Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  “And the fire was Wednesday afternoon?”

  “Yeah. I think we caught him picking up the target address and down payment. So now we’re going forward to late Wednesday evening/early Thursday morning to see when he picks up his final payment. Once we have that, we have two opportunities to catch Rocket’s client—either when the suspect first leaves the address or when he drops off the final payment. It’s taking a bit, though. Footage is dark and grainy. Combine that with random people bumbling about, and there are a lot of visuals to sort through. Hell, I think I’ve already ID’d several drug buys. It’s not a quiet area.”

  “Smart thinking on Rocket’s part. That much activity, his own comings and goings hardly matter.”

  “The kid’s been a known firebug for most of his life. I doubt anyone in the neighborhood messes with him. Anyone who likes to burn things for sport is best left alone.”

  “He’s got a reputation.”

  “He has a reputation in certain circles. Word-on-the-street sort of thing. Your CI might have been on to something last night. Rocket’s hardly big-time. Meaning our shooter is either local, or Rocket already knows enough to advertise on places like the big bad web. Hell, even the mob has gone cyber. It’s sad, really. Pretty soon, the department will be staffed by virtual cops programmed to ID virtual criminals. Where’s the fun in that?”

  D.D. rolled her eyes. “Given that we’re not computer programs just yet, find me video of whoever hired Rocket the arsonist. A drop box is an old-fashioned system that will hopefully get us old-fashioned results. Sooner versus later, I might add. Now, Carol and Neil?”

  “In the conference room. They’ve been working on Conrad Carter’s background all night.” Phil eyed her remaining coffee. “Make sure you keep one of those for yourself. By the time they’re done, you’re gonna need it.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN D.D. WALKED into the room, Neil and Carol were just hanging up the department’s speakerphone. They both appeared jazzed.

  D.D. handed over coffees and took a seat. “All right, what’dya got?”

  “Homicide, definitely. Conrad’s parents’ vehicle was run off the road shortly after eight P.M. One moment they’re driving home from a local restaurant along a well-known route, next their car is rolling down an embankment into a canal. They were dead upon impact.” Carol shook her head.

  “Witnesses? Leads?” D.D. asked.

  “Nada,” Neil supplied. “We just spoke to Detective Russ Ange from the JSO; he personally worked with Bill Conner and has been investigating the MVA on and off for years. Road was rural, no cameras, but Ange is sure it was foul play due to damage on the rear fender consistent with impact. Height of the damage indicates a large vehicle, say, a truck or SUV. No paint, however, so maybe a chrome bumper. Unfortunately, there are a lotta trucks and SUVs in Jacksonville; without any witnesses, it’s been difficult to get any traction in the case.”

  “Surely he’s looked at Conner’s active investigations? Suspects, criminals the detective has come into contact with over the years and had reason to hold a grudge.”

  “Detective Conner had a couple dozen open cases at the time,” Carol reported. “Two are worth noting: First, a significant domestic abuse case. Asshole husband, rich, entitled, kept beating up his wife and, given that he was rich and entitled, didn’t think her restraining order should apply to him. Situation had been going on for months. Detective Conner had taken a personal interest, meeting with the wife several times. Week prior to the accident, asshole husband showed up again, drunk, enraged, tried to break into the house. Detective Conner arrived at the scene. He and asshole had an exchange. Asshole ended up in the slammer for the night, with a black eye, and none too happy about it.”

  “Detective Conner punched the man?” D.D. asked in surprise.

  “In self-defense,” Neil clarified. “Husband took a swing at Detective Conner first.”

  “Okay,” D.D. said. “But one way or another, I’m taking it the rich husband didn’t care for some local cop’s intervention into his self-perceived right to beat his wife?”

  “Exactly.” Carol this time. “Apparently, the husband, Jules LaPage, yelled some pretty nasty threats at Detective Conner during his arrest. Unfortunately, LaPage owned a Porsche, not a truck. Jacksonville detectives couldn’t find any evidence he borrowed or rented a second vehicle. On the other hand, LaPage had no alibi either, so he hasn’t been ruled out as a person of interest in the Conners’ murders.”

