Simply Lies, page 17
She looked back up and gasped. Whoever had been there was now gone. She rushed to the door and opened it, leapt out onto the porch, and gazed up and down the street. Breathing heavily, she shut and locked the door.
That was not my imagination. Someone was there.
A few seconds later her phone buzzed again. She saw on the screen that it was the phone number her father had just texted her.
“Hello, Mr. Collin?”
“Just make it Art,” said a loud, gruff voice. “Knew your old man from way back. Says you’re interested in Harry Langhorne. When Rick Rogers needs a favor I step up. He’s a good guy. So here I am.”
Well, Art doesn’t waste any time.
As if in answer to her thoughts he said, “I gotta make this snappy. I live in Florida. Got plans. Cards, cocktails, and then me and my lady friend are going out to have a little fun.”
Gibson checked her watch and saw that it was nearly nine o’clock. And he had cards, cocktails, and a lady friend still to come? He obviously stayed up way past her bedtime. This blew her whole image of Florida retirees eating the blue plate special for dinner at five p.m. and going beddy-bye at eight.
“Okay, I’ll try to make it snappy. How did you know about Langhorne?”
“I was a detective in Newark. I worked the case. Slimeballs all around. Langhorne maybe the slimiest of all. But he walked; the others got iron bars and strip searches till kingdom come.”
“Did you know Langhorne?”
“I was actually the one who turned him to our side.”
Gibson tensed. “You did? How?”
“With my natural grace and charm, can’t you tell? Seriously, my old man was a bean counter, too. I knew how those guys ticked, so I started watching Harry, taking pictures, recording phone calls, the works. Oh, I had warrants for everything. I’m not getting tripped up over that penny-ante shit. It wasn’t easy, but we finally got the goods on him. Then we had him tied up in a neat little basket and he would be going up the river for a long time. And he probably wouldn’t make it back down if he wouldn’t agree to come over to our side. They eat dorks like Harry for breakfast, lunch, and dinner inside prison. So I met up with him one fine morning, showed him my hand, and gave him a choice. And he decided to save his own ass. What a shock.”
“But he was never arrested, or charged. And he didn’t testify at the trials.”
“That was part of the deal. He pointed us to where all the goods were, got us the docs, signed, sealed, and delivered. He was one detail-oriented prick. He even had this substitution cipher or code or whatever you want to call it for the accounting books he kept. Without him we never could have figured out what was really going on. Based on that we got a bunch of the low-hanging fruit dead to rights and they all turned on the higher-ups, just like those scared little shits always do. It was their testimony, along with all the docs, that put the nails in the coffins. And three of those suckers ended up dead for their troubles, but it was Harry who put it all in motion. He didn’t want to appear in court and say one word under oath because there would have been twenty hits out on the guy before he got down off the stand.”
“But regardless of that the mob had to figure out that he had crossed them. Otherwise, he would have been indicted, too. Or called as a witness.”
“Oh, they did. That was why all the man wanted to do was disappear.”
“With his family, you mean.”
Collin chortled. “If Harry Langhorne could have figured out a way he would have left his wife and two kiddies high and dry. But he couldn’t, so he didn’t. Heard they went into WITSEC.”
“Harry Langhorne was found murdered recently at an old estate in Virginia. He was using the alias Daniel Pottinger.”
“So your father told me. Well, it’s not like he didn’t deserve it. What goes around comes around. And shit stinks forever, especially shit like him. Sure, he was the bean counter, but he knew what was going on. Where all the bodies were buried, and I mean literally. He was like Robert Duvall playing the consigliere in The Godfather, only Duvall’s character had some principles. Harry Langhorne had zip. Now, that don’t sit well with me. But you got to take your shots where you can, and Harry was my one shot at taking the kingpins down. So you let scum go to get bigger and more dangerous scum.”
“Any theories on who might have killed him?”
“The guys he helped put away are either dead or still in prison with long gray beards.”
“Their children?” suggested Gibson.
“Could be. But my experience is that the stuff you see in the mob movies about family loyalty is mostly horseshit. The young bulls probably were thrilled to see their fathers go down. Now they were the capos and they all had their own problems rebuilding the family empires. I don’t see them going out on a limb avenging anybody. Too much trouble and risk.”
“Now, that’s very interesting and it does make sense. So the question becomes, who did benefit from Harry going down all these years later?” asked Gibson.
