In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1) (26 page)

He glared at her for a second before sitting.  He gave her an update on the investigation. 

“Do the investigators know who shot him?” she asked.

“Your men weren’t behind this?”

“I’ll need to check, but I don’t think so.  They would have disposed of the body, unless…..”  She hesitated a moment as she considered the possibilities.

“Unless what?”

“Unless they were interrupted and had to go into hiding themselves.”  She frowned.  “This does present a problem.”  She stood up and began to pace.

Rumson watched her.  “This thing can’t come back to me, Jane.”  His eyes were dark.  “You know that.”

She stopped. “No operation ever goes as expected.  But I can assure you that there is no trail back to you.”

“Except through you, Jane.  Except through you.” 

She stared at him, unfazed, but said nothing.  After a second, she began pacing again.  He watched her.

“We need to connect Mosby to the Mexicans,” she said without breaking stride.

He watched as she paced back and forth once more before she came around the couch and sat.

“There are two ways to do that,” she began.  “One is through the bank account.  The second is through his cell phone.”  She explained what she was thinking.

This time he smiled.  “How soon can you do that?”

“Tonight.”

He looked skeptical.

“I still have a team in Texas.”

He nodded.  Jane was good.  As he studied her, he had no doubt the matter would be taken care of.  But there was still one issue that was weighing on him. 

“They still haven’t found Kendall’s body.  Or that of his Secret Service agent.  That troubles me.”

“Are you suggesting that the president somehow managed to survive the crash and the weather?  I think the odds of that are astronomical.”

“Do you have any better explanation?”

“My guess is that Mosby was shot by my men and for some reason they had to abandon his body quickly.  As for the president and his agent, as you told me yourself, depending on where they were when the bomb exploded or when the plane crashed, their bodies may have been destroyed.  There may be no traces.”

Rumson’s face clouded.  “You always tell me that you don’t like coincidences?  Well, this is one big fucking coincidence, don’t you think?”

She frowned as she considered this.  “I see your point.”

“Then I think we need to assume that this is a possibility.  So long as there is any chance of him being alive, we need to do everything we can to prevent him from being found.”

Although the sun had already set, the frantic pace in Elk City continued. 
This is getting too risky
, Jackson thought as his phone vibrated. 

“Yes?”

“Where are you?”  He recognized the angry voice.

“Elk City.”  He resisted the urge to add:
Where the hell do you think I am?

“Why didn’t you call me?”

He was confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Your second target has been discovered with two holes in the head.”

Damn!  “That wasn’t us.  Where was he found?”

Jane filled him in.  “Something doesn’t make sense,” she added, then silence. 

He waited for her to continue. 

“What’s the standard-issue weapon for the Secret Service?”

“Most carry a Sig Sauer P229, which uses a .357-caliber SIG cartridge.  Why?” 

“According to the FBI, Mosby had two .357 SIG slugs in his head.  They can’t find his service weapon and believe he was shot with his own gun.”  More silence.

While he waited, Jackson watched a convoy of trucks disappear into the forest.  His instinct told him to let Jane wrestle with the various pieces of the puzzle herself.

“Okay.  Tell me what’s going on there.”

Jackson let out a breath.  “Same as yesterday,” he said, then explained that the town was a massive construction site, and the engineers continued to work on the roads and bridges.

“Okay.  Go back to the trailer, pack your stuff and wait there.  I think it’s no longer safe for you in Elk City.”

Jackson lay in bed, unable to sleep.  He was thankful that Jane had pulled them out of Elk City.  He had begun to wonder when their luck would run out and someone would demand to know exactly what it was that two federal agents were doing chatting with the local cops and the construction crews.  He also had the nagging suspicion that something was going on and Jane hadn’t told him everything.  From the fold out couch in the living room, Malouf’s snores filled the trailer.  At least someone was getting some sleep. He sighed. 

Their task—to break a couple of links in the chain—had taken care of itself.  He wondered what their next assignment would be.

