In Plain Sight (23 page)

“What do you think I said, Myra? I told her if she didn’t start acting like she was having the time of her life and start flirting with Director Sparrow, I was personally going to deliver her with a big red bow on top of her head to her husband at the end of the evening.”

Myra gasped. “Tell me you didn’t say that?”

“You want me to lie to you, Myra?”

“Good Lord, no. Well, she does look like she’s enjoying herself.”

Annie smiled.

As the evening wore on, the group relaxed. Moving about, however, proved to be a challenge, what with all the Secret Service. One by one, the members of the group got up, took bathroom breaks just to head to the spacious lobby to see if there was any sign of Lincoln Moss or anyone who looked like he didn’t belong. All reports were negative, which then caused anxiety on Annie’s part.

Isabelle nudged Yoko, and whispered, “Check out the Director and Amalie. Tell me that isn’t love about to bloom.” Yoko giggled. “And look at Dennis and the sappy expression on his face. He’s already in love with Rosalee. That’s a good thing. Dennis needs someone to love, and it sure looks to me like Rosalee is returning his affection.” Yoko continued to giggle.

Harry got up and said he was going outside to get some air. He looked pointedly at Jack, who quickly agreed that he could use some air, too.

Outside, the night was sticky hot. “Let’s take a walk, Jack,” Harry said, striding off. Jack had no other choice but to follow. “What’s up, Harry?”

“Think about it, Jack. I’ve got eyestrain right now from staring at everyone inside that hotel trying to see who didn’t belong. As in someone Moss sent. He isn’t here, that’s obvious. We both know he wants to know if his wife showed up. How else is he going to find out unless he’s got someone here doing surveillance. I haven’t seen anyone like that, have you?”

“No, and if Snowden has people here, I haven’t been able to spot them either. So we are meandering around hoping to . . . what, spot someone with a camera that has long-range optics?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered.

“We should be smoking a cigarette or a cigar, something, so we don’t stand out. Two guys in tuxes strolling along is going to raise eyebrows. People might think we’re gay.” Jack expected Harry to make a comment, but he didn’t.

“Pay attention, Jack, your four o’clock, guy in a Tommy Bahama shirt across the street. I say we pretend to have had too much to drink, and we go down one block, cross over, sneak up on him, and take him out.”

“Works for me, Harry,” Jack said, picking up his pace. It only took five minutes of staggering down the pavement, pretending to hold each other up, and extolling the virtues of the smoking-hot babes inside the Four Seasons. The man standing against a building, well out of sight, dropped the camera he was holding to his side and waited for the two drunks to pass him.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Gunter Wolf. How’s it going, man?” Jack said happily, as Harry reached for the detective’s camera.

“You know this guy?” Harry asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Jack drawled. “When I was a prosecutor, he was a regular in court testifying in divorce cases, usually battery. He’s a pro. Who you working for, Gunter?”

“C’mon, Emery, you know I can’t tell you that. Client privilege.”

“That’s crap, Gunter. How about if we tell you who you’re working for, and you take it from there. If you don’t help us out here, you’re going to find yourself in a world of pain. Lincoln Moss.”

“I am neither confirming nor denying. You can’t intimidate me, Emery. This is not a court of law. You don’t have any jurisdiction here. I’m not breaking any laws, I’m not loitering either. Buzz off, buddy.”

Jack crossed his arms over his chest. “Gunter, that isn’t working for me. Last chance, what’s your deal? Pain is . . . a terrible thing, and you’re so bony to begin with. I bet your joints would snap in a good wind.”

Harry’s foot, in his shiny, patent-leather shoe, shot out and smacked into Wolf’s knee. Jack thought he heard a bone snap as the private detective toppled over groaning in pain. “Good shot, Harry.”

“I know,” Harry said.

“One knee down and one to go, Gunter. Talk to us.”

“Okay, okay, you sadistic bastard. Yeah, it’s Lincoln Moss. I’ve worked for him before; he pays real good. Hard man to deal with. Jesus, my leg hurts. Will you call an ambulance or something. You busted my kneecap.”

“In your dreams. Keep talking.”