“Was Geraldine with him when he got deep-sixed?”
“No. Harry walked away from WITSEC about two decades ago. His wife disappeared shortly thereafter, but we don’t know if they hooked up later by plan, or whether she disappeared on her own, or—”
“—or whether someone popped her,” Collin interjected. “Which I think is more likely. I always had the distinct feeling Harry hated his wife. And she didn’t make it easy to love her. I had limited interaction with Geraldine, but back then she was always drunk and/or doped up.”
“I understand that Langhorne might have made off with a mountain of mob money.”
“That was definitely a rumor.”
“You didn’t run that down?” asked Gibson.
“Wasn’t my job. My job was to nail and then turn Harry to get the big boys, which I did.”
“The place where he was killed? He paid five mill in cash for it.”
Collin whistled. “So the rumor just went to fact. He did take the cash.”
“I’m thinking there’s a lot more than five mill lying around after all this time.”
“Any idea where it could be?”
“No, but I think people are looking for it,” replied Gibson.
Like Clarisse.
“And what happened to the kids?” Collin asked.
“As soon as Francine hit eighteen they both voluntarily left WITSEC.”
“They were only little kids when I knew them, but they were an odd pair even then.”
“One of the WITSEC marshals told me that Doug was totally hamstrung by his father, never allowed to play any sports, and he sat in the garage lifting weights and brooding.”
“And the girl?” said Collin.
“Had her own run-ins with her father. Maybe even more bitter and lasting. The marshal said that Doug basically took orders from his sister.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“What do you mean it makes sense?” said Gibson.
“As I mentioned, even back then they were an odd pair. I didn’t get to really know them all that well. They were kids and my business was with Harry. Now, I’m no shrink, but my opinion is that whole household was royally screwed up. Harry was the king and taskmaster, and he relished that role. Geraldine drank and popped pills, and when it came to Harry she had a spine like jelly. The kids were silent and staring and maybe thinking shit I don’t even want to contemplate. You ever see that flick Children of the Corn? It’s based on a Stephen King story.”
“No.”
“Hell, it probably came out before you were born. Anyway, it was this perverted religious cult of kids from the cornfields who murdered all the adults to ensure a good harvest. Bloody and sadistic as hell, at least by the standards back then. But the kids in that movie? The ringleaders Malachai and Isaac? Well, let’s just say Francine and Dougie would’ve fit right in. Hell, she’d be ruling the roost, handing out death sentences, and Dougie would be her enforcer. And I got that impression when they were little kids!”
“So a formidable pair, then?” said Gibson.
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t want to run into them now in a well-lighted shopping center with a million people around. And, shit, I worked undercover for five years in the human garbage dumps of Trenton. I was with the Newark police force, you understand, but they recruited me for an undercover post in Trenton because I wasn’t known in the area as a cop. Now, some people are just born evil and some people are made evil by a shitty life. I’ve seen both types. And my opinion is Francine and Dougie aren’t one or the other, they’re both.”
“So maybe Geraldine didn’t vanish voluntarily.”
“Maybe not. And you think the kids finally caught up with the old man?” said Collin.
“I’m thinking that’s likelier than not.”
“One more thing.”
“Yeah?” said Gibson.
“I know I just laid out my thoughts on the kids, you know, born evil?”
“Right.”
“But there was something else. And I might walk back the born-evil spiel I just gave you. I could never prove anything, but I got the definite cop gut feeling.”
“About what?” said Gibson.
“Harry Langhorne was one sick son of a bitch. He was the furthest thing from a mild-mannered accountant as you could get.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Despite her sullen nature Francine was a real cute girl.”
“Can you just spit it out, Art?”
“I saw how Harry was around the girl. Let’s just say he acted in ways toward Francine that no father should ever act around his daughter.”
“Wait, are you saying he sexually abused her?”
“I have no proof, but if you want a veteran cop’s take, yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Jesus.”
“Some maggots like them that age. And no telling what sort of shit he did to his son. So maybe they weren’t born evil. Maybe Harry made them that way.”
Gibson’s thoughts went to her own kids. If anyone ever so much as—
“So is your job to track them down?” asked Collin.
Gibson refocused. “It might come to that.”
“Well, let me give you a piece of advice.”
“Okay.”
