Simply Lies, page 31
“Can you do anything about this shit floating around on the internet?”
“Yes I can. And I will, right away.”
“And there was another woman. She went to see my father. She was looking for this stuff, too.”
“Well, you snooze you lose. And since you have your money back plus a nice little bonus, if I were you, I’d forget about her.”
“I think you’re right.”
Francine shook George’s hand. “Nice working with you, George.”
“You too.”
“Let’s grab a coffee some time.”
He smiled and nodded, and Francine felt her heart quiver, because she knew George was probably now a dead man.
I’m sorry. But it was either you or me.
The golf cart took her to the gate, where she walked quickly off.
She went into a store, did a costume switch in the bathroom using clothes and a wig she had previously hidden there, and walked out through another exit.
Four blocks later she climbed into a white van.
Three stern-looking representatives of the FBI stared back at her as they sat in front of a bank of computers, along with Gibson, who was smiling.
Francine said, “I take it you were you able to follow the entire transaction after I put the keystroke tracking software on?” she said.
“Oh yeah,” said Gibson. Then her smile faded when she saw the bruises on Francine’s face, and how her right arm was hanging funny. “Shit, those assholes beat you up.”
“I’ve been hit a lot harder, trust me.”
“We got every line of code’s worth,” said one of the men. “And access to all his accounts. That was good work. You took a big risk going in there naked like that.”
“Well, it makes life interesting.”
Another agent looked at Gibson. “We could use people like you two.”
“Quite frankly, I don’t think you can afford us,” said Francine, causing Gibson to hold back a snort.
Francine climbed out of the van and kept walking.
A few moments later Gibson joined her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“That was really brave what you did.”
“It was necessary to get to the end result.”
“You always this transactional?”
Francine stared directly at her as she wiped more blood off her lips. “Welcome to my world.”
“I’m starting to figure you out, you know.”
“Don’t waste the time. After this is all over, if I’m still alive, you’ll never see me again.”
“Off to pull more ‘transactions’?”
“If I find the treasure, there’s a place in France I’ve been looking at.”
“But if I find the treasure?”
“Then you and your kids can go live in France. I’ll forward you the Zillow listing.”
Gibson looked at her pensively. “Maybe I haven’t figured you out.”
“There’s no maybe about it.”
TWO DAYS LATER THE NEWS of the arrest of Nathan Trask and numerous of his associates made global news.
It seems the man had made the mistake of stealing seventy million dollars from a federal bitcoin depository. And in doing so, had made the glaring technological error of opening up his own digital files to the government. So not only were they going after him for the bitcoin theft, but everything else that was revealed. And by the broad smile on the US attorney who announced the arrest, it was a lot.
No one could explain why a man like Trask had made such a bold and ultimately costly move in trying to steal from the government. Some news pundits were saying it was clear the man thought he was untouchable, because he had escaped responsibility for his alleged crimes for so long. His lawyers had made the predicted responses—that this was a witch hunt, that Trask had been set up—and they vowed to have any and all evidence gathered by the government ruled inadmissible. But the legal commentators had already noted that that would be an uphill battle considering that the man, or his lackeys, had inadvertently offered up this treasure trove of facts about his criminal doings to the very government he had waved a middle finger at for so long.
One commentator noted: “If that isn’t irony piled on top of irony, I don’t know what is. They couldn’t catch Capone on his really awful crimes, but they got him on tax evasion. The history books may write that Nathan Trask was brought down by his own arrogance. But this clearly shows that no person is above the law.”
Sam Trask was interviewed by all the major networks, since a global criminal having an FBI father was, to say the least, not typical.
His responses were articulate and professional, but all of them were accompanied by a satisfied smile.
Trask and his inner circle were being held without bail since the man was definitely a flight risk. As formal charges were readied, it was clear that Trask would be in prison for a long time before his trial even started.
When told this during one of the interviews, Sam Trask said, “Oh, what a beautiful day it turned out to be.”
* * *
Rick Rogers phoned his daughter that morning.
“Do I want to know?” he asked anxiously.
“Not really,” she replied.
“Are you sure you’re safe from this guy?”
“Yes, Dad, I am.”
“I’m not telling your mother any of this.”
“I wouldn’t, either.”
* * *
Several days after Trask’s arrest, at the same movie theater, Francine and Gibson sat on either side of Sam Trask, who had maneuvered his rollator that day with an extra spring in his step.
As they munched on popcorn Trask said, “I’ve spoken with some former colleagues at the Bureau. The DOJ is positively giddy about prosecuting my son and all his fellow scum. The evidence they have is mountainous, they tell me. And despite his lawyers’ arguments to the contrary, completely admissible even without a warrant because Trask freely opened his records to the government in the course of his cybertheft. And they can’t argue entrapment because they’re missing a critical piece of evidence.”
