by Lisa Gardner
“Look across the street. She stands there, next to that tree, her face obscured by the lower branches. She just needs to find the right spot to peer through, and she can keep watch over the dogs’ location without anyone being the wiser.”
D.D. studied the tree across the way, then looked back to the blood on her side of the street. “Phil,” she called out. “Over there. That twin to this greenery. Check out the base. Look for casings, and have the crime techs run trajectory.”
It wouldn’t have been an easy shot, I thought to myself, which explained why she only grazed the man’s shoulder.
“You talk about these things in your chat room that no longer exists?” D.D. was demanding to know.
“How to shoot across a busy city street? No. But thinking outside the box, staying one step ahead . . . Absolutely.”
D.D. sighed, rubbed her temples. “Leaving the dogs behind, the notes on their collars. You think she lured Hector here. She was targeting him. Pretty fucking brilliant if you ask me. Not to mention cold. Very cold.”
“If it really was her running up the street,” I said carefully, because the description wasn’t a slam dunk.
“Why? What’s Roxy’s motive for targeting Hector? What aren’t you telling me?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. I didn’t even know Hector’s name before today. I’m learning as I go, just like you are. But now that we’re here, considering all the possibilities . . . My first thought is revenge. Maybe you don’t think Hector has anything to do with the death of her mother and siblings. But you’re still learning about the home situation. Roxy lived it. Gotta think she’s better informed than you.”
D.D. made a face. “Great, so now I get to come down hard on a man allegedly grieving for the death of his son and nursing a bullet wound.”
“Gonna go vigilante?” I asked her. “Give up the BPD, join us on the wild side? Less paperwork.”
“Don’t tempt me. Do you know what kind of gun she has, smart-ass?”
“No, like I said—”
“You don’t recommend firearms for females. Great. Where is she?”
I blinked my eyes. “Beats me. If she was spotted running up the street . . . Surely someone’s on her trail?”
“That witness account of a girl fleeing came in a good five minutes after the shooting. By the time more uniforms arrived to work the street, she already had a decent head start. Patrols headed north, but you know how it is in a city. She could’ve gone in a million directions since then.”
“Or she has a bolt-hole.”
“A hiding spot? What makes you say that?”
“Can an inexperienced teenage girl really go unnoticed for this long while remaining on the streets? Even this—” I gestured to where the dogs had been tied up. “You and I were here two hours ago. The dogs were left, what, another hour before that. She could leave the notes, but she’d have no way of knowing when someone would find the dogs and when Hector would finally show up. If she really was using them as bait, then she’d have to stick somewhere close. How else would she know when her plan worked?”
“Not bad thinking,” D.D. murmured. “Not bad at all.”
We both started looking around. I dismissed the green space. It was one thing to use the tree for cover once Hector showed up. But to stand in one spot for hours before that? I looked for deep doorways where a person could lurk in the shadows. Or busy locations—the coffee shop, a little market across the street, some neighboring boutiques—where Roxanna could drift through, keeping her head down and pretending to shop, while all the while casting furtive glances across the street. But again, the number of cops patrolling the area, the mass of TVs and smartphones already broadcasting her picture, feeding the general public news. Surely someone would’ve caught on— Hey, doesn’t that girl look familiar to you?
D.D. got it first. While I was looking around, she’d looked up.
There, across the street, above the market. A bank of windows on the second floor with a large sign: For Lease.
“Vacant real estate, with a perfect view of the coffee shop. What do you think?” D.D. asked me.
“I would definitely break in there.”
“Roxanna as good as you at picking locks?”
“Only one way to find out. Are you going to tell me to stay behind?”
“What would be the point?”
I finally smiled. “Knew I’d grow on you.”
“Shut up, pay attention. We’re looking for a sixteen-year-old girl who may have shot her family, or at least her brother’s father. Frankly, I’m relying on your presence to distract her long enough not to kill us both.”
I couldn’t argue with that. We headed across the street, D.D.’s hand already in position on the butt of her weapon.
Chapter 15
D.D. KEPT FLORA AT HER back as they headed up the narrow stairs to the second floor of the building. She wasn’t a big fan of the woman because she wasn’t a big fan of people who colored outside the lines. But Flora had never shown any violent tendencies toward cops or innocent civilians. It was merely the would-be rapists, kidnappers, and killers who had to look out.
If only D.D. could place Roxanna Baez on that spectrum. Because right now it felt like the more she learned about the girl, the less she understood.
The steep stairs gave way to a larger open landing. One door to the left bore a string of last names. Maybe an accounting firm or bail bondsmen, for all D.D. knew. To the right was the vacant unit in question. It featured a row of windows allowing D.D. to peer in. Long rectangular space. No furniture, but divided in half by a blue-colored cubicle system that ran down the middle of the room. The open cubicles facing D.D. and Flora appeared empty. Every space on the other side of the central divider, however, remained an unseen mystery.
Flora was already at the door, inspecting the lock system.
“Gonna pick it?” D.D. asked her dryly.
