Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(18)

Samuel helped them. I know that. And some kind of relationship was forged between him and my mother. They left it alone for years. Samuel’s doing, my guess, given the man has the emotional core of carved granite.

But my own plan for reentry was much shorter than many. Dead Jacob meant no trial. Samuel checked up on me for a good year after I came home. Made sure I understood the resources available to me, prodded me to utilize all my “tools,” as he liked to put it. He should’ve cut me off ages ago. I’m six years back to the real world, hundreds of pages, at least, beyond my “strategy for reentry” plan. But Samuel has always taken my calls, and this morning, when I reached him nearly hysterical, he never even batted an eye.

So here we are again. All these years later, and still about to hash out the same old story.

“Have a seat,” Samuel tells me, having met me in the lobby of the FBI building and escorted me upstairs. His office isn’t huge, but he does have windows, which I guess makes him a feebie of distinction.

I can’t sit. I pace. Five feet this way, three feet that way. He really needs a bigger office.

I left D.D. at the courthouse. She’s not happy with me, having wanted to accompany me on this visit. But we both knew that was never going to happen. I might be her CI, but I still live by my rules. Besides, her crankiness is nothing new to me.

“I want to read the file,” I say now, cutting straight to the chase. “The FBI must have a file on Jacob. I want to see it. Every word.”

“Have a seat,” Samuel says again.

“Is he a suspect in other crimes, murders, disappearances? I talked about the things I saw—I told you. But I was only with him for a year. And we both know, there’s no way I was his first victim. He’d been busy way before me.”

Samuel stands behind his desk. He’s known for his wardrobe: Today’s perfectly tailored suit appears to be Armani, dark charcoal, and paired with a light gray shirt with white collar and cuffs, topped by a rich blue silk tie. How Samuel pays for his wardrobe, let alone his Lexus, is one of the many things he never discusses. I have my secrets. He has his. It’s what I like about him.

Since I won’t sit, he joins me, walking with his hands clasped behind him, dark-fringed eyes perfectly serious, black-is-beautiful bald head gleaming beneath the lights. I imagine it takes him serious time to get ready every morning. Trimming his sharply etched goatee. Picking out the suit, the shirt, the tie for the day. Let alone his collection of bespoke shoes and cashmere coats. Samuel is a scarily beautiful man. He uses his wardrobe to further enhance his skills. If others are stupid enough to get distracted by the packaging, that’s their problem, not his.

In contrast to my victim specialist, I wear jeans, worn combat boots, and a hoodie, the uniform of disenfranchised urbanites everywhere. When I first returned after my kidnapping, my mother would bring home bright summer dresses, which I never wore. She only recently stopped shopping. I wonder now if that’s because she finally figured out this is the new me, or if Samuel intervened on my behalf. Either was possible.

“You’re sure this Conrad Carter is the same person you saw in a bar?” Samuel asks now, pivoting at the wall, heading back toward me. He goes to one side of the twin chairs; I head for the other.

“Yes.”

“And he was there to meet Jacob?”

“Yes! He didn’t just sit down next to us; Jacob turned toward him. Jacob, like … talked to him. Jacob didn’t talk to others.”

Samuel tilts his head to the side, regards me steadily, as we reach opposite sides of the tiny office.

“I think they had a deal,” I say. “I think Conrad was there for me. Like … Jacob offered me to him or something. Some predators do that, you know. Trade around their victims. Or, hell, Jacob sold me for fresh drugs. He’d clearly been on a bender.”

Samuel nods. “Had Jacob done such a thing before?”

“No. But sometimes he’d pick out some random guy at a bar, then tell me I had to make the new guy want me.”

More nodding. More staring. Samuel has eyes like molten chocolate. When he uses his weapons like this, it always makes me wonder: If Jacob Ness made me, then who made Samuel?

“Some predators talk,” I say now. “In chat rooms, on super-encrypted sites, predators have been known to share tips.”

Samuel nods.

“So maybe this Conrad guy was another monster. He and Jacob connected somehow—Jacob had his laptop in the rig. And in some chat room, they made arrangements for the evening. Jacob promised me to Conrad. In return for what, I don’t know. Drugs, a fresh girl of his own.”

“But you didn’t go home with Conrad.”

“No. I ate and drank till I vomited. That put a damper on the evening.”

“You made yourself sick intentionally?”

“Yes.”

“Because to directly disobey Jacob would mean punishment, if not death. And to have sex with Conrad would mean punishment, if not death?”

I hadn’t thought of it that bluntly, but now I nod.

“You read the situation. You trusted your instincts. You survived.”

I sigh, whack the back of the chair. “Samuel! I’m not here for a fucking pep talk. I want the file. You’re FBI. The FBI loves files. Give me my fucking file!”

Samuel smiles. It’s a devastating look on him. Good luck to my mom, I think, because no man this beautiful can be easy to manage.