Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  “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.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Dana Cutler and Brad Miller were watching CNN’s coverage of Charles Hawkins’s guilty plea when Keith Evans walked into the living room of the safe house. Hawkins had insisted on pleading immediately in Maryland state court to the murder of Charlotte Walsh. Gary Bischoff had refused to represent Hawkins, so he’d retained a new lawyer whose smile when he faced the television cameras suggested that he wasn’t the least bit troubled by pleading a client who might be innocent to a capital murder charge.

  “Why aren’t you at the courthouse?” Brad asked.

  “I couldn’t do it. It’s too depressing. Hawkins is taking the heat for the Farringtons, and he’s probably going to spend the rest of his life in prison or be executed for crimes he didn’t commit.”

  “It’s not like he’s completely innocent, Keith,” Brad said. “He probably murdered Houston, the chauffeur, and he sent those men to kill Dana. At minimum he covered up for Claire Farrington when she killed Rhonda Pulaski, leaving her free to kill Erickson and Walsh.”

  “Murders she’ll never pay for because of Hawkins,” Evans answered bitterly.

  “In life, unlike the movies, there are often untidy endings,” Dana Cutler said.

  “You’re not giving up, are you?” Brad asked.

  “No, and neither is Justice Kineer. We’re forging on with our investigation. We’re just not doing very well. But enough of this discouraging news.” Evans smiled. “I’m here to tell you that you’ll be going back to your lives this afternoon. With Hawkins pleading, we don’t think you’re in danger anymore. Brad, you’ve got a first-class ticket back to Portland. Dana, you’ll have to settle for me driving you back to your apartment in my heap.”

  “I’m so anxious to get out of house arrest I’d ride a tricycle home,” Dana said.

  “It’s been a privilege knowing both of you,” the agent told them. “I’m just sorry your efforts didn’t result in the Farringtons paying for their crimes.”

  “Yet,” Brad said.

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” Evans said.

  Brad and Dana went upstairs to pack. Dana came down first, and she and Evans engaged in small talk while they waited for Brad to return. The trio traded good-byes, then Brad got into a car and disappeared in the direction of the airport.

  “Ready?” Evans asked Dana.

  She tossed the duffel bag with her clothes into the backseat of Evans’s car and got in beside him.

  “What are your plans?” Evans asked when they’d been driving for a while.

  “The same plans I had before I became entangled with the powerful and famous; stay below the radar and earn enough to feed myself and pay my rent.”

  “I wish you luck. I guess you’ve had enough excitement for a lifetime.”

  “I had my full quota of excitement long before Dale Perry hired me,” Dana answered grimly.

  Evans focused on the road, ashamed that he had forgotten what Dana Cutler had gone through. If Cutler was upset with him she didn’t show it, and she seemed lost in thought during the rest of the drive.

  “Do you happen to have copies of the photos showing the mystery person in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel?” Dana asked when Evans parked in front of her apartment.

  “Why?”

  “I’d prefer not to say. But I’d appreciate getting copies of the photos and a complete set of the police reports detailing the crime scene at the Dulles Towne Center mall.”

  Evans studied the private detective. Dana’s features revealed nothing.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Evans said.

  Dana nodded. Then she was out of the car and inside her building. As soon as she closed her apartment door behind her Dana pulled out her cell phone.

  “Jake, it’s me, Dana,” she said as soon as Teeny picked up.

  “Where the hell have you been?”

  Dana was pleased that he sounded worried.

  “It’s a long story and I want to tell it to you, but my car is parked down the street from your house and I don’t have any wheels.”

  “Where’s my Harley?”

  “That’s another long story.”

  “Do you know that the FBI questioned me? What have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Come over and I’ll tell you. We’ll go out for dinner, my treat. Believe me, the story is worth the trip. Oh, and please bring the envelope I left on the desk in your study with the DVD.”

  Jake hung up and Dana carried her duffel bag into the bedroom. She was glad that she had someone like Jake to turn to, and it didn’t hurt that he was a genius at anything to do with photography. As she sorted through her clothes she mulled over the idea that had been brewing since Keith Evans told her that Claire Farrington was going to get away with murder. Dana’s heart went out to Rhonda Pulaski, Laurie Erickson, and Charlotte Walsh. They had all been good kids, and they’d died way too young. Dana was outraged that Claire Farrington had taken their lives and she felt white-hot anger every time she realized how close she’d come to joining the first lady’s collection of corpses.

