Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  It all seems like a very good plan. Till I knock hard on Keith Edgar’s door. And SSA Kimberly Quincy opens it.

  * * *

  —

  I FEEL IMMEDIATELY like I’m intruding on something, but I don’t know what. Quincy doesn’t say a word, merely opens the door wider. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me. Maybe after yesterday’s display, she thinks Keith and I are friends. Or more than friends.

  She’s wearing a pantsuit very similar to yesterday’s ensemble, except today she has a dark-green fitted top beneath the short black blazer. Sensible heels, I notice, as she leads the way to the back of Keith’s town house and I reluctantly follow.

  They are set up in the dining room at a sleek, dark wood table. I note Quincy’s long coat slung over the back of a chair, her computer bag occupying the seat. On the table, her computer is up and running, while across from her, Keith’s hunched over a laptop. It doesn’t look like his computer from yesterday. This machine is both larger and older-looking. I’m confused for a moment, then . . .

  “Is that?” I ask Quincy, staring at the computer in rapt fascination. Keith still doesn’t look up. He seems intent on avoiding me. That pleases me.

  “Ness’s actual computer? No. First rule of forensic analysis, you clone the hard drive so you’re never working on the original. Granted, we made this replicate six years ago, so some of the external scarring is authentic by now.”

  “You brought the machine to Keith?” I leave my next question hanging in the air. Why?

  “He seems to know a great deal about Jacob Ness, as well as computers. I have profilers who can give me the first half of that equation and geeks who can give me the second half, but as for one person with insight into both psychology and technology . . .”

  Quincy’s voice trails off. I scowl. I don’t want Keith to be that valuable to this investigation, never mind that I’m the one who involved him in the beginning.

  “The geeks cracked the password?”

  “We think. But that’s only a piece of the puzzle. Are you familiar with the dark web?”

  Quincy pulls out a chair, takes a seat without asking. Clearly it’s up to me to follow if I feel so inclined. Across from us, Keith continues to type furiously, scowling at the monitor. Briefly, the FBI agent’s gaze goes from me to him and back to me again. I don’t think much gets by her.

  “The evil underbelly of the internet,” I say. “Its haunted house.”

  “Good analogy. The typical online experience, or open web, features legitimate businesses, interests, services. The dark web . . . the less reputable sort. Illicit drugs. Firearms. Assassinations. And, yes, human trafficking.”

  I take a seat.

  Quincy leans forward. “One of our issues with Ness’s computer was how clean it initially appeared. His use of SteadyState meant that every time he rebooted his computer, it automatically deleted any traces of websites he may have visited or content he downloaded.”

  I nod.

  “Even knowing he must’ve been visiting the dark web—given the Tor browser—we couldn’t make any headway with the one username we had. Keith and you, however, cracked that nut for us yesterday when you helped determine Jacob’s ‘real’ username, so to speak.”

  “I. N. Verness,” I fill in. “But you still need a password.”

  “To access sites on the dark web, absolutely. Which meant we were thrilled at four this morning when codebreaking software finally churned out the magic answer. Better yet, like a lot of people, Jacob seems to have reused the same password over and over again. Meaning now, a mere six years later, that computer right there, our Ness clone, is currently logged in to several markets and forums on the dark web. Hallelujah!”

  Keith looks up briefly at Quincy, nodding in acknowledgment. The glance he throws my way is harder to interpret. Sullen? Hurt?

  “But here’s where it gets tricky,” Quincy continues. “Even if we could re-create every IP address Ness ever visited six years ago, the internet—open or dark—changes all the time. Basically, we’ve finally arrived in the right country. But all the roads and landmarks are different. We have no idea where to go or what to do next.”

  “So what’s he doing?” I ask, gesturing to Keith. “Learning the landscape?”

  “Actually, I have other techs mapping out the terrain; one of them is an expert on the dark web and is continuing to cross-check Jacob’s username with all the pages we know would appeal to a subject with his tastes.”

  “Porn, prostitution, human trafficking,” I provide.

  “Keith, on the other hand, I gave a different task. He’s basically . . . wandering around. Seeing if he can get anyone else to approach with directions.”

  I don’t understand right away; then it comes to me. “This is the first time I. N. Verness has been logged on in six years,” I say slowly. “You’re waiting to see if someone who used to do business with him, or hang out in a chat room with him, recognizes the name and initiates contact.”

  “Precisely. To the best of our knowledge, Ness kept his online identity secret, even from his fellow surfers. Meaning they don’t know I. N. Verness was Jacob Ness or that Jacob is dead. They’re simply seeing a visit from a long-lost guest.”

  “Won’t the six-year gap scare them off? I mean, why now?”

  “Fortunately, given that a lot of the activity on the dark web is illegal, it’s easy to imply Verness spent the last few years in prison. Just got out. Not a new or interesting story, given the company. And of course, as someone who’s been incarcerated, he’s trying to get his bearings again.”

  I can’t help myself. I move around the table and peer over Keith’s shoulder. Up close, I can smell the scent of Keith’s shampoo, see the ends of his hair still damp from his morning shower. I also sense the tension through his shoulders. My own stomach has tightened, as if readying for a blow.

