[Matthew Richter 01.0] In Sheep's Clothing

by L. D Beyer

  His life now entailed writing a weekly column, a tongue-in-cheek poke at the national political scene. After four years, he was syndicated and carried in over one hundred and fifty newspapers around the country. It was strange how things sometimes worked out. He was much happier now and was making more money than when he was in charge of the Record.

  Yes, life was good, he thought as his phone rang.

  “May I speak to Bill Daniels please?”

  Daniels didn’t recognize the voice. “This is Bill.”

  “Mr. Daniels. My name is Mike Johnson. I work in the White House. I understand that you’re a friend of President Kendall.”

  Daniels was surprised. “Yes. I am. Or I was when he lived here. I haven’t spoken to him for about a year, maybe longer. What is this all about, Mr. Johnson? What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Daniels, you no doubt have been following the news. I’m in Colorado handling some matters for the government related to this tragedy. I need to speak to you. Are you available today?”

  Although the reporter in him was curious, Daniels was cautious. “What is this all about? What does this have to do with me?” Instinctively, he grabbed a pad of paper.

  “This is confidential, and I think it’s best if we discussed this in person. Are you available today?”

  Daniels hesitated. “What is it that you do, exactly, Mr. Johnson?”

  “I work for the Justice Department. I have been asked to follow up on some legal matters related to the president. I can’t go into the details on the phone. Are you available at one?”

  Daniels frowned. There’s a story here. He hadn’t done any investigative reporting in years, but his instincts told him there was far more to Mr. Johnson’s request. He was intrigued. Besides, David Kendall was a friend. Still, it was odd. Why would a Justice Department…what…a lawyer, he guessed…want to speak to him?

  “Mr. Daniels. This is urgent.”

  “Okay. Okay. Let’s meet at La Cantina San Miguel. That’s in Cortez, on East Main Street.”

  By the time he hung up, Daniels was more than curious. Although he was a good judge of character, the restaurant was a reasonable precaution and would allow him to size up the man in person.

  He glanced at the notes he had scribbled on the pad then frowned as he remembered something. Looks like I won’t be golfing today, he thought.

  ____

  Richter summarized his conversation for the president. “He was suspicious, of course.”

  Kendall smiled. “He’s a reporter. That’s his nature. You’ll need to be honest with him. Otherwise, he’ll know something isn’t right and that might backfire on us. We need to trust the man.” They had debated this before, but Richter was still leery. He glanced at his watch; he had to leave soon and, in the little time left, he needed to learn as much about Daniels as he could.

  ____

  “I’m in Council. I have a copy of the video.” They were parked in front of a small restaurant half a block from the bank.

  “Is it him?”

  “I don’t know. The height and build look right, but I’m not sure about the face.” The bank video was black and white, grainy. The color photo she had emailed him was probably from the identification badge system, he guessed.

  “I emailed you a digital copy of the video. Maybe your people can enhance it.”

  “Good thinking. Okay. I’m going on the assumption that it’s him. They may have stolen a dump truck in Elk City. The truck was discovered in a junk yard close by. A Jeep and a set of plates were stolen from the junk yard. I’m sending you a description and plate information.”

  Jackson hung up and went to wake Malouf. Searching for the car, without leveraging the local sheriff or the state police, would be tough. They would have to canvass the streets in town and then the surrounding countryside, all without attracting attention. There were so many places that a car could be hidden. He sighed. Well, he thought, it beat government work.

  ____

  Bill Daniels studied the man at the door. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties and was dressed in jeans and a grey, zippered sweatshirt. He didn’t look like he was enjoying his visit to Cortez. Must have had a fight with his wife or girlfriend, Daniels thought.

  As a reporter, he was an unapologetic people watcher and, living in Cortez, there was normally a steady flow of visitors to feed his hobby. There were several other diners at nearby tables, and the man glanced at each before his eyes settled on Daniels. It can’t be him, Daniels thought. Yet the man walked directly over to his table.

  “Mr. Daniels? I’m Mike Johnson.”

  Daniels gestured to the chair across from him.

  “I’m surprised, Mr. Johnson. I was expecting you to be wearing a suit. Instead you look like you’re out running errands.”

  “I apologize. Normally I do wear a suit.” At least that’s not a lie, Richter thought. “Listen, is there some place we can talk?”

  Daniels studied the man. He was fit, and his eyes had a certain look, like he could be dangerous if cornered. There was also something else: a sense of urgency, but at the same time a wariness, perhaps. Regardless, his instincts told him that this man meant him no harm.

  They found a table in the empty back room. After the waitress brought drinks, Daniels sat back, waiting.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Johnson? What is so urgent that someone from the Justice Department comes all the way out to Cortez to meet me…dressed like he was going to The Home Depot?”

  “Do you remember a meeting you had with our mutual friend eight years ago? It was after he sold his company and began to focus on Social Security reform.”

  Daniels stared back for a second before he nodded. There had been several such meetings.

  “Your paper had run a front page article on him, and you wrote an editorial supporting his push for reform.”

