The President's Henchman Read Online Free PDF Page B

that McGill had closed. A dozen or so protestors walked a tight, relentless circle, as they’d done every day since she’d moved into the White House. The Peace Vigil people who’d camped out opposite the White House continuously since 1981 had ceded some of their space to the new group. Each of the protestors carried the same sign: FREE ERNA.
    Erna Godfrey. Current resident of the Federal Death Penalty Facility in Terre Haute, Indiana. Wife of Reverend Burke Godfrey, pastor of the Salvation’s Path Church.
    The woman who’d killed Patti’s beloved first husband, Andy Grant.
     

Chapter 4
     
Two Years Earlier
     
    Andy Grant was the kind of billionaire who opened his own front door when someone rang the bell. Of course, Andy’s doorbell was located outside a gate three hundred feet from his house, and hidden TV cameras revealed just who had come calling. The Grant estate was protected on the north, west, and south by twelve-foot-high ivy-covered walls. Motion detectors and other electronic devices warned against climbers and vaulters. On the east lay a private beach and Lake Michigan.
    In the depths of some of the colder winters, it would have been possible to ice-skate onto the grounds, but no one had tried that yet. Nor had any other form of seaborne attack been launched.
    But the first thing Chief McGill said after Andy had introduced himself that warm morning in late May was, “You’ve got to do something about your waterfront exposure.”
    “What would you suggest, mining the beach?” The question came not from Grant, but from his wife, the congresswoman, who’d heard McGill’s comment as she descended the main stairway.
    “I don’t think you’re zoned for that,” McGill said evenly, “and it might upset the neighbors if one of their dogs wandered over and got blown up.”
    Like her husband, Patricia Darden Grant was dressed casually; she wore shorts and a sleeveless top. Unlike her husband, she was barefoot. Unlike her husband, she was hostile.
    Something Andy Grant was far too sharp to miss, far too genial to let go unameliorated.
    “The chief’s done his homework, Patti,” he said. “He not only knows the neighbors have dogs but where they like to drop their loads.” He turned to McGill with a grin. “Maybe we can get a zoning exception.”
     
    “My profession is giving money away wisely,” Andy Grant said. He had curly ginger hair and smart green eyes. Average in height, he looked as if he enjoyed one too many cupcake per day. But he seemed comfortable with his appearance and moved with physical grace.
    The discussion had moved to the terrace above the beach at the back of the house. Andy and McGill sipped lemonade from tall tumblers at a round glass-topped table. A third glass awaited the congresswoman’s thirst. She worked nearby fussing with potted plants that looked perfectly tended to McGill. But then, gardening wasn’t the point. She was close enough to overhear every word without having to look at the bothersome cop.
    “Wisely must be the hard part,” McGill answered. “Like being a genie and not having the wishes you grant backfire.”
    Andy laughed. “Very good. I hope you won’t mind if I use that line.”
    McGill nodded his approval. Maybe Andy Grant was stroking him, maybe he wasn’t. Either way, for a rich guy, he was very easy to like. Except to the people who had threatened to kill him. Reason enough to overlook his wife’s continuing grump, McGill supposed.
    As alert to moods as ever, Andy asked, “Chief, just how serious do you think this threat against my life is?”
    McGill saw Patti Grant turn to look at him. Intently. She wanted to watch his face as he answered the question. He took out a duplicate of the threat message. The original had been left that morning inside a subscription copy of the Wall Street Journal delivered to Andy Grant’s mailbox outside his gate. When Andy had unfolded the newspaper to read it, the note had fallen into his lap.
    Get your