  There weren’t many good things that had come out of her hideous experience in the basement of the meth lab, but being so close to dying that you said good-bye to life did free you of the fear of death. That didn’t mean that you wanted to die, and Dana vowed to make Claire Farrington pay for taking her right to live so lightly.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Morton Rickstein was exhausted. It was 9:30 P.M. and he’d been in his office since 7:30 A.M. preparing for a deposition. Normally Rickstein dressed impeccably, but he was so tired that he didn’t bother to roll down his shirtsleeves when he put on his jacket, and he left his tie at half-mast before grabbing his briefcase and trudging to the elevator that would take him to the parking garage. On the ride down Rickstein thought about how good it would feel to sit in his den with a scotch on the rocks.

  The elevator doors opened, and Rickstein walked into the garage. He worked late frequently but he’d never gotten use to the eerie quiet of the underground lot at this time of night. Most of the cars were gone and much of the garage was in shadow. Rickstein imagined things unholy hiding in the pitch-black recesses and caught himself glancing furtively at the thick, concrete pillars that supported the roof. A killer could hide behind them, completely unseen, until an unsuspecting victim passed by.

  There were three pillars between the elevator and his car and the lawyer tensed as he passed each one. Rickstein fished his electronic key out of his pocket and used the remote to unlock his car doors so he could get inside as quickly as possible. He heard the reass
uring beep and hurried his step. When he arrived at his Lexus unharmed, he let out a breath and bent down to open the driver’s door.

  “Mr. Rickstein.”

  The lawyer swung around, his heart seizing in his chest. A woman had appeared out of nowhere. She looked like a hard case in her black jeans and motorcycle jacket.

  “Sorry if I frightened you. My name is Dana Cutler. I’m a private investigator, and I’ve worked for your firm. I did most of my work for Dale Perry.”

  It took a second for Rickstein to recognize the name and connect it to the client of Dale Perry who had called to complain about being harassed by a Reed, Briggs associate. Dana Cutler was the woman who’d been involved in the shoot-out at Marsha Erickson’s house in Oregon.

  “Look, Miss Cutler, I’ve had a long day. Call my secretary tomorrow and make an appointment if you have something to discuss with me.”

  “This can’t wait. My business concerns another Kendall, Barrett client, Claire Farrington.”

  Dana extended her hand toward Rickstein. In it was a manila envelope.

  “I want you to give this to the first lady. There is a photograph and a cell phone in the package. You’re free to have the cell phone examined to make sure it’s not a bomb, but I’d advise you against looking at the photograph. You’re better off not knowing what it shows. It might interfere with your ability to represent your client.

  “When you give the envelope to Dr. Farrington tell her that I lied to the police when I said I didn’t go back to the parking lot at the Dulles Towne Center mall. I wasn’t planning on going back when I left her the voice message, but I got curious. Tell her I took several very interesting photographs that aren’t in the envelope. I’ll call her on the cell phone and tell her how she can get the pictures.”

  “I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’m not going to involve myself in it.”

  “I can’t think of any other way to communicate with Dr. Farrington. People like me can’t just ring the doorbell at the White House and ask to meet with the first lady.”

  “What you’re suggesting sounds like blackmail and I will not assist you. Furthermore, if I hear you’re persisting in this scheme I’ll go to the police and let them deal with you.”

  “You really don’t want to do that, Mr. Rickstein. Not if you’re concerned about the best interests of your client. Remember the photographs in Exposed that caused President Farrington’s problems? I took them, and I tried to be fair. Before I went anywhere else I met with Mr. Perry and offered to sell the photos to the president. Dale and the president double-crossed me, so I sold them to Exposed. The stories in Exposed are probably going to cost Farrington the election. The picture in that envelope could cost your client her life. So you decide what to do, but make it fast. If you turn me down I’ll call Patrick Gorman at Exposed. He gave me the number of his home phone after the success he had with my first batch of candid snapshots.”

  The morning after her meeting with Rickstein, Dana called the lawyer at his office to find out when he was going to meet with Claire Farrington. Dana figured that Rickstein would hand over the envelope in the first ten minutes of the meeting along with her message. Once Dr. Farrington got a glimpse of the photograph she would ask Rickstein to leave because she wouldn’t want to risk the lawyer seeing it or overhearing her conversation with Dana. Dana calculated that the first lady would begin studying the picture about fifteen minutes after Rickstein’s arrival. That’s when she placed the call. She wanted Farrington to see the picture, but she didn’t want to give her a lot of time to think before making her demands.

  The first lady answered the phone after two rings.

  “Dr. Farrington?”

  “Who else would have this phone?” Farrington asked angrily.

  “Getting upset won’t solve your problem. This is strictly a business proposition for me. I tried to explain that to Dale Perry and your husband but they decided it would be better to kill me than meet my very reasonable demands. Look where that got them. Dale’s dead, and your husband is probably going to be out of a job come November. I can guarantee he’ll lose the election and you’ll go to prison by selling the photos of you at the Dulles Towne Center lot to Exposed, but they don’t pay nearly as well as you will.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Three million dollars wired today to the account number you’ll find in the envelope. If the money is safely in my account you get the pictures.”

