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“Not just yet.”
“Do you know where Langhorne’s widow and children are?” Gibson asked.
“No.”
“I was thinking they were in WITSEC,” noted Gibson.
“Maybe.”
“Do you think they know he was here? And that he’s dead?”
“I have no way of knowing.”
“You still going by Clarisse today, or do you have another name?”
“Clarisse it will stay. It’ll avoid unnecessary confusion.”
“Have you always been this weird?” said Gibson, perhaps more frankly than she intended.
“No, I’m much better. Years of therapy has worked wonders.”
Maybe another clue. And what was the other one, dammit?
“Okay,Clarisse, what if we were to continue on this case together?”
“It would be my preference. You were my first choice, after all.”
“Why do you need to know who killed Langhorne?”
“Because they will be coming after me next, I’m sure of that.”
“Because of who Harry Langhorne was, or because of your business with his alter ego, Pottinger?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters, because depending on the answer, the investigation will take me in very different directions. But according to you, your business with Pottinger was entirely legitimate. So how would his criminal partners even know about you?”
“Dan never compartmentalized very well. At least when I knew him. He would slip. He did so to me, so I’m sure he did so to othersaboutme.”
“And what were some of the slips that he made to you?” asked Gibson.
“I’ve discussed some of them. That’s what made me suspicious of him and his past. I did some digging and found more.”
“You said he contacted you and wanted you to meet him at Stormfield. Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
Tommy fell down and hit his knee and started to cry. Gibson went over to him and, cradling the phone against her ear, checked the spot and soothed his tears.
“Sounds like someone’s not happy,” commented Clarisse.
“He’s fine, just a skinned knee.” She took some sanitizer, ointment, and a Band-Aid out of her fanny pack and proceeded to doctor her son’s injury.
“You ever regret having kids?”
Gibson tensed. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know.”
