Simply Lies, page 34
She inserted the key and turned it. The wall that had now become a door swung open. Revealed was an inner room that contained five large trunks. She tried the same key in each trunk’s lock, until, with the fourth one, the lock turned.
She slowly opened the trunk, and Beckett illuminated the contents with his light.
“Holy shit!” he said.
It was full of cash.
She knelt down and examined the money. “These are all hundred-dollar bills,” she said.
She did a quick calculation. “If all of these trunks have this same amount of cash in them, we’re looking at probably a couple hundred million bucks.”
She dusted off her hands and pulled out her phone. “I’ll take pictures, and then I’m going to try Sullivan again and tell him what we found. This is going to hit the national press for sure.”
“No, it won’t,” said Beckett.
When Gibson glanced up, his gun was pointed at her.
WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU doing, Earl?”
“Getting what’s rightfully mine.”
“This is Langhorne’s mob money.”
“Nothing personal, but this is my money and I’ve waited a long time for it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I helped Harry clear out of WITSEC. We were supposed to meet up and he was going to give me my share, but that asshole never showed. Been looking for him for over twenty years. And I finally found him right here in this house.”
“Wait a minute—you killed Langhorne?”
“Ran into him when he was coming out of that little hidey-hole of his in the library. I was fair. I gave him a choice. Tell me and he dies with no pain. Don’t tell me and he dies awful. He chose the poison.”
“And when Sullivan approached you?”
“I figured it wouldn’t hurt to piggyback on your efforts. Found out you were really good at finding hidden money.” He motioned at the trunks with his light. “And I have to say you lived up to your rep.”
“You can’t get away with this. Sullivan is on his way.”
“Jesus, get with the program. I never called him.”
“My mother knows you and I left together.”
“Which means I have a little unfinished business back at your house. Don’t worry, it’ll be quick. And I won’t touch the kiddies. And now, we have to take care of you.”
“Drop it, Beckett,” the voice called out.
Beckett whirled to see Wilson Sullivan and two uniformed officers, guns drawn, emerge from the darkness.
Beckett cursed under his breath and put his gun down. He eyed Gibson. “You set me up, you bitch.”
Francine appeared next to Sullivan. “Hey, Earl, remember me? Francine?”
Beckett’s eyes took her in. “Long time no see.”
He smiled. And Gibson did not like that smile.
Francine stepped up to Beckett and kneed him in the crotch.
“Hope the reunion was memorable,” she said as the man dropped to his knees, moaning.
The next moment a series of gunshots were fired from the open doorway. Two slugs hit one of the uniformed officers, and he collapsed to the floor. Another round hit Sullivan in the shoulder and he went down, too. The other officer fired back at the doorway.
Gibson pulled her pistol from her ankle holster, but Beckett had already recovered. He grabbed Francine and his gun, and pulled her out of the wine cellar. Gibson heard a click.
She raced to the door and found that it was locked. “Francine!”
Gibson looked around, and saw that the cop who’d been shot was dead. His colleague was bending over Sullivan, who was panting heavily and holding his arm.
She ran over to him. “How bad?”
“In and out, but it’s bleeding like a bitch. Who fired those shots?”
“Beckett obviously didn’t come alone.”
Gibson said to the officer, “Tourniquet his arm, and call an ambulance and more backup.”
She ran over to the door, and fired two shots into the lock, then kicked at the door and it popped free.
She did a turkey peek to see if they were waiting to gun down anyone who came out of the cellar. With the coast clear, Gibson ran after them.
She was now back in Jersey City cop mode, running down another suspect.
Only this one had a hostage.
GIBSON COULD HEAR THE SOUNDS of footsteps pounding away in front of her, though she didn’t know how close; they had a decent head start.
She silently berated herself for allowing this to happen. She knew it was likely that two people had written the phrase on the wall in the secret room. At first, she thought it might have been Francine and her brother. Next, it might have been Rochelle and Doug. But when that was disproved and she had figured Beckett as the killer of Harry Langhorne, she should have remembered the second hand that had contributed to the message. That oversight had cost one cop his life and Sullivan a gunshot wound.
And maybe Francine her life.
But who was the other person?
She reached the main floor and peered around a corner. She no longer heard the sounds of footsteps.
“Look out, Mickey!” screamed Francine.
Gibson ducked down. Two shots slammed into the wall where Gibson’s head had been moments before.
She heard a thud and Francine screamed in pain.
Gibson couldn’t fire back because she might hit the woman.
When she heard them run off again, Gibson followed. She broke into a sprint when she heard one of the huge front doors slam against the wall.
The storm was still raging outside. She had no idea how long it would take for the police or an ambulance to get here. But if Beckett got away with Francine? Gibson knew they would find only her body, if they even managed that.
She stepped off the front steps when she saw the headlights of Beckett’s truck pop on as the engine fired up. Next to it was another vehicle. That must be the ride for whoever was working with Beckett.
Gibson ran forward, knelt down, took careful aim, and shot out the two front tires, and then popped two rounds into the radiator.
