Simply Lies, page 2
“I think I can make that work. What can you tell me about the property and ProEye’s interest?”
“I’ve got the info up on my screen. The mansion was built in the 1920s by a man named Mason Rutherford. He was a robber baron who made his money in railroad, timber, and mining. He owned a mansion in Colorado, a five-story town house in New York, and this place in Virginia. It’s on land where a British Lord built his home; it was later burned down during the Revolutionary War.” She added in a joking manner, “So there might be a ghost or two around.”
“Just what I always wanted to be—a ghost hunter.”
“Rutherford died in 1940 and his wife, Laura, who was much younger than he was, lived there until 1998. She was a hundred when she passed away. And the place had fallen into disrepair. Must have cost a fortune to keep up.”
“And the current owner?” asked Gibson, who was wondering what she was going to wear on this field trip.
“Ah, that’s the notorious Rutger Novak. He bought the place about seven years ago and spent an enormous amount of money undertaking an extensive renovation.”
“Rutger Novak? I definitely know that name.”
“Right. He and ProEye have a history, and not a good one. Forgive me if I’m telling you things you already know, but Novak is German. He was a big international businessman thirty years back, though always on the shady side. Arms dealer, Middle East strongman backer. He worked both sides on pretty much every deal. He had some setbacks over the years, and it looked like he would go quietly into the night with the bucks he had left. But he apparently made some bad decisions that sucked him dry and then he started to borrow heavily, and it turned out the assets pledged as collateral were mostly phony. ProEye chased him years ago on behalf of a whole coterie of clients, and they ended up with egg on their faces and not a dollar to show for their efforts.”
Gibson said, “That part I know very well. It was before my time, but the firm has never forgotten it. It’s part of the company lore. They even tell it to you during orientation as a warning sign against complacency and not going the extra mile.”
“Well, time apparently caught up to Novak. Everything has now gone belly-up in the last couple of months.”
“Is he around or did he hit the road like last time?”
“Vanished, or so the file says. He owes so much his creditors are trying to grab everything they can. This mansion is one of them. That’s why they want you to go there. The firm wants to make amends for what happened last time.”
“You said near Smithfield? Can you be more specific?”
She heard some key clicks. “It’s between a place called Mogarts Beach and Rushmere on something known as Burwell Bay.” Robinson gave her the street address.
“Okay, that gives me some context. The short route includes a ferry, so that would take me about an hour or so and that’s if I hit the boat schedule dead-on. The long route will have me drive south through Newport News, cross the James River Bridge, head to Smithfield, and then it’s about eight miles above that, like making a horseshoe. All told that’s about an hour, too, depending on traffic, so that’s the way I’ll go.”
“See? It pays to have someone who knows the local geography.”
“I’m surprised no one has been there before now.”
“Well, we didn’t know about the property until an hour ago, which is why Zeb didn’t mention it to you earlier. The title was in the name of a shell company. We just punched through that wall. Our clients have documented liens on all of the man’s assets and have filed blanket legal papers allowing access to all his properties. We’re hoping Novak left so fast he couldn’t clean the place out, because our intel is that he loved the finest things in life and that place might be full of them. Paintings, furniture, sculptures—hell, the creditors will take Oriental rugs, silverware, the contents of a wine cellar or a library, whatever. Regardless, they’ll be lucky to get a nickel on the dollar.”
“Yes they will. Okay, I’ll head out as fast as I can.”
“And the kids?” asked Robinson.
“My next call will be to my parents. They’re local.”
“Thank God for local parents. Mine live on the West Coast. And I think that’s by design.”
THE BLACK PANTSUIT WAS SNUG around the hips and tight around the waist with her stomach pooch drooping over it, although the white blouse hung well on her frame. But Gibson was pissed because while the blouse was hers, she’d had to borrow the pantsuit from Dorothy Rogers, her mother.
You did birth two kids. You don’t snap right back from that. Well, it has been two years since Darby was born, so you’re well past snapping-back stage.
Now she regretted the oatmeal almond cookie.
And she had seen the look her mother had given her when she’d come down the stairs in her clothes. No words, just that look—no, that smirk. But then her mother did remark, “I just bought that outfit at TJ Maxx. But then I have been working out a lot more and watching my diet. It’s very important as one gets older, although none of us is getting any younger, right, honey? But for now just button the jacket and no one will notice how tight it is on you. Baby belly can be a real bitch. Took me thirty years to get rid of mine. Many women never do.”
That was about as subtle as her mother ever got. Maybe any mother ever got with her daughter.
Gibson steered her mommy van south down Interstate 64 East, and then worked her way through surface roads to US 17 that sling-shotted her across the burly James River. Next, she turned north, passing through what had once been the hog-slaughtering capital of the world at Smithfield. Her nav system showed it was another seven miles to the remnants of Rutger Novak’s shattered empire. The whole journey would be less than fifty miles, but that was a long way in the tightly constricted parameters of this part of coastal Virginia. It was filled with military footprints, underwater tunnels, bridges, the ocean with wide sandy beaches, and the delicate lines of inland waterways that either crept along the earth like capillaries under the skin or gushed across it like fat arteries.
