The President's Killers Read Free Page B

said. “Maybe a little undercover work. Depends on our needs.”
    They’d show him the ropes. At the end of six months he’d be given a battery of SAT-like tests, a medical exam, a psychological evaluation, and a polygraph examination.
    SIG would run a security-clearance check. Once he received a permanent appointment he’d be sent to the SIG academy in Georgia for four months’ training.
    “What do you think?” Lott said.
    “Well, it beats the hell out of mixing margaritas.”
    “Good. How soon you available?”
    He hesitated. Could he trust what Lott was telling him?
    “Let me tell you something,” Lott said. “We never get bored. I haven’t been bored one day since I joined this outfit.”
    Denny stared out the window at the old brick warehouse. “I’d have to give notice. A couple weeks.”
    “Good. One thing you need to understand. This is a rough business. We play hardball.”
    “I used to do that for a living.”
    Lott grinned. “Hey, that’s right. You should feel right at home. Except this is really the Big Leagues, Denny. And it’s not like working for Google or Facebook. You got to keep this under your hat. You can’t talk about what you do. Not even with the girlfriend.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Later on, sure. But not right now. Not if we’re going to use you for surveillance or undercover stuff.”
    Denny shrugged. He could live with that. In fact, it might be kind of fun.
    Lott gave him a handful of business cards. The name on the cards was Clay Willis, identified as a sales representative with Erickson & Company of Chicago. A fictitious company, Lott explained, that supposedly underwrote insurance for small businesses across the country.
    Whenever the subject of his employment came up, he was to tell people he was a sales rep for Erickson.
    “The agency will set up an account for you. In the meanwhile, I’ll give you cash to cover your expenses and pay. We’ll fix you up with a phony driver’s license, too. Got something to write with?”
    Denny searched his pockets for his ballpoint pen.
    “Here.” Lott handed him a pencil stub and gave him a phone number. Denny wrote it down on an insurance card in his wallet.
    “You ever get in a jam — I don’t mean some piss-ant little problem, I mean a goddamn major crisis — call that number and ask for Mrs. Shamburg. But only if you’re in really deep shit.”
    When they got back to the Rodino Building, the wind was blowing and the rain had picked up. Lott turned and shook his hand.
    “Glad to have you aboard, kid.”
    “What happens now?”
    ”We’ll contact you when we need you. Me or McQueen. One of us will give you a call.”

SEVEN
    Michelle Walker had made up her mind. She was never going to speak to Denny again.
    She’d phoned and text-messaged him a dozen times, both from L.A. and since she’d returned, but there had been no response. He hadn’t called or sent her any notes since the night before she left for L.A.
    When her cell phone rang at 11:10 P.M., she was in bed struggling to keep her eyes open and make sense of the sea of numbers in the latest report on the new Korn-Ritter commercials. She let the phone ring a half-dozen times before reaching for it, then stopped. She didn’t want to answer it.
    It rang some more.
    “Hello.”
    “Hi.”
    An awkward silence.
    “Were you in bed?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’m sorry…How are you?”
    “Okay.”
    “How was your trip?”
    “Okay.”
    “How about if I come over when I get through?””
    Her entire body tightened. She’d gone over this moment a hundred times. She took a deep breath. “I’m going to sleep.”
    “Meesh…”
    “We fight too much.”
    “I don’t blame you for being ticked off.”
    “Maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, Denny.”
    “I’m sorry, babe.”
    She didn’t reply.
    “How about if I get away from here early? I’ve got something I want to tell you. Some good news.”
    “I’m going to go to sleep, Denny.”
     
    She was still