  “What happened to LaPage?” D.D. asked.

  “He violated the restraining order two weeks after Detective Conner’s death. Shot his wife in the face. She lived. Barely. LaPage is now a long-term resident of the state. Still a smug bastard, though. According to Detective Ange, LaPage spends his days filing appeal after appeal. Ange believes it’s only a matter of time before LaPage finds the loophole or uncovers the technicality necessary to overturn his conviction. LaPage has unlimited time and resources. Not like the JSO can say the same.”

  “What happened to the wife?” Because Detective Ange was right, anyone with enough determination and money could often beat the system. If Jules LaPage had been angry and arrogant enough to take out the cop standing in his way, there was no telling what he might do upon discovering the detective’s son was still investigating the case all these years later. Which also made her more and more curious about what exactly Conrad Carter had been doing in his free time.

  “Courtesy of the gunshot to her left jaw, Monica LaPage had to undergo several rounds of reconstructive surgery. She testified with the bandages still on, then took her new face and fled the state. General consensus is, the moment LaPage gets out of prison he’ll go after her again.”

  D.D. made several notes. “Is anyone from the sheriff’s office still in contact with her?”

  Neil shook his head. “No, but according to Detective Ange, if she’d stayed in touch with anyone, it would’ve been Detective Conner.”

  “Does Ange know where she is?”

  Neil shook his head again. “No, and Ange was pretty blunt that it was in Monica’s own best interest to keep it that way. A man with LaPage’s money can buy a lot of information, including from underpaid public servants.”

  “Meaning the sheriff’s office itself could become the weak link. Has Ange heard from Conrad about the case?”

  “According to Ange, immediately after his parents’ death, Conrad spent a lot of time at the JSO, talking to various detectives who’d worked with his father. He asked about all his father’s active cases. Basically, like we just did.”

  “And presumably got the same answers?”

  Neil cleared his throat. “Detective to detective, Ange let it slip they may have made some copies of . . . pertinent details . . . for Conrad. Bill Conner was the kid’s dad after all.”

  D.D. arched a brow. In other words, the detectives at the JSO had duplicated case files for their friend’s son. A definite procedural no-no and yet . . . Detectives were people, too. And sometimes, particularly after a hard loss, the rules mattered less than justice. Detective Conner’s fellow investigators wanted it, and by the sound of it, his son, too. “So Conrad was actively investigating his parents’ deaths?”

  “Definitely.”

  “To the extent he took on an alias and ran away to Massachusetts?” D.D. murmured, then corrected herself. “Or discovered something dangerous enough, he had no choice but to get out of town?”

  “Detective Ange had no idea Conrad was living under an assumed name in Massachusetts,” Carol reported. “He says he heard from Conrad often in the beginning, but it’s now been years. He assumed Conrad had moved on with his life. Ange also thought that was healthy and exactly what his parents would’ve wanted.”

  “So if Conrad was still investigating his parents’ deaths, he was doing it on his own?” D.D. frowned. “But how did that bring him to
a bar with Jacob Ness?”

  “Second case of note,” Carol spoke up.

  “Two missing persons cases. Both female, white. One eighteen, in Florida visiting friends when she never made it home from the local bar. That girl, Tina Maracle, liked to party, so some debate whether she was truly missing or had just chosen to move on. Maracle had family in Georgia, however, and none of them had heard from her. While they may not have been the closest family in the world, three months without contact was unusual and they firmly believed something bad had happened.”

  “And the second girl?” D.D. asked, because this was interesting. Keith Edgar might have been on to something yesterday when he’d asked if Conrad’s father had crossed paths with Jacob Ness. As Flora had pointed out, just because Ness hadn’t made the FBI’s radar screen didn’t mean he was on good behavior. He probably had been actively abducting and raping young women. As someone who grew up in Florida, he would’ve been familiar with Jacksonville, and many predators started out close to home, before venturing farther afield.

