“The boat!” Evans screamed as he dragged Sparks behind the table. Dana glanced toward the river and saw the blond take aim with a high-powered rifle. Evans squatted, grabbed the edge of the table, and heaved it over so that the top was shielding them. A second bullet tore through the wood just missing him but Dana paid no attention because the gunman on the motorcycle was making another pass. He was hunched over his handlebars to present as small a target as possible as he aimed his weapon. Dana fired until her gun was empty. One of the shots hit the motorcycle’s rear wheel and the bike pitched forward, sending the shooter into space. He crashed to the ground and tried to sit up. Dana grabbed her ankle gun and ran at him, firing nonstop. Two rounds caught the killer in the face. He collapsed onto his back just as a round from the rifle whizzed by Dana’s ear. She hit the ground and rolled back to the table next to Evans. Sparks writhed on the ground beside them, gritted her teeth, and pressed her hand to the right side of her face, which was covered with blood. The boat was close now. Evans took careful aim and shot at the man at the wheel. The shot missed but it shattered the windshield. The driver ducked and the boat swung back and forth. The blond lost his balance and tilted sideways, almost dropping the rifle. The driver wrenched the boat around and headed upriver. Evans collapsed on his backside and sucked air.
“Call for backup and an ambulance for your partner,” Dana ordered as she ran to the policeman.
“The cop is dead,” she shouted at Evans, who was speaking into his cell phone.
“So are the shooters,” Dana said after checking the two riders. “How’s your partner?”
“I’m okay,” Sparks said between clenched teeth. “This just hurts like hell.”
“The ambulance is on its way,” Evans said.
“Good. I’m out of here,” Dana said.
“Wait,” Evans said as he aimed his gun at Dana.
“You’re going to have to shoot me because I’m not waiting for more of Farrington’s killers to take me out.”
Evans lowered his gun. “We’ll put you in the witness protection program.”
“Which is run by the Justice Department, which is part of the executive branch whose boss is Christopher Farrington? No thanks.”
Dana turned and ran to her Harley. She wheeled it toward the front of her room so she could grab her gear.
“Are you letting her go?” Sparks asked.
“The alternative was shooting her, and she did save our lives.”
“You saved mine,” Sparks said.
Evans blushed. “Nah, I was trying to use you as a human shield but I couldn’t boost you up in time.”
Sparks tried to smile but a spasm of pain made her grit her teeth. Keith heard sirens in the distance.
“Here comes the cavalry,” he said.
Chapter Thirty-three
In junior high school, Brad had erased a file with a term paper on it. After that, he’d been a fanatic about backing up important files and taking the disc wherever he went in case a fire, theft, tsunami, earthquake, or other disaster deprived him of his hard drive. Susan Tuchman had ordered Brad to turn over the Little file along with the file on his computer that contained his notes, but Tuchman had never asked Brad if he had a backup disc. Brad was certain the disc contained a recent address for Marsha Erickson, Laurie’s mother, he had found in the trial lawyer’s file. He was right but there was no phone number. When he tried to get a number from directory assistance he was told that it was unlisted. That was why he was using precious time on a Sunday driving down a narrow dirt road located halfway between Portland and the coast instead of working or, better yet, watching the Yankees play Boston.
Oregon oaks created a leafy canopy over the dirt track, casting it in shadow. Through the trees Brad could see low-lying hills and a clear blue sky. Below the hills were cultivated fields divided into fire-blackened squares, where field burning had been used to enrich the soil, and other squares of wheat yellow and jade green. Brad wished he could share the gorgeous scenery with Ginny, but he knew he had to conduct his interview alone to protect her job.
An unspectacular ranch-style house was waiting for Brad at the end of the road. The yard did not look like it had been tended recently, and the paint on the house was peeling. Brad parked in the gravel driveway and rang the doorbell. He could hear the chimes echo in the interior of the house. When there was no answer he rang the bell again. Moments later, he saw a shape moving toward him through the frosted glass on one side of the door.
“Who are you?” a woman asked. It was only one in the afternoon but her speech was slurred.
“I’m Brad Miller, ma’am. I’m an associate with the Reed, Briggs law firm in Portland.”
Erickson had worked as a legal secretary for Christopher Farrington, so Brad hoped that the firm’s name would impress her. A moment after he’d said the magic words the front door opened. In a photograph of Marsha Erickson taken shortly after her daughter’s murder she looked a little heavy but nothing like the grossly overweight woman in the red-, yellow-, and blue-flower print muumuu who stood before him. Rings of fat circled her neck, she had a double chin, and her eyes, which were almost hidden beneath fleshy folds, were bloodshot.
“What does Reed, Briggs want with me?” she asked belligerently. Her breath left no doubt about why she was swaying and why her words ran together.
“Reed, Briggs is a very successful law firm but we don’t want the public to see us as simply a money machine,” Brad answered, remembering the pep talk Susan Tuchman had given before dumping the Little case on him. “In order to give back to the people of Oregon we take on pro bono projects, and I’ve been assigned to one.”
“Are you going to get to the point?” Erickson asked impatiently.
“Yes, well, could we step inside? It’s a little hot out here.”
“No, we can not. I’m not letting you in until you tell me why you’re here.”
“It’s Clarence Little, ma’am. I was assigned his appeal in the Ninth Circuit from a denial of habeas corpus.”
The blood drained from Erickson’s face.
“We have reason to believe that Mr. Little may not have been responsible for your daughter’s death,” Brad blurted out, afraid that Erickson was going to shut the door in his face.
“Who sent you?” Erickson asked, her voice trembling.
“Reed, Briggs,” Brad said as he handed her his card. “I just have a few questions I wanted to ask you about your daughter’s relationship with President Farrington.”
Erickson’s head jerked up at the mention of the president. “No, no. You have to leave.”
“But-”
“Leave or I’ll call the police.”
“Mrs. Erickson, did Christopher Farrington bother your daughter sexually?”
Marsha Erickson stared at Brad. She looked terrified. “You have to go,” she said as she stepped back into the house.
“But Mrs. Erickson-”
“You have to go.”
Erickson slammed the door shut, leaving Brad alone.
Ginny and Brad were sitting side by side on secondhand lawn chairs on the tiny balcony outside Ginny’s living room window. Three stories below people strolled along the sidewalks of Portland’s fashionable Pearl District where savvy developers had converted warehouses into expensive condos and apartments and lured in upscale eateries, art galleries, and chic boutiques. Ginny justified the high rent she paid for her small one-bedroom by pointing to the money she saved on gas by walking or taking the trolley to work.
“It doesn’t sound like you learned much,” Ginny said when Brad finished filling her in on his visit to Marsha Erickson.