She then followed that to what turned out to be four layers of corporate shields that she had to break through one after another. Until she finally struck — hopefully — gold. She clicked on a registered agent for a company that Pottinger had set up only a year back and then buried under the shell companies’ myriad corporate identities. It was called DPE, clearly after the man’s initials, with “Enterprises” probably representing the final letter in the acronym.
The registered agent for DPE was located in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The man’s name was Dexter Tremayne. His was an actual street address and not the more typical PO box. There was also an email address. She wrote out an email informing Mr. Tremayne that she needed to urgently speak with him about DPE.
She sent it off not expecting to hear anything back, at least not for a while.
But it was only seconds later when the email dropped into her inbox.
Can we talk?
He had left a phone number. She immediately called it.
The man confirmed he was Dexter Tremayne.
“I started doing this registered agent crap about two years ago,” he said. “Used to be a truck driver. Unhealthiest job there is except maybe for coal mining. Anyway, I live on disability and Social Security and what I earn as an agent. My cousin got me onto it. I’ve only got fifteen hundred companies right now. He’s got nearly thirty thousand. He has spreadsheets and state filing software and credit cards on file for autopay so he doesn’t get stiffed. Runs smooth as silk. And he’s printing money. That’s my goal. To beat him. Got a lot of catching up to do.”
“I understand. But why did you want to talk?” asked Gibson.
“I never met anyone from none of the companies I’m an agent for. Not a single one. I remember I got an email from a lawyer once, but he didn’t say much. Have no idea who owns any of this shit. My cousin thinks he’s got one of them Mexican cartel boys on his roster. Maybe I got me one, too,” he added eagerly.
“Okay. But—”
“Wouldn’t that be something? Me representing him, so to speak.”
“Yeah, really something to tell the grandkids,” noted Gibson, trying hard to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Now let me get to the point. Like I said, I never met or heard from any of the owners, until this fellow Daniel Pottinger called me up one day. Out of the blue. Could’a knocked me over with a stick.”
“How do you know it was him?”
“He said it was. And why else would he be calling me?”
Gibson could think of a few reasons but said, “What did he want?”
“He wanted to tell me something. And I’m going to tell you.”
“Why tell me?” said an instantly suspicious Gibson.
“He’s dead, right? I saw that on the news. Pottinger was killed in, was it West Virginia?”
“Close enough. But he’s dead, yes. Someone killed him.”
“Well, he said, if anyone contacted me after he was dead, I was to tell them what he told me to tell them.”
Gibson sat up straighter and took up a pen. “And what was that, exactly?”
“He told me to tell the person, ‘Now you see it, but then you don’t.’ Seemed kinda stupid to me, but there you go.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, he did.”
“What?”
“He said, ‘Then tell ’em to take away the eight.’ ”
“ ‘Take away the eight’?”
“That’s right. The eight. Those were his exact words. He had me write them down.”
“What’s the eight? And take it away from what?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, ma’am. That’s what he said.”
“Anything else?”
“Yep, then he said for whoever to ‘use the leftovers for Sesame Street.’ ”
“ ‘The leftovers for Sesame Street’?”
“Those were his exact words. God’s honest truth.”
“Is that it?”
“Yep. Ain’t that enough?” he added, with a chuckle.
Gibson thanked him and clicked off.
What in the hell?
Chapter 51
Gibson sat there for a bit after ending the call. Langhorne seemed to really be having fun with all of this from-the-grave crap. The man’s first cryptic message had been “Look harder. It’s worth it.” And now this.
She had a sudden thought. Had he written the phrase Do as I say, not as I do on the wall of the room where he’d died? Perhaps writing with one hand and then the other to make it look like two people had done it? No, that probably couldn’t be. The same phrase had shown up at Oxblood’s home, after Langhorne was dead.
Gibson looked at the words again that she had written in her notebook: Now you see it, but then you don’t.
It felt off to her somehow. She looked it up online.
The common phrase actually was: “Now you see it, now you don’t.” Although she found other references that had it as “Now you see them, now you don’t.” But the origin seemed clear: It referred to a magician’s trickery and sleight of hand. You wanted to hide something, so you did something interesting with one hand to get the audience’s attention, while you secreted what you really wanted to hide with the other hand while people weren’t looking. And then what did it mean to take away the eight? What eight, and from what was it supposed to be taken away? And then Sesame Street with the leftovers?
Trickery and deceit and hiding shit. Langhorne had definitely chosen the right phrase to use.
But then her spine stiffened. This is what you do for a living. And you got to Tremayne and he told you what Langhorne wanted him to tell. That was more than you knew five minutes ago.
Which is why Clarisse picked you in the first place.
What Gibson still didn’t get was that if she got there first, Clarisse wouldn’t see a penny. So why bring her on if Clarisse could just find the stuff on her own? There was another thing. Gibson wasn’t sure she would share this information with Sullivan, either, because her cop radar was telling her there was something off about the man.
So what is your goal here, Mick?
She looked around the modest room in the modest home she lived in. Two kids, no husband. Her working life would be a non-stop grind until the kids were grown and off to college or wherever their lives were going to take them.
But what if you found the treasure? College funds taken care of. Helping her parents. Another house in a nicer neighborhood, not having to juggle a million things at the same time. Having a life. All of that could be accomplished with...
Gibson stared into the screen at her reflection, suddenly unsure of who she was seeing there.
You’re getting into dangerous territory, lady. You were a cop, for God’s sake. An honest one. And you don’t want that asshole’s blood money.
Her phone rang, jarring her out of these disturbing thoughts. It was Wilson Sullivan.
“Prints came back on Daryl Oxblood. FBI has already called.”
“Let me guess. They got pinged on the database search because Oxblood was WITSEC?”
“Yep. In fact, his whole family was. His name was Bruce Hall. His father, Tony, was a midlevel enforcer for a mob boss in New York City. Turned informant and got put in the program with his wife and son.”