  “Second missing woman is Sandi Clipfell, age nineteen, who waitressed at McGoo’s Tavern. Her shift ended at two A.M. Her habit was to walk home to her apartment just down the road. But that night, she never made it. According to her roommates, she was the steady type. Didn’t necessarily love being a waitress but was saving up her money to go to school to become a dental hygienist. Sandi Clipfell didn’t have local family but had worked at McGoo’s for an entire year. Always on time, very reliable. She’d recently broken up with a short-term boyfriend but didn’t sound like there was much drama there, plus, he had an alibi for the night in question. He also said she wasn’t the type to simply cut and run. If she’d tired of her job, she would’ve given notice and settled up with her roommates before moving on.”

  “Any leads?” D.D. asked.

  “At the time, Detective Conner was investigating regulars at both bars—looking for overlap between people who frequented McGoo’s, where Sandi worked, and guys at the White Dog Tavern, where Tina Maracle was last seen. Detective Ange has continued to work the case since, and finally got a hit: A registered sex offender was in McGoo’s the night Sandi disappeared, by the name of Mitchell Paulson. When Ange went to bring him in for questioning, however, the apartment was cleared out, and Paulson long gone. Ange put out an APB, but trail’s been cold ever since.”

  “Did Paulson own a vehicle?” D.D. asked.

  “A late-model Dodge Ram truck,” Neil answered. “Bit of a beater. Could’ve had damage to the front bumper. No one would notice.”

  D.D. frowned. “Does Ange think he’s the one who ran Detective Conner off the road?”

  Neil and Carol both shrugged. “According to Detective Ange”—Carol spoke up first—“he’s always suspected the abusive husband, LaPage. The accident seemed low-down and sneaky, exactly the kind of thing LaPage would do, plus, he definitely had a personal grudge against Detective Conner. Then again, something had to spook sex offender Paulson to make him violate his parole and split town. Meaning maybe he caught wind of Conner’s investigation. And maybe that scared him enough to take the extra step of eliminating the detective working the case.”

  “Does Paulson have a history of violence?” D.D. asked.

  Neil shook his head. “Just a thing for sixteen-year-old girls.”

  “The missing women are eighteen and nineteen. That’s not exactly sixteen,” D.D. pointed out.

  “Ange doesn’t claim to have all the answers; just a lot of questions, which apparently he shared with Conrad shortly after his parents’ deaths.”

  “But he hasn’t been in contact with Conrad in the past few years?” D.D. eyed her detectives. “Do you believe him?”

  “Ange claims he wasn’t that close to Conrad,” Carol offered. “There was another detective, Dan Cain, who’d worked with Conrad’s father for years, came over regularly for cookouts, that kind of thing. Ange’s guess is that if Conrad was still in touch with anyone in the department, it would be Cain. He retired shortly after Detective Conner’s death, but he’s still around. Ange will track him down, then get us his contact info.”

  D.D. regarded both of her detectives for a moment. “So what do you think?” she asked them.

  Neil answered immediately. “I think Conrad was investigating his parents’ death. Meaning he was pursuing an incarcerated criminal with a lot of resources at his disposal, as well as a registered sex offender who may have been involved in the disappearance of two women.”

  “Not work for the faint of heart,” D.D. said.

  Carol took over. “LaPage, the asshole ex, knew Detective Conrad had a son. Apparently Conrad’s real name was included in newspaper articles covering his parents’ deaths. Given LaPage’s threats against his father . . .”

  “Conrad may have felt he needed to leave the area, even change his name?”

  “All the better to protect himself while launching his own inquiry,” Neil commented.

  “But he never told his wife?” D.D. asked.

  Carol shrugged. “Maybe he thought he was protecting her. According to Ange, LaPage is still working on his release and is still a rich asshole. Let alone, prison isn’t exactly a stopgap. If anything, think of all the violent offenders LaPage has probably met over the past decade and offered money to, if only they’ll do him one little favor upon their release . . .”

