Executive Privilege

“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 ru

Between interviews, Brad called Gi

“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 ca

“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.”

Gi

“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. Gi

“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,” Gi

“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?”