“All right, all right. Moss called me yesterday to meet him and paid me a hundred grand to come here and find out if his wife showed up. He wanted pictures.” He moaned some more but stopped the minute he saw Harry lift his foot. “Okay, okay, I tried to find her over the years, but she disappeared into thin air. Couldn’t find a trace of her anywhere. Then he calls again out of the blue, and I didn’t want to take the job, but the money was too good to pass up. I’m supposed to get pictures. I got some, but I don’t think he’s going to approve. I was supposed to check in an hour ago. I didn’t. I didn’t want to listen to his threats. Besides, there are some newspeople in there taking pictures of the guests. If she’s in there, and I think she is, it will be on the ten o’clock news. Damn, my leg hurts. You bastard, you shattered my kneecap.”

“Yeah, I did. You want to go for two?” Harry asked. Wolf just moaned.

“Where’s your phone? Don’t make me ask again,” Jack said.

Jack reached for the phone and started scrolling. “He’s sent you nine texts in a little over an hour and a half. Are you lying to us that you didn’t respond? Or are you telling the truth?”

“I didn’t respond. Man, would you please call a doctor for me. This pain is killing me. C’mon, give me back my camera; that cost some big bucks.”

“In your dreams. Possession is nine points of the law. Anything else you want to tell us while you can still talk?” Jack snarled.

“What the hell does that mean, while I can still talk?”

“It means I am going to bust up your other knee if you don’t tell us what we want to know,” Harry said.

“I told you everything. The pictures I managed to get suck. I know Moss won’t be happy with them. The man is crazy, he wants instant results. I tried to explain to him that this was a tricky job, but he didn’t care. That’s it. Now will you please call a doctor or EMS for me. I’m going to black out.”

Harry looked over at Jack, who was busy sending a text to Lincoln Moss. He was also grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Tell me how this sounds, Harry. ‘Subject entered Four Seasons on the arm of the Director of the FBI and a large party that seemed to be all together. Subject was laughing and looking like a movie star. She was dressed to the nines and sported enough jewelry to light up the night. Pictures to follow shortly.’ ”

“Works for me.” Harry laughed.

“That guy is going to frigging kill me when he finds out I didn’t send that text. Look, forget the EMS, help me to my car. I need to get out of here.”

“See ya, pal,” Jack said as he walked away with Wolf’s phone and camera, Harry right behind him.

“Where are you going to stash the camera and the phone? We can’t take them into the ballroom.”

“The courtesy desk, unless you have a better idea. Our limo has moved on and won’t be back for another hour.”

“Let’s do it,” Harry said happily as he smacked his hands together.

Jack loved it when Harry was in a good mood.

Back at the table, Jack and Harry both whispered about what had gone down to Nikki and Yoko, who in turn passed it on to the others.

“Oh, look, the First Lady and the President are making the rounds of the tables, so pictures can be taken. I think after that happens, we can leave,” Myra said. “I think it will go quickly. We’re Table Four, so another thirty minutes, and we’re gone. Kathryn, call and alert the drivers.”

Myra turned to Annie. “I never had my picture taken with a President and First Lady before. I know you have. How did you feel?”

“Like I met two new people. Okay, watch, Myra, they’re heading for Sparrow’s table. Keep your eye on Amalie.”

Myra did just that. She wished she could hear the conversation, but the music was so loud that all she could do was watch what was happening at the table she had purchased.

“How nice to see you again, Amalie,” President Knight said, bending low to hug the young woman. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, Mr. President, five long years. Congratulations on your second term. It’s good to see you, too. This is a lovely affair. I hope the donations flow freely.”

“I’m sure they will. People are generous when it comes to children. I don’t see Lincoln. Where is he, or did I miss him?”

“I wouldn’t know, Mr. President. I haven’t seen Lincoln since the day I walked away from his house five years ago. I thought you knew that.”

The President recovered quickly from the shock of her words and smiled at a nudge from one of his Secret Service agents that it was time to move to the next table. Amalie was left with a quick greeting by the First Lady. They smiled, touched hands and cheeks. The First Lady leaned close, and whispered, “Just so you know, I’m on your side, my dear.”

And then it was time for Table Four, the Welmed table, to have their picture taken. Smiles, pats on the shoulder, a few personal words. “Countess, I was delighted when I heard you were going to attend this evening. I looked forward to seeing your tiara, but you aren’t wearing it.” The First Lady smiled warmly.

Never bashful no matter whose presence she was in, Annie quipped, “I didn’t want to upstage you this evening.” Both the President and the First Lady laughed out loud.

