Look for Me

by Lisa Gardner

  “There was no way I could’ve seen this coming,” Sarah said.

  “No one’s blaming you. Especially not me.”

  For the first time, Sarah’s shoulders came down.

  “What do we do? I’ve been listening to the Amber Alerts all morning. There’s still no sign of her. Do you think someone took her, that’s what this is all about? Maybe this person who’s hurting her friend caught wind that Roxy was trying to help out and decided to take action?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Or did she . . . She couldn’t have killed them, right? I mean, why would this girl, Roxanna, shoot her entire family? I mean, sure, she asked some questions about guns, self-defense laws, but you know, if she’s looking out for her friend . . .”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Um . . . some basic safety one-oh-one. The bear spray canisters. Because they’re filled with pepper spray and easy to find at any outdoor store.”

  “Do you know if she bought any bear spray?” I asked. “For her friend.”

  “No.”

  “Did you have a sense of where she was most afraid? On the home front? Or maybe something at school?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “Could this be as simple as some kind of drug thing?” I thought out loud. “Her family was dealing or she was feeling pressure from the local thug to join his business?”

  “I don’t think so.” Sarah hesitated. “She didn’t seem that type. Roxanna was quiet, shy. I don’t know. She didn’t seem hard enough for that lifestyle. You know, didn’t have that thousand-yard stare.”

  I didn’t say anything. Some of the girls I’d met with Jacob . . . None of them seemed hard enough for that lifestyle. Or they shouldn’t have been.

  “She talk about any skills she already had?” I asked. “Steps she’d taken to . . . help her friend?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “And this friend? She never provided any name, details? School friend, work friend, family friend?”

  Sarah hesitated. “No.”

  “You don’t think there’s a friend,” I filled in.

  She shrugged. “Classic line, right? ‘I don’t need any help. But now that you mention it, I do have a friend . . .’”

  I nodded. My thoughts exactly. “Her family? Any information?”

  “Nothing. Like I said, I didn’t even know she had siblings or dogs. Flora, what are we going to do?”

  I sighed, sipped my coffee. “How do you feel right now?”

  “Helpless. Sick to my stomach.”

  “Do you like that feeling?”

  “No! Not at all.”

  “Me neither. So it’s settled. No helplessness for us. We’re going to work.”

  “How?”

  “Use our skills, use our heads to locate Roxanna Baez. Maybe it’s her, or maybe it’s her friend, but someone is in trouble, and we’re not going to feel better until we figure it out. So let’s figure it out.”

  Sarah stared at me. “Like you did with the college student? Meaning, put ourselves in danger? Flora—”

  “I wasn’t thinking anything that dramatic.”

  “I’m not that strong! Flora—”

  “Nothing like that! We use our skills. We use our heads. It also just so happens, I know the detective in charge of this case.”

  “We’re going to the police?”

  “We find Roxanna Baez. Then we can get the answers to our questions. And then we can sleep at night.”

  Sarah appeared less convinced. But she finally sat, picked out a fresh donut hole, popped it into her mouth.

  “I’m very sorry about this,” she said.

  “Please, tell that to Roxanna Baez.”

  Chapter 8

  D.D. FOUND THE GUN. It was simply a matter of retracing the shooter’s path, once she knew the person had exited out the back and over the fence for his or her getaway. Which brought D.D. to the tiny backyard and overgrown herb garden. First, she checked the weed-lined fence; tossing the murder weapon was a time-honored trick for savvy criminals or anyone who watched the Godfather movies—leave the gun, take the cannoli.

  She came up empty along the fence line, but sure enough, in the herb garden, hastily buried under a tall patch of leggy cilantro, she discovered a cloth-wrapped snub-nosed .22, perfect for shooting four people in a crowded urban environment where noise and getaway time would be major factors.

  The serial number had been ground off. So a burner weapon, most likely picked up on the street by a killer with some smarts. The lab techs would determine just how smart; there were tricks to restoring serial numbers, entire chemical kits designed for just these situations.

