Simply Lies, page 18
Gibson crawled back out to find that it was now raining. She hustled through the storm to the front door of the house to find it locked, and the key no longer under the cat statue. She pulled out her pick kit and defeated this obstacle quickly. As she went inside a crack of thunder made her jump.
She took out her iPad and went through all the photos and video she had taken before. Paintings, sculptures, some furniture, and rugs. She had logged all that inventory and gone online to get prices for them. She figured it was nowhere near enough to constitute the man’s stolen mob treasure.
She might have thought that he had sunk all his money into Stormfield. After all, five million bucks would have been big money back in the nineties. But she didn’t think that was it. The note confirmed this.
Look harder. It’s worth it.
So if his killers were Francine and Doug, had their father told them anything? If the treasure was in some bank account or safe-deposit box, or other financial hiding place, Gibson might have a shot at tracking it down. It was what she did for a living, after all.
But Langhorne’s note showed that he was well aware that people were looking for something he had. And he was egging them on, daring them to find it. Seeing if they were smarter than he was.
Am I smarter than he was?
She drifted through room after room, looking for anything that might be a clue or lead to a clue. She needed to know more about Langhorne and even more about his time as Daniel Pottinger. The first she could possibly get from Earl Beckett. The latter she might have to get from Clarisse.
If I ever call her back, and right now I’m not sure I want to. She didn’t like being shit on, not that anyone did. But she liked it even less from a person who was clearly enjoying pulling Gibson’s strings.
And what is the woman’s beef with me, anyway? It’s not just standard manipulation technique. Something else is going on. Something personal.
She heard the noise a second later and her hand flew to her gun. She aimed the Beretta in front of her and walked toward the sound. She wanted to meet the intruder on her terms.
Gibson rounded the corner and slipped down the dark hall. The sounds were coming closer and her finger edged to the trigger.
“Shit,” she exclaimed.
Virginia State Police detective Wilson Sullivan was staring at her.
“You don’t seem surprised to see me here,” said Gibson, putting her gun away.
He frowned and said tersely, “I’m not. I saw your van outside.”
“Of course.”
“But I want an answer as to what you’re doing here. And I want it right now.” He took a step closer. “Because the fact is, you shouldn’t be here. I could arrest you for being here.”
“It looked to me like you guys released the crime scene. And I thought we were working together. I was just trying to find a lead of some kind.”
He studied her for an uncomfortably long moment. “And did you find a lead?”
She told him about the message she’d discovered on the boat.
“So there is some treasure out there that he’s playing games with?”
“Sounds like it. Or he could be bullshitting everyone and there’s no treasure at all.”
“Which do you think it is?”
“You know as much about Harry Langhorne as I do,” she said. “He’s obviously a complicated guy. So I’m not sure which way to go on that question.”
He nodded and looked around. “Find anything else besides the note?”
“Not yet. Still raining hard out there?” she asked, noting his wet coat and hair.
“Bucketing.”
“We might want to stay inside then and go over the place.”
“Treasure in plain sight, maybe?”
“Maybe. But it all depends on how you define ‘plain sight.’ ”
“I thought you went all over with your iPad.”
“I couldn’t hit every room. That would have taken days. Have your people searched the whole place?”
“Yes, but they weren’t looking for treasure.”
“Any leads on the murder?”
He shook his head. “I have a feeling this one is going to take a while. Who’s watching the kids? Your mother again?”
“Both parents.”
“Shall we go room by room?” he asked.
She smiled and said, “Yes.” Inside, though, she was frowning.
Ninety minutes later the rain had finally subsided and so had their search. Without result.
“If there’s a treasure in here, I’m not seeing it,” said Sullivan.
“What about a safe-deposit box? Bank and other financial accounts? The normal hiding places?”
“We’re trying to access some of that. But we’ve had a hard time tracking anything down.”
“He didn’t bank with some local entity?”
“Not that we can find. And there were no financial records at the house, at least that we could uncover. He may have them somewhere else, but we can’t even find a checkbook or a list of bills. He could be renting a storage facility somewhere, but we have no idea where it might be. But these days, you can hide stuff anywhere.”
“Tell me about it,” replied Gibson dryly. “But no one has come forward? Law or accounting firm? Financial advisors who worked with him?”
Sullivan shook his head. “They might have worked with him under another name and have no idea the guy’s even dead.”
“His murder’s been in the news,” she countered. “It mentioned he was killed at Stormfield. You would think his financial people would know he owned it.”
“We got some names from the Turners’ Realtor. Big surprise, we can’t find a single one of them. It’s like they ran for it.”
Gibson looked around the dank interior of Stormfield. “Well, the note I found clearly shows he knew someone would be looking for something. Either he hid it somewhere, or he didn’t and it’s just a whole lot of nothing.”
“Maybe you can work your magic and crack it. If you do, let me know.”
