Deadly Pursuit Winter JenningsChapter 11 Bait
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Deadly Pursuit: Winter JenningsChapter 15: Terrycloth free porn video
The Whittaker Fund, the ammunition gambit, was bringing us into intermittent contact with Karl Hoffstatter. Well, with his gopher, Roger ‘Hoppy’ Cransdale. The FBI had decided to let Cransdale roam free for now. The bet was that he’d lead them to higher-ups in the American Nazi movement. The further bet was that the low-priced ammo that the Aryan was buying wouldn’t be used for anything but training purposes.
It wasn’t a long-term wager; once Cransdale started repeating his route stops, they’d pull him in. The plan was to make it look like a happenstance sighting. Unconnected to the Whittaker ammunition.
There were three Wexler rumors over the next four weeks. Although no confirmed sightings at any of the four compounds mentioned.
But even just waiting, I was learning. Some of the Nazis had become more visible, but the movement was still mostly underground. As was the Klan, although the lines between the two groups were growing increasingly blurry. The last thing Homeland Security wanted was for disparate, previously independent groups to align.
Noticing how much afternoon and evening research on the haters I was doing, Sandra Fleming sent me to Montgomery, Alabama to meet with the Southern Poverty Law Center’s liaison to the FBI. She said, “I spent two days there last year, it’s eye-opening.”
Thomassa Greene was a black woman in her 40s. An attorney with a quiet, stoical attitude. Thick black-framed glasses. She shook hands, “You on expenses?”
“I am. Lunch or dinner?”
“Dinner. Central, it’s downtown.”
“I’ll make a reservation. Eight?”
“Nine, please.”
I was prepared to forego wine, after all, I was representing the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Thomassa smiled up at our waiter, who obviously recognized her — he said, “Old Montgomery?”
“Double it.”
I said, “Me too. What is it?”
“Bulleit rye, orange bitters, sweet vermouth.”
Tasty. And Central was within walking distance of my hotel — the Renaissance Montgomery. No designated driver required.
Thomassa said, “What do you know about SPLC?”
“Just what a lot of people know. You track hate crimes. Keep track of groups. Have that famous Hate Map.”
She nodded, “We’re up to almost a thousand groups. The map has more pins in it than ever.” She had the slightly puzzled, slightly exasperated, look of someone who had learned five or six languages and now wondered why she’d bothered. More resigned than bitter.
I said, “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?”
“Yes it is. Now pardon me for not knowing, but why are you here?”
“I’m a part-time consultant to the FBI in Kansas City.”
Didn’t seem to impress her. I said, “I was peripherally involved in that raid near Coeur d’Alene.”
“The Gunthers?”
“Right. And that led to Greta Gunther blaming me for their troubles. And she contracted with a scrote named Dixie Wexler to ... kill me.”
Thomassa sat up, smiled, “Our Melvin. A sweetie-pie.”
“Yeah, and Karl Hoffstatter made a run at me in Kansas City. Police picked him up, FBI questioned him. Nada.”
Thomassa frowned, “Simon Rothstein. Chicago.”
I nodded, “First flight into KC.”
“Money.”
We paused the shop talk for Pimento appetizers. Down home Alabama.
I said, “The Meriwethers — Strom, Sam, and Sarah now — have contracted with both Wexler and Hoffstatter in the past. To spread the nationalist gospel.”
“Hoffstatter is spreading more than the gospel.”
“I know. Guns. And ammo.”
Thomassa went for the veal chop. Large and luscious looking.
Feeling vegetarian-superior, I tucked into fried Brussels Sprouts, lemony ricotta grits, and herbed spaetzle. Should have gone with the chop.
I said, name-dropping like crazy, “I’m also a part-time consultant with Matt Striker, who works for Constance Grayson. In DC.”
She frowned, searching her memory banks for a connection, “Senator Wainwright?”
“Yes. But I’m just an occasional.”
“Well, he’s a good man. Never met him, but the senator’s on the side of the angels.”
The next morning, in her office, she went over the Hate Map with me. I pointed out the seven compounds where Wexler had made stops for the Meriwethers. The seven that we knew about.
Thomassa had access to a much deeper profile for five of the seven. Including the WHITES in Wyoming. I didn’t mention that Matt and I had visited there.
I said, “Okay if I take notes?”
She thought about that. Then shrugged, “Sure.”
I focused on two areas — the names of the second tier leaders that hadn’t surfaced in my own research. And the interconnectedness of the various compounds.
And it was there that the SPLC had a slight advantage over the various Homeland Security agencies. Southern Poverty had a quiet network, mostly blacks and Hispanics, who were plugged into each other. Shared gossip, speculation, rumors. Some of it online, some of it just personal conversations. A lot of it through pastors and their congregations.
