In Plain Sight (17 page)

“Oh my,” was all Myra could think of to say. “I really don’t understand all of this, can you just tell us, you know, a summary?”

“The short answer is the company is going down the drain. The decline started, I guess you could say, when Amalie lit out. I’ve been at this for the last two days, and I finally have it all together. He bought this run-of-the-mill company that as near as I can figure out, catered to cosmetics that teenage girls bought in drugstores. In other words, cheap stuff. He hired some top marketing guns and some wizard chemists, and suddenly the company is right up there, marketing-wise, with Chanel and La Prairie. He had it all repackaged, put in new machinery, renamed the company, and hired and married Amalie Laurent, a gorgeous French model who was starting to make a name for herself in the modeling world to be the new face of
La Natural
. He then quadrupled the price of the brand to go with the packaging and suddenly the whole world stood in line to buy the products he was producing. The only thing he
didn’t
do was change the actual product. It was the same product all those teenage girls were buying in drugstores.

“And when he married Amalie, and it was like Princess Diana all over again. The ad campaign he initiated with Amalie as the face of the company took off like a rocket. The ads were everywhere, TV, radio, billboards, magazines, the whole nine yards. He did not overlook one angle promotion-wise. The whole world wanted to look like Amalie Laurent Moss. You know the French. They called the couple the Princess and the Frog.”

“And then . . .” Annie said.

“And then he screwed up,” Abner said gleefully. He tried to . . . I don’t know how to explain this . . . he used old footage of some of the video Amalie had shot for promotions and dubbed in her person. Does that make sense? The new shoots were crude, and the media picked up on it. He pulled in his horns right away, then went with all stills. The other big companies started taking shots at him and his company while they redoubled their own advertising budgets with fresh talent.”

“So, the company couldn’t survive without Amalie is what you’re saying. It started going downhill when she left, and Moss couldn’t get the company back on track,” Myra said.

Abner clapped his hands together. “I hate that bastard. I got into his financials, and the man made billions, that’s with a
B.
The company now isn’t worth the packaging. He’s also taken some political hits here in town. Doesn’t matter if he’s the President’s best bud or not. To be honest, though, a lot of it is jealousy. I mean, get real, the guy could walk in and out of the White House at any time of the day or night, whereas the others have to make an appointment and go through all that Secret Service rigmarole. Moss just acted like he owned the joint. Hey, you heard all the rumors, read all the write-ups about the guy. It was all true. Not sure now, though. Then there are all those whispers about a little black book. It’s like where there’s smoke, there’s fire. He has a file, or so the whispers go, on every politician and advisor in the administration. Who knows if it’s true or not, but you have to ask yourself how those whispers started in the first place.

“Things started going south when the industry got wind of the dubbed-photo campaigns. And then the gossip started. Where was Amalie? Why wasn’t she seen in person? Moss’s response when the French asked was she was in America adjusting to her new home. When the American media asked, she was in Paris doing a photo shoot. That got real old real quick. When I went through his financials, I saw that he spared no expense to find her. He went through private detective agencies like I go through Diet Pepsi. Which says a lot for Pearl and her underground railroad. Moss had the best of the best, and they couldn’t find her. Which, by the way, leads me to another question. What are you guys going to do about your . . . um . . . guest back there in the dungeon? She’s been screaming and hollering like a banshee for hours now.”

“Let her. Maybe if we’re lucky, she’ll lose her voice entirely. But to answer your question, we haven’t decided yet what to do with her,” Annie said briskly. “Anything else you think we should know?”

“One other thing. In his desperate bid to bring the company back up to snuff, Moss circulated a rumor. At least I think it’s a rumor because I can’t find any data to back it up. He’s saying his chemists at
La Natural
have developed something that is so revolutionary it will put Botox and all those other . . . things ladies use to fill in their cracks, I mean wrinkles, out of business. Whatever. That got him a couple of spikes in the media and the trades. He also alluded to the fact that Amalie would endorse the product by saying that when she feels she might need a little extra help with the fine lines and wrinkles, she will definitely use the product.”

“Well, now, that’s downright cheeky on his part, wouldn’t you say so, Myra?”

“I would, Annie. Amalie did say something about that earlier. But how would she know unless it was something in the works before she left Moss? Maybe the guy plans ahead.”

“Anything else, Abner?”

“I think that about covers it for now. Is there anything else you want me to dig into?”

“Not at the moment. Are you coming topside, or are you staying down here?” Myra asked.

Abner looked at the oversize watch on his wrist. “I still have some stuff I want to go through. I’m not real happy with some of the accounts I’ve gone through. The guy is tricky; he hides stuff like a pack rat. I’ll find it, though, it just takes time. I assume you want me to earmark enough money to last Amalie and her friend Rosalee, not to mention both sets of parents, their lifetime, right?”

