Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(45)

“But didn’t you say the girl and her mom walked in right afterwards? Picked up the gun, mostly likely rushed to the body, even fell to their knees beside it?”

“Contaminated the scene,” D.D. finished for him.

“I have a feeling your crime scene photos aren’t going to be as revealing as you’d like.”

“So I’m back where I started. Sixteen-year-old shooting death that could be either suicide or murder.”

Alex shrugged. “It can always be murder, D.D. Where would our jobs be without it?”





CHAPTER 15


    FLORA


“SSA KIMBERLY QUINCY.”

“Hi, um … This is Flora Dane.”

There’s a pause. I’m not surprised. What does catch me off guard is the sound of my own voice, shaky and faint. SSA Quincy and I are hardly BFFs. She organized the raid that eventually led to Jacob’s death and my escape. But we haven’t exactly spoken since.

Sitting across from me, Keith eyes me uncertainly. Nine P.M., I’ve just called a federal agent on her personal cell, and she isn’t exactly responding with gushing enthusiasm. But I know how these things work. The raid on Jacob’s motel room didn’t just save me; it also boosted Quincy’s career. One way or another, our lives are intertwined. I also know from Samuel that Bureau types don’t exactly keep regular hours. This isn’t the SSA’s first late-night call, just her most unexpected.

“How can I help you, Flora?” Quincy’s voice is perfectly neutral. Apparently, she’s decided to give me enough rope to hang myself with. Fair enough.

Now it’s my turn to collect my thoughts. Keith sits up straighter. He has his fingers poised over the keyboard of his laptop as if he’s ready to record every word of the call. Maybe he is.

“I need information on Jacob Ness,” I finally announce.

“I see.”

“It’s come to my attention he might be a person of interest in some other missing persons cases.”

Another pause. “Flora, it’s nine P.M. You’re calling me at home. You’re going to have to do better than sudden interest in a bunch of cold cases.”

“So you do think he’s connected to other missing women?”

“You have till the count of three, then I’m going to hang up. Future requests can go through official channels. One, two—”

“There’s been a development!” I get it out in a rush. “A murder. Here in Boston. I recognized the victim. He met Jacob in a bar. It wasn’t random. They knew each other.”

Keith’s eyes widen. I hadn’t told him this part yet, but he doesn’t make the mistake of gasping audibly or distracting from the call.

This time, the quiet on the other end of the phone is thoughtful. “Name of the murder victim?” SSA Quincy asks finally.

It occurs to me that Sergeant Warren is probably going to kill me. I decide it’s a small price to pay. “Conrad Carter. Now I have questions of my own.”

“Of course.” Quincy’s tone is droll.

“Do you think Jacob kidnapped other women?”

For the first time, there is no hesitation. “Yes.”

“Murdered them.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

Cool tone again: “The investigation is ongoing.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“Can you? Because you never have before.”

I wince, the effects of my onetime, one-telling policy coming back to bite me in the ass. She’s right. I’d declined all official requests for interviews, debriefing, whatever the agents chose to call it back in the day. I gave my statement to Samuel while still collapsed in a hospital bed. I watched him run off to vomit. Then I never spoke of it again.

“I want to help.”

“Does Dr. Keynes know?” SSA Quincy is a clever one.

“Do you know what I do now?” I ask the agent.

“No.”

“I work with other survivors. Run a support group of sorts. I’m not qualified, I’m not brilliant, but I am experienced. I teach others to stop surviving and start living again.”

SSA Quincy doesn’t say anything. Neither does Keith. His fingers are still waiting above the keyboard. He wants details, I realize, not pleasantries.

“I understand I’m late to the party,” I say at last. “That by not giving a statement earlier, maybe there were other victims of Jacob’s or their families that I’ve let down. Samuel tells me not to second-guess, but it has been six years. I like to think I’m not the same girl anymore. I like to think … I’m stronger now. I want to do better. I can do better.”

“I can be on a plane to Boston first thing in the morning,” Quincy says.

“I have questions now. Information I need right now.”

“Flora, it’s late—”

“You really think I sleep at night? You think I care about rest at all anymore?” My voice turns hard. Quincy doesn’t hang up the phone.

“There has to be quid pro quo,” she begins. “Otherwise known as you gotta pay to play. Official department policy.”

“I already paid. Conrad Carter. Shot Tuesday night by his wife in Boston. Look it up. Lead detective Sergeant D. D. Warren.”