“Nothing important. Where are we going, how much longer, that kind of thing. I was instructed not to talk to her, so I never initiated a conversation.”
“Who told you not to talk to Walsh?”
“Agent Lasker. He headed up the detail. He said the president didn’t want me to chat with Walsh, so I didn’t.”
Once again, Evans sensed that Harcourt was angry about something.
“Was Miss Walsh’s mood different on the return trip?”
“Definitely. She was very upset. I could see her crying for part of the ride.”
“Did she explain why she was upset?”
“No, and I didn’t ask because of my orders.”
“Did you have any conversation with her?”
“I remember asking if she was okay and if she wanted some water, but she said she was fine and she turned down the water.”
“Agent Harcourt, did you hear or see anything that would lead you to believe that Miss Walsh had engaged in sexual relations with the president?”
Harcourt hesitated.
“If you know something about this you have to tell us. The independent counsel is charged with determining if the president had any involvement in Miss Walsh’s death. If they were intimate and she was angry at him, the president would have a motive.”
Harcourt took a deep breath. “When Walsh came out of the house she was very angry. I could hear what she said because she was standing right next to the driver’s door. She yelled at the president. She said, ‘You can’t just fuck me then toss me away like a used tissue.’ That’s a direct quote.”
Evans studied the agent, whose face was flushed. “You seem more upset than I’d expect. You seem angry. Is there something else you know that’s made you critical of President Farrington that concerns Miss Walsh?”
Harcourt nodded. Then he looked directly at Evans. “I was on the president’s detail when he went to Chicago for a fund-raiser. I can’t remember the exact date but it wasn’t that long ago. I saw Charles Hawkins smuggle Walsh into the president’s suite. She was in there about an hour when Hawkins showed up again to collect her. They went up and down by a service elevator that goes to the kitchen.”
“Do you know if they had sex?”
“No. I never went into the suite while she was inside.”
“Is there anything else?”
Harcourt shook his head. “It’s just not right. I’m a Christian and I don’t hold with this behavior. He’s a married man and Miss Walsh was very young.”
“I understand why you’d be upset. Tell me, when you got back to her car did you see anything suspicious?”
“No, and I’ve thought about that a lot. I was worried that there might have been something I could have done to save her.”
“What do you think now?”
“Honestly, I can’t say I saw anything that would help your investigation. I dropped her off, I waited until she was in her car, then I left.”
“So you didn’t see anyone lurking around?”
“No, but there were cars parked in the vicinity of her car. Someone could have been hiding in one of them or behind one of them and I wouldn’t have known.”
“Did you see Miss Walsh drive off?”
Harcourt’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t, and now that I think about it, I didn’t see her headlights come on.”
“If she was upset she may have been sitting in her car trying to calm down before she drove off.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. All I do know is that it’s a damn shame that a nice kid like that is dead.”
Evans pressed for more evidence about the president’s infidelities but Harcourt didn’t have any further useful information.
When he was finished interviewing the last Secret Service agent Evans checked his cell phone for messages. There was one from Sparks asking him to call her.
“Hey, Maggie, what’s up?” Evans asked when Sparks picked up.
“Did you put out an APB on a Harley?”
“Yeah.”
“A cop just called in from Webster’s Corner, West Virginia. The bike’s been spotted at the Traveler’s Rest Motel.”
Chapter Thirty-two
When Keith Evans and Maggie Sparks followed the Webster’s Corner cop around the side of the Traveler’s Rest, Dana Cutler was sitting at a picnic table finishing off her evening meal. Until then, Dana had been at peace. The sun was just starting to set, and a gentle breeze was rustling the surface of the river that ran behind the motel. There was birdsong in the air and a quarter mile to the east, a speedboat was stirring up the blue-green water.
Dana cursed herself for not sensing that something was wrong earlier in the day when she saw the same cop stop at the motel office after cruising by twice. The Harley was parked a twenty-five-yard dash away, and the money belt with the cash Gorman had paid her was cinched around her waist. Dana stood so she could make a break for it if they gave her a chance.
“Miss Cutler?” Evans asked pleasantly.
“Who wants to know?” Dana asked. Her instincts told her to go for her gun but the cop’s hand was hovering over his sidearm and she figured the odds were against her. She might have tried to shoot her way out anyway, but Evans and Sparks didn’t scare her the way she’d been scared by the men in her apartment and the men in the alley behind The 911. Dana decided that the two suits weren’t going to kill her with the cop as a witness.
“I’m Keith Evans. I’m with the FBI.” Evans handed Cutler his card. “This is Margaret Sparks, my partner. We’d like to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Evans smiled. “Conking a Secret Service agent on the skull, for starters.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay. We aren’t here to arrest you. No one has filed a complaint. I’ve been assigned to assist the independent counsel in his investigation of the president’s possible involvement in the murder of Charlotte Walsh. We’re here to offer our protection. From what I hear, there have been two attempts on your life already. You’ve been lucky so far, but the men who’ve tried to kill you will find you if we did.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about and you’re interrupting my dinner.”
“Watch your lip,” the cop said. “That bike you’re riding isn’t registered to a woman. If I get the word, you’ll be in the lockup until we find out if you’re riding a stolen vehicle.”
“Thank you for your assistance, Officer Boudreaux,” Evans said, “but there’s no need to play hardball with Miss Cutler. We just want to talk to her. In fact, we’ll take it from here.”
“I just don’t like her attitude, is all,” the policeman insisted sullenly.
While Evans was talking to the officer, Dana’s eyes were drawn to the two men in the speedboat. There was something familiar about them. One man was steering the boat and the other man was scanning the shoreline with binoculars. The binoculars turned toward her and fixed in that position for a moment. Then the man spoke into some object that could have been a cell phone or a walkie-talkie.
The boat drew close enough for Dana to hear the hum of its motor at the same time the rumble of other engines pulled her attention toward the highway. The policeman was walking back the way he’d come when two motorcycles tore around the corner. Dana drew three conclusions simultaneously: the man in the speedboat with the binoculars looked very much like the blond, long-haired man who’d threatened her in her apartment; the man steering the boat looked like the man she’d shot in her apartment; and the men on the bikes were armed.
“Get down,” Dana screamed just as the gunman on the lead bike shot the policeman through the eye.
Evans and Sparks were slow to react because their backs were to the bikes but Dana dropped to the ground, drew her gun from its place at the small of her back, and drilled the second gunman just as he was drawing a bead on Evans. His bike flipped in the air, wheels spinning, then skidded on its side across the grass. Dana aimed at the other rider. The bike roared by. Dana’s shot went wide. She started to roll onto her stomach to take a second shot when a corner of the table exploded. A splinter from the table stabbed Sparks in the cheek and she fell to the ground.