“Dr. Farrington, did you give your husband money to pay off the Pulaskis?” Evans asked.

“I’m not going to answer any more questions about those people.”

“I think we can move on, Keith,” Kineer said amiably.

“Did you notice anything unusual in Mr. Hawkins’s demeanor on the evening of the fund-raiser at the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel?”

“No, but I was preoccupied with my speech and I wasn’t feeling well. I had a bad bout of morning sickness.”

“So I understand. In fact, you’d reserved a suite at the hotel for just this contingency, hadn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“On the day of the fund-raiser.”

“Yes.”

“Two suites, actually? Adjoining suites?”

“That’s correct. We needed to make certain that no one was next door for security reasons.”

“I understand that Mr. Hawkins made the arrangements.”

“Yes.”

“The Secret Service told us that you stopped to use the ladies’ room on your way to your photo op because you weren’t feeling well.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did you happen to check your cell phone for messages when you were in the ladies’ room?”

The first lady hesitated and eyed Evans suspiciously before responding with a terse, “No.”

Evans pulled two black-and-white photographs out of his attaché case and held them up so Dr. Farrington and Mort Rickstein could see them. In one picture a person in jeans and wearing gloves and a hooded sweatshirt was going up a flight of stairs. In the other, the same person was going down.

“Do you have an idea who this person is?” the agent asked.

Dr. Farrington leaned forward and studied the photograph for a few seconds. Then she shook her head.

“I’m sorry but I don’t recognize this man.”

“We’re not one hundred percent certain it is a man,” Evans said. “It could be a tall woman.”

“What does this have to do with Mr. Hawkins?” Mort Rickstein asked.

“We’re not certain it has anything to do with him.”

“Then why are you showing these pictures to me?” Dr. Farrington asked.

“The pictures were recorded by a security camera in the stairwell of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel shortly after ten on the evening of the fund-raiser you attended. There’s a door to the stairwell opposite the suite adjoining the one in which you were resting. Dale Perry drew away the Secret Service agent who was watching the stairwell exit on two occasions that evening. If someone wanted to sneak in or out of the hotel by using the stairwell they would have had an opportunity when the guard wasn’t watching the stairwell door.”

“Why would that matter to me? I was asleep from ten to shortly before one.”

“Did you ever go into the adjoining suite to use the phone?”

“No, why would I? There was a phone on the nightstand in the suite where I was taking my nap. I would have used that phone if I wanted to make a call.”

Rickstein looked suspicious. “What’s going on here?”

“Two calls were made from the suite adjoining the suite where Dr. Farrington was taking her nap. Mr. Hawkins made one of the calls around ten. We’re trying to figure out if he made both calls,” Keith said.

Rickstein frowned. “I thought this interview was going to be about Chuck Hawkins but I’m beginning to suspect that you have another agenda, Roy.”

“Certain facts have come to light that have led us to believe that Dr. Farrington may be involved in the Pulaski, Erickson, and Walsh cases.”

Rickstein looked astonished. “Involved how?”

“I’m afraid I can’t be more specific,” Kineer answered.

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate this meeting.”

Evans had been watching Claire Farrington closely during this exchange. She had said nothing, but she had stared hard at Roy Kineer with a look that Evans interpreted as pure hate.

“Good afternoon, Dr. Farrington,” Justice Kineer said. “Thank you for taking time to meet with us.”

Farrington didn’t answer. A moment after the FBI agent and the judge walked out of the sitting room, the door opened and Mort Rickstein stepped out.

“Hold up, Roy,” he called out.

Kineer and Evans turned around.

“What’s going on?” Rickstein demanded when he caught up to them.

“Just what I said.”

“You don’t really suspect Claire of having some kind of direct involvement in these killings?”

“We have some evidence that points that way.”

For a moment, Rickstein looked dumbfounded. The he got control of himself.

“There’s an old saying about not missing when you aim at a king. That goes for a queen, too. If I were you, I wouldn’t breathe a word of your suspicions to anyone unless you’ve got one hundred percent proof of wrongdoing.”

“Don’t worry, Mort. I take my position very seriously. I won’t aim at your client until I’m certain that I can’t miss.”

Rickstein stared hard at the jurist. Then he shook his head and walked back toward the sitting room.

“What do you think?” Kineer asked when the lawyer was out of earshot.

“I think it’s first lady, a hundred; independent counsel, zero.”

“I agree. I also think she’s in this up to her neck, but we may not be able to prove it.”

“At least we know why Hawkins flipped so quickly,” Evans said. “It was the phone calls. He didn’t want us thinking about the possibility that Dr. Farrington had used the phone in the adjoining suite to retrieve Cutler’s voice messages.”

“Hawkins is the only person who can nail Claire Farrington,” Kineer said. “Do you think we can turn him?”

“This guy is a samurai, Judge. He’s going to die for his emperor and empress.”

“So, what do we do?”

Evans shook his head. “I have no idea.”

The president had a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, but he hurried up to his living quarters as soon as it was over to find out why Justice Kineer had met with his wife that afternoon. Claire was waiting in their bedroom.

“What happened?” he asked anxiously.

“I think they know,” Claire said calmly.

Farrington dropped heavily into an armchair. He looked stricken.

Claire smiled. “They know, but they can’t prove a thing, Chris. You don’t have to worry. We’ll be fine.”

Farrington looked up. “What if they…?”

“They won’t. Be strong. Look where we are,” she said, moving her hand across the expanse of the room. “I knew we’d be here one day. No one is going to take this away from us.”

Claire’s features closed up like a steel door sealing in the contents of a safe. When she was like this, his wife frightened him.

“No one,” she repeated in a voice so cold that there was no doubt about the lengths she would go to keep him in the White House and to keep any woman from interfering with her marriage.

Chapter Forty-five

Dana Cutler and Brad Miller were watching CNN’s coverage of Charles Hawkins’s guilty plea when Keith Evans walked into the living room of the safe house. Hawkins had insisted on pleading immediately in Maryland state court to the murder of Charlotte Walsh. Gary Bischoff had refused to represent Hawkins, so he’d retained a new lawyer whose smile when he faced the television cameras suggested that he wasn’t the least bit troubled by pleading a client who might be innocent to a capital murder charge.

“Why aren’t you at the courthouse?” Brad asked.

“I couldn’t do it. It’s too depressing. Hawkins is taking the heat for the Farringtons, and he’s probably going to spend the rest of his life in prison or be executed for crimes he didn’t commit.”

“It’s not like he’s completely innocent, Keith,” Brad said. “He probably murdered Houston, the chauffeur, and he sent those men to kill Dana. At minimum he covered up for Claire Farrington when she killed Rhonda Pulaski, leaving her free to kill Erickson and Walsh.”

“Murders she’ll never pay for because of Hawkins,” Evans answered bitterly.