Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

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.

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.

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 reassuring 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.