She frowned again but wasn’t facing him when she did so. “I can give it a shot. Hey, you know anything about Nathan Trask?”
Sullivan looked taken aback. “Trask? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing. But he’s a big mover and shaker in the criminal world, though I need to watch my words or else he’ll sue me for slander and probably win.”
“You think he was working with Langhorne aka Pottinger?”
“He might have been.”
Sullivan said, “I was told about him when I moved up from Carolina. He has a bunch of politicians in his pocket who cover for him.”
“What a world we live in.”
“Isn’t it though,” said Sullivan, who was also now frowning as the rain picked up again.
CLARISSE HAD NOT CALLED GIBSON back, figuring it would be the height of weakness on her part to do so. She would let Gibson contact her, if she ever did.
Yet she has to, doesn’t she? She can’t leave it like this.
She refocused and went over the current state of affairs.
Harry Langhorne had been murdered. But he was already dying of brain cancer, which was stunning news to Clarisse. Her mother had been kidnapped. They had killed Daryl Oxblood and in doing so had also slaughtered BD.
So have they already killed Mommy?
But they wouldn’t, not yet. And if they were using her as leverage, they would have to make contact again.
She would rather head them off and make contact with them. There was no real advantage in that, other than she wanted to show strength in the face of her antagonist’s grab for dominance. Only the person facing her now was not so easily fooled. And Clarisse would not mention BD. She didn’t want them to know that she had figured that piece out.
She pulled up the email she had received.
Hello and surprise. Took a while, but, like you, I don’t give up easy. The old bitch is well and full of shit, as always. We’ll need to talk about things. I’ll let you know when. Get cranked and buckle up because we’re taking this ride to a whole other level. It’s going to be a wild one, hon.
She opened another notebook. On it Clarisse had affixed a label that read OLD SCORES TO SETTLE.
She had already written a great deal in it. Memories that might prove useful, factoids to float around in her mind. Strategies and tactics. She read through it, added a few things, and sat down to compose her reply.
Hello, right back at you. Clever girl on the jewel heist. You make a wonderful maid by the way, in a cheap sort of way. Servitude must be in your DNA. Mommy means less to me than you think so FYI leverage limited. And really, poor Daryl Oxblood whoever the hell he is? When you steal a schlep’s ID you don’t have to kill him on top of it. I would have thought you had more class. So the issue becomes: where do we go from here? We want the same thing, I take it. Payment in lieu of services is how I see it. Maybe you see more. I have people working on it and progress is being made. Your plan, as I see it, is to let me find it and you ransom Mommy for your share, since you didn’t find it on your trip to Stormfield when you took care of HL. If I’m wrong, let me know. I have other things to do with my time. Cheers, hon.
Her finger hovered over the send key as she read and reread the missive looking for anything that shouldn’t be in there. And for something that should be and wasn’t.
Next moment, her finger plunged and off it went.
She wondered how long it would take for a reply. Her response might also go to spam, but they would be checking that, no doubt. She had to watch herself for sure. Langhorne’s murder had been as she had expected. But the murder of Oxblood had been out-of-control bloody.
Maybe Oxblood was a message to me. If they’re willing to do that to BD, what will they do to me?
She now pondered Mickey Gibson. The woman had been to Stormfield. Her geolocator on her phone had told Clarisse that. What had she discovered, if anything?
The problem was what the problem was always going to be, she knew.
If Gibson beats me to it, I need to get the treasure from her. And I will, regardless of what it will take. Or what it will cost. I will survive this, even if Mickey Gibson won’t.
The thought of Gibson’s possibly dying made her freeze up for a moment, which, in turn, made her furious.
Never forget, it’s just you and you alone. Nobody else gives a shit and neither should you.
And now you better bring your A game, girl. Because where you’re going right now? Anything less and you are dead.
CLARISSE HAD LIED TO GIBSON. Of course she had. It was what she did.
You simply lie to everyone about everything.
But she actually hadn’t lied about Nathan Trask. The man was in the wheelhouse of everything important to her at the moment.
She had made calls. Surprisingly, her request had met with success. A meeting had been arranged. She was now out on the street, observing the man’s Virginia Beach fortress.
For this meeting, she was using a different name, of course. But still, it was not without risk. Trask was smart, ruthless, not a man to be toyed with. And not a man easily scammed. And she was here to do exactly that.
She walked up to the gate where two men were stationed. They were in sharp suits, with sharp eyes and bulges under their jackets where the ubiquitous guns were kept. On the rooftop she spotted two more men in black jumpsuits. Both held long-range rifles. A third guard was manning a set of expensive optics while performing a near constant 360-degree surveillance of the area, from beach to street.
After she told them who she was and why she was here, one of the gate guards asked to see her ID. The other one patted her down and then wanded her, taking his time and missing nothing. She appreciated the professionalism. He didn’t even try to cop a feel.