The side doors flew open. Beckett appeared on the driver’s side of the truck and another man on the passenger’s side. In front of the other man was Francine, with a pistol against her head.
Beckett screamed, “You’re gonna get her and you killed.”
“You’re not leaving here with her. Then she’s dead for sure.”
“She’s dead now,” called out the other man.
“The cops will be here any second,” said Gibson.
“And we got two guns and you got one,” said Beckett. “So this is not ending well for you.”
“Just like it won’t for you,” Gibson snapped, the rain streaming down her face.
A massive bolt of lightning hit nearby, and struck a tree. That explosion, combined with an unholy crack of thunder, made them all look at the now-flaming tree about a hundred yards away.
The man holding Francine grunted as someone hit him, knocking him down.
Gibson saw this and called out, “Run, Francine.”
Francine sprinted away as the man rose and fired several shots in her direction before he was pounced on again by his assailant. This person pounded the man’s face until he fell limp.
Beckett, seeing what was happening, tried to run over to help his partner, but Gibson shot the man in the leg and dropped him in the dirt, where he lay screaming and holding his wounded limb.
Gibson ran forward and scooped up his gun where it had fallen. She held up a finger. “You move one inch, I finish the job.”
Right as Gibson turned to run over to the other man, Beckett slipped a second gun from a side holster. He was about to fire when a muzzle was placed against his head.
FBI Special Agent Cary Pinker took the gun and said simply, “You’re under arrest.”
Gibson turned, saw what had just happened, and said, “Thanks for having my back.”
“No, thank you. I’ve been after this SOB for a long time.”
Gibson hustled over to the other side of the truck to find Doug Langhorne hovering over the unconscious man. Gibson shone her light on the man’s battered face.
“Who is he?” she asked.
His chest heaving and his clothes soaked through by the rain, Doug said, “Rochelle’s father, Darren Enders.”
When they heard the scream, they both turned and ran toward it.
They stopped near the tree line, where they saw Francine standing over something on the ground.
“Rochelle!” cried out Doug. He pushed past his sister and knelt next to Rochelle, who had a bloody bullet wound dead center of her chest. Right as Doug gripped her hand, she opened her eyes, saw him, mumbled something, and died.
Gibson looked in disbelief at Francine and then back where Darren Enders lay unconscious. “When he fired at you—”
“—he hit Rochelle,” said Francine, swaying on her feet.
Gibson managed to catch the woman right as she fainted.
THE DEAD HAD BEEN COLLECTED. The crime scene was still being processed. Witness statements had been gathered. The wounded Sullivan was at the hospital undergoing emergency surgery, as was Earl Beckett. The battered Darren Enders was also in the hospital and under arrest.
Gibson, Francine, and Doug were sitting in the federal building in Norfolk in a small conference room, with warm blankets around them, sipping hot, strong coffee.
Agent Pinker walked in and closed the door. He carried a file with him. He drew out a chair and sat down. “How are you all doing?”
Doug just stared at the table. Francine’s gaze was on her coffee cup.
Gibson answered, “As well as can be expected. Is Sullivan going to be okay?”
“I talked to the doctors. He’s going to be fine.”
“Do you know his real name?” said Gibson.
“Mark Gosling, yes.”
“When you arrived on the scene, I thought you were there to investigate Langhorne’s murder.”
“In a way, I was. But I was really after Beckett.”
“So you knew what he had done?”
“We strongly suspected. We had heard stories. A few people had come forward over the years. There were enough irregularities to get our suspicions up. I don’t like dirty cops. And what Beckett did was far worse than just getting paid off to look the other way.”
He glanced over at Francine and Doug. “I know some of what happened to you. I know it probably means very little, but I’m sorry. It should never have happened.”
Francine acknowledged this with a nod. Doug didn’t show that he’d even heard.
“How did you come to be out at Stormfield?” asked Gibson.
“We were tailing Beckett. We followed him to your house and then to Stormfield. We saw the other man drive up and enter the house after the two of you did. We were outside when all hell broke loose and people started running out of the place and shots were fired. I’m glad I was there in time to prevent him from shooting you.”
“Me too. Did you know that he had teamed up with Darren Enders?”
“We knew he was working with someone, but we didn’t know it was Enders. Apparently, Langhorne had promised both of them some of the mob money.”
“That’s what Beckett said, too. He’s been hunting Langhorne all this time. And he confessed to killing him. Sullivan and the other officer heard him, too.”
“Oh, we have him dead to rights. He will never breathe another day of freedom. He or Enders.” He tapped his file. “So, you set him up with the treasure?”
“What he thought was the treasure. Sullivan found out from the former owners that there was another secret room in the wine cellar. So Francine and I had the idea of conning Beckett. We knew he wanted the money. So we got the trunks and Sullivan and his people filled them with cut-out paper, but hundred-dollar bills topping each stack. The former owners told us where the old key was to open the other door inside the secret room. We blobbed some paint on the keyhole to make it look like it was hidden. You didn’t even need a key to open the trunks. I just used it so Beckett wouldn’t get suspicious.” She paused. “I also just found out that he was the one who called ProEye and got me fired.”
