If I can think of it.
Chapter 16
Later that day, Gibson fed the kids lunch, then sat there watching them and continually wiping their mouths, and the table, and the floor when Tommy, and then copycat Darby, got particularly adventurous with their meals.
Afterward she put them in the van and drove them to a nearby park, where they walked around and threw pennies into a fountain, and played tag and then hide-and-seek, though neither of her children were all that good with following the rules.
But then neither am I.
As she sat and laughed and applauded their spirited antics, she wondered about what her father had said. If something happened to her, where would her kids go? Her parents couldn’t take care of them, not full-time. And she would never allow her ex to go anywhere near her kids, even if the jerk could be found. And one of her younger brothers had his hands full with his own family. Her other sibling was single and had never managed to get his crap together; he couldn’t take care of himself, much less two toddlers. She had tried to dial up some cover from Sullivan, but he had turned her down flat.
So I’m it. And no matter how much I want to follow this through, should I? Can I risk it? Can I risk them?
She giggled as Darby ran in circles so fast she fell down dizzy and laughing, while Tommy sprinted around growling like a bear, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
She had brought the phone with her. She looked at it.
You can walk away right now. Never call this number again. And never answer it when and if she does call. But if she’s a psycho, which certainly might be the case? If that sends her over the edge? Do you have a shot at controlling this by keeping on it?
She stared at the phone for nearly a minute as this mental back-and-forth ping-ponged inside her head. Finally, she hit the number and waited. It rang so long she was just about to click off.
“You surprise me,” said Clarisse.
“Don’t you keep the Batphone right next to you at all times?”
“I wanted to see how tenacious and patient you were. Those twin attributes can tell pretty much everything you need to know about someone.”
“Have you found someone else to get the glory?” she asked Clarisse.
“Not just yet.”
“Do you know where Langhorne’s widow and children are?” Gibson asked.
“No.”
“I was thinking they were in WITSEC,” noted Gibson.
“Maybe.”
“Do you think they know he was here? And that he’s dead?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“You still going by Clarisse today, or do you have another name?”
“Clarisse it will stay. It’ll avoid unnecessary confusion.”
“Have you always been this weird?” said Gibson, perhaps more frankly than she intended.
“No, I’m much better. Years of therapy has worked wonders.”
Maybe another clue. And what was the other one, dammit?
“Okay, Clarisse, what if we were to continue on this case together?”
“It would be my preference. You were my first choice, after all.”
“Why do you need to know who killed Langhorne?”
“Because they will be coming after me next, I’m sure of that.”
“Because of who Harry Langhorne was, or because of your business with his alter ego, Pottinger?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters, because depending on the answer, the investigation will take me in very different directions. But according to you, your business with Pottinger was entirely legitimate. So how would his criminal partners even know about you?”
“Dan never compartmentalized very well. At least when I knew him. He would slip. He did so to me, so I’m sure he did so to others about me.”
“And what were some of the slips that he made to you?” asked Gibson.
“I’ve discussed some of them. That’s what made me suspicious of him and his past. I did some digging and found more.”
“You said he contacted you and wanted you to meet him at Stormfield. Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
Tommy fell down and hit his knee and started to cry. Gibson went over to him and, cradling the phone against her ear, checked the spot and soothed his tears.
“Sounds like someone’s not happy,” commented Clarisse.
“He’s fine, just a skinned knee.” She took some sanitizer, ointment, and a Band-Aid out of her fanny pack and proceeded to doctor her son’s injury.
“You ever regret having kids?”
Gibson tensed. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know.”
“I take it you never had kids?”
“Never found the time.”
“If you wait around for the perfect time or situation, you’ll be waiting forever. And no, I don’t regret having them. They’re the best thing I ever did. But I guess all mothers say that.”
“Not all mothers,” said Clarisse.
Yet another clue? thought Gibson. She said, “Come on, why do you think he wanted to meet? You must have an inkling.”
Clarisse replied, “Well, considering he was murdered before I got there, I would imagine he wanted to see me because he was fearful for his life.”
Finished, Gibson slid Tommy’s pants leg down and tousled his hair. “And what could you do about that?”
“Not sure. But then again, maybe he didn’t have many friends left.”
“Were you surprised to hear from him?”
“No, because people are unpredictable.”
Gibson thought, That may be the only completely true thing she’s said to me.
Clarisse said, “So what are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure. In fact, I’m not sure I’m going to do anything.”
“I thought you were in.”
Gibson looked down at Tommy and then glanced at her daughter, who was making grass angels. Her father’s warning came back to her.
“I’ve got other priorities, more important things in my life. So you might have to find another patsy after all.”
“Well, that is very unfortunate. But you’re a smart girl, so you surely realize you’re already knee-deep into this.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“And there’s something else,” said Clarisse.
“What?”
“I sense we are running out of time.”
“Running out of time for what?” asked Gibson sharply.
“Until the next person dies, of course.”
The line, appropriately, went dead.
Chapter 17
“Why the hell should I tell you anything else?” barked Rick Rogers in a clearly annoyed tone on the phone with his daughter the following morning. “Since you clearly didn’t take my advice.”
Gibson said, “Look, don’t get pissed at me, but I have to work this thing a little longer. And I’m not saying I won’t go to the cops. In fact, I tried to, but it didn’t work out.”
“What happened?”
“It doesn’t matter. I went in for cover and got none.”
“What are you angling for here, Mick? I’ve told you all I know about Langhorne.”
“But you might know someone from the old days who knows more,” countered Gibson.
He let out a long sigh and she waited, patiently. Experience had taught Gibson that her father almost always reached the right conclusion when it came to him, meaning the conclusion she wanted. She just had to give him time, space, and the understanding that it was ultimately his decision and not hers.
“I actually might know a guy. He was a detective in Newark, but he worked on the case because it crossed all sorts of jurisdictional lines. He and I talked shop about it over the years.”