by Lisa Gardner
“He was asking if I was okay. Tapping it out on the bar top.”
I shake my head slightly, very confused now. “Why? I don’t . . . Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“When was this?”
“Probably seven years ago.”
“Conrad and I were together. He went on his business trips. But that’s all I knew. Often, I wasn’t even sure where.”
“Do you remember anything about the website he had pulled up on his computer? URL, anything?” D.D.’s turn.
“It was weird. Not a dot-com or dot-net, but dot-onion. I didn’t know what that meant; I had to look it up. Apparently, it’s a site on the Onion Browser; the dark web.” My voice cracks slightly. I hear myself say, as if understanding for the first time: “My husband was surfing the dark web.”
Flora and D.D. exchange a look.
“You never saw any other records bearing the names from his fake IDs? Just that one financial statement from the printer?” D.D. asks.
I shake my head.
“I don’t suppose you kept a copy of that statement?”
“No. I didn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “I’m a numbers person. I don’t need a statement in front of me. I can write out the account number off the top of my head. Including bank, address, and at that time, its balance of two hundred and forty-three thousand dollars and twenty-two cents.”
D.D. whirls to my drunken mom in the doorway. “Get a pen,” she orders sharply.
And I finally get to feel good about myself for the first time in days.
CHAPTER 26
D.D.
“ALL RIGHT. IT’S LATE, IT’S nearly the holidays, and I still have shopping to do. Let’s get this done.” D.D. had assembled her team back at BPD headquarters. Boxes of pizza sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by pots of coffee. At this time of night, comfort food and caffeine were two of the best investigative tools available.
Seated at the conference room table was the three-person detective squad who’d landed the initial shooting case: Phil, Neil, and their newest partner, Carol. In addition, D.D. was proud owner of one feebie, SSA Kimberly Quincy, and two wild cards, Flora Dane and—heaven help her—Keith Edgar, who had a laptop fired up and was clacking away wildly.
Odd team for an odd investigation. Yet, D.D. had that tingle in the base of her spine: They were on the verge of a breakthrough. Between Flora’s conversation with the firebug and their candid face-to-face with Evie Carter, they were getting somewhere.
“Phil.” D.D. nodded to the oldest and probably wisest detective in the room. “Tell us what you got on Conrad Carter’s alias bank account.”
“The account was opened eighteen years ago in the name Carter Conner at a local credit union in Jacksonville, Florida. Carter Conner matches the name on the Florida driver’s license discovered in Conrad Carter’s charred lockbox. The starting balance of the account was four hundred and fifty thousand—”
“Lot of money.” Quincy spoke up.
“Yep. One initial deposit, which I’ll get to in a second. Otherwise, Conrad, Carter, whoever we call him—”
“What do you mean whoever we call him?” Flora’s turn. “Is Conrad or Carter or Conner his real name?”
Phil sighed heavily. “Everyone,” he said. “Eat some pizza. And shut up.”
They did.
“So, Carter Conner has an active account at the Florida First Credit Union. Since the initial deposit, he’s been slowly but surely drawing down the balance. Cash withdrawals, always under ten thousand dollars.”
D.D. nodded, understanding the reasoning behind that.
“Several withdrawals a year. So not a lot of money, but if you figure he was always taking it out in cash, a solid slush fund. Then three years ago, a new transaction shows up: monthly transfers of five hundred dollars to a separate account.”
“Under one of his other aliases?” D.D. asked.
“Don’t know yet. I entered the account info into our electronic tracing system but got back an error message. I’ll have to call the bank manager in the morning.”
“So what do you think he was doing with this money?” D.D. pressed.
“Good question. Neil, Carol”—Phil nodded to his two squad mates—“you’re up.”
Neil did the honors. “In answer to Flora’s question, we asked the coroner to run prints, but we’re pretty sure Conrad Carter is actually Carter Conner. That’s his real name, real driver’s license. The rest are fakes.”
“Your murder victim,” said Quincy, “was living under an assumed name? Good God.”
“It’s the money trail, the onetime significant deposit,” Carol took over the story. “It got Neil and me thinking, where did that money come from? Sale of an asset, settlement check, lottery winnings? Because Conrad never deposited again. Just that one check.”
D.D. made a motion with her hand. “I’m assuming you have an answer.”
“Life insurance,” Carol announced. “He received a death benefit twelve years ago when both his parents were killed in a hit-and-run outside of Jacksonville, Florida.”
“Evie said his parents had died,” Flora murmured. Beside her, Keith frowned, clicked away at his computer, frowned again.
“Which is what got us looking,” Neil said. “We couldn’t find any death records for surname Carter. But we knew the aliases from the other driver’s licenses. So we ran those last names. And sure enough, William and Jennifer Conner died in an MVA three months before Conrad opened the bank account.”
“His parents are killed, Conrad receives the life insurance money, then uses it to open an account at a Florida credit union.” D.D. stared at her detectives.
“We’re just getting started,” said Carol. She leaned forward. “William Conner, the dad, was with the JSO.”
“Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office,” Quincy provided for the civilians’ benefit.
