Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  I ignore her, keep my eyes on the redhead: where he’s digging, his approximate location in the house . . . He’s standing under Conrad’s office, I determine. Which leads me to my next thought: all those wooden filing cabinets, chock-full of boring customer files. What if it wasn’t the files that had mattered? What if beneath them had sat this flat, nondescript box?

  I want to believe I would’ve seen it. On my many, many missions, working through the cabinets, shoving manila folder after manila folder aside in sheer frustration. Then again, a container this thin could’ve been tucked beneath one of the filing cabinets itself; I’d never thought to lift an entire thing. Given the size and weight of the broad, double-drawer units, I’m not even sure I could’ve. But Conrad, fit and muscular . . .

  Would I have noticed the disruption? A slight change in positioning of the cabinet, a fresh scratch on the old hardwood? Or maybe I had, which is why I’d kept coming back. Because just like Conrad had sensed the disturbance in his locked office every time he returned, I’d also sensed something had changed every time I returned. And around and around we’d spun.

  Secrets.

  Had my husband ever loved me? Or had he married me because once he knew the true story behind my father’s death, he’d assumed I would be the type to forgive and forget?

  Shouting. The redhead Neil is now attacking a pile of rubble with renewed vigor, clearly having spotted something. Slowly but surely, I make out the compact shape of a fireproof safe. The filing box is not huge, but it is heavy as hell, as I can relate from personal experience. Dragging it out of the master closet was like dragging a boulder, only to stick in a few insurance docs, then—several deep breaths later—heave it back into place.

  Neil tosses aside the rake and shovel. He’s cleared the area around the box. Now he has both arms around it. Two or three staggering steps later, he’s on the move, having to carefully navigate his way through the ruins with the bulky SentrySafe clutched against his chest.

  As he approaches, I can tell the fireproof, waterproof safe has lived up to its heavily warrantied reputation. There’s barely a scratch on it. In comparison to the flat metal lock box, the SentrySafe still has a key dangling from the front lock. The key is now black and singed, but a key is a key.

  Neil drops the box on the driveway in front of us, breathing heavily. D.D. squats down beside it, also out of breath, but in her case, solely from anticipation.

  “That looks like a file box,” she says, gesturing to the SentrySafe. “So what’s this other thing?” She has the charred lockbox at her feet.

  “Overflow,” I state without hesitation.

  She gives me a look. I stare at her right back. This is what happens when you take the blame for your father’s death at sixteen. After that, all mistruths are relative. I might have been honest once, even a Goody Two-shoes. But after what I saw, what happened next . . . Really, what’s the point?

  The SentrySafe has a key, so we start with it first. D.D. does the honors. Strictly speaking, anything recovered at the scene the BPD gets to inspect first, before passing it on to the rightful homeowner. I’m not nervous. I know this box. I’ve added to it many times. As the wife of a husband who traveled often, the business of personal finances and monthly paperwork was more my bailiwick than his. I’m grateful for that now. I’m not some helpless female who has suddenly lost her husband and has no idea how to hook up cable or find the life insurance policy.

  Conrad was equally organized. His parents had died when he was in college, and though he never talked about it much, clearly he’d handled the estate. A family wasn’t just a collection of love and well wishes. It was a physical asset to be protected and preserved. Auto insurance, homeowners’ insurance, life insurance—he’d believed in all of it.

  D.D. turns the key. It’s one of those circular ones, distinct for safes. It takes a bit of jiggling, then gives. The lid of the box won’t lift, however. The detective frowns, whacks the box, frowns some more. I finally squat impatiently, earning raised eyebrows from all. I grab both sides of the top of the box and shimmy hard, thinking the heat might have warped it. Whether my assumption is valid or not, the technique works. I lift the heavy lid, giving both the detectives a superior stare, before I rise to standing.

  D.D. immediately goes to work, flipping through the manila folders labeled Auto Insurance, Property Insurance, Mortgage, Passports, Life Insurance, CDs, Savings Account. All the important papers you’d never want to lose in a fire.

