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

“Exactly. What have you and Keith learned?”

“Flora recommended we switch gears, see if we could use Jacob’s username, I. N. Verness, to pick up traces of Conrad’s activities on the dark web.”

“Any luck?”

“Kind of. Conrad appeared to be shopping for an assassin.”

“What?” That caught D.D. off guard.

“On the dark web, you really can buy just about anything. From human trafficking to murder for hire.”

“Conrad was taking out a hit on someone?”

“Given the depths of Conrad’s online activities, our preliminary theory is that he’s spent years posing as a ‘criminal of all trades.’ Kind of a shadowy underworld figure, dabbling in drugs, women, all sorts of unsavory activities. Leading up to his death, where he talked about having some kind of serious threat that required a serious solution. He was looking for recommendations for wet work.”

“He wanted to identify possible assassins,” D.D. said.

“Clearly.”

“Because he realized he was in trouble? That maybe someone had finally figured things out and was coming for him? Or”—she had a second idea—“the missing ex-wife. If Jules LaPage had found her, his next move would be to hire an executioner. Maybe this was Conrad’s way of trying to be one step ahead. Identify the major players, so he’d know if any of them got assigned that kind of hit.”

“Either way, Conrad was researching hired guns. Then Conrad himself was gunned down.”

“He got too close. Flora was right; he discovered something he shouldn’t have. Dammit, if Evie hadn’t shot up the laptop …” D.D. was frustrated again. She forcefully exhaled, got herself back on track.

“From a federal perspective,” Quincy began.

“By all means.”

“This is a cleanup operation. First the shooting, now all the fires. Someone is aggressively removing any and all traces of Conrad Carter and what he may have discovered.”

“But why trash-can fires?”

“I have no idea. Except firebugs are like serial killers—they can’t always control their impulses. Maybe your Rocket guy has gone from controlled burn to arson spree.”

“Meaning he won’t stop,” D.D. began.

“Until someone stops him,” Quincy finished for her.

D.D. shook her head. Just what they needed, an out-of-control fire-happy kid to go with their already-too-complicated investigation. Focus, she thought. Forget Rocket and trash-can fires. Think motive. Conrad, who’d spent years surfing the dark web. Meeting in person the people behind the cybermasks. Gaining trust. Building relationships. Year after year. What was it Keith had told Flora—the dark web was still a fundamentally human system? Real administrators who knew each other, forum managers who personally vouched for one another. And the assassin he’d been trying to hire? Maybe he’d also arranged to meet face-to-face?

“Gotta go,” D.D. announced.

“We’ll continue our work here,” Quincy said.

“Keith any good?”

“Better than I expected. Interesting.”

D.D. didn’t have a reply for that. She ended the call, nodded once at Phil, and he roared away from the curb, hurtling toward Cambridge and the next danger to the city.

Chapter 36 FLORA

I HAVE JUST EXITED THE T stop, climbing up into the slushy sidewalks and cold air of Harvard Square, when the first fire truck roars by. I track it instantly. Except the fire engine barely makes it three blocks before coming to a screeching halt, and I realize belatedly the sky is gray not from low-hanging clouds, but from plumes of smoke.

The sidewalks are a crush of activity. Groups of students moving away from the fire in an organized fashion, intermingled with lone gawkers who want to see what’s going on. I decide to play gawker, too, pulling the hood of my gray sweatshirt over my head and burying my hands deep in the pockets of my down jacket as I shoulder my way toward the bustling firemen, already pulling hoses and shouting orders.

I had assumed Rocket was headed toward Evie’s mother’s stately Colonial in the residential part of Cambridge. But given the kid’s penchant for burning things, I have to figure he’s behind this latest danger, even if I don’t understand why.

Which means he’s around, somewhere. Watching.

Except then I identify the firemen’s target and draw up short. I’m not looking at a building fire. Something big and ominous and impressive. I’m looking at a narrow cloud of smoke, followed by a sudden skinny burst of flame. Except there’s another and another and another. Trash cans. I’m looking at four trash cans, spaced at random intervals, all on fire.

What the hell?

I think back to the first night I met Rocket, that particular trash can. And almost on cue, a new line of smoke rises in the distance …

I don’t yell at the firemen. I burst into a run. It’s Rocket. I know it. Working his way across campus, dropping firebombs as he goes. Why, I have no idea. But I’ve met the boy and this … this is exactly his style. Fire, beautiful and mysterious and everywhere.

Screaming. Chaos. None of the fires are big; it’s the sheer number and randomness that are leading to panic. Trash cans bursting aflame here and then there and here again. Students are trying to scurry off campus as fast as I and various firemen try to push through. The firefighters need to hose down each trash can and stomp out embers. Me, I need to get to the head of the line, spot the source.

How is Rocket pulling this off? No way he boarded the subway with canisters of gasoline or a backpack of Molotov cocktails. Had he already stashed supplies nearby? A first stockpile for the lawyer’s town house? A second buried behind a dumpster on campus? Is there another target?

I spy a figure moving ahead. Not running, but definitely moving in a brisk, direct fashion. Dark hoodie—not dissimilar to mine—pulled over his face. I don’t stop to think if this is wise, or what I’m going to do if I draw too close and Rocket notices me. I trust in my training and the low buzz of adrenaline that’s jolting through my entire system.

As I’d explained to Keith, it’s hard for a girl like me to experience an up.

But this … this does it for me every time.

Rocket. Right in front of me. He turns just as I start to close the gap. For one moment we’re eye to eye. He has a backpack slung over one arm. As I watch, he pulls out a small clear bottle. Alcohol. With a rag stuffed into its neck. A Molotov cocktail, just as I had expected, in a bag he must’ve stashed somewhere nearby. Meaning he knew he was coming here. All part of his plan. Burn down a lawyer’s tony brownstone in downtown Boston, then head to Cambridge and light up a college campus.

Why?

My time for thinking is up. Rocket is no longer holding the Molotov cocktail; he’s lit the fuse and is hurtling it straight at me. I yelp, dive left. The flaming alcohol hits the ground to my right, where lucky for me, it sputters out against the winter mush. I don’t bother checking it. There are enough professionals on-site and my mission is clear. I clamber to my feet and start running. There, up ahead. I spot the dark hoodie again. Rocket, running pell-mell through a startled crowd of bundled up students. The kid is crazy fast. In a straight-out sprint, I’m never gonna take him. Instead, I do my best to guess his direction, then race a diagonal intercept.

I’m just starting to gain on him, when he glances over his shoulder and realizes my strategy. Just like that, he veers left, farther away from me. I redouble my efforts, plowing through a huddle of students, leaping over a bench.

I land wrong, my right foot sliding out on the slushy ground. My shoulder hits hard, and briefly, I lose my breath.

“Are you okay?” someone asks.