  Daniels nodded again, remembering the editorial. He had written that while he couldn’t evaluate whether Kendall’s plan would work, at least he had brought a comprehensive proposal to the table and had started the public dialogue on finding a solution versus merely adding to all of the chatter about what was wrong.

  “Our friend asked to meet with you. You had dinner.”

  “Yes. That was the first time I met him personally.”

  “Right. You challenged him that night. You told him that if he wanted to accomplish something, he needed to do it from inside the system.”

  Daniels nodded again. “Yes. I told him to…”

  “You told him to put his money where his mouth is. You told him about the soon-to-be-open Senate seat, which wasn’t yet public knowledge. You encouraged him to run.”

  Daniels sat back, thinking. “Yeah. I remember. But what does all of that have to do with this…with why you wanted to meet with me?”

  Richter held up his hand. “Do you remember what he said to you that night?”

  Daniels nodded again. “Yes. He…”

  “He told you, off the record, that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to put his family through the scrutiny that comes with public office. He also shared something very personal with you that night: that his wife had breast cancer. That this was why he sold his business.”

  Daniels felt a shiver crawl up his spine and his head began to spin.

  “You told him that your wife had a cancer scare too, years earlier, and you would understand if he decided not to run.”

  The prickles reached his neck; Daniel sensed something big coming.

  “I shared all of that with you, Mr. Daniels, so that you know I’m for real. Our friend Dave did not reveal that conversation to anyone else other than to his wife and to me.”

  Mr. Johnson held out a leather wallet, letting it flip open. “My name is Matthew Richter. I’m a Secret Service agent. I was on that plane eleven days ago.”

  ____

  After four hours of driving through the streets of Council, Idaho, and then through the various state and county roads, they found the Jeep in an RV
park northeast of town. There was little of value inside the car: no scraps of paper, no garbage, nothing. Even the glove compartment was empty. They had even taken the car’s registration and insurance certificate.

  He pulled out his cell phone. “We found it,” he said when she answered, then gave her the details.

  “They must have stolen another car in the area. Stay where you are. I’ll check and call you back shortly.”

  After twenty minutes of waiting, they drove back to town for coffee. They had just climbed back into their car when the phone rang.

  “There’s no report of any stolen cars in Council or nearby towns. Either it hasn’t been reported yet or they’re hiding out. You need to check the trailer park. See if there has been any suspicious behavior, if anyone noticed anything.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “My God, Dave! I can’t believe it’s you!” Bill Daniels hesitated, then hugged the president.

  “I know. I know. I look like hell.” Kendall smiled. “But it’s good to see you, Bill.”

  “I don’t know what to say! Wow!” Daniels shook his head. “What the heck happened? What’s going on? I’ve got a million questions.”

  They were in the bedroom of a cheap motel in Cortez. The president steered his friend to the armchair next to the bed.

  “I’m sure you do, but here’s the short version. This was an assassination attempt. Agent Richter figured it out beforehand and rescued me. We were stranded in the wilderness, in that blizzard that I’m sure you heard about. I would not be alive now if it weren’t for Agent Richter.”

  “Wow! How did…” Daniels stopped, shook his head. “Dave, what do you need me to do?”

  “I know.” Kendall patted his shoulder. “This whole thing has been surreal. I need your help, Bill.”

  ____

  “Did you find anything in the trailer park?”

  “No. No one saw anything. And there’s no sign they hid here. It looks like it was just a place to dump the car.”

  Jackson waited for instructions.

  “I think they might be in Colorado. There was a car reported stolen about seven miles north of Council. That same car was found this morning at a truck stop outside of Durango, but it looks like they switched plates. My guess is that they’re still somewhere in the Durango area. You need to get down there now and check it out.”

  “What about the bank video? Is it him?”

  “My people are still working on that. How long before you can get to Durango?”

  He checked his watch. It was 5:15 p.m.

  “I’m not sure. I don’t know how far it is. We probably won’t be able to get there until tomorrow morning.”

  He heard a curse on the other end of the line.

  “Okay. Get on the road now. Call me when you’re there.”

  Before he could say anything, she hung up. He sighed. It would be another long night.

  ____

  Peggy Daniels threw her arms around the president. “Oh, Dave! I can’t believe you’re alive! When Bill told me…well, thank God you’re okay.”

  Kendall returned the embrace. “It’s good to see you, Peggy.”

  She let go, stepped back and wiped the tears from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. Please introduce me to your friends.” She laughed. “Hey, can I still call you Dave?”

  Kendall laughed, told her she could, then made the introductions.

  “It’s nice to meet all of you. Can I get everybody something to drink?” There was a beeping noise from the kitchen. “Excuse me. That will be the lasagna. Bill, would you see what everyone wants?”

  Peggy headed towards the kitchen.

  “Okay, gentlemen, what can I get you? Soda? Beer? Wine? Something stronger?”

  As Bill served drinks, the smell of the lasagna wafted in from the kitchen. Moments later, Peggy called them to the dining room for dinner.