Clarisse had dressed carefully for the meeting. Black jacket and matching skirt. A quick blond dye job, reading glasses, muted lipstick and makeup, low heels. No bag. No phone, no wallet. They would have confiscated them anyway.
She was driven up to the main house by another man in a golf cart outfitted with gold trim. She viewed the multibuilding complex. It was mostly hidden from the street by the wall and massive landscape plantings, boulders, and other architectural features. She watched as an AgustaWestland chopper lifted off from the rear grounds, banked right, and drifted out over the ocean.
“I hope that’s not Mr. Trask leaving,” she said to the man next to her.
He didn’t even bother to answer.
She was dropped off at the front door and it was opened by a woman dressed as a butler, right down to the starched collar and bow tie. She was about fifty, trim, and without a hair out of place; she looked pleased with her lot in life.
“This way, Ms. Peters,” she said, her voice low, her gaze pointed at her well-polished shoes.
So she can have plausible deniability with the cops if I end up as a corpse somewhere, Clarisse thought.
She was led down a long plushly decorated hall, from which rooms of considerable size and luxury branched off like ribs from a spine. They came to a set of tall double doors. The butler knocked, was told to enter, and held the door open for her.
Clarisse stepped through and listened to the other woman’s footsteps marching away.
The room was small and minimally furnished.
There were only two upholstered chairs with long, straight backs.
A man was sitting in one of them. He lifted a hand and pointed her to the other one.
She came forward and sat down, adjusting her glasses and taking him in.
Nathan Trask was smaller than she would have expected, since he loomed so large in life in all other ways. In her bare feet, they were about the same height, she calculated. He was fifty-one, she knew, from her research. His build was stocky but strong. His suit was tailored, but he wore it with indifference. The ring on his finger was probably worth more than the first payment she’d gotten from Senator Wright. Yet it was the only item of excess on him. His shoes were ordinary, his tie and shirt the same.
He looked back at her with unblinking eyes the color of asphalt.
Okay, that was a bit unnerving, she had to admit.
He lifted a hand. “Drink?” he asked in a raspy voice that might speak to a cold coming or going.
“No, thank you.”
He nodded and let his hand fall to his lap. He never took his eyes off her. She had been told by some in the know that this would be the case. It was as though he was imprinting every bit of her onto his memory. Never a good thing with a sociopath.
And don’t I know that?
“You asked to meet?” he prompted her. “You said you had some information that might be useful to me?”
She nodded. “I do.”
“Normally, I would have ignored the request, and you wouldn’t be sitting there. I had you checked out, of course, Ms. Peters. But it’s all bullshit. Of course. Made up. But your background cover is good. My people couldn’t punch through it and they usually can. So kudos to you. And that intrigued me enough to allow you in the door. Otherwise, it never would have happened. And I like new things, keeps me young. So impress me. Or not.”
“Why let me in if you can’t confirm who I am? I could be a threat.”
“There are six guns pointed at you right now from inconspicuous holes in the walls. You can’t see them, nor can I. But they’re still there. You’ll never feel a thing. At least they tell me that. I have no personal experience, you understand. But maybe you don’t believe me.”
On cue, she heard, one after the other, six gun slides being racked.
“Impressive,” she said demurely.
“Flashy, actually, and I’m more into substance.” He cleared his throat. “So, the information?”
“Daniel Pottinger?”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead,” said Clarisse.
“I’m aware of that.”
“You did business with him.”
“Did I?” asked Trask.
She sat back and allowed herself to get comfortable, fall fully into the role she was playing. You had to believe your own bullshit. But it wasn’t all bullshit. The important stuff was true. “For purposes of this discussion, let’s assume you did. Of course I have no way of holding you to that.”
He inclined his head a notch in a show of agreeing to these terms, for now.
“He was murdered with arguably the world’s deadliest poison. But he was already dying from brain cancer.”
“And how do you know this? Are you working with the police?”
“If I were working with the police, I would have to identify myself to you as such. And I don’t think you would have agreed to meet me.”
“Undercover?”
She shook her head. “I don’t have the stomach for it. And the pay is far too low to support my lifestyle.” Clarisse thought she saw the trace of a smile play across his lips.
Had he been thinking about his FBI father just now?
“I found out from someone who is working with the police.”
“And why would they tell you?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
“I’m listening.”
“A mysterious message was also left near the body. And a note was hidden in Pottinger’s boat that might be meaningful to you.” She had not told Gibson that she had previously found the note on the boat fender. But she didn’t know that Gibson had also found it, although Clarisse expected her to at some point.
“And what did the note say?”
“Basically, to try harder if you wanted to find the real treasure.”
“So this is a treasure hunt then?” said Trask.
“Apparently so.”
The black eyes drilled into her with a calmness that was disconcerting. “But whose treasure?”
Curious question. Let me throw something else out as bait and see if the pole bends.
“Pottinger was not his real name. He stole a lot of mob money from decades ago. And he did deals as Pottinger that made him even more money in various ways.”