Gibson had thought about calling Zeb Brown back, but she knew he would be preoccupied with the case she had discussed with him this morning. And she was excited about getting out of the house.
She followed the directions until she turned down a long narrow road that was bracketed on both sides by mature trees that were just starting to bud out in early spring. Gibson reached down and touched the holster riding on her belt. In it was a Beretta eight-shot Nano, which was comparable in size and weight to the Glock 26 she had carried on the police force, and chambered the same ordnance. Its slightly smaller footprint fit her hand well. And the nine-millimeter Luger bullet that blew out of its barrel would stop pretty much whatever it hit.
She had not let her mother see her unlock the combo safe located at the top of her bedroom closet or put the gun in her belt clip. Her mom had never wanted her daughter to be a cop. One in the family was enough, she had often said. However, Gibson had wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps. As the oldest child, with two brothers coming in behind her, she had held her uniformed father in awe. But, initially, bowing to the will of her mother, Gibson had joined the force as a forensics tech. That had mollified her mom, since Gibson would show up at the crime scene only after all the danger had passed.
When she secretly took and passed the written and physical exams to enter the police academy, her mother had thrown a fit. It wasn’t until her father, Rick Rogers, stepped in that she was allowed to pursue her dream. Her old man was proud of her, Gibson knew, though he rarely showed it. Public displays of affection were not in the DNA of the Rogers family. Gibson could count on one hand the number of times her mother had hugged or kissed her. And she could count those times on one finger with her father—that was the day of her graduation from the police academy.
He hadn’t done it at her wedding, for reasons he had made clear to his daughter prior to Gibson’s walking down the aisle.
She turned off the road she was on and started down another. The property was just up ahead on the right.
And maybe I’ll find some British ghosts living in the old mansion.
She slowed as she saw the stone monuments on either side of a driveway. The plaque on one of the monuments read: STORMFIELD.
Arlene Robinson hadn’t told her the name of the place, not that it mattered.
There was a wrought iron gate but it hung open. Farther down and partially concealed by some overgrown bushes stood a mailbox. She drove up the cobblestone lane and swung around a bend in the road. Revealed was a sprawling old manor house that looked as though it hadn’t changed a jot since it had been built. Rutger Novak’s renovation must have all been on the interior.
She could only describe the architecture as an unruly blend of baronial, feudal, and gothic with a bit of Versailles thrown in for no apparent reason. It sat in front of her, stained and discolored after a long residence next to the unforgiving elements of an estuary reeking of equal parts saltwater and freshwater.
She parked in front and got out. The only sound was the breeze and the occasional bird opening its beak in anticipation of the dawning springtime. The tree canopies were still relatively bare, and the gloomy sky did not provide much light in the afternoon. She figured when it turned dark it would be difficult to see anything. And then she decided to hurry because it had just occurred to her that the place might not have electricity.
She snagged a flashlight from her van, because, as large as the house was, it would be dark in some places, regardless of the light outside.
Gibson made her way up to the front doors, which were each twelve feet tall and constructed of solid oak. She found the cat statue and the key underneath. As she set the statue back in place, it seemed to her that the feline was warning her to flee from here before it was too late.
When she unlocked the door and stepped inside, the musty air abruptly hit her. That was strange, she thought, because the place, supposedly, had been recently inhabited. Yet maybe it always smelled like this.
She suddenly looked around for an alarm pad. A bit panicked, Gibson listened for the sound of beeping prompting the inputting of a code before it was too late. She saw the alarm pad to the left of the doors, but its panel was dark.
That’s also odd.
But it was also lucky for her, since she had not been given the alarm code.
Gibson took out her iPad from her bag and turned on the video feature. She had no idea of the floor plan here, but since the place was nearly as large as a small shopping mall, this was not going to be a single afternoon’s worth of work. She started in the foyer, where there were two suits of armor standing about eight feet tall and still looking dwarfed by the immense space.
There was a large dining room fully, if incompatibly, outfitted with Baroque pieces and a Chippendale sideboard. Gibson had become something of an expert about such things while hunting the assets of the rich and shifty over the last couple years. On the walls were oil paintings mostly consisting of colonial scenery and waterfront landscapes. She didn’t think they were originals, or if they were, she doubted they were worth much. There was a nineteenth-century-era bar set up in a massive, hinged globe on rollers, and some nice Oriental rugs. Those might bring in decent bucks.
She walked down hallways and into other rooms, taking video and dictating pertinent information to the extent she could find any from either the objects themselves or her own expertise. She could Google everything later. She passed by a broad window and looked out at the dying sun. The rear grounds gazed out upon the James River, which looked dark and slick as it slid slowly past Newport News, turned to the east, and emptied into the Chesapeake Bay between Hampton and Norfolk. Beyond that was the unnervingly long Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel. After that, was the Atlantic.
