The President's Killers

THE PRESIDENT’S KILLERS

A THRILLER

KARL JACOBS

Lien Press

Copyright © 2014 by Karl Jacobs

ISBN 978-0-615-90744-4

Cover design: Ranilo Cabo - Damonza.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the express written permission of the copyright owner and publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

My special thanks to Police Captain Thomas Moran and the courageous men and women of the Secret Service, FBI, and local law enforcement agencies whose experience and insights have been an enormous help to me and whose extraordinary service deserves the respect and support of all of us.

ONE

At 10:20 on the muggy June morning the madness began, Lee Groark stared up at the lifeless windows of the old Custis Hotel and weighed the risks.

Some old ninny in a ratty bathrobe might wonder why he was prowling the hallways. Or some uptight security guard might want him to show some ID.

Screw it, Groark thought. He stepped out of the car into the humid heat and crossed the parking lot.

The old brownstone, in northern Virginia just thirty minutes from downtown D.C., had been converted in the Clinton years to a rent-subsidized residence for seniors.

In the tacky lounge just inside the entrance, almost a dozen white-haired old-timers were camped on faded sofas and stuffed chairs, gabbing with one another or reading newspapers. Nobody paid the slightest attention to Groark.

It tickled him. They didn’t know he was going to give them something new and exciting to gossip about, something that would give the entire country a jolt it wouldn’t forget.

He started down a wide corridor with worn green carpeting. Ahead of him, two old duffers, as pale as ghosts, were limping along behind their walkers. Farther down the hallway, an old biddy was coming towards them on a clumsy-looking motorized chair, steering the thing as if it were a twelve-ton, fifty-five-passenger Greyhound.

If they glanced at Groark at all, they probably took one look at his neon-orange cargo shorts and battered blue baseball cap and figured he was a screwball employee. Or maybe a visitor, somebody’s half-assed son. By tomorrow, none of them would remember his face.

The air-conditioned hallway felt good. He had spent half the morning searching 7-Elevens and gas stations along the Leesburg Pike, hunting for a pay phone where he could be sure no one would see or hear him, when the sun glinting off the old hotel’s windows caught his eye.

His flip-flops were hurting his toes, but they were part of his costume, further evidence he was harmless.

When he came to a second corridor, less well-lighted, he headed down it. He was almost to the rear of the building, about to turn back, when he spotted them — two shiny black pay phones, tucked away in an alcove next to a deserted meeting room. They were perfect. Out of sight. Nobody around. No wiretaps. There wasn’t a law-enforcement outfit in the country that would tap the lines at a place like this.

He scribbled “Out of Order” on a piece of note paper, taped the note to one of the phones, and peeked into the hallway to be sure it was clear. Then he stuck his prepaid call card into the other phone and went to work.

His first three calls to the candidates they had selected in New Jersey went exactly the way they had planned. The fourth call got no answer. He was about to punch the last number on his list when a tiny, stooped old woman appeared, whispering to herself and struggling to maneuver her walker into the alcove.

“That other phone isn’t working,” he said, trying to run her off. “See the note there?”

She didn’t even glance up at him, just stood clutching the walker with shaky hands, staring at his note and whispering like a mad woman.

“Did you hear what I said?’”

Nothing, not even a nod. Her scraggly white hair needed combing and her turquoise pants suit needed a good cleaning.

“I said, did you hear what I said?”

He might as well have been talking to the scratched-up vending machine behind her. He couldn’t tell whether she was half-deaf or batty, but it didn’t matter. There was no way he was going to make the call with someone standing at his elbow.

He peeked into the corridor. The old biddy was no bigger than a fifth-grade girl. He could toss her into the hallway with one hand.

The hallway was clear, but he stopped himself. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper. He was in enough trouble already.

He stuck his phone in the old woman’s face. “I’m on the damned phone here! Do you mind?”

For a second he thought he’d gotten through to her and she was going to leave. Then she started to inch her walker forward to get a better look at the note.

