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originally from Topeka, Kansas, had spent three two-year terms in Congress, where he’d earned a reputation as the banking industry’s mouthpiece on the Hill. His unofficial nickname had been the “Re-Deregulator,” and he’d sponsored or cosponsored no fewer than fifteen separate bills aimed at extending the scope of lenders’ rights.
    According to D-M’s website, Pilkey’s specialty was helping financial service companies “navigate the federal government.” His biggest client by far at the time of his death was a coalition of twelve midsize banks around the country, representing more than seventy billion in total assets. These same companies were the ones whose campaign contributions to the other dead man, Congressman Vinton, had triggered the federal inquiry just under way.
    “Why are you telling me all this about Craig and Dammler-Mickelson?” Sid Dammler wanted to know. So far, he hadn’t indicated if any of it was news to him or not.
    “Because, with all due respect, I have to imagine that some number of people out there are going to be happy about Craig Pilkey’s death,” I said.
    Dammler looked deeply offended. “That’s a disgusting thing to say.”
    “Who might have wanted to kill him? Any idea at all? I know there were threats.”
    “
Nobody.
For God’s sake!”
    “I find that hard to believe,” I said. “You’re not helping us find his murderer.”
    Dammler got to his feet. The red on his face and neck stood out against the tight white collar of his shirt. “This meeting’s over,” he said.
    “Sit down,” I told him.
“Please.”
    I waited until he was back in his seat.
    “I understand that you don’t want to give more airtime to your critics than they’ve already had,” I went on. “You’re a PR firm, I get it. But I’m not a reporter for the
Post,
Sid. I need to know who Craig Pilkey’s enemies were — and don’t tell me he didn’t have any.”
    Dammler leaned way back with his hands behind his head. He looked as if he were waiting to be cuffed.
    “I guess you might start with some of the national homeowners associations,” he said finally. “They weren’t exactly fans of Craig’s.” He sighed and looked at his watch. “There’s also the entire consumer lobby, the nut-job bloggers, the anonymous hate mailers. Take your pick. Talk to Ralph Nader while you’re at it.”
    I ignored the sarcasm. “Is any of this information tracked in one place?”
    “To the extent that it concerns our clients, sure. But you’re going to need a warrant before I even think about putting you in the same room with any of that. It’s private, it’s confidential.”
    “I thought you might feel that way,” I said, and laid two sets of paperwork out on the desk between us. “One for files — one for e-mail. I’d like to start with Pilkey’s office. You can lead the way, or I’ll find it myself.”

Chapter 11

Dear Fuckstick,

I HOPE YOU’RE satisfied with yourself. Maybe someday you’ll lose YOUR fucking job and YOUR house, and then you’ll have some MOTHERFUCKING CLUE what you’re putting innocent people through out here in the REAL world.

    A lot, but not all, of the letters were pretty much like that. I’ll tell you what — when people get really mad, they
curse!
    The writers were angry, disappointed, threatening, heartbroken, crazy. It ran the gamut. My warrant was good until ten p.m., but I could have spent the whole night reading hate mail in Pilkey’s office.
    After a while, I got tired of the slow walk-bys from the staff, so I closed the door and kept sorting.
    The mail was from all over the country but especially from Pilkey’s home state of Kansas. There were stories about homelessness, lost life savings, families who couldn’t stay together — all types of people who had suffered in the financial downturn and placed a whole lot of the blame on K Street and Washington.
    The blog entries, at least the ones that D-M tracked, were more radicalized, tending