Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(48)

Then the police arrive and it’s time to get the party started.

Sergeant Warren climbs out of the car first, bundled up in a puffy blue down coat, embroidered BPD on the chest. She finishes wrapping a lighter blue scarf around her neck, then pulls on black leather gloves and a knitted hat. She still shivers slightly as she waits for the driver, a younger detective with a shock of red hair, to untangle himself from the front seat. He heads straight for the trunk, removes a rake and a shovel before pulling on a pair of heavy workman’s gloves. Gotta love the Boston PD. Prepared for anything.

D.D. gives me a look, then heads for my lawyer. She addresses her opening comments to him, as if I’m nothing but a signpost. Posturing. As a high school teacher who spends my days working with teens, I’m unimpressed. She can only pretend I don’t matter, whereas I have dozens of students who for months at a time honestly believe I don’t. Till they fail their first test, of course.

“Your client understands that the terms of our initial search warrant still stand, meaning we have the legal right to seize any items relevant to the source of the fire, as well as any additional evidence the fire may have exposed relevant to the shooting which was missed the first time around,” D.D. is rattling off.

Mr. Delaney’s answer is equally crisp: “I’ve discussed the matter with my client. She understands that as owner of the property, she is entitled to anything that isn’t considered evidence in the case. Furthermore, the police bear the burden of proving an item is evidence. Otherwise, it goes to her.”

Mr. Delaney had walked me through it last night. I couldn’t just return to my former residence and search for Conrad’s firesafe filing box. The police would take exception and seize whatever I discovered as a matter of principal. So invite them over. Make a show of cooperating fully with the authorities. They would open the SentrySafe box, but the contents should belong to me. Not like the ignition source of the arson fire was in the middle of a fire-resistant safe.

All I wanted was our financial records, including the copy of the life insurance policy Conrad took out when he learned I was pregnant, as well as our homeowners’ policy. The box also contained our passports, which—in lieu of my now melted driver’s license—I could use as photo ID.

As I told myself last night, I might be sad, but I will not be helpless. I have my unborn child to consider, and my crazy-as-a-fox mother to outmaneuver.

The redheaded detective heads for the pile of charred wood, rake in hand. D.D. refers to him as Neil. He looks like he’s about twelve. Maybe the police are recruiting straight out of elementary school these days. I often thought about teaching the lower grades. My particular math skills, however, would be lost there. And for all my moments of sheer exasperation with high schoolers, every semester I have at least a few students whose potential comes to life. An equation that for the first time clicks for them. A test they thought they’d failed only to find they’d earned the A they always knew they could achieve.

You don’t become a teacher without having some level of optimism. And you don’t stay in the field if you don’t believe that everyone, from bitter teens to burnt-out administrators, can change.

I used to think that was one of the things Conrad loved about me.

“Fire chief declared the scene safe,” D.D. is saying now, taking up position beside me. “Still”—D.D. gestures to my bulging waist—“I would recommend you stay clear.”

“The fumes?” I ask.

“A lot of nasty stuff burns up in any house fire.”

I nod, well aware of the plastic pipes, glued laminates, cheap stains, fiberglass insulation, and metal appliances that went into home construction. Yesterday this scene would’ve been borderline toxic. Now … now it held the only hope I had of moving ahead.

“I smell gasoline,” I comment.

D.D. eyes me. “So did the arson investigator.”

I have to process this. “So someone killed my husband, then the next day, burned down our house?” My voice sounds surprisingly steady. Maybe because even as I say the words, I don’t really believe them. Conrad and I … A schoolteacher and a window salesman. Surely, this couldn’t have happened to us. This couldn’t be us. “Do you know why?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I didn’t do this. I’m not just a wife, I’m a mother.” I shake my head. “No mother would do this.”

D.D. simply stares at me. I lapse back into silence, but I am shivering slightly. Standing in front of the decimated remains of my life is no longer just sad; it’s scary. Because a person who would murder a man, burn down a house …

I don’t know what happened. Worse, I don’t know what will happen next.

The redhead has started working the piles of rubble, using the shovel to lift off charred pieces of sheetrock, collapsed two-by-fours. Mr. Delaney had told them what we were looking for: a fire-rated lockbox for personal papers. It’d been upstairs in our master closet. Given its weight, it had most likely crashed down as the fire devoured the floor from beneath it. The firemen hadn’t discovered it yesterday—but then again, they hadn’t really been worried about personal possessions.

“Arson investigator will be returning this morning,” Sergeant Warren says now, still studying me. “Di Lucca is one of the best. Do you know arsonists generally stick to the same MO? That we have a whole database of local firebugs and their preferred methods? It’s only a matter of time before Di Lucca identifies who did this.” She pauses, leaving the end of her sentence implied. And traces that person to you.