Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  “Do you want to know another secret?” Mr. Delaney asks me.

  “Yes!”

  “Back in those days, I was a complete reprobate.”

  “A wild child?”

  “They say inside every criminal defense lawyer is an excellent criminal, hence our ability to be so good at our jobs. I met your father outside a bar, brawling with another student.”

  “You were fighting? Like punching and hitting?” I take in his three-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater and can’t picture it.

  “Please, I was winning.” His tone turns dry. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

  “Umm . . . Why were you fighting?”

  “I don’t even remember. Back then, I didn’t need much of an excuse. Hot Irish temper. A great deal of misplaced rage. A need, I think, to prove myself a man in the more elemental ways, since there was one fundamental way I could not.”

  I can’t help myself. “I’m sorry.”

  “All before your time. And everyone has to spend their days young and stupid. Otherwise we’d never figure out how to grow up.”

  “My father didn’t mind you beating up the other kid?”

  “The other student had been heckling him in the bar. Your father was so awkwardly cute about trying to thank me for taking down his tormentor, how could I resist when he offered to buy me a beer?”

  Now I’m not so certain about Mr. Delaney and my father anymore, and I’m not sure just how many new visions of my childhood I can take.

  He smiles at me. We are at the campus, looping around it. From here we’ll have no choice but to park and walk our way to Dr. Ivanova’s office.

  “I did have a crush on your father. In the very beginning. He may have known it, too. It was always hard to tell with him. Your father came across as socially awkward, disconnected. But later, if you asked him questions about an evening, a person, a situation . . . The things he saw. I used to catch my breath at the sheer stunning clarity of his insights. And I would wonder what a burden it had to be to see everyone, everything, so exactly.”

  “He saw me,” I hear myself whisper. I look down at my lap. “He knew I was an awkward child, and no matter how many forced tea parties my mother arranged, I’d never belong with my own peers. He knew how much I needed the piano, something that was mine. He knew how much I needed him.”

  “Earl loved you very much.”

  “My father loved all of us very much.”

  Mr. Delaney smiles sadly, turns into the parking garage. “I can honestly say, he was one of the great loves of my life. And there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t miss him.”

  Looking at his face, I believe him.

  * * *

  —

  DR. KATARINA IVANOVA glances up from her desk as I walk into her office. She looks older than in her website photo. Thicker around the face. She also doesn’t look happy to see me. Her expression sours further when Mr. Delaney appears behind me.

  Her office is small, nothing special. Linoleum floors, no windows, fluorescent lights.

  She rises from behind her desk. She’s wearing a dark cranberry-colored wool wrap dress that flatters her lush figure and rich hair. Clearly, Dr. Ivanova feels no need to apologize for being one of the only female professors in the math department. I want to like her for that, but her wariness has set me on edge. I’m already not sure I want to learn more about her—her and my father.

  “Evelyn Hopkins?” she says, calling me by my maiden name.

  I don’t correct her. I’m here about my father, so when I’d called, using the name Hopkins had made more sense.

  “Dick,” she says, nodding toward Mr. Delaney. If I hadn’t just had such a revealing conversation with my father’s closest friend, I’d be forming assumptions about how well Dr. Ivanova and Mr. Delaney are acquainted. Now I have no idea.

  I take a seat. After a moment, Mr. Delaney joins me. Then the three of us stare at one another. Now that I’m here, I don’t know what I’m trying to ask. What I need to learn.

  “I have some questions about my father,” I say at last.

  “You said as much by phone.” Dr. Ivanova has resumed her place behind the desk. She leans forward and plants both elbows on the clear surface. It thrusts her chest forward and, given the line of her dress, reveals quite a bit of cleavage. I wonder if this is to distract Mr. Delaney, or if Dr. Ivanova is one of those women who’s used her looks as a weapon for so long, she’s not even aware she’s doing it.

