Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(52)

Delaney made another noise in the back of his throat. D.D. nudged Neil with her foot, and he shot immediately to standing.

“We’re going to need to see the file box again,” Neil said.

Delaney gave them a look, Neil’s bid at distraction not fooling him for a moment. “Then you can fetch it from the back of the trunk.” He tossed Neil the keys.

D.D. kept her attention on Evie. She was on to something. She could feel it.

“You shot the computer. Why did you shoot the computer?” D.D. moved closer, keeping her voice low. “What did you suspect, Evie? What did you catch the father of your unborn child doing?”

“My client—”

“First your father. You loved him, didn’t you? Idolized him. I conducted those neighbor interviews. Everyone talked about what a close bond you and he had.”

“Sergeant Detective, I am warning you—”

“You thought he killed himself, didn’t you? So acting on your mother’s orders, you became the patsy. All these years, carrying that weight alone. Just so you could fall in love and discover … what? That your husband’s sins were far greater?”

“This conversation is over.” Delaney had his hand on Evie’s arm. “Take the file box or don’t take the file box. Either way my client is coming with me.”

“No, she isn’t.” D.D. was staring directly at Evie. She knew she had the woman’s total, undivided attention. She understood then the truth to getting at her prime suspect. Every person had a lever, the button that a good detective learned how to push. Evie had given her the key just yesterday; the woman was her father’s daughter. She did work the math. And she couldn’t walk away from an unsolved equation.

Curiosity. That was Evie’s downfall. Which gave D.D. a slight chill, because curiosity had always been her weakness, too.

“Come to HQ. Answer my questions,” she told the woman now.

“She’s going home!” Delaney snapped.

Evie said, “Why?”

“Because in return, I have photos. From sixteen years ago. Going through them, I can prove to you, your father didn’t shoot himself.”

—

EVIE WOULD COME to HQ. D.D. never doubted it for a second. First her lawyer had to draw her aside and engage in frantic conversation. No doubt informing his client she was being foolish, letting the police get under her skin. If they had any real evidence, they’d be forced to disclose it prior to trial anyway. As for Evie, the woman seemed to have some strong words of her own. D.D. could’ve sworn she heard the woman state angrily, “I am your client and you will not call my mother.”

How interesting.

After a few more minutes of terse exchange, Evie climbed into her lawyer’s car, file box still planted in the trunk. D.D. couldn’t justify seizing the papers as evidence, though she was happy enough to have a photo of Conrad Carter’s life insurance for future reference. Neil bagged and tagged the metal lockbox and its contents as the BPD’s share of the spoils. They loaded up their car, then led the way to HQ.

BPD’s headquarters was an acquired taste. People either were sufficiently impressed by the modern glass monstrosity or, more likely, shook their heads at yet another example of their tax dollars at work. D.D. wasn’t into architecture. As a woman who liked to eat, she appreciated the café on the lobby level. And the upstairs homicide suite was far bigger and more useful than the old HQ had been, even if the blue industrial carpet, gray filing cabinets, and collection of cubicles made them look more like an insurance company than an investigative unit. Sometimes, like now, when she had a suspect she didn’t want to spook, it was nice to pretend they were just hanging out at an office versus, say, starring in an old episode of NYPD Blue.

Given the circumstances, D.D. led Evie and her lawyer to homicide’s conference room, something a bit more hospitable than the Spartan interrogation rooms. Evie already had her attorney at her elbow. D.D. didn’t want to spook her prime suspect before extracting as much information as possible.

After a quick sidebar, Neil disappeared to find Phil. Neil would handle processing the evidence they’d recovered at the arson scene. Phil would resume his role as family man / father figure detective. Again, interviews were strategy and while D.D. liked a good full-court press, that was never going to work with a lawyer in the room. This would be a finesse job. Fortunately, she was a woman of many skills.

And like Evie, of much curiosity.

D.D. played nice. She got Evie and her lawyer situated. Brought them both bottles of water; then, at the request of Delaney, who seemed to enjoy having one of Boston’s finest waiting on him, she returned with a cup of coffee. By then, Phil had joined the room, armed with a heavy cardboard box. The outside of the box bore large black numbers: the case number for Evie’s father’s shooting sixteen years ago.

Phil set the box at the head of the table, away from Evie and Dick Delaney. He and D.D. had been playing this game for so long, they didn’t need to speak to know how to proceed. D.D. sat directly across from Evie and her lawyer, engaging in them in small talk about best brands of coffee in Boston, black versus cream and sugar, and, oh yeah, having to give up coffee while pregnant, which D.D. had never thought she’d be able to do, but in fact had come quite naturally.

In the meantime, Phil unpacked the box. Slowly. File after file. The murder book. Binders of evidence reports. Stacks of photos. Pile here. Pile there. Pile after pile.