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

“The straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“Yes, that. When I heard Earl had been shot, I assumed his wife had done it.”

“My mother was with me.”

For the first time, Dr. Ivanova smiles. It is a feline expression. “Please, your mother would never dirty her hands like that. And I’ve always thought she is much smarter than your father gave her credit for.” Ivanova waves a hand at me, gesturing that she is done with me. “You do not have anything. If the police come, I will tell them the truth. Your father and I were lovers, a very long time ago. Then we were not, also a very long time ago. I do not shoot my exes. Frankly, I couldn’t afford that many bullets.”

She gives me a blatant stare. And just like that, my crime solving is done. She’s won. I’ve lost. Game over.

I rise to standing, surprised to find that my legs are shaky. To be honest, I believe Katarina’s claim that she had no reason to kill my father. Now I have doubts about my mother instead, which is worse.

I want to get as far away from here as possible. This morning has been disorienting. Maybe children aren’t meant to know their parents this well. Maybe no one should look too hard at their childhood memories.

Mr. Delaney also rises to his feet. As I head for the door, he hesitates. I hear him murmur something to Dr. Ivanova. Maybe a final, parting barb. Whatever it is, she hisses in response, clearly unhappy with him.

I don’t care anymore. I just want to get back to the car. And then what? Return to my mother’s house? Watch her mix more martinis in the kitchen? Or ask her, finally, point-blank after all these years: Did you arrange for Dad to die?

I’m doubting things I don’t want to doubt. And seeing things I don’t want to see.

As we step outside the building, into the harsh chill of mid-December, Mr. Delaney’s cell phone rings. He answers it crisply. “Delaney. Yes. Excuse me? What did you say?”

His footsteps immediately pick up. I’m rushing to keep up with him when he ends the call, pockets his phone.

“There’s a fire,” he says, his voice hard.

“Where?” Then before I can help myself. “Mom?”

“She’s fine. It’s not your mother’s house, Evie. It’s mine.”

Chapter 32 D.D.

D.D. WRAPPED UP HER MEETING with Neil and Carol. Based on everything they had learned, it seemed logical that Conrad Carter had continued investigating his father’s cases after his parents’ deaths. That meant he’d been covering everything from how to hide Monica LaPage from her incarcerated-and-yet-still-vengeful ex-husband to pursuing the disappearance of at least two missing girls in Florida. Also, based on Evie’s account of spotting a dot-onion site on her husband’s laptop, Conrad had been using the dark web to do it. Which was where he’d encountered Jacob Ness, and arranged a meeting in a bar? Or where he’d met all sorts of predators, one of whom had ultimately figured out Conrad’s true good intentions and felt compelled to kill the man? Or Conrad had simply learned something he shouldn’t have?

They knew more, but they still didn’t know enough. Neil and Carol were to contact retired Jacksonville detective Dan Cain, who presumably had kept in touch with Conrad. They were also to make discreet inquiries into Monica LaPage’s whereabouts. D.D. was already wondering—the monthly withdrawals from Conrad’s account. Had he been sending financial support to the beleaguered woman, again, taking up where his father had left off in trying to help her?

So many questions.

In the meantime, D.D. headed back up to her office, where she could call arson investigator Patti Di Lucca. She wanted more information on Rocket, who appeared to be their prime suspect for burning down the Carters’ home. Not to mention this whole firebug-for-hire gig. Had Di Lucca heard of such a thing before? Did it fit with her impressions of the scrawny kid? And how exactly would prospective clients learn of such services?

Clever in his own way, Flora had said about Rocket. In D.D.’s world, nothing good came from that.

She was just reaching for her cell phone when it rang. She took one look at the caller ID and smiled.

“Great minds think alike,” she said, as she took Patti Di Lucca’s call.

“Though fools seldom differ,” Di Lucca finished the proverb.

“Uh-oh. Does that mean I’m not going to like this call?”

“That depends. What are your feelings on a second fire?”

“Where?”

“Defense attorney Dick Delaney’s town house. Reeks of gasoline—and I’m told the first firefighters on the scene discovered a burnt-out pot on the stove and thick smoke from cooking oil.”

“Rocket Langley,” D.D. breathed.

“I’m already on scene,” Di Lucca reported.

“Any injuries?

“Nope. Residence was empty at the time the fire was started.”

“Meet you there.”

• • •

PHIL HAD TO park several blocks back from the scene of the blaze. Thick smoke drifted up in a dark column ahead, and D.D. found herself coughing the minute she stepped out of the car. The street near Dick Delaney’s Back Bay town house was already choked with fire engines and emergency responders. Given the brownstones nestled shoulder to shoulder down the stately block, the BFD hadn’t wasted any time knocking down the flames.

Phil and D.D. flashed their credentials, then ducked under the crime scene tape. D.D. found Di Lucca tucked behind one of the fire engines, taking refuge from the heat of the blaze. The sharply dressed arson investigator nodded at their approach.

“I still don’t know anything more than I told you by phone. Scene’s way too hot to enter. But the first responders all reported the smell of gasoline. Also, they spotted a clear burn pattern, which would be consistent with the use of an accelerant.”

D.D. nodded while slowly turning in place. As befitting a notoriously successful defense attorney, Dick Delaney lived on one hell of an expensive block. The street was lined with imported automobiles, and every expensively restored town house appeared slightly grander than the one before. Huge wreaths decorated dark-painted doors. Pots of fresh Christmas greenery flanked front stoops, while the precisely manicured bushes were decked out in sparkling white lights.

“He’s gotta be watching,” D.D. murmured.

“Firebugs love to admire their own work,” Di Lucca agreed.

“Any empty buildings in the area?” D.D. asked Phil, studying the row of windows across from them. This time of day, it was impossible to see inside. The windows merely reflected back the smoky sky. It was possible Rocket was standing at one of those windows now, the young kid staring down at them. Or he was hunkered on a fire escape, or tucked in the crowd of gawkers. So many possibilities. And yet she swore she could feel his eyes on her.

“Witnesses?” D.D. asked Di Lucca as Phil went to make some inquiries.

“Nothing. But not many people home this time of day.”

“He blends in,” D.D. said. “We have reason to believe he might have dressed up as pest control for approaching the Carters’ residence. No one thinks twice about service people. Plus, gave him an excuse to walk around with giant spray cans.”

“Smarter than I would’ve thought for a kid who’s only ever been known to have an interest in abandoned real estate.”

“We think he’s expanding his skills—arson for hire. Getting paid for doing what he loves best.”

Di Lucca sighed heavily. “Great, gangster turned entrepreneur. Just what this city needed.”

A commotion in the crowd. D.D. and Di Lucca turned to see Delaney walking quickly up the street toward them. Evie trailed behind him, talking on her phone. Delaney came to a halt in front of the patrol officer working the perimeter. The patrol officer put up a hand to block his progress. Delaney uttered something sharp and the younger man nearly leapt out of way to let him through.