Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,90

messes with that.”

Good point. “It has to be discreet. You come up with the pest-control uniform, or did your last client provide it?”

“What do you care?”

“Has to be discreet,” I repeat, voice steady.

He shrugs. “Depends on what I’m burning. Abandoned is easy access. Residential work, yeah, you can provide the props. Or, I’ve figured out what works over the years. Whatever.”

So maybe his client had provided the pest uniform, or maybe Rocket is that clever. He certainly loves fire, and anyone who loves his job is bound to get better and better at it.

I still don’t think this kid knew Conrad Carter or Jacob Ness. He was strictly the hired help. But he’s also our first link to whoever it was who shot Conrad and then felt compelled to further cover his tracks by totally eradicating the house. My next step is clear:

“Give me the address to the drop site,” I say. “I’ll get you the money.”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Already got plans for tonight.”

“Which are?”

“Right behind you.”

I don’t turn my head. Rookie move, especially as I’ve been tracking my shadow for the past ten minutes. Instead, I plant my feet wide for better balance, whirl my entire torso, and whip the plastic bag with its remaining two bottles of vegetable oil at my attacker’s head. Solid thwack as I connect.

The form, face hidden in the shadows of another hoodie, staggers back, grabs his head, clearly dazed. I dance forward three steps. I kick to the side of his knee, then snap the heel of my hand straight into his nose. He goes down, clutching his face, moaning.

I step back. I don’t need to do anything more, prove anything more. I turn to Rocket. “I’m not a fucking cop. Now, give me the address.”

Rocket appears stunned. Exactly where I want him.

From my pocket, I pull the burn phone I always carry on me. “Text now.”

I’m not surprised when he produces a matching prepaid cell. His fingers fly across the surface. Buzz as the address is delivered.

I smile. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

Then I toss my bag with the two remaining bottles of oil straight into the burning barrel.

Another roar and sizzle. When I walk away, Rocket is still staring at the flames, his friend moaning behind him.

• • •

D.D. PICKS ME up four blocks later. I don’t ask where she’s been or how she found me. She has her skills, I have mine.

“Well,” she demands.

“Hired firebug, definitely. Didn’t even respond to Conrad Carter’s name, and frankly, too much of a burn freak to have pulled this off without help. Canvass the Carters’ neighborhood again, except this time ask about pest control. That’s how he did it. Uniform, or what’s left of it, is at the bottom of that burn barrel. If you look around, the pressurized spray canisters he used have to be around somewhere.”

“Who hired him?”

“He wasn’t that forthcoming. But”—I hold up my phone—“I have the address where I’m supposed to leave money for my future transaction. I’m guessing it’s the same drop spot as Rocket used last time, given he appears to be a creature of habit.”

“We can pull videos of the area from Tuesday night, Wednesday morning,” D.D. fills in thoughtfully.

“Which should give you the client, caught on candid camera.”

“Nicely done,” D.D. informs me.

I just smile.

Chapter 25

EVIE

MY MOM MAKES SOME KIND of French stew for dinner. Filled with lentils and greens and all sorts of things perfect for a growing baby, she informs me. Never mind that with every comment she makes me feel more and more like a broodmare.

I set the table. Three martinis in, my mother shouldn’t be handling breakables. And it’s only six .M.

I need to get out of here, I think again. But how? Whom to call? Mr. Delaney? A teacher I sometimes sit with at lunch? I never realized how small my world is until now. How in keeping everyone out, I’d also shut myself in.

A knock on the side door. I’m so grateful for the interruption, I nearly knock over my chair standing up. “I’ll get it!” I announce.

My mom appears mildly annoyed. I notice she’s not eating her stew, just pushing lentils around in the bowl. This is what happens, I think, when you spend your afternoon filling up on vodka.

I head for the door. Sergeant D. D. Warren stands on the other side. She flashes her badge. Next to her is a younger woman in an oversized down coat and a gray hoodie. She looks like she’d be more comfortable