  I open my mouth to tell her the police have reopened his death investigation, then, at the last moment, change my mind. I’m not an expert in police work, but I know from watching countless cop shows that I shouldn’t give too much away. If this woman did have something to do with my father’s death, the fresh investigation into his murder would put her on guard. No need to go there just yet.

  Then again, the real killer knows I didn’t shoot my father. The real killer knows I’ve been lying for sixteen years. Is there something I can do with that?

  Suddenly, I have a plan.

  “You’ve seen me on the news?” I ask now, keeping my voice deliberately calm.

  “You were arrested for shooting your husband.”

  “I didn’t do it. Mr. Delaney, my lawyer.” I nod in his direction.

  Dr. Ivanova sneers slightly. Definitely no love lost there.

  “He will have this cleared up soon enough,” I continue. “In the meantime, I’m pregnant. Homeless.”

  She arches a brow.

  “Oh, didn’t you hear? My house burned down the other night.”

  Slowly, she shakes her head. Her expression remains shuttered. I’m not surprising her, and yet she’s clearly feeling defensive.

  “I’m suffering a reversal of financial fortune,” I say, leaving out this morning’s abrupt news about the trust fund. “I would like to remedy that situation.”

  She stares at me long and hard. She really is stunning. I could see my father finding her attractive. Her choice of dress alone hinted at an adventurousness no one would ever accuse my mother of. But would he stray? I always thought of my mother and him as being so much in love. Yet, like all couples, they had their differences. Then I have another, stranger thought.

  If Conrad had met this woman, would he have strayed? Did he stray? Fake IDs, bricks of cash. How would infidelity even rate after that level of betrayal? But just the thought of it leaves me feeling slightly breathless.

  Something must have shown in my eyes because Dr. Ivanova frowns at me. “I do not know what you are implying.”

  “He loved you.” I keep it simple.

  I score a hit. There, in her eyes. The words she wanted to hear. What all women want to hear.

  “He never would’ve left my mother for you, but he loved you.”

  She glances away, but not before I see the sheen of emotion in her eyes. Beside me, Mr. Delaney says nothing. He’s letting me run the show, unspooling secrets no doubt he already knows.

  Sure enough: “Did you tell her?” She turns on him abruptly.

  “She was a child. Of course not.”

  “Then how—”

  “I’m not a child anymore. I’m a grown woman. Married. Widowed. I don’t need to be told how the world works.”

  “What do you want?” she repeats.

  “I know what you did. I covered for you all these years. The least you could do is repay the favor.”

  She scowls at me. “I don’t know—”

  “The police are reopening the investigation into my father’s death.”

  Her eyes grow wide.

  “In light of my husband’s death, they have new suspicions they want to pursue.”

  “You didn’t shoot your father accidentally.”

  “I didn’t shoot him at all. And we both know it.”

  “What?” She sits bac
ks from her desk abruptly. She appears genuinely shocked, which gives me pause. So far, I’ve been reenacting my own episode of Law & Order. Except in my script, now was the moment she confessed. Not stared at me in confusion.

  “I know what really happened in the kitchen that day,” I double down. “My mother was distraught. The truth would’ve further destroyed her. So I lied to protect her. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t keep some evidence of my own.”

  “You are ridiculous.”

  “Hair often gets left behind at crime scenes. Especially long dark strands. Embedded in so much blood.”

  She pales. Beside me, Mr. Delaney flinches slightly.

  “The police can still run them.”

  “They won’t believe you. You shot your husband. They know you for who you are.”

  “I didn’t shoot my husband. I shot the computer. And the police believe me.”

  Now she’s just plain confused. I don’t blame her. I’m trying to keep her off balance. Turns out, I’m pretty good at this.

  “Who shot your husband?” she asks bluntly.

  “Who burned down my house?” I ask back.

  She shakes her head, clearly starting to think I’m losing it. I need to wrap this up before she finds all the holes in the tale I’m haphazardly weaving.

  “I know what you did,” I state again. “I have evidence. But I’m also a woman down on her luck. Meaning, for the right price, I can make it all go away.”

