“Bigfoot is one thing. Accusing the president of murder is something else.”
“Yeah, a way to sell a lot of newspapers, and they didn’t accuse Farrington of anything. They just said he had an argument with the student on the evening she was killed. You’re jumping to the conclusion that the Ripper didn’t kill her. The police haven’t said anything about that. Besides, what would we do if there is something to the story? The murder took place three thousand miles away.”
“But the two cases could be related. Remember I told you about the rumors that Farrington was having sex with Erickson?”
“Yeah, but that’s all they are, rumors.”
“Let’s suppose they’re true and he was sleeping with her. She threatens to go public, and Farrington decides to shut her up. The last person to see Erickson alive was Charles Hawkins, Farrington’s right-hand man and an ex-Ranger. Those guys are killing machines.
“The only reason Little was convicted for murdering Erickson was that MO evidence. The governor would want to be kept up-to-date on a serial murder case that was big news in Oregon. I bet Hawkins had access to the police reports, which means he’d know how to fake Little’s MO.”
“This is total speculation, Ginny, and how could we prove it’s true? Are you going to fly to Washington and give Hawkins the third degree? You wouldn’t even be able to get into the White House. Besides, if I start investigating this case again I’ll be fired. Solving murders is the job of the police.”
“The police are convinced that Clarence Little killed Laurie Erickson. They’d look bad if it turned out it was someone else, so they’re not going to give us the time of day. And can you just see the reaction if we marched into Central Precinct and demanded that a detective investigate the president of the United States for murder? No one is going to listen to us without rock solid proof.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“So we have to get some,” Ginny said.
“Hey, I hear there’s a sale on rock solid proof at Wal-Mart. Let’s head over.”
Ginny’s eyes narrowed and she looked angry. “Witty remarks are not your strong suit, Brad.”
“I’m just being realistic. I know you’re all excited about proving Little didn’t kill Laurie Erickson, but we’d become laughingstocks if we told anyone that we suspect Christopher Farrington is a serial killer.”
Ginny’s scowl disappeared. “You’re right. But there’s got to be something we can do.”
They both fell silent. Ginny popped another piece of sushi in her mouth and Brad sipped his beer thoughtfully.
“We could try to find Laurie Erickson’s mother and ask her if she was bought off by Farrington,” Brad said after a while.
Ginny’s face lit up. “You’re a genius.”
Brad relaxed, pleased that Ginny wasn’t angry at him anymore.
“That’s exactly what we’ll do,” Ginny said. “If Mrs. Erickson confirms the rumors that Farrington was sleeping with her daughter we’re halfway home. And we can try to find the teenager he was supposed to have had sex with when he was practicing law. If we can show that Farrington has a thing for teenage girls it would boost our credibility.”
Ginny’s excitement was contagious, and Brad felt his depression lift. Then he thought of something and he deflated.
“I can’t let you work with me on this, Ginny. I’ll have to see Mrs. Erickson alone.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Tuchman doesn’t know you helped me find the bodies and the pinkies. She thinks I’m the only one involved in Little’s case. It’s my job that’s hanging by a thread. I don’t want her angry at you, too.”
Ginny reached across the table and placed her hand over Brad’s. “That’s sweet, but I am involved. If we turn out to be right what can Tuchman do? We’ll be heroes. We’d be famous. Remember what happened to Woodward and Bernstein when they brought down Nixon.”
“I’m not so certain about the way people would react, Ginny. Have you ever been in Tuchman’s office? She has a wall decorated with pictures of her and Farrington and other big political figures. If we bring down Farrington we’d also be bringing down his party and turning over the presidency to Maureen Gaylord. That won’t win us any friends at the firm. And I’m not so certain that I want to be friends with the people who run Gaylord’s party.”
Ginny frowned. “You have a point.”
“I’ll follow up. I’ve got nothing to lose. With the way Tuchman feels about me I’ll never make partner even if the firm doesn’t fire me right away. I’d feel awful if I got you in trouble.”
Ginny’s hand was still on his. She looked across the table and into Brad’s eyes. Brad felt his cheeks get hot but he didn’t look away.
“How do you think I’d feel if you were fired and I kept my job? I say we’re in this together, pardner. Think Titanic. I’m Kate Winslet and you’re Leonardo DiCaprio. If we go down, we go down together.”
“Uh, I don’t think you picked the right movie. Kate lived and Leonardo drowned.”
“Oh. Well I never was any good with movie trivia.”
“That’s okay. I get the point.”
Ginny tilted her head to one side and studied Brad. She still hadn’t removed her hand, and he hoped she never would.
“I think it’s your turn to pay the bill,” she said. “Then I think we should go to my apartment and talk about this some more…or not.”
Brad wished he could think of some witty repartee that would show Ginny how cool he was in situations like this, but Ginny had been right when she pointed out that witty remarks were not his strong point. Besides, he was too excited to think straight. He just signaled for the check.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Exposed was under siege. Arrayed behind barriers erected by the D.C. police were representatives of every branch of the media, foreign and domestic, screaming questions at anyone unfortunate enough to enter or leave the building. As Keith Evans drove by at a crawl to avoid running over some of the more ambitious correspondents he had a vision of a medieval siege in which catapults hurled fanatic reporters in feverish pursuit of a scoop through the Exposed building’s windows and brick walls.
A manned barricade stretched across the entrance to the newspaper’s parking lot. Evans flashed his credentials at the bored officer who leaned in his window. The policeman had been told to expect Evans. He pulled back the sawhorse and waved him through moments before a group of journalists surged forward like a school of piranhas lured by the scent of blood.
“I wish I had some raw steak to toss at them,” Maggie said as they got out of their car.
Gorman and another man were waiting in Gorman’s office on the second floor of the converted warehouse. The office walls were decorated with framed front pages displaying Exposed’s most outrageous headlines. Gorman stayed seated when the FBI agents were shown in, but his companion walked over and shook hands. He was a distinguished, white-haired gentleman in his midsixties. If his black pinstripe Ermenegildo Zegna suit and gold Patek Philippe watch were any indication, he was doing quite well.
“I’m Harvey Lang, Mr. Gorman’s attorney.”
“Keith Evans and Margaret Sparks. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lang.” He nodded toward the newspaper owner. “Mr. Gorman. Thanks for taking the time to see us.”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Actually, yes. You could have refused. But then we’d have to come to your house in the middle of the night and make you disappear into one of our secret prisons.”
Gorman’s eyes grew wide, and Evans laughed.
“That was just a little FBI humor. Actually, my partner and I left our rubber truncheons and cattle prods in the car. This whole conversation is off the record. You have enough people bugging you. I just want a minute of your time. Then we’re out of here.”