Simply Lies

Chapter 62

Gibson stared at her front door and then her gaze shifted to the upstairs where her kids were sleeping. Part of her couldn’t believe she was inviting a stranger — no, not exactly a stranger, but perhaps a psychopath — into her home in the middle of the night. The only thing standing between this visitor and her kids?

Me. Should I call the police and have them waiting to arrest her? But for what, exactly?

And Gibson figured the woman would be savvy enough to thoroughly check out the neighborhood for signs of police before exposing herself.

She fingered her pistol in her waistband. Whatever happened tonight, she was not going down without a fight. Hell, she was not going down at all.

Gibson went to the window and peered out. She had turned no light on in the house, so her presence at the window would not be visible to anyone on the street watching her place. She flinched when the figure came into sight. She was walking. Gibson looked up and down the street and saw no strange car parked at the curb. And she had not heard a car, either.

She watched her all the way up the drive. Tall, thin, her gaze pointed down, hands stuffed in pockets.

Gibson was waiting at the door when the person tapped lightly. She opened it and, finally, the two women came face-to-face after knowing each other only as voices.

Gibson looked her up and down, while Clarisse did the same right back.

The latter’s hair was blond and cut short. Her cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the walk in the rainy, chilly air. Gibson looked her over for weapons. She would prefer doing a strip search after going through the women’s bag, but opted to keep her hand on the butt of her gun instead as she stepped back and motioned her visitor in.

Clarisse noted the gun but said nothing.

Gibson closed the door behind them and locked it. Keeping her gaze on the woman, she pointed toward the kitchen. “Let’s keep it down. My kids are asleep.”

“Of course,” Clarisse said.

They sat in the kitchen after Gibson had poured out the fresh coffees. Both women took it black.

Clarisse took a few sips and then stared down into the depths of her drink while Gibson studied her.

“You look familiar to me for some reason,” she said. “Did we meet somewhere, sometime?”

“Do you want to talk about the past, or the present and then our futures?”

Gibson sat back and stared at her. “You called this meeting.”

“What do you know about Wilson Sullivan?”

“I know he’s a detective with the Virginia State Police.”

“Is that all?” said Clarisse.

“Do I need to know more?”

“Knowing less is never a good thing. Is he aware of the treasure?”

“I did talk to him about that, yes. He didn’t seem all that interested.”

“I think he’s very interested. I believe that’s why he was at Stormfield tonight, looking for it. Why else would he have been there?”

“When I was a detective, I worked crazy hours. I would get a theory and want to test it.”

“What theory needed testing at Stormfield? Daniel Pottinger was Harry Langhorne. Shortly before his death he was visited by a man while a woman waited outside in the car. Sullivan knew this but didn’t tell you. Langhorne was poisoned and found in a secret room with a strange phrase on the wall written, you think, by two people.”

“Would that be the man and the woman who had visited Stormfield? You know who they are, don’t you?”

“I have my theories.”

“And who are you really?” asked Gibson.

“Do you have a theory?”

“Two, actually. Either Francine Langhorne, or someone with the initials—”

“—RE. Yes, I know. You mentioned that before. What I really need for you to do is find out more about Sullivan.”

“I can check into some things. But you could have asked me over the phone. Why come here and show yourself to me?”

“I don’t show myself to anyone. Tomorrow I will look nothing like this.”

“How about Doug Langhorne? Any idea where he might be?”

“He might be the man who visited Harry Langhorne right before he died.”

“And the woman in the car might be Francine Langhorne? So are you saying that leaves you out of the running to be her?”

“Think what you want.”

“I have little kids to take care of.”

“I know that.”

“Do you have someone to take care of, like maybe a parent?”

To her credit Clarisse showed no reaction to this question.

“What makes you say that?”

“Just something you mentioned in passing.”

“I must be more careful in choosing my words with you, then.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Everybody has problems.”

“You had to take a call when we were talking one time. I think you believed you had disconnected our call but you hadn’t. I noted the tone of your voice. It was like mine when I got a call that my dad had been taken to the hospital with chest pains. Trying not to panic, but barely keeping it together.”

“You love your parents, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that’s where you and I differ.”

Gibson said, “All right, so all you want out of this is the treasure? Is that it? Just money.”

“Sometimes money is more than money,” replied Clarisse.

“What then?”

“Debts must be paid, Mickey. Otherwise there are consequences.”

“You were rattled tonight. By Sullivan. That’s why you’re here.”

“I have found that in life strategic alliances are the only way to achieve certain goals. You are one of those alliances.”

“An involuntary one.”

“Break this case and you can name your own ticket. Unless you want to spend the rest of your life hiding behind a computer.”

“Isn’t that what you do?”

“Obviously not, or else I would not have been at Stormfield tonight where I indeed did find a clue.”

Gibson looked intrigued. “Where and what was it?”

“In the old wine cellar. It was behind the label of an old bottle. Get it, message outside a bottle? It said that we’re in the twenty-first century now, so act like it. And then it called the finder an idiot.”

“Do you have any idea what that means?”

“It means the treasure is not buried somewhere for us to dig it up. Apparently we have to look at more modern devices.”

“Any thoughts on that?”

“I will have them. Perhaps you, too?”

“Perhaps.”

Clarisse glanced upward. “How are your children?”

Gibson’s lips set firmly. “Sleeping. Peacefully. I want to keep it that way.”

“Children are precious.”

Gibson studied her. “I think you really mean that.”

Clarisse sipped her coffee. “I lie. A lot. But not about that.”

“I think that even if you do find this treasure, it will not be enough to pay off the debt that you’re owed.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I read a story in a newspaper about Harry Langhorne. How he liked to play with little girls in the most disgusting, repulsive ways.” She paused and eyed the woman. “Were you one of his victims?”

Clarisse rose. “I think that I chose wisely, Mickey. You have been everything I could have hoped for. And more. But don’t try to predict either my motives or my future. As good as you are, no one is that good. And you will check on Sullivan?”

“I will make discreet inquiries.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you want to stay here? Are you safe?”

These queries, earnestly given, seemed to stagger Clarisse for a moment. “Let your children sleep. Peacefully, tonight and every night. And me staying here would not be a good thing, for you or them. But thank you for the offer. And thank you for the coffee.”

“Why did you bring me into all this? Really?”

“You had everything, Mickey. Everything. And you pissed it away. So maybe I just wanted to teach you a lesson. And maybe teach myself one at the same time.”

Gibson’s expression hardened. “What the hell are you talking about? Pissed what away? You don’t even know me.”

“I know you better than you think. Maybe better than I know myself.”

She turned and walked out.

Gibson locked the door behind her and then put her back to it.

What the hell had that parting shot been about?

She had finally met the woman who had dominated her thoughts of late and not in a good way.

So did I just meet Francine Langhorne, or RE? Or a third party I haven’t heard of yet?

And I had everything, but pissed it away?

Gibson went back to bed but didn’t sleep a wink.