Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(92)

D.D. nodded. Somehow, prison seemed to be a breeding ground for criminal enterprise. Ironically enough, the county had probably increased LaPage’s access to illicit resources.

Conrad’s decision to move north and live under an assumed name was starting to make more sense to her. But it still didn’t tell any of them what had led to his murder Tuesday night.

Photos of abused girls on his computer screen. The last thing Conrad had been looking at before being shot. Like Conrad’s meeting with Jacob Ness, possession of such images could go either way. Conrad was either part of the problem a sexual predator himself, or some lone-wolf operative, trying to make a difference.

D.D. knew who she wanted him to be, especially for his wife and unborn child’s sake, but that didn’t make it so.

“You think whoever shot Carter three nights ago might be the same person who ran his parents off the road?” Carol asked now.

D.D. shrugged. “We don’t know what we don’t know. We’re just going to have to keep following the questions wherever they take us.”

“Pretty damn scary ride,” Neil murmured.

“Which apparently Conrad had been living for a long, long time. Find this retired JSO detective Dan Cain.”

Both detectives nodded.

“And let’s starting digging into the missing sex offender, and what the hell, LaPage’s terrified wife. But that inquiry—”

“Strictly on the QT,” Neil filled in for her.

“Our best assumption: Conrad’s father once got too close in an investigation. Then, years later, his son, going down the same path …”

“Met the same fate. We need to find this bastard,” Carol said.

“Agreed. Because whoever it is the guy figured out Conrad’s alias. Meaning he also knows about Conrad’s wife and unborn child. And once you’ve killed three, what are two more?”





CHAPTER 30


    FLORA


I CAN’T SLEEP. ALL NIGHT LONG I’m plagued by terrible dreams where I’m running frantically down long corridors, only to turn the corner and find Jacob standing there. Except it’s not Jacob, it’s Keith Edgar, and he’s telling me he’ll take care of everything, which sends me careening away, running even faster.

I never make it to bed. I collapse on my sofa, where my legs twitch and my eyes keep flying open and I bolt upright like some demented jack-in-the-box.

My past and present have collided. I honestly can’t figure out where old ghosts end and new demons begin. Is Keith Edgar just some computer genius who, due to a family tragedy, has a true-crime obsession similar to my own? Or is he too good to be true? The handsome guy who’s been writing to me continuously since the day I came home, studying and perfecting the right thing to say so that one day, when we finally meet in person …

How many true-crime aficionados would love to brag they have Flora Dane as their girlfriend? Or maybe he is something darker, more sinister? The guy who got into studying killers because everything about murder fascinates him? In which case, could there be any bigger coup than claiming Flora Dane as his first victim?

I’m being selfish, arrogant. Assuming I’m worth so much. Yet, total strangers stop me on the street to say, hey, aren’t you that girl, and, why didn’t you run away the first time he left you alone, and, doesn’t that mean you must’ve liked him at least a little bit? Sicko men write marriage proposals. Others think I’m the only one who can truly understand them.

Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

At six A.M. I give up. Shower. Leave a message for my boss at the pizza parlor, claiming to be deathly ill and apologizing for missing my shift yesterday. Given how I feel, I’m not totally lying. This is the other thing I resent about Keith Edgar. Him and his whole you can be anything. What a load of shit.

If I could do better, don’t you think I would’ve by now? Instead of hanging out in a triple-locked apartment plastered with articles about missing persons cases. I’m not even a good pizza employee. And I don’t want to write a tell-all novel or sell the movie rights or exploit my situation to make a quick buck.

Sure, I help other survivors. I assist the police. But six years later, I’m mostly still me, seeing monsters everywhere, and training every day to kill them.

I hate Keith Edgar all over again. Him and his elitist club and his quiet competence, which seems to argue you can fight predators and still lead an almost-normal-looking life.

I decide we need to talk. Which is why I grab my favorite down jacket, fill the pockets with all my latest tricks, then, hunching my shoulders against the cold, trudge down to the T station in Harvard Square.

It all seems like a very good plan. Till I knock hard on Keith Edgar’s door. And SSA Kimberly Quincy opens it.

—

I FEEL IMMEDIATELY like I’m intruding on something, but I don’t know what. Quincy doesn’t say a word, merely opens the door wider. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me. Maybe after yesterday’s display, she thinks Keith and I are friends. Or more than friends.

She’s wearing a pantsuit very similar to yesterday’s ensemble, except today she has a dark-green fitted top beneath the short black blazer. Sensible heels, I notice, as she leads the way to the back of Keith’s town house and I reluctantly follow.