Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(35)

“Did you have doubts about Evie’s confession back then?”

“Honestly, no. The way she presented. The physical evidence at the scene. There are cases I still wonder about. But Earl Hopkins’s shooting death wasn’t one of them.”

“And now?”

“I don’t like it.” D.D. turned away from the window. “I don’t like any of it. Evie’s husband’s death. A fire at their house and our crime scene. Evie’s new statement, which frankly makes less sense than her old statement. I mean, who confesses to a shooting just to appease her mom?”

“Scary woman,” Phil provided again.

“Questions. I have lots and lots of questions. And you know how I feel about questions.”

“I’m never going to see my wife again, am I?”

“I think we have our work cut out for us.”

“Making our next stop?”

“Where all confused detectives should go: back to the crime scene. Arson fire and all.”

—

THEY COULD SMELL the charred remains of the scene before they arrived. Phil navigated the narrow street, made tighter by the rows of parked cars on both sides. This time of night, people were home for the evening. The small, boxy homes glowed with cozy kitchen scenes or flashing flat-screens. D.D. thought it interesting that as the homes grew smaller, the outdoor Christmas displays grew larger. Entire rooftops covered in Santa and his sleigh. Blow-up snowmen that ballooned across entire yards. Miles of twinkling lights.

Alex had trimmed their front porch with icicle lights, then wrapped the lone tree in their front yard. Not quite keeping up with the neighbors, but certainly more effort than D.D. had ever made. Then again, they had a kid now, and Jack was obsessed with anything related to Santa. Funny, all the things D.D. had dismissed before that she got now. The demands of Christmas—decorations, parties, presents—probably were too much for most adults, and yet you’d agree to just about anything to put a smile on your kid’s face.

Phil turned the corner, and the Carters’ former home became immediately visible as a black void in the midst of a sea of festivity. Not to mention, the smell of burnt wood and melted plastic grew significantly stronger.

They’d left Evie’s school and gone straight to the Carters’ residence after receiving news of the blaze. The scene had been too hot to approach, however, the fire crews still working. In the end, it had made more sense to head directly to the source of their problems—Evie Carter—than wait around.

Now Phil turned in enough to park at the end of the driveway, just beyond the crime scene tape. His headlights illuminated a gutted shell. Collapsed roof. Blown-out windows. While a fair amount of the single-car garage appeared intact, only the front wall of the two-story residence remained, and even that was barely standing.

“All right, this is what we know.” Phil pulled out his notebook. Many cops now worked off tablets, or even their smartphones. Phil, however, was a traditionalist. D.D. appreciated that about him.

“According to the arson investigator, Patricia Di Lucca, fire most likely started in the kitchen in the rear of the home. Definitely arson. Looks like a pot was left on the kitchen cooktop, filled with highly flammable materials. Then an accelerant was doused liberally around the house—most likely gasoline—with the largest concentration dumped in the upstairs bedrooms. Range was turned on. Arsonist exited stage right, and once burner achieved proper temperature, poof. Initial spark caught and fire was off and running. These old structures don’t take much to burn, but the extensive nature of the damage, particularly given the fire department was here in under six minutes, meant someone really wanted to get the job done.”

“Whole house was intended to be a loss,” D.D. provided.

“Yep, except the garage, which, as you can see, is relatively intact.”

“The arsonist didn’t care about the garage.”

“Apparently not.”

She tilted her head to the side, contemplating. “Seems like a fairly blatant attempt to eliminate the crime scene. Except, if you really wanted to be precise, why not start the fire in the office where Conrad was shot?”

Phil shrugged. “This stove-top system allowed the perpetrator adequate time to get out of the house. Safer than having to outrun a fire, down a flight of stairs you’ve already covered in gasoline. Di Lucca should have more information on the accelerant and fire-starting device by tomorrow. She’ll also run the details through the arson database to see if it matches any established MOs.”

D.D. nodded. True arsonists were a lot like serial killers. They didn’t—couldn’t—deviate from form.

“For now, she’d say it was nothing too sophisticated. Maybe even a single-Google-search-away sort of thing. But Di Lucca is excellent. She’ll figure it out.”

“Witnesses?”

“Nada. Fire started shortly after two. Not that many people around. Those that were … no one saw a car parked in the driveway or anyone dashing from a smoking home. Then again, given the time delay, the person may have exited more like one thirty and simply strolled down the street. This isn’t one of those neighborhoods where everyone knows everything and everyone. Too big for that.”

“What about cameras?” D.D. asked. Because Evie’s lawyer had been right; Boston was a city lousy with surveillance systems, and a good detective knew how to use them.