The President's Killers Read Online Free PDF Page B

time, in front of the train station.
    “You know something?” Lott said. “The FBI is the biggest bullshit bureaucracy in America. They’re always claiming they’ve got a full plate. They’ve got so god-damned many people they’re running around in circles. We try to help them out and this is what we get.”
    “Why not wait and see if they contact me?
    ”Bullshit!”
    “Maybe I’ve given you the wrong impression. Morris wasn’t giving me a flat-out no.”
    “Screw’em,” Lott said. “If they don’t want to get off their asses, there’s plenty of other law enforcement around. We’ll light a fire under these bastards and see if we can get somebody’s attention.”

ELEVEN
    It was a little disturbing. "What happens,” Denny said, “if they trace this stuff back to me?”
    “They trace it to you, it’s your ass, kid,” Lott said. “Threatening a member of Congress is a federal offense. So is sending threatening messages through the mail.”
    “Yeah, well, you better hope I don’t talk.”
    Lott gave him a pat on the shoulder. “So you’re going to be careful, right? I don’t want to have to find me another contract employee.”
    It seemed so crazy that Denny took no chances. He bought pre-stamped envelopes at a post office and a box of .30/30 cartridges at an Orange gun shop. On the web, he went through local newspapers until he found a good head shot of Congressman Stewart. He photocopied and enlarged it.
    After filling four tablet pages with short, nasty phrases, he settled on the one he liked best. With a red grease pencil, he printed in capital letters across the picture of the Congressman’s face, “GUNS DON’T KILL…PISSED-OFF VOTERS DO!!”
    He made a photocopy of the doctored picture, pulled on a pair of latex surgical gloves, and taped a bullet to the photocopy. Then he typed the address of Stewart’s Livingston office on one of the envelopes, carefully wiped the picture and the bullet with a damp cloth, and slid them into the envelope.
    He drove four miles from his apartment before sticking the envelope into a mail box at a shopping center.
    When he returned with a bag of groceries in each arm, he heard the land-line phone in his apartment begin to ring while he was unlocking the door. He ran inside and grabbed the phone.
    “Hey, buddy,” Lott said. “I just about gave up. How about a beer?”
    “Sure.”
    “Why don’t you come over to my place?”
    “Right now?”
    “Hey, why not?”
     
    There were a couple dozen cars parked near the train station, all of them empty except for Lott’s SUV.
    “How’d you like another shot at our friend Nidal?”
    “What’s the story?”
    SIG had received a tip that the elusive arms dealer was going to be in San Francisco the following morning. Lott wanted Denny to do what he was supposed to do in Chicago. Find the guy and see who met with him.
    Denny was eager for another crack at Nidal. “I’ll find him.”
    Lott gave him another stack of fifty-dollar bills. “Take these. I still haven’t got an agency account set up for you. Typical bureaucratic red-tape.”
    Three hours later, Denny was on a flight to San Francisco. By seven o’clock, a bellhop at the Hyatt Regency in Embarcadero Center was leading him to his room.

TWELVE
    Meesh was still fuming over her conversation with her sister when she learned Denny was half way across the country again.
    “I’ve just been on the run so much these past couple weeks,” Beth had told her. “I met this guy in Miami. He’s a stockbroker. You’d love him, Meesh. He’s adorable.”
    “How about a card, Beth? Did you send Mom a card?” With her cell phone clasped to one ear, Meesh hunted in her leather attaché case for the latest memo from Korn-Ritter’s ad agency.
    “I couldn’t find anything I liked. I looked here and I looked in Miami and Chicago. But I didn’t see anything very nice.”
    For reasons Meesh never understood, the fact Beth was a flight attendant had always impressed