  I turn my attention to the screen. I’m not sure what I expected, but this appears so . . . banal.

  “There are hundreds, if not thousands, of portals within the dark web,” Keith says now, his fingers still moving as he scrolls down a screen too fast for my eyes to follow all the content. “One of the most famous, the Silk Road, was run by the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

  “Princess Bride,” I murmur.

  “Jacob Ness wasn’t the only felon who prided himself on being clever.”

  “This page,” I say, “it looks so boring.” White background, menu items running down the side, with innocuous-sounding labels. Small photos of goods I have to squint to see, paired with brief descriptions. Frankly, it reminds me of scrolling through any old e-commerce site.

  Keith has already moved on to another page, is scrolling rapidly. I don’t know how he can take in data that fast. But then, my skill sets have always been more hands-on. And while I had a passing knowledge of things like the dark web, I’d never tried to visit or analyze it myself. I didn’t have the computer expertise. Plus, I genuinely worried the stark reality of such a platform would completely overwhelm me. I had enough sleepless nights patrolling Boston. An entire virtual world of predators . . . Even I knew I couldn’t take it.

  “Post–Silk Road, these sites had to learn to be more careful. Many now appear exactly like a normal retail page.”

  “Obviously.”

  “There are backdoor portals that get you to the real page. Even then, sales items often appear under clever labels—hardware for guns, or you may have a prescription meds site that at first blush is completely legit, except if you click on the photo of aspirin, the jpeg file is much larger than it should be.”

  “Data is hidden in the photo. There’s a term for that . . .” I search my mind.

  “Steganography. Not all dark websites bother. But marketplaces dealing with child porn, human trafficking—”

  “Jacob’s kind of places,” I fill in.

  Keith looks at
me. “They have the highest security features in place. They have to. They’re hated even by other criminals who’d turn on them in a hot second. Which, of course, makes our job of retracing Jacob’s virtual footprints that much more challenging. It’s not just that he was walking around in bad neighborhoods, so to speak; he was touring the most sordid, dangerous back alleys possible, where everyone is suspicious and taking extra precautions.”

  I’m confused. “Given all that, how would Jacob even learn of such marketplaces? Know that clicking on this photo actually gets him that pornographic image? Is there like a web version of street smarts?”

  “Welcome to forums—or chat rooms as some people call them. Ness had to belong to at least one to learn all the things he learned. Unfortunately, given the paranoia of the members of the more twisted forums, learning who, what, when, where, how, and why is that much more difficult.”

  “So what are you doing?”

  “The dark web is a competitive marketplace, right? Illegal or not, the goal is still to make money. Hence customer reviews, rating systems, everything.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m hoping one of Jacob’s past business associates will find us. Start a private chat in a pop-up window, hey we haven’t seen you in ninety days, welcome back with a free thirty-day trial . . .”

  “Business is business,” I murmur. I nod slowly. “You don’t know all the forums Jacob visited or the members he might’ve ‘chatted’ with. So if you can’t go to them, you’re hoping one of them will come to you.”

  “Exactly. You said Jacob used a lot of drugs.”

  I nod.

  “Those e-commerce sites have less security, believe it or not, so might be one place to start. But I think those deals had to be local, because to order off the dark web Jacob would need a PO box for delivery. Given his life on the road, always going from state to state . . .”

  “He had mail sent to his mom’s house.”

  “Exactly. Meaning he’d have to return there every time he needed a fix; and we know he didn’t go there that often. As an illegal consumer, what other items would Jacob have been into?”

  “Porn. And not child porn. But more like everyday porn.” I grimace in distaste at the distinction. I tap the screen, where new images have appeared. “Wait. Is that what this is? But it looks like a gardening catalogue? Aren’t those photos of different kinds of daffodils?”

  Keith glances up. His expression is faintly apologetic.

  “It’s awful,” he says.

  I stare at the screen. “You said only the really terrible sites relied on steganography. The ones even other predators hate.”

  “It’s awful,” he repeats.

  Meaning those daffodils aren’t really daffodils. Young girls? Images of children for sale? He’s right; the possibilities are too awful to consider. I sink down into the chair beside him. Just as a pop-up window appears on the screen.

  Keith straightens, looks over the laptop monitor to Quincy. “We have contact.”

  The FBI agent marches over, takes up a position behind Keith’s shoulder.

  She reads the message, nods in grim satisfaction, then takes out her iPhone. She aims it at the screen and hits video.

  “All right,” she says. “Let’s play.”

  CHAPTER 31

  EVIE

  MR. DELANEY INSISTED UPON DRIVING. I couldn’t decide if he thought a woman in my delicate condition shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car, or if he was just one of those guys who had to be in control.

  I had wanted to meet with Dr. Martin Hoffman, the department chair during my father’s tenure at Harvard. My mother had implied he’d know all my father’s associates, so I thought he’d be the best place to start. Unfortunately, he hadn’t answered his phone. I’d left a message but then decided I was too antsy to wait. I’d dialed Katarina Ivanova next, locating her office number on the department website. Interestingly enough, she’d answered and, after a moment’s hesitation, had agreed—rather coolly, I thought—to meet with me.