“He worked in Major Cases, including homicides, missing persons, assaults. And get this, the MVA that killed him and his wife wasn’t an accident. Someone ran Detective Bill Conner off the road, knowingly targeting an officer and his wife.”
D.D. was still having to process the details. “Conrad’s parents were murdered?”
“Yes.”
“At which time, Conrad deposited the life insurance payout from his parents’ deaths, then headed north to live under an assumed name? Until someone gunned him down in his own home two nights ago?”
“Exactly.” Carol beamed.
“That’s it,” D.D. said. “I’m having more pizza.”
* * *
—
“I DON’T GET it.” Flora spoke up a minute later. Which was fair enough because D.D. wasn’t convinced she understood everything either. “Why the alias? Did Conrad think he was a target? Like, whoever killed his parents was coming for him next?”
“Unknown,” Neil said.
“Or,” Flora continued now, “was Conrad a suspect in his parents’ death? Was he running away from the police?”
“I doubt that,” Quincy answered immediately. “He kept both an active bank account and a valid driver’s license from Florida. That’s no way to hide from cops. Not much of a way to hide from a determined killer either.”
The entire team was frowning.
“Conrad appeared in the bar with Jacob Ness seven years ago.” Keith spoke up. “Conrad and his family are from Florida. Jacob and his family are from Florida. I still think there has to be a connection.”
“The FBI has made some progress on that front,” Quincy reported. “After our little powwow this morning, we started running Google searches based on some of the username ideas we discussed, across some of the online platforms we believe Ness would’ve frequented. In the end, we discovered an identical usern
ame on several social media sites as well as some more . . . specific . . . sexual fantasy forums. We’re still building the user profile, but we believe Jacob’s username is most likely I. N. Verness. Capital I, period, capital N, period, capital V, Verness. So it looks like first two initials, followed by a last name. But it’s actually a shout-out to Jacob’s hometown.”
“And a county associated with another legendary monster.” Flora was nodding. “That sounds exactly like him.”
“Our experts will now flesh out a full online profile of I.N.Verness, including specific site visits and website details. In turn, this will allow us to subpoena information from these sites. We’re also running codebreaker software as we speak. I’m told within twelve to fourteen hours, we may finally have the answers to Jacob’s online activities.”
The FBI agent sounded triumphant. D.D. couldn’t blame her.
“You said Conrad’s father worked Major Cases for the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office.” Keith again. “Is it possible he’d been investigating Jacob Ness?”
“Twelve years ago?” Neil shrugged. “Was Ness even on anyone’s radar screen?”
“We didn’t know about him till Flora’s abduction,” Quincy said. “At least not as a serial predator. Prior to that, he had a criminal record for assault. Upon release from prison, however, he disappeared from law enforcement radar screens.”
“He was never going back,” Flora murmured. “A man with his appetites didn’t belong behind bars.” She looked up at Quincy. “He didn’t stop attacking women after prison. He just got smarter about it.”
“Meaning a JSO detective might have been looking into him,” Keith pressed.
“I’ll call the Investigations Division chief,” Neil conceded. “Given how far back we’re looking, it might take them a bit, but there’s gotta be a record of Detective Bill Conner’s active cases at the time of his death.”
“I’m thinking a big rig could certainly run a car off the road,” Keith said. “That’s all.”
Personally, D.D. thought Keith Edgar saw Jacob Ness everywhere. Which was the problem with amateur sleuths—they often started with a theory of the case, then worked backward to justify their suspicions, versus letting the evidence do the talking. However . . . She leaned forward to address Neil. “When you’re talking to the Jax commander, ask him if Conrad ever called with the same request. Or has made any follow-up inquiries about his father’s work. It would help tell us where his head was at—searching for his parents’ killer, trying to finish what his father started. I don’t know. But we need to figure it out.”
“If only his wife hadn’t shot up the computer,” Phil said now.
“She claimed she did it to protect her husband’s reputation,” D.D. provided. “When she walked in on the scene, Conrad was already dead, and the laptop was open with photos of . . . victimized girls on the screen.”
“Sounds like motive for her to kill him right there,” Phil countered.
“Sure. But . . .” D.D. frowned. “I don’t think she did it. The story she told Flora and me, coming home to the scene in the office, her instinctive need to cover for her future child’s father . . .”
“Ah, but didn’t you believe her story last time? Which turned out to be just that, a complete fabrication concocted by her and her mother?”
D.D. scowled at her former mentor. “I’m not saying we take her off our radar screen. Clearly, there was a lot going on in this marriage. But she did give us the financial lead . . .”
“All the better to direct you away from her.”
“And there was an eight-minute gap between shots fired.” D.D. skewered Phil with a look. “Say, the gap that would occur if a wife had come home right after the killer had fled, stumbled upon the scene, and for reasons of her own, took action against the laptop.”
“You mean a mysterious killer who fled through a heavily populated neighborhood and left no trace, no witnesses behind?”
“You’re a pain in the ass,” D.D. informed Phil.
“Thank you.” He helped himself to a fresh slice, no doubt thinking he’d earned it.
