Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(82)

“Entirely possible,” Keith said. “The dark web is a known clearinghouse for everything from drugs to weapons to, yes, illegal services. For that matter”—he addressed the group—“you can also find a gun for hire on the dark web.”

“Great,” D.D. muttered. Most major criminal enterprises had moved online. A good detective adjusted. She still missed the good old days, however, when the felons were up close and personal, versus a computer screen away.

Flora was shrugging. “Since I located Rocket in his own backyard, we conducted our business mano a mano. I got him to give me the location of the money exchange. I leave an initial deposit and target address. He picks up, then goes forth in fiery bliss.”

“You’re going to hire the arsonist?” Quincy asked with a frown. “Shouldn’t you just have arrested him and be grilling him for a description of his previous employer?”

D.D.’s turn: “Given his drop-box method, Rocket probably doesn’t know who hired him. Safer for him that way. What matters is the handoff location. Assuming it’s the same one he used last time, I’ve assigned two detectives to start tracking down all video surveillance in the area. Traffic cams, security systems, ATMs. If we’re lucky, the drop box itself is covered by a camera. If not, we know the same person had to visit the area twice—first time for deposit, then final payment, within a short span of time. Not the easiest parameters for ID’ing a potential suspect, but we’ve worked with less.

“All right.” D.D. looked around the room. “Phil, you’re on deck to follow up with the bank. Neil, Carol, the Jax sheriff’s department. Kimberly, you’ll keep us in the loop regarding codebreaker progress. Flora, your job is to get a good night’s sleep. Keith, I don’t know actually what the hell you’re doing, but the Inverness thing was good enough for now.”

“I’m still chasing some leads,” Keith said, completely straight-faced.

D.D. had nothing to say to that. She rose to standing. “Kimberly, you headed back to Atlanta?” Because the FBI agent could phone in any new findings.

But Quincy was already shaking her head. “Oh no. I’m staying. From what I can tell, this party is just getting started. And I’m not going to miss whatever happens next.”





CHAPTER 27


    FLORA


KEITH AND I WALK OUT of HQ together. The sky above is pitch black, the horizon around us aglow with city lights. I have no sense of time. It feels like this night has been going on forever, but dark comes early in December, so it might be only eight or nine P.M.

Keith has his computer bag slung over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets against the cold. I like to exhale and watch the cloud of steam. I don’t have a hat or gloves. I should be freezing, but I rarely notice such things. Sometimes I think rage is like a furnace, and I’ve been angry for so many years now, I’m perpetually heated from the inside out.

“I. N. Verness,” Keith states finally. He smiles, and I realize he’s happy. I’ve spent the day battling with demons from my past. But for Keith this is simply a six-year-old puzzle that he’s finally cracked. I decide to be happy for him.

“What happens now?” he asks me.

I shrug. “We do what the sergeant recommended. Go home, get some sleep, see what tomorrow brings.”

“Do you sleep?” he asks, his voice genuinely curious.

“Not much.”

“Night terrors?”

“I don’t relax well.”

“Do they pay you to be a CI?”

I frown. “No. Should I be paid?” I never thought to ask and now I wonder if I missed something obvious.

“I don’t know either,” he says. “But … do you have a job?”

“This and that.”

“Focus issues?”

I sigh. He’s pissing me off. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it. People rarely meet survivors of major crimes, so of course they have a million questions, combined with an equal number of misperceptions. They assume I flinch at firecrackers or that I’m terrified of closed-in spaces or they once heard that I have a million dollars secreted away from a wealthy benefactor (maybe Oprah or Dr. Phil!) who was moved by my story.

I don’t have or do any of those things. Nor am I the type who wants to talk about it.

“What did you think of the day?” I ask him instead.

“Got off to a rough start—”

“Sergeant Warren doesn’t like anyone.”

“Good to know. But by the end, the breakthrough with the username …” He bounced up and down on his toes. “I’m excited. We’re going to solve this one. All these years later, we’re going to locate Jacob Ness’s lair and hopefully, evidence of six missing women. Amazing.”

“Gonna tell your true-crime group?”

He appears offended. “I signed a nondisclosure.”

“Make them pinky promise to keep the news to themselves.”

“I signed a nondisclosure,” he repeats, his tone firm.

“What will you do now?” I ask.

“I don’t want to go home,” he says. “I’m too wired. There are a few things I could research, of course. That this Conrad Carter is actually Carter Conner and his father a murdered cop …” He’s nodding to himself. “Have some digging to do there.”