“Me,” said Francine. “And I don’t work for the Bureau. They must have been tracking me somehow and that led them to Trask,” she added with a smile.
“Exactly. And what is his alternative explanation going to be? He was just getting back money his partner stole from him, and which came from sex and drug trafficking? Ha!”
Gibson said, “But we have more work to do.”
“Can I help?” asked Trask.
Gibson gave his arm a squeeze. “You’ve already done all the helping you needed to do, Sam. I suggest you sit here, finish the movie and popcorn, and revel in your victory.”
The two women left.
Francine said, “Nathan Trask might have been the easy part.”
“I was thinking the very same thing,” said Gibson.
WILSON SULLIVAN CAME OUT INTO the waiting room at the police station to see Gibson sitting there.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he said, looking annoyed.
She rose and smiled disarmingly. “I like to keep people on their toes.”
“What’s up?”
“Can we go back to your office?”
He took a long moment to make a decision. “All right, but you have to make it brief. I’ve got a full plate.”
“Let’s go.”
In his office, she sat down across from him.
“Oh, did you hear about Nathan Trask?” he said. “It’s the talk of the police world. No one thought that son of a bitch could be touched.”
“Just shows what happens if you keep trying,” noted Gibson.
“The Bureau must be jumping for joy. Quite the catch for them. Wonder how they did it.”
“Yeah, me too. Speaking of the FBI, Cary Pinker came by to see me.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think he likes me poking around this case. I assumed I didn’t hear from you because he told you to put the kibosh on what we were doing?”
“I don’t work for the FBI,” replied Sullivan.
“So we’re good on that score?”
“I told you from the first there are things you can do to help and there are things I can’t let you get involved in.”
“So how is Pinker? Making progress?”
“He’s working the case.”
“With you?” asked Gibson.
“He’s working his case, and I’m working mine.”
“Fair enough. So look, I wanted to fill you in on what’s happened since we talked last.”
“Okay.”
“First thing, I got canned by ProEye.” She had mentioned this to see his reaction.
“What the hell? I talked to your boss.”
“I know. Apparently somebody else contacted them and they decided to cut all ties with me.”
He fiddled with the pen he was holding. “And what, you think that was Pinker?”
“If you were me, would he not be on your list?”
Sullivan said, “Well, he never mentioned that to me. I would have told him it was a bad idea.”
“Okay, I appreciate that.” She glanced at the old wound on his neck from being injured in the line of duty. “Does that still hurt?”
“Only when people ask about it,” he snapped. “What else? Any progress on the money Langhorne left behind?”
Gibson was about to answer when she started coughing, which became more and more pronounced.
“Allergies,” she gasped. “Water? So I can take a pill?”
He hurried out, and came back in with the water. She drank it while tossing down a vitamin C pill.
“Whew, thanks. That hasn’t happened in a while.”
“Sure. So any progress on the money?” he asked again.
“I think so. He left some clues behind.”
“More than what you already told me?”
“No, but I’ve been giving it some thought and I might have some leads. I did a bunch of legwork on the computer. The guy had a ton of companies and accounts, all of which were cleaned out fairly recently.”
“Meaning he might have been accumulating cash?”
“Yes, either to hold or to use to buy something. I’m going to try to track that down. By the way, when was the last time you were back at Stormfield?”
“Why?”
“I was just wondering if you had found out anything else.”
“The last time I was there was with you.”
She showed her poker face at this lie, and nodded. “Any luck finding Francine or Doug Langhorne?”
“None. When they disappeared, they really vanished.”
Yes they did, thought Gibson. “And no leads on whoever killed Langhorne?”
He shook his head and already looked detached from this conversation.
She stood. “Well, I’ll let you get back to things.”
“Right.”
She left without a single positive thought of Wilson Sullivan in her head.
And here I thought we might have been friends. Or maybe more.
Gibson reached into her pocket and pulled out the plastic baggie in which she’d placed the pen he’d been handling while he was out getting her water.
Let’s find out who you really are, shall we?
THROUGH HER NEW FRIENDS AT the FBI, Gibson got them to run the print she’d taken from Wilson Sullivan.
“His real name is Mark Gosling,” Gibson told Francine as they sat at an outdoor café having coffee in Williamsburg.
“Why would he change it to Wilson Sullivan?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t in WITSEC; they confirmed that. And it’s not illegal to change your name. And he has no criminal record under that name. That would have made it problematic to become a cop.”
“Wait a minute. Gosling?”
“Yeah, why?”
Francine pulled her laptop out of her bag and opened it. Then she slid a thumb drive into the dongle port and brought up the information on it.
“This is the stuff I got from Beckett’s computer.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “Okay, here it is. I thought I recognized that last name, and not because of Ryan Gosling.”
Gibson shifted her chair next to Francine so she could read off the screen. “Helen Gosling was in WITSEC years ago. She’d fallen in with a guy who was a member of a militia group that did some really bad stuff. People got killed and a federal building was bombed. She turned state’s evidence and was put in WITSEC.”
