Focus! This is no way to play for real and for keeps. We’re not kids, not now.
She flushed her brain, took a sip of the red wine, and hit the number.
“I assume the kids are in bed,” she said when the other person answered.
Gibson said, “They are. For now.”
“What do you have to report?”
“I spoke with Sam Trask.”
“Did you now? Congratulations.”
“You can keep the snark to yourself, Clarisse. I’m not in the mood.”
“What did he tell you?”
“Basically that his son is capable of all the things I told him were going on with Pottinger/Langhorne.”
“Let’s just call him Harry for simplicity and consistency,” interjected Clarisse.
“All right,” said Gibson. “Nathan Trask is involved in all sorts of illegal things, but the cops can’t prove them. He’s had people killed, including maybe Harry, but again there’s no proof of that. And why would he write ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ on the wall of the room where he was found?”
“Did you ask Trask about that?”
“Did you want me to?”
“I wanted you to go with your gut. So what did your gut tell you to do?”
“My gut told me not to ask him because I don’t think Nathan Trask was involved in Harry’s death.”
“Based solely on your gut?”
“Not solely, no.”
“What then?”
“I did some research on Trask. Even though they couldn’t make anything stick he was clearly old-school when it came to snuffing out people he wanted snuffed out. Two shots to the head. But Langhorne was killed by poisoning, Botulinum type A, which takes a while and is incredibly painful. Things could happen in the interim, all of them bad, for Trask.”
“Maybe he wanted him to feel the pain. Two head shots wouldn’t do that.”
“Maybe. But Harry was already terminal with brain cancer, for which he was on morphine.”
“Really?” said a stunned Clarisse.
“Yes. The post on his body revealed that. And the writing on the wall? It was done by two people, so how does that make sense in the context of Nathan Trask? There’s no way he personally offed Harry. He would never have been near the place. So why would he have his execution team write that?”
“How do you know two people wrote the message?”
“Among other things, I used to analyze handwriting for a living when I was a forensics tech. And I do it today working for ProEye.”
“Did you tell the cops that?”
“So what if I did?”
“So you’re ruling Trask out, just like that?”
“I think Trask was busywork for me for some reason,” said Gibson.
“Meaning I gave you an assignment that I knew was pointless?”
“I don’t know — did you?”
She’s gaining confidence, which is good and bad.
Clarisse said, “I don’t really see the point of that, do you? How did you leave it with Sam Trask?”
“He gave me a secure email to communicate with him. He said he wouldn’t be surprised if his son had paid off people at The Feathers to keep watch over him.”
“What does Sam hope to achieve?”
“He’s still working, as you alluded to. I don’t mean for a company. I mean, he’s working the case against his son by himself. He showed me some of the research and leads he’d run down, all from his little retirement room. He even hired a cab to drive him by his son’s fortress in Virginia Beach. He wanted to see it for himself. As added incentive to nail this guy.”
“Did he ask you to help him?”
“Let’s just say we talked about mutually beneficial action we could take.”
“Did you tell him about me?”
“No. But I did tell him about the situation. He remembered Harry. Has no idea what happened to him or his family after WITSEC. He was intrigued about a possible connection between Harry and his son. He’s a formidable guy, even with an oxygen tank. We agreed to keep each other informed.”
“You took a big risk going to see him. His son probably knows all about you by now.”
“You basically told me I had to go see him.”
“Do you really do everything you’re told, Mickey?” she said condescendingly.
Shit, why did you say that?
All Clarisse heard now was... nothing.
Do not lose your control. You own this. Now really own it by doing what any decent human being would do. So pretend you are a decent person for once in your life.
“I’m sorry, Mickey. This is on me. I had a preconceived notion that Trask was involved. The other guys on that list, you’re right, they were white noise. Why I did that, I don’t know. Sometimes I’m too clever for my own good. Now, Trask was the only player who could do all the dances with Harry and also have a motive to take him out. But I agree with you — if the writing on the wall was done by two people, it does not make sense that Trask was involved. And the poison instead of the bullets? Same thing. Okay? So again, I’m sorry if I was pulling your chain a bit. I really do want to get through this intact, and want the same for you.”
You’re rambling, and rambling is always weak, so shut up.
She caught herself breathing fast. Clarisse put herself on mute as she waited for Gibson to answer.
Come on, come on, come on... Just say something so I can spin it.
Only Mickey Gibson didn’t answer. She ended the call.
Chapter 37
Gibson pocketed her phone and walked out of her home office. She headed to her kids’ room, where she opened the door and peered in.
Dead asleep. Both of them.
No, don’t use that phrase, ever. Not with them.
She used her phone to take a picture of the pair that she would no doubt look at when she was an elderly woman and wanted to relive the good old days.
Gibson went downstairs and made herself a cup of tea. She drank it while staring out the picture window at her scraggly front yard. She’d planned to redo the flower beds and fill up some pots with colorful plants for the porch.
Yeah. Until she came into my life. Do I do everything someone tells me to do? You don’t know a fucking thing about me, even though you think you know everything.
The picture window seemed a nice viewpoint to run the frames of her life — past, present, and whatever future was hanging out there for her, bleak or shiny.
And my kids’ future, because they are the biggest factor in all of this.
And then she saw the darkness out there that seemed more than just what it was supposed to be. There was a solid shape to it. She ducked out of sight and then came back over to the window and peered out. Just across the street, behind a parked car. There was someone there. Someone staring at her house.
She looked down when her phone buzzed. Her father had just texted her with a name and phone number.
Art Collin is going to call you right now. Answer it. Dad
She looked back up and gasped. Whoever had been there was now gone. She rushed to the door and opened it, leapt out onto the porch, and gazed up and down the street. Breathing heavily, she shut and locked the door.
That was not my imagination. Someone was there.
A few seconds later her phone buzzed again. She saw on the screen that it was the phone number her father had just texted her.
“Hello, Mr. Collin?”
“Just make it Art,” said a loud, gruff voice. “Knew your old man from way back. Says you’re interested in Harry Langhorne. When Rick Rogers needs a favor I step up. He’s a good guy. So here I am.”