“Now listen up, people, this is how we’re going to start running this administration. We’ve got two more years to do things the way they should be done. For starters, we’re going to settle this Venezuela and Iran business, then I’m going to tell you how from here on in this White House is going to run. One last thing, I hope all of you here today will change your minds about turning in your resignations. Yes, yes, I’ve heard all about it. You should know there are no secrets in this town. All I’m asking is for you to help me out here, so we can get back on track and run this country the way it should be run. From this point on, we do not look back. It’s full steam ahead.”
The look of relief on everyone’s face was all President Knight needed to shoot his fist in the air.
Maggie Spritzer rolled out of bed, beelined for the bathroom, took a quick look in the mirror at her bed hair, and winced. She quickly brushed her teeth, then ran downstairs to make coffee. The clock on the kitchen range said it was 6:20. The perfect time to call Lincoln Moss. With any luck at all, she wouldn’t have to speak to the man and could simply leave a message. Then again, she’d read somewhere that he got up at four-thirty in the morning and by six-thirty he was raring to go. When asked where he went that early in the morning, he’d snapped, “The White House.” End of story as she remembered it.
Maggie scrolled through her address book until she found the listing for Lincoln Moss’s home landline. She punched in the numbers and waited. Did the man answer his own phone or did he have some housekeeper or secretary do it for him? She had no clue. She waited, counting the rings, five, six, seven, and the call went to voice mail. Maggie felt herself relax immediately. The message was the same as all voice-mail messages. This is Lincoln Moss. Obviously I’m not home, so leave your name, your number, and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.
Maggie spoke quickly to be sure she got her entire message across before the voice mail kicked over to the next call. “Mr. Moss, this is Maggie Spritzer from the Post. I’m calling to thank you for the lovely flowers. That wasn’t necessary, and I appreciate the thought. Also, I’m calling to tell you that yesterday you were in the lead for our Man of the Year contest, but overnight, the Director of the FBI, Jack Sparrow, has taken the lead. Just so you know we are aware of the adversarial nature of your relationship with Director Sparrow, so we will have to address that, and the fact that he is the one escorting your wife to the First Lady’s gala on Saturday night. This is just my personal opinion, Mr. Moss, but I think you could regain your lead if you would agree to a sit-down interview with me, and I can assure you, you’d win if your wife was at your side. The interview would have to take place either late today or early tomorrow morning. Of course, the decision is entirely up to you. My colleague, Ted Robinson, has been granted an interview with Director Sparrow for sometime around noon today. You can reach me at the Post or call me back at this number.” Maggie rattled off both numbers, before breaking the connection. She had a vision of Lincoln Moss sitting in a chair listening to her speak and giving her the famous single-digit salute.
What Maggie did not know was that Lincoln Moss was doing exactly what she envisioned, but instead of giving her the single-digit salute, he was occupied putting his fist through the kitchen wall next to the bar stool he was sitting on. The cook, who had just served him his breakfast, ran for cover as if her life depended on it, squealing prayers of mercy.
A ten-minute rant, and after playing Maggie’s message four more times, Moss stomped his way to the second floor, where he kept a compact office. Just as he sat down at the computer, the office phone rang. He blinked at the caller ID. The White House. He chewed on his lip for a moment before he picked up the receiver and announced himself in what he hoped was a businesslike voice, and then he listened.
“Mr. Moss, this is Darrel Honeycutt from the New York Post. I’m calling you from the press-room at the White House to ask why you were not present at the meeting that was suddenly called at the White House this morning. Would you care to give me a comment? If not, I’ll have to run with the wild speculation that’s going on here.”
Moss struggled to find just the right folksy tone. “Now, Darrel, you and the rest of the press know I never make comments. Today is no different. In the end, you guys print pretty much what you please anyway. Have a good day.”
Moss would have put his fist through the computer screen, but his knuckles were already raw and bleeding. He thought about the phone call then, playing it over and over in his mind. Suddenly called meeting. For what? Who was there? He wished he had someone to call to ask, but there was no one. At least no one who would give him that kind of information.
