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She figured he would be at least six two standing; he was trim and fit looking, despite the need for oxygen. His hair was thin and snow white, his features were chiseled and rugged, his eyes were flint chips, and he had a pugnacious chin. All told, the man seemed to be looking for a confrontation.
“Who are you? And what do you want tochatabout?”
“My name is not that important. But why I’m hereisimportant.”
“Explain.”
She could see how he would have done well at the FBI. He was confident but curious. Direct, but there was a subtlety to it.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Harry Langhorne?”
“Mob accountant. He turned state’s evidence and helped to take down several New York and New Jersey crime families, including the Giordanos. He and his family were put into WITSEC. I lost track of him after that.”
“You worked on the task force that brought the mob down.”
“I was only one of many.”
Humility too, thought Gibson. How was Nathan Trask spawned from this?
“What exactly does all that have to do with you?” He looked her over as he took several deep breaths, sucking in extra manufactured oxygen from the tank down the hall. “You would have just been a child at the time.”
“Harry Langhorne had a home in the area under the name Daniel Pottinger. He was found murdered a few days ago at that home.”
Trask took all of this in. Watching him, Gibson could imagine his doing the same mental calculations back at the Bureau as he was briefed by a junior staffer.
“What area exactly?”
This surprised her but she answered him. “An estate called Stormfield, a bit north of Smithfield, right on the James River.”
“How was he murdered?”
“Botulinum, type A.”
“Nasty stuff. It’s not a painless death.”
“I’m sure. But he was already terminal with brain cancer.”
“And so Harry Langhorne finally met his end?”
“Had you met him?”
“I had. Not a nice person, but what would you expect? Out to save his own skin, like the rest of the scum.”
“And his family?”
“What of them?”
“Did you meet them?”
“Yes, briefly. Geraldine, the wife; Francine and Douglas, the children.”
“You have a good memory.” She eyed the cannula.
“My mind is fine but I smoked too much,” he said in answer to this look. “It was my one weakness, but it’s a big one now come home to roost. That and the beginnings of Parkinson’s.” He held out his hand and she saw it quivering slightly.
“I’m sorry.”
“At my age it’s not unexpected. At some point my mind will go, and that will be that.”
