Simply Lies

Chapter 42

Clarisse walked for two miles. If they were going to follow her, she was going to make them work for it. She entered a store from the front and went out through the rear, after a pit stop in the ladies’ room where she had previously left a bag underneath the bottom of the trash bag with some fresh clothes and other disguise elements, and her phone.

When she came out she was transformed, blond to brunette, skirt and jacket to torn jeans and a sweater, heels to flats, glasses, makeup and lipstick shorn from her face. She could pass for a fresh-faced teenager with AirPods in her ears and a vape in her hand.

She grabbed an Uber and took it to within two blocks of her hotel. She went to her room, sat at her desk, and opened her notebook.

Then her phone dinged as the email dropped in.

You haven’t matured a bit, it seems. Same old snark. If no leverage on Mommy then I guess she becomes superfluous. What a word. Didn’t expect me to conjure that one, did you, darling? A bullet to the head, or a ligature display? Poison down the pipe. It won’t take much. Huff and puff and blow the old bitch down would do it actually. What shitty care you took of her. Way I see it, I found HL. That was the big part. Your part, finish the job. Then we divvy. And don’t take your time. I’m tired of mops and little diamonds where the fence screws you over after you do all the planning and take all the risk. A faraway beach beckons. I want to get there. But I want to get there in unassailable style. Wow, another SAT word. But I see you’ve been keeping busy too. Poor Mr. Schmuck. How much did you take him for in the offices of Creative Engineering? Saw him giving your ass a rubdown. Hope you enjoyed it. You always were poor at relationships. Have you even had sex yet, whirly-girl? I mean, not against your will of course. Not sure you’re capable, but I could be wrong. Let me know on Mommy. She eats a lot and she snores and her gas, well, it’s a problem. Tick, tock, tick.

Cheers, hon.

Her bluff on Mommy had been called, it seems. So what to do, what to do? She consulted the appropriate notebook, even as her mind lingered on the “had she had sex” part. That had been a low blow, and she knew the bitch had meant every word of it.

I could say the exact same about you, babycakes. Isn’t that what they called you? Young and just meant to be eaten up, with no other purpose in life?

But no reason to antagonize, not yet anyway. And she had not even mentioned her comments on Oxblood’s murder. She would give it a bit. No need to rush a reply. She had obviously taken her time in answering.

Plus, I have other things to do.

She turned to another notebook and flipped through some pages, making notes and crossing out other ones.

What would I do without these? They allow me to make sense of my world. To put things in precise, logical steps to achieve a precise, logical outcome.

And they also prevent me from losing my damn mind.

Clarisse had told herself she was not going to do what she was just about to do. But things had changed. And when things changed, your plans must as well.

She looked at her computer screen and hit the key. A few seconds later Mickey Gibson answered.

“I wasn’t sure you would pick up,” said Clarisse.

“I almost didn’t.”

“Things weren’t left well, I know. But I have information pertinent to you.”

“Okay.”

“Just like that? No rehashing of what went down before?”

“Do either of us have time to play it that way?” asked Gibson.

Okay, unload H-bomb and see what happens. “Nathan Trask knows you visited his father.”

She thought she could hear Gibson’s breathing accelerate, but only slightly. The woman really did have stainless steel balls, Clarisse had to give her that.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me personally.”

“You mean you got in to see him? How?” asked Gibson.

“The only way I could. I had information that was relevant to him.”

“Relevant information such as?”

“Treasure,” replied Clarisse.

“You’ll need to flesh that out.”

“Harry Langhorne left a lot of mob money behind. We’ve gone over this.”

“So why does Trask care about that? Was he involved with Langhorne in that laundry list of crimes you told me about before?”

“Maybe not all of them, but enough. He also told me he built his fortress in Virginia Beach because Langhorne — or Pottinger, to him — was nearby.”

“And you believed that?” said Gibson.

“Doesn’t matter. His father is nearby, too. That could be the real reason, or it could be both. The point is, he was connected to Pottinger at some point and in some way.”

“So he doesn’t know who Pottinger really was?”

“I didn’t tell him, but I did reveal that he had taken a great deal of mob money from decades ago. Some of it he used to buy Stormfield. But the rest? It has to be somewhere. And I think that Pottinger ripped off Trask as well, at least he strongly intimated that was the case. So the treasure might even be larger than we think.”