“No need. It’s the punch-key kind used by most Realtors. We just need the right four numbers.”
As D.D. watched, Flora hit 1-2-3-4. Not a bad starting point, but D.D. had a better idea.
“I’d go with three-six-oh-six.”
Flora obeyed. The lock clicked open. She stared at D.D. “How’d you know?”
“Most companies program the systems with the last four digits of their Realtors’ cell phones. That way they can also track who’s been in and out of the property. Now look up.”
Where there was a smiling picture of a beautiful brunette with a crisp blue suit and a fat string of pearls. My name is Sandra Johnson, and I’m here to sell you a brand-new future! the poster proclaimed. Below the photo, the Realtor’s cell phone number had been written in with a thick black marker.
“Sure you don’t want to go vigilante?” Flora asked.
“Gee, I feel so honored. Now stand back. I’m the one with the shield and the gun. I go first. If all else fails . . .”
“I have powdered coffee creamer and I know how to use it.”
“What?”
“Look it up sometime.”
“God help me,” D.D. muttered, then pushed open the door and eased into the dusty room.
She paused first. In an area with limited visibility, it was always smart to use your other senses. What did she hear? The nervous breath of an intruder on the other side of the blue fabric divider? Creak of a floorboard as the person stepped back? Click of a hammer as an anxious teenager cocked her weapon?
Nothing. The faint whir of traffic noise from the street outside. That was it.
Smell? Dust. Disuse. A space that been empty for a while. Had to be incredibly expensive, this amount of commercial real estate in Brighton. Meaning it would take the right company with the right plan to finally put it under agreement. And until then . . . great hangout for a kid on the run, where she could remain tucked behind the dividers, out of sight o
f anyone coming up the stairs, while hunkering low enough not to be spotted from the street.
Chances were, the girl was long gone. If she had been here, waiting for Hector’s return and her opportunity to ambush him, then mission accomplished. She’d fled up the street, and this was all old news.
Some small prey, once flushed from their burrows, kept on running. Others instinctively doubled back and went to ground. More often than not, it was those rabbits that lived to see another day.
Meaning it was possible Roxanna had returned here, back to her safe place, which is why they couldn’t find any trace of her on the street. And even now, she was hunkered down in one of the empty cubicles. Backpack at her feet.
Gun held tight to her chest?
The door leading into the abandoned office space didn’t sit directly in the middle, but closer to the right-hand corner. D.D. turned in that direction now, wanting to be able to get around the long blue cubicle wall as quickly as possible and peer into the other half of the room. She kept her footsteps light.
Flora remained in the doorway, ostensibly out of harm’s way. Or maybe simply positioned to grab Roxanna if she attempted to escape. D.D. still wasn’t certain of Flora’s loyalties in all of this. But if Roxy had truly killed her own family, including her two younger siblings, God save her from Flora’s wrath as much as from D.D.’s quest for justice.
The air grew dustier now that she was moving. D.D. wrinkled her nose, fought the sneeze. With her left hand, she unsnapped her hip holster, slowly slid out her firearm. During the brutally cold days of winter, she could still feel the ache in her left shoulder, ghosts of the avulsion fracture she’d suffered two years ago. Given her own choice, she preferred to fire her weapon with a single-arm stance—her right arm. But with regular PT and time, she could now achieve the two-handed Weaver stance required to clear her physical and return to full duty. And on a warm day such as today, her left arm rotated smoothly, bringing her Glock 10 up out of her holster and into the ready position without undue effort.
She neared the end of the long cubicle system. Eased back on her footsteps. Slowed her breathing.
In.
Out.
Crouch low.
She stepped around the cubicle wall. The sun poured in through the bank of street-side windows, illuminating a clean, empty space. Fast now, boom, boom, boom, no time to think, she kept low and raced down the line of boxed spaces. Nothing, nothing, nothing.
And then: Water bottle. Empty, crumpled, sitting in the middle of an abandoned office cube. And footprints. Faint, but there. Oval spots in the thin film of dust coating the floor. She peered closer. In the stream of sunlight, she made out a thread. Light blue, heavy-duty, the kind of thing that might unravel and fall from a fraying backpack.
D.D. finished her inspection, then returned to the middle cubicle as Flora entered the office space.
“Got anything?” Flora asked.
“Empty water bottle. Single blue thread.”
“Not exactly a smoking gun.”
“No, but signs that someone was camping out here. My money’s on Roxanna Baez.” D.D. raised her gaze, studied Flora. The woman had walked around the divider unit and was looking at the crumpled water bottle on the floor. Then she turned and considered the view out the window directly across from it.
“From here, she could see the dogs,” Flora confirmed. “Not the best view, as it’s partially obscured by tree branches and umbrella stands. But . . . it would do. She could hide out, keep watch. Minute Hector appears, she darts back down the stairs to the open street and makes her move.”
“You tell her about this place?” D.D. asked evenly.
“Me?” Flora sounded genuinely surprised. She reached reflexively for the bandage on her left hand, which D.D. noticed had fresh pinpricks of blood. “This isn’t my neck of the woods. First time I’ve been to that coffee shop, building, everything.”