  Nothing terribly exciting, and yet my best hope of trying to figure out the next few months of my life. Or how to escape my mother’s clinging grasp in the least amount of time possible—depending on your point of view.

  D.D. removes each file, flips through the contents—not much, just the latest statements, policies, et cetera—replaces them in the box. When she gets to life insurance, she pauses.

  “Million dollars?” She gives me a look. “This appears to be a brand-new policy. Seriously?”

  “He took it out when we discovered I was pregnant. According to the insurance rep, it should be enough to pay off the mortgage of the house, cover eighteen years of the average costs of raising a child, plus four years of college.”

  “In other words, a million motives for shooting your husband.”

  “If I wanted a million dollars,” I inform the detective, “all I have to do is phone home. Or better yet, move in.”

  She gives me a fresh look. “Which you just did.”

  “Yeah, and why don’t you ask Call Me Phil what that’s like?”

  The redhead glances up. “‘Call Me Phil’?” Abruptly, he breaks into a smile. “That’s what he was talking about yesterday. We should get him a T-shirt.”

  Now D.D. and I both scowl at him. He shrinks back, holds up a black, warped object. “I think I found the key to the other lockbox not far from this one.”

  “Hang on,” I say. I look at Mr. Delaney. “I see personal papers and financial files. No source of arson fire. Nothing that rises to the level of evidence.”

  “Agreed,” Mr. Delaney states. He stares hard at D.D.

  “I want a copy of the life insurance.”

  “Snap a photo with your phone,” I suggest. Because I’m taking the policy home with me. I need it.

  “My client is being more than reasonable,” my lawyer seconds.

  Clearly, D.D. isn’t happy. But she photographs the doc, closes up the file, sticks it back in the box. The SentrySafe has done its job admirably, saving its contents, surviving to tell its tales. Now Mr. Delaney picks it up, grunting slightly from the weight as he carries it to the trunk of his car.

  Which leaves us with the thin metal lockbox. I have no idea what it is, but I won’t admit to that because I’m dying to see what’s inside. It probably doesn’t matter anymore, but it might be what I was searching for all along.

  The black key is warped. The redhead tries jiggling. D.D. tries jangling. I take it from them both, me, the experienced homeowner who must certainly know the quirks of this lockbox as well as I did the fireproof safe.

  It still takes several tries. I coax, beg, plead. Please, after all this time of looking for you, don’t you want to talk to me, too?

  Then: click.

  Just like that, the lock gives. The lid doesn’t pop open, clearly warped along the edges. But I can feel the box relax, preparing to surrender its secrets.

  I place it on the ground before us. I don’t know what to expect. Ashes, charred ruins. The heat inside a house fire must be so extreme. And while Conrad clearly meant to keep these contents hidden, he didn’t necessarily care if they were safe. An interesting distinction in its own right.

  D.D. has to force the lid. Black flakes float down.

  Inside the box, the metal is cool and gray, untouched. The first evidence that the contents came through unscathed. Then:

  “What the hell?” D.
D. stares at me.

  The redheaded detective is already digging through the contents, equally mesmerized.

  I don’t have words. I don’t have moisture in my mouth. Of all the things I thought I might see. Of all the secrets I knew Conrad had to have.

  I’m staring at bundles of cash. Still in original wrappings, which is suspicious enough. But more than that, I’m staring at piles of plastic cards. Various drivers’ licenses, covering half a dozen states.

  All with Conrad’s photo. All bearing different names.

  “You need to start talking and you need to start talking now,” D.D. orders intently.

  Except I have nothing to say.

  CHAPTER 17

  D.D.

  “YOU NEED TO START TALKING and you need to start talking now.” D.D.’s voice was hard.

  She regarded the stacks of cash and fake IDs in the soot-blackened box at her feet and ideas raced through her head. Conrad Carter was some kind of secret operative. Except any decent undercover agent would also have a backup piece and ammo stashed with his cash. A criminal mastermind or serial offender? Carter was a man with no family whose job demanded long periods away and who was described as the kind of guy everyone liked but no one knew.