  Now Mr. Delaney does turn and stare at me. Is he impressed or appalled? I don’t have the courage to glance at him to find out.

  “I do not know what you think you know.” Dr. Ivanova scowls at me. “But I did not shoot your father. Yes, I slept with the man. He was handsome and brilliant. But I did not expect him to leave your mother. Nor did I want him to. He was much too old for me, and I have no need for marriage. I much prefer my life this way.”

  “But you two fought.”

  “We did not. We were two grown adults. We had appetites. We were greedy and then it was done. Well, except, of course, your mother found out. She was not happy with him. Though clearly it was not the first time she had learned such things. Your father worried for a bit. She was angrier than usual. What did he call it? ‘The straw that broke the donkey’s back.’”

  “The straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  “Yes, that. When I heard Earl had been shot, I assumed his wife had done it.”

  “My mother was with me.”

  For the first time, Dr. Ivanova smiles. It is a feline expression. “Please, your mother would never dirty her hands like that. And I’ve always thought she is much smarter than your father gave her credit for.” Ivanova waves a hand at me, gesturing that she is done with me. “You do not have anything. If the police come, I will tell them the truth. Your father and I were lovers, a very long time ago. Then we were not, also a very long time ago. I do not shoot my exes. Frankly, I couldn’t afford that many bullets.”

  She gives me a blatant stare. And just like that, my crime solving is done. She’s won. I’ve lost. Game over.

  I rise to standing, surprised to find that my legs are shaky. To be honest, I believe Katarina’s claim that she had no reason to kill my father. Now I have doubts about my mother instead, which is worse.

  I want to get as far away from here as possible. This morning has been disorienting. Maybe children aren’t meant to know their parents this well. Maybe no one should look too hard at their childhood memories.

  Mr. Delaney also rises to his feet. As I head for the door, he hesitates. I hear him murmur something to Dr. Ivanova. Maybe a final, parting barb. Whatever it is, she hisses in response, clearly unhappy with him.

  I don’t care anymore. I just want to get back to the car. And then what? Return to my mother’s house? Watch her mix more martinis in the kitchen? Or ask her, finally, point-blank after all these years: Did you arrange for Dad to die?

  I’m doubting things I don’t want to doubt. And seeing things I don’t want to see.

  As we step outside the building, into the harsh chill of mid-December, Mr. Delaney’s cell phone rings. He answers it crisply. “Delaney. Yes. Excuse me? What did you say?”

  His footsteps immediately pick up. I’m rushing to keep up with him when he ends the call, pockets his phone.

  “There’s a fire,” he says, his voice hard.

  “Where?” Then, before I can help myself, “Mom?”

  “She’s fine. It’s not your mother’s house, Evie. It’s mine.”

  CHAPTER 32

  D.D.

  D.D. WRAPPED UP HER MEETING with Neil and Carol. Based on everything they had learned, it seemed logical that Conrad Carter had continued investigating his father’s cases after his parents’ deaths. That meant he’d been covering everything from how to hide Monica LaPage from her incarcerated-and-yet-still-vengeful ex-husband to pursuing the disappearance of at least two missing girls in Florida. Also, based on Evie’s account of spotting a dot-onion site on her husband’s laptop, Conrad had been using the dark web to do it. Which was where he’d encountered Jacob Ness, and arranged a meeting in a bar? Or where he’d met all sorts of predators, one of whom had ultimately figured out Conrad’s true good intentions and felt compelled to kill the man? Or Conrad had simply learned something he shouldn’t have?

  They knew more, but they still didn’t know enough. Neil and Carol were to contact retired Jacksonville detective Dan Cain, who presumably had kept in touch with Conrad. They were also to make discreet inquiries into Monica LaPage’s whereabouts. D.D. was already wondering—the monthly withdrawals from Conrad’s account. Had he been sending financial support to the beleaguered woman, again, taking up where his father had left off in trying to help her?

  So many questions.

