“Oh, Brad. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not. It was inevitable. I’m actually happy I’m out of Reed, Briggs. I never fit in. I’m just worried that Tuchman will bad-mouth me and I won’t be able to find another job as a lawyer. I guess I can always hang out a shingle.”
“Don’t worry about a job. From what you told me on the phone, you saved Marsha Erickson’s life. You’re a hero. People will admire you for what you did. You proved you’ll go the distance for a client.”
Brad flashed a rueful smile. “I hope I don’t have to promise to shoot it out with opposing counsel to get a job. One gunfight is enough for a lifetime.”
Ginny touched his cheek. “You’re going to come out on top. You’ll see.”
“I’ll worry about employment tomorrow. Right now I’m famished.”
“I can take care of that. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
Brad watched her walk away from him, and he smiled. Ginny was sexy and nice and everything a man could want in a woman. He decided that this was a perfect time to tell her.
“You know, there was a moment there when I thought I was going to die. It made me very sad because that would mean not seeing you again, and I want to see a lot of you in the future.”
“That’s not a double entendre, is it?”
Brad laughed. “Have I ever told you you’re a pervert? Here I’m trying to be romantic and you’re making lewd jokes.”
“Sorry,” Ginny said, flashing a wicked smile. “I promise that I’ll never bring up the subject of sex again.”
“You don’t have to go that far, but I hope I won’t insult you if I say that my interests right now lie solely in the area of food and sleep.”
“I’ll get you some food, but you don’t get to sleep until you tell me everything that happened tonight.”
The sun was starting to come up, and Keith Evans’s energy level was way down. He was jet-lagged from his cross-country flight in the FBI jet and he had sustained himself on doughnuts, a wretched tuna fish sandwich, and foul coffee. Evans had insisted that Maggie go to their hotel for some much needed rest. He envied her. He was ready to trade all of his worldly possessions for a decent meal, a shower, and eight hours of sleep. Unfortunately, there was work to be done.
On balance, if he discounted his personal state of well-being, things had gone well. Marsha Erickson was cooperating, and Dana Cutler’s wound wasn’t serious. They had lost “John Doe,” but they had the man who’d killed him, a swap Evans hoped would work in their favor.
“What’s Aiello’s condition?” Evans asked the agent who was guarding the killer’s room.
“The last doctor I spoke to said he’d be coming out of the anesthesia soon. That was half an hour ago. The doctor said he was lucky. None of the bullets hit a major organ.”
We’re lucky, too, Evans thought ruefully. If I was any kind of shot we wouldn’t have a witness.
Evans opened the door. Aiello watched him with a pair of dull, blue eyes as he crossed the room and stood beside his bed. Evans guessed he would be a tough guy. How tough remained to be seen.
“I’m Keith Evans with the independent counsel’s office. How are you feeling?”
The man didn’t answer.
“I have good news and bad news, Joe.” Evans paused. “You don’t mind if I call you Joe or Aiello, do you? I’m certain they’re not your real names, but it’s the best I can do before we get a report on your prints.”
The prisoner still didn’t answer.
“Okay, have it your own way. So, what would you like to hear first, the good news or the bad news?”
Evans waited a beat. “Since you won’t make up your mind, I’ll give you the good news. The doctors say you’re going to pull through. That’s also the bad news, because you’ll be standing trial in federal court for murdering an FBI agent and in Oregon for murdering our witness. That means you’re a candidate for the death penalty. But there’s more good news. Now, you’re the witness. If you’re smart you can avoid a lethal injection.”
“You think you’re funny, don’t you,” the man managed. His words were slurred from the residual effects of the anesthetic.
“You’re right. I can be a wiseguy at times. I should cut the humor and get serious. So, seriously, Joe, I would love to watch you die for killing a decent young man whose shoes you aren’t fit to shine, but I have to ignore my personal desires and do my job. Professionally, I’m much more interested in the people who sent you to kill our witness than I am in sending you away. Tell me everything you know and we’ll deal. Clam up and you die.”
“We’ll see,” the man said. His dry lips cracked into a smile that told the agent Aiello thought Evans was incredibly naive.
“You think your friends will protect you but they won’t,” Evans said. “Facing a death sentence is a big motivation to talk, so you’ve become a problem. Think about the way your boss has been solving problems. Cutler was a witness who could hurt him. What did he do? He sent you and the man you just murdered to kill Cutler.”
Aiello’s eyes shifted, and Evans noticed.
“Yeah, Joe, we showed Dana Cutler your photo and she says you’re definitely the guy she shot in her apartment and one of the people who attacked her in West Virginia from the speedboat. The doctors say you have a recent scar on your thigh that’s consistent with a bullet wound. Coincidentally, it’s right where Cutler says she shot you.”
Aiello remained quiet.
“You can clam up, but do some thinking, too. Think about what happened when your buddy was arrested. You were sent to kill him because your boss can’t afford to leave witnesses alive. Now, you’re the witness, which means you’ve become a huge liability. As soon as he learns you’re alive, he’ll send more men to silence you. He has to. He can’t afford to let you talk.”
The smile stayed on the killer’s lips but it shrunk in size as Evans’s words registered.
“There are only two ways you can go, lawyer up or cooperate. If you choose door number one, you die. If you aren’t killed awaiting trial, they’ll take you out in prison after a conviction or you’ll be murdered in the free world if you’re acquitted. Cooperate and we’ll try to put away the men who want you dead, and we’ll work very hard to keep you alive. What do you say?”
“Fuck you.”
“Hey, Joe, I’m way too exhausted to fuck right now. What I do plan to do is take a shower, get some rest, then eat a hearty breakfast. After that, I’ll be back to talk some more. While I’m gone, I suggest you think about what I said.”
Chapter Forty
A week after the West Coast shoot-outs at the hospital and Marsha Erickson’s house, Erickson and Dana Cutler were tucked away in separate safe houses near Washington, D.C., and Keith Evans was swimming, once again, in the humid, ninety-degree heat of the nation’s capital. At nine o’clock Friday morning, fortified by a breakfast of bacon, eggs, biscuits, grits, and black coffee, Evans seated himself across from Charles Hawkins and his attorney, Gary Bischoff, in a conference room at the office of the independent counsel. With Evans were a court reporter, Maggie Sparks, and Gordon Buss, an assistant United States attorney.
Bischoff was a lanky man with curly, salt-and-pepper hair. He ran marathons for a hobby, and his cheeks were as hollow and his eye sockets as deep set as the victim of an African famine. Bischoff was dressed in an expensive suit that was tailor made to fit his skeletal frame, but Hawkins, true to form, was attired in a cheap mismatched jacket and slacks. Evans thought the president’s advisor looked less self-confident than he had when they’d spoken at his boss’s press conference.