“His murder’s been in the news,” she countered. “It mentioned he was killed at Stormfield. You would think his financial people would know he owned it.”
“We got some names from the Turners’ Realtor. Big surprise, we can’t find a single one of them. It’s like they ran for it.”
Gibson looked around the dank interior of Stormfield. “Well, the note I found clearly shows he knew someone would be looking for something. Either he hid it somewhere, or he didn’t and it’s just a whole lot of nothing.”
“Maybe you can work your magic and crack it. If you do, let me know.”
She frowned again but wasn’t facing him when she did so. “I can give it a shot. Hey, you know anything about Nathan Trask?”
Sullivan looked taken aback. “Trask? What does he have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing. But he’s a big mover and shaker in the criminal world, though I need to watch my words or else he’ll sue me for slander and probably win.”
“You think he was working with Langhorne aka Pottinger?”
“He might have been.”
Sullivan said, “I was told about him when I moved up from Carolina. He has a bunch of politicians in his pocket who cover for him.”
“What a world we live in.”
“Isn’t it though,” said Sullivan, who was also now frowning as the rain picked up again.
Chapter 40
Clarisse had not called Gibson back, figuring it would be the height of weakness on her part to do so. She would let Gibson contact her, if she ever did.
Yet she has to, doesn’t she? She can’t leave it like this.
She refocused and went over the current state of affairs.
Harry Langhorne had been murdered. But he was already dying of brain cancer, which was stunning news to Clarisse. Her mother had been kidnapped. They had killed Daryl Oxblood and in doing so had also slaughtered BD.
So have they already killed Mommy?
But they wouldn’t, not yet. And if they were using her as leverage, they would have to make contact again.
She would rather head them off and make contact with them. There was no real advantage in that, other than she wanted to show strength in the face of her antagonist’s grab for dominance. Only the person facing her now was not so easily fooled. And Clarisse would not mention BD. She didn’t want them to know that she had figured that piece out.
She pulled up the email she had received.
Hello and surprise. Took a while, but, like you, I don’t give up easy. The old bitch is well and full of shit, as always. We’ll need to talk about things. I’ll let you know when. Get cranked and buckle up because we’re taking this ride to a whole other level. It’s going to be a wild one, hon.
She opened another notebook. On it Clarisse had affixed a label that read OLD SCORES TO SETTLE.
She had already written a great deal in it. Memories that might prove useful, factoids to float around in her mind. Strategies and tactics. She read through it, added a few things, and sat down to compose her reply.
Hello, right back at you. Clever girl on the jewel heist. You make a wonderful maid by the way, in a cheap sort of way. Servitude must be in your DNA. Mommy means less to me than you think so FYI leverage limited. And really, poor Daryl Oxblood whoever the hell he is? When you steal a schlep’s ID you don’t have to kill him on top of it. I would have thought you had more class. So the issue becomes: where do we go from here? We want the same thing, I take it. Payment in lieu of services is how I see it. Maybe you see more. I have people working on it and progress is being made. Your plan, as I see it, is to let me find it and you ransom Mommy for your share, since you didn’t find it on your trip to Stormfield when you took care of HL. If I’m wrong, let me know. I have other things to do with my time. Cheers, hon.
Her finger hovered over the send key as she read and reread the missive looking for anything that shouldn’t be in there. And for something that should be and wasn’t.
Next moment, her finger plunged and off it went.
She wondered how long it would take for a reply. Her response might also go to spam, but they would be checking that, no doubt. She had to watch herself for sure. Langhorne’s murder had been as she had expected. But the murder of Oxblood had been out-of-control bloody.
Maybe Oxblood was a message to me. If they’re willing to do that to BD, what will they do to me?
She now pondered Mickey Gibson. The woman had been to Stormfield. Her geolocator on her phone had told Clarisse that. What had she discovered, if anything?
The problem was what the problem was always going to be, she knew.
If Gibson beats me to it, I need to get the treasure from her. And I will, regardless of what it will take. Or what it will cost. I will survive this, even if Mickey Gibson won’t.
The thought of Gibson’s possibly dying made her freeze up for a moment, which, in turn, made her furious.
Never forget, it’s just you and you alone. Nobody else gives a shit and neither should you.
And now you better bring your A game, girl. Because where you’re going right now? Anything less and you are dead.
Chapter 41
Clarisse had lied to Gibson. Of course she had. It was what she did.
You simply lie to everyone about everything.
But she actually hadn’t lied about Nathan Trask. The man was in the wheelhouse of everything important to her at the moment.
She had made calls. Surprisingly, her request had met with success. A meeting had been arranged. She was now out on the street, observing the man’s Virginia Beach fortress.
For this meeting, she was using a different name, of course. But still, it was not without risk. Trask was smart, ruthless, not a man to be toyed with. And not a man easily scammed. And she was here to do exactly that.
She walked up to the gate where two men were stationed. They were in sharp suits, with sharp eyes and bulges under their jackets where the ubiquitous guns were kept. On the rooftop she spotted two more men in black jumpsuits. Both held long-range rifles. A third guard was manning a set of expensive optics while performing a near constant 360-degree surveillance of the area, from beach to street.
After she told them who she was and why she was here, one of the gate guards asked to see her ID. The other one patted her down and then wanded her, taking his time and missing nothing. She appreciated the professionalism. He didn’t even try to cop a feel.
Clarisse had dressed carefully for the meeting. Black jacket and matching skirt. A quick blond dye job, reading glasses, muted lipstick and makeup, low heels. No bag. No phone, no wallet. They would have confiscated them anyway.
She was driven up to the main house by another man in a golf cart outfitted with gold trim. She viewed the multibuilding complex. It was mostly hidden from the street by the wall and massive landscape plantings, boulders, and other architectural features. She watched as an AgustaWestland chopper lifted off from the rear grounds, banked right, and drifted out over the ocean.
“I hope that’s not Mr. Trask leaving,” she said to the man next to her.
He didn’t even bother to answer.
She was dropped off at the front door and it was opened by a woman dressed as a butler, right down to the starched collar and bow tie. She was about fifty, trim, and without a hair out of place; she looked pleased with her lot in life.
“This way, Ms. Peters,” she said, her voice low, her gaze pointed at her well-polished shoes.
So she can have plausible deniability with the cops if I end up as a corpse somewhere, Clarisse thought.