  For now, D.D. was more interested in her first impressions. The handgun appeared older, rough around the edges. Not a .22 that had been diligently cleaned after each use, then replaced in a gun safe. No, she had pegged it as a street weapon even before noting that the serial number had been erased.

  Meaning most likely the shooter had brought the gun with him. Shown up with a plan and proper equipment. Which fit the timeline they had thus far. Everything had happened fast. No social call that had escalated to an argument, then shots fired. Just a quiet, calm morning. So quiet, so calm, Charlie Boyd had never even gotten off the couch.

  To D.D., the scene felt less like a domestic gone bad than an execution. But why? What in the world could a family have done to provoke this?

  Phil appeared on the porch behind her. Wordlessly, she held up the firearm, which she’d bagged and tagged.

  “Any luck with the security camera on the property behind us?” She nodded to the roof of the three-story office building, which towered above the fence line.

  “The building had four cameras, covering front, back, both sides. All were dismantled.”

  She turned, studied Phil. “How often does the building super check the cameras?”

  “Every day. Meaning the cameras were taken out earlier this morning.”

  She nodded, her mind now firmly made up. “This was a planned event. The gun, the security cameras. This wasn’t an impulsive act of rage, but a calculated crime. Any luck with Roxanna’s cell phone?”

  “Cell company’s been pinging away. Nothing. But we do have a discovery of sorts. The Brittany spaniels, Rosie and Blaze. We’ve found them.”

  • • •

  THE DOGS WERE TEN BLOCKS away. A decent distance, given the length of the streets. Both had been tied under a copse of trees, near a corner coffee shop. Plenty of shade, D.D. noticed when she first approached. And they’d been left with a bowl of water.

  The dogs raised their heads as she and Phil approached. A uniformed officer was already standing guard, attracting attention, as pedestrians tried to figure out why two old dogs required a police escort.

  The Brittany spaniels were lying down. The first one, with a longer, shaggier white-and-brown-patched coat, wagged her tail at the sound of D.D.’s approach. She stared up with big brown eyes, whining slightly.

  D.D. held out her hand first, then, when the dog nuzzled her palm in greeting, stroked the dog’s long, silky ears. The dog closed her eyes as her companion lumbered slowly to his feet and shuffled closer. More hand sniffing, ear stroking. The second dog had a shorter coat but seemed equally sweet. D.D. wondered how Alex and Jack’s dog search was coming.

  “Coffee shop barista phoned in the report,” the officer explained. Officer Jenko, D.D. read on his uniform. “She saw the pictures on the news, recognized they matched the dogs outside. According to her, she’s never seen the dogs before, doesn’t know anything about the Boyd-Baez family.”

  D.D. nodded, keeping her attention on the dogs. She kneeled, getting up close. Both dogs seemed well groomed, in good condition. No sign of injury or blood spatter. She gently lifted the first dog’s front leg. The shaggy spaniel d
idn’t seem to mind, obediently holding up her paw. The footpad appeared rough, but again no evidence of blood or trauma. Should she be bagging the dogs’ paws as evidence? Things they never thought to mention at the police academy. Then again, given that the dogs had walked all the way from the crime scene to here, any evidence discovered on their paws would be cross-contaminated, worthless in a court of law.

  D.D. lowered the dog’s leg, went back to stroking her long ears. She could feel the dog tremble slightly beneath her fingers, press closer into D.D.’s hand. She was anxious, D.D. thought. The change in schedule, a day that wasn’t like the day before. The dogs knew something was up; they just didn’t know how bad yet.

  “Working on canvassing the area for potential witnesses now,” Phil was saying from behind her.

  “Hang on.” D.D. had just found it. A square of paper folded up tight, wedged beneath the dog’s collar. She eased it out, unfolded the note carefully.

  “My name is Rosie,” D.D. read out loud. The shaggy dog lifted her ears at the sound of her name. “I am a twelve-year-old Brittany spaniel. I’m blind but gentle. I like to be outside in sunny weather, listening to birds. Please don’t separate me from my friend Blaze. If found, you can call . . .”

  D.D. rattled off the number, then frowned and looked at Phil.

