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“Vanished, or so the file says. He owes so much his creditors are trying to grab everything they can. This mansion is one of them. That’s why they want you to go there. The firm wants to make amends for what happened last time.”
“You said near Smithfield? Can you be more specific?”
She heard some key clicks. “It’s between a place called Mogarts Beach and Rushmere on something known as Burwell Bay.” Robinson gave her the street address.
“Okay, that gives me some context. The short route includes a ferry, so that would take me about an hour or so and that’s if I hit the boat schedule dead-on. The long route will have me drive south through Newport News, cross the James River Bridge, head to Smithfield, and then it’s about eight miles above that, like making a horseshoe. All told that’s about an hour, too, depending on traffic, so that’s the way I’ll go.”
“See? It pays to have someone who knows the local geography.”
“I’m surprised no one has been there before now.”
“Well, we didn’t know about the property until an hour ago, which is why Zeb didn’t mention it to you earlier. The title was in the name of a shell company. We just punched through that wall. Our clients have documented liens on all of the man’s assets and have filed blanket legal papers allowing access to all his properties. We’re hoping Novak left so fast he couldn’t clean the place out, because our intel is that he loved the finest things in life and that place might be full of them. Paintings, furniture, sculptures—hell, the creditors will take Oriental rugs, silverware, the contents of a wine cellar or a library, whatever. Regardless, they’ll be lucky to get a nickel on the dollar.”
“Yes they will. Okay, I’ll head out as fast as I can.”
“And the kids?” asked Robinson.
“My next call will be to my parents. They’re local.”
“Thank God for local parents. Mine live on the West Coast. And I think that’s by design.”
CHAPTER4
THE BLACK PANTSUIT WAS SNUGaround the hips and tight around the waist with her stomach pooch drooping over it, although the white blouse hung well on her frame. But Gibson was pissed because while the blouse was hers, she’d had to borrow the pantsuit from Dorothy Rogers, hermother.
You did birth two kids. You don’t snap right back from that. Well, it has been two years since Darby was born, so you’re well past snapping-back stage.
Now she regretted the oatmeal almond cookie.
And she had seen the look her mother had given her when she’d come down the stairs in her clothes. No words, just that look—no, thatsmirk. But then her mother did remark, “I just bought that outfit at TJ Maxx. But then I have been working out a lot moreandwatching my diet. It’s very important as one gets older, although none of us is getting any younger, right, honey? But for now just button the jacket and no one will notice how tight it is on you. Baby belly can be a real bitch. Took me thirty years to get rid of mine. Many women never do.”
That was about as subtle as her mother ever got. Maybe any mother ever got with her daughter.
Gibson steered her mommy van south down Interstate 64 East, and then worked her way through surface roads to US 17 that sling-shotted her across the burly James River. Next, she turned north, passing through what had once been the hog-slaughtering capital of the world at Smithfield. Her nav system showed it was another seven miles to the remnants of Rutger Novak’s shattered empire. The whole journey would be less than fifty miles, but that was a long way in the tightly constricted parameters of this part of coastal Virginia. It was filled with military footprints, underwater tunnels, bridges, the ocean with wide sandy beaches, and the delicate lines of inland waterways that either crept along the earth like capillaries under the skin or gushed across it like fat arteries.
Gibson had thought about calling Zeb Brown back, but she knew he would be preoccupied with the case she had discussed with him this morning. And she was excited about getting out of the house.
She followed the directions until she turned down a long narrow road that was bracketed on both sides by mature trees that were just starting to bud out in early spring. Gibson reached down and touched the holster riding on her belt. In it was a Beretta eight-shot Nano, which was comparable in size and weight to the Glock 26 she had carried on the police force, and chambered the same ordnance. Its slightly smaller footprint fit her hand well. And the nine-millimeter Luger bullet that blew out of its barrel would stop pretty much whatever it hit.
She had not let her mother see her unlock the combo safe located at the top of her bedroom closet or put the gun in her belt clip. Her mom had never wanted her daughter to be a cop. One in the family was enough, she had often said. However, Gibson had wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps. As the oldest child, with two brothers coming in behind her, she had held her uniformed father in awe. But, initially, bowing to the will of her mother, Gibson had joined the force as a forensics tech. That had mollified her mom, since Gibson would show up at the crime scene onlyafterall the danger had passed.
When she secretly took and passed the written and physical exams to enter the police academy, her mother had thrown a fit. It wasn’t until her father, Rick Rogers, stepped in that she was allowed to pursue her dream. Her old man was proud of her, Gibson knew, though he rarely showed it. Public displays of affection were not in the DNA of the Rogers family. Gibson could count on one hand the number of times her mother had hugged or kissed her. And she could count those times ononefinger with her father—that was the day of her graduation from the police academy.
He hadn’t done it at her wedding, for reasons he had made clear to his daughter prior to Gibson’s walking down the aisle.
She turned off the road she was on and started down another. The property was just up ahead on the right.
And maybe I’ll find some British ghosts living in the old mansion.
She slowed as she saw the stone monuments on either side of a driveway. The plaque on one of the monuments read:STORMFIELD.
Arlene Robinson hadn’t told her the name of the place, not that it mattered.
There was a wrought iron gate but it hung open. Farther down and partially concealed by some overgrown bushes stood a mailbox. She drove up the cobblestone lane and swung around a bend in the road. Revealed was a sprawling old manor housethat looked as though it hadn’t changed a jot since it had been built. Rutger Novak’s renovation must have all been on the interior.
She could only describe the architecture as an unruly blend of baronial, feudal, and gothic with a bit of Versailles thrown in for no apparent reason. It sat in front of her, stained and discolored after a long residence next to the unforgiving elements of an estuary reeking of equal parts saltwater and freshwater.
She parked in front and got out. The only sound was the breeze and the occasional bird opening its beak in anticipation of the dawning springtime. The tree canopies were still relatively bare, and the gloomy sky did not provide much light in the afternoon. She figured when it turned dark it would be difficult to see anything. And then she decided to hurry because it had just occurred to her that the place might not have electricity.