Thomassa said, “Just regular folks. They aren’t building a case for court. This is just for ... their own protection. Possible protection. Maids, janitors, bus drivers. The people that people don’t see.”
She paused to wipe her glasses with an eye-bobs cloth. “These are mostly poor folks, mostly low-key. Not off the grid, just ... not on anyone’s radar.”
Later, I reviewed my scribbled notes, my hastily sketched map linking the various Nazi compounds. The nexus ran through odd connections such as cross-referencing the manufacturer of swastika posters with another one who specialized in Confederate flags.
Replica swords were popular in the South; that factory shared a metal supplier with a family operation in Idaho that crafted Nazi helmets. A lot of tenuous, probably meaningless, points of interaction. But ... you never know.
Back home, I would try to integrate two separate sources. Law enforcement had undercover agents, snitches, lowlifes whom they bribed, threatened. The SPLC and similar groups had small armies of civilian volunteers — decent, everyday citizens concerned about the direction America was lurching.
Neither source was omniscient, both had plenty of false leads, contacts who weren’t really on the inside. Dead ends, contradictions, the usual. A few double-betrayals among the various federal snitches.
But I had an advantage — personal motivation. I wasn’t looking to prove something in court. I wasn’t charged with decoding the overall picture. I wanted just one guy — Dixie Wexler. Maybe two.
I had never understood why men and women go clothes-shopping together. The guy in the women’s department looking bored or miserable or both. The woman in the men’s department looking determined, confident. Bossy.
Back when I was married to Richie, I can’t think of a single time when we shopped together. Oh, maybe groceries once in a while. But I had zero interest in having him along as I tried on various outfits. Oh, he might, while we were dressing for a party, ask me about this tie or that belt.
Now, Mr. Matt Striker was a little bit different. Or my attitude toward steering some of his clothes selection was. He was perfectly presentable, not at all nebbishy. But he could do with ... a little boost. A dash. Some style, a hint of color.
He was what I’d come to think of as DC Casual. Since about nine out of ten of the local population seemed to be attorneys, Matt dressed like a lawyer on his day off. Nothing majorly wrong, nothing blatant. Nothing that I couldn’t fix.
Of course, as everyone knows, wardrobe repair begins with an attack on the closet in question. A Marie Kondo decluttering, only not so severe. At least not at first. It would be a gradual cleansing. I knew pretty much what his favorite shirts, sweaters, slacks were. They’d be the last to go.
And I had no intention of dragging him from store to store. He might not show it, but would resent it. And slow me down.
As was my custom, I started with higher end stores in Georgetown and environs. Wm. Fox, Redeem, Ezra Paul, Hugh & Crye. Etc. I wouldn’t actually buy much — those visits were for orientation, for inspiration. A general sense of upper echelons of DC men’s couture.
I’d browse my way over, sideways, up, down. NM. Nordstrom’s. Gap, Banana Republic. But the bulk of my shopping would be at non-chain, non-mall stores. Independents. Or small regional operations.
If this were a vital mission, I could pop up to New York. But the brutal truth is, 99% of the people in this country can find everything they need in any relatively large city.
As with refreshing his condo, I would go slow, a piece here, a piece there. I could enter stealth mode when required.
Vanessa: “What do you call an Irish lesbian?”
Walker & Pilar, “What?”
“Gaylick.”
Was all my Nazi research, my endless combing through files, making notes, a waste of time? Quite possibly. Yet I was doing something. Something besides being on continuous alert for Wexler and the Aryan. Fuckers.
And, there was a chance that I might stumble across something worthwhile. I wrote a two-page memo to Sandra that summarized my amateur mixing and matching of government and private sector reports on the haters. The SPLC Hate Map — the more detailed version — had been especially helpful.
Sandra forwarded it to Ash. She told me, “We need to get better at working with civilians.” Daddy nodded; he’d been cooperating with the FBI for a good part of his career.
Yet, I knew myself. Knew I was at my best when I was on the move. Shaking down a pimp, running down a Diamond District lead, circulating, snooping.
I didn’t resent stakeouts like some cops, at least there I was out in the field. But stuck in an office ... I guess waiting patiently was a virtue I’d yet to acquire. The old cop mantra — get out there and knock on doors — tugged at me. Although, Nazi compound doors were not the most salubrious portals. Now that I thought about it.
Still, I was ready to go. The Barbara Reynolds ID was deep and strong. I liked the redheaded, Page Boy Bob, the look. So did Walker, but that was a different subject for a different time. Same with Matt’s ... even more ardent enjoyment. Different subject, different time.
Sandra Fleming called me into her office. Daddy was already there. She smiled, “Your Southern Poverty trip may have paid off. Or started to pay off.”
I perked up, “Really? How?”
“Thomassa gave you second-tier names for five of those Nazi compounds. Five of the seven that Wexler visited.”
Daddy said, “Preaching the Meriwether gospel.”
