In Plain Sight (20 page)

“Has something happened to Amalie?” Mattison asked nervously. “I haven’t seen her in over five years, maybe longer.”

“Are you asking us if he killed her? That’s always been your fear, right. Still, you did nothing. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? He finally did it, that kind of thing.”

“There was always an excuse, a reason given by Amalie herself for her injuries,” Mattison whispered. “Lincoln said if I ever told anyone, he’d ruin me. I kept a separate file on Amalie.”

“To cover your own butt, right?” Nikki bellowed.

“Yes, but for Amalie as well. I knew in my heart someday that this might happen.”

“You could have reported him anonymously,” Myra said.

“No, I couldn’t. I was the only one who knew other than the little Mexican maid. And she was too scared to even look at me. I don’t even know if the maid spoke English because I never heard her speak. She seemed to understand when I told her what she had to do for Amalie, however.”

“And you just walked away and took his money and kept silent.”

“Yes. And I am not proud of it. I did what I could for Amalie. Not that this means anything, but I despise the bastard.”

“Where are the records?” Annie asked.

Symon Mattison pulled a key ring out of his pocket and opened his bottom desk drawer. He pulled out a thick file folder. He stared at it for a long moment, drew a deep breath, and handed it to Myra, who was the closest to him. “What happens now?”

The three women looked at one another. “We can’t tell you that, Doctor. But would you like some advice?” He nodded.

“If I were you, I’d pack up that trophy wife of yours, close down this office, and get the hell out of Dodge. You’re a wealthy man; it’s time for you to give back. Do what you can do medically and expect nothing in return. The advice is free. And the same thing applies to you, Doctor, as the advice we gave to your staff. One word, and we’ll be back. No matter where you go, we can find you. We
will
find you if you open your mouth about any of this to your buddy Moss.”

“He’s not my buddy, so please stop saying that. Okay, okay, I’ll do what you say.”

“Don’t get up, Doctor, we can find the way out. By the way, nice digs you have here. Should bring a pretty fair amount to your coffers when you put it up for sale. That’s not a suggestion, it’s an order. Remember,
we will find you,
” Annie said coldly.

Outside in the hot, humid air, the three women looked at one another. “It’s just another nail in Lincoln’s coffin. It pains me to see how thick this file is,” Annie said.

“It went well, all things considered. The man will be on a plane somewhere with or without the trophy wife by this time tomorrow. By Monday morning, this building will have a
FOR SALE
sign on it, and the staff will be on the unemployment line.” Nikki looked at Myra and Annie to see if they agreed. Both women nodded. Myra yanked at her pearls and removed the lanyard, then stuffed it along with the gold shield into her pocket.

“Let’s go home, girls.”

“I’m driving,” Annie said, making a beeline for Nikki’s Beemer. The only other car in the parking lot was a silver Porsche. She jerked her head in the direction of the parked car, and said, “Betcha we could get that set of wheels for pennies on the dollar tomorrow.”

“That’s a sucker’s bet, and you know it,” Myra said, laughing so hard Nikki had to push her into the backseat.

Chapter 19

C
lyde Entwhistle, President Knight’s chief of staff, looked up at the President and did a double take. The leader of the free world looked ...
Presidential.
Today POTUS was dressed in a Savile Row suit, the crease in the trousers knife sharp. He was wearing a blood-red power tie. The shirt under his jacket was blinding white. Entwhistle looked down at the floor. The shoes were new, too, John Lobbs if he wasn’t mistaken. What the hell happened overnight that he wasn’t privy to? Gabriel Knight just looked so damn
Presidential.
It must be true what the fashion magazines said, clothes did indeed make the man.

What Entwhistle found the most startling though was what else he was seeing. A certain quietness of the man who was suddenly in total control of his whole being and his emotions, something he’d never seen before.

It wasn’t that the President never dressed well, he did. Today, though, there was something different about his boss. He wondered if that ride on the John Deere had anything to do with it. Or the absence of Lincoln Moss at the White House of late. Then again, maybe the First Lady had gone shopping. It was a well-known fact that Emma Knight did all the President’s shopping. Probably all of the above, Entwhistle decided.

Rarely was Entwhistle at a loss for words or anything else for that matter, but this morning he felt flummoxed for some reason. He looked over at the President, and because he couldn’t think of a thing to say, said, “You’re early this morning, Mr. President.”

“I know. I took the liberty of ordering coffee and pastries. I guess you’re wondering why this meeting is being held here in your office instead of the Oval Office.”

“The thought did occur to me, Mr. President.”

“This is how I see it, Clyde. Everyone knows this is where it all goes down. The Oval Office is for show. That’s where we do meet and greets, shake hands, smile, do photo ops. This office, your office, is where we get down and dirty, where we get to play hardball and piss everyone off. Today, I am going to unpiss off a lot of people, and I wanted it to go down here. That okay with you, Clyde?” The President’s tone clearly said he didn’t give a good rat’s ass if Clyde liked it or not, this was where the meeting was going to be held and where he was going to unpiss everyone off.

Entwhistle nodded. “It might help, Mr. President, if you told me what this sudden meeting is all about. I am your chief of staff. You’re supposed to clear these things with me first, and as protocol goes, I set up the meeting.”

“I just did,” the President said calmly.

And that was the end of that.

This all must have something to do with that lawn-mowing stunt the President had pulled before anyone could stop him,
Entwhistle decided. “Can I at least ask who is coming to this meeting?”

“You’ll see when they get here. Stop acting like some old fuddy-duddy, Clyde. I’m not going to press the red button, and I’m not going to mow the lawn again. I have to say, though, that ride on the John Deere took fifty pounds of stress off my shoulders. I felt like a human being for two whole hours. Do you mow your lawn, Clyde?”

“Don’t have one, sir. I live in a condo.”

The President himself opened the door when he heard the soft knock to admit one of the stewards pushing a linen-covered dolly. Cups of fine china were set up on the conference table at the far end of the room. Followed by fine china plates, sterling silver, and linen napkins with the Presidential seal embroidered on one corner. Three platters of pastries sat under crystal domes, with a set of sterling silver tongs next to each.

The President eyed the chairs at the table. Satisfied, he nodded to Entwhistle to escort the attendees to the room. He moved to the head of the table, where he always sat, but waited until everyone was in the room before he sat down. There was no tried-and-true seating arrangement, but the people in the room had been there often enough that they always took the same seats.

The President looked around and greeted each person by name. Gerald Bryce, the National Security Advisor; Louella Laird, the first female Director of the CIA; Jack Sparrow, Director of the FBI; Harold Montgomery, the Secretary of State; Mitchell Palmer, the Secretary of Defense; General Dylan Davis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and, of course, Clyde Entwhistle, chief of staff.

All the chairs at the table held a body except for the one to the right of the President’s chair. As much as the people seated at the table tried not to look at the empty chair, their eyes kept going to it.

The chair that Lincoln Moss always sat in. While it was a nice chair, softly padded with shiny wood armrests, it now looked like some ugly thing that didn’t belong. No one said a word when the President’s leg shot out from under the table, giving the chair, which was on wheels, a fierce kick and sending it rolling back to the wall, where it bounced, then slid farther down the room out of sight. The gesture was enough to inform the others that Lincoln Moss would not be attending this particular meeting.

The President took his time as he looked at the people, good people, loyal people in the eye, and said, “I want to apologize to all of you. Just because I’m the President of the United States doesn’t mean I don’t make mistakes. I’m here today to tell you I’ve made some serious ones, but I recognize that now, and I’m not too proud to admit them and to ask for your help. Starting today, things are going to be different around here. Better late than never.

“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. Moss. 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.”