Sullivan shrugged. “I don’t know all that much, either. Like I told you, Pottinger came here around six years ago and bought the property from the Turners.”
“Have you been in contact with the Turners? Did they know why he was coming to the area?”
“I have talked to them. They say they never met him. It was all handled by his representatives. Lawyers, real estate agents, financial people.”
“All that money and he was living alone in that mausoleum at the end.”
“People make choices.”
“Was that secret room always there?”
“I asked John Turner that when I talked to him. He said his great-grandfather had put that in. They used to play hide-and-seek, and that was a popular destination. Until people caught on, that is.”
“So do you think the Stormfield acquisition was just a money-laundering bit?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You mind?” She eyed his fries.
“What? No, go ahead. I should have ordered the fruit salad as my side, but I have a weakness for things that aren’t good for me.”
I think I have you beat in that department, buddy, thought Gibson, thinking of her choice in husbands.
She snagged a couple of fries, bit into one, and almost purred. “I’ve been trying to cut this stuff out and lose some of the baby weight, but it’s harder than I thought it would be. As my mother loves to point out.”
“Well, as someone who will never have to go through that, all I’m going to say is hat’s off to you whatever you do or don’t do.”
She smiled. “I’m beginning to like your style, Will.” She inwardly groaned at such a stupid line. “So getting back to the money laundering. What did Stormfield sell for?”
“The property records say five mill.”
That drew a whistle from Gibson. “Langhorne was a mob accountant. It’s not like those folks are millionaires. So why do I think that when Langhorne disappeared he didn’t do so empty-handed?”
“Stealing from the mob is pretty much suicidal.”
“So is turning state’s evidence against them. Langhorne had already crossed that Rubicon. So why not go for the brass ring in the process?”
“So you think the money-laundering angle is legit?” he asked.
“Look, I spend all my time now looking for assets just like that. ‘Dirty money’ means it goes through multiple washing machines and comes out smelling like it was filled with nothing except healthy doses of Febreze. If he was smart enough to hoodwink the mob and take their money, I think he was smart enough to keep moving it around in an elaborate shell game. And it’s not like the Feds would have known about him stealing any money. If they had they would have confiscated it. At least in an ideal world. But maybe the world wasn’t ideal back then.”
“Hell, and you think it is now?” retorted Sullivan with a chuckle, but it was clear he was intrigued by her theory. “But your point is valid. So the guy had the mansion and probably other assets.”
“And if he managed to invest it all somehow, over the years, I would imagine those assets have grown exponentially.”
“I do know that he paid cash for Stormfield. And they would have checked that the funds came from legit sources.”
“After thirty-plus years, you can make anything look legit,” replied Gibson. “Even mob money.”
“You know, your experience in ferreting out assets might come in handy for our investigation.”
“Now, I like how that sounds.”
“How what sounds?”
“Our investigation.” She checked her watch. “And it’s time to go add to it.”
Chapter 22
Earl Beckett looked like a us marshal, thought Gibson. Tall, lean, ramrod straight. Weathered good looks, wavy salt-and-pepper hair. A grim smile coupled with flinty eyes and a crushing handshake. Gibson thought that in another era, the man could have walked on to an old movie set and been an instant star, especially if he’d had on a ten-gallon hat and was sporting twin pearl-handled Colt .45s.
After Sullivan had introduced her, Beckett led them to his office in the federal building in Norfolk and sat down across from them. He had a manila folder in front of him.
“Had to get this sucker overnighted. It was in the record morgue, in yonder parts.” He smiled. “ ‘Yonder parts’ are what folks expect to hear from a US marshal, or maybe I’m just getting old.”
“Works for me,” said Sullivan.
Beckett opened the folder and got down to business. “Harry E. Langhorne. A name right out of the past.”
“Yeah, and he’s in our morgue,” said Sullivan.
“So you told me over the phone.”
“Then he was in WITSEC?” asked Sullivan.
Beckett slid a finger over his top lip. “You confirmed the dead guy is Langhorne?”
“Yes. We checked and rechecked. And the FBI sent us a notification as well.”
“Right. All WITSECs are on their database. And if any law enforcement agency sends a print ID request that ends up being a WITSEC, the Bureau gets pinged. They usually let us know, too. They may have, but I’m not necessarily in the loop on that.”
Gibson inwardly cringed. Thank God my cop friend Kate didn’t have to access a Fed database but got Langhorne’s print off a local one.
Beckett said, “Okay, yeah, he was under our protection starting around the time of the mob trials.”
“With his family?” asked Gibson.
“That’s right. His wife, Geraldine, and the two kids.” Beckett took a few moments to read over the file. “They were initially relocated to Eugene, Oregon, about as far away as you can get from New Jersey. Then to Butte, Montana, and finally to Albuquerque, New Mexico, where they spent a number of years.”
“Why so many moves?” asked Gibson.
“Not unusual at all. Might have been they suspected someone had found out where they were. Or there was a problem of some kind with the current location. We always err on the side of caution.”
“What’s the process for a WITSEC family?” asked Gibson.
“We determine how many members will be entering the program, adults, children. Then they’re all given a psych evaluation.”
“Why a psych eval?” asked Gibson.
“The transition is not an easy one,” noted Beckett. “So we need to know what mental state they’re all in. You don’t enter WITSEC because your life is a bed of roses, quite the opposite. The program will support them for six months financially. After that, they need to get a job. Now, we do cater to certain requests if feasible.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Well, I can tell you that we’ve paid for breast implants, facelifts, and boxing lessons, but that’s atypical.”
“O-kay,” said Gibson slowly.
“The jobs these folks get are usually not going to be high paying. They have no work or credit history. Early on the Marshals Service reached out to the business community and got commitments from over a thousand national businesses to provide jobs to WITSEC members. In the past, we’ve also placed protectees in certain government jobs.”
“Doesn’t that jeopardize their safety?” asked Sullivan.
“We have protocols to prevent that, but I can’t get into them with you. Langhorne was working at a local car dealership in Albuquerque until about twenty years ago.”
“As a salesman?” asked Sullivan.
“No, as a vehicle detailer. Guy liked the details, apparently.”
“A long fall from mob accountant to cleaning cars,” remarked Gibson.
“What happened?” asked Sullivan.
“Langhorne vanished.”
Gibson and Sullivan exchanged glances. She said, “Vanished? Alone, or with his family?”