Simply Lies, page 5
She put them to bed after reading them another story about a kindly farm animal that helped her friends get out of trouble.
I could use a friend like that, thought Gibson as she closed the book and put it on the shelf.
She was about to leave after turning off the light, but then Gibson lingered by the door, the moonlight from the window illuminating the sleeping forms of her kids. It was a perfect vision of peace and security in an imperfect and often violent world.
The dead Daniel Pottinger in his secret little room.
The mysterious lying lady on the phone.
Gibson’s entanglement in something she couldn’t understand.
She felt like a little girl again, alone, and afraid of unseen dangers lurking for her. As a single woman and a cop she had felt equipped to take on anything. As a mother of two little kids with her athletic and cop days behind her, she felt small and unsure and vulnerable.
She walked downstairs and called her father.
Rick Rogers answered on the second ring and said in his naturally gruff voice, “I was wondering when you were going to call, Mick.”
“Why?”
“Your mother told me some police detective was at your house that you had business with. And before that you had her come and babysit on the spur of the moment. What’s going on?”
Gibson told him about the call from Arlene Robinson, the journey to Stormfield, finding the body of Pottinger, meeting with Detective Wilson Sullivan, and then the revelation that she had been duped by the very same Arlene Robinson.
“And now she’s calling me on this phone that she or someone else left on my front porch.”
“You really need to let this guy Sullivan know about those calls, honey.”
“If I sic Sullivan on her I might lose the only shot I have at solving this sucker.”
“First of all, it’s not your job to solve this sucker. You’re not a cop anymore. And, second, you’ve got two little kids who depend on you. So let the people with the badges and guns handle this and you go back to your nerdy computer stuff.”
The way he said this last part made Gibson’s face flush. Her father had been the most vocal critic of her ex-husband. He had lectured his daughter over and over that the man was a scumbag and she should never, ever consider marrying him.
And I didn’t listen to him. I sided with the guy who ended up breaking my heart.
She knew this had hurt her father deeply, because they had always been close. She didn’t know if it was because she was his first child, or because their personalities were similar—everyone had called her a chip off the old block. Growing up, she had confided in her dad far more than in her mother, telling him things that were intimate and sometimes embarrassing. And her father had taken it all in stride and never betrayed her confidences. As a cop he had no doubt seen far worse, and he understood how imperfect the world and those inhabiting it were. And to his credit, after being proved right about her ex-husband, her father had never once said, I told you so. Though his criticisms had been delivered in more subtle ways.
But in speaking with him now, she wondered if he held it against her for quitting the police force and becoming, basically, a computer geek looking for bounty.
“I know that makes the most sense,” she began. “And I hope you know I would never do anything to put my kids in danger.”
“Then you’re going to follow my advice?”
“I’m not going to actively investigate this case, but I want to let it play out for a bit, see where it goes.”
“You may not like where it goes. This person sounds manipulative and slick. I worked with the fraud division for a couple of years. It made me disgusted with my fellow human beings. The ones who committed the fraud and the ones who, despite all the clear evidence to the contrary, refused to accept that they were being duped.”
Like me and my ex, thought Gibson, who also wondered if this was another subtle dig from her father. “I know, Dad. And if it starts to go sideways, I’ll go to the cops. I promise.”
“Just to be clear, my advice is for you to go to the cops now.”
“Okay, okay. Hey, I got some prints that I think are Pottinger’s.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think that’s his real name. I’d like to know who he really is.”
“How are you getting them run through the system? The outfit you work for?”
“No. Just somebody I know from the old days.”
“I thought you said you weren’t going to actively investigate this case?”
“Running prints is not exactly active.”
“Yeah, sure it isn’t.”
They said their goodbyes and Gibson slowly put down the phone.
He’s right, Mick. You need to drop this thing, right now.
But they knew where she lived. They were on her front porch.
Do I have a choice to drop it?
And then the other phone rang.
THE ROOM WAS DARK, as she preferred it. Light was revealing, obviously, and it also showed too much that might be true.
She used the computer audio, channeling the burner phone through it.
She never held a phone to her ear. She liked separation, a buffer. Nothing truly close to her.
She stared at the computer screen, where there were a half-dozen videos showing various places she needed to keep an eye on, including Gibson’s home.
On the screen were Post-its with helpful, encouraging notes like: You can do this. Sweat the small details and the big plan becomes a fait accompli. And the one she liked best of all: No one will ever know you.
She readied herself.
“I apologize for hanging up on you,” she said in the same measured tone and voice she had employed with Gibson from day one. That was critical.
Gibson said, “It is frustrating, especially when I’m trying to reach common ground with you.”
She had checked the record of Gibson’s phone calls from a reliable tracking source she often used. Ten minutes before, Gibson had called her parents’ number. Probably spoken with her father, the former cop, for advice in dealing with the shitstorm she was in.
There is no more privacy. Except for people like me, who pay attention. “I can understand that, Mick.”
