Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  Evie looked up, spotted D.D. waiting for them. Something flitted across the woman’s face. Guilt? Whomever she was talking to, Evie ended the call abruptly, stuck her phone in the folds of her coat.

  “Mr. Delaney,” D.D. called out, summoning them both over. She peered into the crowd as she waited for their approach. Again, nothing. But Rocket had to be around. She knew it.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” D.D. said as Delaney and Evie halted before her.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Delaney asked immediately.

  “No,” Di Lucca did the honors of answering. “A neighbor spotted smoke almost immediately; BFD was on-site in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, it appears the damage to the structure is substantial.”

  Delaney shrugged unhappily. “Smoke damage. Water damage. Forget the fire. I doubt anything is salvageable.”

  D.D. didn’t say anything, just watched the criminal attorney.

  He was staring at his home, but it was impossible to read his expression. Sad? Angry? Surprised? All three?

  “May I ask where you were this morning?” She spoke up.

  “Tending to my client.” He gestured to Evie, who was gazing at the smoking building with open regret.

  “And what were you up to this morning?” D.D. asked Evie. The silence dragged on for so long, D.D. didn’t think the woman was going to answer. Then:

  “Is it the same as my house? Arson?”

  “We have reason to believe so,” Di Lucca answered

  Evie gazed at the woman. “Did you investigate my house? The Carter residence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think it’s the same person?”

  “I can’t comment on an active investigation.”

  “In other words, yes.” Evie shook her head. “But why? Why burn down my house? Why burn down my lawyer’s house? Why, why, why?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.” D.D. this time, regarding both Delaney and Evie frankly.

  “I have no idea,” Evie said, and she sounded so distressed, D.D. nearly believed her.

  “Did you take anything from your house after the shooting?” D.D. asked her now.

  “Of course not. The police arrested me. I didn’t even grab my purse or cell phone.”

  “Eight minutes,” D.D. said softly. “Eight minutes between the first round of shots and the second. Plenty of time to grab something and tuck it away.”

  “But I wasn’t there during the first round of shots. I already told you; that wasn’t me. I was just there for the end, to destroy the computer and try to save my future child more grief.”

  “Anything she would’ve taken”—Delaney spoke up abruptly—“would’ve been seized during intake at the county jail.” He eyed Evie. “You were searched, I presume?”

  She blushed, looked down. “Yes.”

  “Then she couldn’t have had anything,” Delaney informed D.D.

  “What about you?” D.D. turned on him. “Did you meet her at intake?”

  “No, we only spoke by phone. Our first contact was the next morning at the courthouse.”

  “Someone must think you have something. Come on. First her house is burned to the ground”—D.D. pointed at Evie—“then yours. That’s not a coincidence.”

  Delaney’s tone remained clipped. “I’m sure it’s not. But the connection . . . Honestly, Sergeant, I have no idea.”

  “Where were you this morning?” she tried again, this time going after Evie, who seemed the more cooperative of the two. Di Lucca was watching the show with obvious interest, but then her cell rang. With clear regret, she stepped away to take the call.

  “We met with an old friend of my father’s,” Evie told D.D.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking. I know I didn’t kill my father. Based on what you said, I also now realize he didn’t kill himself. Which begs the question . . .”

  “Good God, you’re investigating your father’s murder? What is it with everyone these days? Doesn’t anyone understand that policing is real work?”

  Evie stared at her slightly wide-eyed.

  “Your husband was conducting an investigation, too. Did you know that?” D.D. pressed.

  Evie shook her head.

  “His parents’ accident wasn’t an accident. They were run off the road. Possibly in connection with one of the two cases Conrad’s father, a Jacksonville detective, was working at the time.”

  “He never said . . . He never told me—”

  “He lived under an assumed name. He was hiding, Evie. Your husband was hiding. Do you know from whom?”

  Now the woman was positively pale. “No.”

  “Did you ever talk to him about your father? Say you didn’t shoot him?”

  “No! Remember, I thought my father killed himself. So, no, I never brought it up.”

  “But Conrad was tense. You said you thought something bad was going to happen. You just assumed it had something to do with your marriage.”

  “He was tense.”

  “Did you ever notice anyone watching the house?”

  “No.”

  “Strange phone calls, strings of hang-ups?”

  “No, but Conrad was in sales. He was always on his cell phone.”

  “He was digging into something, Evie. He was on to something. I need you to think.”

  “I don’t know! Just the computer. The images of those girls. Oh God, I thought he was a predator. I was so sure. But instead . . . His father was a cop?”

  “Did you know anything about this?” D.D. whirled on Delaney abruptly.

  “Absolutely not,” he said stiffly. But her tactic had worked. She caught a flicker in his gaze before he had time to cover it up. Then, she got it:

  “You ran a background. When Evie first met Conrad. The daughter of your deceased best friend meets a new man . . . Of course you did. And in doing so, you figured out Conrad wasn’t his real name.”

  Now Evie was staring at Delaney.

  The lawyer opened his mouth, looked like he was going to deny it all. Then, abruptly: “Yes. I ran his name. Evie’s safety and well-being are my responsibility. I take my responsibilities seriously.”