“Shoot first and don’t ask questions later. Now I got to go, my lady friend is giving me the evil eye. Good luck.”
“Yeah, thanks, Art. I really appreciate the info,” she said as her heart settled into her feet.
She clicked off, drank her tea, and looked out the picture window again.
People watching the place.
Francine and Doug Langhorne, apparently sociopaths on another level.
But Francine and Doug perhaps abused by their father in horrific ways. That would shatter any level of trust a person could have. It could make you into something less than human.
Am I already in the well-lighted shopping mall with twin monsters?
Gibson saw one terrifying scenario after another march across the breadth of that picture window. She finally looked up to the room where her kids were sleeping peacefully, oblivious to all the danger their mother might have exposed them to.
She closed her eyes as the panic rose in her.
What the hell have I done?
AFTER A MOSTLY SLEEPLESS NIGHT, Gibson woke early, got the kids up and fed, and then called her dad. She had decided that she could either assume the fetal position and wait for bad things to happen to her and her family, or she could use her skills and her brains and her work ethic to get ahead of the tidal wave she felt coming at her. And Silva had called the night before. She had taken ill and would not be coming over.
“Yeah, Dad, if you and Mom could watch the kids for a few hours, that would be great.”
“Sure we can, honey, but where are you going?”
“Just to run some errands.”
“You haven’t gotten any better at lying to me since you were fifteen and said someone snuck that gin into your water bottle and those joints into your backpack.”
“Okay, okay, I’m just running down a few leads.”
“Harry Langhorne leads?”
“What else.”
“My buddy Art any help?”
“Oh, yeah, he was. Thanks for setting that up.”
“He’s apparently doing okay.”
“Sounds like he’s doing very okay. Hey, Dad, what do you know about a guy named Nathan Trask?”
He didn’t answer for such a long time she thought the connection had ended.
“Please, God, don’t tell me you’re getting mixed up with that guy.”
“No, I’m not. I swear. But what can you tell me about him?”
“He’s scum. Richer than God, and twice as evil as the Devil. And smarter than Einstein because not even the Feds have ever managed to lay an indictment on him. He’s got this fortress down in Virginia Beach.”
“Oh really? Didn’t know that,” she lied, hopefully better this time.
“How does he figure in things?”
“I was told that Langhorne might have had dealings with him, but I think that was just bullshit.”
“Well, don’t you go poking around that guy, Mick. You will not be coming back.”
“Amazing how a scum like that gets to walk around free while some poor sap cracks the skull of his friend in a drunken argument and gets twenty years in prison.”
“This is America. Poor and stupid go to prison while money walks. We’ll be over around eleven thirty if that works. Your mother’s getting her hair de-grayed at nine.”
“ ‘De-grayed’? I hope to God you’ve never used that term in front of her.”
She could imagine her father’s shit-eating grin over the phone connection.
“I’m still alive and kicking, ain’t I?”
* * *
When her parents arrived, Gibson’s father went for Darby, swooping her around in the air and making silly noises, while her mother automatically brushed Tommy’s hair out of his eyes and straightened his shirt and wiped off his dirty chin with a Kleenex and sanitizer.
Mars versus Venus, thought Gibson.
Her father finally set Darby down and looked at his daughter, while she stared resolutely back at him.
Rick Rogers was built like a tank, and as a cop he had the rep of being firm but fair. He knew what living paycheck to paycheck was like, and what that sort of stress made people do.
“You got scum everywhere, but you don’t know anybody till you’ve walked in their shoes. And a hungry belly or a sick kid or losing the roof over your head, or being the wrong color and having to live your life with that unfairly hanging over your head every damn day, can make bad things happen to good people, Mick. It doesn’t mean the law won’t be enforced. It just means they’re human beings who you know very little about. You ever lose that bit of truth, go do something else for a living.”
And she had never lost that sense of truth. If anything it had been more forcefully thrust upon her, since, at ProEye, she spent most of her time chasing folks with far too much money who not only didn’t want to pay their fair share, they didn’t want to pay anything because they thought they were above it all.
“Well?” he said to his daughter. His wife was now smoothing down Tommy’s cowlicks as the boy gamely fought back.
“Well what?”
“You know what. You want to go somewhere and talk about this?”
“No. But when I get back we can talk, if you want.”
“How about I go with you wherever it is you’re going?”
