The other woman shook her head, a sad smile playing over her lips. “We just wanted the money. He was no good to us dead. So there you go. No motive. You have to check that. The cops do.”
“I know you two went to see him. How did you find him?”
“Not something you need to know. But he was alive and kicking when we left.”
“Then who did it?” asked Clarisse. “Who killed him?”
“If you find out, tell me. And I’ll kill them because they screwed us over real good. Cost us the easy path to the money.”
“He would never have told you where it was. He never made anything easy.”
The woman brandished her weapon. “Now, what have you found out?”
“We apparently have to move into the twenty-first century if we want to find the treasure. At least that’s what the note I found said.”
“And what does that mean exactly?”
“That the treasure is not in some wooden crate somewhere. Or buried at Stormfield. It might be digital.”
“Digital? Have you figured that out?” asked the woman.
“Not yet. But I will.”
She placed the gun against Mommy’s temple, and this time the old woman did flinch. “Then pick up your pace. I’m not getting any younger. None of us are, especially this hag. Right, babycakes?”
When Mommy cried out at this term once more, the woman placed a wad of moist cloth over the woman’s face and she immediately slumped sideways in her wheelchair, unconscious.
“She has COPD, that stuff could kill her,” cried out Clarisse.
“I guess we’ll find out. And now it’s your turn to go lights out. Babycakes.”
Chapter 66
The next morning Gibson received an email from Art Collin:
Re your query. I cannot ever talk about that. I said what I said and I have nothing to add to it. And you should forget about it. Nothing anyone can do now. And the scum is dead, so there’s that. Hang in there. AC.
Well, thanks for the help there, AC.
But he had pissed her off, so she sent him another email basically implying that Langhorne had let himself be caught because he could feel the cops breathing down his neck on the child abuse thing and WITSEC would give him a get-out-of-jail-free card. And, on top of that, he could walk away with all the mob’s money.
So there you go, super cop.
She waited for him to reply. And he never did.
Sam Trask had given Gibson a secure email address to write to him. She did so, telling him about her kidnapping by, presumably, his son, and the deal she had been forced to make with him.
Trask immediately wrote back. “I am so sorry. Call this number. It’s untraceable, even by my bastard offspring.”
He answered on the first ring.
“Are you all right?” was the first thing he asked. “Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. He just scared the crap out of me. And I’m just assuming it was him or his goons. I have no proof of anything.”
“So he wants you to find the money that Langhorne, under the alias Daniel Pottinger, stole from him? And he’ll pay you a five percent commission?”
“That’s what he said. I didn’t believe him, but I did believe the part where he threatened me and my family.”
“Have you made progress?”
“I’ve found some clues, along with another person I’m working with.”
“You mean Clarisse?”
Gibson almost swallowed her tongue. “You know about her?”
“She visited me before Pottinger was killed and then revealed to be Langhorne. She came in the form of a podiatrist that The Feathers has visit once a month. She played her part very well. Had all the official credentials and knew the lingo. Though I was the only patient she saw, I’m certain of that,” he added with a chuckle. “She fooled me completely until she told me why she was really there. She actually did an excellent job with my toenails. But while she did so we talked about other things.”
“Well, I’m glad she was so open with you. She never mentioned any of that to me.”
“She was looking for Pottinger. She knew he had purchased Stormfield, and I assume she knew, or at least suspected, that Pottinger and Langhorne were one and the same. She told me that she discovered Pottinger had done business with my son — sex trafficking, on a corridor from Mexico and Thailand into the States. Incredibly lucrative because those being trafficked were also bringing in stolen artifacts, as well as drugs. So Langhorne and my son had three profit centers off one human being.”
Damn, so Clarisse had been telling the truth about that. “Why didn’t you tell me all this when we met the first time?”
“I didn’t really know you. I have since had you checked out. You’re one of the good ones. And you were kidnapped and threatened by my son. That alone is enough to make me confide in you and want to help you.”
“And did you learn anything about Clarisse?”
“I had nothing to go on. She used latex gloves while she was here. No prints left behind. I could have tried and taken a DNA sample, but I thought that might be impolite. And while I’m a man, I’m old and on oxygen. I don’t think I could have taken her.”
Gibson had to stifle a laugh at these self-deprecating comments.
“That’s not her real name, obviously,” said Trask. “But she struck me as highly intelligent, focused, organized, and...”
“And what?”
Trask didn’t answer right away. “Well, sad beyond all comprehension, despite the confident air she tried to display.”
“I think she might be Francine Langhorne.”
“That thought crossed my mind as well. She’s the right age. And it would explain her motivation to find him.”
“Did you know about the disgusting stories swirling around about Langhorne?”
“His affinity for young girls? Yes, I learned about them after he had gone into WITSEC. The man already repulsed me. That of course put my revulsion on a whole new plane.”
“Couldn’t he have been charged?”
“Unfortunately, no, it would have destroyed WITSEC. No one with a questionable history would ever come forward. And the majority of informers who go into WITSEC are criminals themselves. I wish, like you, that he could have been held accountable. But that matter was out of my hands. But if Clarisse is Francine Langhorne, then that would also explain the sadness. If she knew about it, or, even more heinous, if her own father...”
“Yes, yes, it would,” said Gibson hastily. She teared up as the image of her daughter came into her mind. “Earl Beckett is a US marshal who was one of the Langhornes’ handlers at their last stop in Albuquerque. He’s been giving me info about the case. He never mentioned any sort of abuse.”
“I doubt he would, particularly if it happened right under their noses. No federal agency wants to admit a mistake.”
“I guess,” said Gibson.
“So what are you going to do with regard to my son? I told you that I was still wired into certain players and agencies who see me as a possible way to bring him down. Your working for him now might provide you an opportunity to collaborate with us to accomplish that.”
“There’s nothing I would want more,” said Gibson. “To answer your question, my best bet is to keep working away to find the treasure. With that I have a bargaining chip with him. The FBI will have to be ready to roll when I call you in. If I get a chance to call you in.”
“From what I’ve seen, my money’s on you. And one more thing.”
“What?”
“My money’s also on Clarisse. You know, together you two might be able to do what neither can do independently.”