Never Tell

by Lisa Gardner

  “Ex is behind bars?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, evil ex can’t look for the wife himself?”

  “No.”

  “Vendors,” I state. “Jacob used them. Conrad must’ve been exploring many of them. Pimps, predators, hired guns. Kidnappers. Hell, maybe even an arsonist or two. Like you said, behind every transaction is a real person, buying or selling. Now consider that Conrad has spent years on the dark web.”

  “A good ten to fifteen,” D.D. supplied.

  “Think of the network he himself must’ve started building under his various aliases. Providers of services who knew and trusted him, allowing him to dig deeper and deeper. Except he’s not just looking at one crime. He’s looking at all sorts of criminal enterprises. What if he figured something out? What if he figured someone out? Because as Keith is saying, none of the dark web can exist without actual people managing the works.”

  Long pause. “You mean like Ulbricht from the Silk Road.”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t have to be he identified some huge mastermind. It would be enough to reveal the principal at the local high school is actually the person running the child porn forum, or the nice lady up the block is a secret assassin for hire. It would explain the arson angle as well. If Conrad figured out an identity, the person in question might be worried Conrad documented it somehow. A notebook tucked in a drawer. A journal he gave to a known criminal defense attorney who’s close personal friends with his wife.”

  A pause as D.D. considers the idea. “Not a bad theory,” she says at last. “But given that it’s also pure conjecture, it doesn’t help us.”

  “Not yet. But give Keith some time. He can approach it from the dark web itself, using Conrad’s various aliases to identify connections. He’ll figure it out.” I look at Keith squarely for the first time all morning. He arches a brow at the huge promises I just made in his name. But he doesn’t shake his head. He’ll do it. Meaning maybe I was wrong about him after all. Maybe there is hope for us. Maybe there is hope for me.

  “We know Conrad knew Jacob,” Quincy murmurs from behind Keith’s shoulder. “If we use I. N. Verness to vouch for Conrad, and Conrad to vouch for I. N. Verness . . .”

  Keith starts to nod. Quincy peers down closer at the screen. They are on it. Meaning my work here is done. I end the call with D.D., head for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Keith calls out.

  “I’m gonna catch myself a firebug.”

  * * *

  —

  I START WITH a map of the Green Line pulled up on my phone. It’s a major artery, but then the Boston T system has many of them. Unfortunately, based on where Rocket entered the system, he would’ve passed through several major hubs where he could’ve exited the Green Line and entered any number of other ones. It takes me about thirty seconds to realize the possibilities are endless and I’m not going to get anywhere staring at a color-coded mass-transit map.

  Instead, I start plotting points. Rocket’s neighborhood. Where I’d think, having conducted his business, he’d head back to. A comfort-zone sort of thing, till the dust settled. Add to that, the location of his drop box. Having performed a major job, he’d also want to collect his fee.

  Both of these points are in the exact opposite direction of Rocket’s Lechmere-bound subway. Was he trying to be clever? Knew the police might be watching so deliberately tried to mislead them? Except if he’s that smart, he’d know they’d be waiting for him at home, too. So maybe, in fact, he can’t go back to the hood. He needs a safer place to hang for a while.

  I decide to be brave. I dial not D.D. but her second-in-command, Phil, the detective voted most likely to be Father of the Year. He doesn’t like me. I’m never sure what to make of him. I didn’t grow up with a father, so I’m never sure if his perpetual scowl of disapproval is the real thing or a show of affection.

  “Does Rocket Langley have a list of known associates?” I ask without preamble. “I’m staring at the T map, and he headed directly away from his neighborhood, which makes me think he may have another place to hang out.”

  “D.D. asked you to chase Rocket?” Yep, definite disapproval.

  “I’ve met him before.”

  “And if you catch him?”

  “I pinky promise I’ll only talk to him. Unless, of course, he starts playing with matches. Then all bets are off.”

  “Rocket has an older brother and a friend from high school. Both live on the same block, however.”

  So much for that theory. “Do you know when he got the gig to burn Dick Delaney’s town house?”

  “Actually, we have two detectives reviewing every second of video footage, and the only activity we can find at his drop box is Wednesday morning before the first fire. If he was contracted to do a second job at Delaney’s, we haven’t picked up any contact yet.”

  I frown. Rocket had a system. Why deviate from it now? I’d made contact with him last night, but he had no reason to think of me as a legal threat. Instead, I’m his somewhat scary future client. So again . . .

  I get an uncomfortable feeling. Lechmere. Headed toward Cambridge. Where Evie lived with her mother.

  Her house.

  Her lawyer’s house.

  Her mother’s house.

  “It wasn’t one target,” I hear myself whisper.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The initial drop. Rocket wasn’t contracted to burn just Evie’s house. He was contracted to torch three homes, the three places Conrad could’ve hidden a secret. His home, the attorney’s home, his mother-in-law’s home. Rocket is headed to Cambridge, where he’ll hit Evie’s mother’s house next.”

  CHAPTER 34

  EVIE

  “YOU HAD NO RIGHT!”