“And she was moved to Alabama where she was under the protection of Earl Beckett, among others,” added Francine.
“And she killed herself. They found her hanging in her bedroom.”
Francine hit some more keys. “Here’s a photo of her.”
“Wow, she was gorgeous,” noted Gibson.
“Yes, she was,” said Francine, eyeing Gibson steadily. “Maybe too gorgeous.”
Gibson shot her a glance. “Wait, you think—”
“—that Beckett tried it on with her? Oh hell yes, I do. This was right after we left New Mexico. He must have gotten transferred.”
“Do you think he had something to do with her death?”
“Well, let’s say she was brave enough to threaten to out the man for his shit. Is that a motive for murder?”
“You bet it is. And Sullivan—or Mark Gosling, rather—is her . . . ?”
Francine pulled a notebook out of her purse. Gibson saw that it was labeled TAKING DOWN EARL FUCKING BECKETT.
“Do you have a notebook for everything?” Gibson asked.
Francine gave her a knowing smile. “Oh, you have no idea.” She skimmed through some pages and then pointed at some written notes. “This is what I found out. Mark was her younger brother. I didn’t know at the time that he was also Wilson Sullivan.”
“You think she might have confided in him? So he might have known what was happening to his sister?”
“And he became a cop to bring justice to his sister?” said Francine. “It’s certainly plausible.”
Gibson had a sudden idea. “I thought Gosling might have been following Langhorne and then killed him. But can you see where Beckett was assigned over the years?”
She turned some more pages in the notebook. “After Alabama he was in El Paso. Then Arkansas, South Carolina, North Carolina, and now Virginia.”
“That’s it.”
“What?” said Francine.
“Starting with El Paso those are the same places that Mark Gosling has been a cop as Wilson Sullivan.”
“So he’s been following Beckett?”
“Sure as hell seems that way,” noted Gibson.
“But you said you thought they were working together.”
“And I was clearly wrong about that. It’s probably the only way Gosling could see of taking this guy down. He might have jumped at the chance when he found out Pottinger was Langhorne. With his cop connections he could easily have found out that Beckett knew Langhorne back then. He could use that as a plausible basis to ask for his help on this case. And that way get closer to the guy and hope something dropped and he could nail him.”
“So he’s not a bad guy, then. But why was he at Stormfield that night?” asked Francine.
“He lied and said the last time he was there was when he and I were at the place together. And he asked me about the treasure when I met with him.”
“So maybe he really does want a piece of it?”
“Hell, who doesn’t?”
Francine stared at her. “Does that include you, Mickey?”
Gibson looked uncomfortable. “I need money as much as the next person, especially now with no job. But it’s all dirty money, Francine. It would be like stealing.”
The other woman nodded and slowly closed her notebook. “I used to think that.”
“Used to?”
“There are haves and have-nots. I was in the latter group for most of my life. I’m not saying the world owes me anything, but it does owe me the right to make my own way. And if we recover the treasure, shouldn’t we be due a finder’s fee? I mean, isn’t that how those things work? Even Trask offered you and me one.”
“Well, yeah, that makes sense. But I hope it’s a better percentage than ProEye pays. I found them two hundred mill and they gave me a lousy five grand.”
“Oh, honey, we can do so much better than that.”
“How do you know? We’d have to negotiate.”
“Oh, we will. After we find the treasure so our leverage is at its maximum.” Francine rose. “So let’s get working. You on the treasure, and me on finding my mother. We’re clearly going to need one for the other because Rochelle is not leaving empty-handed. And despite all the shit she let happen to me, I would actually like my mother back.”
FRANCINE SAT IN HER ROOM with the lights out and noise-cancelling headphones on. She had been drugged by Rochelle at Stormfield at one forty-five p.m. or close to it. She remembered looking at her watch right before she fell unconscious. When she had awoken in the bed all trussed up she could still see her watch. It was one minute past two. She had to be carried to a car. Two to four minutes to accomplish that. Then an eight-minute drive to where she had been taken and several more minutes to carry her in and tie her up and then she had to regain consciousness.
She closed her eyes and trained her mind to focus exactly on what she wanted it to focus on. She had done this back in Albuquerque when she was with the men who had paid her father, or else with Darren Ender, who loved to hear her scream. She had read about the technique in a book. It was a way of transporting your mind to another place while your body was engaged elsewhere. Prisoners of all sorts often did it, to get by. She could understand why.
It had allowed her to survive without losing her mind.
The roads around Stormfield were winding and the area was not heavily populated. The reality was you couldn’t get anywhere fast. The place she had been taken to had to be isolated so pesky neighbors wouldn’t be around to see her lifted out of the car and carried in. She calculated the time and distance and settled on a two-square-mile area with Stormfield as its epicenter.
