In Plain Sight (11 page)

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

J
ack 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 vacation, 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?”

“I did no such thing,” the woman whose breast pin said she was
VIVIAN FRANÇOIS
replied in a jittery-sounding voice. While her mouth said one thing, her eyes were saying something totally different.

Jack extended the gold shield. “This gives us the authority to turn you over to Interpol, Scotland Yard, your very own
DGSE
, and the American CIA or MI6.” When François didn’t look impressed, Jack smiled, and said, “Or how about those cuties at Mossad?” That got her attention. “One phone call, and an agent will be here within twenty minutes.” While Vivian François considered her options, Harry held up his shield, his face full of menace.

“This is what I suggest, mademoiselle. We are going to forget we were here yesterday and forget that you lied to us. We are going to ask you again for your cooperation, and for that cooperation, we will be leaving this behind when we leave.” Jack pulled out the wad of euros that represented five hundred American dollars. He held the euros in one hand, his cell in the other. “I have every agency that I just mentioned on speed dial. Mossad is number one. Now, where is Ms. Petrie?”

François started to wring her hands. “I can tell you where I sent her. I cannot tell you if she is still there. She said she would call me, but she has not done so. She did not tell me what trouble she was in, but she did appear to be frightened. I sent her to a friend who . . . how do you say in English, rents rooms by the day? Ah, yes, boardinghouse with meals included, no?”

“Boardinghouse, yes,” Jack said. “Where? Write it down. How long will it take us to get there?” Bingo!

François drew a crude map. “There is no point in explaining since you do not know the area, monsieur. Just give this map to the cab driver. Forty-five minutes by cab if you leave now.”

“Has anyone else been here looking for Ms. Petrie?”

François hesitated. Harry advanced a step and held out the gold shield at eye level. “I think so, yes. My night clerk left me a message that two men came in a little after ten o’clock last evening and asked the same questions you asked. He told them to come back this morning because he knew nothing. The man is . . . how do you say . . . slow. That is why he works at night. Nothing goes on at night.”

“I do not want to frighten you, mademoiselle, but this would be a very good time for you to go somewhere else. For a day or so. Those men do not carry gold shields, and they are not nice like we are. We mean you no harm. I cannot say the same for them. Do you understand what I just said?”

“I understand perfectly. I will post a sign on the door. What is it you Americans say on your signs?
GONE FISHING
!”

In spite of himself, Jack laughed. Harry grinned.

Jack held out the wad of euros. “Does this buy your silence, mademoiselle?”

Vivian François didn’t have to think twice about her answer. “Yes, monsieur, it buys my silence. Now if you would be so good as to leave, I need to close down.”

The moment the door closed behind Jack and Harry, the blinds inside were pulled. A second after that, a single white sheet of paper was Scotch-Taped to the door. In big bold letters it said,
GONE FISHING.
Jack clapped Harry on the back just as a cab pulled to the curb. They climbed in, handed over the map, and settled back for the forty-five-minute drive. Both Jack and Harry passed the time by sending texts Stateside with a real-time update on what was happening in France.

“We just might get out of here today, Harry, if we can do the snatch and grab. Call the pilot and put him on alert.”

Jack finished with his last text and pulled up the morning edition of the
Post,
and scrolled down.
Good going, Maggie,
he thought.
Everything’s in play now.
He smiled to himself and suddenly realized his throbbing head was still quiet. He actually felt peaceful. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to run amuck.

 

 

Back in the States, Dennis West patrolled the Home Builders Depot parking lot, looking like a lost soul who had lost his wheels. For the most part, he stayed close to the garden center since Stacey Copeland came into work early and would have a choice front parking space. Abner had confirmed that her hours were six-thirty to two o’clock. She was off weekends, and management did its best to work with the students who worked part-time to control their hours. He now had her home address and the make and model of her car. At the moment, he was parked one row over and three cars behind her silver Ford Taurus. Since he already had Copeland’s address, all he needed was to see her get into her car, and he could drive out to Columbia Heights where she lived and mosey around on his own. This way he didn’t have to worry about her spotting her tail. He continued to look around, but he couldn’t detect any of Snowden’s operatives. If they were even here. If they were, they were damn good at what they did. Then he caught Copeland out of the corner of his eye. Tall for a girl. Lanky, actually. She looked to be in good shape. She wore jeans and a T-shirt with the Home Builders Depot logo on the back. She yanked at a baseball cap that was smashed into her back pocket, clamped it down on her curly head, then got into her car. She very casually looked around before she pulled her sunglasses off the visor and put them on. She backed out of her parking space carefully, her head going to the right, then left, then back right again. Clearly to Dennis, she was looking to see if anyone was paying attention to her.

Dennis gave her a good five-minute head start because he wanted to see if anyone appeared to be following her. When he deemed the coast clear, he changed gears and left the parking lot. He’d already programmed her address into the GPS. For all he knew, he might even get to where she lived before Copeland did. He wished he’d taken a dry run while he waited so he had an idea of the area. Well, too late now. He settled down for the drive, glad that traffic wasn’t heavy.

Thirty-seven minutes later, after two drive-bys, Dennis pulled into a private driveway with a
FOR SALE
sign on the lawn. If the house was empty, and it appeared to be with nothing on any of the windows, he was good to go. Parking as he did at an angle, he had a clear view of the four-apartment building complex where Stacey Copeland lived through his side-view mirror.

Dennis felt comfortable enough to know he had a story to offer if anyone asked him why he was parked so long in the driveway. “I’m waiting for the Realtor, who said he was delayed.” Period, end of story.

Three hours later, Dennis realized that wasn’t the end of the story. Stacey Copeland had not returned to her apartment. He knew he hadn’t screwed up, but he checked with Abner again to make sure he had the right address. He did. Maybe she went shopping. Women did like to shop. But for three hours! Especially after a workday.

Dennis opened the car door, got out, and stretched. He was soaked with perspiration and itched all over; plus, he had to use the bathroom. Leave or not to leave? His bladder finally won out, so he got back in the car and headed for the nearest gas station. The A/C on full blast felt so good, he swooned.

Twenty minutes later he was back in the neighborhood driving up one street and down another searching for something to make sense of his even being out here. He had just turned left onto a nicely tree-shaded street when he spotted Copeland’s silver Taurus parked in the driveway of a small brick house with a well-landscaped yard. He checked the license plate to be sure it was the right silver Taurus. The numbers matched perfectly.

Copeland must be visiting a friend, he finally decided. Women did that all the time. For all he knew, she could be there for hours. Women did like to yack and jabber and tend to forget the time. Espinosa had told him that once. Now what should he do? He called Ted to ask for advice.

“Stay with it, kid. You might be onto something. For all you know, she might have those two women stashed inside that house. Wait till it gets dark, then check it out on foot. In the meantime, call the address in to Abner and see if he can find out who owns the house. You know what, now that I think about it, it’s starting to make a lot of sense. It just so happens I know that neighborhood, and it’s only about a mile from the White House. Hiding out in plain sight. Figures, because that’s exactly what I would do if I were her, hide out in plain sight. Works every time. Good work, kid, keep me posted. Hey, one other thing, kid, don’t get caught.”

Dennis snorted. Like that was going to happen. His thumbs worked frantically as he sent off a text to Abner. The only thing left now to do was go back to the empty house and park in the driveway again. It hit him then. Copeland’s car was the only one in the driveway at the new location. And there were no actual garage doors attached to the house. The owners must have converted the garage to usable living space. Details, details, details. He patted himself on the back for being so observant.