“Which brings us to the arsonist.” Flora spoke up, redirecting them. The woman looked tired, D.D. thought. She probably hadn’t slept since first seeing Conrad’s picture on TV. But she had acquitted herself well today.
“The suspected arsonist is a firebug. Obsessed with one thing only.”
“He’s not the shooter,” Quincy filled in.
“If it doesn’t involve flame, it would never hold his attention. His services are for hire, however.”
“The shooter employed the firebug to burn down the house in order to cover up any evidence he might have left behind,” Quincy said.
Flora nodded. Keith looked impressed by her new leading role. “Now, this arsonist, Rocket, isn’t exactly big-time muscle. More like a local kid with a reputation for playing with matches. He’s smart, though. Smarter than I originally gave him credit for. He’s never been caught or charged with a crime, so while his services are available for hire, how you learn about him . . .” Flora’s voice trailed off. She looked at Keith. “I was wondering about the dark web again. Earlier, you and SSA Quincy were discussing that Jacob was definitely using it. Evie says the images her husband had loaded up on his laptop were on an Onion site. This Rocket kid, how would someone know enough to hire him unless his . . . interests . . . appeared somewhere?”
“Entirely possible,” Keith said. “The dark web is a known clearinghouse for everything from drugs to weapons to, yes, illegal services. For that matter”—he addressed the group—“you can also find a gun for hire on the dark web.”
“Great,” D.D. muttered. Most major criminal enterprises had moved online. A good detective adjusted. She still missed the good old days, however, when the felons were up close and personal, versus a computer screen away.
Flora was shrugging. “Since I located Rocket in his own backyard, we conducted our business mano-a-mano. I got him to give me the location of the money exchange. I leave an initial deposit and target address. He picks up, then goes forth in fiery bliss.”
“You’re going to hire the arsonist?” Quincy asked with a frown. “Shouldn’t you just have arrested him and be grilling him for a description of his previous employer?”
D.D.’s turn: “Given his drop-box method, Rocket probably doesn’t know who hired him. Safer for him that way. What matters is the handoff location. Assuming it’s the same one he used last time, I’ve assigned two detectives to start tracking down all video surveillance in the area. Traffic cams, security systems, ATMs. If we’re lucky, the drop box itself is covered by a camera. If not, we know the same person has to visit the area twice—first time for deposit, then final payment, within a short span of time. Not the easiest parameters for ID’ing a potential suspect, but we’ve worked with less.
“All right.” D.D. looked around the room. “Phil, you’re on deck to follow up with the bank. Neil, Carol, the Jax sheriff’s department. Kimberly, you’ll keep us in the loop regarding codebreaker progress. Flora, your job is to get a good night’s sleep. Keith, I don’t actually know what the hell you’re doing, but the Inverness thing was good enough for now.”
“I’m still chasing some leads,” Keith said, completely straight-faced.
D.D. had nothing to say to that. She rose to standing. “Kimberly, you headed back to Atlanta?” Because the FBI agent could phone in any new findings.
But Quincy was already shaking her head. “Oh no. I’m staying. From what I can tell, this party is just getting started. And I’m not going to miss whatever happens next.”
CHAPTER 27
FLORA
KEITH AND I WALK OUT of HQ together. The sky above is pitch black, the horizon around us aglow with city lights. I have no sense of time. It feels like this night has been going on forever, but dark comes early in December, so it might be only eight
or nine P.M.
Keith has his computer bag slung over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets against the cold. I like to exhale and watch the cloud of steam. I don’t have a hat or gloves. I should be freezing, but I rarely notice such things. Sometimes I think rage is like a furnace, and I’ve been angry for so many years now, I’m perpetually heated from the inside out.
“I. N. Verness,” Keith states finally. He smiles, and I realize he’s happy. I’ve spent the day battling with demons from my past. But for Keith, this is simply a six-year-old puzzle that he’s finally cracked. I decide to be happy for him.
“What happens now?” he asks me.
I shrug. “We do what the sergeant recommended. Go home, get some sleep, see what tomorrow brings.”
“Do you sleep?” he asks, his voice genuinely curious.
“Not much.”
“Night terrors?”
“I don’t relax well.”
“Do they pay you to be a CI?”
I frown. “No. Should I be paid?” I never thought to ask, and now I wonder if I missed something obvious.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But . . . do you have a job?”
“This and that.”
“Focus issues?”
I sigh. He’s pissing me off. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it. People rarely meet survivors of major crimes, so of course they have a million questions, combined with an equal number of misperceptions. They assume I flinch at firecrackers or that I’m terrified of closed-in spaces. Or they once heard that I have a million dollars secreted away from a wealthy benefactor (maybe Oprah or Dr. Phil!) who was moved by my story.
I don’t have or do any of those things. Nor am I the type who wants to talk about it.
“What did you think of the day?” I ask him instead.
“Got off to a rough start—”
“Sergeant Warren doesn’t like anyone.”
“Good to know. But by the end, the breakthrough with the username . . .” He bounced up and down on his toes. “I’m excited. We’re going to solve this one. All these years later, we’re going to locate Jacob Ness’s lair and, hopefully, evidence of six missing women. Amazing.”