Moss stewed and fretted for another hour before he clicked on his computer address book for the detective agency he’d used to try to find Amalie. There were over a dozen listed, none of them worth the name on the door except for one called Universal Privacy and a man named Gunter Wolf. Wolf was discreet. In fact, Wolf didn’t talk at all, he just listened. He didn’t take notes either. That’s one of the reasons Moss liked him. What Moss didn’t like were his enormous fees, but he paid them without a whimper.
“This is Lincoln Moss, Mr. Wolf. We need to talk. I have a rush job for you. Are you available to meet me in thirty minutes at the Knife and Fork?” Wolf assured Moss that he would be at the greasy diner at the appointed time. “Bring your checkbook.” Like Moss didn’t know that already.
Moss was a whirlwind then as he washed his hand and poured an antiseptic solution all over it. It still looked ugly and sore, but there was nothing he could do about that short of bandaging his hand, and he didn’t want to do that. He changed his clothes because there were blood streaks on his Izod golf shirt and a few spots on his khaki slacks. He jammed his personal household checkbook into his hip pocket.
In keeping with his down-home, just-another-guy persona, Moss drove the gardener’s battered pickup truck to the meeting.
Wolf was already in one of the cracked red-leather booths in the back of the diner, where he was guzzling coffee and preparing to chow down on what looked like a bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich. He looked inquiringly at Moss to see if he was going to order anything, but Moss shook his head.
Gunter Wolf was a tall man, bony, with hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes. His forehead was like a shelf over his eyes. His nose was too small, and his lips were thin slashes across his face. He had beautiful teeth, and from time to time, Moss had wondered if they were his own or false. He shaved his head, and it was shiny bright. He dressed well in custom-made clothes to cover his extreme thinness.
“Talk to me.”
Moss talked, his voice even and flat. “That’s all I know at this moment. Some of it could be rumor, but I don’t think so. I want pictures, and I want to know where my wife goes, if she does attend with Director Sparrow, at the end of the party. I don’t want you to do anything, I just want to know where she goes.”
“You really want me to go up against the FBI?”
“What? You’re afraid of the FBI! I’m not asking you to intervene or accost him or my wife. All I want you to do is follow them. Stake out the Four Seasons. If you see them entering, take a picture. You must have a camera with long-range capabilities that you use when you track all those errant husbands.”
“Just like that, with all the Secret Service swarming all over the place, you expect me to take pictures and call attention to myself. There’s no place to stake out around the Four Seasons. I’ll stand out like a sore thumb, and I’ll get hauled in for questioning. I do not like having that happen. If you think this is all so damn easy, why don’t you do it yourself, Mr. Moss?”
“At this point in time that is simply not possible. Look, Gunter, if you don’t want the job, say so right now, and I’ll find someone who will take it.”
“This is not something easy you’re asking me to do, you know.”
“So that’s a no then,” Moss said, preparing to slide out of the booth.
“It’s not a no, Mr. Mos
s. I’m simply telling you what I’ll be up against, so you don’t piss your pants when I tell you I want a hundred grand up front as a retainer. And there are no refunds in my line of work. If I fail to get you the information you want, it won’t be because I didn’t try my best, it will be because of the Secret Service and federal agents. That’s why my fee is so high. Take it or leave it, and I do not haggle.”
Moss whipped out his checkbook so fast one could be excused for thinking that he was making a profitable investment in a sure-thing acquisition. He scribbled off a check and didn’t bat an eye. “Gunter,” Moss said, using the detective’s first name again to show how serious he was, “I want to remind you that you have failed me twice. First with my wife, then with the woman who started this whole mess. Keep in mind that I can ruin you if I want to. Because of your ineptness, I’ve had to write off that young woman. I want you to pay attention now. I want solid confirmation by the close of business today that my wife is definitely accompanying Director Sparrow to the First Lady’s gala at the Four Seasons on Saturday evening. Once I have that information, I will know better how I will proceed. Can you guarantee me this information by the close of business today?” Moss didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until Wolf nodded.