“Jesus Christ!” He started punching the buttons on his phone. As he was about to hit the last number, she reached for the other phone.

He slammed the receiver down and grabbed her bony arm.

“Are you deaf? What the hell did I just tell you?”

She stared up at him. Lips quivering. Lipstick smeared on a front tooth. Watery blue eyes almost as big as her glasses.

“You want me to wrap that walker around your neck? Get outta here! Beat it!”

He yanked her aside, twisting the walker around, and she slammed into the vending machine and went down.

“Denis Kinney?”

“Yes.” A polite college-kid voice.

“I’m Jerry Lott,” said Groark, already comfortable with the name, compliments of some dirt bag who’d put a kinky personals ad on-line. “I’m with RJJ Careers. We like your resume.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re doing some interviewing at the Short Hills Inn on Saturday. Can you make it?”

“You’re talking about something in sales, right?”

“That’s right.”

“What kind of selling is it?

“We’ll go over all that at the interview.”

“Who are we talking about? Where  — ?“

“We’ll get into all that on Saturday.”

Young Kinney still seemed hesitant, and Groark was about to hang up when the nice college-kid voice said, “Fine. I’m definitely interested.”

Four for four! Each of the other candidates had quickly agreed to the interviews. Groark was elated. Nobody, not even his bitchy partner, could complain about those results.

The old woman on the floor hadn’t moved. Groark patted her cheeks to get her to open her eyes, but she didn’t respond. Bending over the haggard face, he realized she didn’t seem to be breathing. On the side of her head, under the thinning hair, there was blood. He felt her throat and wrist but could find no pulse.

Crazy bitch! He peeled his out-of-order note off the other phone and flipped the walker onto its side. With one of his terry-cloth wrist bands, he wiped blood from the floor and slid the old woman under the phones.

He withdrew his pre-paid call card and used the other wrist band to wipe the phone. With the phone dangling above her head, he turned and made his way down the dimly lit hallway to a rear exit.

When he pushed the door open, it felt as though he’d opened the door of a furnace. The blast of hot air made him laugh. It was exhilarating. The first step in their wild and crazy little plan was history.

TWO

When Denny Kinney stepped into the elevator on the parking level beneath the Short Hills Inn and pressed the button, he was hoping for the best.

The headhunter had told him nothing on the phone, and job claims on the web were notoriously unreliable. Sometimes an interview was nothing but a ploy to get you to pay an exorbitant fee for a job search. On the other hand, who knew? The interview could lead to something promising.

The door to the sixth-floor suite was opened by a barrel-chested man about forty with a shaved head.

“I’m Jerry Lott,” he said with a perfunctory smile and handshake. Inside the spacious, elegantly furnished room, a trim older man with silver hair was getting to his feet.

“This is Mr. McQueen,” Lott said.

“I’m afraid this room is a little warm,” said McQueen, shaking Denny’s hand without a smile. “The hotel is having a problem with the air-conditioning.”

“I’m fine,” Denny said.

The two men were an odd combination, Lott tie-less in a wrinkled, short-sleeve blue dress shirt, McQueen as immaculate as a military officer in a crisp navy blazer and gleaming white shirt. As warm as the room was, the older man’s maroon tie was pulled tight and his jacket buttoned. Lott’s jacket and tie were in a heap on a chair.

They sat down around a brass-and-glass coffee table.

“Your web posting said this is a position that pays fifty-thousand,” Denny said.

“That’s right,” said McQueen, leaning forward on the black leather sofa. Every strand of his thick silver hair was in place. For someone well into his fifties, he looked exceptionally fit. “Most people exceed that amount within a year or two.”

“What kind of selling are we talking about?”

“We’ll get into all that.”

“Is the company in Jersey or over in the City?”

McQueen held up a hand. “Do you mind if I ask a question or two?”

Lott grinned and helped himself to some grapes in a basket of fresh fruit.

“Sorry,” Denny said.

