Simply Lies, page 28
“I know that,” she said casually. “I know lots of things. Some more than you, some less. Which is why it was a good idea to bring you in for a chat. A debriefing, the law guys call it.”
“What did you use on me?”
“Can’t spell the name or pronounce it, but it works real good.” She rose and drew closer. She was dressed in jeans and boots and a long sweater that covered her butt.
“You’ve really lost weight,” said the woman.
Clarisse said, “I lost my appetite about twenty years ago. You, on the other hand, went the other way.”
“I survived, so I ate what I wanted. You should try it sometime. You’re too skinny.”
She pulled her chair next to the bed and sat down.
“And my mother?”
“She’s around here. You probably smell her pee and other stuff. We moved her to another room so we could use this one for you.”
“ ‘We’?”
“Don’t get curious. It’s not a good look, and I’m not in the mood. Wilson Sullivan is the cop you were watching. Tell me why.”
“Like I said, he’s looking for the treasure. He may be a cop but he’s not acting like one.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, one compelling theory is that he, like us, is not who he once was.”
The woman looked thoughtful. “And who might that be? The person he might have been, I mean.”
“One of the gang from the old days who changed his appearance? That’s one possibility.”
“I don’t think so. I recognized Bruce. I recognized you, even with all the shit you’ve done to yourself. I’d recognize anybody from the old days. I have a gift for it. And I work at it. For obvious reasons, survival being the top one. You know what they did to us. They’re not getting a second shot. And I saw Sullivan before and my meter did not buzz once.”
“Okay, where is the other half of ‘we’?”
“Off doing things as ‘other halves’ often do. Busy, busy, busy.”
“So you lied about him not being around anymore?”
“Let’s get back to the mystery man. If not the old days, what else?”
“First, I need to see my mother,” said Clarisse.
“Why?”
“Chiefly to make sure she’s not dead.”
“Again, why? You never loved her. You always wanted to kill the bitch. Don’t try to lie and say that wasn’t true. Or that your feelings have changed. Feelings don’t change after that shit. No, I’m wrong, they do. They get stronger. So you just want to kill her more now, right?”
Clarisse shook her head. “It’s not that simple. Maybe it was back then, not now. And I’m her caretaker. But just so you know I haven’t totally turned into a wimp, I spent good money keeping her alive and if anyone’s going to kill her, it’s going to be me. Not you. So bring her to me. Now.”
“Feisty today, huh? All tied up as you are? Sure, you can see her. I’ll just wheel her right in. It’s about time for her bathroom run, anyway.”
“Has she been getting her meds?”
“Stop worrying. You were always a worrier.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. She’s on a ton of meds and she requires oxygen, and she has special dietary needs and she’s diabetic. And I hope you have her in a cleaner place than this. She has no immune system left.”
“You always had a tight ass for rules. Do this, do that. But see, you’re tied up and I’m not. So relax your shrimpy ass while I wheel her in.” She smiled and held up a warning finger. “But don’t you go anywhere.” From the rear of her waistband she slid out a pistol. “Or bang-bang and Mommy is dead. By my hand, not yours. Because I don’t follow rules anymore, I make them.”
As soon as she left, Clarisse struggled against her restraints, but to no avail. She didn’t have long to wait, as the door opened and there was her mother in a wheelchair, with an oxygen line in her nose and a canister of the stuff riding on the back of the chair.
She looked clean, well-groomed, and actually clear-eyed, even with the cataract in the one. She smiled at her daughter and waved like a little girl encountering a friend.
“Lovey, Lovey,” she said. “See my new friend?”
Clarisse looked at the other woman, who said, “We got her med list and other requirements before we snatched her. What, you think we’re monsters?”
“They snatched me, they snatched me!” exclaimed her mother happily. “Broke me out of my prison, way I see it. And they let me smoke, too, a little. But only with the oxygen off. Nobody wants to go boom.”
Behind her the woman placed the pistol against Mommy’s head. “And if smoking doesn’t kill her, guess what will, babycakes?”
“Oh, don’t say that word,” screamed Mommy, putting her hands over her ears. “It’s god-awful.”
“Yes, it is,” said Clarisse. “Only you didn’t seem to care back then, did you? If you can even remember.”
Her mother slowly removed her hands and looked directly at her daughter. “I remember. And I had to pick my battles.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry anymore.”
“Really?” said Mommy with widened, hopeful eyes.
“Really,” answered Clarisse.
“Did you do it?”
“I wish.”
Mommy looked at the other woman. “Was it you?”
She shook her head. “Somebody beat me to it.”
Clarisse said, “Bullshit. If not you, who then?”
“Don’t know, do I?”
“They wrote on the wall. Same thing you wrote on Bruce’s wall.”
“Bruce I’ll ’fess to. But that’s all.”
Clarisse focused on her mother and snapped, “And exactly what battles did you pick to fight? Because I don’t remember a single one.”
Her mother took a moment to eye both women. “You have no idea what all they wanted to do. Not even your mother,” she added, turning to look directly at the other woman. She saw the gun but didn’t react to it. “I put my foot down there. I would have told.”
