Simply Lies, page 21
He smiled, albeit reservedly. “For now, we’ll just let things play out.”
“Sounds good.”
“I’m going for a quick smoke out back.”
“And I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Good night.”
They parted company and she took the stairs up to her room. She checked her watch and called her dad. She could tell by the background noise that he was watching basketball.
“How are the kids?”
“Sound asleep. Ate all their dinner. Never made any trouble. Just little bundles of joy. I don’t want to hear you complaining ever again about how hard it is, Mick.”
“Meaning Mom took care of them and you were somewhere else the whole time?”
“Well, I had some errands to run, yeah.”
“Right.”
“Jesus, he hit that three from the parking lot,” he said, obviously watching the TV. “Damn kids these days. NBA’s recruiting out of pre-K. Jump a mile in the air and dunk like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not all about dunking,” said Gibson. “I couldn’t dunk.”
“That’s because you’re too short. And you’re a girl.”
“Girls can dunk, Dad.”
“Hell, I know. I just didn’t want you to think I was getting soft. How’d it go today?”
She told him about what she had found and what she had done, and she thought her father was going to come through the phone and punch her.
“You did what?” he exclaimed. “You took evidence? Do you know that’s a felony? Of course you do. What the hell are you thinking, Mick?”
“I’m playing it safe, Dad. For now, anyway. I need to know where things stand.”
“I’ll tell you where they stand. You don’t do what you just did. Now either go give it to the cop, or put it back where you got it and let them figure it out.”
“Are those my only two choices?”
“Do you need a third? Because I told you before. I am not raising your kids while you’re in prison for the next eight to ten years.”
“You going to rat on me?”
“I know you pushed the envelope back in Jersey City, Mick, but this is not a game.”
“Let me tell you my motives and then we can talk.”
“I don’t think you’re going to change my mind.”
She told him about going to see Nathan Trask’s father. “And Trask knows someone visited his father. And he can find out it’s me, if he really wants to.”
This did not mollify her father in the least. It only made him more irate. “Son of a bitch! Do you have a death wish? I told you not to go anywhere near that guy.”
“That guy is apparently part of this case. If I’m going to solve it, I have to go where I need to go.”
“Let the police solve it and go back to your computers.”
“Says the guy who hated the fact that I quit the force.”
“I understood why you did it,” her father corrected.
“But you still hated it.”
“Yeah, I did. Because what’s-his-fucking-name cratered your finances and your career. You expect me to be happy about that? And you were a damn good cop.”
“I’m not happy about it, either. And I’m not walking away from this.”
“Why the hell is this case so important to you? It got dumped in your lap. And you’re taking a risk, I told you that. Think of the kids.”
“I am thinking of the kids. And you. And Mom. I’ve crossed the Rubicon, so I’m involved in this thing whether I want to be or not. I can either wait for something bad to happen to me, or the kids or you or Mom, or I can work this thing like I worked my other cases.”
“Is that really the only reason?” asked her father.
He could read her so easily sometimes, mainly because the two were so much alike. “Someone used me, okay? I don’t like that. When that happens, I don’t run away with my tail between my legs. You taught me to punch the bully in the face, Dad. I can’t change who I am.”
She heard him let out a long sigh. It was the same thing he had done after every argument he had lost with her, which was damn near all of them.
“So what are you going to do with what you found out?”
“I’m betting Julia Frazier is Francine Langhorne. I need to find her.”
“How will you do that?”
“By digging. Isn’t that what cop work is?”
“Just be careful. Some folks really need you to stick around.”
“I know, the kids—”
Her father interrupted. “I was talking about me.”
The silence hung heavy for a few seconds before he added, “I gotta get back to my basketball game. You take care, honey.” He clicked off.
Gibson stared at the phone and realized for the first time just how worried her father really was about her.
CLARISSE SAT IN FRONT OF her computer screens writing something down in a new notebook. It was labeled War on the Past.
Things were happening quite rapidly now.
Her surveillance camera had shown that Wilson Sullivan had picked up Gibson and they had driven off together. She had an overnight bag, so wherever they were going it was some distance away.
Where would you go with the cop on an overnight, Mick? Where would you need official muscle to get to what you want to get to?
Something occurred to her.
She went online and did a search. There were a number of results, but the very first one would do.
The front-page story in the Fauquier Times: “Murder in The Plains. Daryl Oxblood Slain. No Suspects.” And there it was. On the wall in a room of the house the phrase, DO AS I SAY, NOT AS I DO.
The Fauquier County Sheriff’s Office had not been as tight-lipped as their colleagues to the south, who had kept that piece of information zealously guarded. They had actually let someone take a picture and run with it.
So Gibson did the search I just did, found this item, and she and Sullivan went there to see about possible connections.
They would have talked to the neighbor, seen the crime scene, talked to the cops. A search on Daryl Oxblood would have turned up nothing after twenty years back.
She will know what that means. They’ll run his prints.
