Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,111

will find us. Start a private chat in a pop-up window, hey we haven’t seen you in ninety days, welcome back with a free thirty-day trial …”

“Business is business,” I murmur. I nod slowly. “You don’t know all the forums Jacob visited or the members he might’ve ‘chatted’ with. So if you can’t go to them, you’re hoping one of them will come to you.”

“Exactly. You said Jacob used a lot of drugs.”

I nod.

“Those e-commerce sites have less security, believe it or not, so might be one place to start. But I think those deals had to be local, because to order off the dark web Jacob would need a PO box for delivery. Given his life on the road, always going from state to state …”

“He had mail sent to his mom’s house.”

“Exactly. Meaning he’d have to return there every time he needed a fix; and we know he didn’t go there that often. As an illegal consumer, what other items would Jacob have been into?”

“Porn. And not child porn. But more like everyday porn.” I grimace in distaste at the distinction. I tap the screen, where new images have appeared. “Wait. Is that what this is? But it looks like a gardening catalogue? Aren’t those photos of different kind of daffodils?”

Keith glances up. His expression is faintly apologetic.

“It’s awful,” he says.

I stare at the screen. “You said only the really terrible sites relied on steganography. The ones even other predators hate.”

“It’s awful,” he repeats.

Meaning those daffodils aren’t really daffodils. Young girls? Images of children for sale? He’s right; the possibilities are too awful to consider. I sink down into the chair beside him. Just as a pop-up window appears on the screen.

Keith straightens, looks over the laptop monitor to Quincy. “We have contact.”

The FBI agent marches over, takes up position behind Keith’s shoulder.

She reads the message, nods in grim satisfaction, then takes out her iPhone. She aims it at the screen and hits video.

“All right,” she says. “Let’s play.”

Chapter 31

EVIE

MR. DELANEY INSISTED UPON DRIVING. I couldn’t decide if he thought a woman in my delicate condition shouldn’t be allowed behind the wheel of a car, or if he was just one of those guys who had to be in control.

I had wanted to meet with Dr. Martin Hoffman, the department chair during my father’s tenure at Harvard. My mother had implied he’d know all my father’s associates, so I thought he’d be the best place to start. Unfortunately, he hadn’t answered his phone. I’d left a message but then decided I was too antsy to wait. I’d dialed Katarina Ivanova next, locating her office number on the department website. Interestingly enough, she’d answered and, after a moment’s hesitation, had agreed—rather coolly, I thought—to meet with me.

I had looked up her photo online. She was indeed beautiful, thick, wavy locks of hair, darkly lashed eyes, golden skin. Everything my platinum-blond mother wasn’t.

Personally, Katarina’s photo sparked few reactions for me. Vaguely familiar. I probably had met her at one of the Friday poker parties. But I couldn’t bring any specific memory to mind. Just the mildly shocked reaction that such a gorgeous woman was a Harvard math professor, an ironic generalization from a fellow female math geek who should know better. Just because I complain about the system doesn’t mean I’m immune to it.

Now Mr. Delaney and I drive through Cambridge in comfortable silence. The Harvard campus isn’t far at all, a matter of miles. Given the narrow, congested streets of Cambridge, it’s probably a faster walk than a drive. But this time of year, with the frigid temps and slushy sidewalks, driving it is.

We make it another creeping half a mile; then I just can’t help myself:

“Are you and my mom seeing each other?”

Mr. Delaney takes his eyes off the road long enough to give me an arched brow. The car in front of him stops short for a pedestrian darting across the street. Mr. Delaney slams on his brakes, then throws up an arm as if to keep me from flying through the windshield. I’m wearing my seat belt, not to mention we’re barely moving, but I appreciate the protective instinct.

“Why do you ask?” he finally says.

“Why don’t you answer?” I counter, having seen the lawyer at work before. “I’m not saying I care. I just want to know.”

“Your mother’s a beautiful woman,” he concedes at last.

I nod in encouragement. Mr. Delaney and my mother. The more I think about it, the more I don’t mind. It’s good