“The timing doesn’t work. Credible witnesses vouch for Farrington until he goes up to his room at the White House. If Claire Farrington lied when she said her husband was in bed with her, he would still have to get out of the White House without being seen. Then it would take at least forty-five minutes to get to the mall. That’s way past the time when Walsh was killed. No, I think we can rule out the president as the person who actually murdered Walsh.”
“So you’re going with Hawkins?” Brad asked.
“Hawkins came back to the governor’s mansion to get the information for Farrington’s speech. He was alone with Erickson. He came in the back door, which is next to the basement door, and the basement is where the laundry chute empties out. He gets the paper for the speech, murders Erickson, and puts her down the chute. Then he backs up his car to the basement door and puts her in the trunk.”
“What about Walsh?” Brad asked. “Hawkins went from the hotel to the farm and met with the president. Assuming that Farrington ordered him to kill Walsh, did he have time enough to do it?”
“Her car was disabled. She couldn’t drive off.”
“But Walsh had to have been killed soon after she returned to the mall. The news reports said that Walsh had Triple A but she never called them or anyone else to help her or pick her up.”
“Hawkins could have called someone from the farm and sent them to kill Walsh,” Cutler said. “The night Walsh was murdered two men tried to kill me for the pictures I took, and there have been other attempts on my life. So we know the president and Hawkins have access to assassins, and that’s the clincher.”
Brad looked confused. “I don’t get it.”
“Hawkins and the president have access to the CIA, Special Forces, and Defense intelligence operatives now, but they didn’t have access to those people when Erickson was murdered. Farrington was only the governor of Oregon then.”
“Hawkins was an army Ranger. He could have buddies from the military he could call on.”
“True, but no one but Hawkins was seen going into the governor’s mansion. He’s the one who claims to have been the last person to see Erickson alive. Erickson was tiny. She wouldn’t have been able to put up much of a fight against someone like Hawkins. If he was with her he wouldn’t have needed help. If Farrington wanted Erickson killed on the evening of the library fund-raiser, my bet is that Hawkins did it.”
“Do you know that there may have been a third murder?”
“What!”
Brad filled in Dana on the hit-and-run killing of Rhonda Pulaski and the disappearance of Tim Houston.
“Unfortunately, this is all speculation,” he said. “We don’t have any concrete evidence that Hawkins killed anyone. We don’t even have evidence that Farrington and Erickson were having sex. The only person who might be able to help us is Erickson’s mother, Marsha, and she refused to talk to me.”
“Tell me about that.”
As soon as Brad finished telling her about his visit to Marsha Erickson, Dana stood up.
“Get your coat,” she said.
“Where are we going?”
“To visit Mrs. Erickson.”
“It’s too late to go out there tonight. She lives in the country. She’ll probably be asleep.”
“She’ll wake up very quickly when she sees this,” Dana said as she hefted the gun. “She may have refused to talk to you, but I assure you she’s going to talk to me.”
Brad turned onto the road to Marsha Erickson’s house shortly before eleven-thirty. Dana ordered Brad to kill his lights, and they drove by moonlight until the house came into view.
“Stop here,” Dana commanded just before they reached the place where the road became the driveway.
“Did you see that car when you were here before?” Dana asked, pointing at a black SUV that was parked in front of the garage, facing back toward the road.
“No, but it could have been in the garage.”
“Then why isn’t it in the garage now, and why is it positioned for a getaway? Pull into those trees,” Dana told him.
When they were hidden Dana took her ankle gun out of the holster and held it out to Brad.
“What’s that for?” he asked, making no move to touch the weapon.
“Do you know how to shoot?”
“No. I’ve never even held a gun.”
“If you have to use this, aim at the chest and keep shooting.”
“I’m not shooting anyone,” Brad answered, alarmed.
“Brad, I hope to heaven that the SUV belongs to Marsha Erickson because the people who are after me will not hesitate to kill you. So you’d better lose the knee-jerk liberal attitude about gun control fast.”
Brad stared at the weapon for a moment before grasping it with the same enthusiasm he would have shown if Dana had handed him a dead animal. She got out of Brad’s car.
“If you hear shots, call 911, report a break-in, then get out of here. Do not follow me inside under any circumstances. Do you understand?”
“Yes, but-”
“No buts. If you hear shots, take off fast.”
Dana shut the door and jogged toward the back of Marsha Erickson’s house. As she turned the corner she heard a high-pitched scream. There was a sliding door in the living room that opened onto a back patio. The lock had been jimmied and the door was open wide enough to admit her. The living room was dark, but light bled into it from a short hall.
“Bring her into the living room,” Dana heard a man say. The voice sounded familiar, but she didn’t have time to think about where she’d heard it. She dashed behind a large armchair and crouched down. Seconds later, a thick-set man dragged Marsha Erickson toward the living room. Erickson’s hands and ankles were secured by plastic handcuffs, but she was fighting him and the man had to brace himself to move her along the carpet. The blond man from her apartment who had shot at Dana from the speedboat followed Erickson into the living room.
“Help me with this bitch. She weighs a fucking ton,” Erickson’s tormentor complained.
The blond man hit Erickson in the stomach and she stopped struggling as she was forced to gasp for air. The blond grabbed her legs and helped his partner get their victim onto the living room rug. Then he knelt by her head and spoke to her in the calm tone you would use with a recalcitrant child.
“You behave, Fatty, and we’ll make this painless. Give us any shit and you’ll take a long time to die. Understand?”
Erickson had gotten her wind back and she croaked out a yes.
“Good,” the blond said. Then he smashed a gloved fist into Erickson’s nose. Dana heard cartilage crack and blood gushed out.
“That’s for giving us a hard time.”
The blond turned to his companion. “Smash up some stuff. Make it look like a burglary.”
The thick-set man started toward the television. Dana stood up and shot him. He was falling when the blond dove behind the sofa. Her second shot went wide and blasted a vase to pieces. The blond fired back, and Dana’s left shoulder felt like it had been smashed by a ball-peen hammer. She fell on her back and her gun flew out of her hand.
“You!” the blond said as he walked toward her.
“I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Dana said, grimacing with pain.
“Woulda, shoulda, coulda.” The man laughed. “Hey, we all have regrets. I regret not fucking you when I had the chance. Now the opportunity presents itself again and you’re all bloody, which-believe me-is a big turnoff. So, I guess I’ll just have to kill you instead.”
Over the blond’s shoulder, Dana saw Brad creeping across the patio. She pulled her legs up and curled into a fetal position.
“Please, don’t kill me,” she begged as she slid her hand toward her ankle.
“Uh, uh, babe. You know that old saw about ‘Fool me once…’? That ankle gun thing was great the first time, but it’s not going to work again. So very slowly lift up your pant leg and toss the piece over here.”