“So you think the crime scene was arranged?”
“There’s no power on in that house; fan was battery operated. Wall left partially open, dead body, fan on. Yeah, it was staged and then the call came to me.”
Sullivan said, “And the techs estimated the fan had a decent charge left.”
“So whoever turned it on was there probably today. Maybe this ‘Arlene Robinson’ even called me from there. She knew where I lived and she knew how long it would take me to get to Stormfield, because I basically told her it would be about an hour after I left my house.”
“So the question becomes: Did she kill him?”
“How long has he been dead?”
“It wasn’t today. I can tell you that.”
“I could see that for myself. Why would anyone want to kill Pottinger? Did he have any enemies?”
“Early for all that. We’re checking out various possibilities.”
“I was told the place was abandoned. But if Pottinger was still living there, where’s all the hired help? He couldn’t have taken care of that place all by his lonesome. But it was empty when I got there, and the power was off. And the place didn’t really look lived in. There was stuff that I inventoried, but it just had the feel of being abandoned.”
“Checking into all of that.”
“So am I off the suspect list?”
“Not quite, but you’re getting there.” He rose. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Look, if you need another pair of eyes on this?”
“Not the way the Virginia State Police work, sorry.”
Gibson took a symbolic step back. “Of course.”
He eyed the computers. “I guess it was a big change. Going from the streets to this.”
“It was. But being a parent is an even bigger change in your life, maybe the biggest.”
He left Gibson there staring at the screens around which her work life now flowed.
What the hell have I just stepped in?
Chapter 7
Gibson put the phone down after having talked to Zeb Brown. He confirmed everything that Sullivan had told her. There was no Arlene Robinson. There was no assignment from ProEye.
Brown hadn’t been at all sympathetic with Gibson. On the contrary, he’d clearly been pissed that she hadn’t confirmed the assignment with him and saved the company and her a lot of trouble and egg on their faces.
“We do have a reputation to uphold,” he had told her in a scolding tone. “So if there is a next time, just call me, okay? Then maybe we can avoid being part of a freaking police investigation. And maybe you should bag going out tonight to celebrate the Larkin matter and get your head on straight.” He’d clicked off before she could reply.
She slowly set the phone down. Okay, he thinks I’m either an idiot or I’m involved in a crime, and I’m not sure which is worse, because I cannot lose this job.
Later, she fed her kids, played with them, bathed them, and put them to bed. She still had on her mother’s pantsuit. The waist actually felt a bit looser, and she realized she hadn’t had anything to eat other than the almond oatmeal cookie.
She went down to the kitchen, and pan-cooked her special and amazing Kraft Mac & Cheese and ate it standing up with a glass of cheap merlot to kill the taste.
Gibson looked out the window and saw nothing but darkness in the chilly springtime evening.
Darkness out there, darkness in here.
Darkness between my ears.
And then her phone buzzed. Her business phone. She looked at the screen. It was a text.
Can you talk? AR
She almost dropped her wine and then looked quickly around to see if she was being watched somehow.
She texted back: Okay. And waited.
The phone buzzed. She answered. The same woman’s voice came on the line.
“Can I explain?” she said.
“What a great idea,” snapped Gibson. “Maybe your real name might be the best place to start.”
“They found the body, correct?”
“I found the body. Daniel Pottinger. Murdered. How’d you kill him?”
“I need you to go to your front door.”
“Why?” said Gibson in a tense voice. She automatically looked up, to where her kids were sleeping.
The woman said, “You’ll find a phone there in a box. I’ll call it in thirty seconds.” She clicked off.
Gibson rushed to the gun safe, unlocked it, slid out her Beretta, and slapped in a mag.
She hurried to the front door and looked out one of the side lights. She lived in a working-class, cookie-cutter neighborhood of 1,500-square-foot homes with carports or one-car garages, built mostly in the eighties. There were lights on in some of the houses, and cars were parked up and down the street. She saw no one out and about. A dog barked from somewhere, making her jump. She slowly opened the door and saw the small box on the porch. Gibson gently opened it just as the phone inside started to ring. She stepped back into her home and locked the door.
And then Mickey Gibson decided to lose her shit.
“What is this load of crap?” she yelled into the phone. “I don’t appreciate getting sucked into whatever stupid game it is you’re playing.”
“It’s not a game, but I’d feel the same if I were in your shoes.”
“Easy to say since you’re not in my shoes. You almost cost me my job and you still might.”
“I’m sorry, but please let me explain.”
Gibson bit back her anger and turned to cop mode, which meant, above all, listening. And this might be the only way to eventually get to the truth. Plus, she was curious as hell as to what was really going on. Not that she expected this woman to tell her anything except lies. But Gibson was really good at tracking stuff down. She just needed a lead, one tiny morsel.
“Okay, go ahead,” she said in a calmer voice.
“I didn’t kill him and I don’t know who did. All I know is that I found his body and didn’t know what else to do.”
Incensed once more, Gibson barked, “How about calling the fucking police, that one ever occur to you?”
“I couldn’t call them.”
“You just had to hit 911 with your index finger, you didn’t have to give your name or just use a fake one, like you did with me.”
“I didn’t want to do it that way. I had my reasons. Good ones.”
“Then why involve me in your mess?”
“Because I had heard of you.”
“Heard of me from where?” demanded Gibson.
“When you were a cop.”
“That was back in Jersey. So you tracked me to Williamsburg?”
“I felt like I could trust you. I hope I still can?”
“Well, I don’t trust you, seeing that the police now think I’m a suspect for a murder I knew nothing about until today.” She drew a long, calming breath. This aggressive posture was going to get her nowhere. “Did you know Pottinger?”
“Yes.”
“How?” Gibson said.
“He was very well-known in Miami. I was surprised that he moved to such an isolated place in Virginia.”
So was she from Miami? “Why were you there?”
“He asked me to come to see him.”
“Why?” asked Gibson.
“I can’t get into that.”
“You’re going to have to get into everything if you really want me to trust you.”
“He was someone I knew from way back. He said he was in trouble. I went to Stormfield to help. The door was unlocked. I went in. The wall in the library was open. That’s how I found him.”
“Was there anyone around when you got there?” asked Gibson.
“No, which surprised me. The place is huge. He must have had servants or some kind of help. But if they had been there they would have found the body.”