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“First of all, like you intimated before, Daniel Pottinger was not his real name.”
She managed, she hoped, to look suitably surprised. “But you said people around here knew him.”
“He hadn’t owned the place for all that long, and he wasn’t here full-time. In fact, he was almost never here. So local people never got to know him.”
“So who is he really, then?”
“Fellow named Harry Langhorne.” He studied her in the dim illumination provided by a pair of battery-powered police work lights set on tripods. “Ring a bell?”
She pretended to think on this. “Not really. Should I know the name?”
“I only asked because he was from your neck of the woods, but a totally different generation.”
“He was from Jersey City?”
“No, sorry. In the south we just tend to lump all of New Jersey into one place. He was from Trenton.”
“What do you know about him?”
“He was an accountant for the mob decades ago. Apparently he turned state’s evidence on them, and brought down some mafia families.”
“So you think they finally caught up to him? All this time later?”
“I don’t know. I don’t have much experience with the mob.”
She smiled. “And since I’m from Jersey, I do? Is that why I’m here?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that. But I suspected he was mob related even before we had identified him.”
“Why?” asked Gibson.
In answer Sullivan held up his hand, palm facing her. “He had a burn mark here on his right hand.”
“How’d he get it?” she asked.
“As an initiation the mob would prick the person’s finger, smear the blood on a picture of a saint, and set the picture on fire, and the initiate would have to hold the burning picture while repeating the oath of loyalty to the mob.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. And if you break the oath, you burn like the saint did. I didn’t know that beforehand. I had to research it after I was shown the mark.”
Gibson decided to take control of this opportunity. “Look, I’ve got contacts back in Jersey. I’ll talk to them and maybe they can put us in touch with somebody who knows something.”
“‘Us’?” said Sullivan.
“Look, you called me. I’m just trying to help. But if I’m going to call in some markers to help you, I feel an obligation to at least be in the loop on this sucker. I do have a reputation to maintain.”
He studied her for an uncomfortably long time. For some reason her gaze dipped to his ring finger, and she saw that it was naked of gold, silver, or platinum.
“Well?” she finally said.
“Deal.”
“Do we shake on it? I don’t want to do the burning-picture thing,” said Gibson.
They did so and she said, “So how did he die?”
“Why do I think I just got suckered?”
