by Lisa Gardner
“You said Lola was crazier now than before,” D.D. thought out loud.
“But Juanita was trying to help her. She knew it wasn’t Lola’s fault.”
“Juanita was asking questions Lola didn’t want answered,” Phil said.
“So why is Lola dead? Shouldn’t Roxanna be the one hurt and Lola the one running away?” Hector asked. “And why Manny? Neither of them would ever do anything to hurt Manny.”
“You said that day in the courthouse, it appeared to you that Roxanna was moving stiffly. Like she’d been hurt?”
“Yes. She held herself too straight, with her elbows tucked. I’ve been in enough bar fights to recognize the morning after. It looked like she had bruised ribs.”
D.D. glanced at Phil. “Maybe Roxanna has her own secrets from that year. Questions she didn’t want Juanita to answer.”
“She would not hurt Manny,” Hector repeated. “And even if she has reason to hate me . . . I’m clean. Juanita is clean. We behaved like bad children once. But we are good parents now.”
“Unless that’s the problem,” D.D. considered softly. “Roxanna was always the parent? Now you two are taking her job from her?”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Hector said.
Which D.D. couldn’t really argue with; she was reaching for straws and she knew it. Hector’s primary question rang true: Five years ago this family had been a mess, five years ago maybe Roxy had had reason to act out against at least Juanita and Hector. But both had sobered up. Juanita had gotten her children back and, so far, still appeared to have her life on track. So again, what had happened in the past few weeks to raise Roxy’s agitation to the level she’d sought help from Flora’s group, let alone trigger this morning’s murderous rampage?
“One last question.” Phil spoke up. “You said Lola was behaving erratically. Any chance she was on drugs?”
Hector sighed miserably. “I want to say no. Such behavior would break Juanita’s heart. But after that incident with the teacher . . . When it comes to Lola, anything is possible.”
“How far would Roxanna go to protect her younger sister?” D.D. asked.
Hector shrugged, repeated, “Anything is possible.”
Chapter 19
WHERE ARE YOU?” I ASKED Sarah over the phone.
“Behind the high school,” she whispered back. “Followed the target here. Have eyes on him now.”
“Is Mike with anyone?”
“Not yet. But he seems to be waiting.”
“Maybe a rendezvous point,” I considered out loud. “Are there others around?”
“You kidding? Soccer practice. Field hockey. Football. I don’t know. There are kids, coaches, parents everywhere.”
I’d forgotten that. High schools had sports, clubs, extracurriculars that also took place on the weekend. Making the grounds a good place for Roxanna to hide in plain sight? Or at least catch up with her best friend and probable accessory, Mike Davis?
“Hey,” I thought out loud, “any chance you see a gaggle of Hispanic girls hanging around?”
“Umm, lots of girls loitering around. Hard to differentiate the groups without approaching more directly. I don’t want to spook the target.”
I understood. Odds were, Mike had spotted Sarah here and there while he was making his way to the high school. While a woman out walking on a sunny day wasn’t suspicious on its own, the same woman suddenly appearing on the school grounds would catch his attention.
“Okay,” I said at last. “Hang tight. Let me know if Roxanna appears. And if you spy anything that resembles gang activity or drug deals, that would be good to know, as well.”
“Gee, at a high school?”
“Knew I could count on you.”
I ended the call just as D.D. and Phil exited St. Elizabeth’s and my next job began.
• • •
“SO SOON?” D.D. STARTED, THEN glanced at her watch and frowned. “Has it really been two hours?”
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” I assured her. I held out my hand to Phil. “Flora Dane. BPD’s newest CI. Nice to meet you.”
Phil rolled his eyes at me. “Seriously?” he asked D.D.
“Sorry. These things happen.”
“How’s Hector?” I asked.
D.D. shrugged. “Gonna live. Swears Roxanna didn’t do it. She has no reason to hurt him. More pertinently, she wouldn’t risk injury to the dogs by opening fire so close to them.”
“So he didn’t see the shooter? Or won’t admit it might be Roxy?”
“Claims he didn’t see the shooter.”
I heard the skepticism in D.D.’s voice. Heaven help me, I was beginning to copy that tone myself.
“But the blue thread in the empty office space, it came from Roxanna’s backpack?” I pressed.
D.D. flashed me a droll smile. Held up her watch again. “Here’s your investigative lesson for the day: Evidence processing doesn’t happen in two hours or less. More like, ask me in the morning, and even then it’s only because the high-profile nature of this case will have the lab techs working overnight.”
“For the record, vigilantes don’t have those kinds of issues.”
“You’d process it yourself?” Phil asked.
“Nah. But a blue thread that matches the same shade as Roxy’s backpack is good enough. We’d just check that box yes and carry on.”
Fresh eye roll. He was good at that.
“Did you learn anything useful?” D.D. prodded impatiently.