“Yes, of course. Amalie and Rosalee deserve a rich payday for all they’ve been put through by that man. Be generous, Abner,” Myra said.

Abner laughed as he rubbed his hands together. “There’s nothing I love more than giving away other people’s money. Even with
La Natural
tanking, the man has a vast fortune.”

“Not for long.” Myra and Annie laughed as they made their way to the main part of the house.

Back outside on the terrace, the women noticed that Maggie and the boys had just arrived. Chatter was at an all-time high as Maggie regaled everyone with their visit to Lincoln Moss’s estate. They all tried to ignore the tenseness in Amalie’s shoulders and her white face. Nikki reached out, and clasped her hand, and squeezed it. Yoko stroked her shoulder with one of her tiny hands. Amalie calmed almost instantly, and she even smiled.

Maggie finally wound down after she gave a description of what Lincoln Moss was wearing. “And the best part, ladies and gentlemen, is this. He didn’t even ask where I got his oh-so-private cell-phone number. How cool is that?”

“Where
did
you get it?” Isabelle asked.

“At first Abner got it somehow. But then I also got it from Rosalee. She said one day he left his cell phone behind, and I guess she knows how to figure things like that out. She told Amalie, and they both memorized the number. And then they gave it to me. If they’re right, it’s the phone Moss and the President use. And it is the same number Abner gave me.

“No one else calls on it. And, supposedly, no one else has the number. I’ve been expecting him to call ever since we left the estate, but so far he hasn’t,” Maggie said.

“That’s because,” Amalie said, “right now, he’s in a rage, with no one to take that rage out on. Don’t think for one minute he isn’t aware that you now have his number. I can tell you, without a shadow of a doubt, he is on a rampage, busting up furniture, banging holes in the walls, smashing windows, and God alone knows what else. Lincoln has a hair-trigger temper. The only person he never vents it on is the President. Never.

“In the beginning, when I first met Lincoln Moss, he had as we French say, a certain
je ne sais quoi
that I and my friends found irresistible.

“That went by the wayside very quickly, and over time, I learned to watch for the little things that would set him off. Rosalee learned, too, in case I missed it. Sometimes we would hide for hours in the pool house or the toolshed until he was done wrecking the house. If he wrecked the house, I was safe. If I was available, then I became the wreckage.”

“Good Lord, what a way to have to live,” Kathryn said, her eyes moist.

“I know you all wonder why I put up with it, why I didn’t leave sooner. I wanted to. It was all I dreamed about, but I couldn’t. I was watched constantly. And then there is the fear factor. Until you experience real fear, you have no idea what it’s like. I was afraid he would kill me. All I could think about was my family and what kind of story he’d come up with if he did kill me.”

“We’re not judging you, Amalie,” Yoko said as she remembered what her own mother had gone through at the hands of a man just like Lincoln Moss. “We can all relate to what you went through, and we are all dedicated to making sure your life going forward is all you want it to be and more. In time, you’ll be able to say, and even believe, that Lincoln Moss was just someone you had the misfortune to have in your life at one point.”

Amalie swiped at her eyes. What wonderful people these women were. And the men, too. Right now, she felt like the luckiest woman walking the planet.

Suddenly, Maggie let loose with a warlike whoop of sound. “He’s calling! Mr. Lincoln Moss himself is calling! Everyone, quiet! I’ll put him on speaker, so you can all hear!”

Maggie pressed the
TALK
button, and said, “Maggie Spritzer!”

The voice was ice-cold. Maggie envisioned icicles hanging from Moss’s nose. The voice was nothing like the one she’d heard earlier out at the estate.

“Miss Spritzer, this is Lincoln Moss. We met a short while ago out in my driveway. You called me. I have a question for you. Where did you get the number you called me on?”

“Reporter’s secret, Mr. Moss,” Maggie said lightly. “A reporter never divulges his or her sources. Just out of curiosity, is there something I should or shouldn’t know about that particular number?”

“Of course not, that’s silly. I always thought a private number was a private number. Only two people in the whole world have this particular number, myself and one other person. So you should be able to understand my concern. And now you have it. That makes three people who now have the number. Four people if you count the person who gave you the number. That is unacceptable.”

“That’s right. I guess. I count four also. And your point is?”

“Again, where did you get the number?” There was no more patience in the voice.

“Again, Mr. Moss,” Maggie said, parroting Moss, “a good reporter never divulges his or her sources.”

