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.
Evie looked up, spotted D.D. waiting for them. Something flitted across the woman’s face. Guilt? Whomever she was talking to, Evie ended the call abruptly, stuck her phone in the folds of her coat.
“Mr. Delaney,” D.D. called out, summoning them both over. She peered into the crowd as she waited for their approach. Again, nothing. But Rocket had to be around. She knew it.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” D.D. said as Delaney and Evie halted before her.
“Was anyone hurt?” Delaney asked immediately.
“No,” Di Lucca did the honors of answering. “A neighbor spotted smoke almost immediately; BFD was on-site in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, it appears the damage to the structure is substantial.”
Delaney shrugged unhappily. “Smoke damage. Water damage. Forget the fire. I doubt anything is salvageable.”
D.D. didn’t say anything, just watched the criminal attorney.
He was staring at his home, but it was impossible to read his expression. Sad? Angry? Surprised? All three?
“May I ask where you were this morning?” She spoke up.
“Tending to my client.” He gestured to Evie, who was gazing at the smoking building with open regret.
“And what were you up to this morning?” D.D. asked Evie. The silence dragged on for so long, D.D. didn’t think the woman was going to answer. Then:
“Is it the same as my house? Arson?”
“We have reason to believe so,” Di Lucca answered
Evie gazed at the woman. “Did you investigate my house? The Carter residence?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it’s the same person?”
“I can’t comment on an active investigation.”
“In other words, yes.” Evie shook her head. “But why? Why burn down my house? Why burn down my lawyer’s house? Why, why, why?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” D.D. this time, regarding both Delaney and Evie frankly.
“I have no idea,” Evie said, and she sounded so distressed, D.D. nearly believed her.
“Did you take anything from your house after the shooting?” D.D. asked her now.
“Of course not. The police arrested me. I didn’t even grab my purse or cell phone.”
“Eight minutes,” D.D. said softly. “Eight minutes between the first round of shots and the second. Plenty of time to grab something and tuck it away.”
“But I wasn’t there during the first round of shots. I already told you; that wasn’t me. I was just there for the end, to destroy the computer and try to save my future child more grief.”
“Anything she would’ve taken”—Delaney spoke up abruptly—“would’ve been seized during intake at the county jail.” He eyed Evie. “You were searched, I presume?”
She blushed, looked down. “Yes.”
“Then she couldn’t have had anything,” Delaney informed D.D.
“What about you?” D.D. turned on him. “Did you meet her at intake?”
“No, we only spoke by phone. Our first contact was the next morning at the courthouse.”
“Someone must think you have something. Come on. First her house is burned to the ground”—D.D. pointed at Evie—“then yours. That’s not a coincidence.”
Delaney’s tone remained clipped. “I’m sure it’s not. But the connection . . . Honestly, Sergeant, I have no idea.”
“Where were you this morning?” she tried again, this time going after Evie, who seemed the more cooperative of the two. Di Lucca was watching the show with obvious interest, but then her cell rang. With clear regret, she stepped away to take the call.
“We met with an old friend of my father’s,” Evie told D.D.
“Why?”
“I’ve been thinking. I know I didn’t kill my father. Based on what you said, I also now realize he didn’t kill himself. Which begs the question . . .”
“Good God, you’re investigating your father’s murder? What is it with everyone these days? Doesn’t anyone understand that policing is real work?”
Evie stared at her slightly wide-eyed.
“Your husband was conducting an investigation, too. Did you know that?” D.D. pressed.
Evie shook her head.
“His parents’ accident wasn’t an accident. They were run off the road. Possibly in connection with one of the two cases Conrad’s father, a Jacksonville detective, was working at the time.”
“He never said . . . He never told me—”
“He lived under an assumed name. He was hiding, Evie. Your husband was hiding. Do you know from whom?”
Now the woman was positively pale. “No.”
“Did you ever talk to him about your father? Say you didn’t shoot him?”
“No! Remember, I thought my father killed himself. So, no, I never brought it up.”
“But Conrad was tense. You said you thought something bad was going to happen. You just assumed it had something to do with your marriage.”
“He was tense.”
“Did you ever notice anyone watching the house?”
“No.”
