Jack was always astounded when Harry said more than two words at a time. “It’s worth a try, that’s for sure. Since the local police were no help, I was also thinking maybe we could get Jack Sparrow to intervene on our behalf. They have something over here called the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure. It’s France’s top external intelligence organization. I read about it on the plane on the way over. I also remember the Attorney General’s talking about them when I was a prosecutor. Sparrow has the juice to make the call and do it as one Director to another, then it’s one of those, I owe you, and if I’m lucky, you won’t want to collect for years and years. It’s all in the spirit of cooperation. I can call if you agree, Harry.”
“It can’t hurt. If we bomb out with the landlady tomorrow, we might as well go home unless you want to tramp these streets in the hopes of spotting Petrie. We both know she’s gone to ground. Hell, she could be in Belgium for all we know. The only thing in our favor is she’s traveling using her own passport. Maybe Sparrow or Abner can find out if her passport is in play. If it isn’t, that means she’s still here and in hiding.”
Harry was right, Jack decided. “I’m dead on my feet, Harry. I hate jet lag. I’m going to call Nikki, report in, and you call Yoko. And then I’m hitting the sack. I’ll send Abner a text and ask him to do what he can. If we don’t hear back first thing in the morning, then we hit the streets as soon as we dress and have breakfast. I’ll send Sparrow an e-mail before we turn in. When we wake up, he might have some news for us. I’d call him now, but it’s four in the morning in the States. Ditto for the text to Abner.” Jack yawned to make his point that he was dead on his feet.
Harry was already punching in the country code and the area code to call Yoko, but Jack knew he heard every word he’d said. Harry never ceased to amaze him.
It was a beautiful morning, Maggie decided as she trotted along to meet Ted, Espinosa, and Dennis for breakfast to plan out the day. It was early, just barely past six fifteen, and already the sidewalks were full of people heading for their early-morning caffeine fix. Under her arm, Maggie carried a copy of the Post. She pretty much knew that the boys would also have a copy, but she never was one to leave things to chance.
Maggie grinned when she saw the trio already settled in a booth at the back of Casey’s Café, which, according to Ted, served the best bacon, cheddar, mushroom, onion, and a host of other things on top of a perfectly fried egg that was piled on top of a perfectly toasted English muffin. A plate of delectable hash browns accompanied each muffin. It was up to the customers how to fit it all in their mouths. Maggie always cut her muffin in four squares. The coffee was excellent, too, and the owners offered endless refills at no extra charge.
Maggie slid into the booth and slapped the paper down, the top folded over so that the pictures on the bottom half were front and center. “Great pictures, Espinosa,” she said, reaching for her coffee cup and filling it from the carafe already on the table.
“Did anyone notify any of the nominees?” Dennis asked. “As in Lincoln Moss.”
“The paper is the announcement. That’s the purpose of the whole thing. We can’t appear to show bias in any way. You do know that Moss was nominated twice before, but there are those in this town who actually do not like him, so he didn’t win.”
“Don’t you mean they fear him?” Espinosa said.
“That, too,” Maggie said. “You all do realize that this is all rigged. We’ll figure out something later on to turn it back into the legitimate contest we’ve always run. This is just to get us into his house to do an interview. Along with the other nominees we have so far who have to be interviewed.”
“Who’s going to make the call and do the interview?” Dennis asked.
“Since it was my idea, who do you think, Mr. West?” Maggie growled.
“Can I go with you?”
“No. You are on Jason Woods. Espinosa is going with me. Ted has other interviews to do. I seriously doubt Moss will agree to an interview, but I am going to give it my best shot. I am, if nothing else, persistent. Right now, I’m thinking Moss will be afraid some of the questions will be about his wife.”
“Any news on Jack and Harry?” Ted asked as he watched the waitress approach with their breakfast.
“I was going to call Nikki but didn’t want to wake her. I’ll call when we finish breakfast,” Maggie said as she sawed through the four-inch loaded English muffin with a serrated knife. “Tell us how it went with Jason Woods, Dennis.”