“Here’s the thing, Miss Spritzer, this phone number is private for a very good reason, a reason I cannot divulge to you in the interests of national security, so now please tell me where you got this number.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you that information. What I can do is give you my personal word that I will not divulge that particular number to anyone else. A reporter’s word is sacrosanct, in case you don’t know that.”

“That isn’t good enough for me. I’ll give you till nine o’clock tomorrow morning to call me with your source. If you don’t, I’ll make sure you go on every terrorist list that Homeland Security has, then I’ll initiate a full-blown tax audit for your entire life. And just so you know, I have the juice to follow through.”

Maggie’s eyes popped wide. “Did you just threaten me, Mr. Moss? I think you did. And just for the record, the
Post
has some juice of its own. There is nothing more powerful than the written word. You want to take me and the
Post
on, go for it. I am sure that our readership will be very happy to know exactly what you just did, threaten me with being put on a terrorist watch list and having the IRS audit my tax returns for the rest of my life. And how do you think President Knight will respond to your threatening to use agencies of the United States government to harass a
Washington Post
reporter, Mr. Moss?”

When there was no answer, Maggie realized she was talking to dead air. “That s.o.b. just threatened me. And he hung up on me! Did you record all that, Ted?”

“I did. That guy is one hell of a whack job, that’s for sure.”

“I told you,” Amalie muttered. “He’s worse than the Devil himself.”

“Yes you did tell us that, dear. And we did listen,” Myra assured her.

All eyes were on Amalie when she made the sign of the cross because, as she said, that’s what you do when the Devil comes out to play.

Chapter 16

L
incoln Moss looked around at the destruction he had wrought in the master bedroom. He blinked. It looked like a war zone. Worse yet, he could see his reflection in a long glass shard of mirror that was still attached to the huge walk-in closet that housed all of his wife’s belongings. He looked worse than the room. His face was red and mottled, his hair was standing on end, and his eyes spewed hatred. Even he could see that he was out of control. He clenched and unclenched his fists as he tromped through splinters and broken glass and mirrors. What the hell was wrong with him? How could he let some smarmy reporter get the best of him? Did he really threaten to put her on a terrorist list and threaten an all-out IRS audit? Damn straight he did. Like he really had the juice to do that. He’d been put in his place the last time he’d tried that.

Moss massaged his throbbing temples. Did he really want to go up against the awesome
Post
and their team of investigative reporters? Not in this lifetime he didn’t. Well, maybe he’d take a stab at it if Amalie were still under his thumb, but she wasn’t. She was out there somewhere, and his gut was telling him the smarmy reporter knew exactly where she was. He continued to massage his temples, which were pounding so hard, he wondered if he was going to have a stroke. He needed to calm down and come up with a plan, and he needed to do it immediately, before more damage could be done.

Moss’s thoughts took him to the upcoming gala the First Lady was hosting in a few days. It was the last place he wanted to go. But at the moment, he could not see a way to get out of it. And then to hear that Amalie was going to attend. That news was like a silver bullet right through the heart. Maybe it was all a rumor initiated by that snippy reporter. Reporters did crap like that all the time in hopes of getting a rise out of whomever they were targeting.

On top of all that, the President had been silent. He hadn’t called once in the last two days. By the same token, Moss had not called the President either. A waiting game. Who was going to blink first? Maybe it was time to get out of Dodge. He had the wherewithal to go anywhere in the world he chose and live out his days in luxury. If he wanted to. The question was, did he?

Now that he was calming down, he started to think clearly. Maybe he could make things right, call Spritzer, and apologize. He could always get a new cell-phone number. In the whole of his life, with one glaring exception, he’d never apologized to anyone. Only when Gabe had proved right about the purchase of
La Natural
did Lincoln apologize for doubting him. Other than that, the reason he never apologized was because he was never wrong.

So, why start now? Spritzer was right, there was nothing more powerful than the written word, and the one thing any politician learned from the git-go was that you never made an enemy of the press. As in never, ever. And he’d done just that in a fit of rage.

Moss leaned over and pressed the button on the intercom. “Send someone up here to clean this mess. And when you’re done, put some flowers in here. I’ll move into one of the guest rooms until things are returned to normal.”

Flowers! He’d send Spritzer some flowers. Women liked flowers. That should make things right.

Moss stomped his way out of the room, down the hall to one of the many guest rooms, where he headed for the shower. He stepped in the moment the water rushed out of the twenty-seven pulsing jets, still wearing his grungy clothes and Timberland boots. There were more ways than one to skin a cat, and he knew them all, he assured himself, as he peeled off his filthy, sweat-stained clothes.

