by Lisa Gardner
She glared at him.
He shrugged. “Hey, I was the one working the scene half the night. Sergeant.”
“And I was fighting an evil canine for the safety of black boots everywhere. We all have our problems.”
Phil smiled. He was used to D.D. in this mood, was probably one of the only detectives who could handle her, which is why she liked him so much. And missed her original investigative squad terribly. Managing sergeant her ass. Who wanted to sit at a desk all day anyway?
“Wait, there’s more,” Phil said now, in his best TV infomercial voice.
“Should I be sitting down?”
“You’d only pop back up and pace. Before moving to Mass., Conrad lived in . . .” Phil dragged it out.
D.D. closed her eyes, already seeing the answer. “Florida.”
“Yep.”
“Same state as Jacob Ness and where Jacob kidnapped Flora.”
“Yep.”
“Jacob and Conrad could’ve known each other prior to meeting with Flora at the bar.”
“It’s possible,” Phil agreed.
D.D. shook her head. She could not believe this case was spinning so far out of hand. “Okay, what do we know of Conrad? Don’t suppose techs have anything back on the computer?”
Phil gave her a droll look.
“Cell phone?” she tried.
“Can’t find it.”
“‘Can’t find it’? What does that mean? Everyone has a cell phone, especially a guy in sales.”
“Agreed. Except we don’t know where his is.”
“You ping it?”
“No, we were waiting for it to walk home on its own.” Phil gave her that look again. Sometimes, his mood matched her own. “Of course we pinged it. Nothing, nada. Wherever it is, it’s shut off. Carol contacted the mobile carrier. Working on getting their copies of texts, voice messages now.”
D.D. studied Phil. “You think Conrad hid his own phone? Turned it off, stuck it somewhere before his wife shot him?”
Phil shook his head. “Guy didn’t even get his hands up.”
“Someone took it,” D.D. said.
“That’d be my guess.”
“The wife? She hides his phone, shoots up the computer? What exactly is she trying to hide?”
Phil shrugged. “You heard her lawyer. We have an eight-minute gap. It’s possible someone else shot him, that person grabbed the phone, that person ran away.”
“Please. One shooter runs away just in time for the wife to return home—”
“Or her arrival is what scared him away—”
“At which point, Evelyn enters her own home, discovers her husband’s murdered body and . . . doesn’t dial nine-one-one, doesn’t run to the neighbors for help, doesn’t scream for the police. No, she picks up the same gun and fires a dozen rounds into the laptop?”
“The mysterious-first-shooter theory loses something right around this point,” Phil agreed.
“We need to know everything there is to know about this couple,” D.D. repeated.
Phil shrugged, yawned again. He probably had been up all night. Welcome to homicide.
“Old school,” D.D. announced. “If we can’t trace Conrad through electronics, then what about personal files, credit card receipts, banking info?”
“Neil’s digging through it now,” Phil reported. The youngest member of their original three-person squad, Neil had joined the force after serving years as an EMT. He used to be the one in charge of autopsies, but lately he’d been expanding his wings. With D.D.’s promotion out of the unit, and Carol Manley’s entry into the squad, he was also no longer the rookie, which seemed to suit him.
“Nothing extravagant has jumped out yet, Neil said. Lotta charges to Lowe’s, as you might expect from a couple with a fixer-upper. Between Conrad’s sales job and Evelyn’s teaching assignment, they pulled in low six figures. Not bad. Course, Boston’s an expensive town. Two cars, taxes, mortgage, cable, cell phones. They weren’t drowning, nor were they living in the lap of luxury.”
“Life insurance policy on the husband?” D.D. asked.
“Hundred grand. That we know of. People have killed for less.”
D.D. nodded, but she also registered Phil’s lack of enthusiasm on the subject. A hundred grand might be a lot of money to some people, but for Evelyn Conrad, who’d grown up in a multimillion-dollar home in Cambridge while attending the finest private schools and socializing with the city’s best and brightest, a hundred thousand wasn’t enough.
