Simply Lies

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.

She was led down a long plushly decorated hall, from which rooms of considerable size and luxury branched off like ribs from a spine. They came to a set of tall double doors. The butler knocked, was told to enter, and held the door open for her.

Clarisse stepped through and listened to the other woman’s footsteps marching away.

The room was small and minimally furnished.

There were only two upholstered chairs with long, straight backs.

A man was sitting in one of them. He lifted a hand and pointed her to the other one.

She came forward and sat down, adjusting her glasses and taking him in.

Nathan Trask was smaller than she would have expected, since he loomed so large in life in all other ways. In her bare feet, they were about the same height, she calculated. He was fifty-one, she knew, from her research. His build was stocky but strong. His suit was tailored, but he wore it with indifference. The ring on his finger was probably worth more than the first payment she’d gotten from Senator Wright. Yet it was the only item of excess on him. His shoes were ordinary, his tie and shirt the same.

He looked back at her with unblinking eyes the color of asphalt.

Okay, that was a bit unnerving, she had to admit.

He lifted a hand. “Drink?” he asked in a raspy voice that might speak to a cold coming or going.

“No, thank you.”

He nodded and let his hand fall to his lap. He never took his eyes off her. She had been told by some in the know that this would be the case. It was as though he was imprinting every bit of her onto his memory. Never a good thing with a sociopath.

And don’t I know that?

“You asked to meet?” he prompted her. “You said you had some information that might be useful to me?”

She nodded. “I do.”

“Normally, I would have ignored the request, and you wouldn’t be sitting there. I had you checked out, of course, Ms. Peters. But it’s all bullshit. Of course. Made up. But your background cover is good. My people couldn’t punch through it and they usually can. So kudos to you. And that intrigued me enough to allow you in the door. Otherwise, it never would have happened. And I like new things, keeps me young. So impress me. Or not.”

“Why let me in if you can’t confirm who I am? I could be a threat.”

“There are six guns pointed at you right now from inconspicuous holes in the walls. You can’t see them, nor can I. But they’re still there. You’ll never feel a thing. At least they tell me that. I have no personal experience, you understand. But maybe you don’t believe me.”

On cue, she heard, one after the other, six gun slides being racked.

“Impressive,” she said demurely.

“Flashy, actually, and I’m more into substance.” He cleared his throat. “So, the information?”

“Daniel Pottinger?”

“Yes?”

“He’s dead,” said Clarisse.

“I’m aware of that.”

“You did business with him.”

“Did I?” asked Trask.

She sat back and allowed herself to get comfortable, fall fully into the role she was playing. You had to believe your own bullshit. But it wasn’t all bullshit. The important stuff was true. “For purposes of this discussion, let’s assume you did. Of course I have no way of holding you to that.”

He inclined his head a notch in a show of agreeing to these terms, for now.

“He was murdered with arguably the world’s deadliest poison. But he was already dying from brain cancer.”

“And how do you know this? Are you working with the police?”

“If I were working with the police, I would have to identify myself to you as such. And I don’t think you would have agreed to meet me.”

“Undercover?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have the stomach for it. And the pay is far too low to support my lifestyle.” Clarisse thought she saw the trace of a smile play across his lips.

Had he been thinking about his FBI father just now?

“I found out from someone who is working with the police.”

“And why would they tell you?”

“I can be very persuasive.”

“I’m listening.”

“A mysterious message was also left near the body. And a note was hidden in Pottinger’s boat that might be meaningful to you.” She had not told Gibson that she had previously found the note on the boat fender. But she didn’t know that Gibson had also found it, although Clarisse expected her to at some point.

“And what did the note say?”

“Basically, to try harder if you wanted to find the real treasure.”

“So this is a treasure hunt then?” said Trask.

“Apparently so.”

The black eyes drilled into her with a calmness that was disconcerting. “But whose treasure?”

Curious question. Let me throw something else out as bait and see if the pole bends.

“Pottinger was not his real name. He stole a lot of mob money from decades ago. And he did deals as Pottinger that made him even more money in various ways.”

She stopped talking and studied him with her green contact lens eyes. She wondered if they were as intimidating as his dark ones. Somehow, she doubted it. Which was good.

Underestimate me at your peril.

“He did make a lot of money. Off certain people who would like it back.”

“Can you tell me how?”

“Why would I?” said Trask.

“I came here to see if I could help bring this thing to a conclusion. A mutually beneficial conclusion.”

“Why do I need you to do that?”

Okay, that was a bit predictable, she thought. But then, don’t underestimate him, either.

“Maybe you don’t. You have lots of resources. You might be close to finding the money already. If so, I’ll just go. No harm done.”

She started to rise until he lifted a hand, which seemed to have the power to force her to sit back down.

“He paid five million for Stormfield. Did you know he was living there?”

He gave another slight incline of the head.

“That money will be going to the government. The funds used to purchase the estate are mob connected, at least the government will see it that way. But if you knew he was nearby, why didn’t you—”

“Why do you think I came here and built this place, Ms. Peters?”

“Enemies closer. Was it worth it for the geographical proximity?”

“Not just him.”

She nodded slowly. “Your father is also nearby.”

“As to Pottinger, he also made certain people a lot of money. He had talents for both making it and then hiding it from the government. It created in him a certain value, at least to some people.”

“So he was a good partner to these ‘people’?”

“Apparently so. Until he turned into a bad one.”

“But again, if that happened and he was right here...?”

“Just because someone has a home doesn’t mean they’re in it. As a matter of fact, he was hardly ever there. I took pains to know that. And so we had really no opportunities to... chat about matters. But after his mob racket, I suppose he got in the habit of biting the hand that fed him.”

“Well, he finally came back here. If only to die.”

“Ideas on that?” asked Trask.

“Several. But we need to conclude some business first.”

He spread his hands. “I’m listening.”

“In the way of a finder’s fee.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen percent.”

“Five.”

“Twelve and a half?”

“Five.”

“Ten?”

“Five. It’s a big number. You won’t know how to spend it all. Or maybe live long enough to.”

“You had me right up until that point. It sort of dilutes the incentive.”

“Then let me fire it back up. If you can pull this off, I have no reason to wish you ill will. Your ideas?”

“I have several.” She sat forward. She did not mind getting lowballed on the finder’s fee for one simple fact.

Clarisse never intended to collect it.

About a half hour later, Trask walked her out. At the front door he said, “Someone visited my father recently. A woman. Know anything about that?”

“I may. But I need to be sure. She could be friend or foe.”

“I don’t need friends and I don’t like foes.”

“Then it may not matter.”

“It always matters. But just so we understand each other really well, you fall into the same category, business associate or not.”

“I never expected anything less, or more.”

“You’re a strange one. I can’t quite figure you out, and that’s unusual. I’ve seen just about everything.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, Mr. Trask. I’m a little beyond ‘just about everything.’ ”