“It’s been nice talking to you,” Hawkins said. “Tell the members of the Ripper Task Force that they did a great job and the president appreciates it.”

Hawkins turned his back on the agent and walked away. Evans watched him disappear before strolling over to the members of the press corps who were still around. He’d spotted Harold Whitehead earlier. Whitehead worked for the Washington Post, and they’d run into each other several times since Evans moved to D.C. The reporter was in his early sixties, and he’d been working in the newspaper business before the big corporations and twenty-four-hour news channels had converted the news from information to entertainment, as he constantly reminded people. Early in his career, he’d reported from war zones and visited the scenes of disasters, but a bad hip and a serious heart attack had ended his globe-trotting days and landed him on the political beat.

“I hear you’re working with Kineer at the independent counsel,” Harry said.

“You hear correctly,” Evans answered as the men shook hands.

“So, did Farrington off the coed?”

“As soon as I find out, you’ll be the first to know. Are you up for a beer?”

“Always,” Whitehead said as he eyed Evans suspiciously. Reporters sought out heads of serial killer task forces and the right-hand men of independent counsels, not vice versa.

“You know The Schooner in Adams Morgan?” Evans asked.

“Sure.”

“See you there.”

During the drive from the White House to the bar, Evans thought about Maggie Sparks. While he’d waited with her for the ambulance, Evans realized that she meant a lot to him. He’d thought about all the reasons he’d given himself for not trying to get to know her better and he’d decided that none of them made sense. He vowed that he would find out how she felt about him when he had some time to breathe.

The Adams Morgan section of Washington was funky and crowded with jazz nightclubs, pizza parlors, Ethiopian restaurants, and bars. While many of the local bars catered to young professionals or college kids, the clientele of The Schooner were laborers, firefighters, cops, and gentlemen who were between jobs. Evans arrived at the bar at ten past two. Harold had beaten him by twelve minutes, and the agent found the reporter nursing a beer in a booth in the back.

“Okay, Keith, what’s this about?”

“Can’t a guy buy another guy a beer without a hidden agenda?”

“You’re an underpaid government employee, Evans, and you’ve got alimony payments. You don’t make enough money to treat me to a beer.”

“Sad but true.”

“So?”

“We’re off the record or you don’t get your beer.”

“Prick.”

“Well?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Whitehead answered grudgingly.

“It’s Charles Hawkins. I want to know as much as you can tell me about him.”

“What’s your interest in the Farringtons’ attack dog?”

“We’re trying to figure out what happened on the evening Charlotte Walsh was killed. I asked Hawkins about it and I got nowhere. We know he was at the farmhouse after Walsh left, but he won’t tell me anything. I want to know who I’m dealing with.”

“A very dangerous guy, according to the rumors. A former army Ranger with combat experience.”

“You called him ‘the Farringtons’ attack dog.’”

Whitehead nodded. “Hawkins is completely dedicated to the Farringtons. There’s nothing he won’t do for them. He’s like those knights of the Round Table, totally devoted to the king and queen. Hawkins could have turned his relationship with the president to his advantage, but I’ve never heard a hint that he’s made a penny off of it. I think he would consider it dishonorable.”

“Now that you mention it, he doesn’t dress for success like some of the other movers and shakers I’ve met.”

“His relationship with the Farringtons makes Hawkins one of the most influential men in Washington, but you’d never guess the power he wields by looking at him. He buys his suits off the rack, doesn’t wear a Rolex like every other Washington player, and still drives a Volvo he bought before Farrington became governor of Oregon.”

“How did Hawkins and the president meet?”

“They both went to Oregon State. The president was the star of a basketball team that made it to the Sweet Sixteen. Hawkins played, too, but he rode the bench most of the time. They both excelled in the classroom, but, from what I hear, Hawkins was a plodder while academics came naturally to Farrington. The biggest difference between the two was self-confidence, which Farrington had in spades and Hawkins lacked. The people who knew them at OSU told me that Farrington had a clear vision of his future, but Hawkins had no idea what he wanted to do with his life, so he enlisted in the army.”

“I remember reading somewhere that Claire Farrington went to OSU, too.”

“Hawkins met her there. She was a star on the volleyball team. They started dating their senior year. Claire had met the president when she and Chuck double-dated with him. She and Farrington lost touch after college. During his second year in law school, Farrington ran into Claire at a party hosted by an intern at the medical school where she was studying. By the time Hawkins left the army, Claire and Christopher were an item.”

“Was he angry when he learned that Farrington had stolen his girl?”

“Hawkins had bigger problems when he left the military. He was wounded in action, and he returned to Portland depressed and hooked on painkillers. The only people who cared about him were Claire and Christopher. Claire got him into rehab and helped him recover. Christopher represented him for free when he had legal problems with the VA. When Hawkins got out of rehab, Farrington asked him to work on his state senate campaign and to be his best man. From what I hear, Hawkins wasn’t bitter that Farrington ended up with his girl.”

“Did Hawkins ever marry?”

“No. You see him with women from time to time at fund-raisers or parties but the rumors are that Claire was the love of his life.”

“Sounds a little sad, don’t you think?”

“Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for Hawkins. He’s got no morals where the Farringtons are concerned. The guy’s got a screw loose if you ask me.”

Chapter Thirty-seven

“Good morning, Brad,” Susan Tuchman said.

“Good morning,” Brad answered nervously as he took a seat opposite his nemesis. The Dragon Lady was dressed in a black pants suit and black turtleneck and looked the way a supervillain in a comic book would look if her secret identity was a senior partner in a really big law firm.

“I’m getting very good reports about your work,” Tuchman told him with a smile that was intended to lull Brad into a false sense of security. “I hear you’re burning the midnight oil and producing high-quality research.”

“Thank you,” Brad answered as he waited for the other shoe to drop.

Tuchman leaned forward and smiled brightly. “I hope you don’t feel that we’re overworking you.”

“No. I expected to work hard when I was hired.” Brad forced a smile. “That’s what associates are supposed to do, isn’t it?”

“Yes indeed. That’s why you get the big bucks right out of school when you really don’t know anything about the practice of law. But it looks like you’re earning your pay. I hear that you’re working so hard that you caught up with your caseload.”

“I wouldn’t say I’ve caught up,” Brad said, terrified that Tuchman was about to assign him another huge project. “I’ve just made a dent in it.”

“Enough of a dent to spend Sunday in the countryside,” Tuchman said calmly. “My memory isn’t what it used to be, Brad. Remind me; didn’t I specifically order you to have no further involvement in the Clarence Little case?”

“Yes.”

Tuchman leaned back and examined Brad like a bug collector trying to figure out the best place to stick the next pin into a truly pathetic specimen.