“Don’t call me that. That’s reserved for friends. And we’re not there yet.”
Agree with her to build that common ground and a degree of reasonableness.
“I understand, Mickey, or do you prefer Ms. Gibson?”
“Mickey is fine. And your name?”
“Just call me Arlene.”
“So sticking with the fake name then?”
Use her own words against her.
“As you said, we’re not there yet, Mickey.”
“So, the business you and Pottinger were involved in?”
“The business he was involved in was not legal. The business he and I were engaged in was perfectly aboveboard.”
“Then why the fear of the police?”
“I didn’t say I was afraid of the police, did I?”
“I think you did.”
She frowned and wrote in her spiral notebook: CHECK THAT.
“If I did, then I misspoke. There are others involved here, and anyone in their right minds should be afraid of them.”
“Let’s focus on Pottinger and his business for now.”
She looked over at the adjustable mirror next to her computer. She slipped off her dark wig and put on a blond one.
“Okay, that sounds like a plan.”
“Good,” said Gibson.
She worked with the strands, letting some dangle in front of her eyes, giving her a mysterious look. She picked up a tube of lipstick and applied a bright cherry red color to her lips. It was the subtle things that changed you the most. And color was near the top of that list. Along with how you carried yourself, your voice, the eyes, the walk. It was a long list, really, and she was coming up with new items for it all the time.
Total transformation. Why be one person your whole life when you can be . . . anybody?
“What do you want to know?” she asked as she brushed out her new look, and applied some highlighter to her cheekbones and jawline. She hit her face with a small light and checked her reflection in the mirror.
“Principally the nature of the illegality of what he did.”
She glanced at a Post-it note. Start slow and build. Tap on, tap off. Make them want it.
“It was more than one thing. And it’s complicated after that. Very complicated.”
She looked at another note. Employ self-deprecation and vulnerability to encourage sympathy and subsequent bonding.
“In fact, I can’t say that I completely understand it. If you want the truth, I feel way over my head with this. And I can’t get the vision of Dan’s dead body out of my mind. I haven’t slept well since.”
Gibson said, “It was disturbing, and I’ve had some experience with that.”
“I’ve had none, until now.”
She looked at another note. Drop deity reference for gravity and sincerity.
“And I hope to God I never do again.”
“I’m sure.”
Thanks God, whatever you are.
She took off the wig and put on an auburn one. That worked better with the highlights but clashed with the lipstick. She removed the cherry red and applied a subtler shade. Her own mother would never recognize her. But then again, she never had anyway. Not deep down.
“Getting back to Pottinger’s business,” prompted Gibson.
“Some of it was the usual. Drugs, prostitution, sex trafficking, pornography. That’s where the money is. Men and their penises make the dark world go round.”
“You said some of it; so there’s more?”
She read down the list from her notebook.
“Theft of historical artifacts from the Middle East. Trafficking in elephant tusks from Africa. Importing endangered shark fins from Japan.” She paused. “You want more?”
“Sure, why not,” said Gibson offhandedly.
Right, wow, I wonder what’s coming next from you?
“Okay, he was also involved in the illicit transfer of biomedical weapons out of Crimea and money laundering for terrorists based in the Sudan.”
Gibson growled, “Why don’t you throw in nuclear weapons, the plague, and fake Gucci purses for good measure?”
Just as expected.
“So you don’t believe me?”
“One guy in all those lines of criminal activity?”
“How do you think he afforded Stormfield? And he’s probably got a dozen places just like it. And you ask me to tell you what I know and then you don’t believe me. This will get us nowhere.”
“How do you know all this?” Gibson asked.
“When I go into business with someone I try to find out as much as I can.”
“If you found that out about Pottinger, why did he let you live?”
“Easy. Because he didn’t know I found out. I don’t leave tracks. I did it all electronically. Just like you do with your work, Mickey.”
She listened to the other woman’s breathing. Even, but slightly elevated. She’s thinking of the right response, knowing there probably isn’t one.
She used a new eyeliner and studied the effect. Yes, much better. I can mess with anybody with this look.
“You still there?” she prompted.
Gibson said, “And knowing what you did about him, you still decided to do business with him? What does that say about you?”
Okay, that was also totally expected and this was not a long call so far. Her respect for Gibson slipped a notch. But then again, I am better than you, and I’m going to prove it. “That I compartmentalize well. As we all do. As you do.”
“I don’t deal with criminals.”
“Even when you worked undercover back in Jersey City? You shacked up with some real scum there, did some questionable, borderline illegal things.”
“I won’t ask how you know about that, though I’d like to. That was part of my job and the object was to catch the bad guys, not make money.”
Cocked and loaded. Fire away. “And you just assume that my goals are different?”
“Are they?”
“Maybe I just want to catch bad people, like you used to do as a cop.”
“Are you saying you’re a cop?”
“Do you have to be a cop to catch bad people?”