“What was her father insured for?” D.D. thought out loud.
“Half a mill.” Phil spoke up. “Thought you might ask.”
“Better motive for shooting him.”
“If you’re Mrs. Hopkins, sure. You thinking Evelyn didn’t do it after all? Her father’s death wasn’t her fault?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore.” D.D. gave up on pacing, leaned against the doorjamb. “There are too many strange coincidences here. A woman who may or may not have been involved in two fatal shootings in the past sixteen years. A victim who may or may not have had ties with an infamous serial rapist. It’s like this giant Gordian knot. I can’t figure out which string to pull first.”
“Conrad Carter doesn’t have significant ties to this community. No coworkers, no family, no electronic devices. Until the computer geeks can make some progress, there’s not enough string there to pull.”
“Which leaves us with Evelyn Carter. The quiet one, according to the neighbors.”
“She has a mom,” Phil said.
“Who just paid half a million cash to get her daughter out of jail. Good luck with that interview.”
“Evelyn has a job.”
D.D. nodded slowly. “Coworkers. Principal, fellow teachers. All right, let’s start there.”
“‘Let’s’?” Phil asked, arching a brow at her use of the contraction.
“Let’s,” D.D. repeated firmly. “I already worked one shooting case involving this woman. Like hell I’m missing something the second time around.”
Phil sighed. “Let’s,” he agreed.
* * *
—
THE PRINCIPAL OF Evelyn Carter’s school was more than happy to speak with them. Unfortunately, Principal Ahearn had nothing useful to say. She’d hired Evie four years ago. The woman was an excellent math teacher—did they know who her father was? The school was lucky to have her; the kids were lucky to have her. Evie was notoriously shy, of course. Pleasant but reserved. Some teachers—especially of the advanced math variety—could be like that.
Yes, Principal Ahearn knew Evie had been expecting. Best she could tell, Evie was very happy. Never in a million years would Principal Ahearn have expected last night’s incident. They were making counselors available for the students. Everyone was in a state of shock. There had to be some kind of logical explanation. Or maybe it’d been a terrible accident—
Principal Ahearn caught herself, flushed slightly.
“You mean the way Evie’s father died?” D.D. asked helpfully.
The woman turned redder. “Evie’s never mentioned it. But of course I had to run a background check before hiring her.”
D.D. found this interesting. “She was never charged in her father’s death. There wouldn’t have been anything in her background reports.”
“Well, not hers . . .”
D.D. got it. “Her father. You Googled her father. A famous mathematician, you’re looking to hire his daughter. Makes sense. You check out his Wikipedia profile, ending with how he died, accidentally shot by his teenage daughter in his own home.”
“Not many Harvard professors come to violent ends.” Principal Ahearn shrugged. “And Earl Hopkins was considered to be one of the best minds in his field.”
“Did Evie know you knew?” Phil asked.
Princ
ipal Ahearn nodded. “It was one of those things. None of us ever spoke of it, but in this day and age of immediate access to information, how could you not? Every now and then, one of the students would figure it out and rumors would start flying. Evie herself . . . She never spoke of it. She showed up. She did her job. And she gave the best of herself as a teacher to her kids. Again, never in a million years . . .”
“Anyone ever threaten her? Try to make a big deal about what happened to her father?” Phil pushed.
“How could they? His cause of death was public knowledge. Tragic, absolutely, but not scandalous. Evie herself had been cleared of all charges. It’s a sad family history, one of those things people are bound to whisper about. But other than that?” The principal shrugged.
D.D. nodded. She wondered what it was like for Evie, trying to move forward with her life while being forever shadowed by such a dark past. The principal was right; thanks to the internet, nothing was secret anymore. And having chosen to go into mathematics, even as a high school teacher, Evie Carter was bound to be connected with her father. Did the fact that no one talked to her directly about his death make things easier or worse?
