But to find the treasure, she needed to know even more about Langhorne.
Gibson searched article after article from back then, until one, buried deep in the pages of the Newark Star-Ledger, fully captured her attention.
She read it twice and then sat back.
Shit, really? Why had no one mentioned this to me before? Why hadn’t Beckett—
And then the answer came to her. That was part of the deal. Langhorne brought the mob down, and his own dirty laundry — and this story was explicit about what that dirty laundry might be — would be forgiven. And that was probably the other reason he had turned on the Giordanos. Not just to get the money, but to keep from going to prison over... this.
I guess they did things differently back then. Or maybe they still do today, but nobody ever hears about it.
She searched for any other articles that spoke to this same subject matter, but found zip. That was curious in and of itself, she thought. Then the reason occurred to her. The Feds had put the lid on this. If it had been widely published, the mob’s lawyers could possibly have used that in their client’s defense.
She emailed the article to Art Collin.
Gibson wanted his take on what this reporter had alleged.
She also Googled the reporter who had written the article, Samantha Kember.
Well, Gibson wouldn’t be speaking with Kember. She’d died of cancer fifteen years back.
Hopefully, Art Collin would have some information for her.
Gibson also left an email with Jan Roberts, a reporter now with the Star-Ledger whom she had come to know during her time as a detective back in Jersey City when Roberts worked for the local paper there.
She went back to her earlier searches on Langhorne’s upbringing.
Joel Langhorne sounded like your typical street enforcer: brutal, sadistic, hard-drinking, and loyal only to the capos above him. His wife, Ida Giordano, seemed to have been totally all in with her mob family. She had nearly gone to prison when her son had turned rat. She doubted that had made the woman love him more. She had died twenty years ago in a state-run nursing home. Langhorne had had no brothers and sisters. He was it for the Langhorne line.
Except for Doug Langhorne.
She looked at what she knew about Langhorne’s wife, Geraldine. She had been born in the south, but her family had moved to New York when she was in her early teens. She had met Langhorne there and they had married. Now her husband was dead, and no one knew where Geraldine was. Probably dead, too.
Gibson closed her eyes and slumped in her chair. She had waffled back and forth over this case from the start. Do I work it? Do I run from it? Now she was doubting herself again.
This shit is so complicated it’ll take you the rest of your life to figure it out, and even that probably wouldn’t be long enough. Here you are dreaming about impossible wealth dropping into your lap. Hello, it is not going to happen. So why don’t you just leave this to the cops? And now the FBI? And then you can go back to being a computer nerd for ProEye. Nothing dangerous, just nice, steady work.
She ceremoniously turned off her computer and then hurried downstairs. Gibson had remembered she had forgotten to set the house alarm.
She walked over to the panel to do so.
And that was the last thing Gibson remembered.
Chapter 53
Gibson came to slowly, and then, with a jerk of her head, she was fully awake and looking wildly around, but seeing only darkness.
She blinked when a light hit her in the eyes. She tried to shield her face but her hands wouldn’t move. They were bound to the chair she was sitting in. So were her legs.
Her heart thumping in her ears, she tugged against her bindings and said, “Who are you? Where am I? What are you doing?”
It sounded lame, like lines from a bad movie. But what else was she supposed to say?
The light dipped so it was no longer in her eyes.
“Ms. Gibson, I have some questions for you,” said a voice from the dark. “Answer them and you go free. Don’t answer them and things get complicated.”
Now, that really does sound like a shitty movie script. But it’s not, it’s real.
“Look, I don’t have to answer—”
“Your kids are in your house all alone right now. They probably wake up pretty early. You want to be there when they do, or not?”
This statement drained all the fight out of her. “What do you want to know?” she said.
“Sam Trask?”
“What about him?”
“Why did you go to meet him?”
Now she knew who had snatched her.
“And we know enough that if you try to lie, well, again, it gets complicated. I suppose your parents can take care of your children, though.”
Okay, the man was not beating around the bush.
“I was given Nathan Trask’s name to check out. And I thought I might start with his father.”
Is Nathan Trask the voice or is it one of his cronies? Am I important enough to get the big fish in person?
“By whom were you given that name to check out?”
“Someone I’ve only met online. I don’t know who they are.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“I know that, trust me. I wish I knew more.”
“Why check Trask out?”
“Because he was connected to Daniel Pottinger, the person said.”
“Daniel Pottinger aka Harry Langhorne?”
“Yes.”
“And the point of this search?”
Gibson thought quickly. Give him the truth because he probably already knows.
“Langhorne was a mob accountant turned rat from decades ago. He might have stolen enormous amounts of cash from the mob. There are people trying to find that money. And I got roped into this. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t be involved.”
“Have you found the money?”
“No.”
“We have done a deep dive on you, Ms. Gibson. Ex-cop, ex-detective, now a ProEye sleuth, and expert in tracking down large, hidden assets. I’d say whoever roped you in knew exactly what they were doing.”
“I’m thinking the same thing.”
“We might have a dog in this hunt. It might be that the money that is part of this search did not all come from Langhorne’s mob bosses.”
“Okay.”
“So if you find it, those amounts should come our way. With a finder’s fee to you, of course.”
This got Gibson’s attention. “How much of a fee?”
“Five percent is standard. Do we have a deal?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“People always have choices.”
From behind Gibson a garrote was slipped around her neck and pulled uncomfortably tight.
A panicked Gibson gagged and coughed out, “Deal!”
“We have ways of checking to make sure you hold up your end of the bargain.”
The garrote was pulled tight one more time before being removed.
“Now what?” said Gibson hoarsely.
“Now you get back to work. For your new partner. Oh, and if you tell anyone, we’ll know that, too. So, you talk, then it won’t just be you who suffers the consequences. Son, daughter, mother, father, and two younger brothers. The Rogers/Gibson family wiped out. And we might just hunt down your ex-husband and do him, too.”
Well, Peter Gibson biting it wouldn’t be so bad, thought Gibson in her anesthetic-garbled, garrote-choked mind.
“But just so you know, patience is not a virtue. So pursue this like you’re looking at your last sixty seconds on earth. And trophies only go to winners. Losers go into the ground.”