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“Really, why is that, I wonder?”
“I Googled him. And really found nothing. Like he didn’t exist until recently. Now, he might be a recluse, but a rich guy like that? There has to be some online footprint. Even Wikipedia. But there was nothing.”
“We shouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“I totally understand.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“If I were still a cop I’d probably do the same thing.”
“Probably?”
“My father was a beat cop his whole career. But he did some investigating, too. It’s not like they have detectives for every little thing. Anyway, he always taught me that you use whatever resources and assets you have at hand to solve a case.”
“He did, did he?”
“He did.”
“And you consider yourself such an asset and/or resource?” said Sullivan.
“I do, actually. And I’d be happy to work with you. And if whatever I’m involved in goes sideways or I need some backup, you guys would be there.”
Please, please, please.
“If things go sideways call 911.”
“Look, I see no reason why we can’t share resources. We might solve this thing faster.”
“I have plenty of resources at my disposal.”
“And if you ever need more, I’m here,” she said.
“Right, thanks.”
He clicked off and she put the phone down. Her heart was beating fast and she wasn’t quite sure why.
Yes you are. You tried to guilt-shame a cop into having your back. Your father would shit a brick. Especially considering that you’re technically still a suspect in Pottinger’s murder. But it was worth a shot to possibly get some coverage for yourself and the kids. Now what do you do? Sit here as an open target waiting for the ax to fall? Or do something? Anything.
That, she knew, was a choice in theory only.
Even though she had already done a search she went online and put in the name Daniel Pottinger once more. But now her search was taking her to the dark web, as it often did with her work for ProEye; some debtors she chased were also criminals. And even the legit ones often used shady devices to hide their money.You sleep with scum, if only digitally, to find other scum.
She dialed up some sites she had used before, trying to dig up dirt on Daniel Pottinger the tusk-trafficking, drug-dealing, biomedical-horse-trading, Sudan-terrorist-money-laundering douchebag.
Nothing.
Okay, that’ll take some more time and will have to wait. Let’s try some low-hanging fruit.
She Googled Harry Langhorne. A great many articles from decades ago came up on her screen. She read through them, but they didn’t tell her much more than her father already had. She did gaze at a grainy photo of Langhorne from the late 1980s. He had a thin face, high cheekbones, long, wavy hair, and glasses that made his eyes frog-like. She was pretty certain it was the same man she had found at Stormfield, even with all the intervening years and the fact that Langhorne’s face had been decomposing for a while. She didn’t like his look in the picture. She had liked it even less in death.
She finally found an article that talked about Langhorne’s family. Langhorne had married Geraldine Mercer when he was in his thirties. A few years later they had a son named Douglas Langhorne, and a year later a daughter, Francine. She found pictures of all of them. Geraldine was a lovely woman who looked like the unhappiest person in the world. Douglas was around eight in the photo. He seemed big for his age, a hulking towhead, and not overly bright looking. Gibson scolded herself for being so judgmental. Sometimes Tommy didn’t look so smart, either. And at age three the child would be expected to wipe himself better than he apparently could.
But I digress.
Francine looked intense and guarded even as a little girl. In her wide eyes Gibson thought she could see depths of complex thoughts competing for attention. Way too much going on for someone that young.
She wrote this information down and then searched for more on the family.