  “I have no idea what you think these photographs have to do with me. They just show someone in a sweatshirt opening a car door. You can’t see the person’s face. I can’t even tell if it’s a man or a woman.”

  Dana laughed. “I can see you’re worried that I’m taping this conversation. I’m not. But if it makes you feel better I won’t ask you to say anything incriminating.

  “Getting back to the reasons you’ll pay, there’s no question that the person in my pictures is identical to the figure in the stairwell at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel. More important, there is a very nice photograph I didn’t give you for fear that Mort Rickstein’s curiosity would get the better of him. In this photograph, the hood is back just enough to see you staring menacingly into Charlotte Walsh’s car. Enlarge that baby and you’re assured of a date with the executioner.”

  “I don’t believe you have pictures that would affect me in the least. But even if I wanted to purchase your pictures, there’s no way I can get three million dollars together today. And I certainly wouldn’t pay a blackmailer a red cent without seeing these pictures you claim are so incriminating.”

  “If you want to see the pictures before paying I’ll meet you tonight at midnight in the Dulles Towne Center lot at the spot where Charlotte Walsh parked. It’s wide open at night, and I’ll be able to make sure that you’re alone.”

  “It would be extraordinarily difficult for me to get to you without a Secret Service escort.”

  “Tell them you don’t want an escort.”

  “It’s not that simple. The Secret Service won’t follow my orders if I might be in danger. An agent will have to come with me.”

  “All right, you can have an agent drive you, but if you’re planning to arrest me or have me killed, think twice. I know this is a horrible cliché, but I really did give a second set of pictures to a lawyer who’ll send them to Exposed if I meet with an untimely death.”

  “Your demands are ridiculous. If I was concerned about your insane accusations I would also be concerned that you’d ask for more money as soon as I paid you. Blackmailers never stop their demands once they’ve got you hooked.”

  “Good point, but you have no choice but to trust me. I don’t think you’d enjoy being perp-walked out of the White House on national television. And if you’re still pissed off, think of our transaction this way: the three million is for the mental distress I’ve suffered from trying to stay alive these past weeks. I’m sure a jury would award me more than that if I sued you. But a lawsuit would take years. I prefer one fast transaction.

  “And you really don’t have to worry about me coming back for more. If you’ve been briefed on my background you know why I quit the police force. Pay me and I’m out of your life. All I want is to be left alone. Three million dollars will set me up for life.”

  Claire Farrington held the cell phone in her hands for several seconds after Dana Cutler ended their call. Then she laid it down next to her on the couch and stared at the photograph of the hooded person standing next to Charlotte Walsh’s car. The photo looked as if it had been taken from a distance from the driver’s side of Walsh’s car. It showed a hooded figure standing next to the driver’s door. Something about the picture bothered her. She didn’t see it for a few seconds. Then she realized that the hooded figure in the photograph was identical to the hooded figure in the surveillance photo taken in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel.

  Claire stared intently at the picture for a few more moments. She smiled. Now she was certain that the picture was as phony
as Dana Cutler’s story. The hooded figure was standing so that her right hand appeared to be on the door handle. That was wrong. When she killed Walsh she had grabbed the handle with her left hand so she could pull the door past her left side. If she’d opened the door with her right hand it would have been between her and Walsh.

  In Cutler’s last voicemail message she’d said that she was finished following Walsh. That had been the truth. Cutler had not been in the lot when she killed Walsh. The first lady breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t know how Cutler had faked the picture, but she knew the picture wasn’t real. Claire buzzed Irving Lasker.

  A few minutes later, Lasker was seated next to Farrington.

  “Irv, do you know how to fake a photograph or do you know someone who does?”

  “I know a little bit about it.”

  Farrington handed Lasker the photograph. “How would you make the person in the hood look like he was standing next to this car if he really wasn’t?” she asked.

  “You’d use Photoshop software. First you’d scan the photo of the car and the photo of the man in the hood into your computer. Then you’d use a technique called feathering to manipulate the pixels on either side of the images. Feathering will make an image blurry at the line where the images are being pasted together. You take one or two pixels on either side of the image and feather them together. The image will look real.”

  “Is there a way to tell if feathering has been used to join the hooded person to the scene with the car in this picture?”

  “Sure. You just magnify it. If the picture was created with feathering, the pixels won’t look clear and crisp like they would in a real photo.”

  “Please have someone check this photograph and get back to me. And I need this done immediately.”