t hold with this behavior. He’s a married man and Miss Walsh was very young.”
“I understand why you’d be upset. Tell me, when you got back to her car did you see anything suspicious?”
“No, and I’ve thought about that a lot. I was worried that there might have been something I could have done to save her.”
“What do you think now?”
“Honestly, I can’t say I saw anything that would help your investigation. I dropped her off, I waited until she was in her car, then I left.”
“So you didn’t see anyone lurking around?”
“No, but there were cars parked in the vicinity of her car. Someone could have been hiding in one of them or behind one of them and I wouldn’t have known.”
“Did you see Miss Walsh drive off?”
Harcourt’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t, and now that I think about it, I didn’t see her headlights come on.”
“If she was upset she may have been sitting in her car trying to calm down before she drove off.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s a damn shame that a nice kid like that is dead.”
Evans pressed for more evidence about the president’s infidelities but Harcourt didn’t have any further useful information.
When he was finished interviewing the last Secret Service agent Evans checked his cell phone for messages. There was one from Sparks asking him to call her.
“Hey, Maggie, what’s up?” Evans asked when Sparks picked up.
“Did you put out an APB on a Harley?”
“Yeah.”
“A cop just called in from Webster’s Corner, West Virginia. The bike’s been spotted at the Traveler’s Rest Motel.”
Chapter Thirty-two
When Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks followed the Webster’s Corner cop around the side of the Traveler’s Rest, Dana Cutler was sitting at a picnic table finishing off her evening meal. Until then, Dana had been at peace. The sun was just starting to set, and a gentle breeze was rustling the surface of the river that ran behind the motel. There was birdsong in the air and a quarter mile to the east, a speedboat was stirring up the blue-green water.
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