Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Sparks flashed a friendly smile. “Cutler’s name came up during the investigation. So, what about the shot?”

“There wasn’t one,” Brassos said. “We went across the hall. The door was unlocked. We knocked. No one answered, so we went in to see if there was an injured person inside. There wasn’t.”

“You looked through the apartment?”

“Yeah, the whole place.”

“Did you see anything that struck you as odd?”

“Nah, it was just an apartment.”

“Why do you think Ms. Goetz was so certain she heard a shot?”

“It was the door,” Brassos said. “She told me she was inside her apartment and heard the so-called shot through the walls. I told you the door to Cutler’s apartment was unlocked. I think Goetz heard the door slam. She’s pretty old. Her hearing probably isn’t great.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s one explanation. I talked to her, and she said she heard someone inside the apartment tell you not to shoot because he was a federal agent.”

Brassos threw his head back and laughed. Maggie thought the laugh sounded forced.

“I told you, the apartment was empty. Goetz is dingy.”

“Yeah, she struck us as unreliable, but what about the wounded man? Where did he come from?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Miss Goetz saw a man being helped out of the apartment by a second man.”

“I told you, there wasn’t anyone in the apartment,” Brassos said.

“Was someone else in the apartment house hurt at the same time?”

“You know, I’m talking to you as a courtesy,” Brassos said. “This sounds like an interrogation to me.” He stood up. “If you got a beef with us about our report, file it. I got work to do. Come on, Jerry.”

Collins stood, too. Sparks did nothing to stop them. If it became necessary, she could always subpoena the officers.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” she apologized as she got to her feet.

“I don’t think you are,” Brassos said, and the officers walked out.

While he’d been interrogating Eric Loomis, Evans was so focused that he forgot he was exhausted, but his fatigue flooded over him as soon as he was done questioning the serial murderer. Evans had turned off his cell phone during the interrogation so he wouldn’t be distracted. When he checked for messages he found one from Maggie Sparks asking him to call as soon as he was able. Evans arranged to meet her at a bar near Dupont Circle and he was washing down the bite he’d taken out of his cheeseburger when Maggie walked in. She scanned the bar and smiled when she saw Keith’s upraised hand.

“How did the interrogation go?” she asked as she slid into the booth opposite Evans.

“Not well, but we don’t need a confession with all the evidence we have. He’s representing himself, by the way. Loomis thinks he’s going to outsmart us.”

“Sounds like he’s a true megalomaniac.”

“A classic case.”

“That should make things easier for the prosecution. Did he offer any explanation for the presence of a naked woman in his basement and all those false teeth?”

“Of course. We planted them to frame him.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

Sparks signaled the waiter and ordered her own beer and burger.

“What did he say when you brought up Walsh?” she asked when the waiter left.

“That’s interesting. He was very calm, very superior, during the questioning, like it amused him. He played mind games with me as soon as I started. But he went ballistic when I mentioned Walsh.”

“What’s your impression?”

“I don’t think he killed her.”

“Whether he did or not, something is going on. I asked for the police reports for the Cutler incident. There is one. Officer Peter Brassos wrote it. He says he and his partner, Jermaine Collins, went to the apartment in response to a 911 report of shots fired. There’s an account of an interview with Miss Goetz that jibes with her version of what happened, but Brassos wrote that he didn’t find any evidence of a shooting in the apartment and there’s no mention of a wounded man being helped out of the apartment.

“I had Brassos’s supervisor set up a meeting. Collins and Brassos told me the door to Cutler’s apartment was unlocked, but there was no one inside and no sign of a shot being fired.”

“What did they say about the wounded man?”

“They told me there wasn’t one.”

“Do you believe them?”

“No. They were nervous all the time I was questioning them. I’m certain they’re covering up something, but I don’t know how we can prove it. There isn’t any evidence that anyone was shot in Cutler’s apartment. I went back and talked to some of the other neighbors. No one admitted that they heard a shot or saw a man being helped out of the place. So what do we do now, boss?”

“I’d like to go to sleep but I’ve been thinking about Dale Perry all afternoon. That fucking gnome pissed me off with that name-dropping bullshit.”

“It’s probably not bullshit. I bet he has tea and crumpets with the AG and our boss every day at four. Guys like that move in circles we can’t even dream about.”

“They also put their pants on one leg at a time, Maggie. I still believe we’re in America where an asshole like Perry is subject to subpoenas and can be perp walked with enough probable cause. So, I’m thinking we pay him a visit and see if we can shake him up a bit. What do you say?”

If you went strictly by mileage Dale Perry’s mansion in McLean, Virginia, wasn’t that far from Keith Evans’s apartment in Bethesda, Maryland. In the real world, the two communities were light-years apart. As far as Evans knew, no Supreme Court justices, members of the Kennedy clan, or former secretaries of defense lived on his block, and none of the homes in Evans’s neighborhood were surrounded by a stone wall and sat on several acres with a view of the Potomac River.

“Old Dale is doing well,” Maggie commented.

“I don’t think we’ll find him begging for handouts anytime soon.”

“Unless the handouts are in the billion-dollar range and earmarked for Boeing or Halliburton.”

“True.”

The trip that started at the Chain Bridge ended at the spear-tipped wrought-iron gate that blocked the driveway to Perry’s house.

“You call on the intercom,” Evans said. “I don’t think he likes me, and you’re young and sexy.”

“That’s two strikes. Ask me to bring you coffee and I’m slapping you with a sexual harassment suit.”

Evans smiled and Sparks leaned out of her window and spoke into a metal box affixed to the wall. They waited, but there was no answer. Sparks noticed a small gap between the two edges of the gate. Out of curiosity, she got out of the car and pushed. The gate eased backward. Sparks pushed harder, and the gate opened enough for Evans to drive through.

“What do you think is going on?” Sparks asked when she was back in the car.

“I don’t know, but the gate shouldn’t open like that, and someone should have answered the intercom.”

Evans experienced a nervous tingle in his gut when Perry’s house came into view. Most of the three-story brick Colonial was dark.

“This doesn’t feel right,” Sparks said.

A driveway curved in front of a portico supported by white columns that contrasted pleasantly with the red brick walls. When Evans got out of the car, it was so quiet he could hear the river flowing behind the estate and the wind pushing through the heavy-leafed trees.

Evans walked under the portico and pressed the doorbell. The agents could hear the bell echo through the house but no one came to the door. Evans leaned forward and tried the doorknob. The door opened. He looked at Sparks, and the agents took out their guns.