I nodded, excitement building.
Sandra pointed to a single sheet with ‘WHITES’ at the top. I’d seen it before — the FBI’s best approximation of an organization chart for that Wyoming compound. She drew a line from the top box, Wheilhelm Wagner, to a blank, hand-drawn rectangle. Used a red Bic and wrote, Kurt Schmidt.
“We hadn’t known about Schmidt. Low profile, never attends a rally, doesn’t make speeches, doesn’t post online. But Southern Poverty had heard of him — his people are from Mobile. One of the friendly Baptist ministers ... well, Schmidt’s family is in his congregation.”
“And... ?”
Daddy smiled grimly, “Has a taste for the black stuff. Men and boys.”
“No!”
I was still banking my frequent flyer miles. I hadn’t brought up the subject with Matt again. I wouldn’t unless they were about to expire. I wouldn’t let that happen; if nothing else, maybe I’d donate them to charity. Maybe I should do that anyway. Unless that would raise a red flag — draw attention to my being on the Congressional payroll. Indirectly, very indirectly, but still...
Fuck.
Those miles were on my mind because I’d just gotten off United at Reagan. Well, it was a couple of hours ago. A certain chauffeur had insisted in taking advantage of my jet lag. Crossing a time zone was, of course, disorienting to me.
I must have been pretty confused, how else to explain a wet, soapy bed? And cuffs? And a certain pleasant soreness between my thighs?
Matt, All-Business Matt, sat up in bed, “Okay, Connie’s office, ten in the morning.”
“Which office?”
“Capitol.”
Not Senator Wainwright’s larger office in the Hart Senate Building. Which meant our meeting with Constance would be private, probably just the three of us. The Hart office would be filled with staffers.
I thought about the meeting; was fairly confident it would be some sort of green light. I didn’t think Constance would have had me fly back here for a gabfest. On the other hand, even Matt wasn’t sure what her agenda was. Well, tomorrow.
I’ve fired at another human three times. Number one was when I shot and killed Gunner Gunther. I hit him with my first shot, center of his chest. But he was wearing Kevlar and struggled back up. I missed twice, aiming at his head from about twenty feet away. The last shot nailed him.
Some therapy, some mild regrets, but the fact was, I never did feel all that bad. Hardly any guilt. He’d been trying to kill me.
My second confrontation was in that Georgetown parking garage when Dixie Wexler shot at Matt and me. Or in our direction. Using Matt’s Sig Sauer, I fired one shot, several feet above Wexler. I hadn’t been trying to hit him, just wanted to scare him away.
The latest episode also involved Wexler. He was approaching my Exchange Building office early in the morning. That time, I just flat missed. Was shaky, led him a little too much.
The last two incidents ... well I made a rookie mistake. Twice. I forgot to disengage the safety. The parking garage didn’t bother me — I just wanted to let Wexler know we were armed.
But when I missed him on Genessee Street ... well, that was on me.
I asked Daddy about it. A man who had never fired his own gun in 30 years of service. Police service, I didn’t know about Vietnam. He said, “Ask Matt. Maybe Ash.”
Matt called Ash for me himself. And that was how I ended up in an FBI combat-shooting program. Nothing particularly insider about it — it was open to police departments around the country.
But what was special — Ash slid me into a one-on-one tutorial. He not only bumped me to the head of the waiting list, he created, or dictated, a Winter-only curriculum. Three days. Well, two days and one night.
I was sure that Matt had made my case to Ash. Guys are notorious for going to great lengths for pussy. But ... no complaints from me.
Ginger McDermott wasn’t what I had expected. She wasn’t a grizzled 25-year old FBI vet waiting out retirement. Ginger was 27, about my age. Sort of. Bouncy, upbeat, irreverent. Corkscrew red hair that she kept out of her face with a tight, black scrunchie.
One thing didn’t surprise me — classroom time before range time. Just like driver’s ed. Made sense ... deadly weapons in both cases.
Ginger started with conversations — a sort of Socratic dialogue that Gertie used. When she wasn’t in full lecture mode.
“Why do you want combat training?”
I went through my three incidents. A short list, but in a way, any list is too long.
Ginger used a whiteboard and sketched in a detailed overview of each shooting. The first one, near my office had been captured on three cell cameras. Bystanders in office buildings on 16th Street.
Ginger took the videos with her to study. The next day she said, “You did remarkably well. Probably better than I would have. And I’m an instructor.”
“Have you ever... ?”
“No. Most of us haven’t. And I hope I never do. Okay, back to you. You hit your target at 17-feet, 8-inches. First shot. Outstanding. Bad luck about the vest, but you did your job.”
I nodded. I hadn’t known the precise distance.
Ginger said, “National shooting stats are all over the place. One of the most famous police statistical studies was probably one in New York City. The headline was ‘Cops have an 18% hit rate.’”