She looked at his waistband that was hidden by his jacket and arched her eyebrows.
“I’m not packing,” he said in a low voice, casting an anxious glance at his wife. She was now trying to corral Tommy, who was clearly done with her attempts to clean up his appearance.
“Then what good are you?” she replied.
“You really are a piece of work,” her father said, but he tacked on a grin.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Call if you need help, okay?” he said, no longer grinning.
“You’re first on my speed dial, Dad, always have been, always will be.”
His smile came back with extra force.
She snagged her keys, hugged her kids, and drove off in her mommy van.
STORMFIELD LOOKED AS DREARY AND intimidating as ever.
Gibson pulled to a stop and got out. No police presence at all. A storm was coming in off the bay. The temperature was already starting to drop, and she tugged her jacket closer around her.
Unlike her father, she was packing, the Beretta riding snugly in her belt clip holster.
She bypassed the house for now and headed to the dock. She didn’t know if the cops had searched down here but she assumed they hadn’t.
She walked out onto the dock and ventured to the stern of the boat. She climbed on the rear teak deck pad and managed to duck under the cover and slide in on her belly through the walkway into the boat. It was dark enough under the cover and the cloudy skies that she had to pull a flashlight out and sweep it around in order to see. It smelled musty and her nostrils crinkled. She sat on her haunches next to the telescopic poles holding up the heavy winter cover and looked around. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but that was usually the case when she started on a search.
There were lots of compartments on the boat in which to secrete things, some obvious, others not. She had looked at the plans for dozens of yachts that debtors had tried to hide from their creditors. New names, new flag registrations, new paint colors, but you couldn’t really change the superstructure of the thing. That was like a fingerprint.
She made a careful search from bow to stern. The luxurious interior had pretty much every bell and whistle Formula offered. Gibson didn’t care about that. She focused on the fact that she had found exactly one thing of interest.
It was a note inked on the bottom of a fender in the forward storage hatch.
Look harder. It’s worth it.
Okay, that was something. She thought more about Harry Langhorne. The guy, by all accounts, was an asshole, a bully, spiteful, vindictive, manipulative, and cruel and maybe a pedophile on top. And he was also terminally ill with brain cancer. She could imagine him seeing this as a game, his last chance to screw with the world.
That was not my imagination. Someone was there.
A few seconds later her phone buzzed again. She saw on the screen that it was the phone number her father had just texted her.
“Hello, Mr. Collin?”
“Just make it Art,” said a loud, gruff voice. “Knew your old man from way back. Says you’re interested in Harry Langhorne. When Rick Rogers needs a favor I step up. He’s a good guy. So here I am.”
Well, Art doesn’t waste any time.
As if in answer to her thoughts he said, “I gotta make this snappy. I live in Florida. Got plans. Cards, cocktails, and then me and my lady friend are going out to have a little fun.”
Gibson checked her watch and saw that it was nearly nine o’clock. And he had cards, cocktails, and a lady friend still to come? He obviously stayed up way past her bedtime. This blew her whole image of Florida retirees eating the blue plate special for dinner at five p.m. and going beddy-bye at eight.
“Okay, I’ll try to make it snappy. How did you know about Langhorne?”
“I was a detective in Newark. I worked the case. Slimeballs all around. Langhorne maybe the slimiest of all. But he walked; the others got iron bars and strip searches till kingdom come.”
“Did you know Langhorne?”
“I was actually the one who turned him to our side.”
Gibson tensed. “You did? How?”
“With my natural grace and charm, can’t you tell? Seriously, my old man was a bean counter, too. I knew how those guys ticked, so I started watching Harry, taking pictures, recording phone calls, the works. Oh, I had warrants for everything. I’m not getting tripped up over that penny-ante shit. It wasn’t easy, but we finally got the goods on him. Then we had him tied up in a neat little basket and he would be going up the river for a long time. And he probably wouldn’t make it back down if he wouldn’t agree to come over to our side. They eat dorks like Harry for breakfast, lunch, and dinner inside prison. So I met up with him one fine morning, showed him my hand, and gave him a choice. And he decided to save his own ass. What a shock.”
“But he was never arrested, or charged. And he didn’t testify at the trials.”