“Like those assholes gave a shit,” said the woman. “Fox guarding the henhouse. Well, not my issue anymore. And I don’t live in the past.” She shivered comically. “It’s too s-s-scary.”
“You were scared,” said Clarisse. “We all were.”
The woman stopped her fake shivers. “Well, you should be scared. Now. There are lots of bad people around and you’re looking at one of them. So take it all in. For the memory books.”
“You didn’t use to be this way,” said Clarisse while her mother worried at the cannula in her nose and eyed her lap.
“We didn’t use to be lots of things. Now we are. All of them. Least I am.”
“How is he?” asked Clarisse. “I mean really?”
“Who?” asked her mother, now looking a bit dazed, as though she had just expended all of her clarity in the last couple of minutes. “Who is she talking about?”
“Just sit there and suck on air, okay? This doesn’t concern you.” Clarisse looked at her captor. “Tell me how he is. Please.”
The other woman’s expression became less sure. “We’ve had a good ride. Bonded for life because of those years together and what happened.”
“But you didn’t have to kill Bruce. That was unnecessary.”
“I didn’t have to do lots of things. That’s why we make choices. And there were things about Bruce you never knew.”
“And Harry? Come on, you can tell me the truth. It’s not like I’m going to the cops.”
The other woman shook her head, a sad smile playing over her lips. “We just wanted the money. He was no good to us dead. So there you go. No motive. You have to check that. The cops do.”
“I know you two went to see him. How did you find him?”
“Not something you need to know. But he was alive and kicking when we left.”
“Then who did it?” asked Clarisse. “Who killed him?”
“If you find out, tell me. And I’ll kill them because they screwed us over real good. Cost us the easy path to the money.”
“He would never have told you where it was. He never made anything easy.”
The woman brandished her weapon. “Now, what have you found out?”
“We apparently have to move into the twenty-first century if we want to find the treasure. At least that’s what the note I found said.”
“And what does that mean exactly?”
“That the treasure is not in some wooden crate somewhere. Or buried at Stormfield. It might be digital.”
“Digital? Have you figured that out?” asked the woman.
“Not yet. But I will.”
She placed the gun against Mommy’s temple, and this time the old woman did flinch. “Then pick up your pace. I’m not getting any younger. None of us are, especially this hag. Right, babycakes?”
When Mommy cried out at this term once more, the woman placed a wad of moist cloth over the woman’s face and she immediately slumped sideways in her wheelchair, unconscious.
“She has COPD, that stuff could kill her,” cried out Clarisse.
“I guess we’ll find out. And now it’s your turn to go lights out. Babycakes.”
THE NEXT MORNING GIBSON RECEIVED an email from Art Collin:
Re your query. I cannot ever talk about that. I said what I said and I have nothing to add to it. And you should forget about it. Nothing anyone can do now. And the scum is dead, so there’s that. Hang in there. AC.
Well, thanks for the help there, AC.
But he had pissed her off, so she sent him another email basically implying that Langhorne had let himself be caught because he could feel the cops breathing down his neck on the child abuse thing and WITSEC would give him a get-out-of-jail-free card. And, on top of that, he could walk away with all the mob’s money.
So there you go, super cop.
She waited for him to reply. And he never did.
Sam Trask had given Gibson a secure email address to write to him. She did so, telling him about her kidnapping by, presumably, his son, and the deal she had been forced to make with him.
Trask immediately wrote back. “I am so sorry. Call this number. It’s untraceable, even by my bastard offspring.”
He answered on the first ring.
“Are you all right?” was the first thing he asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. He just scared the crap out of me. And I’m just assuming it was him or his goons. I have no proof of anything.”
“So he wants you to find the money that Langhorne, under the alias Daniel Pottinger, stole from him? And he’ll pay you a five percent commission?”
“That’s what he said. I didn’t believe him, but I did believe the part where he threatened me and my family.”
“Have you made progress?”
“I’ve found some clues, along with another person I’m working with.”
“You mean Clarisse?”
Gibson almost swallowed her tongue. “You know about her?”
“She visited me before Pottinger was killed and then revealed to be Langhorne. She came in the form of a podiatrist that The Feathers has visit once a month. She played her part very well. Had all the official credentials and knew the lingo. Though I was the only patient she saw, I’m certain of that,” he added with a chuckle. “She fooled me completely until she told me why she was really there. She actually did an excellent job with my toenails. But while she did so we talked about other things.”
“Well, I’m glad she was so open with you. She never mentioned any of that to me.”
“She was looking for Pottinger. She knew he had purchased Stormfield, and I assume she knew, or at least suspected, that Pottinger and Langhorne were one and the same. She told me that she discovered Pottinger had done business with my son—sex trafficking, on a corridor from Mexico and Thailand into the States. Incredibly lucrative because those being trafficked were also bringing in stolen artifacts, as well as drugs. So Langhorne and my son had three profit centers off one human being.”
