He settled his gaze back on her.
Gibson took a moment to process all of this. Her earlier daydreaming of riches, and then agreeing, under duress, to find Trask’s money for a 5 percent cut, came roaring back, increasing her sense of guilt.
“Are you accusing me of something?” she asked.
He just stared at her for a moment, like she had many a perp in an interrogation room. “I’m here to get to the truth, Ms. Gibson, nothing more, nothing less.”
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“You went out to that mansion and found Langhorne’s body. You claim that a person called you and conned you into doing so. Why you out of all the people in the universe, I don’t know. But for argument’s sake, let’s say that’s true. Why are you still involved? If you were brought into this under some sort of scam or subterfuge, why have you not just walked away from the whole thing? You have children. You have a job. So what the hell are you still doing messing around with this case? Do my inquiries seem unreasonable?”
This burned Gibson’s butt more than anything because his inquiries weren’t unreasonable. She’d be asking the same questions if she were him.
And right at that moment she decided to tell him the truth. Or at least some of it.
“I didn’t want to be involved in any of this. But the moment I went out and found that body, I was involved. I still tried to get out. Like you said, I’ve got little kids. I didn’t want to do anything to put them in danger.”
“Then why did you?” asked Pinker.
“Because I didn’t have a choice, okay? There are... there are people who are aware of my involvement. My only way out of this is to solve it. And I was a cop for a long time. It’s just my nature.” She paused. “Any of that sound unreasonable to you?”
He sat back, clearly reassessing her in light of this swift and frank comeback. “What people?”
“Not going there, sorry,” replied Gibson.
“Okay, I’ll accept that. For now. Have you made any progress?”
“A little. Pottinger is Langhorne. Langhorne probably stole a fortune from the mob. Someone is looking for that money. And I think that’s why they got me involved. At ProEye, that’s what I do for a living. I look for assets, big ones, in the most unlikely of places.”
“And does whoever got you involved in this think you will find this treasure, if it even exists, and then, what, turn it over to them?”
“Maybe,” answered Gibson.
He looked at her skeptically. “Have they made threats against you or your family?”
“I think my safest bet is to find the treasure, if it does exist, and then turn it over to the authorities. That way, I’m off the hook, at least the way I see it.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Have you been threatened?”
“That’s all I’m going to say on the matter,” replied Gibson.
“Which is an answer in itself. So, do you have any firm leads?”
“Yes, and I’ve shared them with Detective Sullivan.”
Except for all the ones I didn’t tell him. Sorry about that one, Will.
“So what do you plan to do going forward?” asked Pinker.
“I’m planning to do some online searches into Langhorne’s assets.”
“I’m sure the police are doing that as well.”
“And is the Bureau?” asked Gibson.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why is the Bureau involved, anyway?”
“I can’t tell you that, either. But I’m sure you know that WITSEC is a federal program.”
“They were no longer in WITSEC,” countered Gibson.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re dead. Someone killed them. We have to figure that out. Next, they might start killing people who are still in the program.”
“I see your point,” said Gibson.
“So I’m less concerned about this ‘treasure’ than I am about finding the killer or killers.”
“I’m sure you know all about the Langhornes?”
“Geraldine disappeared shortly after her husband, and may or may not be dead. Their children, Francine and Douglas, left the program when they came of age. No one knows where they are. You think they might have found their father and, what, exacted revenge for his walking out on them?”
Gibson said, “From what I’ve learned about Harry Langhorne, his kids were probably thrilled when he left. But I can’t say they didn’t kill him. Not for sure.”
“I take it you’ve been talking to Earl Beckett with the US Marshals Service?”
“Sullivan and I met with him, yes. He actually was the handler for the Langhornes at their last stop.”
“But you still think they might be good for his murder? Get back at the old man for being such a tyrant?” asked Pinker.
“People have killed for less.”
“Yes, they have. And Daryl Oxblood?”
“I understand his real name was Bruce Hall,” noted Gibson.
“You understand incorrectly. Bruce Hall was his WITSEC name. His actual name was Bruce Dixon.”
Bruce Dixon? BD? The initials in the comic book. Gibson tried not to show her excitement. “Okay, thanks for that clarification.”
She loved it when know-it-alls like Pinker just couldn’t resist showing their superior knowledge. But she bet the man would later regret telling her that.
She said, “It seems the same person who killed Langhorne killed Oxblood. Same phrase on the wall. Can’t be a coincidence, not that I believe in those, anyway.”
“But why kill him?” asked Pinker.
“Beckett wouldn’t tell me anything about him.”
Pinker said, “The Dixons were neighbors of the Langhornes in New Mexico. Bruce and Francine were friends, close friends, by all accounts.”
Thank you again. And that one really is important.
She wondered why he was telling her this, when Beckett hadn’t even told her the Dixons knew the Langhornes.
Gibson noted, “Beckett said they sometimes consolidated WITSEC families for budget and manpower purposes. But they weren’t supposed to tell anyone their real identities.”
“And you think kids or adults always follow the rules?” asked Pinker.
“My kids don’t and they’re just toddlers. I can only imagine what teenagers can get up to. No, I take that back. I remember my teenage years, so the sky’s the limit.”
Pinker nodded, looking thoughtful. “It might have seemed cool for them. Like being in some elite club that only they knew about. So, Harry Langhorne is dead. And Francine Langhorne’s WITSEC friend from decades ago is dead, too. What do you think is going on? Is it connected to the treasure?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you, Agent Pinker.”
“Why don’t I believe that?”
Chapter 56
Clarisse sat in front of her twin computer screens staring down at assorted burner phones and notebooks conspicuously labeled for each project she had going.
Gibson knows about Julia Frazier’s being in The Plains, Virginia. She knows about the comic book and the initials. She saw the phrase on the wall.
She opened a notebook labeled, simply, The Past.
She turned to one page and stared down at the initials she had written there.
BD and RE.
She had once been sentimental, sometimes even caring. She could no longer be that way. Part of her was okay with that, and part of her, a constantly diminishing part, wasn’t.
She rubbed her fingers across the letters B and D. He had been one of them. They had taken an oath, like the Mafia. You never turned on one of your own. Obviously, the years had dulled that solemn promise for some of them.