“What did you know of Conrad Carter?” Phil was asking.
“I didn’t. I met him once or twice at after-school functions. He traveled a lot. Sales, I believe.”
“Any sign of trouble in the marriage?”
“Not that I could see.” Principal Ahearn hastily shook her head.
“But you wouldn’t know, would you?” D.D. pushed. “You respected Evelyn, but you weren’t close to her.”
Apologetic shrug. “I wouldn’t say we had a connection. But I’ll miss her.”
“You’ll miss her.”
“Yes. I got a call, just an hour or two ago, from her mother. She said given the circumstances, Evie wouldn’t be returning to work.”
D.D. arched a brow. “Her mother quit her job for her? And you accepted that?”
The principal flushed. “Well, given the circumstances . . . At the very least, Evelyn would have to take a leave of absence to handle the legal charges. Then there is the matter of the pregnancy . . .”
D.D. got it: The principal was happy enough not to deal with either situation.
“Did she have a friend among the staff?” Phil spoke up. “A fellow teacher, mentor, someone?”
The principal had to think about it. “Cathy Maxwell,” she volunteered at last. “She’s one of the science teachers. They often sat together at lunch.”
“And where is she now?” Phil asked.
The principal glanced at her watch. “Given that closing bell is in five minutes, finishing up her lecture.”
* * *
—
D.D. AND PHIL waited for the students to stream out of the classroom and down the hall. A few of the kids gave them suspicious glances, their gazes going immediately to the gold shields clipped to their belts. Sadly, the presence of two detectives in a Boston public school wasn’t that unusual, so most just moved along.
Which sparked a thought. Why public school? Someone with Evelyn’s background, not to mention parental legacy, could’ve most likely written her ticket to a number of the area’s prestigious private schools. Better hours, better pay.
But Evelyn had chosen public education. Because she wanted to give something back? Or because she hoped it would keep her one step removed from her past? The more elite the school, the better the odds she’d meet someone who hadn’t just Googled her father but had known him personally.
Which led to the next question: Why stay in Boston at all? Her husband was a transplant with a job he could’ve done from anywhere. Why not move to Florida, or the Midwest, or anyplace where the tragic shooting of a famous Harvard prof didn’t still linger in people’s memories? Was she that close to her mother? Because Evelyn wouldn’t even look at the woman in the courthouse. More and more curious.
D.D. didn’t like sitting at her desk in BPD headquarters, but she did like a case where nothing was as it seemed. Meaning she was currently quite happy. Phil, standing beside her, shook his head in exasperation.
Cathy Maxwell was cleaning the dry-erase board when they walked in. The classroom held rows of desks up front and long tables with lab equipment in the back. D.D. recognized Bunsen burners—after that, she gave up. She’d never cared for high school science, though she had no trouble following the latest advancements in forensics. Her educational issues had never had anything to do with her intelligence—it was more her inability to sit still for long periods of time. Much to the chagrin of her academic parents, who were content to sit quietly, discuss politely, and ignore their rambunctious only child pointedly.
D.D.’s parents had retired to Florida. They visited once a year. If D.D. was really lucky, she spent their stay working a major case. They were all happier that way.
“Cathy Maxwell?” Phil spoke up. “We’re detectives with the Boston PD. We have some questions regarding Evelyn Carter.”
“Oh dear.” Immediately Cathy stopped wiping. She clutched the dry eraser with both hands, gazing at them blankly. “Is it true she’s not coming back? She really quit?”
“That’s not for us to say,” D.D. stated.
Phil added: “Would you like to have a seat?”
“Okay.” The woman sat at her desk. Stared at them again. Probably around fifty, she was dressed in brown wool slacks and a forest-green sweater. She had long brown hair clipped in a barrette at the back of her neck. Several strands had escaped and were drifting around her face. Between the eraser in her hands, the smudges of ink on her hands and the wire-rimmed glasses perched on the tip of her nose, she looked very much like a teacher to D.D. But a well-put-together one.