Gibson had been across the Bay Bridge-Tunnel a few times and had never cared for the experience. It was over seventeen miles long, with artificial islands built along the route, and the bridge seemed to disappear right into the middle of the bay where the road entered the tunnels. It was like the highway was executing a suicidal dive into the water, taking all traffic with it.
Along the shoreline she spotted an old boathouse with an attached dock. There was a covered cabin cruiser there that might fetch some dollars. She decided to check on it while it was still light outside. She had already confirmed that there was no electricity turned on, which probably accounted for the musty smell, what with no air circulation.
Gibson headed down a slippery stone path to the shoreline of the James River. The boat was a Formula cabin cruiser, the hull white with blue and red accents. She estimated it was about forty feet in length and seemed to be in good shape, though it still had its winter cover on, so her views were limited. She took video of it and then tried the door of the boathouse, but it was locked. She peered in the window but couldn’t see much.
She trekked back to the house and entered the library. The shelves were mostly empty, so it appeared Novak had either cleared it out or wasn’t much of a reader.
Gibson walked over to one section of shelves to look at a large vase placed there when she felt something on her ankles.
She stopped and eyed the wall. It didn’t precisely meet the adjacent section of wood. There was about an inch sticking out. She set her iPad down, curled her fingers around the wood, and pulled. The wall swung open on a pivot pin set in the floor, revealing a darkened space. She could now hear something whirring close by. And there was the same sensation of airflow she had felt on her ankles when the wall was mostly closed.
She punched her flashlight on and adjusted the beam so it was concentrated. Her other hand rested on the butt of her Beretta. Four steps in she saw the source of the sound and airflow. A battery powered fan had been set on the floor within feet of the opening. She kept going.
And then the smell hit her.
Damn, I recognize that.
The hallway curved and she curved with it. She shone her light on walls that were damp stone; they probably dated back to the original construction.
She directed the beam back and forth in front of her as she walked along.
And then Gibson stopped and kept the beam on one spot. From out of the darkness, a slash of white and twin pops of color representing a toothy mouth and bulging eyes.
The man was sitting in a chair. He was tall and elderly, with thin, gray hair.
And he was also quite dead, which accounted for the stench.
And by the decomposing state of him, his life had been over for a while.
THE POLICE CRUISER SPUN TO a stop in front of the mansion where Gibson perched on the steps. She rose and walked over to the car as two uniformed deputies from the Isle of Wight sheriff’s department stepped from it.
“You the lady who called this in?” said one.
Gibson nodded, showing them her ID. “I’ll take you to where it is.”
She led them inside and to the room where the body was. One of the deputies stopped her at the threshold into the secret room, and asked her to go back and wait outside. One of the officers accompanied her—on the long shot that she was the killer, Gibson knew. Within thirty minutes more officers arrived, this time from the Smithfield Police Department and a lieutenant investigator from Isle of Wight. Five minutes after that another man showed up. He introduced himself to Gibson as Wilson Sullivan, a senior CID agent with the Virginia State Police’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
Sullivan was about six two, muscular and broad shouldered and around forty, with a square-jawed face and short hair that was as rumpled as his off-the-rack suit.
His eyes were pure cop’s eyes, thought Gibson. Alert, suspicious, roving, and contemplative.
They all went in to see the body just about the time a forensics team showed up, offloaded their equipment, and shuffled inside to look for microscopic clues that criminals always left behind.
Sullivan came back out later and sat on the steps next to Gibson.
“Will I have to stay much longer?” she asked. “I’ve got two little kids to get back to. I’ve already given a detailed statement.”
Sullivan lit up a cigarette and blew smoke away from her. “I really need to quit this, but the patch doesn’t work. Neither does anything else. And the fact is, I like it.”
“I know a lot of cops who smoke. Sort of comes with the territory for some.”
He ran his gaze over her. “You look like you wore the uniform.”
She gave him an amused expression. “How can you tell? From my extreme fitness?”
“You found a dead body in a creepy mansion. You’re not hysterical or crying or otherwise upset. That means you’re either the killer, or you’re used to seeing dead bodies. Plus, I see it in your eyes, the way you handled yourself around all the law enforcement flying around here.”
“Okay, I’m busted. Jersey City. Forensic tech for two years, uniform for six, detective for four.”
“And a mom of two small kids. And your husband?”
“Divorced.”
“So, can you tell me how you came to be here? I know it’s in your statement, but I’d like to hear firsthand.”
Gibson explained who she worked for and the call that she received.
“Can I see some ID that shows you work for ProEye? Which I’ve heard of, by the way.”
Gibson pulled out both her driver’s license and ProEye credentials.
Sullivan studied the twin cards before handing them back. “They good folks to work for?”
“They are for me. And it gives me flexibility. I mostly work behind a computer at home.”
“But not this time,” said Sullivan pointedly. He finished his smoke, pocketing the butt. “Don’t want to contaminate the crime scene,” he noted. “So, Rutger Novak?”
“Yes.”
Sullivan got a look in his eyes that Gibson did not like. “I’ve heard of him, though not too much lately. Didn’t know he was living around here.”