  He dialed the number while she inspected the second dog’s collar. Sure enough . . . “I am Blaze,” she read, “a ten-year-old Brittany spaniel. I’m blind but a very good boy. I love to be outside with my friend Rosie. If found . . .”

  “The number belongs to Hector Alvalos,” Phil reported, lowering his phone.

  D.D. straightened slowly. Both dogs moved in closer, pressed against her legs. So much for her dark jeans, which would now be covered in white and brown hairs. She supposed she should get used to such things.

  “Why Hector Alvalos?” D.D. asked.

  “I don’t know; he’s not answering his phone.” Phil paused. “He knows the dogs, visiting the house to pick up Manny each weekend. Maybe he watches them sometimes.”

  “Most people put their home numbers on their dog’s collars,” D.D. countered. “Or their phones. Given that Roxanna didn’t . . .”

  “It’s as if she already knew there wasn’t a home for them to return to,” Phil finished for her.

  “Anyone know exactly what time the dogs showed up?”

  “Best estimate is sometime around ten. But most of those patrons are gone by now.”

  “We’re going to need to pull all receipts from nine thirty on. Then call those customers and have them return to be interviewed. Someone saw something and we need to know what.”

  “Or,” Phil replied, “we could review the security camera footage. Mrs. Schuepp is loading it up for us now.”

  “Or,” D.D. agreed, “we do that.”

  Phil gestured toward the coffee shop. D.D. fell in step behind him, leaving Officer Jenko, back on duty, guarding the two beautiful dogs.

  • • •

  LYNDA SCHUEPP HAD BEEN RUNNING the coffee shop for eight years. A brisk woman with wavy brown hair and hands that moved even faster than she talked, she had them in a back room and set up with a security monitor in a matter of minutes. D.D. wondered how much coffee the woman drank on the job. D.D. wished she had some of that coffee.

  And a moment later, she did. D.D. really liked Lynda Schuepp.

  After producing two mugs of latte, the woman left D.D. and Phil to their own devices. She had a shop packed with caffeine-addicted patrons on a sunny Saturday morning. Hands still waving, she hustled out the door.

  D.D. took a moment to sip her latte, regain her bearings. “She wears a Fitbit,” she murmured to Phil. “I wonder what her heart rate is at any given time.”

  “Please. I wonder how many tens of thousands of steps she gets in each day.”

  “Scary,” D.D. agreed. She leaned forward and they turned their attention to the security system. Playback seemed easy enough. Phil started them at nine A.M., then worked forward in five-minute increments. Nine forty-five, there were no dogs. Nine fifty, dogs appeared. He rewound to nine forty-five. They sipped their lattes and watched.

  Nine forty-six, Roxanna Baez appeared suddenly on camera, holding two leashes. She was already focused on the trees. Not running, but walking very quickly. The moment she arrived at the small slice of greenery, she dropped to her knees and went to work on the leashes, wrapping them around the base of the tree.

  The girl wore jeans, a thin long-sleeve shirt that might be red, and, of course, the backpack. The security camera recorded in black and white, but D.D. thought the pack might be light blue, as the neighbor had reported. The straps were frayed, the fit snug, as if the backpack was sized for a child. Manny’s pack? Or a leftover from Roxy’s youth?

  The coffee shop had already placed a bowl of water curbside for customers with dogs. The girl grabbed it, moved it closer to her spaniels. Now they could see the side of Roxy’s face. It appeared shiny. Wet with sweat, tears? The girl’s hands were shaking visibly as she set down the water bowl.

  “She looks terrified,” Phil murmured.

  D.D. didn’t disagree.

  The girl unslung her pack, still moving quickly. Paper, pen. Scribbling the two notes, folding them up tight, then sticking them under each collar. The dogs were pacing, confined by their leashes but clearly agitated.

  Roxy looked over her right shoulder, then her left. A short pause. Then she threw her arms around the first dog. Rosie, D.D. thought. Then the second dog, Blaze.

  The girl didn’t wait. She grabbed her worn pack, slung it over her shoulders, and, with a last, nervous look around, took off again.

