Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(7)

“She did this,” D.D. stated. “Evelyn Carter shot and killed her husband.”

“Open-and-shut. Police responded to sound of shots fired. Found her standing at the top of stairs still holding the Sig. Never even denied it.”

“The police forced their way into the house. Why?”

“They heard more gunshots.”

“But the initial call out was due to neighbors reporting gunfire. How long did it take police to respond?”

“Eight minutes.”

D.D. tilted her head. “So fifteen shots were fired over the course of eight minutes?” She eyed the detective.

Carol merely shrugged. “We’re still gathering facts. But my guess, first round was Evelyn killing her husband. Second round—when the police arrived—was Evelyn taking out the computer.”

“With a gap in between. While she was doing … ?”

“Who knows. Closing out files on the computer, maybe? Trying to cover something up? Then, when she heard the sirens, realized the police were closing in … she decided on a more definitive approach.”

It was possible, D.D. thought, but also a lot of conjecture. “Covering something up?” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “Or backing something up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Clearly the laptop held something significant. Did she just want it destroyed, or was there also data she wanted to retrieve? E-mail address of her husband’s alleged lover, I don’t know. But eight minutes … It doesn’t take eight minutes to close out files or shut down a computer. It could take eight minutes, however, to back up desired data.”

Carol nodded slowly. “All right. I’ll check on it. If she copied data, it’d have to be to a thumb drive. She didn’t have anything on her when she was processed at South Bay. So maybe she stashed it around the house? I’ll take a look.”

“Something else you should know: Evie’s father, the Harvard prof, was known for his photographic memory. It was part of the reason for his success in his field. All he had to do was glance at something once, and he retained the image forever.”

“Meaning Evelyn … ?”

“Maybe she didn’t have to back anything up. Maybe she just had to look.”

“Lovely,” Carol murmured.

D.D. smiled. “Nothing to worry about, right? Like you said. Open-and-shut.”

Carol muttered again. This time, the word was not lovely.

D.D. left the detective to take a fresh look at the crime scene. She’d just exited the house when she noticed the person standing across the street. A lone female. Blond hair. Gray eyes. Deceptively slight build.

Flora Dane. Onetime kidnapping victim. Current survivors’ advocate / vigilante. Also D.D.’s newest confidential informant. Just a month ago, they’d worked together to find a sixteen-year-old girl who’d disappeared after the murder of her entire family—if working together was a phrase that could be used for either D.D. or Flora.

Now D.D. frowned, stared across the street.

“What?” she called out. Because where Flora appeared, trouble usually followed.

Flora didn’t approach. She shifted from foot to foot, hunching her shoulders inside her oversized down-filled jacket. If D.D. didn’t know any better, she’d say the young woman looked nervous.

Another moment passed. D.D. sighed, crossed the street herself. Flora was staring at the Carters’ house as if she were trying dissect all the contents while peering straight through the exterior walls. The girl had many talents—including lock picking and chemical fire—but D.D. didn’t think X-ray vision was among them.

“What?” D.D. asked again.

“I saw his picture, on the news.”

“You mean the victim? Conrad Carter?”

“His wife shot him?”

“Appears to be the case. Why?” asked D.D. “You know Evie?” Flora ran a support group for survivors. Maybe, after the death of her father at her own hands, that was how Evelyn saw herself. Anything was possible.

“No. Not her. Him. I recognized him.” Flora glanced at her, and D.D. knew that her notoriously hard-edged CI was indeed nervous. “I met him before. In a bar. When I was with Jacob.”

Jacob Ness was the man who’d kidnapped and raped Flora for four hundred and seventy-two days. He’d died six years ago, during the FBI raid to rescue her.

D.D. had that feeling again. Of knowing only that she didn’t know enough. That Evie Carter had reappeared in her life, and it was going to bite her in the ass.

“Flora—”

“Jacob knew him,” her CI whispered. Flora stared at D.D. with stark gray eyes. “Conrad Carter. Jacob Ness. I think … I’m pretty sure they might have been acquaintances.”





CHAPTER 3


    FLORA


EVERY DAY, I WORK OUT. I run. I hit various stations set up along the Charles River for fitness enthusiasts such as me. Pull-ups on bars. Triceps dips on wooden benches. Knee tucks, hip twists, calf raises, chest flies, lunges, lunges, lunges. It doesn’t matter if it’s December and below twenty, or raining, or boiling. I’m a woman who needs her morning serotonin the way others demand a double-foam latte.

The truth is, like a lot of survivors, I’ve been taught the hard way to ignore physical complaints. Basically, spend enough time starving, beaten, isolated, and you can teach yourself to ignore most anything.