Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(50)

Neil drops the box on the driveway in front of us, breathing heavily. D.D. squats down beside it, also out of breath, but in her case, solely from anticipation.

“That looks like a file box,” she says, gesturing to the SentrySafe. “So what’s this other thing?” She has the charred lockbox at her feet.

“Overflow,” I state without hesitation.

She gives me a look. I stare at her right back. This is what happens when you take the blame for your father’s death at sixteen. After that, all mistruths are relative. I might have been honest once, even a Goody Two-shoes. But after what I saw, what happened next … Really, what’s the point?

The SentrySafe has a key, so we start with it first. D.D. does the honors. Strictly speaking, anything recovered at the scene the BPD gets to inspect first, before passing on to the rightful homeowner. I’m not nervous. I know this box. I’ve added to it many times. As the wife of a husband who traveled often, the business of personal finances and monthly paperwork was more my bailiwick than his. I’m grateful for that now. I’m not some helpless female who has suddenly lost her husband and has no idea how to hook up cable or find the life insurance policy.

Conrad was equally organized. His parents had died when he was in college, and though he never talked about it much, clearly he’d handled the estate. A family wasn’t just a collection of love and well wishes. It was a physical asset to be protected and preserved. Auto insurance, homeowners’ insurance, life insurance—he’d believed in all of it.

D.D. turns the key. It’s one of those circular ones, distinct for safes. It takes a bit of jiggling, then gives. The lid of the box won’t lift, however. The detective frowns, whacks the box, frowns some more. I finally squat impatiently, earning raised eyebrows from all. I grab both sides of the top of the box and shimmy hard, thinking the heat might have warped it. Whether my assumption is valid or not, the technique works. I lift the heavy lid, giving both the detectives a superior stare, before I rise to standing.

D.D. immediately goes to work, flipping through the manila folders labeled Auto Insurance, Property Insurance, Mortgage, Passports, Life Insurance, CDs, Savings Account. All the important papers you’d never want to lose in a fire.

Nothing terribly exciting, and yet my best hope of trying to figure out the next few months of my life. Or how to escape my mother’s clinging grasp in the least amount of time possible—depending on your point of view.

D.D. removes each file, flips through the contents—not much, just the latest statements, policies, et cetera—replaces them in the box. When she gets to life insurance, she pauses.

“Million dollars?” She gives me a look. “This appears to be a brand-new policy. Seriously?”

“He took it out when we discovered I was pregnant. According to the insurance rep, it should be enough to pay off the mortgage of the house, cover eighteen years of the average costs of raising a child, plus four years of college.”

“In other words, a million motives for shooting your husband.”

“If I wanted a million dollars,” I inform the detective, “all I have to do is phone home. Or better yet, move in.”

She gives me a fresh look. “Which you just did.”

“Yeah, and why don’t you ask Call Me Phil what that’s like?”

The redhead glances up. “Call Me Phil?” Abruptly, he breaks into a smile. “That’s what he was talking about yesterday. We should get him a T-shirt.”

Now D.D. and I both scowl at him. He shrinks back, holds up a black, warped object. “I think I found the key to the other lockbox not far from this one.”

“Hang on,” I say. I look at Mr. Delaney. “I see personal papers and financial files. No source of arson fire. Nothing that rises to the level of evidence.”

“Agreed,” Mr. Delaney states. He stares hard at D.D.

“I want a copy of the life insurance.”

“Snap a photo with your phone,” I suggest. Because I’m taking the policy home with me. I need it.

“My client is being more than reasonable,” my lawyer seconds.

Clearly, D.D. isn’t happy. But she photographs the doc, closes up the file, sticks it back in the box. The SentrySafe has done its job admirably, saving its contents, surviving to tell its tales. Now Mr. Delaney picks it up, grunting slightly from the weight as he carries it to the trunk of his car.

Which leaves us with the thin metal lockbox. I have no idea what it is, but I won’t admit to that because I’m dying to see what’s inside. It probably doesn’t matter anymore, but it might be what I was searching for all along.

The black key is warped. The redhead tries jiggling. D.D. tries jangling. I take it from them both, me, the experienced homeowner who must certainly know the quirks of this lockbox as well as I did the fireproof safe.

It still takes several tries. I coax, beg, plead. Please, after all this time of looking for you, don’t you want to talk to me, too?

Then: click.

Just like that, the lock gives. The lid doesn’t pop open, clearly warped along the edges. But I can feel the box relax, preparing to surrender its secrets.

I place it on the ground before us. I don’t know what to expect. Ashes, charred ruins. The heat inside a house fire must be so extreme. And while Conrad clearly meant to keep these contents hidden, he didn’t necessarily care if they were safe. An interesting distinction in its own right.