“Avery Snowden’s men are tailing him 24/7 as of yesterday afternoon. I haven’t heard a thing since I left the Home Builders Depot yesterday.”
“No one asked for my opinion, but I’m going to offer it up anyway. Is anyone following the girl? The one from the paint department. Seems to me if Woods is lying low, he has to have someone helping him,” Espinosa said.
“In my opinion, she’s the logical choice. Think about it, guys, they can meet up in the break room at the Home Builders Depot. No one can get in there but employees. That’s where they meet up and talk about stuff. I’ll go so far as to bet a week’s salary.” Espinosa had no takers because it made perfect sense.
“You know, Espinosa, you are absolutely right. Five bucks says that’s exactly what is going on. There’s your answer, kid. You stake out the girl if that’s what you want to do or call Snowden to put some people on her. Around the clock,” Ted said.
“I think I’d like to give it a shot. I’ll have Abner hack into the employment records there and find out her hours, and I’ll use a different car and tail her myself. I know how to do that. Jack gave me some great pointers when we were working out in South East last Christmas. This is a really good breakfast. I’ve never been here before.” The others watched as Dennis downed his glass of orange juice in one long gulp.
“I’m heading out to the farm. Anyone want to go with me? I want to be the one to show Annie and Myra the actual paper. They hate reading it online,” Maggie said.
“Nah, pick me up on the way back. I’m going to the paper,” Espinosa said.
In the end, it was decided that Maggie would go alone, then return to plot out a plan as far as Lincoln Moss was concerned.
Maggie looked over at Dennis. “Ask Abner to get me any of Moss’s private cell-phone numbers, especially the one the rumor mill says is only connected to POTUS. That should blow him out of the water right off the bat. I’m thinking he would guard that like he would Fort Knox if he owned it.”
“No problem. Whose turn is it to pay?” Dennis asked.
“I’m paying,” Ted said. A second later, Dennis was gone. They watched him with smiles on their faces. “He does have a bounce in his step, that’s for sure. I really like that kid’s dedication.” Maggie and Espinosa agreed with Ted’s assessment.
Outside, the threesome split up, each going their separate way with one thought paramount, how to nail Lincoln Moss to the wall.
“Here it is, ladies,” Maggie said as she spread out the morning edition of the Post on the kitchen table. “I wanted you to see it in person because I know it’s not the same as reading and seeing it online. What do you think?”
Annie shrugged. “He was legitimately nominated the last two years but didn’t make it. I imagine it’s sticking in his craw that his cronies didn’t endorse him. By the way, Abner called with his mobile number, one that only a very few people have. He also wanted to know if you want his secure, as in secure phone, issued to him by the White House. I said of course, so here they are.” She handed over a sticky note with two numbers on it.
“I’m thinking he’s going to go nuclear if I call the one issued by the White House. But I think I will wait until Espinosa can document his reaction to that.” Maggie laughed. “How about if I make the call to his cell phone now, and you can listen in?” Maggie wiggled her eyebrows to make her point. Myra and Annie laughed out loud.
“Go for it, dear,” Myra said.
Lincoln Moss sat down at a ridiculously long di
ning-room table that seated eighteen comfortably, twenty-two if needed. He sat at the head like the king he thought he was. The table was set perfectly for one. A delicate Bavarian lace place mat, Baccarat crystal, fine Lenox china, sterling silver utensils. A spray of orchids that he insisted be fresh every day sat in a cut-crystal vase to his left. To the right of his coffee cup sat a small crystal bell that he tapped for coffee refills or seconds if he really enjoyed whatever he was having for breakfast.
Four newspapers were to his left: the Post, the Wall Street Journal, and the New York Times along with a copy of In the Know.
Breakfast for the most part was always the same because he liked routine. Fifteen minutes to eat whatever he was having, then forty-five minutes to peruse the four papers along with a second cup of coffee. On rare occasions he dabbled with a third cup but rarely finished it.