Annie stood and eyeballed the First Lady. “Now, tell me what I can do to help you with this very worthwhile cause you are so dedicated to.” Soft brown eyes grew moist as the First Lady stared at Annie. “If I give you a phone number, can you remember it without writing it down?” the First Lady asked quietly. Annie nodded as she committed to memory the number the First Lady rattled off.

“Call me next week, and we’ll do lunch. I always wanted to say that for some reason, but the time was never just right. But”—she wagged a finger under Annie’s nose—“promise me you’ll wear your tiara and let me try it on. I’ll even have the White House photographer take a picture of us each wearing it.”

“Deal.” Annie grinned. The two women touched cheeks, then the First Lady moved off. Annie sat down, still grinning.

“What’d she say, what’d she say,” the girls yammered.

“She asked me to lunch next week and told me to wear my tiara and asked if she could try it on.”

“And you said what?” Myra demanded.

“I’m no fool, Myra. I said yes.”

Chapter 22

L
incoln Moss at best was a teetotaler. He’d only been drunk once in his life, thirty-four years ago at the age of twenty-one. He rarely drank, and when he did, he would nurse a glass of wine all evening long. Right now, though, he was stinking drunk thanks to Gunter Wolf and the media. The minute the ten o’clock news came on, he was glued to the eighty-six-inch plasma TV in his family room. It was now past midnight. For company, he had a bottle of Jim Beam, who was now his best friend. Through his blurry gaze, he could see that there was barely an inch of alcohol left in the bottle. His curses were ripe, loud, and long.

Moss knew he was drunk and out of control, something he never allowed to happen. But he
had
let it happen. Now he was in this sorry condition. Right now, he wasn’t worth a good spit. And where the hell was that piece of crap Wolf? Where were the pictures he was supposed to send? Not that he needed them now. For the past two hours, he’d done nothing but stare at his beautiful wife. The picture that almost made him put his foot through the television, assuming he could even lift his foot that high in his present condition, was the shot of the President hugging his wife, then the shot of the First Lady whispering in his wife’s ear. He should have killed the bitch.

Moss took another slug from the Jim Beam bottle and reached for his phone. If he squinted, he could almost make out the letters that seemed to be running all together. None of the texts looked like anything he was interested in. Certainly not that crazy woman from the
Post,
who said she and her colleagues would be out to see him tomorrow afternoon. Like that was really going to happen. Not. He scrolled down and saw another text he must have missed, from Gunter Wolf, who said he was in the hospital with a shattered kneecap, and for him to shove his job up his ass and never contact him again. And then another line, which read,
and don’t expect a refund.
“Well screw you, Gunter Wolf,” Moss bellowed to the huge, empty room. “Did you hear me, Wolf, screw you and the horse you rode in on!”

Moss upended the Jim Beam bottle and emptied it. Now he was never going to find out where his wife was. He should have killed her. He wondered why he hadn’t. Maybe what he needed to do was go to bed and sleep off this drunk. In the morning, he could make some final decisions. He struggled out of the recliner he was sitting in, took two steps, fell flat on his face, and passed out cold.

The night guard on his hourly patrol around the mansion stopped and looked through the French doors. He saw his boss lying on the floor, the empty Jim Beam bottle next to him. He grimaced. As far as he knew, the boss never drank. He debated if he should enter the premises, but negated the idea almost immediately. He hated the man, as did the other guards, but it was a cushy job and paid three times what he would or could make elsewhere in the private sector. The job also provided good health benefits. He turned around and kept on with his hourly patrol.

 

 

The gang always loved Sunday brunch at Pinewood, where Charles outdid himself with a tremendous buffet. Today, they were eating in the dining room because that was the only room that could seat everyone at the same time, and the buffet could be set up on the sideboard.

It was noon, and everyone had arrived. The talk, as everyone knew, would be about the First Lady’s gala and how it all went down.

“We’re going to talk and eat at the same time, Charles, just so you know,” Myra announced. Charles nodded. He hadn’t expected anything else. Sometimes, like now, it simply did not pay to argue.

The conversation flowed freely as the group ate, laughed, and talked about how exciting it was to meet the President and First Lady even though no one at the table had voted for Gabriel Knight either time he ran for the office of President. There was much ado about Annie’s upcoming luncheon with the First Lady and her having been instructed to wear her tiara.

Through it all, Dennis and Rosalee could have been on another planet because they were totally oblivious to everyone else. And they didn’t seem to care.

