In Plain Sight

by Fern Michaels

  “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.

  When he was finished, he looked at the long narrative. His finger hovered over the SEND key. Instead, he moved his fingers, selected the final entry, and hit the DELETE button. “You’re off the hook, Gabe,” he murmured to himself as he hit the SEND key, turned off the computer, and took it apart. Carrying the computer hard drive and the rest of the guts of the computer in a plastic bag, he made his way out to the yard, where just days ago he had been mixing cement for his new flower beds.

  He worked like a
beaver, sweating out all the toxins in his body as he mixed fresh cement and poured it into the molds he’d made weeks ago. The computer parts were at the bottom of the cement, where no one would ever find them. When everything was set to his liking, he proceeded to break up the chunks of cement he’d let dry the day the Post reporters had come to call. He loaded the cement into a wheelbarrow and trundled them off to a rock pile behind a small fence where the gardeners kept a compost pile. Let them cart it away.

  He should have killed Amalie and buried her under the concrete the way he’d just buried his computer’s guts. If he’d done that, none of this would be happening. Well, that was all water under the bridge now. Now he had to get ready to leave this place and the life he had created for himself in Washington, D.C.

  Once more, he trudged into the house. And this time took the steps to the second floor instead of the elevator, where he hit the shower full blast. When he emerged, he was ready to give himself a clean shave and dress the way he normally did. He headed back to his office, where he opened his locked desk drawer again and withdrew a burner phone. He called the airlines and, using one of his aliases, tried to book a late-afternoon or early-evening flight for Argentina. He was told the earliest he could get a flight was 7:00 A.M. the following morning. They were booked solid. He then tried three other airlines with the same result. He finally booked a red-eye out of Dulles for midnight tonight.

  Time to put his house in order, so that whoever came to go through his things would find nothing. In the end, they’d say the man just walked out of the house and never returned. He felt so smug he decided to go downstairs and make himself a soft-boiled egg. Like Gabriel Knight, he knew how to cook; he just didn’t like doing it.

  While he was puttering around in his kitchen, Moss thought about his staff and how loyal they’d all been to him. He hated that he was going to leave them high and dry, but if he paid them a bonus or left money, then the scenario that he just walked out the door and never came back wouldn’t work. He finally solved the problem by telling himself he would take all their names and addresses and in a few months he’d send money orders to their homes or envelopes full of cash by overnight mail.

  It was all doable. All of it.

  Chapter 23

  It was just a few minutes before full dusk when Maggie Spritzer sent Lincoln Moss a text asking if she and her crew could stop by even though the hour was late. There was no response. As she explained it to the crew, it was just to confirm Avery Snowden’s earlier text advising them that Lincoln Moss had not left the premises in two whole days. Unless he was dead, he was inside the house healthy and whole.

  Little did they know.

  It was barely dark when they all piled into the Post van and Espinosa’s new Hummer, which he doted on and which still smelled brand-new. The third vehicle was driven by Dennis and was a Jeep whose cargo hold was full of their gear. The last vehicle belonged to Myra’s gardener and was driven by Annie. Occupancy in all four vehicles was crowded, but no one complained.

  It was totally dark and getting darker by the minute when the caravan reached Lincoln Moss’s home. The air was hot and humid, and the threat of still more rain was in the air. The lead vehicle didn’t stop but slowed, so that Yoko and Harry could drop out and scale the fence. Down the road, a block and a half away, all the vehicles came to a halt. Cell phones were an open line so that Yoko and Harry could communicate.

  First order of business was to take out the two guards, or as Harry put it, put them to sleep, nothing more. They were just doing their jobs and didn’t deserve to be caught up in Moss’s mess.

  Inside the gates, Yoko went one way and Harry the other. Within ten minutes, both guards were leaning against a tree and sound asleep.

  “You do good work, silent work, my husband,” Yoko said, blowing Harry a kiss.

  “And so do you, my little lotus flower,” Harry said, blowing a kiss in return. Yoko giggled, and Harry laughed out loud. He just loved, loved it when he could make his wife laugh or smile, and a giggle was the best.

  “I’ll open the gate. You alert the gang to come on through.” Yoko sprinted off to open the gate. She looked around with the aid of a small penlight for the manual switch that was at the bottom of the left side of the gate. She switched it off. Now the gates would stay open, with or without power. She was back at Harry’s side within moments and headed for the rear of the house, where they planned to enter through the kitchen door.

  “It’s Annie’s job to pick the lock, so we have to wait till she gets here,” Yoko said. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than Annie appeared at her side, lockpick in hand. Five seconds, and the kitchen door opened on its well-oiled hinges.