Moss chewed his way through six gluten-free pancakes with sugar-free syrup, four strips of crisp crunchy turkey bacon with two slices of six-grain toast slathered with sugar-free strawberry jam. He looked at his watch when he touched the bell for his plate to be taken away. Fourteen minutes. He held up his index finger to indicate he wanted a refill on his coffee. His cup was filled immediately just as the housekeeper shook out the Post and placed it precisely in front of him on the table. He jerked back when he saw his own picture staring up at him. In his opinion, it was an unflattering picture, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the people at the Post had chosen that particular one on purpose. Probably, the bastards. He was livid when he finished reading the write-up that said, he thought, snidely, that maybe the third time would be the charm for Lincoln Moss. That, he decided, was a definite insult. He debated a full five minutes about calling the paper to ask them to withdraw his name but decided that might look petty on his part. Still, he seethed. If he lost again this year, the damn political machine would never let him live it down. It didn’t and wouldn’t matter if Gabriel Knight, President of the United States, voted for him or not. What the hell good was a vote of one?
Moss scanned the pictures again to see who he was up against. A growl shot out of his mouth. Losers, all of them. And yet he’d lose out to a loser. His anger mounted till he could barely see straight. He reached for his coffee cup and took a huge swallow that exploded out of his mouth like a gunshot. He’d forgotten to add cream, and he’d burned his mouth. “Son of a bitch!”
His cell phone rang, not the White House special one but the other. He thought about not answering it but knew in his gut that it was someone important calling to congratulate him. Besides, only a very few power brokers had the number. Without checking caller ID, he answered the phone and struggled to make his voice sound normal when he said, “Good morning, my friend.”
“Uh . . . I’m sorry but this isn’t one of your friends. This is Maggie Spritzer from the Post. I’m calling to congratulate you on behalf of all the staff here at the Post and to ask you if we could meet to do an interview, and, of course, to take some pictures that are a little more flattering than the one we ran today in the paper.”
Moss felt his heart fluttering in his chest. He fought to take a clear deep breath. “Where did you get this phone number, Ms. Spritzer? There are very few people who know it.” He didn’t realize how tight he had clenched his jaw until he felt the pain ricochet down his neck.
“I’m a reporter, Mr. Moss. As you know, a reporter never reveals his or her sources. So, can we schedule an interview?”
Moss’s gut instinct warned him not to make an issue of the phone number. It would be a simple matter to have it changed within the hour and notify those who had it. “I’m afraid not, Ms. Spritzer. My calendar is full for the next six weeks. Thank you for the nomination, however. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”
Maggie was, if nothing else, a dog with a bone. “Well then, perhaps you could find a few minutes on Saturday night at the First Lady’s gala at the Four Seasons. The Post bought a table, and I understand it is right next to yours. That way, we can also interview your beautiful wife at the same time.”
Who in the damn hell is this woman? Then he remembered. She’d done so many exposés along with that guy Ted something or other who was a Pulitzer Prize winner that her name was almost a household word. He felt his stomach tighten. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible either. I never do interviews, especially at social occasions. I think the First Lady might frown on that.”
“Well then, is there any truth to the rumor that your wife had facial surgery to alter her appearance and that no one has seen her in five years?”
Lincoln Moss broke the connection. He was blind with fury, the veins in his neck twice their normal size. He could feel the blood rushing through his body. He knew he’d just screwed up, but he didn’t give a good rat’s ass. He dropped his head between his knees and struggled to take deep breaths.
Moss looked at the beautiful orchids, the crystal, his delicate china, and the Bavarian lace place mat that was handmade. With one sweep of his arm, he sent the whole mess sailing across the room. He got up, didn’t look back, and strode out of the room. His destination—the White House.