  “What did you do?” Evie breathed.

  Delaney sighed heavily. The jig was up and he knew it. “I confronted Conrad. I told him I knew his identity was a lie. At which point, he told me about his parents, his father’s work. And we reached the mutual conclusion that it was in your best interest”—Delaney regarded Evie—“that Conrad continue to live under an alias.”

  “Who was he investigating?” D.D. demanded to know.

  “He had two lines of inquiry. The first into some missing girls. But he wasn’t as concerned about that as he was the status of one Jules LaPage. According to Conrad, if LaPage ever got out of prison, he’d come for him. Hence the assumed name.”

  “Why would LaPage come for Conrad?”

  “Because Conrad’s father helped LaPage’s ex-wife escape. He knew her location, and going through his father’s papers, Conrad discovered her new identity as well. LaPage wasn’t stupid. If he got out, the most direct line to his ex-wife would be through Conrad.”

  “He never said anything,” Evie murmured. She was shaking her head slightly. “Never. Not once.”

  “It was his burden to bear. He didn’t want you to worry. As the years went by and he never said anything more, I honestly thought the situation had worked itself out. LaPage was still incarcerated, so no news was good news. Perhaps Conrad was just being paranoid. It happens.” Delaney turned to D.D. “When I heard the news about Conrad, the first thing I did was check on LaPage’s status. He’s still in prison, I assure you.”

  “But something had changed,” D.D. said. “Evie already told us that. Conrad had become tense. Something was worrying him.”

  “I got pregn
ant.” Evie shrugged. “If one of these guys he was investigating found him . . . there would be greater consequences.”

  D.D. shook her head. “It had to be something more direct than that. He found something. Serious enough someone didn’t just kill him, but burned down your home. Except they’re still worried. Why would they still be worried? So they went after your place next.” She looked at Delaney. “Because you’re Evie’s lawyer, or because this person knows you learned the truth about Conrad?”

  “I have no idea,” Delaney answered coolly.

  “Who did you speak with this morning?”

  “Just a former friend of my father’s,” Evie volunteered. “Dr. Katarina Ivanova. She and my father were involved once. I thought maybe . . . maybe she’d grown jealous. She’d shot him.”

  D.D. couldn’t help herself. “And?”

  “I don’t think Dr. Ivanova gets jealous. She just moves on to bigger prey.”

  D.D. frowned again. The more information she got, the less anything made sense. Evie’s father’s death. Evie’s husband’s death. Evie investigating her father. Evie’s husband, investigating two different major cases.

  A lot of stirring the pot of past secrets and current crimes. Any number of things could’ve risen to the surface. But what tied it all together? Two shootings. Two house fires. There had to be one connection.

  Phil appeared beside her. “We have a sighting.”

  She didn’t need to ask of whom. “Where?”

  “Boarded the T three blocks from here. Green Line.”

  “Get MBTA on it,” she ordered, referring to the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority police.

  “Already done.”

  “You two”—she skewered Delaney and Evie—“sit tight. No more running around asking dangerous questions. We’ve got enough going on.”

  Then D.D. was on the move, phone in hand. She had one last tool to deploy. Someone who already knew Rocket Langley, who was intimately familiar with the city’s subway system, and who could move faster and hit harder than any police officer could.

  She called Flora.

  CHAPTER 33

  FLORA

  KEITH IS TYPING FURIOUSLY. FROM my angle behind Quincy’s shoulder—the FBI agent is still videoing the computer screen—it’s harder for me to make out all the words. Not to mention Keith seems to be using some kind of shorthand known by computer geeks and cybercriminals.

  I catch snippets of the exchange. The usual long time, no see. Keith answering he’s been on an extended getaway, which seems to serve as a euphemism for prison. Which is then followed by a stream of questions I don’t get at all.

  When Quincy murmurs some of the answers, I start to understand. The online target is trying to establish that Keith really has been incarcerated. Which prison, block, hey what’d you think of the corned beef? A level of specificity that never would’ve occurred to me, and without Quincy standing there, I’m not sure Keith could’ve handled. He’s sweating profusely. But he resolutely clacks away, building I. N. Verness’s story of being gone from the game for a bit, but now out and ready for some action.

  “Don’t go to him,” Quincy murmurs, placing a steadying hand on Keith’s shoulder. Keith had just typed, I’m interested in . . .

  “Make him come to you,” Quincy continues.

  My phone rings. I check the screen, see it’s D.D., and take a step away from the table.

  “Flora,” I answer.

  “Rocket Langley is back in action. Just torched Dick Delaney’s house. No one was hurt, but uniforms caught sight of Rocket leaving the area. Hopped on the Green Line, headed in the direction of Lechmere.”

  I frown. “Do you have eyes on him now? Green Line is a major subway vein. Plenty of places for him to get off or switch lines.”

  “We have transit authority searching. But you’ve met him. You know how he thinks. I thought you might want to help.”

  I nod. So far, fighting cybercrime consists mostly of sitting around watching Keith type. I should be more patient. But I’m not. I prefer my action face-to-face.