Damn, so Clarisse had been telling the truth about that. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when we met the first time?”
“I didn’t really know you. I have since had you checked out. You’re one of the good ones. And you were kidnapped and threatened by my son. That alone is enough to make me confide in you and want to help you.”
“And did you learn anything about Clarisse?”
“I had nothing to go on. She used latex gloves while she was here. No prints left behind. I could have tried and taken a DNA sample, but I thought that might be impolite. And while I’m a man, I’m old and on oxygen. I don’t think I could have taken her.”
Gibson had to stifle a laugh at these self-deprecating comments.
“That’s not her real name, obviously,” said Trask. “But she struck me as highly intelligent, focused, organized, and . . .”
“And what?”
Trask didn’t answer right away. “Well, sad beyond all comprehension, despite the confident air she tried to display.”
“I think she might be Francine Langhorne.”
“That thought crossed my mind as well. She’s the right age. And it would explain her motivation to find him.”
“Did you know about the disgusting stories swirling around about Langhorne?”
“His affinity for young girls? Yes, I learned about them after he had gone into WITSEC. The man already repulsed me. That of course put my revulsion on a whole new plane.”
“Couldn’t he have been charged?”
“Unfortunately, no, it would have destroyed WITSEC. No one with a questionable history would ever come forward. And the majority of informers who go into WITSEC are criminals themselves. I wish, like you, that he could have been held accountable. But that matter was out of my hands. But if Clarisse is Francine Langhorne, then that would also explain the sadness. If she knew about it, or, even more heinous, if her own father . . .”
“Yes, yes, it would,” said Gibson hastily. She teared up as the image of her daughter came into her mind. “Earl Beckett is a US marshal who was one of the Langhornes’ handlers at their last stop in Albuquerque. He’s been giving me info about the case. He never mentioned any sort of abuse.”
“I doubt he would, particularly if it happened right under their noses. No federal agency wants to admit a mistake.”
“I guess,” said Gibson.
“So what are you going to do with regard to my son? I told you that I was still wired into certain players and agencies who see me as a possible way to bring him down. Your working for him now might provide you an opportunity to collaborate with us to accomplish that.”
“There’s nothing I would want more,” said Gibson. “To answer your question, my best bet is to keep working away to find the treasure. With that I have a bargaining chip with him. The FBI will have to be ready to roll when I call you in. If I get a chance to call you in.”
“From what I’ve seen, my money’s on you. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“My money’s also on Clarisse. You know, together you two might be able to do what neither can do independently.”
“I have been working with her. She’s the reason I’m involved in all this. But I’m not sure our interests are totally aligned.”
“Nothing in life is ever perfectly aligned. I worked with criminals to bring worse criminals down. I’m sure you did, too. Sometimes you just have to go for it and hope for the best. Trust people not based on anything neatly reasoned, but on your gut. Just food for thought from an old man who’s seen far too much of that kind of life than was good for him. It might simply be me mellowing in my old age, or the fact that I wanted a daughter and never had one, but having spent some time with Clarisse and gotten a chance to think about her, I have arrived at one conclusion.”
“What’s that?”
“I would love to see her really smile at least once.”
Gibson said goodbye and clicked off and stared at the wall as Sam Trask’s words went round and round in her head.
Wanting to see Clarisse smile? After all the shit she’s put me through? No, I’m not there. Yet.
LATER, AS GIBSON SAT THERE she thought about something.
Parents.
Clarisse had talked about childcare for kids and parents.
Okay, play this out. What if she is Francine and has been taking care of her mother, Geraldine? What if the woman is in a nursing home or an assisted living facility somewhere?
Gibson next thought about the phone call Clarisse had gotten while she had been on the line with her. Clarisse, normally unflappable and in control, seemed close to losing control. This was a long shot, Gibson knew. But everything right now was a long shot, and it wasn’t like she had lots of other leads to run down. She had asked Clarisse point-blank about what Gibson had overheard on the phone call, but the woman had evaded answering directly. However, Gibson could read people. Clarisse was definitely worried about something, about someone.
She went online and put in a fairly broad search request having to do with assisted living facilities and nursing homes, and any problems that had arisen in any of them over the last week or so—like people going missing, as she had heard the other woman say over the phone line, or maybe a death or an accident. She got a flood of stories and posts back on this.
Jesus, are these places dangerous or what?
She narrowed the search as much as she dared and hit the send key.
Ten items came back. That was better. She read through them all. Four pertained to some accident where someone had died. Two were shootings by relatives of their geriatric “loved ones.”
Wonderful.
And the rest were about residents who had walked away or otherwise vanished from their facilities. She checked each one of these thoroughly, but couldn’t draw any conclusions. She recognized none of the names, not that Clarisse would have placed her mother in the facility under the names Geraldine Langhorne or Geraldine Parker.
She put this search aside and was about to go get a cup of tea when an email plunked into her inbox.
It was from Jan Roberts, her contact at the Star-Ledger in Newark. She had finally replied to Gibson’s earlier email.