“That was part of the deal. He pointed us to where all the goods were, got us the docs, signed, sealed, and delivered. He was one detail-oriented prick. He even had this substitution cipher or code or whatever you want to call it for the accounting books he kept. Without him we never could have figured out what was really going on. Based on that we got a bunch of the low-hanging fruit dead to rights and they all turned on the higher-ups, just like those scared little shits always do. It was their testimony, along with all the docs, that put the nails in the coffins. And three of those suckers ended up dead for their troubles, but it was Harry who put it all in motion. He didn’t want to appear in court and say one word under oath because there would have been twenty hits out on the guy before he got down off the stand.”
“But regardless of that the mob had to figure out that he had crossed them. Otherwise, he would have been indicted, too. Or called as a witness.”
“Oh, they did. That was why all the man wanted to do was disappear.”
“With his family, you mean.”
Collin chortled. “If Harry Langhorne could have figured out a way he would have left his wife and two kiddies high and dry. But he couldn’t, so he didn’t. Heard they went into WITSEC.”
“Harry Langhorne was found murdered recently at an old estate in Virginia. He was using the alias Daniel Pottinger.”
“So your father told me. Well, it’s not like he didn’t deserve it. What goes around comes around. And shit stinks forever, especially shit like him. Sure, he was the bean counter, but he knew what was going on. Where all the bodies were buried, and I mean literally. He was like Robert Duvall playing the consigliere in The Godfather, only Duvall’s character had some principles. Harry Langhorne had zip. Now, that don’t sit well with me. But you got to take your shots where you can, and Harry was my one shot at taking the kingpins down. So you let scum go to get bigger and more dangerous scum.”
“Any theories on who might have killed him?”
“The guys he helped put away are either dead or still in prison with long gray beards.”
“Their children?” suggested Gibson.
“Could be. But my experience is that the stuff you see in the mob movies about family loyalty is mostly horseshit. The young bulls probably were thrilled to see their fathers go down. Now they were the capos and they all had their own problems rebuilding the family empires. I don’t see them going out on a limb avenging anybody. Too much trouble and risk.”
“Now, that’s very interesting and it does make sense. So the question becomes, who did benefit from Harry going down all these years later?” asked Gibson.
“Was Geraldine with him when he got deep-sixed?”
“No. Harry walked away from WITSEC about two decades ago. His wife disappeared shortly thereafter, but we don’t know if they hooked up later by plan, or whether she disappeared on her own, or—”
“—or whether someone popped her,” Collin interjected. “Which I think is more likely. I always had the distinct feeling Harry hated his wife. And she didn’t make it easy to love her. I had limited interaction with Geraldine, but back then she was always drunk and/or doped up.”
“I understand that Langhorne might have made off with a mountain of mob money.”
“That was definitely a rumor.”
“You didn’t run that down?” asked Gibson.
“Wasn’t my job. My job was to nail and then turn Harry to get the big boys, which I did.”
“The place where he was killed? He paid five mill in cash for it.”
Collin whistled. “So the rumor just went to fact. He did take the cash.”
“I’m thinking there’s a lot more than five mill lying around after all this time.”
“Any idea where it could be?”
“No, but I think people are looking for it,” replied Gibson.
Like Clarisse.
“And what happened to the kids?” Collin asked.
“As soon as Francine hit eighteen they both voluntarily left WITSEC.”
“They were only little kids when I knew them, but they were an odd pair even then.”
“One of the WITSEC marshals told me that Doug was totally hamstrung by his father, never allowed to play any sports, and he sat in the garage lifting weights and brooding.”
“And the girl?” said Collin.
“Had her own run-ins with her father. Maybe even more bitter and lasting. The marshal said that Doug basically took orders from his sister.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“What do you mean it makes sense?” said Gibson.
“As I mentioned, even back then they were an odd pair. I didn’t get to really know them all that well. They were kids and my business was with Harry. Now, I’m no shrink, but my opinion is that whole household was royally screwed up. Harry was the king and taskmaster, and he relished that role. Geraldine drank and popped pills, and when it came to Harry she had a spine like jelly. The kids were silent and staring and maybe thinking shit I don’t even want to contemplate. You ever see that flick Children of the Corn? It’s based on a Stephen King story.”
“No.”
