Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

Even in shadow the entryway of Perry’s house was impressive. A crystal chandelier hung over a floor laid out in a checkerboard pattern of black and white marble. A polished oak banister curved upward to the second floor along marble stairs. Evans imagined the elegance of the foyer when it was bombarded by the refracted light that would pour from the massive light fixture.

“Mr. Perry,” Evans called loudly. No one answered.

“There,” Sparks said, aiming her weapon down a hall that ran to the right of the staircase. Evans took the point and the agents moved cautiously down a narrow hall toward the light coming from a room at the end. Evans motioned Sparks to one side of the door. When the door was almost open, Evans slid into the room with his gun leading the way, but he knew instantly that the weapon wasn’t necessary. Dale Perry, the room’s only occupant, sat at his desk, his head back and his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. His right arm hung straight down, and the fingers of his right hand almost touched the smooth side of a.38 Special. An ugly bloodstained wound at his temple was an advertisement for the cause of his death. Evans felt Perry’s neck for a pulse. Then he straightened up and holstered his weapon.

“Call 911.” He sighed. “Tell them we’ve discovered an apparent suicide.”

It was the third item on the eleven o’clock news after the lead story about the arrest of the Ripper and a discussion of Claire Farrington’s pregnancy. Dana Cutler heard it while she was sitting on the bed in her motel room with her back against the headboard eating another ham and cheese sandwich. She lost her appetite when the anchorwoman announced the suicide of prominent D.C. attorney Dale Perry.

According to the news report, Perry had worked until 6 P.M. then driven home. His butler said that it was unusual for his employer to come home before eight, and Perry’s chef said that he hadn’t prepared dinner because he had been told that Perry was eating with a client and would be home late. Perry had given his staff the night off with no explanation. Although there would be no official determination of the cause of death until the autopsy was complete, an unidentified source had told a reporter for the station that the death looked like a suicide.

A few things occurred to Dana as she considered the implications of Perry’s death. According to the stories about Walsh’s murder, unidentified sources had told the press that the coed had been abducted from her car in the parking lot of the Dulles Towne Center mall. If Walsh was a Ripper victim that was one thing, but if the Ripper hadn’t killed her, Dana wondered how the killer knew Walsh had parked at the mall and where she was parked. Dale Perry’s mysterious client knew. Dana had phoned the client with the information. With Perry dead it would be impossible to learn the client’s identity.

Dana was certain that Dale Perry was no suicide and that she would die as soon as she was found by the men who’d killed Perry. Dana had been counting on selling her pictures to the president in exchange for money and a guarantee of safety, but with the president undertaking a scorched earth policy it looked like that option was off the table. What to do? Only one other option occurred to her.

The offices of Exposed, Washington, D.C.’s largest circulation supermarket tabloid, occupied two floors of a remodeled warehouse within sight of the Capitol dome in a section of the city that teetered between decay and gentrification. The inflated prices paid by upwardly mobile young professionals for rehabilitated row houses had sent rents soaring and the old established neighborhood businesses scurrying. As a result, trendy new restaurants and boutiques were interspersed with lots filled with construction equipment and abandoned storefronts.

Patrick Gorman, the owner and editor of Exposed, was a grossly obese man with heavy jowls, a massive stomach, and the permanent crimson complexion of an alcoholic. He had purchased the warehouse for a song when his only neighbors were junkies and the homeless. If he chose to sell he could make a fortune, but he had too much fun peddling phony news stories to people who needed to believe in miracles, the existence of legendary creatures, and the idea that the rich and famous led lives more unhappy and tumultuous than their own. Real news was about death and destruction. Exposed reported on a world filled with wonder.

Gorman was in high spirits when he left the Exposed building a little after eight at night. Headlines touting Elvis sightings always sold, but the lead story in this week’s paper had Elvis boarding a UFO, a one-two punch that was guaranteed to boost circulation. There was a small parking lot in the rear of the building. The security guard opened the door for Gorman and watched him waddle over to his car. Though most of the neighborhood’s unsavory characters had fled there were still some vagrants who were too lazy to go elsewhere, so you could never be too careful. Gorman struggled into the front seat of his Cadillac. As soon as his door was locked he waved at the guard, who waved back before returning to his desk in the lobby to watch Gorman leave on one of his monitors. Gorman was thinking about the profits he anticipated from next week’s sales when he felt the muzzle of a gun press into his right temple.

“Don’t be frightened, Mr. Gorman,” said a voice from the backseat.

“Don’t hurt me,” Gorman begged.

“Don’t worry,” Dana said as she shucked off the blanket that had concealed her. “My name is Dana Cutler and I’m here to help you win a Pulitzer Prize.”

Oh, great, Gorman thought. I’m being held captive by a lunatic. Out loud, he said, “Winning a Pulitzer has always been one of my fondest wishes.”

“Good. Now drive out of the lot before the security guard gets suspicious and pull into the first side street so we can talk.”

“What do you want to talk about?” Gorman said as he made odd faces in hopes that the security guard would realize something was wrong.

“I can see what you’re doing in the rearview mirror. Cut it out and drive. I told you, I’m not here to hurt you. I have a business proposition. Take me up on it and you’ll be famous.”

Gorman was certain his captor was delusional and he decided that he couldn’t risk upsetting her. He drove out of the lot and turned into the first street, which made up one side of a construction site for more upscale condos. Dana told him to park in the shadows between two streetlights.

“Okay, Ms. Cutler, what do you want?”

“Have you been following the Ripper case?”

“Of course. We’ve carried a story about it in every issue since he was identified as a serial killer.”

Gorman almost added “It was great while it lasted,” but thought better of it.

“The police think the Ripper had six victims,” Dana said.

“Right.”

“I think there were five. Charlotte Walsh was murdered by a copycat killer, and I know the killer’s identity.”

“That’s an interesting theory.”

“It’s more than a theory. I can prove it.”

“And you want to sell me the proof?” he guessed.

“Exactly. So tell me, how much you think it would be worth to get your hands on proof that the president of the United States was having an affair with Charlotte Walsh and was with her on the evening she was murdered?”

The president! She was definitely nuts, Gorman thought.

“A lot of money,” Gorman said out loud to humor Dana.

“See, we agree on something. How much is a lot?”

“Uh, I don’t know, fifty thousand dollars.”

“I’d say more like one hundred and fifty thousand.”

“That sounds fair. Why don’t I drop you someplace and I’ll start getting the money together?”