  “She’s running,” Phil said.

  “From what she did at her family’s house, or from what she saw?”

  They both sat back, sipped more coffee. Phil started the video again from the beginning. They watched it a second time, then a third. Then Phil advanced the video, this time in one-minute intervals, looking for signs that Roxanna Baez had doubled back, returned down the other side of the street. No dice. Next, they focused their attention on the sea of pedestrians caught on the fringe of the camera’s lens, people walking down the sidewalk after Roxanna Baez. Possibly in pursuit. Maybe a neighbor or familiar face from outside the crime scene this morning. No one jumped out at D.D. She glanced at Phil, who shook his head.

  “Timeline,” she said. “We know Roxy left the house with her pack and the dogs sometime around eight thirty. Numerous witnesses put the sound of shots fired at shortly after nine. And this”—the recording had a date and time stamp in the upper-right corner—“places Roxy and the dogs here at nine forty-six.” She looked at Phil. “Think it takes a teenager and her two dogs an hour and fifteen minutes to walk ten blocks?”

  “I’d guess more like thirty minutes.”

  “So where’d she go in between?”

  “Are there any parks in the area? Someplace she’d logically take the dogs to play?”

  “Or meet with someone? Or tie the dogs up so she could circle back to the house to do what she really had planned for the morning? And what’s in the backpack?” D.D. muttered. “I want to know what’s in that pack.”

  Phil appeared troubled. “She still looks terrified to me. And the way she tends the dogs. Making sure they’re in the shade, bringing them water, writing notes. You think a girl who takes such good care of her dogs is the same kind of girl who’d gun down her own family? Her siblings?”

  D.D. knew what he meant. The sight of Lola and Manny, curled up tightly in the corner of the bedroom . . . She’d never forget that.

  “We need more cameras,” D.D. said. “We need to reconstruct this girl’s route minute by minute, starting at eight thirty this morning. Where did she go? Who did she meet? What did she do?”

  “Working on it.”

  “Where’d she go after this?” D.D
. rewound their video again. Watched Roxanna stuff notes in her dogs’ collars, then pause for her last good-bye. “There, she takes off north. What’s north of this coffee shop?”

  Phil shrugged. “Not my neighborhood.”

  D.D. already had her phone out, was loading up maps. “Bus stop,” she announced. “Which would give the girl several options for escape. Wait, here we go: A few blocks up is St. Elizabeth’s Medical. Isn’t that where Roxy’s mom, Juanita Baez, worked?”

  Phil nodded.

  “All right. Have a detective reach out to MBTA’s security department. Bus lines fifty-seven and sixty-five. We need to check with drivers, start flashing Roxanna’s photo around, see if anyone remembers her boarding a bus. Does she even have a pass? Another question to answer.”

  Phil nodded, scribbled a note.

  “You and me,” D.D. continued, “we’ll head to St. Elizabeth’s, talk to Juanita’s coworkers. Figure out if she had any enemies, expressed any recent fears. Better yet, maybe she had a close friend on the job, someone who knew the family and Roxanna well enough, Roxy might feel comfortable enough turning to for help.”

  “And the dogs?” Phil asked.

  D.D. hesitated. She should call animal control. Have the dogs picked up, quarantined. She could still feel Rosie’s and Blaze’s trembling forms pressing against her legs, seeking comfort.

  “Leave a message for Hector,” she said. “If he’s willing to take them, that’ll work. Not to mention, it’ll give us an excuse to pay a visit to his apartment later to check up on the dogs.”

  Phil wasn’t fooled for a moment. “And keep the dogs in a home environment. Softy.”

  She made a face. Phil laughed.

  They finished up their lattes, took a copy of the security video, and exited the coffee shop.

  Where they came face-to-face with none other than Flora Dane.

  D.D. didn’t require any further explanation. She said simply: “Shit.”

  Chapter 9

  I’D MET BOSTON SERGEANT DETECTIVE D. D. Warren several times before. The first had involved a crime scene featuring one serial rapist burned to a crisp. And myself, naked, wrists bound, standing over his smoking remains.