“Hell, it probably came out before you were born. Anyway, it was this perverted religious cult of kids from the cornfields who murdered all the adults to ensure a good harvest. Bloody and sadistic as hell, at least by the standards back then. But the kids in that movie? The ringleaders Malachai and Isaac? Well, let’s just say Francine and Dougie would’ve fit right in. Hell, she’d be ruling the roost, handing out death sentences, and Dougie would be her enforcer. And I got that impression when they were little kids!”
“So a formidable pair, then?” said Gibson.
“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t want to run into them now in a well-lighted shopping center with a million people around. And, shit, I worked undercover for five years in the human garbage dumps of Trenton. I was with the Newark police force, you understand, but they recruited me for an undercover post in Trenton because I wasn’t known in the area as a cop. Now, some people are just born evil and some people are made evil by a shitty life. I’ve seen both types. And my opinion is Francine and Dougie aren’t one or the other, they’re both.”
“So maybe Geraldine didn’t vanish voluntarily.”
“Maybe not. And you think the kids finally caught up with the old man?” said Collin.
“I’m thinking that’s likelier than not.”
“One more thing.”
“Yeah?” said Gibson.
“I know I just laid out my thoughts on the kids, you know, born evil?”
“Right.”
“But there was something else. And I might walk back the born-evil spiel I just gave you. I could never prove anything, but I got the definite cop gut feeling.”
“About what?” said Gibson.
“Harry Langhorne was one sick son of a bitch. He was the furthest thing from a mild-mannered accountant as you could get.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“Despite her sullen nature Francine was a real cute girl.”
“Can you just spit it out, Art?”
“I saw how Harry was around the girl. Let’s just say he acted in ways toward Francine that no father should ever act around his daughter.”
“Wait, are you saying he sexually abused her?”
“I have no proof, but if you want a veteran cop’s take, yeah, that’s what I’m saying.”
“Jesus.”
“Some maggots like them that age. And no telling what sort of shit he did to his son. So maybe they weren’t born evil. Maybe Harry made them that way.”
Gibson’s thoughts went to her own kids. If anyone ever so much as—
“So is your job to track them down?” asked Collin.
Gibson refocused. “It might come to that.”
“Well, let me give you a piece of advice.”
“Okay.”
“Shoot first and don’t ask questions later. Now I got to go, my lady friend is giving me the evil eye. Good luck.”
“Yeah, thanks, Art. I really appreciate the info,” she said as her heart settled into her feet.
She clicked off, drank her tea, and looked out the picture window again.
People watching the place.
Francine and Doug Langhorne, apparently sociopaths on another level.
But Francine and Doug perhaps abused by their father in horrific ways. That would shatter any level of trust a person could have. It could make you into something less than human.
Am I already in the well-lighted shopping mall with twin monsters?
Gibson saw one terrifying scenario after another march across the breadth of that picture window. She finally looked up to the room where her kids were sleeping peacefully, oblivious to all the danger their mother might have exposed them to.
She closed her eyes as the panic rose in her.
What the hell have I done?
AFTER A MOSTLY SLEEPLESS NIGHT, Gibson woke early, got the kids up and fed, and then called her dad. She had decided that she could either assume the fetal position and wait for bad things to happen to her and her family, or she could use her skills and her brains and her work ethic to get ahead of the tidal wave she felt coming at her. And Silva had called the night before. She had taken ill and would not be coming over.
“Yeah, Dad, if you and Mom could watch the kids for a few hours, that would be great.”
“Sure we can, honey, but where are you going?”
“Just to run some errands.”
“You haven’t gotten any better at lying to me since you were fifteen and said someone snuck that gin into your water bottle and those joints into your backpack.”
“Okay, okay, I’m just running down a few leads.”
“Harry Langhorne leads?”
“What else.”
“My buddy Art any help?”
“Oh, yeah, he was. Thanks for setting that up.”
“He’s apparently doing okay.”
“Sounds like he’s doing very okay. Hey, Dad, what do you know about a guy named Nathan Trask?”
He didn’t answer for such a long time she thought the connection had ended.
“Please, God, don’t tell me you’re getting mixed up with that guy.”
“No, I’m not. I swear. But what can you tell me about him?”
“He’s scum. Richer than God, and twice as evil as the Devil. And smarter than Einstein because not even the Feds have ever managed to lay an indictment on him. He’s got this fortress down in Virginia Beach.”
“Oh really? Didn’t know that,” she lied, hopefully better this time.
“How does he figure in things?”
