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They got into their vehicles and drove off. As they passed the mailbox, Gibson shuddered with her guilty knowledge of having dusted the metal and come away with Langhorne’s true identity right under the nose of her new bestie,WillSullivan.
CHAPTER19
C?LARISSE STUDIED THE NUMBERS ONthe screen.
Five hundred thousand dollars, not a penny more or less, had just landed at its final destination after taking an untraceable digital whirlybird tour of financial accounts and money havens around the world.
She shaved off 30 percent and catapulted that amount into Angie’s pocketbook.
The message that came back from the big bad little senator was full of quite colorful language and threats and other things, none of which he had a chance to actually do, since he would never find either of them.
And in one week’s time she would send another demand to the senator, this time for an even million dollars with a pledge that such would be the last request for compensation. And it would be. She was always fair on that. And Angie would get another three hundred grand. A girl could have fun pretty much anyplace with that level of funding, tax-free as it was.
She glanced at her reflection in the little vanity mirror set next to her twin computers.
She was a blonde once more. She didn’t know why she liked that particular color so much. It seemed to her to represent light and transparency when she was anything but. But maybe that was the explanation for her affinity for light hair. Her physical appearance, on its face, was itself deceiving.
She opened herMICKEY GIBSONnotebook and read over some notes she had jotted down.
Their last conversation had been intriguing. Gibson had wanted to back out and the reason was clear.
She was fearful that something would happen to her and leave her kids in the lurch. Or that working with her could place them in danger.
She could understand that. From anormalperson. Yet children got screwed over every day by their parents and lots of other people. And no one apparently gave a damn unless they were rich or famous or powerful, or all three. That was just her little old opinion, but what did she know.
I only know myself. But I know myself really, really well.
She had deployed the standard “the next murder is coming” warning to entice Gibson to keep going, but she also believed it to be true. She had an idea who had killed Langhorne, perhaps more than an idea. And if she was right, she could use the help. Her job was to remain in the background moving her chess pieces around. And Gibson was her queen on the front lines, or at least she hoped the woman had the potential to become such a powerful tool.
I’ve already filled up multiple notebooks on her. I hope it’s going to be worth it.
Her fingers skimmed over the computer keys as she sent NSA-level encrypted messages, searched for information on people and things she needed to understand better, and, finally, focused on a picture she had brought up on the screen.
“Wilson Sullivan, of the Virginia State Police,” she read off.
He was good-looking in a rugged way that appealed to some women but not her. Steady career in law enforcement. He was not spectacular; he was above average. He might be a Goldilocks “just right” as an unwitting if useful tool for her, working through Gibson, of course.
As a matter of principle, she absolutely refused to work directly with the police. They were not dependable, she had found. And they lied. A lot.
Google Maps showed her that Sullivan lived in a two-story town house with a deck on the back, in a Norfolk suburb that looked like a thousand other such neighborhoods. A million other such homes, a billion other such people.
That could have been me if something called “my life” had not intervened. But then, existence itself is a trade-off.
The cops would now know that Pottinger was Langhorne. From secretive, reclusive rich guy to secretive, on-the-run former mob accountant. But that was not all Harry Langhorne was and had been. He had been a lot more than that, as well she knew.
Men like Harry made women stutter and shudder. And every woman would know exactly what she meant by that.
So would she wait for Gibson to engage, or would she insert herself back into the conversation? To drive this mission forward with speed and urgency? People needed to be pushed. Otherwise, the human tendency was to slow everything down. People hated change. And they hated to make decisions. Her job was to turn those tendencies on their proverbial head.
The surveillance device she had placed on Gibson’s property showed that the babysitter was there, the kids were engaged with her, and Gibson had driven off in her van an hour before. If she had to guess, it was back to Stormfield because her phone log showed a previous call from Wilson Sullivan.
They would discuss the revelation of Daniel Pottinger’s being Harry Langhorne. Perhaps Sullivan would want to use the Jersey girl’s knowledge of Garden State mobsters. If they teamed up, wonderful. But then it would all be about the timing at the end.
Because this would have a definite denouement. And it had to terminate on her terms and to her benefit, and Clarisse would sacrifice anything or anyone to make sure that would be the case. She had worked too hard, filled up too many notebooks, played too many different people to be denied that.
And after this is over? Do I retire to that lovely villa in Aix-en-Provence that I saw in the magazine? Or the hilltop estate in Tuscany that was in that foodie show with the adorable Stanley Tucci? Or the other lovely residence on Costa del Sol that I actually went to? I could see Africa from my villa, although it was really just Morocco. Do I give my fantasy up to be a poor little rich girl in splendid retirement?
Probably not, but so cool to have the choice. Right?