He watched as Gunter Wolf popped the rest of his breakfast sandwich into his mouth and dabbed his thin lips with one of the tiny paper napkins that were in a stainless-steel holder on every table.
The terms were agreed upon, and the meeting was now over.
Lincoln Moss left the diner without another word. He wondered if he had just paid for a pig in a poke.
Chapter 20
“You’re early this morning, Annie,” Myra observed, looking at the kitchen clock, which indicated that the time was ten after seven.
“Blame it on Fergus, Myra. For some ungodly reason he said that he told Charles he’d be here at seven. So you have to put up with me, or I could turn around and go back home. What’s for breakfast?”
“Toast or Pop-Tarts, take your pick.”
“I suppose I have to make it myself, eh?”
“That’s how it usually works. The butter is soft, and the jam is room temperature. Does that help?”
Annie rolled her eyes. “Is it going to be one of those days, Myra?”
Myra knew exactly what Annie meant by one of those days. It meant she was jittery, and nothing would go right until she figured out a way to make things work the way she wanted them to work.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” Annie demanded as she dropped four slices of thick bread into the toaster.
“Last night, after you all left, I went down below to talk to Jane Petrie. All she kept doing was yammering for a lawyer. I really wanted to give her a good swat. I gave her every opportunity, Annie, to show some remorse, but that young woman just laughed in my face. She’s all about money, vacations, and designer clothing. She earns a decent living, and she has a profession, but she’s greedy.”
Annie reached for the toast that popped up and lathered an inch-thick coating of butter and jam over all four slices. “So, what did you do?”
Myra clenched her teeth. “I made an executive decision all on my own. I called Abner and told him to erase her identity. I also told him to clean out that robust brokerage account of hers. As of this moment, she no longer exists. Then I called Avery Snowden and at two o’clock this morning, he and his team came to pick her up.”
Annie stared at her friend over the top of her coffee cup. “Where did they take her? Never mind, I do not want to know.”
“I told them to give her some cash and to take her somewhere where she could put her profession to use. We’ll probably never hear from her again, and that’s a good thing. Annie, she did not show one iota of remorse. Even when I described in graphic detail what Moss had done to Amalie. What she said was, ‘Tough for her. It’s a dog-eat-dog world we live in, and only the strong survive.’ Can you believe that?”
“Yes, I do believe it. Well that takes care of that loose end, and I can assure you no one will care that you made that executive decision on your own. Oooh, a text is coming in from Maggie.”
“What’s she saying?”
“That she called Lincoln Moss and left a message she knows he is not going to return.”
Myra reared back as she, too, received a text from Abner, alerting her to the fact that Lincoln Moss had just called a company called Universal Privacy. She showed the text to Annie and frowned. “I know that name from somewhere,” she said.
“It’s one of the dozen or so detective agencies that Moss used to try to find his wife. I recognize the name. That has to mean he’s up to something, or he’s really worried. Probably both,” Annie said, finishing the last of her toast. She carried her dishes to the sink, rinsed them, then set them in the dishwasher before pouring herself another cup of coffee.
“So, what does all this mean to us?” Myra asked fretfully. “The gala is just two days away.”
Annie drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “Let’s look at the worst-case scenario, Myra. Let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that Moss somehow, some way, got his hands on his wife. What do we think he would do? We never discussed that aspect. Lock her up and throw away the key, kill her, what?”
“Good Lord, Annie, I haven’t the slightest idea. What I do know is that we cannot let that happen. Not in a million years.”
Annie was a dog with her favorite bone. “But, Myra, what if it did happen?”
“Then I guess we call the police, the feds, anyone we can think of. What? Do you have an idea?”
