“What did she tell you, Mrs. Erickson?” Evans asked.
“She told me…She said Chris-the governor-had bothered her.”
“When was this?”
“Months before-I don’t remember exactly-but months before she was…”
“Take your time.”
Erickson sipped some more water.
“Can you tell us exactly what your daughter told you? Did she describe how Governor Farrington was bothering her?”
Erickson nodded. “She said that he was touching her in places, her breasts. Sometimes he would put his arm around her shoulder and pull her close. She said he tried to kiss her once.”
“Did she say she resisted?”
“Yes, she told me she didn’t like it.”
“How did she react when you told her you thought she was lying?”
“She was very upset. She cried and she…she swore at me.”
“Did you ever bring up the subject again?”
“No.”
“Did she?”
“No.” Erickson shook her head and took more water. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I should have believed her, but I was afraid. And, at first, I didn’t believe her. Chris had been so good to me-to us. When my husband left me he made sure I’d be okay financially. He handled the divorce for free. He was good to Laurie, too. He bought her nice presents for her birthday and…”
Erickson stopped. She seemed exhausted.
“Did you notice any changes in your daughter between the time she made the complaint and the time of her death?”
“Yes. She grew distant, cold. She started wearing makeup and dressing differently, more grown-up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Provocatively.”
“Sexy?” Sparks asked.
“Yes. And she was, I don’t know, more adult. I was upset by the way she was acting. I spoke to her about it, but that always led to arguments.”
“Did she ever mention the governor again? Did she complain about him?”
Erickson shook her head.
“Mrs. Erickson,” Evans said, “I’ve heard rumors about another girl Mr. Farrington may have molested, a Rhonda Pulaski. Do you know anything about that?”
Erickson wouldn’t look Evans in the eye. “I heard some things when I was his secretary at the law firm and the case was in the office. There was gossip, but I didn’t believe that either.”
“Don’t get down on yourself,” Evans said. “It’s always hard to believe the worst about someone you know well.”
Erickson didn’t respond.
“Mrs. Erickson, you said that Mr. Farrington paid you money after your daughter died.”
“Yes.”
“Were there any conditions attached to receiving the money?”
“I had to promise that I would never tell that he was paying me and I had to promise that I would never discuss anything about Laurie and the governor with anyone. If I did, the payments would stop. That’s why I was frightened when the lawyer showed up.”
“Brad Miller?”
“Yes. That money is all I have. And the house. President Farrington owns my house. I’d lose that, too.”
“Who sent you the money?”
“Dale Perry. He was a lawyer with the Kendall, Barrett law firm in Washington, D.C. They told me he died.”
“That’s true.”
“He was from Oregon. He knew Chris in college. He told me that the governor was doing this from the heart, that he didn’t have to. It was to help me.”
“Did you sign an agreement when you received the money?”
“Yes.”
“There was an actual paper you signed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a copy?”
“Mr. Perry said he would send it to me, but he never did.”
“Did you ask for it?”
“What with the funeral and all, I forgot for a while. Then the money came each month and I didn’t think I needed the paper.”
Evans hid his excitement. He would subpoena the document to prove that Farrington had bought Erickson’s silence and he would subpoena bank records to document the payments. He was about to continue questioning Mrs. Erickson when the door opened and a thick-necked agent stuck his head into the room.
“We have a problem. The John Doe lawyered up.”
“How did he do that?” Evans asked. “I left strict instructions that he was not allowed to call out.”
“He didn’t. He’s still out from the operation. This guy just showed up. He says his name is Joseph Aiello and he claims ‘Doe’ retained him.”
“This is like that stunt in the circus,” Sparks said, “but instead of clowns coming out of the little car, we have lawyers.”
Evans’s brow furrowed. Sparks was right. Too many lawyers were showing up on too short notice. How did Rickstein, who was three thousand miles away, know about a shoot-out in the boonies in Oregon? Why would someone tell him about it in the wee hours of the morning? The person who sent “John Doe” to kill Marsha Erickson would know something had happened when “John” didn’t report in, and he could have learned that “Doe” had been shot and was at St. Francis Medical Center if he was monitoring the police bands. Which meant…
Evans turned to the agent. “If you’re here, who’s guarding ‘John Doe’?”
The agent looked flustered. “I told him he couldn’t go in.”
“Shit. Maggie, you stay here and I’ll take care of this.”
Evans followed the agent down the corridor.
“That’s him,” the agent said, pointing at a bald, heavyset man dressed in an expensive, three-piece suit and wearing wire-rimmed glasses who was limping away from “John Doe’s” room. As soon as the agent spoke, Aiello spun toward them and fired. Evans dove behind a cart stacked with towels and drew his gun. He hadn’t heard a shot but the agent was down and blood was oozing from a ragged hole between his eyes.
A silencer, Evans thought. That meant he was dealing with a professional, and that also meant “John Doe” was probably dead.
Evans peeked around the cart and saw Aiello limp around a corner. He raced after him. Just as he rounded the corner, Aiello collided with a nurse. She fell back and Aiello tried to open an exit door. Evans fired. His shots echoed through the corridor seconds before the nurse screamed and Aiello fell to the floor. Evans closed in on the hit man seconds before Maggie Sparks raced around the corner.
Chapter Thirty-nine
At the crime scene, as best he could remember, Brad had told his tale to representatives of the state police and two police officers, a detective, and a deputy district attorney from the county where the shooting had occurred. At the hospital, in addition to Agents Evans and Sparks, he remembered being questioned by an assistant United States attorney, but he was certain he’d forgotten somebody. By the time Brad finished telling the last interested representative of a law enforcement agency what had happened at Marsha Erickson’s house he was running on fumes.
Between interviews, Brad called Ginny to tell her enough about what had happened to upset her. He’d assured her that he was okay and he promised to come by as soon as he could, which is why Brad drove to Ginny’s apartment when Evans told him he could go home. Even though it was 3:30 A.M., Ginny opened the door before Brad finished knocking. She threw her arms around his neck and they clung together.
“Hey, I’m okay. Not a scratch,” he assured her.
“I never thought I might get you killed when I insisted we look into Little’s claim. I’m so glad this is over.”
“It is, and in more ways than one. I had a run-in with Susan Tuchman at the hospital.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Rickstein, the lawyer from the D.C. firm, sent her to represent Marsha Erickson, but the FBI wouldn’t let Tuchman see her. She was really pissed when she left.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I was the first person she saw when she walked out of the elevator. Tuchman may be a lot of things but dumb isn’t one of them. She knew right away that I’d disobeyed her order to stay away from the Little case, so she canned me.”