Executive Privilege

Part Seven.The Queen of Hearts

Washington, D.C.

Chapter Forty-two

Brad got back to his apartment just before three after spending the morning and early afternoon at a law firm interviewing for a job. As soon as he checked for phone messages and e-mail, he changed into ru

Working out hadn’t been easy right after the shoot-out. Every time he left his apartment he had to run a gauntlet of reporters who wanted to know what had happened at the Erickson house. Television vans crowded the parking lot at his apartment complex and reporters tied up his phone lines at all hours. Brad wanted to tell everybody what he knew about the Clarence Little case, but Keith Evans had explained that the independent counsel’s investigation could be compromised if he talked to the press, so Brad had been forced to stick to “no comment.”

Shortly after the last reporter called him about the shoot-out, a reporter from the Portland Clarion, Portland’s alternative newspaper, phoned to ask Brad to comment on Paul Baylor’s report, which had concluded that Peggy Farmer’s pinkie was in with the rest of the fingers, but Laurie Erickson’s was nowhere to be found. Brad knew about the report because Gi

A few days later, a scathing editorial in the Clarion condemned Tuchman for firing an associate who’d gone above and beyond the call of duty to try to prove that a client had been unjustly convicted of murder. The editorial pointed out that Brad had put principle above public opinion by risking his life to see justice done even though his client was detestable.

Brad showered when he finished his run. Then he called Gi

“Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton.”

“Gi

“Whom shall I say is calling?’

“Jeremy Reid of Penzler Electronics.”

“One moment, please.”

Brad waited for Gi

“Hey,” he said.

“Thank goodness you were smart enough to use an alias. You have no idea how persona non grata you are around here since the Clarion published that editorial.”

“Tuchman deserves everything she gets.”

“I couldn’t agree more, but it would mean my job if anyone found out we were dating.”

“Is that what we’re doing? I thought I was bartering food for sex.”

“Pig. So, how was the interview?”

“Good. I’ll tell you about it tonight. Will you want to go to the movie straight from work or will you have enough time to go home, change, and come back downtown.”

“I’m not certain I’ll have time for a movie and di

“That’s where I am now. I’ll be here for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Okay. Let me try to clear my desk. I’ll see you soon.”

Brad felt a little guilty that Gi

Gi

Another way Brad spent his time when he wasn’t hiking, cooking, or looking for work was by keeping up with the independent counsel’s investigation. He’d absorbed every piece of information about it in Exposed, the New York Times, and other media outlets. He knew more about the case than most. While they were driving to Marsha Erickson’s house Dana Cutler had told him what had happened after Dale Perry hired her to tail Charlotte Walsh. Most of that information had been in Exposed, but Brad had learned about the shoot-out at the motel, which had happened after she’d given Patrick Gorman the story.

Keith Evans checked in on Brad from time to time because Brad was a witness. When they talked, Brad pumped the FBI agent for news, but Evans was tight-lipped and Brad rarely got any information that the media didn’t have.

To kill time until Gi

Something about the photo bothered Brad, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. He wandered into the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it out on the deck. While he watched the traffic on the river he sipped from his cup and worried the problem, but nothing came to him. He was still stumped when Gi

Brad was lost in a swamp, fighting his way through mud that sucked at his shoes and vines so thick that he could barely see where he was going. The heat was unbearable-a heavy blanket that wrapped around him, making it hard to move or breathe. From somewhere in the swamp two women begged him for help and he despaired that there wasn’t time to rescue both of them. He wanted to give up but he couldn’t.

In the dream, Gi

Brad shot up in bed, his heart pounding. He knew what had bothered him the day before. When he spoke to Gi

Brad groped for the light on his nightstand and turned it on. He was bathed in sweat, and his breathing was labored. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to calm down. The important thing was to hold on to the dream. In it Brad was panicky because there wasn’t enough time to be in two places at one time. His subconscious was trying to point out that on the evening of Charlotte Walsh’s murder Charles Hawkins had been faced with the same predicament. Had everyone been going at this case the wrong way?

The clock on Brad’s nightstand said it was 5:58. He knew there was no way he could get back to sleep, so he went into the bathroom and prepared to face the day. While he brushed his teeth, Brad made a plan of action. He would eat breakfast then reread everything that bore on the time element. Just as he ducked under the medium hot spray in the shower a sudden thought distracted him. He paused, the bar of soap in his hand and water cascading down his face and chest. There had been something in Laurie Erickson’s autopsy report that had made no impression on him when he read it. Now the memory triggered a really scary idea.