Moss was less than a block from the White House when the fine hairs on the back of his neck started to move. He was never a superstitious person, but he had learned a long time ago to pay attention to his gut instincts. And right now, his gut was telling him not to go to the White House. Because . . . because . . . the President had not spoken to him today. The first time that had happened since Gabe took office six years ago. It had to mean something. But what?
By the same token, he hadn’t called Gabe either. Gabe should have called him by now. Regardless of how busy the man was, he always managed to call, even if he did it when he was taking a bathroom break. And he should have called to congratulate him on that Man of the Year crap if nothing else to tease him about maybe the third time would be the charm.
Without thinking, Moss made a left turn and swept right by the White House.
Tomorrow was another day.
Chapter 10
Jack Emery felt like he’d been hit by a train even though he was up and walking around. He realized he felt more like a zombie than anything else, and that included a train wreck. For some reason, he never bounced back like other people did when he flew through time zones and had to adapt to a different climate and time change. He looked over at Harry, who himself looked like he was zoned out on another planet. He did, however, appear peaceful as he sat in a corner of the suite and meditated. Jack knew better than to invade his space, so he sat down and leaned his head back, praying that he didn’t fall asleep again. He just knew in his gut that Harry had slept through the night like a baby. Harry could lean against the wall and grab a catnap.
At precisely eight o’clock Paris time, Harry untangled himself and stood up. “I’m ready to go.”
“About time,” Jack snarled. Harry ignored him.
Outside in the early-morning air, Jack sniffed. He was smelling some kind of flowers, a pleasant scent. Perfumed air. He had to remember that phrase so he could share it with Nikki when he got home. Paris had perfumed air. Well, they were masters at perfumes and cosmetics in France, so why shouldn’t the air be perfumed? Who the hell cared anyway? He hated it when he got cranky like this.
Jack watched while Harry commandeered a cab that was just pulling to the curb. He beat the uniformed bellman by a hair and opened the cab door himself. “I don’t need someone to open a car door, I can do it myself. Nor do I feel the need to tip someone twenty bucks for the pleasure. Don’t go giving me that when in Rome do as the Romans do. How the hell do you know the Romans tipped twenty bucks for a chariot ride?” Harry rattled on before Jack could open his mouth.
“I have an idea, Harry. Get back out of the cab and kill the guy so we can be on our way.” Harry actually laughed out loud as Jack spieled off the address they wanted to be taken to.
By the time they reached the complex where Jane Petrie had planned to spend her vacati
on, Jack’s headache was almost gone, and he was starting to feel human again. “How do you think we should play this, Harry? Good guy, bad guy, all muscle and gold shields from the git-go, or flat-out threaten with something or other?”
“Well, Annie and Myra always say, and Charles backs them up, that you get more flies with honey than vinegar.”
“We tried honey yesterday, and she bamboozled us. What’s even worse, we fell for it. Today is pure vinegar. I say we go with two bad guys flexing their muscles as they whip out their gold shields. Last resort, we pony up with a wad of euros.”
“That works for me,” Harry said agreeably. “The good thing is the lady speaks excellent English, so you won’t have to torture her with your pigeon French.”
Jack looked around to get his bearings when he stepped out of the cab, Harry right behind him. “I think this is the main entrance we went in yesterday, but we came from another direction. Left side is vacation rentals, right side for long-term rentals. Is that how you remember it, Harry?”
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
“Now who’s being surly?” Jack called over his shoulder.
Jack opened the door. A bell tinkled overhead. He could smell French roast coffee. Why the hell not, they were in France, after all. The lady behind the desk had her coffee cup almost to her mouth when she looked up and saw Harry and Jack. Instead of drinking it, she used both hands to set the cup in front of her. Her face looked pinched, her eyes wary as she waited for them to say something.
Jack took the initiative. He reached for his gold shield and held it up. “You lied to us yesterday, mademoiselle. Yesterday, you told us you didn’t know where Ms. Petrie went. We’ve come to find out that you do indeed know. In fact, we’re told you arranged for the transfer. True or false?”
In Plain Sight Page 10