Clarisse thought back to what she had done and not done while there.
I tried to erase the phrase but I was stopped. Gibson will surely see that. I wore gloves, so no prints . . . the comic book! Did I put it back exactly . . .
She closed her eyes and let that recent memory flow back into her hippocampus where she analyzed it thoroughly, although the result was not to her liking.
No, I didn’t. I should have taken it with me. Stupid.
“BD and RE.” Gibson will know about that now.
Something else occurred to Clarisse. She ran and got the gloves she had worn that day. On one fingertip the fabric was soiled. With blood.
BD’s blood. Not mine. With the gloves I left no prints or DNA behind, but it still was a blunder. You are truly getting sloppy, girl.
Clarisse took several deep calming breaths as she composed a reply to the last email.
Okay, let’s cut out the high school snarky babble. We’re older and hopefully wiser now. Yes, I want Mommy back, so put up with her for a bit longer. Once I find what I’m looking for, we can arrange the trade. It will be complex but what isn’t, right?
She paused, wondering whether to go there or not. Oh, what the hell.
And FYI I know who Daryl was. It was unnecessary. Why do that to him? We had a history, all of us. Granted he was not the brightest bulb, but he got out. You could have let that sleeping dog lie, right? He had a life. He was doing okay. You snuffed him for no reason. I know we’re all messed up. But let’s try to get this done the right way. You want the nice, quiet life with bags of money? Well, so do I. We act appropriately, we get there. We don’t, we all go down. Because there are others on the trail here and they have badges. So don’t screw this up. We have one shot. And only one.
Clarisse’s finger again hovered over the send key. This was serious shit. The person on the other end of this email trail was serious shit.
The key went down and the email went poof into the ethereal darkness. She wondered how long before the reply came, if there even was one. Clarisse’s email had been logical, rational, made sense all around, for their own well-being, their own survival. But the thing was, the person she was facing could not be counted on to see it that way. The most dangerous enemy of all was the one who, consciously or not, didn’t care about dying.
But in another way, it placed the person in danger of being anticipated by an adversary.
And that will probably be the only difference between my surviving this or not.
Because seeing Daryl Oxblood with his head nearly cut off changed everything for me.
Clarisse brought up some financial documents from a previous hack she had done. They belonged to Daniel Pottinger. They represented a dozen accounts from a similar number of financial institutions both foreign and domestic.
The problem was every single one of these accounts had been cleaned out and closed within the span of one week nearly seven months ago. Clarisse had only a guess on the total amount of money, but based on other things she had found and the cash price paid for Stormfield, she estimated it to be about half a billion dollars.
Now that qualified as a treasure under any definition. And she had always loved round numbers.
She figured Gibson would be able to snag these same documents at some point if she already hadn’t. Whether she would drill deeper was the question. Clarisse was banking that she could. ProEye could get into places no one else could.
I may not have ProEye-level resources, but I’m cleverer than the great Mickey Gibson is or ever will be. She was the great one everyone loved. I was the one no one loved or even knew existed. But I will show her. And everyone else.
She hit a key, and all those empty accounts disappeared from the screen.
Still, if I get there first, all well and good.
If Gibson gets there first, still all well and good, possibly.
She changed her clothes and hair and makeup and personality and demeanor.
She stopped at her laminator and pulled out the item she had encased in heated and hardened plastic. She trimmed off the edges and punched a hole in it, then ran it through a lanyard and placed that around her neck. She walked out the door because she had an appointment to keep.
Somehow I am loving every minute of this.
Even though I’m scared to death.
THE HOME WAS SIXTY YEARS old and on its last legs, and the yard undernourished and hence withered. The woman who lived here seemed to be all of these things rolled into one.
“Ms. Betty Gross?” Clarisse said.
“Yes?”
“I’m Sylvia Devereaux.” She held up her laminated card. “With the Virginia Employment Commission.”
“I don’t understand.”
Clarisse produced an iPad from her bag and said, “May I come in?”
“Am I in some sort of trouble?” asked Gross, clinging to the tattered screen door.
“Not at all. I’m here to help you, at least I hope. I understand that you were recently employed by a Mr. Daniel Pottinger at his home, Stormfield?”
“That’s right. I was his housekeeper, but he let me go. He let everybody go.”
“I know, that’s why I’m here. To see if I can help. May I come in?” she asked again.
Gross stepped back. “I hope you can help me, too. I haven’t found another housekeeper job yet. And the money is running low.”
“I quite understand.”
She was led into a small room off the kitchen. The place was decorated with what seemed to be spare parts from lots of different homes and decades. Clarisse assumed the woman had accumulated all this over the years and kept using it, since new items never came in to replace what was clearly worn out.
“Now exactly when did Mr. Pottinger let you go?”
“It was three weeks ago yesterday.”
“And the reason given?”
“He didn’t give no reason. Just told me and the others to get out.”
“My goodness. How rude.”
