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

“Conrad figured you out,” I venture. “Surfing the dark web, he came upon something.”

“Ironically enough, he lodged a complaint against a particular gun for hire. When I went to mediate … I realized from Conrad’s e-mail who’d sent it. I knew then, it was only a matter of time before Conrad realized my role as site manager as well.”

I stare at him. I don’t care anymore about the smoke stinging my eyes, the intensity of the nearing flames, the feel of my mom tugging my hand. “Tell me,” I order, my voice so thick I barely recognize it. “I want to hear it. Straight from you. Tell me exactly how you killed my husband.”

“I didn’t have a choice—”

“Tell me!”

“I waited till you were out,” Mr. Delaney says slowly. “I went into the master bedroom and retrieved Conrad’s gun, which both of you had mentioned before. Eventually he came home, went to work in his study. I appeared in the doorway. ‘I never heard you knock,’ he said. Then I … Then I did what I had to do. Then it was done.”

“You killed my husband. You burned down my house.”

“I did what I had to do.”

“You burned your own house. Then this house? My mother’s house?” I’m practically screaming. At least I think I am. It’s hard to hear over the flames.

“She knows,” he said. “And now you do, too.” He stares hard at my mother again. “Sixteen years ago, you didn’t suspect?”

My mother doesn’t say a word.

“But when Evie told the police the truth, you started thinking about that day again, too. If Earl hadn’t shot himself, then there were only two logical solutions: The hired gun had come to the house, maybe to see you, and got in a confrontation with Earl instead. Or the only other person who knew everything that was going on had done it—namely, me. Of those two choices, who do you think you were going to turn on first?”

“You killed your best friend,” my mother finally snaps. “He loved you!”

“You hired a contract killer to take out the competition. And he loved you still!”

“He was going to leave me!”

“No! You should’ve just been patient, Joyce. For the love of God, you weren’t going to lose him.”

“No. You took him from me instead.”

Suddenly, my mom’s grip on my hand tightens. Except this time, she doesn’t tug. She yanks me backward. I stumble, falling halfway through the open bathroom doorway. Just as my mother, my platinum-and-pearls mother, ducks her head and charges.

She plows straight into Delaney, his pistol, the black smoke.

“Run, Evie, run!” my mother cries.

Then she and Delaney disappear into the flames.

• • •

YOU SPEND ENOUGH time chasing a dog to get back a precious black boot, you start to think like a dog. Spend the rest of your time chasing criminals, and you learn to think like a criminal.

Rocket was going over the wooden privacy fence across the street. D.D. knew it. He was counting on his youth and athleticism to launch himself up and over and leave his chaser in the dust.

D.D. couldn’t beat him to the fence. Nor was she swinging over tall wooden structures anytime soon. Ten years ago, maybe, but now she’d be kidding herself./

What she could do was tap him, just enough. Vaulting took timing, balance, and a proper launch. Rocket knew how to start a fire; D.D. knew how to take someone out.

A last burst of speed on her part. Her lungs did not appreciate it and she made a mental note to get back to morning runs, even if it was snowy and cold and she hated winter. Sound of a vehicle up ahead. Rocket heard it the second she did. He made his move, a mad dash in front of the vehicle, which he most likely assumed would slam on its brakes—or, better yet, swerve and hit D.D. instead.

D.D. smiled.

Just as Phil turned right into Rocket’s path, and the kid slammed into the side of the hood. Then D.D. was on him, yanking both arms behind his back, as Phil flew out of the front, weapon drawn and covering her.

“Just like old times,” she gasped as she cuffed her prey. Being an administrative sergeant, this was her first takedown in a bit. It felt good, even if she couldn’t catch her breath and was dangerously close to ruining the moment by vomiting.

“Anything for my partner.”

Carol who? D.D. thought. She and Phil shared a smile. Then both of their attentions turned to Rocket, facedown against the hood.

“Who hired you?” D.D. demanded to know.

“Man, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”

“Yes, you do. And if you want any help saving yourself after today’s fire show, you’d better start talking.”

“I don’t know his name,” Rocket hedged.

“Sure you do.” She leaned closer. “We know, Rocket. We know everything. Now the question is, who makes the deal first? You? Or some criminal lawyer who played you from the very beginning and won’t hesitate to throw you under the bus. Talk.”

Rocket’s eyes widened. “You know about Mr. Delaney?”

“Mr. Delaney? That’s interesting. Keep going.”

Rocket did. About burning a crime scene, then about the attorney who deactivated his own security system so Rocket could have access. Followed by the distraction fires to pull everyone into Harvard Square. Exposing his real target. A fucking awesome Colonial in Cambridge.

“Those old homes,” Rocket said with a gleam in his eyes. “Man, do they burn.”

Phil and D.D. exchanged a glance. They could hear sirens in the distance.

“Flora’s already there,” D.D. said.

Phil didn’t need her to explain anything more. He threw Rocket in the back of his car, and they headed for the fire.

• • •

I REACH THE second platform of the fire escape easily enough. The metal is already heating up from the flames inside the home. Smoke pours up from the windows below me and I can smell the undertones of grease, like that night Rocket and I tossed bottles of vegetable oil into the fire drum.

The fire escape on this level leads to an old double-hung window. The neighbor had said she saw someone in the second-story bath. I’m tempted to shatter a pane of glass, reach through to unlatch the window and open it up. But at the last second I hesitate.

I’m not an expert, but I know fire likes oxygen. If I burst open a window and introduce a huge gulp of fresh air into an inferno, I’m pretty sure something bad happens.

I don’t know if this is my best idea or worst, but I keep climbing. Third level of the fire escape. Much smaller window. A tight squeeze—but not a problem for a woman whose nervous energy keeps her on the emaciated side of skinny.

I have some experience smashing windows. Briefly, I think of another time, another place, another girl dying in front of my eyes as I desperately try to break us both out of a house. Then I force it from my mind. Elbow is your best tool. If you’re a female in a hand-to-hand combat situation, an elbow is better than your fist any day of the week. Let alone what you can do with your knee, or the heel of your foot.

I turn my head away, count on my heavy coat for protection as I jab my elbow into the middle of the pane. Glass rains down. Quickly, I shrug out of my down coat, wrap it around my forearms, and use it to clear the rest of the glass from the pane. Then, for good measure, I lay my jacket over the bottom sill as I shimmy headfirst through the narrow space.

I land with a thud. No graceful tuck and roll, more like ass over teakettle. But I’m in. I cough instantly, smelling the smoke.

Okay, now I just have to make it down a level, find Evie, her mother, whomever, and watch out for a homicidal defense attorney. I tell myself I’ve been in worse situations. But the fire still makes me uneasy. Rocket Langley is right: Flames have a lethal sort of magic all their own.