Amalie and Jack Sparrow sat side by side, and while they weren’t obvious about it, their attraction was there for all to see. Right off the bat, Sparrow had announced to one and all that Amalie had gone home with him to Georgetown and had slept in the guest room. They smiled at each other a lot. It was clear to everyone that their friendship would continue somehow, some way.

The rest of the afternoon was spent indoors because the day was overcast and so humid it was difficult to breathe outdoors.

When the clock struck five, everyone but the girls left. No one asked questions. The minute the electronic gate closed behind the last car, the women hurried to the living room, where Myra pressed the ornate rose that would open the secret door to the dungeons below the house.

“It will be nice and quiet now that Jane Petrie is gone,” Nikki said. “That young woman sure had a set of lungs on her. I hope wherever she ends up that she puts those lungs to good use.”

“Let us not go there, girls,” Annie said, sitting down at the table. “We need to make some decisions right now. I want to go on record as saying the longer we delay our punishment for Mr. Moss, the longer he has to make his own plans to depart the area. I don’t think we should wait beyond tomorrow. He now knows Amalie is in town. What he can do about it is anyone’s guess, but none of us thinks like he does. So, let’s talk about all this.”

“Well, people,” Maggie said, “I sent Moss a text last evening and told him that I and my colleagues would be out there today. This is already today, and we aren’t going out there. Now he might not have taken me seriously. Or then again, he might have and already split. That means to me, we hit him tomorrow. Having said that, I’m okay with doing it tonight after dark, too. Whatever you all think will work for you will work for me.”

Isabelle spoke next. “I talked to Abner, and he came up with the blueprints online for Moss’s house. The breaker box is inside in the laundry room. That’s only a help if we can get inside the gates. He said he doesn’t have any sources at the power company, and if we want the power off, we’ll have to do it ourselves. Yoko said she’s willing to climb the fence, and if we use parabolic cameras, we can tell where the guards are. She’s quick and fast, so she should be able to get in and out within minutes. And, Abner said, there are no dogs. That in itself is a relief.”

“We have to take out the guards. There are only two per shift. Harry and Jack can take them out with stealth. No noise, no scuffling. Once that happens, we have a clear field. Again, darkness will be our friend,” Nikki said.

“How are we going to know if Moss is really inside? What if he packs up and leaves today or tonight or tomorrow during the day?” Kathryn asked.

“Avery Snowden has men out on the service road. They know the make and model of all of Moss’s vehicles. They’ll follow him, and if they think he’s on the run, they will arrange something so he has to return to his house. We’re good there, I think,” Myra said.

“It breaks down to do we go tonight or tomorrow night,” Annie said. “Let’s take a vote.”

“The question to me is are we good with all our gear or do we need to do a practice run? I know, I know, we work well together, but we did not do any practice runs, and that’s always been crucial to our success, as you all know. We need to be able to anticipate each other and know each other’s jobs plus our own,” Alexis said.

“I vote for tomorrow night,” Yoko said. “Not so much for us but for the boys. They don’t move in sync like we do. I’m sure you’ve all noticed that. I can go over the fence at dusk and hide out on the grounds till you’re ready to enter.”

The vote was taken, and they all agreed on Monday night based on Yoko’s reasoning.

“Then I vote to adjourn and get a good night’s sleep. We will have all day tomorrow for our dry runs and practice sessions,” Annie said.

 

 

Lincoln Moss looked at the clock on his nightstand. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since his booze bender, and he didn’t feel one bit better than he had when he woke up this morning. Right now, he felt as limp as a wet noodle, and he knew that if he crawled out of bed, he’d fall flat on his face. He probably had alcohol poisoning. He closed his eyes, so the room would stop spinning. And yet people drank like this every day and still managed to function. He swore then that alcohol would never again touch his lips.

Moss cursed then, every dirty, filthy word he had in his vocabulary spewing from his mouth, which tasted like a barnyard in the heat of summer. He’d lost track of how many times he’d brushed his teeth and showered, yet he could still smell the alcohol leaking out of his pores.

He wished now he hadn’t sent his housekeeper home. Maybe coffee or toast would help him to get back on track. Or maybe tomato juice with Tabasco sauce in it. His gut told him if he did that, he would just puke it back up, and right now his stomach muscles were just one giant knot of pain. Even the light sheet covering him was painful.

“Son of a bitch!” he seethed.