“What about someone else from your group?”
A shrug. “I can’t swear to anything, but I’d be surprised. This . . .” Flora waved her bandaged hand around the empty space. “This is pretty sophisticated. And the trick with gaining entry using the Realtor’s cell phone number? We haven’t discussed this in the chat room, I can tell you that.”
“Using the dogs as bait? Another clever strategy.”
“I know.” Flora frowned, looking as concerned as D.D. felt. She walked around a few more steps, finally shaking her head, as if there was something she couldn’t compute. “You said the girl spotted running up the street was wearing a hoodie. Does that match Roxy’s description from earlier in the day?”
“We have an eyewitness who saw her in a red shirt when she first left her home. Easy enough, though, for her to have had the hoodie in her pack. Then throw it on later once she saw the Amber Alert.”
“Okay. Carting around a change of nondescript clothes—better yet, bulky clothes that might distort sense of size—I’ll take credit for that trick. But this, tying up two dogs to lure someone to a destination right outside your perfectly selected hideaway . . .” Flora shook her head again. “What’s this girl’s background again? Does she have a history of running away from home or something? I mean, we didn’t teach her this. So where and when did Roxanna Baez acquire this level of skill?”
“Good question. From what we’ve heard so far, Roxy is a good student, family caretaker, and responsible oldest daughter.”
“Meaning none of this makes any sense.”
They lapsed into silence, both of them thinking.
“The guidance counselor from the high school mentioned gangs,” Flora said at last. “A group of other Hispanic girls who wanted Roxy to join them. According to the rumor mill, Lola is already a member. Could this have something to do with that? Roxy finally succumbed to the pressure? She’s carrying out some plan they already had in place, meaning they provided the strategy?”
“You mean a plan where Roxy kills her entire family and then Hector? Why would she do such a thing?”
“Or the gang killed her family,” Flora said, “to force Roxy into cooperating. What do you know about Hector? Is it possible he could be a drug dealer? Gang murdered her family, she went after Hector in retaliation?”
D.D. raised a brow, considered the matter. “Initially, he came across as a grieving father. But with our resources focused on locating Roxanna, we haven’t conducted a deep drill into the man’s personal history yet. Anything’s possible.”
“Maybe that’s why Roxy has been so fearful. She knows her sister was initiated into the gang. Which, of course, would only increase the pressure for Roxy to join, too. Maybe both of them were facing demands to participate in drug running or other illegal activity.”
“Why would the gang kill Lola,” D.D. countered, “but let Roxy live?”
“As a message.”
“Killing an entire family is a pretty big message. And one that attracts a lot of police attention.”
“I think we should be asking Hector these questions,” Flora said. “He lived, right? Let’s put him in the hot spot.”
“‘We’?” D.D. said.
Flora shrugged. “Just an idea, you know. Not that I don’t have my own things to do.”
D.D. frowned, crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you mean?”
“You know what, never mind.” Flora glanced at her phone, which had just buzzed in her hand. “You go talk to Hector. Take that Detective Phil. He’s pretty good.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I have something else to look into.”
“Which is?”
“We’ll have to see. Maybe two hours from now, I’ll find you again.”
“With Roxanna Baez in tow?”
“I doubt I’ll be that lucky. But you never know.”
D.D. crossed her arms, studied Flora, not buying the woman’s sudden desire to
leave for a second.
Millions of things to do, D.D. thought. Contact the crime scene techs to process this latest find. Check in with Phil. And, yes, interview Hector Alvalos at the hospital while seeing what other leads Neil and Carol had turned up. Lots of work, plenty of work. Not to mention wanting at least ten minutes to call home and learn about the puppy. Because that was in the back of her mind, as well. Was there a new addition to the family, and was it right now eating her favorite shoes?
And still, here she was, standing with Boston’s most notorious vigilante, a mysterious woman sporting a bloody bandage and a buzzing cell phone.
“I don’t trust you,” D.D. said at last. “You’re involved in all of this somehow. You’re just gonna make me work to figure it out.”
“I don’t know where Roxanna Baez is. I doubt she killed her family. But this latest shooting . . . I don’t know what’s going on. You have my word on that. But I’m not walking away anytime soon. I want answers as much as you do.”
“Why?”
Flora shrugged. “Because I do. Because maybe if some violent perv hadn’t snatched me off a beach, a cop is what I would’ve naturally become. But here we are, and now this is who I am, and this is what I do.”
“You find her first, we want access.”
“I have no interest in anyone else getting hurt.”
“But,” D.D. pressed, “if this does have to do with gangs and you magically have an opportunity to interfere with a group of drug dealers—”
“I would still call you first. That world . . . I don’t know what I don’t know.”
“Confidential informant,” D.D. stated crisply.
“What?”
“Learn what you’re going to learn and report back to me. As my CI. Anonymity for you, so you can still look cool in the eyes of your fan club, and genuine help finding a missing girl for me. Consider it the first rung up the policing ladder.”