Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10) - Lisa Gardner Page 0,97

that he’s finally cracked. I decide to be happy for him.

“What happens now?” he asks me.

I shrug. “We do what the sergeant recommended. Go home, get some sleep, see what tomorrow brings.”

“Do you sleep?” he asks, his voice genuinely curious.

“Not much.”

“Night terrors?”

“I don’t relax well.”

“Do they pay you to be a CI?”

I frown. “No. Should I be paid?” I never thought to ask and now I wonder if I missed something obvious.

“I don’t know either,” he says. “But … do you have a job?”

“This and that.”

“Focus issues?”

I sigh. He’s pissing me off. I’m sure he doesn’t mean it. People rarely meet survivors of major crimes, so of course they have a million questions, combined with an equal number of misperceptions. They assume I flinch at firecrackers or that I’m terrified of closed-in spaces or they once heard that I have a million dollars secreted away from a wealthy benefactor (maybe Oprah or Dr. Phil!) who was moved by my story.

I don’t have or do any of those things. Nor am I the type who wants to talk about it.

“What did you think of the day?” I ask him instead.

“Got off to a rough start—”

“Sergeant Warren doesn’t like anyone.”

“Good to know. But by the end, the breakthrough with the username …” He bounced up and down on his toes. “I’m excited. We’re going to solve this one. All these years later, we’re going to locate Jacob Ness’s lair and hopefully, evidence of six missing women. Amazing.”

“Gonna tell your true-crime group?”

He appears offended. “I signed a nondisclosure.”

“Make them pinky promise to keep the news to themselves.”

“I signed a nondisclosure,” he repeats, his tone firm.

“What will you do now?” I ask.

“I don’t want to go home,” he says. “I’m too wired. There are a few things I could research, of course. That this Conrad Carter is actually Carter Conner and his father a murdered cop …” He’s nodding to himself. “Have some digging to do there.”

I study him for a long moment. “Want to get a drink?” I hear myself say.

My newest admirer and/or possible serial killer breaks into a smile. “I thought you’d never ask.”

• • •

KEITH HAS AN app for one of the ride-sharing services. He also claims to know a bar. I know plenty of bars myself, but probably not the type he’d feel comfortable frequenting. Not to mention that at quite a few of them, his computer would be stolen in minutes.

If I chased down the robber, took him out with a flying tackle and gallantly returned to Keith with his computer bag, would that earn me a look of adoration, or end the evening abruptly? In movies, everyone loves the kickass heroine. I’m less convinced the average man wants one in real life. Keith looks like he works out, but at the end of the day he’s a tech guy. And I’m, well … me.

Keith takes me to Boylston Street. This is pretty Boston. With high-end boutiques nestled in between historic churches, the architecturally significant public library, and of course, dozens of restaurants and bars. Each window is framed in twinkling Christmas lights, while the ornate streetlamps are capped with glittering wreaths and the row of trees wrapped in dazzling holiday cheer. Keith leads me up four steps to an old stone building, very dark and subdued compared to its neighbors. Which should be my first hint.

We are greeted by a man in a tuxedo who could be anywhere between forty and a hundred. He nods at both of us, his face perfectly impassive. I note two things at once. Keith, in his cashmere sweater and finely tailored slacks, blends perfectly with the wood-paneled foyer. I do not.

Keith is already shedding his outerwear. I remove my ratty down jacket with more reluctance. I like my coat. It has many pockets, each a treasure trove of tools and resources for the vigilante on the go.

The maître d’ holds out his hand. At the last minute, I can’t do it. I clutch my coat to my chest. “I get cold easily,” I say, to justify my decision.

Tuxedo man says nothing, merely turns, hangs up Keith’s coat. Then he leads us into a much larger room, also covered in exquisitely carved walnut panels, and dominated by a gorgeous curved bar bearing a gold-flecked marble top. Around us is a collection of seating areas, some white-draped tables, some antique furniture pulled close for a more intimate feel. A fire crackles impressively from a massive fireplace against the far wall. Our host walks