Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(51)

D.D. has to force the lid. Black flakes float down.

Inside the box, the metal is cool and gray, untouched. The first evidence that the contents came through unscathed. Then:

“What the hell?” D.D. stares at me.

The redheaded detective is already digging through the contents, equally mesmerized.

I don’t have words. I don’t have moisture in my mouth. Of all the things I thought I might see. Of all the secrets I knew Conrad had to have.

I’m staring at bundles of cash. Still in original wrappings, which is suspicious enough. But more than that, I’m staring at piles of plastic cards. Various drivers’ licenses, covering half a dozen states.

All with Conrad’s photo. All bearing different names.

“You need to start talking and you need to talk right now,” D.D. orders intently.

Except I have nothing to say.





CHAPTER 17


    D.D.


“YOU NEED TO START TALKING and you need to start talking now.” D.D.’s voice was hard.

She regarded the stacks of cash and fake IDs in the soot-blackened box at her feet and ideas raced through her head. Conrad Carter was some kind of secret operative. Except any decent undercover agent would also have a backup piece and ammo stashed with his cash. A criminal mastermind or serial offender? Carter was a man with no family whose job demanded long periods away and who was described as the kind of guy everyone liked but no one knew.

D.D. felt she was standing at a precipice. The next step would take her free-falling over the edge, the answers to dozens of questions roaring past her. Except it would be her job to frantically grab each piece and sort them into a meaningful explanation, all before crashing into the ground below.

In front of her, Evie was shaking her head slightly. The woman appeared shocked, but by what? The contents of the box, or that the police had finally discovered her husband’s secret?

Neil, God bless him, did the sensible thing. He snapped several quick pics with his cell phone, showing the box in situ. Then, donning a pair of latex gloves, he started sorting out the contents.

The cash was banded piles of hundreds. Neil organized them in stacks of ten to equal a thousand, then lined up the stacks. D.D. could practically hear Evie work out the math: twenty-five thousand dollars. Not much compared to the solid bricks of Washingtons seized during the average drug raid, but more than enough in a working-class neighborhood where Evie and her husband had probably considered that a solid year’s renovation budget. D.D. took several photos of her own, to corroborate Neil’s photos. Chain of custody over recovered cash was a big deal in policing. Good cops looked out for each other, dotted all i’s, crossed all t’s, so neither they nor their squad could face any scrutiny.

Five photo IDs. The first names were a mix of Conrad, Conner, Carter, Conroy—always good to stick with names that sounded similar. The last names repeated the trick. Conrad Carter from Massachusetts became Carter Conrad in Texas or Carter Conner in Florida.

Given the name game, D.D. doubted the IDs were professional grade—the kind of fakes that cost thousands of dollars and involved trolling death certificates for an infant who’d departed thirty-eight years ago, then stealing that identity. Such an alias could conceivably be used for decades, the holder acquiring credit cards, even a passport. This … Neil had lined up each slightly warped piece of plastic. These fakes reminded her of the kind underage kids used to talk their way into local bars. Good at a glance, but not great.

She could tell from the look on Neil’s face he was thinking the same. Whatever Conrad Carter was doing, he definitely wasn’t a pro. Which made him what?

D.D. rose and eyed Evie sternly. Evie was still staring at the cash and cards, but she didn’t appear to be looking at them as much as through them. Seeing something only she could see.

“My client is tired,” the attorney began. “Given her condition—”

“I don’t know anything,” Evie interrupted. Her voice sounded as far away as her expression.

“You said this lockbox contained the overflow of financial documents.”

“I lied. I’d never seen it before. I wanted to know the contents.”

“So you admit—”

“All spouses keep secrets, Sergeant. I already told you to ask your husband.”

D.D. could feel her temper starting to rise. “Fine. Let’s head to HQ, where we can talk about yours.”

“Sergeant Warren, my client—”

“Is lying to the police and admitting it? Is possibly leading a double life of her own? Does your baby even belong to Conrad Carter? Or maybe it’s”—D.D. nudged the closest driver’s license with the tip of her boot—“Carter Conrad’s baby? Or Conroy Conrad’s?”

“Sergeant Detective!” Attorney Dick Delaney again, all outrage and bluster.

“I don’t know anything,” Evie repeated quietly. “I thought … He locked his office door. A room in his own house. Every time he went away. Except I was the only person around, and his business, selling custom windows … Why lock up customer spec sheets? And why protect such documents from your wife? Or was he protecting me from them?”

Evie glanced up. For a moment, she appeared as genuinely confused and puzzled as D.D. felt.

“You suspected something,” D.D. stated.