  Harry looked around and winced. They were a scary-looking lot. He hoped Lincoln Moss had a strong heart. The second everyone was standing in the kitchen, Harry held up his hand for silence as he waited for Abner, who was monitoring Moss’s whereabouts inside the house with a heat sensor.

  The one thing they didn’t want to do was give Moss even a second to hit 911 on his speed dial. Quick, fast, and dirty, was the way Annie put it.

  Harry held up his hand, and whispered, “He’s in the family room watching television. His phone is on the table next to where he’s sitting. He almost looks like he’s asleep. Quiet now. Yoko, you go first, come up behind his chair, and snatch the phone. Jack, you follow Yoko and grab him by his neck. We are then good to go.”

  And it worked out just the way Harry said it would. Yoko slid Moss’s phone into her pocket just as Jack cut off his air supply. In the back of the room, Myra turned on the overhead lighting, and the opulent room came to life.

  Moss’s eyes almost popped out of his head when he saw all the black-clad figures standing in his family room. Jack released the hold he had on Moss’s neck and stepped back.

  Moss sputtered and gagged as he struggled to figure out what was going on. He finally blurted, “If this is a home invasion, be aware that I have security outside.” He started to cough and gag from the pressure Jack had applied to his throat.

  “Not anymore you don’t. Ain’t no one here but us badasses,” Jack said.

  “What . . . what do you want?” Moss gasped. “Who sent you here?”

  “That’s two questions,” Ted said. “We want you and your money. Your wife sent us. How’s that for a payback, Mr. Moss?”

  The group had separated on entering. They now started to report their findings.

  “No computer or laptop. The wires are still on the desk in his upstairs office. He must have gotten rid of it,” Nikki said.

  “He’s going on a trip. Look at this,” Kathryn said, as she held up a canvas tote. “No clothes, but there is a razor and a toothbrush. Memory sticks, checks, bank statements, brokerage statements, and some papers that look like they belong to his cosmetic company, something about a wrinkle filler. You know, like Botox. Guess it’s important, or he wouldn’t have it in the bag. And by the way he is . . . excuse me, was, headed for the airport to take a flight to Argentina under the name of Lynus Placid. Says he is a software developer. No imagination there.”

  Moss sucked in his breath, knowing he wasn’t going anywhere. At least for now. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to help these creeps figure it out. Well, he did have one ace in the hole. Everything on the memory sticks was password-protected and installed by the best spooks in the business, the CIA. Let them kill themselves trying to figure it all out. He was glad now that he had transferred monies to different parts of the world, so when he showed up, he would be able to simply pick up on his life. Still, he had well over a billion dollars locked up tight and spread all over the globe.

  “His backyard is not going to work, people,” Annie said. “We need to load him up and go to Plan B. While the trees are in full leaf, they’re spindly at the top. Light shows through. His neighbors just might be the nosy types who can’t sleep, and one of us might make a noise that isn’t familiar to them.”

  The gang moved with their usual
efficiency and had Moss flexicuffed with his mouth taped shut. Espinosa threw him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and hustled out to the parking area outside the kitchen. He dumped him in the backseat and told Dennis to watch him. Dennis paled and was about to discuss the point, but one look at Harry and he changed his mind. He felt important when he said, “You got it.”

  Isabelle was the last to leave Moss’s house. It was her job to turn off all the lights and the TV and to make sure the kitchen door was locked when she closed the door.

  Plan B was now in effect. Plan B required a trip to Nikki and Jack’s farmhouse. Located across the fields from Pinewood, it was also known as the mud pit with the half-finished swimming pool that was full of muddy water.

  A light rain was falling when the caravan arrived in Nikki and Jack’s driveway. Jack took charge of Moss while the others unloaded the Jeep. It was totally dark, the only light coming from small Maglites the group held low to the ground. The only sound that could be heard was the sucking sound when they lifted their feet out of the thick, smelly mud.

  When the group reached the rim of the pool that was still under construction, Jack ripped off the tape on Moss’s mouth. He was rewarded with curses he’d never heard before. He casually backhanded Moss with a swat across the face. “The only thing we want to hear out of your mouth are your passwords and why you beat the living hell out of your wife. We aren’t going to make nice either, so be forewarned.”

  “Screw you, whoever you are. What dark alley did my wife find you in? You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. And I am not giving up my pass codes to you or anyone else.” That said, Moss lashed out with his foot and connected with Dennis, who yelped in pain.

  Dennis’s brain went into overdrive, and suddenly everything Harry had taught him about self-defense rose to the fore. He didn’t stop to think, he just went into action, and in the blink of an eye, Moss was facedown in the thick, gooey mud that smelled like vomit.