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“Sullivan’s a cop, too,” Clarisse pointed out.
“And we all have different instincts.”
“I found out something, too.”
“What?” asked Gibson.
“Langhorne had a visitor very close to the time he died. A man. Tall, thin, blond hair, green eyes.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Proprietary source,” replied Clarisse.
“Any idea who this visitor was?”
“That’s for you to find out. Work your ProEye magic. And my source also told me that there was a woman waiting out in a car for the man.”
“What did they want with Langhorne?” asked Gibson.
“My source didn’t know. But when the visitor was leaving he told the person that she should look for another job. My source took that to mean that Langhorne was selling the place to the man. But it also could mean that the man knew Langhorne would not be alive much longer. Which turned out to be spot-on.”
“So your proprietary source was a member of Langhorne’s household staff?”
“I just can’t keep anything from you, can I?” chided Clarisse.
“Okay, I’ll share that with Sullivan.”
“He already knows. He spoke to my source previously and they told him everything I just told you.” She paused and added, “Didn’t he share that with you?”
Clarisse watched the screen to see if Gibson’s stress markers spiked. But she was disappointed because they remained level.
“Thanks for the info,” said Gibson.
“You’re welcome. Be careful out there.”
Clarisse clicked off.
***
Gibson sat back in her chair. The stress levels told her that she had struck gold with the reference to the comic book. And Julia Frazier and Clarisse were almost certainly one and the same. Now that she had a fingerhold, she could perhaps track her down.
She was not unduly put out by Sullivan’s withholding information from her, because she was doing the same to him. And he was official police and she was not. But it raised some interesting questions.
A tall man visiting Pottinger, and a woman in the car.
Doug and Francine Langhorne?
But if so, who the hell is Clarisse?
CHAPTER50
IT WAS THE NEXT DAYand the kids were with Silva downstairs. Gibson had her cup of tea and oatmeal almond cookie. She hurried to her office, ceremoniously cracked her knuckles in front of her computer screens, and got to work.
While Zeb Brown had been the one to suggest that she take time off, she knew this hiatus would have to come to an end at some point, which lent urgency to her mission. And she could not step away from this case until it was solved.
She started hitting keys and typing in web addresses. There were myriad ways to hide money, and just as many ways to look for it. It was a game of cat and mouse played out every second of every day across the world. And it wasn’t just about rich debtors trying to hide their fortunes from creditors, but also law enforcement trying to pierce the walls hiding money that dictators had stolen from their national treasuries, as well as secret organizations funneling dark money into a hot commodity that was now being termed “weaponized capital.”
It was a way for the rich’s assets to be deployed not in buying one more superyacht or luxurious private jet, but in silencing critics, buying off politicians and making sure they won their elections by hook or crook. And destroying legitimate business competition and making an already uneven playing field tilt even more unfairly in their favor.
