Simply Lies

Chapter 18

Do as I say, not as I do.

Gibson was reading this off the wall at the end of the secret room. It had been written in foot-high letters using a broad-tipped red marker.

She turned to look at Sullivan, who was shining his flashlight on it.

“What do you take it to mean?” she asked.

“I have no idea. I mean, I know what it’s supposed to mean in a general sense. ‘Don’t follow my example or actions, only my words.’ ”

“Yeah, it’s a way for people to do what they want and then hold others to a higher standard.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.”

“Every woman I know can speak from experience on that one.”

Sullivan coughed into his hand. “Right, I get that. Especially in police work.”

“In any work, where there are lots of guys around. When did you find it?”

“Just recently. The team spent most of its time with the body and crime scene, but they finally made their way down here and found this.”

“And you think it ties the killer to Langhorne somehow? Presuming they were the ones to write it.”

“My people examined it and told me it hasn’t been here any longer than the body.”

“Okay,” Gibson said. She was wondering whether the killer had written it, or Clarisse, her new phone friend. Or whether they were one and the same, because she had no reason, right now, to believe otherwise. “If it does tie into Langhorne somehow, we might be able to track it down. But the nexus is pretty vague.”

“But not to whoever wrote it,” Sullivan pointed out.

“No, to them it’s crystal clear. Can I see the flashlight?”

He handed it over and Gibson shone the light over each letter, going slowly and studying the marks thoroughly. They were done in block lettering, which made it harder, but since there were three words repeated, it also made it easier.

“I think it was written by two different people,” she concluded, handing him back the flashlight.

He stepped forward and shone the light over the letters. “Really? I’m no handwriting expert, but those who are usually examine cursive writing, not block letters.”

“True, but handwriting is handwriting. Take the three words I, do, and as. They obviously appear in the first and second half of the message. Take a look at how the d is formed in both, and look at how the a and s are done. Different arcs and upward and downward strokes, varied stopping points. The flourish on the first d is not seen in the second d. The first s is smooth, the second one choppy, as though the person wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Even the I’s are different. The height is dissimilar and the top caps are not close. The penmanship is totally different.”

“How do you know so much about handwriting analysis?”

“Like I said, I started out as a forensics tech. And with my job now I review thousands of documents online and compare signatures and other handwriting all the time. But I would suggest you get your experts out here to do their own exam. My opinion wouldn’t count for squat in court.”

“But it does with me.”

She gave him a look. “So does that mean I’m off the suspect list?”

“I think we can safely say that.”

Gibson scrutinized the space where Langhorne’s body had been as they passed by it.

Had Clarisse killed the man? If so, why involve her? Because she was afraid? She didn’t sound afraid. Because she wanted something? Yes, that was the far more likely answer.

Langhorne had probably stolen a ton of money from the mob. Gibson wasn’t really speculating on that. For how else could he have bought this place? Did that represent all of the money he’d taken? If not, where was the rest? But if Clarisse had done the deed, had she also written the phrase on the wall? And taken the pains to make it seem like two people had done it? She seemed like just the sort of person who would sweat those kinds of details. But what would have been the point of that deception? Or maybe she was working with another person.

Out in the daylight, Sullivan turned to her. “Thanks for coming out and thanks for the ‘expert’ analysis back there.”

“You’re welcome. And thanks for taking me off the suspect list. I’ll make those calls and get back to you.”

She paused and that made Sullivan hike his eyebrows and say, “Yes?”

“So how did a mob accountant end up here under an assumed name?”

“We’re looking into it.”

“Did he have a family?”

“Yes, wife and two kids.”

Part of Gibson felt badly for doing this dog-and-pony show with Sullivan, asking him questions she already knew the answers to. But the other part of her, the professional part, knew it was necessary.

“Any idea where they are now?”

“None,” he said.

“You would think a mob accountant, after turning on his employer, would be put into Witness Protection.”

“I was thinking the same thing. In fact, I have a meeting with a representative of the US Marshals Service in Norfolk this afternoon. Want to tag along?”

Gibson was surprised by this offer and her expression showed it. “I would love to tag along.”

“We have time to grab something to eat, if you want.”

“In for a dime, Detective Sullivan.”

“Just make it Will, Mickey.”

“I’ll follow you over.”

They got into their vehicles and drove off. As they passed the mailbox, Gibson shuddered with her guilty knowledge of having dusted the metal and come away with Langhorne’s true identity right under the nose of her new bestie, Will Sullivan.