  Mr. Delaney trails after me, holding out a hand in reconciliation. I’m not interested. I come up against a wall of gawking people, staring at the still smoking building, and feel my frustration double. I’m sick of crowds and media vans and people who treat my life like entertainment. I’m equally sick of my mother and Mr. Delaney, the two people who claim to love me but never tell me the truth.

  I veer from the crowd, then think, Fuck it. I duck under the yellow perimeter tape. People part instantly as I shove my way through. I assume Mr. Delaney will stay behind. Instead, he plunges into the throng of people behind me.

  “Just give me a minute.”

  “I don’t want to hear it!”

  “One minute!”

  “No!”

  But now we’ve burst through the sea of people. The sudden onslaught of fresh air stops me. Mr. Delaney grabs my arm.

  “I’m not going to apologize,” he says sharply. Which catches me off guard. “Your father was my best friend. When he died, I took it as my personal responsibility to look after you. I’ll never apologize for that.”

  “You lied to me!”

  “When?”

  “That’s lawyer-speak and you know it. Lies by omission. You never mentioned that I have my own money—”

  “I thought your mother had told you.”

  “Really? As evidenced by my big house, my shiny car, my new clothes?”

  “You were never into those things, Evie. Your mom is the one who needs appearances. You took a job at public high school where you could use your gifts to make a difference. I didn’t question your lifestyle; I admired it.”

  I scowl at him. I want to hate this man. How dare he be nice to me now.

  “You never told me my husband had an assumed name.”

  “It wasn’t my story to tell.”

  “Bullshit! You want to keep me safe? I was living with an impostor and didn’t even know it!”

  “Conrad told me his reasons. In addition, I looked it up. His parents’ deaths. His father’s work. It all checked out. If he felt it was safer for you to continue to know him as Conrad—aga
in, not my story to tell.”

  “I sat with you just yesterday. I cried about my marriage. I told you I thought the problems were all my fault. I had secrets, so I assumed my husband had secrets. And you never corrected me!”

  There, the true source of my rage. That I really hadn’t been wrong. That Conrad really had lied to me. And even if he claimed he had good reason—well, so did Mr. Delaney, and my mother, and once upon a time my father. Everyone had their reasons for lying to poor little old me. And I hated all of them right now.

  Except I also wanted Conrad back, so I could throw my arms around him and tell him how sorry I was to hear of his parents. What a terrible burden that must have been to bear. I would’ve shared it with him. I would’ve helped him. We could’ve grown closer, dealt with it together.

  Instead, we lived in a house full of secrets. Both of us fearing the other. Neither of us able to confess.

  We loved each other. We hurt each other. And now Conrad is gone, and neither one of us will ever be able to make it right.

  I wipe at the tears on my face. Mr. Delaney uses the opportunity to pull me in his arms and hug me hard.

  “I hate you,” I say, my words muffled against his heavy wool coat.

  “I’m so sorry, Evie. If I could turn back the clock. If I could make things better for you.”

  “I am sick to death of regret.”

  “I know, honey. I know. Shh . . .”

  I finally stand still, accepting his fatherly embrace. It occurs to me that I haven’t been hugged in a very long time. Have had no one offer me comfort in what felt like forever. Our marriage had grown that strained. I’ve been that lonely.

  “Did Conrad love me?” I hear myself ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.

  “Very much. He told me so himself. Before you, Conrad was totally fixated on the past. With you, he had a future.”

  Which had to terrify him as much as it terrified me. All the years of undercover work—I don’t know what else to call it—digging into his father’s past cases, taking on new identities to approach criminals such as Jacob Ness. How awful it must’ve been to dive into that world, seeing such horrors and depravity. Then come home and have to pretend everything was all right, he’d merely been out quoting custom window designs, nothing to talk about here. And all the while, still not finding whatever he was seeking, and still having to worry that one day, his other work might follow him home.

  He’d been so tense these past few weeks. What had he finally discovered—and, dear God, how much had it cost him? His life, our house, now Mr. Delaney’s house.

  But it occurs to me just how dangerous my life has become. My husband shot. My home burned to the ground. My attorney’s home incinerated. Conrad must’ve finally learned something, and just because I have no idea what that was doesn’t mean it won’t cost me and my baby everything.

  I need to focus. I do still have work to do today. While Delaney was distracted with the fire, I’d made a second call regarding my father’s death. And this time, I got results.

  “I need to go,” I say now, pulling away from Mr. Delaney.

  “Are you okay?” he asks me quietly. He wipes at the moisture on my cheeks.

  “You’re the one who lost your town house.”

  He shrugs. “I’m also the one with two vacation homes. Guess I’ll be working on the Cape for a bit. Or maybe Florida.”

  I have to laugh. “Well, it doesn’t totally suck to be you,” I say. “As for me, I’ll check in on Mom. If she sees this on the news . . .”

  Mr. Delaney immediately tenses. “Go. Keep her company. And, of course, limit the vodka.” He sighs. “Tell her everything is fine here. Just some property damage, nothing more. I’ll come by first chance I get.”

