Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

The ex-justice’s professional credentials were perfect, and his personal life was without blemish. He was a grandfather of four, father of two and happily married for thirty-five years. No scandal had ever touched him. In other words, he was the perfect person to investigate a president of the United States who was suspected of being a murderer.

“Come in. Have a seat,” Kineer said enthusiastically when Keith Evans walked into the small, windowless conference room at FBI headquarters that Kineer had chosen for their meeting.

“Mr. Chief Justice,” Evans answered nervously as he shook the legend’s hand.

“It’s Roy. We’re going to file the honorifics away for the duration.”

“Yes, sir.”

Kineer laughed. “No ‘sirs’ either. Please sit down.”

Evans had expected a meeting with a lot of people, but he and the judge were alone in the room and there wasn’t a scrap of paper on the conference table. This didn’t surprise Evans, who knew Kineer was supposed to have a photographic memory.

“Do you know why I’m meeting with you before I meet with anyone else, Keith? You don’t mind if I call you Keith instead of Agent Evans, do you?”

“I guess I can do away with the title if you can.”

Kineer grinned. “Good. So, do you know why you’re the first person I selected for this project?”

“No.”

“I’ve been told that you know more about the Ripper investigation than anyone in D.C.”

“That’s probably true.”

Kineer nodded. Then he leaned back and fixed his eyes on the FBI agent.

“Is Christopher Farrington a murderer?”

Evans thought for a moment before answering. “If President Farrington was a plumber or a doctor, no one would raise an eyebrow if we considered him a suspect. He and Walsh argued shortly before she was murdered. If they were sleeping together we have the mother of all motives. Have you seen the polls?”

Kineer nodded.

“An angry teenage mistress and a popular pregnant wife equal a politician’s worst nightmare. Of course, I don’t think Farrington did the deed himself. But I don’t doubt that he could find someone to do it for him.”

Evans paused to compose his thoughts, and Kineer waited patiently.

“What I’ve just told you is what anyone who has read Exposed would know, but I was looking into the president’s involvement with Charlotte Walsh before Exposed broke their story.”

Kineer’s eyebrows rose and he looked at Evans with new respect. The respect increased as Evans told him about the tip that led him to Andy Zipay, the cover-up of the shooting at Dana Cutler’s apartment, and his belief that Eric Loomis-the man he’d arrested for the Ripper killings-had not murdered Charlotte Walsh. Then he told Kineer about the connection between Dale Perry and Dana Cutler.

“Now that’s interesting,” Kineer said when Evans was done. “What do you think we should do next?”

“I’d like to talk to the Secret Service agents who were with President Farrington when Walsh visited the safe house so we can eliminate the president’s direct involvement in the murder. I also want to eliminate Eric Loomis as Walsh’s killer if I can. I’ve put out an APB on the motorcycle I think Cutler is riding. Cutler may be the key here. She told Patrick Gorman that there have been two attempts on her life since she photographed Farrington with Walsh. I want to know what Cutler saw that makes her so dangerous to someone.”

“You said that Agent Sparks has been working with you?”

“Yes.”

“Is she a good investigator?”

“I think so.”

“Then I’ll have her assigned to my office. Put what you’ve told me in writing then set up interviews with the Secret Service agents. If you need a subpoena, or anything else for that matter, see me.”

“There is one thing. I’ve tried to get Dana Cutler’s file from the D.C. police, but it’s classified, and they’re making me jump through all sorts of hoops.”

“I’ll see if I can expedite the process.”

“Thanks.”

“This will be an exciting project, Keith. If we conclude that the president was involved with Charlotte Walsh’s murder we’re going to be part of history, and people will be reading about our exploits long after we’re gone.”

Brad Miller had not had a chance to carry on his clandestine inquiry into the Little case because Susan Tuchman had kept him buried under case files. He knew she was trying to make him quit, but he was determined that he would not give her the satisfaction. He was equally determined not to give her an excuse to fire him. His insane workload meant he was staying at the office long after everyone else had gone home, including Ginny. If one thing was going to break his resolve it would be that his work was keeping him from her.

The night they’d gone to her place from the Shanghai Clipper they had fallen into each other’s arms before the door to her apartment had closed. Brad had been nervous when they were finally in bed, but Ginny had been so kind and patient that the sex had ended up being great. Or maybe it was being with Ginny that was great.

Brad decided that it was too early to compare sex with Ginny and sex with Bridget Malloy, since he’d only slept with Ginny once. He remembered that the sex had also been great the first time he and Bridget made love. In fact-for a while-sex with Bridget had been a mind-blowing whirlwind of discovery. That was when he was besotted and-he decided later-she was interested enough to give it her all. As Bridget’s interest cooled so did the frequency and the experimental nature of their intercourse. They’d pretty much settled into very fast missionary couplings before Bridget broke up with him the first time.

When they made love again after the second incarnation of their relationship Brad thought the sex was still pretty good. Then Bridget started making excuses for avoiding his bed. This, she finally confessed as they approached their second breakup, was because she was sleeping with an artist who lived in Chelsea. Bridget claimed that she was cheating because of her fear of commitment.

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.”