 

 

The First Lady, also known as Emily Helen Knight of the United States, paced the family quarters as she waited for her husband to join her for lunch. He was an hour late, which was nothing new. When his press secretary called her midmorning to say the President wanted to have lunch in their private quarters, she hadn’t been the least surprised. Gabe needed to talk. Or he
wanted
her to talk. As in, share the latest White House gossip. She wondered what it was this time. Probably something to do with Lincoln Moss, she decided.

Emily Knight picked up her pace as she walked from one room to the other. She was a plain, pleasant woman who was often compared to a young Bess Truman. At first, she’d been insulted, then flattered. Bess Truman was a kind, gentle woman who did not let her position influence or take away from the real person she was. Lincoln Moss didn’t like her. He’d made that abundantly clear the day Gabe introduced her to his best friend in the whole world. He thought Gabe could do better than a farm girl from Kansas. But Gabe had defied Lincoln and proposed, and she’d accepted. They had had a wonderful marriage until they moved here to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Wonderful as long as she stayed out of Lincoln Moss’s sight. It was still wonderful in many ways when Lincoln Moss wasn’t in the picture, even living here at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the most famous address in the world.

Emily was aware of all the gossip, the insider backbiting, and the downright nastiness that went on within these hallowed walls. There were those who said Gabe couldn’t tie his shoes unless Lincoln showed him how to do it. It wasn’t true, but still they said it. In many ways, it was Gabe’s fault that he allowed Lincoln to overpower and overshadow him. Then there were the whispers about Moss’s little black book, the book everyone feared, even Gabe, if the whispers were true. Personally, she believed it and wouldn’t put it past Lincoln Moss to blackmail anyone who crossed his path. She’d learned the hard way not to interfere in any way in the relationship between her husband and Lincoln Moss. Every night, she prayed for insight and the hope that someday she would come to understand that particular friendship.

Emily looked down at her watch, a small gold face on a gold-plated expansion band. It had been her parents’ gift to her when she graduated from high school. She treasured it like no other piece of jewelry in her velvet-lined jewel case. To this day, it still worked, and she was never without it. Oh, she had fancy watches, one from Tiffany’s and a gold Rolex, but they were too ostentatious for her. You could take the girl out of Kansas, but you couldn’t take Kansas out of the girl. She was who she was, it was that simple.

Gabe was now ninety minutes late. She had a meeting at 3:15 with the caterers, one that she absolutely had to attend. She wondered what would happen if she didn’t attend, then decided she really didn’t care one way or the other. Right now, her husband needed to talk to her, and that was all that was important.

She didn’t hear him until he was right behind her. She loved it when he nuzzled her neck like he was doing right now. “Sorry, Em. I tried to be on time, but one thing led to another.” She nodded in understanding. “What’s for lunch?”

“What you asked for, sloppy joes with sour-cream cucumbers. We have to eat fast, I have a meeting at 3:15.”

“Well, it’s just going to have to wait, just like my 3:15 is going to have to wait. We are having lunch. Together. And we are not going to eat fast, either. And then we are going to have dessert. I’m up for a glass of wine. How about you?”

Emily nodded. Whatever this little luncheon was about, it must be serious. Gabe never drank wine at lunch; nor did she. Well, there was a first time for everything.

Husband and wife sat down at the kitchen table that Gabe insisted they use when they were in their private residence. They waited while the steward served them, then quietly withdrew.

“We could probably push this along if you’d get right to the point, Gabe. I know you love my company, but I sense that something is troubling you. Let’s hear it,” Emily said as she bit into her sloppy sandwich. Why Gabe loved these messy sandwiches was beyond her.

“Now this is what I call a good sandwich,” the President said, wolfing down the oozing sandwich. “C’mon, Em, admit you like them, too.”

Soft brown eyes stared across the table at her husband. Sometimes it was hard to remember Gabe was the President of the United States. Like right now, he was just the guy she was lucky enough to marry. “They are tasty. I admit it. Now, are you happy?”

“As a pig in a mudslide. So, Em, here is my problem. I need to know what the gossip is. You’re the only one I can ask. I know your staff hears it all and tells you because that’s what women do. Now, mind you, I’m not judging,” Gabe said, his eyes twinkling.

“Are you asking for a certain type of gossip about a certain individual or just gossip in general?”

Gabe reached for a second sandwich as he rolled his eyes. “You and I agreed never to play games with each other, Em. What have you heard?”

The First Lady got a little testy at that moment. “Sometimes, I don’t understand you, Gabriel. One minute, Lincoln Moss’s name is never to pass my lips, and you tell me not to listen to gossip. And then you turn around and ask me what the gossip is. I think you need to tell me what is going on. And before you can ask, yes, he did buy a whole table for ten for the gala Saturday night. However, he did not return his personal RSVP.”