  “Okay. I have a couple of errands I have to run first,” I hedge. “But I’ll call her, definitely. And if you get to the house before I do . . .”

  Delaney looks at me funny. “What are you doing, Evie?”

  “Nothing. Baby stuff. Just . . . maybe I don’t want go straight from this to my mother and a bottle of vodka.”

  Mr. Delaney thins his lips, looks like he’s about to argue. And he probably should, given that I’m lying through my teeth. But given all the lies that people have told me lately . . .

  I wave goodbye. Then, before he has a chance to say anything more, I turn on my heels and head for my own little dance with danger.

  * * *

  —

  THIS TIME KATARINA is clearly annoyed when I walk in. Not her office—for this conversation, we needed a less conspicuous location, hence a local coffee shop popular with Harvard students and jam-packed this close to finals. No one pays me any attention as I wedge my way through the door, then work my way to the back of the overheated, overpopulated space. Katrina is perched at a table in the rear corner. With her long black coat belted around her waist, she looks like a character out of a spy movie. Which makes me?

  “I already told you,” she starts stiffly.

  I hold up a silencing hand. “You already told me what you thought would make me go away. Now I want the real story. The one you and obviously Mr. Delaney know, but I don’t.”

  She scowls. In my mind, I’ve already turned over our earlier conversation several times. In particular, the end, when Mr. Delaney leaned down to whisper something in her ear. Maybe it was paranoia, but it felt to me that all the adults in my life were keeping secrets. I didn’t want secrets anymore. I wanted the truth, even if it hurt.

  So I’d called Katarina again. Except this time, I told her I’d make her and my father’s affair public knowledge, if she didn’t talk to me again. I understood academia. Whether Katarina had done something inappropriate or not, she still couldn’t withstand the whiff of impropriety. Especially given the reopening of the investigation into my father’s death, which would immediately shroud her in scandal.

  “You didn’t kill my father.” My anger has made me bold. I like it.

  She ceases scowling, appears more puzzled.

  “You really didn’t care that the affair ended.”

  I earn a single Slavic shrug.

  “What about him? Did he care?” This is what I’d started wondering about after talking to her. So what if the affair hadn’t been an issue for Katarina? That didn’t mean it hadn’t mattered to my father. Or my mother.

  What was it Mr. Delaney, my parents’ closest friend and confidant, had told Katarina? What did he know that I didn’t?

  “Your father had many affairs,” Katarina said at last. That shrug again. “It was common knowledge. He was not a man who felt a need to follow rules. A mind as great as his own . . .”

  “Did he love you?”

  Her expression is surprisingly candid. “Men will say anything to get a woman into bed. As to what they actually mean . . . The other woman is always the last to know, hey?”

  I can’t decide what I think of her. “Do you think he would’ve left my mother for you?”

  “No.”

  This time her answer is immediate and firm.

  “That didn’t bother you.”

  “No.” Same tone.

  “I don’t get it.”

  She seems as genuinely confused by me as I am by her. “What is there to get? We met, there was a physical attraction. We scratched the itch. And the world moved on, as it always does. I am not a woman who wants forever. And your father was not the kind of man to leave his wife.”

  “He loved her?”

  For the first time, Katarina purses her lips, appears thoughtful. “I believe so. Their relationship was . . . different. But again, Earl was not one to live by traditional rules. Your mother suited him. For that matter, he loved you, as well.” Now she shrugs both shoulders. “A genius and a family man. They are not so easy to find.”

  “But you didn’t want him.”

  “
I always knew he was already taken.”

  “My mother.”

  Katarina doesn’t answer as much as she regards me steadily. And in that look, I know what I was afraid to hear. The doubt that had been growing for hours now. My mom had been with me that day. But as Katarina said, my mother wasn’t one to do her own dirty work. My volatile, reckless, overdramatic mom . . .

  “She knew about the affair,” I whisper. “You said my father told you as much. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

  “She came to see me.”

  I don’t speak. Now that the moment has arrived, I am genuinely frightened by what I’ll hear next.

  “She told me to stay away from her husband. The whole ‘how dare you’ speech.” Katarina sounds bored. “Followed by the ‘if I can’t have him, no one will.’”

  “What did she mean?”

  Katarina arches a brow. “What do you think she meant?”

  I can’t breathe. I think the coffee shop is too hot, too crowded. My mother, famous for her rages. If she really thought my father was going to leave her for another woman—especially one as beautiful and gifted as Katarina Ivanova. My mother, whose entire world had revolved around her husband, nurturing his genius, protecting his legacy. A widow was well respected. A jilted ex-wife, on the other hand . . .

  “She couldn’t have done it herself.”

  That steady stare.

  “Who would she . . . How would she . . . I mean, this is my mom. It’s not like she has a number for some hired shooter next to home repair.”

  Katarina finally smiles. “She does not need such a number.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She already knows who to call. Don’t you?”

  I can only stare at her in confusion. The gorgeous professor finally shakes her head. “You really do not know your family, do you?”

  “I guess not.”