“I was told that Langhorne might have had dealings with him, but I think that was just bullshit.”
“Well, don’t you go poking around that guy, Mick. You will not be coming back.”
“Amazing how a scum like that gets to walk around free while some poor sap cracks the skull of his friend in a drunken argument and gets twenty years in prison.”
“This is America. Poor and stupid go to prison while money walks. We’ll be over around eleven thirty if that works. Your mother’s getting her hair de-grayed at nine.”
“ ‘De-grayed’? I hope to God you’ve never used that term in front of her.”
She could imagine her father’s shit-eating grin over the phone connection.
“I’m still alive and kicking, ain’t I?”
* * *
When her parents arrived, Gibson’s father went for Darby, swooping her around in the air and making silly noises, while her mother automatically brushed Tommy’s hair out of his eyes and straightened his shirt and wiped off his dirty chin with a Kleenex and sanitizer.
Mars versus Venus, thought Gibson.
Her father finally set Darby down and looked at his daughter, while she stared resolutely back at him.
Rick Rogers was built like a tank, and as a cop he had the rep of being firm but fair. He knew what living paycheck to paycheck was like, and what that sort of stress made people do.
“You got scum everywhere, but you don’t know anybody till you’ve walked in their shoes. And a hungry belly or a sick kid or losing the roof over your head, or being the wrong color and having to live your life with that unfairly hanging over your head every damn day, can make bad things happen to good people, Mick. It doesn’t mean the law won’t be enforced. It just means they’re human beings who you know very little about. You ever lose that bit of truth, go do something else for a living.”
And she had never lost that sense of truth. If anything it had been more forcefully thrust upon her, since, at ProEye, she spent most of her time chasing folks with far too much money who not only didn’t want to pay their fair share, they didn’t want to pay anything because they thought they were above it all.
“Well?” he said to his daughter. His wife was now smoothing down Tommy’s cowlicks as the boy gamely fought back.
“Well what?”
“You know what. You want to go somewhere and talk about this?”
“No. But when I get back we can talk, if you want.”
“How about I go with you wherever it is you’re going?”
She looked at his waistband that was hidden by his jacket and arched her eyebrows.
“I’m not packing,” he said in a low voice, casting an anxious glance at his wife. She was now trying to corral Tommy, who was clearly done with her attempts to clean up his appearance.
“Then what good are you?” she replied.
“You really are a piece of work,” her father said, but he tacked on a grin.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Call if you need help, okay?” he said, no longer grinning.
“You’re first on my speed dial, Dad, always have been, always will be.”
His smile came back with extra force.
She snagged her keys, hugged her kids, and drove off in her mommy van.
STORMFIELD LOOKED AS DREARY AND intimidating as ever.
Gibson pulled to a stop and got out. No police presence at all. A storm was coming in off the bay. The temperature was already starting to drop, and she tugged her jacket closer around her.
Unlike her father, she was packing, the Beretta riding snugly in her belt clip holster.
She bypassed the house for now and headed to the dock. She didn’t know if the cops had searched down here but she assumed they hadn’t.
She walked out onto the dock and ventured to the stern of the boat. She climbed on the rear teak deck pad and managed to duck under the cover and slide in on her belly through the walkway into the boat. It was dark enough under the cover and the cloudy skies that she had to pull a flashlight out and sweep it around in order to see. It smelled musty and her nostrils crinkled. She sat on her haunches next to the telescopic poles holding up the heavy winter cover and looked around. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but that was usually the case when she started on a search.
There were lots of compartments on the boat in which to secrete things, some obvious, others not. She had looked at the plans for dozens of yachts that debtors had tried to hide from their creditors. New names, new flag registrations, new paint colors, but you couldn’t really change the superstructure of the thing. That was like a fingerprint.
She made a careful search from bow to stern. The luxurious interior had pretty much every bell and whistle Formula offered. Gibson didn’t care about that. She focused on the fact that she had found exactly one thing of interest.
It was a note inked on the bottom of a fender in the forward storage hatch.
Look harder. It’s worth it.
Okay, that was something. She thought more about Harry Langhorne. The guy, by all accounts, was an asshole, a bully, spiteful, vindictive, manipulative, and cruel and maybe a pedophile on top. And he was also terminally ill with brain cancer. She could imagine him seeing this as a game, his last chance to screw with the world.