  D.D. nodded. Somehow, prison seemed to be a breeding ground for criminal enterprise. Ironically enough, the county had probably increased LaPage’s access to illicit resources.

  Conrad’s decision to move north and live under an assumed name was starting to make more sense to her. But it still didn’t tell any of them what had led to his murder Tuesday night.

  Photos of abused girls on his computer screen. The last thing Conrad had been looking at before being shot. Like Conrad’s meeting with Jacob Ness, possession of such images could go either way. Conrad was either part of the problem, a sexual predator himself, or some lone-wolf operative, trying to make a difference.

  D.D. knew who she wanted him to be, especially for his wife and unborn child’s sake, but that didn’t make it so.

  “You think whoever shot Carter three nights ago might be the same person who ran his parents off the road?” Carol asked now.

  D.D. shrugged. “We don’t know what we don’t know. We’re just going to have to keep following the questions wherever they take us.”

  “Pretty damn scary ride,” Neil murmured.

  “Which apparently Conrad had been living for a long, long time. Find this retired JSO detective Dan Cain.”

  Both detectives nodded.

  “And let’s start digging into the missing sex offender, and what the hell, LaPage’s terrified wife. But that inquiry—”

  “Strictly on the QT,” Neil filled in for her.

  “Our best assumption: Conrad’s father once got too close. Then, years later, his son, going down the same path . . .”

  “Met the same fate. We need to find this bastard,” Carol said.

  “Agreed. Because whoever it is, the guy figured out Conrad’s alias. Meaning he also knows about Conrad’s wife and unborn child. And once you’ve killed three, what are two more?”

  CHAPTER 30

  FLORA

  I CAN’T SLEEP. ALL NIGHT long I’m plagued by terrible dreams where I’m running frantically down long corridors, only to turn the corner and find Jacob standing there. Except it’s not Jacob, it’s Keith Edgar, and he’s telling me he’ll take care of everything, which sends me careening away, running even faster.

  I never make it to bed. I collapse on my sofa, where my legs twitch and my eyes keep flying open and I bolt upright like some demented jack-in-the-box.

  My past and present have collided. I honestly can’t figure out where old ghosts end and new demons begin. Is Keith Edgar just some computer genius who, due to a family tragedy, h
as a true-crime obsession similar to my own? Or is he too good to be true? The handsome guy who’s been writing to me continuously since the day I came home, studying and perfecting the right thing to say so that one day, when we finally meet in person . . .

  How many true-crime aficionados would love to brag they have Flora Dane as their girlfriend? Or maybe he is something darker, more sinister? The guy who got into studying killers because everything about murder fascinates him? In which case, could there be any bigger coup than claiming Flora Dane as his first victim?

  I’m being selfish, arrogant. Assuming I’m worth so much. Yet, total strangers stop me on the street to say, Hey, aren’t you that girl, and, Why didn’t you run away the first time he left you alone, and, Doesn’t that mean you must’ve liked him at least a little bit? Sicko men write marriage proposals. Others think I’m the only one who can truly understand them.

  Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

  At six A.M. I give up. Shower. Leave a message for my boss at the pizza parlor, claiming to be deathly ill and apologizing for missing my shift yesterday. Given how I feel, I’m not totally lying. This is the other thing I resent about Keith Edgar. Him and his whole you can be anything. What a load of shit.

  If I could do better, don’t you think I would’ve by now? Instead of hanging out in a triple-locked apartment plastered with articles about missing persons cases. I’m not even a good pizza employee. And I don’t want to write a tell-all novel or sell the movie rights or exploit my situation to make a quick buck.

  Sure, I help other survivors. I assist the police. But six years later, I’m mostly still me, seeing monsters everywhere, and training every day to kill them.

  I hate Keith Edgar all over again. Him and his elitist club and his quiet competence, which seems to argue you can fight predators and still lead an almost-normal-looking life.

  I decide we need to talk. Which is why I grab my favorite down jacket, fill the pockets with all my latest tricks, then, hunching my shoulders against the cold, trudge down to the T station in Harvard Square.