“Strange phone calls, strings of hang-ups?”
“No, but Conrad was in sales. He was always on his cell phone.”
“He was digging into something, Evie. He was on to something. I need you to think.”
“I don’t know! Just the computer. The images of those girls. Oh God, I thought he was a predator. I was so sure. But instead . . . His father was a cop?”
“Did you know anything about this?” D.D. whirled on Delaney abruptly.
“Absolutely not,” he said stiffly. But her tactic had worked. She caught a flicker in his gaze before he had time to cover it up. Then, she got it:
“You ran a background. When Evie first met Conrad. The daughter of your deceased best friend meets a new man . . . Of course you did. And in doing so, you figured out Conrad wasn’t his real name.”
Now Evie was staring at Delaney.
The lawyer opened his mouth, looked like he was going to deny it all. Then, abruptly: “Yes. I ran his name. Evie’s safety and well-being are my responsibility. I take my responsibilities seriously.”
“What did you do?” Evie breathed.
Delaney sighed heavily. The jig was up and he knew it. “I confronted Conrad. I told him I knew his identity was a lie. At which point, he told me about his parents, his father’s work. And we reached the mutual conclusion that it was in your best interest”—Delaney regarded Evie—“that Conrad continue to live under an alias.”
“Who was he investigating?” D.D. demanded to know.
“He had two lines of inquiry. The first into some missing girls. But he wasn’t as concerned about that as he was the status of one Jules LaPage. According to Conrad, if LaPage ever got out of prison, he’d come for him. Hence the assumed name.”
“Why would LaPage come for Conrad?”
“Because Conrad’s father helped LaPage’s ex-wife escape. He knew her location, and going through his father’s papers, Conrad discovered her new identity as well. LaPage wasn’t stupid. If he got out, the most direct line to his ex-wife would be through Conrad.”
“He never said anything,” Evie murmured. She was shaking her head slightly. “Never. Not once.”
“It was his burden to bear. He didn’t want you to worry. As the years went by and he never said anything more, I honestly thought the situation had worked itself out. LaPage was still incarcerated, so no news was good news. Perhaps Conrad was just being paranoid. It happens.” Delaney turned to D.D. “When I heard the news about Conrad, the first thing I did was check on LaPage’s status. He’s still in prison, I assure you.”
“But something had changed,” D.D. said. “Evie already told us that. Conrad had become tense. Something was worrying him.”
“I got pregnant.” Evie shrugged. “If one of these guys he was investigating found him . . . there would be greater consequences.”
D.D. shook her head. “It had to be something more direct than that. He found something. Serious enough someone didn’t just kill him, but burned down your home. Except they’re still worried. Why would they still be worried? So they went after your place next.” She looked at Delaney. “Because you’re Evie’s lawyer, or because this person knows you learned the truth about Conrad?”
“I have no idea,” Delaney answered coolly.
“Who did you speak with this morning?”
“Just a former friend of my father’s,” Evie volunteered. “Dr. Katarina Ivanova. She and my father were involved once. I thought maybe . . . maybe she’d grown jealous. She’d shot him.”
D.D. couldn’t help herself. “And?”
“I don’t think Dr. Ivanova gets jealous. She just moves on to bigger prey.”
D.D. frowned again. The more information she got, the less anything made sense. Evie’s father’s death. Evie’s husband’s death. Evie investigating her father. Evie’s husband, investigating two different major cases.
A lot of stirring the pot of past secrets and current crimes. Any number of things could’ve risen to the surface. But what tied it all together? Two shootings. Two house fires. There had to be one connection.
Phil appeared beside her. “We have a sighting.”
She didn’t need to ask of whom. “Where?”
“Boarded the T three blocks from here. Green Line.”
“Get MBTA on it,” she ordered, referring to the Massachusetts Bay Transportation Authority police.
“Already done.”
“You two”—she skewered Delaney and Evie—“sit tight. No more running around asking dangerous questions. We’ve got enough going on.”
Then D.D. was on the move, phone in hand. She had one last tool to deploy. Someone who already knew Rocket Langley, who was intimately familiar with the city’s subway system, and who could move faster and hit harder than any police officer could.
She called Flora.