  I had looked up her photo online. She was indeed beautiful, thick, wavy locks of hair, darkly lashed eyes, golden skin. Everything my platinum-blond mother wasn’t.

  Personally, Katarina’s photo sparked few reactions for me. Vaguely familiar. I probably had met her at one of the Friday poker parties. But I couldn’t bring any specific memory to mind. Just the mildly shocked reaction that such a gorgeous woman was a Harvard math professor, an ironic generalization from a fellow female math geek who should know better. Just because I complain about the system doesn’t mean I’m immune to it.

  Now Mr. Delaney and I drive through Cambridge in comfortable silence. The Harvard campus isn’t far at all, a matter of miles. Given the narrow, congested streets of Cambridge, it’s probably a faster walk than a drive. But this time of year, with the frigid temps and slushy sidewalks, driving it is.

  We make it another creeping half a mile; then I just can’t help myself:

  “Are you and my mom seeing each other?”

  Mr. Delaney takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me an arched brow. The car in front of him stops short for a pedestrian darting across the street. Mr. Delaney slams on his brakes, then throws up an arm as if to keep me from flying through the windshield. I’m wearing my seat belt, not to mention we’re barely moving, but I appreciate the protective instinct.

  “Why do you ask?” he finally says.

  “Why don’t you answer?” I counter, having seen the lawyer at work before. “I’m not saying I care. I just want to know.”

  “Your mother’s a beautiful woman,” he concedes at last.

  I nod in encouragement. Mr. Delaney and my mother. The more I think about it, the more I don’t mind. It’s good for my mother to have someone in her life. I know better than anyone that my father had been her entire world. The years since have been rough for her. I’m glad she has someone like Mr. Delaney in her life.

  “I would be honored to be in a relationship with her,” Mr. Delaney continues now, “if I was the kind of guy interested in a relationship with a beautiful woman.”

  It takes a moment for me to register what he has just said. The car ahead of us begins to move again. We edge forward. I feel like my head is in spin cycle, my brain the image of the whirling symbol on a smartphone as it struggles to load content. Wait a minute. Does that mean?

  Suddenly, with a little click, I get everything I never truly noticed before. The incredibly handsome man beside me who never married, never had children of his own. Flirted shamelessly with every female in the room but never arrived or left with any one woman on his arm. I had watched ladies’ interest in him and, given his charming smiles, assumed he was a player of the highest order. But again, for my entire childhood, then adulthood, no girlfriend, no serious relationship.

  I feel ridiculously stupid.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He smiles gently. “It’s not something I talk about. My parents weren’t exactly open-minded on the subject.”

  “Haven’t they passed away?”

  “Old habits die hard. Close friends and associates know my preferences, but it’s not something I advertise.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say again.

  “Whatever for?”

  “Because . . . Because you shouldn’t have to say who you are. You shouldn’t have to feel self-conscious. And you shouldn’t have to explain yourself to an idiot like me. Not that I care,” I hasten to add, then realize that came out wrong. “I care about you,” I correct. “I don’t care about who you date.”

  “As long as it’s not your mother?” he asks slyly.

  “Ha. Please tell me I don’t have to ask about my father.” I roll my eyes, clearly joking.

  The look he gives me has me going wide-eyed.

  “What? Wait! No way.”

  He starts to laugh, a
nd just like that, I know he’s played me. Good God, I have to start sleeping more, because every time I think I’m starting to understand my family, my worldview gets turned upside down again.

  “Both my parents knew?” I ask, trying to regain my bearings.

  “I understood who I was by the time I got to college. Your father figured it out first. As I said, it wasn’t something I advertised. His complete and total acceptance was very dear to me, at a time in my life when I was still struggling to be comfortable with myself.”

  I almost say I’m sorry again, then catch myself.

  “Your mother . . . She toyed with me for months. Had eyes only for your father, of course, but felt a need to keep me in the mix, most likely in an attempt to make him jealous. We didn’t bother to correct her. It was too much fun to watch her work. I believe when I finally broke the news, she slapped me—for lying—then hugged me in sheer relief that there was a good reason I hadn’t yet succumbed to her charms. Your mother is a complicated woman.”

  “Tell me about it,” I mutter.

  “She does love you.”

  I shrug. “She is the sun. She will always be the sun. I can only orbit around her, and sometimes, that’s really draining.”

  “She is who she is, just as I am who I am.”

  “Is that what the three of you had in common? My mother, who needs what she needs, whether she wants to or not. My father, whose brain worked the way it worked whether he wanted it to or not. And you, who preferred who you preferred, whether you wanted to or not.”

  “The three misfits,” Mr. Delaney concedes.

  It’s hard for me to think of my parents that way. My father had always been the genius, while my mother has always been the gorgeous hostess, every frosted strand of hair. Add to that Mr. Delaney, the silver fox himself, one of the best criminal defense attorneys in Boston . . .

  But before all of that, they were kids. Given my own awkward years, is it really so strange to think they had their own?