“Why would he do that?” asked Pinker.
“Probably because he wanted me to be desperate to find the treasure, so he could take the whole thing.”
“And you had to know that he would try to kill you when you found it.”
“That’s why I had Sullivan and two of his men hidden in the wine cellar. I didn’t figure that Beckett had brought his partner along for backup. It cost a cop his life.” She shook her head and looked miserable.
Pinker glanced over at Doug. “And I’m very sorry about your friend, Mr. Langhorne.” This time Doug nodded but didn’t look up. “It was very fortunate that you were there to help subdue these men.”
Doug looked at his sister, not Pinker. “We took turns watching the place. Rochelle was there last night. When she saw the cars coming in, she called me and I came right over. I saw Enders and Beckett. I knew who they were right away. When I saw you run and he was going to shoot you . . .”
Francine put a hand on her brother’s arm. “You saved my life, Dougie. You were always there for me. And Rochelle.”
His eyes filled with tears. “’Cept last night.” He bent low and started to sob.
Francine wrapped her arms around him and held him, whispering soothing words into his ear, while Gibson and Pinker looked away.
WELL, WE GOT EVERYTHING ON our bucket list except the treasure,” noted Francine.
She and Gibson were seated in the latter’s home office. Tommy and Darby were with Gibson’s parents.
“Yeah, but that’s a big one. How is your mom, by the way?”
“I got her into a facility near here, at least temporarily. Dougie is with her right now. He’s decided to cremate Rochelle’s remains and sprinkle them at a lake where they lived for a while and were happy.”
“So they came here looking for Beckett and your father, too?”
“They wanted revenge, but they also wanted the money, like I did.” She looked at Gibson’s twin computer screens. “NFTs. It just doesn’t strike me as something that Harry would dump money into. And it was only five million bucks.”
“I’ve looked at everything a dozen times.”
“So the dig deeper clue. The ‘twenty-first century’ clue. That’s it, right? No other clues left behind?”
“Yeah, that’s . . . ” Gibson looked at her screens. “That’s actually not right.”
“What do you mean?” asked Francine.
“I forgot to tell you. I tracked down a bunch of companies that Langhorne had. If you incorporate you have to have a registered agent in the state of incorporation, so if you get sued, there’s someone in the state to accept service.”
“And the point?” asked Francine impatiently.
“There was one agent I reached out to who got back to me immediately.” She started clicking keys on her computer and pointed at the screen. “Dexter Tremayne from South Dakota. He’s the registered agent for DPE. That’s Daniel Pottinger Enterprises, obviously.”
“What did he say when he got back to you?”
“That Pottinger aka Harry had called him and left a message for Tremayne to give to anyone who contacted him after he was dead. DPE was pretty well buried behind some other shells. It took me some time to dig through.”
“What was the message?”
“ ‘Now you see it, but then you don’t.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“No. He also said to take away the eight. And then to use the leftovers for Sesame Street.”
“That makes no sense at all.”
“Agreed. Now, the usual phrase is slightly different. ‘Now you see it, now you don’t.’ ”
“So Harry had changed ‘now’ to ‘but then’?”
“That’s right. I was going to dig down deeper, but then I got sidetracked with everything else and forgot all about it.”
Francine took a notebook from her purse and flitted through the pages.
“What’s that?” asked Gibson.
“My TREASURE notebook.”
Gibson gave her a funny look.
“I actually have a half dozen devoted just to you. A record for me.”
“Well, I guess I should feel honored somehow. Do you think he just got the phrase wrong?”
“No. He was the most detailed person I’ve ever met.”
Gibson glanced at the notebook and the precise writing on the page she was reading. “You mean sort of like you?”
“I do it so I can have some control over my life. He did it to screw people over.”
“So if he added the ‘but then,’ there was a reason?”
“Most definitely.” She turned another page and tensed. “Wait a minute. You said you found out that my father used secret codes and substitution ciphers to keep his mob account books secret?”
“That’s right.”
“Then maybe this phrase is a substitution code. Do you know how they work?”
“Pretty much. You substitute one alphabet letter for another. The parties trying to communicate have the key, so you know what letter to substitute for another. Dates all the way back to at least Julius Caesar.”
Gibson started clicking keys and increased the font size so the phrase loomed large across the screen.
NOW YOU SEE IT, BUT THEN YOU DON’T.
“So you think each letter represents another letter?” said Francine.
“Possibly. I actually have software that drills down on that, because the debtors I chase use all sorts of stuff, including secret codes.” Gibson opened a program and then plugged the phrase into it. “It works fast, but it’s not always conclusive.”
Five minutes later the program disgorged several possibilities that, to both their minds, seemed nonsensical.
“Harry’s housekeeper told me that he was almost never there,” said Francine. “And Nathan Trask confirmed that.”
“Okay, so where was he the rest of the time?” asked Gibson.