Emily had called him Gabriel. When his wife addressed him by his given name, the President knew he was in some serious hot water. He plucked at a crisp chunk of cucumber and popped it into his mouth. He waited to see if she would elaborate. When she simply looked at him and did what he did, popped a wedge of cucumber into her mouth, he knew he had both feet in the hot water.

The President polished off the wine in his glass and poured another. He looked over at his wife, who shook her head. “Let’s hear it.”

“Listen to me, Gabe. No matter what I say, you are going to take it personal. As in there is no love lost between Lincoln and me. I don’t like the man, I never did. Actually, Gabriel, I detest him. Just so you know, there were many times when I almost gave you an ultimatum, him or me. The reason I didn’t was because, in my heart of hearts, I believed you would have chosen Lincoln. There, I finally said it out loud. Who would you have chosen if that came to pass, Gabriel?”

Gabe brought the wineglass to his lips as he tried to imagine his life with either Emily or Lincoln missing. His hesitation did not go unnoticed by his wife. “I would have chosen you, Emily.” He wondered if his response was really true, and he could see that his wife was wondering the very same thing. His stomach churned, and now he wished he’d passed on the second sloppy joe sandwich.

Emily just stared sadly at her husband. “Since we’re being honest with each other, I think it’s easy for you to say that now. Back then, had I given you the ultimatum, I think we both know you would have anguished over your decision. That’s water under the bridge now, as they say, Gabriel. You need to cut Lincoln Moss loose before it’s too late. By too late, I mean that your top people are going to resign. It would seem, if the gossip is true, that little black book everyone whispers about actually exists. That’s the gossip you want to hear. Am I right?”

Gabe swallowed hard. “When you say my top people, who are you referring to exactly, and why hasn’t anyone said anything to me?”

“Because . . . Gabriel, you refuse to listen to anyone except Lincoln. It’s your own fault. But to answer your question, your chief of staff, your National Security Advisor, and the Director of Homeland Security. The latest rumor seems to be that the Director of the CIA is so fed up with Moss, she’s one hair away from stepping down. The only one who has been silent is the Director of the FBI, Jack Sparrow.”

Gabriel Knight chewed on his bottom lip. He felt lower than a snake’s belly. “I haven’t heard from Lincoln in two days.”

“And this surprises you . . . why?” Emily snorted.

Gabe winced at his wife’s sarcasm. “It was my turn to call him. I didn’t. Mainly because my chief of staff, Geoff, made a few stinging comments, and I took them to heart. The truth is, I called him out on it, and he let loose. I really thought about firing him on the spot, but I didn’t. He’s a good man, and he is loyal to me.”

“You always said you couldn’t trust anyone but Lincoln. Are you saying now that all of that trust is changing? Why? What is going on, Gabe?”

“Morale, for want of a better word. Everyone is surly, no one wants to take responsibility for making decisions only to be countermanded by Lincoln. And, yes, I let that happen. I also rescinded his pass. Now he has to do what everyone else does, make an appointment or stay away. While I did not call him, he has not called me, either.”

“Oh, Gabe, don’t you see what he’s doing? He’s showing you he’s in control, and you will call him when you need him. He’s not going to blink if that’s what you’re thinking. He never did belong at your early-morning briefings. That’s what started all the resentment toward him. You must know that,” Emily said.

What he knew was that his wife was now calling him Gabe and not Gabriel. If nothing else, he was grateful for that. He nodded. “Okay, what’s the rest of it?”

“It’s just gossip, Gabe. Hurtful gossip. I even hate repeating it. But part of me believes it because it makes sense, at least to me. All gossip has a seed of truth to it, we both know that.”

“Just tell me, Em. Let’s get it all out right now.”

“Well, the secretive looks and whispers started when that picture of Lincoln’s wife appeared in the tabloid. Some of the secretaries actually had the paper. I hate to admit this, but after they left, I took it out of the trash and read it. Things like that always grow legs, and the story can become so outlandish it’s like it came from another planet.

“The gossip was that Lincoln batted Amalie around. One of the girls said a friend of hers was in the restroom at some political function when Amalie was there. It was some affair at the Ritz-Carlton. She saw Amalie lift up her top to look at a huge black-and-blue bruise on her rib cage. She said she put a cold compress on it. She explained to this person that she had fallen off a horse. Then someone else said they used to watch how gingerly she walked, like she’d been hurt. My press secretary looked me right in the eye, Gabe, and told me Lincoln was, and these are her exact words, ‘beating the hell out of his wife’ in places where it didn’t show.