“A snitch then? Or a plant working with the cops?”
She looked at her notebook, running down a few possibilities. Play shrink for a bit to shake things up. “And how does that make you feel?”
“What the hell does that mean?” Gibson snapped.
“Does that make you feel more comfortable working with me? That we’re on the same side?”
“I don’t know that.”
“Not yet. But we could get there, right?”
“It all depends. Who are you working with?”
“Did you ever reveal that to a stranger while you were undercover?” She put a checkmark in one box next to a line of goals in her notebook. Okay, she’s tacitly accepted that I am what I say I am.
“I think this situation might be a little different, don’t you?”
She looked at the computer clock and smiled. Terrific segue because I have another appointment. “On the contrary, I think we’ve accomplished a lot with this call. It gives us something to build on next time.”
“You really haven’t told me anything!”
“Of course I have, Mickey. Let me recount for you. Pottinger was a criminal on a global scale. I managed to find out about this. There are people out there who want to kill me. The same ones who probably killed Pottinger. I know you were skeptical of the breadth of his heinous actions, but I can assure you that what I gave you is not an exhaustive list by any means. Now you have some things to check out.”
“It would help a lot if I had his real name.”
Praise her. “I’m sure with all your talents and experience you can discover that. I didn’t involve you in this because you’re second-rate, Mickey.”
“I actually have taken some steps.”
“Excellent. And who knows, before much more time passes, you’ll let me call you Mick.”
And next time don’t make it so easy. People grow from challenges and I’m no exception.
She clicked off and finished her makeup. She rose and took off her robe. She was naked underneath. She wrapped a pushup bra around her bosom, slid on a thong, wriggled into a tight black dress, and completed the outfit with dark stockings and four-inch heels.
She checked her image in a full-length mirror.
It was good, no, better than good. She was not beautiful. She was even better. I can sell the line with average looks and a tall, thin, small-chested frame because I exude confidence, refuse to back down, and can read a room better than anyone. And really, what else does one need to do to make it in this life? Hell, with just the right eyeliner I can rule the world.
She walked over to her desk and looked at the open spiral notebook. She closed it, revealing the cover on which she had placed a label that read Mickey Gibson and the Plan. It sat next to a half-dozen other notebooks with their own little neatly organized esoteric worlds lying therein.
She wasn’t full-on OCD. Yet. But it was probably only a matter of time.
But then, with my history, what else could I expect? You build walls to keep the boogeyman away as long as you can.
She grabbed a large tote bag with things already packed neatly in it, and a wrap, and walked out the door.
To go to work.
THE CAB DROPPED HER OFF at the corner of a major thoroughfare in Washington, DC’s Georgetown neighborhood, which gleamed bright and full of possibilities.
“Clarisse,” exclaimed the woman. The lady approaching her was towering and busty and hippy and dressed for success of a certain kind, with men of a certain kind.
Clarisse turned and smiled with her muted, burgundy-tinged lips.
Hit the play button and enjoy yourself. “Angie, how long have you been waiting?”
“Ages, meaning ten minutes. Girl, we have work to do.”
“Yes we do.”
They started down M Street. There were money and powerful people in abundance here, which was the only reason the two women were trolling the area.
They entered the lobby of the hotel, looking guest-worthy but with just enough glam to cause sedate heads to turn. DC was not New York or even close to LA. Somber and conservative were still the accepted fashion marks of the day here. But something different and alluring could be appreciated, and every bit of clothing worn by the two women had been carefully calibrated to elicit heightened attention but not scrutiny.
Angie hit the elevator button and they rode the car to the fourth floor.
“Room 412,” said Angie, her booming voice gone; she was all business and focus now.
“The Washington senator,” Clarisse whispered back.
“All five feet six of him. And another four inches of you know what, poor, pitiful thing. But that’s okay, in his mind he’s LeBron James with a Louisville slugger in his pants.”
That was as playful as Angie got on these things. Still, Clarisse frowned.
Influencer mode. “Time for games later, Angie. Tight is tight. You’re a pro. You know this.”
“Yes I do, girl.”
Angie keyed the door to Room 410 and let Clarisse inside. Clarisse took Angie’s purse, and a few moments later she heard Angie unlocking the door to 412.
Clarisse opened up her small laptop and ran it off the hotspot of her ultra-secure “fortress” phone, as she liked to call it. No ludicrously unsecure Wi-Fi for this mission. She connected a wireless camera to her computer, fired up a program, and said into the computer, “Copy, Angie?”
“Copy loud and clear.”
With the line of communication established, Angie would now take her mic, which was sunk so far in her ear that it was invisible but not untraceable, and place it in a small lead container that she had carried on her person. That container would be inserted in the showerhead pipe in the bathroom. She would wait for the electronic sweep to be completed and then, unless she did it before the senator arrived, nature would call before the show would begin. In this intimate situation, no man would deny a woman that. The earbud would be reinserted and the connection resumed.
