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man no chance to reach back and grab or scrape him. He was pleased to see that Reese hadn’t lost control of his bladder or bowels, because cleaning that up was always the worst part of this sort of work.
    He was satisfied that this had gone just as he planned. There would be no signs of an unnatural death and no evidence of a struggle.
    Turning, he walked into the kitchen, cheerily decorated with avocado-green appliances and country-style curtains. From Sears, he thought, probably all bought in a single trip. He stepped to the gas stove, pulled up the knees of his trousers, and, crouching down, opened the broiler, and peered inside.
    He nodded as he confirmed that the main gas line to the stove came through the rear of the broiler in a flexible metal tube and not a solid steel pipe. In the end, it wouldn’t make any difference, but it would mean a bit less work.
    Straightening up, he went back to the body in the living room and, without any obvious strain, picked it up in his arms. Walking back into the kitchen, he placed it in one of the kitchen chairs, carefully crossing the arms on the table and resting the head on them. Stepping back, he checked the position from several angles and felt satisfied that it would look like Reese had fallen asleep. Noticing an open bottle of bourbon on the counter near the sink, he opened cupboards until he found glasses, and arranged the bottle and a glass in front of Reese’s hands. Paying close attention to details was a habit that had kept him out of trouble for a long time.
    He returned to the living room and carefully searched for any scuffs or scrapes left by the struggle on the hardwood floor or the imitation Persian rug. Then he picked up the towel, folded it carefully, and returned to the kitchen. Pulling a jackknife from his pocket, he put the towel on the floor in front of the stove, kneeled down again, and carefully pulled out the entire broiler drawer. He placed it on the towel to avoid getting grease on the floor.
    Reaching into the open space, he located the metal gas hose. With his left hand, he pressed it firmly against the rear of the stove and shoved the knife he held in his right hand against one of the flexible joints until there was a small slit in the hose and he could smell the artificial odor they added to the normally-odorless gas to warn people of leaks.
    He replaced the drawer with the smell of gas fumes already wafting over him. Standing again, he reached inside his pants pocket and pulled out a device similar to the one he’d used on the reporter’s car. This one, however, was simply a small amount of C-4 explosive and a remote-control detonator. He placed it carefully on the top of one of the black metal rings on the stove where it was unlikely to leave identifying marks.
    Again, not that it mattered much.
    He had taken care of some problems after Dealey Plaza, and had become convinced that, even if police investigators suspected something wasn’t right, so long as they thought there was any kind of official involvement, their reports tended to attribute the incident to either accidents or natural causes. Hell, if cops could accept that a mobster with terminal cancer just happened to shoot the prime suspect, they could swallow anything.
    He picked up the towel and left the house, wiping down surfaces and turning off the lights as he went. Outside, he closed the door firmly – listening for the snick of the lock as it engaged – then took off his gloves, wiped the doorbell with the towel, and walked without haste back to his car.

CHAPTER 6
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    The courier desk was a bad joke.
    A cubicle in the back hall, barely large enough to hold a single desk and three chairs, it was usually jammed with two or three couriers and all their helmets, jackets, dripping rain gear, radios, paperbacks, and biker magazines. Cigarette smoke had painted the walls a smudged greenish-yellow – the tar so thick in places that it had begun to drip