Gibson said, “If Pottinger had ripped off Trask, how come Trask didn’t take care of him? He was right next door and had been for years. The man should have been dead a long time ago.”

“I asked him that.”

“And his response?”

“Something to the tune of just because he owned the place didn’t mean he actually lived there.”

“Well, he was killed there. Did Trask do that?” asked Gibson.

“We covered this before, too. The poison, the strange message left. Not his MO. And do you think he’d confess the deed to me?”

“Did Trask have any idea how much money he got ripped off for? Or how?”

“I’m sure he does, to the penny. And again, he didn’t exactly admit to being ripped off at all. But it was meaningful enough for him to agree to see me. And it’s not just money with those guys. It’s reputation. If they can get taken, it’s a sign of weakness. In that business, you don’t want the other sharks to see your blood in the water.”

“Trust me, I know that,” said Gibson.

“Did you find any clues to a treasure at Stormfield?” she asked.

“I found a note, in the man’s boat. It basically acknowledged that he was aware people would be looking for something, and suggested they try harder.”

Okay, her giving that up without a fight does surprise me. “Do the police know about this note?”

“They do,” replied Gibson.

“And?”

“And I don’t think their priority is finding money. It’s finding a killer.”

“Perhaps to find the killer, you have to locate the treasure,” noted Clarisse.

“I can’t tell them how to do their job.”

“But you can suggest things,” said Clarisse.

“Maybe. But if the police find the killer and the treasure, where does that leave you?” asked Gibson.

“It will make me stop looking over my shoulder.”

“Bullshit, you want the money. I doubt you’re worried about your personal security.”

I wasn’t until Mommy went missing. “We can agree to disagree on that. So what will you do next?”

“I’ve got some leads. I’ll run them down.”

“Will you be working with Wilson Sullivan on this?” asked Clarisse.

“I won’t bother to ask how you know about all that, but yes, I will, at least on some of it. And what will you be doing?”

“Don’t worry, my plate is full.”

“Did Nathan Trask know who I was?” Gibson wanted to know.

“Not that he said, just that you visited. But he could easily find out your identity.”

“He must keep eyes on his father.”

“Of course,” said Clarisse.

“So you did walk me right into a trap.”

“Look, Mickey, I want you to survive this.” Actually, I don’t care, thought Clarisse. You had your shot, Mickey Rogers Gibson. You had everything, and you pissed it all away.

Gibson barked, “You don’t care about me, which is why you let me put a bull’s-eye on my back with Trask.”

“In case you forgot, I went to visit the man directly. He knows about me, too. I didn’t use my real name, but with his resources, he could find me as well.”

“I don’t know for sure that you did visit him.”

“He has a female butler. Two guards at the front gate who wanded me. They took me up to the main house in a golf cart trimmed in gold. The place is enormous but not furnished over-the-top. He met me in a small room with a couple of chairs. He’s around five eight, fit build, early fifties, and has the darkest pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. I can hold my own with most people in pretty much any situation, but I have to confess, he intimidated me by saying almost nothing.”

“I’ll be in touch,” said Gibson. The line disconnected.

Clarisse looked down at her MICKEY GIBSON notebook. But she had nothing right now she wanted to write in it.

She stared at the muted reflection in her computer screen. There might be two or three people in that reflection, she thought. Depending on the day and the need. And whatever else was swirling around inside her head.

She wanted to punish Gibson for not living up to her potential. Why Clarisse should care about that was complicated. But, essentially, it came down to the haves and the have-nots. Gibson had had it all. Clarisse had had nothing. When you have it all, it was your duty to capitalize on it. Otherwise, you were disrespecting everyone. Including people like Clarisse.

Nothing like a little pressure, Mick, she conceded, if only to herself. Some days she wondered why she was so obsessed with the woman. But she had an obsessive personality; every shrink she’d ever been to, and they had been legion, had diagnosed that about her. She could have saved them the time and herself the money because she had already self-diagnosed. It hadn’t been hard.

In her more rational moments she had seen that Gibson owed her life’s choices to no one other than herself. And she couldn’t have foreseen marrying a louse and having two kids to raise on her own. And she was making the best of it that she could.

But another side of Clarisse refused to yield any ground on the subject.

I am giving her the chance to do something extraordinary. All she has to do is succeed and then survive. And maybe a part of me, deep down, actually wants her to.