I’d seen that study.
She said, “Not surprisingly, accuracy goes up the closer the target is. Here in Quantico, we shifted the majority of our practices to a distance of three to seven yards. Most fatalities occur within five feet or so.”
“What about rifles?”
“An entirely different discipline. More military than law enforcement. I mean any good sized organization has a sniper or two. But it’s mostly pistol work and that’s how we train the majority of our agents.”
We were in the famous Hogan’s Alley. A faux town built with the help of Hollywood set designers. Ginger nodded at the bank, smiled, “It’s robbed at least twice a week.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But the interesting thing is we teach defense almost as much as offense. Which is what I want you to take away. Look for protection — a car, mailbox, anything that shields you physically. Even if it wouldn’t stop a bullet, it can make you more difficult to see. To hit.”
“Okay.”
“The most important thing, and I know you know this, is to not get in a gunfight in the first place. Do anything, everything, to avoid that.”
I smiled, “Just like my self-defense coach tells us.”
“That’s right. Okay, let’s talk about your issue with the safety.”
She walked me through all three scenarios again. And again.
Ginger said, “The FBI is ... institutional. Practical. We believe in using what works. What has worked in the past. But what I’ve learned is that individual agents are just that — individuals. Each of us can be molded during training, and that shaping can be reinforced out in the field. But only up to a point. We have to figure out what works for you. Even if it’s unorthodox.”
She established a gun routine, pistol routine, for me. “Every time you take your weapon in your hand, every time you’re in the field I mean, turn the safety off first thing. Practice, practice, practice. Even after it’s automatic, drilled into your brain, practice, practice, practice.”
By our last session, nighttime in Hogan’s Alley, Ginger no longer said, “Jennings, you’re dead.” I no longer forgot to flip the safety from Off to On.
This was the life I’ve chosen.
The Capitol Building, like it was designed to do, impressed me. Worked every time, but maybe I was easy. I was also impressed by how many people knew Matt, greeted him by name. Guards, yeah. But also tour guides, congressional staffers, a janitor with a broom over his shoulder.
And, three members of the House of Representatives. Even more people said ‘Hi’ when we entered the Senate side.
I wasn’t sure what that meant; I guess that Matt spent a lot of time meeting with Constance Grayson.
On the way to the Capitol I asked Matt, “If Constance does go to Wall Street, would you go with her?”
He gave me a sad smile that still lit up his face. “No, Connie wouldn’t need the kind of things I can do up there.”
There was that slight tremor in his left hand again. I gave him my game smile, “Well I still need the things you can do.”
“Lucky for me.”
“Lucky for both of us. But what would you do? I mean here in DC?”
“Connie would make sure I keep busy.”
“With Senator Wainwright?”
He nodded, “Probably.”
So he didn’t have any more job security than I did. Hmm.
Constance wore another one of her Ralph Lauren outfits, this one a sort of dusty rose. I wondered how many she had. I also wondered why her wardrobe was any of my business.
But mostly I wondered what Ash Collins was doing in her office.
Constance smiled at Matt and me, “Okay, Meriwether time. Ash.”
“Legal tells us that Charles and David aren’t making much headway in their appeals.”
Constance said, “Even with the current administration’s ... alignment with their nationalistic philosophy.”
Matt said, “Any chance of a pardon?”
Ash said, “That’s the concern. Now they can continue to spend millions, tens of millions, on the appeals process. But a pardon cuts through everything.”
Constance said, “Money talks, always has. The Meriwether brothers — their criminal attorneys anyway — convinced Justice to transfer them to FPC Pensacola.”
Matt nodded to me, “Federal Prison Camp. Minimum security. Very generous visitor policies.”
Constance said, “Even so, the kids haven’t visited Charles and David one time.”
Ash said, “It’s a strategic decision — keep Strom, Sam, and Sarah out of public view. The lawyers serve as family couriers.”
My question was about Wexler. And Hoffstatter. But I’d bide my time. For a while.
Constance, Ash, and Matt discussed the minutiae of prison life. The near impossibility of leaks from the Meriwether team. Teams. The various judges who might become involved in the lengthy appeals process.
Then Ash turned to Matt, “The SnitchVine points to a coordinated series of nationalist rallies. It’s still in the planning stages. The intent is to have dozens of demonstrations around the country. Simultaneous demonstrations.”
Constance said, “Like the evil twin of the Women’s March last year.”
Matt shook his head, “And each one has the potential to turn into another Charlottesville.”
Constance said, “And with the dog-whistle approvals from DC ... well, the haters feel their overall situation is much more salubrious.”
Ash said, “Unfortunately, they’re right.” He frowned, “It pains me to say this, I’m an old-school conservative, but my people have ceded the stage to the extremists.”
Constance said, “The Democrats are heading that way too. It’ll get worse before it gets better.”
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