This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He owned the sorry condition he was in, so he had to make the best of it. He forced himself to get out of bed. He gripped the edge of the night table until the dizziness passed. Then he shuffled to the bathroom, where he turned on the shower full blast. He stepped in, clothes and all, and stood under a freezing torrent of water. When he couldn’t stand it a moment longer, he turned the knob to steaming hot and almost passed out. He went back to cold, then hot, then cold again until he thought his body was frozen. Then he turned the knob to warm and literally swooned at how good it felt. He managed to strip off his boxers and T-shirt and poured shampoo all over his body. He just couldn’t make his hands work with a bar of soap and a washcloth. The shower filled with bubbles. Sounds that could have been laughter escaped his lips. Bubbles. And they smelled good.

Finally, Moss stepped out of the shower and into a thick terry robe. He sat down on the edge of the hot tub to wait to see how he felt. Better than before but still not human. He got up, walked over to the sink, and stared at his reflection. Plain and simple, he looked like shit. He still felt like shit, too. He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth, then gargled. He did it three times. At least his mouth didn’t taste like a barnyard anymore. He should shave. With his stupid luck, he’d probably slit his own throat. He reached for his electric razor and ran it over his face several times. Not a clean shave but good enough.

Barefoot, he made his way to the elevator that he had never used, not a single time, got in, and rode down to the narrow hallway outside the kitchen area. He looked around the spotless room and made his way to the built-in coffeemaker. All he had to do was press a button because his housekeeper always prepared the pot before she left at night.

Moss reached into the cabinet for a cup and filled it. His hands were shaking. In the whole of his life, he couldn’t ever remember seeing his hands shake. He was more certain than ever that he had alcohol poisoning. He sipped at the hot coffee, certain he was burning his throat. But he didn’t care. He waited to see if French roast would bubble up and out. When it didn’t, he drank more until the cup was empty. Then he tottered over to the small powder room off the kitchen and reached for the aspirin bottle. He swallowed a handful, wondering if he would die from an aspirin overdose, if that was possible. Maybe his stomach would rebel from the aspirin, and he’d bleed out right here in the kitchen. At the moment, he didn’t care about that either. He sat down with a second cup of coffee and waited to see if he was going to die. When nothing happened, he sat up a little straighter. The awful pounding in his head was lessening, and his vision seemed to be clearing somewhat. Maybe he would live after all. Right now, right this minute, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to live or not.

Moss immediately talked himself out of that doomsday thinking and looked over at the clock on the range. He had to squint to see the digital numbers—2:22 in the morning. Triple deuce. It had to mean something. What, he had no clue.

The coffee had stayed down, and he wasn’t feeling nauseous. Good sign. His head just ached now, and his vision was starting to sharpen. Maybe he was going to live after all.

When the sun finally crept above the horizon, Moss decided he was going to live after all. He felt almost normal in the bright light of the day, which just went to prove the wisdom of that old adage that things always looked darkest in the night. Thankful that his personal trainer was on vacation and the cottage on the premises in which he lived was empty until he got back, Moss got up and headed for the elevator, rode to the second floor, and got dressed in khaki cargo pants and a brand-new Polo T-shirt. He slipped his bare feet into boat shoes and made his way to his home office. His legs were steady now, almost as steady as his hands. He had things to do.

Moss booted up his computer, then unlocked the bottom desk drawer and pulled out his black book. Before he did anything, before making his final decision, he brought up the newest blog of Dominic Sludge, not to be confused with the Drudge Report, the blogger who was fast overtaking every other blogger reporting on the D.C. politicians.

Moss put on his reading glasses and perused the blog. It was all about the First Lady’s gala and his wife’s attending the event with the Director of the FBI
. Noticeably absent was the beautiful model’s husband, Lincoln Moss. I also want to report that the lady’s husband, who has had 24/7 access to the White House from day one, has not been seen in over a week at the famous address. Which raises speculation that the rumors of a mass resignation of President Knight’s advisers are all true, as first reported here on the Sludge Blog. Calls to Moss’s home were not returned before press time.

Moss clenched his fists as he read the report several more times until he had it committed to memory. No sense getting upset, he knew this was coming. Now it was payback time. Moss pressed keys, clicked an arrow here, and pressed more keys until he was satisfied he was on a secure server in Bucharest that could never be traced to him. Then he started to type, copying all the pages from his black book. It took him an hour before he was done. Only one entry remained, the one about Gabriel Knight. He stared down at the printed words with narrowed eyes. Spare his best friend? Well, that really wasn’t an option anymore since Gabe was no longer his best friend. He started to type.