Лиза Гарднер - Never Tell - A Novel (A D.D. Warren and Flora Dane Novel)

The feds had done right by her. Eventually identifying Jacob as a long-haul trucker. Tracking his rig to a cheap motel. Storming the room with a dozen SWAT team officers and enough bullets and stun grenades to take out a small village. Jacob hadn’t survived the raid; Flora had.

To the best of D.D.’s knowledge, it had been at the hospital, still waiting for her mother to fly down, that Flora had given her official statement. She’d made a deal: She’d speak of her kidnapping one time to one person. Then she’d delivered her story, word by painful word, to FBI victim specialist Dr. Samuel Keynes.

The rumor was that Keynes—who had a long history of interviewing international kidnapping victims—had barely made it to the bathroom before vomiting.

Since that day, Keynes and Flora had maintained a relationship that was beyond D.D.’s understanding. She doubted it fell strictly within the guidelines of the FBI’s Office for Victim Assistance. Not that it was romantic at all—in fact, last D.D. had heard, the famously reserved psychologist had finally expressed his true feelings for Flora’s mom, Rosa. Who was an organic-farming, homemade-muffin-baking, free-spirited yogi. What they actually talked about, D.D. had no idea, but having personally seen the spark between them …

At least something good had come from Flora and her family’s ordeal.

The problem remained; Keynes was Flora’s confessor of choice. But he also worked for the FBI. Meaning, the moment Flora started talking to him about seeing D.D.’s murder victim in the company of Jacob Ness, D.D. now had the FBI involved in her case. Or worse, taking it away.

“How many times did you see Conrad?” D.D. tried now. If Flora wouldn’t agree to a formal statement, D.D. would settle for an informal one.

“Just once. At a bar.”

“How long ago?”

“I don’t know. I’d been with Jacob for a while. Weather was cooler.” Flora rubbed her arms. “So maybe it was winter in the South.”

D.D. nodded, working some mental arithmetic. Winter of Flora’s abduction would mean they were looking back basically seven years. Detective Manley had reported that Conrad had traveled for his job, which could mean he’d had a good cover for many activities.

“What about the wife?” D.D. tried now. “Evelyn Carter look familiar to you?”

“She wasn’t there,” Flora said. She stopped pacing abruptly. “Was she married to Conrad then? What do you know of their lives?”

“I don’t. Not yet.”

“She shot him, that seems to signify less than happiness. Could she have been abused? Maybe a victim herself? The news said she was pregnant!”

Flora’s voice had grown strident.

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Investigations are a series of steps, and we have many left to take. For the record, the neighbors describe them as a normal, happy couple.”

Flora snorted. “Neighbors don’t know shit.”

D.D. shrugged philosophically. On that, they could agree.

“Do you know what bar you were in? Where Jacob met Conrad?” D.D. tried to refocus her CI.

“I don’t … Jacob had left me for days.” Flora’s voice dropped. “I was very, very hungry but I didn’t dare leave because Jacob would track me down and kill me. That’s what he told me every time he left, and I believed him.”

“Okay.” D.D. made her voice equally soft. This was the most she’d ever heard Flora say about Jacob. There were questions she’d love to ask, of course, but Flora had never deviated in her onetime, one-telling policy. Mostly, D.D. was left to admire the monster’s handiwork, because if Jacob had been the worst of the worst, then the woman who’d survived him was the toughest of the toughest. Whether he’d known it or not, Jacob had served as a particular kind of forge. And the Flora who’d emerged four hundred and seventy-two days later was solid steel.

The detective in D.D. admired the woman’s resilience. The mother in her was saddened by the loss.

“You were in the South,” D.D. continued now. “Jacob’s trucking route?”

“Yes.”

“You said he left. You were at a motel.”

“Yes.”

“Can you think of the name? Letterhead on the stationary in the room?”

“Jacob didn’t stay in places that had stationary.”

“Okay, flashing neon sign? Work with me here.”

“Motel … Motel Upland.” Flora frowned. “I think. Maybe.”

“Motel Upland.” D.D. nodded. “Sounds regional. We can work with that.”

Flora rubbed her arms and resumed pacing.

D.D. hesitated. In for a penny, in for a pound, she decided. “Flora, I don’t think Evelyn was Conrad’s victim. She’s from around here, has family in Cambridge.”

“You know her?”

“Let’s just say, I’m not terribly surprised to hear about what happened. When I last spoke to her, it was right after she ‘accidentally’ shot her father.”

Flora’s head popped up. D.D. had the woman’s full attention now, including a hard gray stare designed to force someone to hand over all their valuables or confess all their sins. D.D. finally got it then—Flora’s real fear. That she hadn’t talked enough about Jacob. That with her onetime, one-tell policy, she may have left some other victim behind.

As someone who now dedicated her life to helping other survivors, such a thing would devastate her.

“Flora. I think you should come with me. I think there’s something you should see.”

“What? Where?”

“Come with me to the courthouse. Evelyn Carter is due to be arraigned this morning. I think you should see her in person. I think you should know exactly who it is you’re so concerned about.”

• • •

COURTHOUSES WERE THEIR own special kind of madness. D.D. tried to avoid them as much as possible, though that was difficult in her line of work. Actual trials weren’t so bad. They involved a set number of players in a predetermined room—if anything, they were much more boring than anything seen on TV.

The morning arraignment rush, however, was a sea of harried lawyers and wide-eyed—or completely hungover—defendants. The accused piled up, while overworked public defenders tried to identify which handcuffed prisoner would be their date for the party. The front steps were littered with bored reporters waiting for something interesting to happen, small groups of briefcase-wielding lawyers playing let’s make a deal, and neck-craning loved ones trying to catch a glimpse of the spouse, kid, friend, whatever, who’d spent the night in the slammer and might not be coming home again.

Inside was worse. D.D. had to shoulder her way through the throngs, reading the signs to determine the proper room. Flora stalked alongside her, head up, gray stare lasering a path forward. At one point, a tattooed and muscle-bound gangbanger paused beside his escorting officer long enough to give Flora a second glance.

Two alphas, sizing each other up? D.D. wondered. Predator to predator? She was never sure with Flora, but half a heartbeat later, big guy looked away first.

“You like that,” D.D. murmured, having finally spotted Phil outside the assigned courtroom.

“Yes,” Flora said, no explanation necessary.

“Still working our way through the docket,” Phil said by way of greeting. He was the lead detective on the case, which explained why he was in the courthouse. D.D. could already tell from the look on his face that he was exasperated by her presence. Strictly speaking, supervising sergeants didn’t need to personally visit crime scenes or arraignment hearings. And having Flora with her hardly helped matters. Both of D.D.’s former squad mates, Phil and Neil, had opinions about the vigilante, much of it having to do with how they’d all first met: Flora, naked, hands bound in front of her, standing over the charred remains of a would-be rapist; Phil and Neil arriving to arrest … someone … in the case.