“We understand you and Evelyn were friends?” Phil prodded.
“Evie? Sure. We often lunched together. Two females, one math, one science.” Cathy Maxwell lifted a single shoulder. “You know, anyone will hang with the lit department, but tell someone you teach math or science, and it’s like you’re personally reminding them of every test they ever failed. People have a tendency to be intimidated, without ever giving us a chance.”
Phil nodded sympathetically. He excelled at the good-cop role. Already, Cathy Maxwell was leaning closer to him.
“How long did you know Evie?” Phil asked. D.D. helped herself to a student desk, willed herself into the background.
“Four years. I was already working here when she was hired.”
“And you became friends . . . immediately?”
“Pretty close. Evie’s quiet. Keeps to herself. Of course, once you learn what happened to her father . . .” Cathy waited expectantly.
“We know,” Phil assured her.
“She was just sixteen.” The science teacher sounded genuinely empathetic. “To have something that terrible happen, then have to live forever with the guilt. Of course Evie isn’t the most outgoing personality. Who could blame her?”
“Did she ever talk to you about it?” D.D. spoke up.
“Never.” Cathy hesitated. “Though she’d mention her father from time to time. Randomly. Something he once said, a piece of advice he gave. She always sounded admiring. I think she loved him very much.”
Cathy flushed, shrugged slightly. She set down the dry eraser. “From time to time, someone at the school would figure out Evie’s role in her father’s death. The whispers would start up again. Evie never said anything. But you could tell it took a toll on her. How could it not?”
“Any one person more vocal than another?”
“No. Evie might not be the warmest person around, but everyone respected her. She’s a great teacher. And she supported her fellow educators. Didn’t have any Harvard airs or anything like that. Academics”—she leaned forward conspiratorially—“can be the worst kind of snobs.”
“What do you know of her husband, Conrad Carter?” P
hil asked. “She speak of her home life much?”
“Sure. Their latest house project. And of course, now that they were expecting, she’d speak of the baby. Where would they put the nursery, that sort of thing. She was very excited. At least . . .” That slight hesitation again. “In the past few weeks, I haven’t spoken to Evie much. She seemed distant, preoccupied. Morning sickness, holiday stress, I don’t know. I didn’t worry about it too much in the beginning; everyone gets busy from time to time. But now, in hindsight . . . I wonder if there was something on her mind. Maybe something was bothering her.”
“But you don’t know what something?” D.D. spoke up.
Cathy shook her head. “She started eating lunch in her own classroom. Catching up on work, she told me. I didn’t question it the first few days. But, again, in hindsight, it’s been nearly a month. That’s a long time to be holed up in a classroom.”
“You ever stop in, check up with her?” Phil asked.
“Sure. She’d wave me off and I’d let it go. I mean, this time of year, with the holidays coming, the kids are crazy and we’re all losing it a little.”
“Do you know how she met Conrad?” D.D. asked.
“Um.” Cathy seemed to have to stop and think at this sudden change in topic. “Through a friend, when she worked at her first school. One of the teachers there had a cookout at his house and Conrad was there. They bought their house in Winthrop four years ago. That’s what made Evie apply here; it’s a much better commute.”
“She struggle with her marriage?” Phil asked.
Cathy shook her head. “She wasn’t one for that kind of talk.”
“What do you mean ‘that kind of talk’?”
“Personal. We talked teaching mostly. About being females in our respective fields. About how to get more students excited for two subjects a lot of kids already think they don’t like or can’t do. We talked shop, I guess. We ate in the teachers’ lounge, after all.”
“You never went out after work? Ladies’ night at the martini bar?” D.D. pressed.
“Evie always went home. Even when Conrad was traveling. I don’t know. She seemed the homebody type. Plus, many of the projects going on at their place she did herself. It wasn’t that he was fixing it up. They both had talents.”
