Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(64)

“You should tell your mother,” D.D. said, mostly because she was a mom and she just couldn’t help herself.

She got back the answer she expected: a mutinous stare.

D.D. sighed. She didn’t know if this was the best idea or worst idea she’d ever had. She respected Flora’s strength but worried about her self-destructive streak. D.D. needed some kind of fresh approach to get her investigation going, but a “recovered memory” from a night spent binge drinking definitely felt like a stretch.

And yet, for the first time since D.D. had known Flora, the woman was willing to talk about Jacob. She was willing to look backward, at four hundred and seventy-two days of absolutely horrifying memories. There was a determination and resilience in evidence that D.D. had to admire.

If Dr. Keynes helped them, if they started with something easier than Flora climbing back into a pine coffin …

Maybe Flora could get the answers she now so desperately wanted. While Kimberly Quincy caught a new lead on six missing women, and D.D. found out what Conrad Carter had been doing on all his business trips and who, other than his wife, might want him dead.

It sounded simple enough. Which probably explained the sinking feeling in D.D.’s stomach. The best-laid plans …

Flora was still staring at her. SSA Quincy, too. Flora was going to do it one way or another, D.D. realized. She’d made up her mind sometime in the middle of the night. And once set on a course, she wasn’t the type of person to let anything stop her.

“Fine,” D.D. announced. “A trip down memory lane it is.”

Flora hit dial.





CHAPTER 21


    FLORA


WHEN I WALK INTO FBI headquarters two hours later with a bag of takeout nachos and chicken wings, no one gives me a second glance. Wearing my usual uniform of worn cargo pants and a baggy sweatshirt beneath a bulky down coat, I probably look like a delivery person. Keith, trailing behind me with a six-pack of Bud cans, earns several startled looks, but that’s nothing compared to the attention Samuel gets just by waiting for us. My victim specialist, Dr. Keynes, has features that stand out in a crowd.

Compared to Sergeant Warren, Samuel was surprisingly agreeable to my plan. If anything, I had the feeling he’d been waiting for such a call. He probably recognized my refusal to talk about Jacob was a form of denial that couldn’t go on forever.

Now Samuel moves forward. I get a clasp on the shoulder, a show of warmth from a man who knows everything awful there is to know about me, including the fact I don’t do hugs. He shakes Keith’s hand, and the two take a moment to size each other up. Neither says anything, but Keith still appears a little starstruck.

Samuel never initiates a conversation. His job is listening, not talking, as he once explained to me, but he’s also intensely private. If he knows every terrible thing about me, it took me five years to figure out he was secretly in love with my mom. Even then, I didn’t actually deduce anything; my mom had to announce they’d decided to start dating, but only if I was okay with it.

I’m not sure I ever gave permission. I think I was too busy standing before her with my jaw hanging open. I still can’t picture my mom, in her free-spirit yoga clothes, driving a tractor around her organic potato farm, with a man addicted to Armani—but then, no kid wants to imagine her mom dating. I think they’re happy. I guess I even hope so. But mostly, I don’t want to know.

Federal buildings have a lot of security. Samuel is meeting us because of the beer, which the guards either don’t like or surreptitiously hope to confiscate for later. Samuel takes one of them aside, murmurs a few words, and just like that we’re through. Keith continues his wide-eyed stare. I roll my eyes at Samuel and don’t even bother to ask what he said. I’ve never seen Samuel not get his way. That and his cheekbones are like his superpowers.

Upstairs, Sergeant Warren and SSA Quincy are already waiting. They both have cups of coffee and are chatting away like old friends. Territorial pissing match aside, they seem to have mutual respect for each other, which makes my life easier. Individually, they are solid investigators. Together, I should have double the chance of getting answers.

I’m still very curious about D.D.’s earlier meeting with Conrad Carter’s wife. Did the woman really shoot her own husband? Because D.D. implied the case wasn’t as clear-cut as the news reported. I’m trying out some strategy of my own: assist with D.D.’s investigation now with this little trip down memory lane, then interrogate the detective on what she knows about Conrad Carter later.

Samuel has booked a meeting room. Much like the one at BPD headquarters, it has a wall of windows, which will allow the others to observe from the hall. For the “visualization” exercise, Samuel has already said it should be only him and me in the room. I’m supposed to relax, which is already nearly impossible. Having other people around won’t help.

Now I open up the takeout and arrange the nachos and chicken wings in the middle of the table. Already, the smell wafts across the room. I wait for scent alone to transport me. I mostly feel like I’m standing in the middle of a federal building with soggy tortilla chips.

Samuel produces a glass. Keith does the honor of pouring out a beer. Again, we’re trying to be as specific as possible. Jacob always ordered Bud, always in a glass. Final touch, country music. I have a vague memory of it playing in the background. I’m less sure about the song. Keith already Googled country’s greatest hits from seven years ago and, while we were waiting for the food, compiled a playlist. He sets his phone on the table now and gets the party started.