“I don’t, that’s the problem. Always remember, what can go wrong will go wrong no matter how hard you try and no matter what you do. Things happen to thwart the best-laid plans. I’m nervous, I admit it.”
“It’s raining out,” Myra said inanely.
“So it is,” Annie said just as inanely.
“Where is everyone?” Myra asked fretfully.
“Probably still sleeping. Even our guests, I assume. We really should go get our nails done, Myra,” Annie said, holding out her hands to show the condition of her nails, which had not been rectified since the day Pearl Barnes interrupted their session at the Beautiful Nails Salon. “If we leave now, we can be the first customers when they open at eight o’clock.”
Myra looked at her fuzzy nails and winced. “Let’s do it.”
Maggie Spritzer met up with Ted, Espinosa, and Dennis for breakfast at a small café in Georgetown. She briefed them on her early-morning phone call to Lincoln Moss and the message she had left for him.
“He’s not going to do the interview so why are we even discussing the matter,” Ted said sourly.
“I think I boxed us into a corner. At the time it seemed like the thing to do.”
“I got a text from Abner on my way here,” Espinosa said. “He’s been monitoring Moss’s accounts and phone usage, and he said he contacted Universal Privacy. That’s a private detective agency Moss has used in the past to try to find his wife. Probably the same agency he sicced on Jane Petrie, too. Might I add, with no known results.”
“How does that help us?” Dennis asked.
“I don’t know, Dennis. I’m just talking to convince myself I’m still alive until our food arrives. I’m starved,” Ted said.
“I don’t think you need to be a rocket scientist to figure out what he’s up to. Now, if we’d been really smart, we would have put a tail on Moss,” Maggie said.
“What do you mean, Maggie?” Dennis asked.
“What I think it means is he’s hired the company to do surveillance on the gala Saturday night to see if Amalie really shows up. If she does, the guy or gal, whoever he hired, will be tailing them to see where they take Amalie, then he’ll swoop in and try to snatch her. That’s just my personal opinion.”
Dennis snorted to show what he thought of Maggie’s personal opinion. “No one in their right mind would do something so stupid right under the feds’ noses.”
“Whoe
ver said or even alluded to the fact that Lincoln Moss was in his right mind and that he wasn’t stupid?” Espinosa snarled. “That guy thinks he’s a law unto himself. Right now, his feet are to the fire.” Dennis leaned back in the booth and thought about what Espinosa had said. He shrugged. Everyone, he thought, was entitled to his or her own opinion.
“Listen, guys, I heard something earlier. I got it on the down low, so who knows if there is any merit to it. I have a friend in the White House press corps and we . . . you know . . . trade info from time to time. He woke me up this morning to tell me there was some kind of hush-hush meeting in the President’s chief of staff’s office at the crack of dawn, and Lincoln Moss was not there. The scuttlebutt is that the President showed up looking like a movie-star President dressed in a Savile Row suit. Now, my buddy doesn’t know Savile Row from a Target suit that comes with three pairs of pants, but a colleague, Katie O’Brien, told him the prez was wearing a Savile Row suit, a Hermès tie, and John Lobb shoes.
“And he tore into everyone who was there and said today was the beginning of something new. Or words to that effect. And, this is the best part, the prez kicked Moss’s chair, the one he always sits in, clear across the room.”
“And your buddy knows this . . . how?” Maggie demanded.
“He butters up the kitchen stewards and slips some green under the table. You gotta do what you gotta do in cases like this. We all do it, so don’t look so shocked, Dennis,” Ted said.
“What good is it if you can’t print it?” Dennis grumbled.
“You see, kid, here’s the thing. When gossip like this hits the fan, it grows legs, then someone in the know has to come front and center and either deny it or explain it, then the reporter gets to expand on the gossip angle without getting the steward in trouble. You getting it now?”
“Yeah, yeah. So that means Moss is out as in out?” Dennis asked. “More to the point, does Moss know he’s out?”
In Plain Sight Page 20