Fear Nothing (Detective D.D. Warren #7) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,93

the faint of heart.

Who am I? I don’t know. I’ve never known. How can any person really figure that out?

What do I look like? A shell of normalcy. Because all kids learn quickly that normal is important, meaning if you’re not normal, you’d better go out of your way to look like it.

Primary motivation: To feel just like everyone else. Which, of course, is the one thing I can never feel.

Purpose of operation: If I can’t be like everyone else, I will be better than everyone else. I will hone my powers. I will be you. I will be me. I will be death. I will be salvation. I will be all things. And then I will finally have everything I want.

Net gain: Freedom at last.

Happy New Neighbor turned away from the mirror. Happy New Neighbor had been fretting long enough. No more thinking. Time to do.

Happy New Neighbor moved into the closet, kneeling down, then working carefully to pry up the three loose floorboards. A minute later, the shoe box came into view.

Removing the lid, gazing down at the contents. Knowing what must come next. And feeling the strength that comes with resolution.

Purpose of operation: To see what a pain specialist who couldn’t feel pain is really made of.

Net gain: Winner takes all.

Chapter 27

CHRISTI WILLEY WAS EXACTLY WHAT D.D. had pictured. It depressed her a little. There had been a time in her policing career when she’d promised herself the moment her job became a cliché, she’d hang up her hat. And yet here she was, at the Pru Center food court in downtown Boston, meeting with a former inmate and her parole officer, and yeah, Christi Willey was mostly what you’d expect, down to the overgrown bleached-blond hair, slumped shoulders and darting blue eyes.

Christi’s PO had called Phil while they were all still brainstorming in D.D.’s home. Per Phil’s request to meet with any parolees who’d once served time with Shana Day, the parole officer had a candidate: Christi Willey, released last year after serving twenty years in the MCI for a variety of offenses, including accessory to murder. The former inmate had agreed to answer their questions in return for one request: that Adeline be present.

Not Shana’s sister. Nor Dr. Adeline Glen. But Adeline.

The request had piqued D.D.’s curiosity. Fortunately, it had piqued Adeline’s as well. So here they were, Phil, D.D. and Adeline, sitting at two hastily combined cafeteria tables with PO Candace Proctor and her charge, Christi Willey, in the middle of a space that smelled overwhelmingly of fried food. In particular, spicy orange shrimp. It was making D.D. hungry.

So far, Adeline was playing it smart; she had yet to say a word, letting Phil and D.D. do all the talking.

Yes, Christi Willey had once shared a cellblock with Shana Day. They’d also spent some time together in solitary, after, you know, the incident.

Christi Willey’s rap sheet included half a dozen drug-related charges, including armed robbery to help fund her habit, assault to protect her habit, and accessory to her boyfriend killing a rival to further enable their habit. . . . Given the woman’s jittery movements and ping-ponging gaze, D.D. wasn’t convinced Christi had given up the lifestyle just yet, prison being one of the easiest places to score drugs. On the other hand, Christi was meeting with them of her own accord, with her parole officer present, and given the mandatory drug testing that was no doubt part of the terms of her parole . . .

Who knows? Maybe the woman was clean. Maybe this was simply your brain even after several years of no longer being on drugs.

It was possible.

“Yes, I knew Shana Day,” the twitchy informant was saying now. She wore a tank top, very much not in season, which showcased rail-thin arms. Candace, the PO, had brought over a large basket of fries, maybe to tempt her charge. Christi had yet to touch them.

D.D., despite her deep and abiding love for food courts, had restricted herself to a bottle of water. Phil as well. Adeline had splurged on a fruit smoothie. Something about having never eaten breakfast. So far, Christi wasn’t paying much attention to the doctor, for which D.D. was grateful. Technically speaking, Adeline shouldn’t even be present. Then again, neither should D.D.

“They had this game,” Christi was saying now, her gaze fixed on the table. “It was called the Hooker Olympics. Frankie, Rich and Howard would play it anytime they all worked together. They’d pick three girls, line