  In the meantime, D.D. headed back up to her office, where she could call arson investigator Patti Di Lucca. She wanted more information on Rocket, who appeared to be their prime suspect for burning down the Carters’ home. Not to mention this whole firebug-for-hire gig. Had Di Lucca heard of such a thing before? Did it fit with her impressions of the scrawny kid? And how exactly would prospective clients learn of such services?

  Clever in his own way, Flora had said about Rocket. In D.D.’s world, nothing good came from that.

  She was just reaching for her cell phone when it rang. She took one look at the caller ID and smiled.

  “Great minds think alike,” she said, as she took Patti Di Lucca’s call.

  “Though fools seldom differ,” Di Lucca finished the proverb.

  “Uh-oh. Does that mean I’m not going to like this call?”

  “That depends. What are your feelings on a second fire?”

  “Where?”

  “Defense attorney Dick Delaney’s town house. Reeks of gasoline—and I’m told the first firefighters on the scene discovered a burnt-out pot on the stove and thick smoke from cooking oil.”

  “Rocket Langley,” D.D. breathed.

  “I’m already on scene,” Di Lucca reported.

  “Any injuries?

  “Nope. Residence was empty at the time the fire was started.”

  “Meet you there.”

  * * *

  —

  PHIL HAD TO park several blocks back from the scene of the blaze. Thick smoke drifted up in a dark column ahead, and D.D. found herself coughing the minute she stepped out of the car. The street near Dick Delaney’s Back Bay town house was already choked with fire engines and emergency responders. Given the brownstones nestled shoulder to shoulder down the stately block, the BFD hadn’t wasted any time knocking down the flames.

  Phil and D.D. flashed their credentials, then ducked under the crime scene tape. D.D. found Di Lucca tucked behind one of the fire engines, taking refuge from the heat of the blaze. The sharply dressed arson investigator nodded at their approach.

 
; “I still don’t know anything more than I told you by phone. Scene’s way too hot to enter. But the first responders all reported the smell of gasoline. Also, they spotted a clear burn pattern, which would be consistent with the use of an accelerant.”

  D.D. nodded while slowly turning in place. As befitting a notoriously successful defense attorney, Dick Delaney lived on one hell of an expensive block. The street was lined with imported automobiles, and every expensively restored town house appeared slightly grander than the one before. Huge wreaths decorated dark-painted doors. Pots of fresh Christmas greenery flanked front stoops, while the precisely manicured bushes were decked out in sparkling white lights.

  “He’s gotta be watching,” D.D. murmured.

  “Firebugs love to admire their own work,” Di Lucca agreed.

  “Any empty buildings in the area?” D.D. asked Phil, studying the row of windows across from them. This time of day, it was impossible to see inside. The windows merely reflected back the smoky sky. It was possible Rocket was standing at one of those windows now, the young kid staring down at them. Or he was hunkered on a fire escape, or tucked in the crowd of gawkers. So many possibilities. And yet she swore she could feel his eyes on her.

  “Witnesses?” D.D. asked Di Lucca as Phil went to make some inquiries.

  “Nothing. But not many people home this time of day.”

  “He blends in,” D.D. said. “We have reason to believe he might have dressed up as pest control for approaching the Carters’ residence. No one thinks twice about service people. Plus, gave him an excuse to walk around with giant spray cans.”

  “Smarter than I would’ve thought for a kid who’s only ever been known to have an interest in abandoned real estate.”

  “We think he’s expanding his skills—arson for hire. Getting paid for doing what he loves best.”

  Di Lucca sighed heavily. “Great, gangster turned entrepreneur. Just what this city needed.”

  A commotion in the crowd. D.D. and Di Lucca turned to see Delaney walking quickly up the street toward them. Evie trailed behind him, talking on her phone. Delaney came to a halt in front of the patrol officer working the perimeter. The patrol officer put up a hand to block his progress. Delaney uttered something sharp and the younger man nearly leapt out of way to let him through.