The phone rang. 
It’s about time
, he thought, reaching for his phone.  Despite his dislike for Jane, he was anxious to complete this assignment.

“I need you to go to Council, Idaho,” she said.  “On Friday, someone withdrew four hundred dollars from Matthew Richter’s account at an ATM.  Although the odds are against it, we need to consider that they survived, and if they did, you need to see if they’re still in town.  I want a copy of the video from that ATM.”  She paused, then: “I think they’re on the run.” 

Jackson pulled out a map, searching for Council.  There it was.  “Richter?  How could he have survived?”

“That’s irrelevant.  You need to check it out.”

He sighed.  “It’s one in the morning.  The bank’s not open now.”   

“Get there when it opens.  You have the credentials you need to get that video.”   It was a statement, not a question.    

“Okay, okay,” he finally said as he rubbed at the pain that had begun to throb in his temples.

“Call me as soon as you have it.”

“I will.  But hang on.  You said ‘they.’  You said ‘they’re on the run.’  Who else are you talking about?”

“The president, of course.”

Bill Daniels clicked on the save button.  Feeling good that his column was complete, he wrote a quick email to his editor, attached the file and sent it on its way.  He checked the clock and was happy to see that he still had more than enough time to hit a few balls on the range before his bi-weekly golf game.  Life was good.

After working for almost thirty years in the newspaper business, he had risen from an intern all the way up to editor of the Denver Record.  But after nine years at the helm, he had grown tired of the newspaper business.  The constant deadlines and the late nights, while exciting as a cub reporter, had taken their toll.  To make matters worse, the business had been on a steady decline for the last twenty years.  They had continued to lose readership and circulation as first magazines then the internet encroached on what was once sacred space.  The declining advertising revenues that followed only added to the pain.  On top of that, he found it taxing to manage a diverse team of independent-minded writers, always having to hound them to get their copy in on time.

So when he was offered the job as editor-in-chief of the Boston Herald, he had begun to mentally pack his bags, even before he told his wife.  Even though he had lived in Colorado all his life, the idea of moving to a new city had seemed exciting. 

He had almost accepted the offer, and would have, if not for Peggy.  Always the voice of reason, his wife had asked him one crucial question that had stopped him from making the call.  What would change?  Sure, Boston was a nice city, and they had enjoyed vacationing there years ago.  Living there would open up a new world of cultural opportunities.  However, for six days a week, his normal work schedule, what would really change? 

When he analyzed it, what he enjoyed about the newspaper business was writing.  He had been good once, but at some point in his career he had made the shift from columnist to editor.  He was part of the management team.  That was a move that he always regretted. 

And so, five years ago, he said no to the job offer in Boston.  He also, to the publisher’s dismay, resigned from his job at the Denver Record and became a columnist again.  It was funny how life sometimes went full circle.

After leaving the Record, he and Peggy realized they were no longer tied to Denver.  He could write from anywhere.  Although they loved the city, it had changed over the years as the growing population brought with it urban sprawl and traffic.  While family wouldn’t keep them in Colorado—their children were both grown with families of their own: one living in Hawaii, the other in Atlanta—the many friendships they had built over the years would be difficult to give up.  In compromise, they decided to semi-retire to the town of Cortez. 

Cortez, a small town of eight thousand, was nestled in the Four Corners region of Southwestern Colorado.  While visiting Mesa Verde National Park on vacation, they had fallen in love with the town and had discussed buying a second home there.  Some of their closest friends had already done it, a few of them making Cortez their permanent home.  With nearby ski resorts and hunting, hiking, biking, camping, and fishing, Cortez cultivated an active outdoor lifestyle.  The city of Durango was forty-five minutes away.  With double the population of Cortez, it offered more in the way of culture with restaurants and nightlife that catered to tourists.  Then there was Santa Fe to the south and Arizona and Utah almost next door.  Cortez couldn’t have been any more different from Boston.  That suited Bill just fine.  Colorado was his home.

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.”