“That’s what I thought. And he owed me wages, a week’s worth. Never seen a dime and that big house he lived in, I know he had the money. Now he’s dead. Doubt I’ll be getting anything.” She paused. “I filed for unemployment. Is that why you’re here, Miss?”
“It’s one of the reasons, yes,” said Clarisse, keying some items in on her iPad. “How many staff did he have?”
“Four inside, three outside. All locals, hardworking. And he left them high and dry, too. Seems like the more money someone has, the less they care.”
“Yes, it does, doesn’t it. So he owed you a week’s worth of wages. How much was that?”
“I got ten dollars an hour times forty-five hours for the week.”
“So four hundred and fifty dollars then?”
“Yeah. Backbreaking work, it was. That place was huge. And he wanted the floors scrubbed and the marble to gleam.”
“A difficult employer, then?”
“You could say that. You could say a lot more than that. The thing was the man was almost never there. He’d talk to me on the computer. Made me walk around with it, show him the state of the place. He’d read me the riot act if the least thing was out of place or something wasn’t done to his liking, or if he didn’t think we were working hard enough. It was a real bitch.”
“And you mean to say he was almost never at Stormfield?”
“I could count the times he was there on one hand with fingers left over.”
“Very interesting.”
“And the few times he did show up he never gave me any notice. He was just there. Almost like the man was afraid to be in his own house.”
Clarisse thought about Nathan Trask and knew the woman had unknowingly hit the nail right on the head with that one. “And how long did you work for him?”
“Nearly four years.”
“Your annual income from that job would have been, around twenty-three thousand?”
“About that.”
“Any paid vacation or health care?”
Gross smiled bitterly. “I asked for it, he never gave it. Said if I wanted a vacation why should he pay for it. And then he told me it was my fault if I got sick. Not his problem.”
Clarisse looked around at the small space. “Could you live off that income?”
“Got one adult child and two grandbabies living with me, so the short answer is no. I work another job at night. Cleaning some buildings over in Smithfield. On the weekends I waitress at the local diner.”
“You must be run off your feet.”
“I’d rather be working, actually. The night job and the waitressing don’t pay enough. I was hoping someone might buy that Stormfield place and hire me back, but I guess that will take a while.”
“Yes, I think it will. Now, it seems that Mr. Pottinger failed to pay into the unemployment insurance fund.”
Gross’s face fell. “Does . . . does that mean I won’t get no money? Like I said, I filed, but I ain’t got nothing yet.”
“Well, that’s one reason I’m here, to help with that. Now, before he fired everyone, did Mr. Pottinger have any visitors?”
“Why does that matter?” Gross said, her expression suddenly wary.
Clarisse leaned forward and said in a confidential tone, “Just between you and me, it seems possible that Mr. Pottinger was engaged in something that might be criminal.”
“Criminal!”
“Nothing has been proved yet, of course, but the state is looking into it. If you could assist us in our investigation, well, it certainly would help your chances of being compensated.”
Gross smoothed down her wrinkled shirt and said, “I’ll help you if I can, Miss, I swear. It’s not like I owe Mr. Pottinger nothing. Man made my life miserable.”
“I can understand that. So, any visitors?”
“He only had the one, Miss. We used to joke that the only friend he had was the devil.”
“When was this visit?”
“About a week before he let us go. I remember it because he showed up out of the blue again. I walked in one morning and there he was, standing right in the foyer staring at me. I don’t know how my heart didn’t stop.”
“Do you think he showed up because he knew he was going to have a visitor?”
“I thought that might be it, but he never said nothing until right before the person got there.”
“And what can you tell me about the visitor?”
“It was a man. About your age.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Tall man. Thin.”
“Hair and eye color?”
“Why does that matter?”
“Well, we will want to find this man, of course.”
“Oh, sure, yeah. Blond hair, thinning, and green eyes, least I think.”
“How was he dressed?”
“Jeans and a sweater. He was very polite, but there was something about him, I don’t know, gave me the creeps.”
“Did you find out his name?”
“It was Mr. Marshal.”
Clarisse sat back. Marshal? Touché. “Did you happen to hear what they discussed?”
“Oh, no. I took him to Mr. Pottinger’s study and left them there. I went off and continued my work.”
“Did you see him leave?”
“Stormfield has its own phone system, you know, so you can call room to room. Mr. Pottinger phoned me and told me to let Mr. Marshal out.”
“Did either of them say anything as he was leaving?”
“Mr. Pottinger didn’t. But when I opened the front door for Mr. Marshal he looked at me funny and what he said was even funnier. Not laugh funny, but strange funny.”
“What was that?”
“He said, ‘I hope you’ll be able to find other work.’ ”
“Really? And what did you take that to mean?”
“Well, I thought Mr. Pottinger might be selling the place to this man and he’d bring in another staff. Never thought about him getting killed instead.”
“Did you see the car he’d driven up in?”