  D.D. felt she was standing at a precipice. The next step would take her free-falling over the edge, the answers to dozens of questions roaring past her. Except it would be her job to frantically grab each piece and sort them into a meaningful explanation, all before crashing into the ground below.

  In front of her, Evie was shaking her head slightly. The woman appeared shocked, but by what? The contents of the box, or that the police had finally discovered her husband’s secret?

  Neil, God bless him, did the sensible thing. He snapped several quick pics with his cell phone, showing the box in situ. Then, donning a pair of latex gloves, he started sorting out the contents.

  The cash was banded piles of hundreds. Neil organized them in stacks of ten to equal a thousand, then lined up the stacks. D.D. could practically hear Evie work out the math: twenty-five thousand dollars. Not much compared to the solid bricks of Washingtons seized during the average drug raid, but more than enough in a working-class neighborhood where Evie and her husband had probably considered that a solid year’s renovation budget. D.D. took several photos of her own, to corroborate Neil’s photos. Chain of custody over recovered cash was a big deal in policing. Good cops looked out for each other, dotted all i’s, crossed all t’s, so neither they nor their squad could face any scrutiny.

  Five photo IDs. The first names were a mix of Conrad, Conner, Carter, Conroy—always good to stick with names that sounded similar. The last names repeated the trick. Conrad Carter from Massachusetts became Carter Conrad in Texas or Carter Conner in Florida.

  Given the name game, D.D. doubted the IDs were professional grade—the kind of fakes that cost thousands of dollars and involved trolling death certificates for an infant who’d departed thirty-eight years ago, then stealing that identity. Such an alias could conceivably be used for decades, the holder acquiring credit cards, even a passport. This . . . Neil had lined up each slightly warped piece of plastic. These fakes reminded her of the kind underage kids used to talk their way into local bars. Good at a glance, but not great.

  She could tell from the look on Neil’s face he was thinking the same. Whatever Conrad Carter was doing, he definitely wasn’t a pro. Which made him what?

  D.D. rose and eyed Evie sternly. Evie was still staring at the cash and cards, but she didn’t appear to be looking at them as much as through them. Seeing something only she could see.

  “My client is tired,” the attorney began. “Given her condition—”

  “I don’t know anything,” Evie interrupted. Her voice sounded as far away as her expression.

  “You said this lockbox contained the overflow of financial documents.”

  “I lied. I’d never seen it before. I wanted to know the contents.”

  “So you admit—”

  “All spouses keep secrets, Sergeant. I already told you to ask your husband.”

  D.D. could feel her temper starting to rise. “Fine. Let’s head to HQ, where we can talk about yours.”

  “Sergeant Warren, my client—”

  “Is lying to the police and admitting it? Is possibly leading a double life of her own? Does your baby even belong to Conrad Carter? Or maybe it’s”—D.D. nudged the closest driver’s license with the tip of her boot—“Carter Conrad’s baby? Or Conroy Conrad’s?”

  “Sergeant Detective!” Attorney Dick Delaney again, all outrage and bluster.

  “I don’t know anything,” Evie repeated quietly. “I thought . . . He locked his office door. A room in his own house. Every time he went away. Except I was the only person around, and his business, selling custom windows . . . Why lock up customer spec sheets? And why protect such documents from your wife? Or was he protecting me from them?”

  Evie glanced up. For a moment, she appeared as genuinely confused and puzzled as D.D. felt.

  “You suspected something,” D.D. stated.

  Delaney made another noise in the back of his throat. D.D. nudged Neil with her foot, and he shot immediately to standing.

  “We’re going to need to see the file box again,” Neil said.

  Delaney gave them a look, Neil’s bid at distraction not fooling him for a moment. “Then you can fetch it from the back of the trunk.” He tossed Neil the keys.

