Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(37)

“A phone call right after that shooting?”

“Would be pretty damning. And certainly, eight-minute gap or not, we have a tight timeline of the evening. Neighbors called in the first sound of shots fired. Uniformed officers were standing on the front porch for the second. Can’t argue with that.”

D.D. sighed. “I wish Conrad’s laptop was still intact. Seems like the key to this puzzle was on that laptop.”

“We know Evie has access to a computer at work. We’ll grab that next. Amazing what the browser history can reveal about a person.”

“How to burn down a house and still have time to get away?” D.D. intoned dryly.

“Exactly. And we still do have one last item of consideration: if there was … is … a connection between Conrad Carter and Jacob Ness …”

D.D. followed his train of thought perfectly. “Lots of perpetrators use the internet.”

Phil sighed heavily. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but … your crazy CI? She may be able to help us yet.”





CHAPTER 12


    FLORA


THE INSIDE OF KEITH EDGAR’S brownstone is as surprising as the man himself. An open floor plan that yawns way back. Miles of dark wood flooring beneath a stark-white tray ceiling. A slate-covered fireplace that rises like a granite column in the middle of the distinctly modern space. The fireplace boasts gas flames, which dance across highly polished stones. In front of that sits a low-slung turquoise sofa, bookended by orange chairs. Some kind of shag rug covered in bright splashes of color gets the hard job of tying it all together, while above the fireplace, a massive flat-screen TV belches out the evening news, including an update on the fire at the Carters’ house. I already caught some details on my phone. Yet more questions about a shooting, a couple, a man, I have yet to understand.

I remain rooted in the entryway of the brownstone, my back to a wall. Now that I’m in the house, actually face-to-face with Keith, I’m not sure what to do.

Keith springs to life first. He darts forward, grabs a remote from the glass coffee table, and turns off the TV. “Sorry, just catching up on the news. Can I get you something? Water? Coffee?” He glances at his watch, notes the hour. “A glass of wine?”

To judge by the furniture, I would’ve pegged him for a dry martini. And lots of hours spent viewing Mad Men. In between his time on the true-crime boards.

“Have a seat,” Keith tries now. He gestures to one of the orange chairs. “Umm, welcome, thanks for coming. Is this because of the last letter I sent? I didn’t actually think you’d respond. I mean, it’s not like the other notes worked. But you can’t blame a guy for trying.”

He smiles, blushes slightly, and for a moment looks as self-conscious as I feel. I can’t decide if this guy is for real or if he’s already the most accomplished psychopath I’ve ever met.

“Is this your place?” I ask at last, moving toward the chair.

He nods.

“Wife? Kids.”

He shakes his head.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a computer analyst. Most of the time I work from home. And don’t look anything like this.” Again, the charming tinge of color to his cheeks as he gestures to his upscale wardrobe. “But I happened to have a meeting with a client today. You’re lucky that I’d just returned home. Or I’m lucky. Something like that.”

“I’ll take that glass of water now.”

He turns immediately, striding past the fireplace and heading to the rear of the house, which must contain the kitchen. I take the moment to compose myself, reassess the space. Front door behind me. Most likely patio doors straight back. An open-bannister staircase to the left. A door at the base of the stairs. Coat closet, most likely. Another door directly across from that. Downstairs powder room.

Otherwise, a very open, expansive space, decorated like a page out of a West Elm catalogue. But in my second survey I catch what I missed the first time around. No photos. No wall art. Nothing of any personal nature at all.

According to Keith Edgar, he not only owns this house, but also works out of it. And yet this space might as well be a showroom. Perfectly appointed and completely devoid of personality.

We all wear masks. And the more we have to hide, the more accomplished the veneer.

Keith returns with a tall glass of water. I take it from him carefully, not standing too close, making sure our fingers don’t touch. Then I do take a seat. My inventory has restored my sense of paranoia. I have all my survivor’s instincts kicking in now.

Meaning I’m relaxed for the first time since I knocked on the door.

“Why true crime?” I ask him. I hold my water glass but don’t sip it. I notice the glass coffee table has a perfectly clear top. Not a single spec of dust or water ring. I wonder if he cleans it obsessively, or pays someone to do it for him.

“I’ve always been fascinated by puzzles.” He takes the orange chair across from me, leaving the table between us, as if he understands I need the barrier. He leans slightly forward, arms resting loosely on each leg. He’s still smiling, clearly delighted by my unexpected presence in his house. I decide then and there that if he takes a selfie, I will kick him in the balls.

“Doesn’t explain true crime.”