McQueen poked a finger at Denny’s resume. “You went to Rutgers but left to play professional baseball in South Carolina.”

“Yes, I was the Mets’ first draft choice. I had a deal with —.”

“And then you played for a team in Williamsport.”

“Right, the Mets were going to —.”

“And then you got out of baseball.”

“I hurt my arm and —.”

“So you left baseball and —.”

Denny held up his hand. “Do you mind if I finish a sentence or two?”

It got a grin from Lott, but McQueen was not amused.

“I was a pitcher and ruined my arm. Couldn’t throw my breaking ball.”

“Fine, very interesting,” said McQueen, clearly uninterested. “So then you went into a management training program at Soltair. But let me see… no, you didn’t remain there very long either.”

“They lost a couple of government contracts and had to let a lot of people go. Are we talking about a company in Jersey?”

“This is a national company with offices all over the country. You didn’t obtain a degree?”

“I’m taking some classes in the fall.”

“And you’re employed at the moment as a bartender?”

Denny nodded. “It’s not exactly my career goal.”

McQueen came to the paragraph about his personal interests. “You enjoy hunting?”

“When I get the chance.”

Lott jumped in. “What do you hunt?”

“Deer, mostly.”

McQueen stood and extended his hand. “We appreciate your coming in.”

Denny was stunned. That was it? They were dismissing him?

“Excuse me, but I don’t have a clue what kind of a job we’re talking about,” he said. “You haven’t answered any of my questions.”

“We don’t know when a decision will be made,” McQueen said. “I’m afraid we can’t say when —.”

“Don’t bother,” said Denny, getting to his feet. “I’m not interested.”

At the door he looked back at McQueen. “You might want to take another look at your ad on the web. The line about seeking ‘a self-starter who is thorough and meticulous.’ There’s a typo in meticulous.”

“Smart ass,” said Lee Groark when young Kinney was gone.

Warren Crittenden ignored the remark.

“Christ, Bud, it’s warm in here!” Groark said. “We’ve got to get somebody up here.”

Crittenden said nothing. His junior partner was proving to be a major disappointment, an overgrown child who spent all his time hanging out in fitness centers. If there was anything inside his bald head, it wasn’t apparent. His little encounter with the old woman at the retirement home back in the D.C. area could have blown up their entire plan. And now, when they had barely settled into the plush suite here, he wanted to call the front desk about the air-conditioning. He didn’t even seem to understand the importance of keeping a low-profile.

The interviews were a disappointment, too. None of the candidates they’d selected in New Jersey even came close to Crittenden’s expectations.

Groark took an apple from the fruit basket. “I think we can kiss our boy-bartender good-bye.”

Crittenden began going through Kinney’s resume line by line. At least Kinney had the right look. Twenty-three years old. Self-assured. Solid build. Stubble beard and mustache. The facial hair gave him a faintly roguish appearance. A nice touch.

He was far more impressive than the community college kid, who had a tendency to stammer like a high school freshman. The Newark postal worker, the one Crittenden had hoped was black, turned out to be a smiling Portuguese kid with baby fat and thick eyeglasses. The bicycle salesman with the shrunken arm didn’t meet even their minimum requirements. On their resumes, all four candidates had indicated they enjoyed hunting, but it was hard to imagine how he would be able to do that with a bad arm. 

Kinney had some smarts, too. The Portuguese kid was fat, dumb, and happy. The community college student was also a loser. Showing up for a job interview in sneakers, for Christ’s sake! And of course the kid with the lame arm was a non-starter.

Kinney had balls — Crittenden had to give him that — and that was important. The trouble was, he was a wise ass. A would-be jock with a short fuse. If they went with him, he’d be a constant pain in the ass.

The kid’s impertinence reminded Crittenden of one of Wick’s lines.
There are only two things you really need to get what you want in this world, Bud — brains and balls.

It was true. That was all it took. Maybe a wise-ass kid like Kinney was exactly what they wanted.