  “Why do you think he burned Delaney’s place?” I ask now. “Isn’t that Evie’s defense attorney?”

  “According to Delaney and Evie, they have no idea.” D.D.’s tone is droll.

  “First Evie’s house, then her attorney’s.” I try to follow the thought. “Someone’s trying to destroy something, but what?”

  “Oh, it gets weirder. We’re now relatively sure Conrad Carter was investigating two different Florida cases, one of which probably got his parents killed.”

  “Conrad is Batman? Turned into a lone crime fighter to avenge his parents’ death?”

  “I’m surrounded by nutjobs with no respect for law enforcement,” D.D. agrees. “One of the cases involved two missing women, which may be what put Jacob Ness on Conrad’s radar screen. Oh, and Dick Delaney, Evie’s attorney, knew Conrad’s true identity. Delaney ran a background check on Conrad when he and Evie started dating.”

  “Did Evie know about Batman, or did she just think she was married to Bruce Wayne?”

  “I hate you,” D.D. informs me.

  But I have a thought now. I have no idea if it’s any good or not, but I lower my cell briefly and check back in with Keith and Quincy.

  “Hey, I have Sergeant Warren on the phone. We have a question. Has I. N. Verness gotten this dude to talk . . . product”—I hate the word even as I use it—“yet?”

  “Getting there,” Keith mutters.

  “Can you ask about a mutual friend?”

  Both Keith and Quincy stare at me. “Who?” Quincy asks.

  “Conrad Carter. He’s been using the dark web to conduct his own investigation into missing women. If this is all about human trafficking, and Jacob was using his name—I. N. Verness—to make connections on the web, then chances are he crossed paths with Conrad, right? That’s why Conrad was in the bar meeting Jacob. Because his username—um, Jacob called him Conner at the bar—and Jacob’s username had made arrangements.”

  Keith nods.

  “I. N. Verness hasn’t been logged on in six years. But Conrad was probably active right up till his death Tuesday night. So if we can establish what he was doing, who he last was in contact with, that may give us a bead on his killer, and maybe another connection with Jacob.”

  Keith looks up at Quincy. She nods. He starts typing again.

  “I think it’s the dark web,” I tell D.D. by phone.

  “What’s the dark web?”

  “Your connection. Jacob used it to perfect his crimes. Conrad used it to investigate crimes. Even Rocket Langley—I bet he’s on it, as well. Services for hire, right? He’s exactly the kind of vendor people on the dark web are looking for.”

  “Rocket has some loose-brick drop-box system for making contact.”

  “No,” I correct the detective. “That’s for getting payment. He’s not sophisticated enough for Bitcoin. But he has a smartphone, and he’s gotta get clients somehow, right? Why not have a local flyer, so to speak, on the world’s most invisible want ads?”

  “It’s possible,” D.D. muttered. “Used to be the local hoodlum was just the local hoodlum. But for a kid Rocket’s age, the internet is simply one more tool in his pocket. Why not use it to find new and improved ways to make fire?”

  I turn my attention to Keith again. “How hard would it be for an arsonist for hire to set up an account on the dark web?” I ask him. “I mean is it just like preparing a business ad, but . . . well, secret?”

  “Getting established as a vendor would take some doing,” Keith reports from his seat at the dining room table. “For starters, there’s a wait list.”

  This shocks me. “There’s a wait list on the dark web?”

  “Absolutely. And quite a few hoops a buyer or seller must jump through. Remember, the goal is to be anonymous, but at
the same time, vendors have to establish credit and credibility. You don’t want any idiot making promises they can’t deliver. Or conversely, buying services they can’t pay for.”

  “How is this done?” I ask Keith.

  “New buyers must establish escrow accounts to guarantee ability to pay. And references are used to guarantee a seller’s ability to provide services.”

  “Criminal vendors vouch for other criminal vendors?” The dark web sounds stranger and stranger to me.

  “Something like that.”

  “Which means,” I say, “someone else must be checking these references, verifying the escrow accounts?”

  “All websites have administrators, even illegal ones. For that matter, these encrypted forums where Jacob would’ve met other predators—each have two or three moderators who know one another in real life. They trust each other, which forms the heart of the chat room. They then network and mine prospective new members, demanding evidence of illegal behavior such as a digital copy of child porn, snuff films, et cetera. This makes all site members equally guilty and therefore equally protected. For all the cyber in cyberspace, it’s still a human system. You can’t just hang out, chat, or trade on the dark web. A real person has to vouch for you. A real-life administrator has to grant you access.”

  I nod and feel it again—a tenuous connection forming, as delicate as the web I’m learning so much about. Conrad, spending year after year, hunkered over his laptop, dredging through the internet’s worst of the worst. A particular kind of cat-and-mouse game with multiple targets. He was investigating two different cases. Missing women . . .

  “What was his other case?” I ask D.D. now, my voice urgent. “Conrad’s second investigation. You said missing women and . . . ?”

  “A disgruntled ex-husband who shot his wife in the face. She lived. He went to prison. He’s on the record for just waiting till he can get out and finish what he started. We think Conrad knew where the ex was hiding. Might’ve even been sending her some money to help out.”