  Dinner was a surreal event for the four men who, for the last week and a half, had been living in the wilderness on dehydrated food and then fast food as they fled across the country in stolen cars. Peggy proved a charming conversationalist and kept a dialogue going throughout the meal, learning about Jack and Derek, then sharing stories about her children, about Bill and the life they now had in Cortez.

  Peggy turned to Richter. “Matt,” she playfully scolded him. “You haven’t touched your wine.”

  He smiled. “Sorry, ma’am. If I drink any more, I’ll fall asleep. The lasagna was incredible, though. I haven’t eaten a home-cooked meal like that since…well, I can’t remember the last time.”

  “Do you work for the government too, Matt?”

  Richter gave a weak smile. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Tell me about yourself. Where did you grow up?”

  After chatting for several minutes, Richter excused himself and left with Bill to tour the property and to assess the security. Jack and Derek took the opportunity to help themselves to more lasagna. Peggy smiled as she watched the boys eat. The sound of a door opening interrupted her thoughts, and she turned and watched as Richter and her husband stepped outside. She turned back to Kendall and frowned.

  “Matt’s with the Secret Service, isn’t he?”

  Kendall nodded. “He saved my life more than once over the last few days.”

  “He’s a strong man, but it’s obvious he’s under incredible pressure. You too, Dave.” She took a sip of wine. “So, what happened?”

  “Peggy, there’s a lot I can’t tell you for obvious reasons. Okay?” He patted her hand. “And frankly, my coming here puts you and Bill in danger. I’m truly sorry about that.”

  She brushed away the concern. “You know we would do anything for you and Maria.” She gasped. “My God! Maria! Oh, the poor thing. I saw her on TV the other night. They had a prayer vigil for you and for everyone on the plane. The camera kept coming back to Maria and the girls. Oh, Dave! I feel so bad for them!”

  Kendall wiped a tear from his cheek. “I do too.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Tuesday, May 4

  It was 7:45 a.m. when they turned onto Route 160. Called Main Street in Cortez, Route 160 continued straight east through town about a mile and a half, and then on for another forty-five miles to Durango.

  Jackson woke up when they stopped at the traffic light. He stretched and yawned then checked the time. Only five hours of sleep. He was stiff and sore from the car.

  “Where are we?”

  “Cortez, Colorado. Durango is another hour further.”

  “Let’s stop here. I need to take a piss.”

  They spotted a gas station on the next block and Malouf pulled in. Next door was a donut shop. Jackson climbed out, stretched again, then walked toward the donut store. He called over his shoulder, “You get gas. I’ll get us some breakfast.”

  Five minutes later, he walked out of the shop and stopped on the sidewalk for a moment, basking in the sunshine. The skies were a deep blue and, although chilly, the sun felt good. The TV in the donut shop said the temperature would climb to sixty-five degrees today. After the last ten days in the cold and snow, this was a welcome change. He noted that the town was an eclectic mix of architectural styles, from the dark-brown, rough-wooden structure that sold western wear to the Mexican adobe facade of the local cantina to the Greek style of the turn-of-the-century bank building. There was a single-screen cinema with a marquee that jutted out over the sidewalk, a microbrewery, two antique shops, and several restaurants.

  He began walking back to the gas station as the light at the intersection changed. Glancing at the traffic driving by, he noted three pickup trucks and one minivan passing by and, coming toward him from the other direction, a battered and rusty SUV, another pickup truck, and at the end of the line, a dark green Ford Explorer.

  Jackson stopped short, staring at the driver. He had the beard, like the man in the video, and the distinctive jaw line was clear. What grabbed his attention were the eyes. They were continually shifting; studying the surro
undings. Jackson had seen those eyes before. Usually on soldiers. Sometimes on the police. Always on Secret Service agents. As the car passed, the man turned and their eyes met for just a second. His eyes were dark and hard. Suddenly the Explorer sped up and turned off Main Street.

  He tried not to spill the coffee as he ran back to the car.

  ____

  Sitting at the stop light, Richter felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He glanced out the passenger window, scanning the people on the sidewalk. Then his eyes shifted to the mirrors and the cars turning at the intersection. What had spooked him? His eyes continued across the intersection to the pedestrians on the other side road. The light changed and he edged forward at the same time his eyes locked on the tall black man holding the cup of coffee. As he passed, the man turned and hurried down the sidewalk and Richter felt a wave of panic. At the next intersection, he made a split-second decision and turned right onto a side road and sped up as he drove north. As he raced up the street, he remembered where he had seen the man before.

  “Where are we going? What’s wrong?”

  Ignoring Bill’s questions, he scanned the mirrors and eased off the accelerator as he approached the speed limit. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the man, but he didn’t want to attract the attention of the local cops. Moments later a black Chevy Suburban turned sharply off Main Street behind them. Richter cursed and began looking for options. On their left was a residential neighborhood and on the right a park or a school with a large expanse of green lawn. The approaching traffic light was red. He waited until the last second to brake and, with no cross traffic, he ignored the light and made a sharp right-hand turn. In his mirror he watched as, seconds later, the Suburban ignored the light as well. Shit. Not a good sign.