  D.D. kept her attention on Evie. She was on to something. She could feel it.

  “You shot the computer. Why did you shoot the computer?” D.D. moved closer, keeping her voice low. “What did you suspect, Evie? What did you catch the father of your unborn child doing?”

  “My client—”

  “First your father. You loved him, didn’t you? Idolized him. I conducted those neighbor interviews. Everyone talked about what a close bond you and he had.”

  “Sergeant Detective, I am warning you—”

  “You thought he killed himself, didn’t you? So acting on your mother’s orders, you became the patsy. All these years, carrying that weight alone. Just so you could fall in love and discover . . . what? That your husband’s sins were far greater?”

  “This conversation is over.” Delaney had his hand on Evie’s arm. “Take the file box or don’t take the file box. Either way my client is coming with me.”

  “No, she isn’t.” D.D. was staring directly at Evie. She knew she had the woman’s total, undivided attention. She understood then the truth to getting at her prime suspect. Every person had a lever, the button that a good detective learned how to push. Evie had given her the key just yesterday; the woman was her father’s daughter. She did work the math. And she couldn’t walk away from an unsolved equation.

  Curiosity. That was Evie’s downfall. Which gave D.D. a slight chill because curiosity had always been her weakness, too.

  “Come to HQ. Answer my questions,” she told the woman now.

  “She’s going home!” Delaney snapped.

  Evie said, “Why?”

  “Because in return, I have photos. From sixteen years ago. Going through them, I can prove to you, your father didn’t shoot himself.”

  * * *

  —

  EVIE WOULD COME to HQ. D.D. never doubted it for a second. First her lawyer had to draw her aside and engage in frantic conversation. No doubt informing his client she was being foolish, letting the police get under her skin. If they had any real evidence, they’d be forced to disclose it prior to trial anyway. As for Evie, the woman seemed to have some strong words of her own. D.D. could’ve sworn she heard the woman state angrily, “I am your client and you will not call my mother.”

  How interesting.

  After a few more minutes of terse exchange, Evie climbed into her lawyer’s car, file box still planted in the trunk. D.D. c
ouldn’t justify seizing the papers as evidence, though she was happy enough to have a photo of Conrad Carter’s life insurance for future reference. Neil bagged and tagged the metal lockbox and its contents as the BPD’s share of the spoils. They loaded up their car, then led the way to HQ.

  BPD’s headquarters was an acquired taste. People either were sufficiently impressed by the modern glass monstrosity or, more likely, shook their heads at yet another example of their tax dollars at work. D.D. wasn’t into architecture. As a woman who liked to eat, she appreciated the café on the lobby level. And the upstairs homicide suite was far bigger and more useful than the old HQ had been, even if the blue industrial carpet, gray filing cabinets, and collection of cubicles made them look more like an insurance company than an investigative unit. Sometimes, like now, when she had a suspect she didn’t want to spook, it was nice to pretend they were just hanging out at an office versus, say, starring in an old episode of NYPD Blue.

  Given the circumstances, D.D. led Evie and her lawyer to homicide’s conference room, something a bit more hospitable than the spartan interrogation rooms. Evie already had her attorney at her elbow. D.D. didn’t want to spook her prime suspect before extracting as much information as possible.

  After a quick sidebar, Neil disappeared to find Phil. Neil would handle processing the evidence they’d recovered at the arson scene. Phil would resume his role as family man/father figure detective. Again, interviews were strategy and while D.D. liked a good full-court press, that was never going to work with a lawyer in the room. This would be a finesse job. Fortunately, she was a woman of many skills.

  And like Evie, of much curiosity.

  D.D. played nice. She got Evie and her lawyer situated. Brought them both bottles of water; then, at the request of Delaney, who seemed to enjoy having one of Boston’s finest waiting on him, she returned with a cup of coffee. By then, Phil had joined the room, armed with a heavy cardboard box. The outside of the box bore large black numbers: the case number for Evie’s father’s shooting sixteen years ago.