“Some of the legal analysts think the case against Claire Farrington is too weak to win a conviction,” Brad said. He sounded disheartened.
Ginny gripped his biceps tightly and squeezed. “That’s not our problem anymore. I’m just glad this is over. I’m looking forward to a fresh start.”
“I hope you like your job at your D.C. firm better than your tenure at Reed, Briggs,” Brad said.
“I probably won’t, but I still have loans to pay off and rent to pay and I can’t count on you for much.”
Brad grinned. It was true. Brad’s clerkship at the United States Supreme Court was not going to pay anywhere near what Ginny would earn, but it would open the door to every legal job in the country when he was through.
“Do you mind that I’m marrying you for your money?” Brad asked.
“I thought you were only interested in my body.”
“There’s that, too. Now if you could only cook, you’d be perfect.”
“For a kept man you’re pretty picky. You should be satisfied with what you’ve got.”
“I guess you’ll do until a rich, sexy woman with a degree from Cordon Bleu comes along.”
Ginny swatted him on the head, and he kissed her. Life was pretty good and his only real worry was that he would let down Justice Kineer, who’d obtained the position at the Court for him. He knew that the other clerks would be editors in chief from law reviews at Harvard, Penn, NYU, and other super law schools, and he was a little nervous about his place in this pantheon of intellect. But every time he worried about his ability to perform his job he remembered Justice Kineer’s assurance that he would have chosen someone who’d successfully faced down assassins, brought down a first lady, and proved that the former chief justice of the United States had his head up his butt over any academic nerd.
During the drive to Brad’s apartment the rainstorm got worse. The couple rushed from Brad’s parking spot to his front door, crouching to escape the downpour. Brad flipped on the light in his entryway as soon as they were inside.
“I’m going to the powder room to dry my hair,” Ginny said.
“I’ll put up the water for tea.”
Brad took off his raincoat and hung it on a hook. He was about to go into the kitchen when he spotted a slender white envelope lying on the entryway floor. He stooped down and picked it up. His name and address were handwritten, and there was no return address. There was also no stamp, so the letter had been hand delivered and slipped under his door. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of lined, yellow legal paper. Brad read what was written on it and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
Dear Brad,
I knew I was right to trust you. I’ve just learned that my conviction for the murder of the Erickson girl is going to be set aside and that’s all due to your hard work. I’ll still be executed but I can live with that, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’d invite you to the execution but I know you’re squeamish. My only regret is that I didn’t get to go to court to overturn the conviction. I might have seen my lovely pinkie collection one last time. Oh well, one can’t have everything. Good luck on your new job and on your marriage to the lovely Ginny. She’s a sweetheart. Too bad I won’t get a chance to know her.
Your Friend, Clarence
Brad crumpled the envelope and the letter and hurried to the garbage pail in the kitchen. He pushed them under the other trash to make certain that Ginny would never see Clarence Little’s letter.
“Hey, you’re shivering,” Ginny said when she walked into the kitchen. “Let me do something about that.”
Ginny wrapped her arms around Brad and snuggled against him. Usually, Ginny made him believe that everything was going to be all right, but her hug couldn’t dispel the feeling of dread created by Little’s letter. How did he know about Ginny? Who had delivered the letter? Anger replaced dread as Brad realized that Clarence was bored and was playing mind games with him again. He would expect Brad to rush to Salem to discuss the letter. Well, he wasn’t going to go. He would let Clarence sit in his cell alone, waiting for his day of execution. No more fun and games for Mr. Little. Not at Brad’s expense, anyway.
Brad pressed Ginny to him. Then he kissed her ferociously.
“Whoa, mister, what’s gotten into you?”
“It’s what’s not in me anymore, Ginny. You’ve chased my demons away. Bridget Malloy, Clarence Little, Susan Tuchman, they’ve all moved on to bother someone else. From now on, it’s just you and me, kid.”
Ginny smiled and kissed Brad. He smiled back. Life was good, and he had a feeling it was going to get better.
Epilogue
Christopher Farrington sat by himself in his mansion in Portland ’s West Hills, staring out of the window in his study. The nanny had put Patrick to bed and the house was very quiet. A fire in the deep, stone fireplace helped to combat the chill created by the constant rain. February was damp, cold, and dark in Oregon, like the thoughts he could not escape.
Events had not been kind to the Farringtons since Claire’s arrest. Despite “Jailbreak” Holliday’s best efforts, Claire had not been granted bail. The sheer number of the murder charges and her wealth had worked against her when the prosecutor had pointed out her motivation and ability to flee to a jurisdiction without an extradition treaty. Christopher’s only visit to Claire in jail had been a nightmare. After he ran a gauntlet of paparazzi, he’d been forced to listen to Claire’s insane ravings. She blamed him for everything, accusing him of causing her to kill to protect their marriage and hinting at the revenge she would take on him when she got out.
Then there was his own plight. He was not in retirement, he was in exile, ostracized by all but a crazed media that pursued him like a pack of jackals. When the din of the constant questions from the press was absent a cold silence was his only companion. No one visited, no one called except the attorneys who came to discuss Claire’s case and the civil suits that had been filed against them.
It wasn’t fair. All he’d done was fool around a bit. Other presidents had done that. Hell, Kennedy had sex with Mafia whores, and Eisenhower was supposed to have had a mistress. He wouldn’t even start with Clinton. What was so wrong? Why couldn’t Claire see how harmless it had all been? Why had she overreacted to a few flings he’d forgotten as soon as the act was over?
Farrington guessed that his mistake was admitting what he’d done with Rhonda Pulaski in the back of the limousine when he’d given her the settlement check. He’d needed Claire’s money to pay off the family, and she refused to talk to her father until she knew every little detail. He’d been so contrite he was certain she’d forgiven him, and she hadn’t said anything that would lead him to believe that she would react so violently.
It was Chuck who’d told him about the hit-and-run and the necessity of his providing an alibi for Claire if it ever came to that. It hadn’t, thank God, because Chuck had cleaned up Claire’s mess, but murder…My God, he’d never thought her capable of murder.
Then she’d done it again. Farrington could not even imagine what would have happened to his career if Chuck hadn’t raced back to the governor’s mansion and disposed of the body before someone found it.
Farrington paused. Of course he could imagine what would have happened. It was happening now. But he wasn’t to blame for any of it. It was Claire. She’d killed the girls. All he’d done was suggest to Chuck that he help his wife. There was no culpability there, was there?
Before he could confront that moral tangle, headlights in his driveway distracted Farrington from his dreary thoughts. He walked to the window and saw a Town Car parked in front of his door. A member of his Secret Service detail was speaking to the driver. Moments later, the chauffeur opened the rear door, and Susan Tuchman got out and ducked under the portico.