“I think so. I met with Mike Davis, Roxanna’s friend from the high school. Turns out, he also lived in the same foster home as Roxanna and Lola.”
This earned me immediate attention from both detectives.
“What did he have to say?” D.D. demanded.
“More what he didn’t say. In a murder investigation, you’re looking for recent changes in the victim’s life, right? For example, we know Roxanna has been running around, all stressed out, requesting help for a friend.”
“I don’t need a tutorial.”
“We also know that Lola, the younger sister, was acting out, and the mom was starting to ask questions about the time the girls had spent in foster care.”
D.D. rolled her hand to hurry me along. Phil was openly scowling. Apparently, the older detective didn’t approve of my new role as CI. Which made me wink at him as I delivered my findings.
“I think they’re all the same thing. Five years ago, when Juanita lost custody of the kids, the girls were placed in a home here in Brighton—a.k.a. Mother Del’s. Which, according to Roxanna’s friend Mike Davis, was filled with some pretty mean kids. Dickensian mean. Sounds like two of them, Roberto and Anya, ruled the roost and beat up weaker kids for sport.”
D.D. exchanged a look with Phil. So far, my report didn’t surprise them, which burst some of my bubble. I continued on.
“I’m told Roxanna and Lola fought back by slipping such things as Ex-lax and ipecac syrup into the bigger kids’ food, in order to incapacitate them. Didn’t always work, though.”
The detectives nodded for me to continue.
“It’s the location that matters,” I pressed on, earnest now. “When Juanita sobered up, she didn’t just get the girls back, she took them away. She couldn’t afford Brighton as a single mom.”
D.D. tilted her head.
“But then she met Charlie the contractor in the ER. And last December . . .”
“She moved in with him,” D.D. filled in. “Returning the kids to Brighton.” She and Phil exchanged a glance again.
“Where at least Roxanna attends the same high school as her former nemeses, Roberto and Anya,” I finished triumphantly.
“What about Lola?” Phil asked.
“I’m told that mean kids have mean younger friends. So most likely she had her own encounters in the midd
le school. But essentially, whether Juanita understood it or not, she returned her girls into enemy territory. And they were scared. At the high school, Roxanna aligned herself with her former ally, Mike Davis, who’d tried to help her at Mother Del’s. According to him, she looked out for Lola, he looked out for Roxy. But for Lola that wasn’t enough. Hence, according to Mike, Lola joined a gang.”
“From the frying pan into the fire,” Phil murmured.
“Was Lola doing drugs?” D.D. asked with a frown.
“Roxy couldn’t find any evidence her sister was using. But Lola might have been dealing. Lola had told Roxanna that as long as she was so pretty, she might as well use her looks to her advantage. From the sound of it, Lola was tired of feeling helpless. Joining a gang gave her protection. Rising up the ranks to run a gang—power.”
“She wanted revenge,” D.D. said.
I shrugged.
“What about the two other kids from the foster home,” Phil asked. “Roberto? Anya? Where are they now?”
“Roberto’s dead. Shot himself a few months back. Which I’m sure Anya must blame on anyone but him. Maybe he got into it with Lola and her gang? Or had some kind of showdown with Roxy? I don’t know. But Lola and Roxy return and within months Roberto’s dead? Isn’t part of policing never believing in coincidences?”
D.D. arched a brow. “You think Lola and Roxy might have had something to do with a kid’s suicide?”
“Why not? Timing is suspicious.”
“There’s also a rule about conjecture,” Phil supplied dryly.
I shrugged. “It doesn’t matter if Roxy or Lola had something to do with it or not. What’s relevant is what Roberto’s friend—girlfriend?—Anya believes. She and Roberto feuded with Lola and Roxy before. If she thought they were somehow involved with his death . . .”
“She would have motive to gun down Lola and Roxy,” D.D. filled in.
“Except Roxy was out walking the dogs, so Anya had to settle for taking out the rest of Roxy’s family instead.”
“Conjecture,” Phil intoned. He definitely didn’t like me. “So who shot Hector?” he pressed now. “Roxanna or Anya?”
I shrugged. “That was your interview, not mine. Maybe having seen him pick up Manny earlier, Anya assumed he was part of the family, and in her twisted mind, she wants them all dead.”
“Hector didn’t spend time with Lola and Roxanna,” Phil stated. “Nor did he visit them in the foster home. No reason to associate him with them.”
“Who knows how twisted minds think?” I deadpanned, and my voice, or maybe it was my stare, must’ve been edgier than I’d realized as Phil looked away first.
D.D. arched a brow. “Now, now,” she said.
I eased my posture.
“I don’t like Anya as Hector’s shooter,” D.D. said. “Second investigative lesson for the day: The simplest solution is generally the right one. Based on the blue thread from the backpack, we can place Roxanna near the scene of the crime. We also know that she wrote the notes specifically requesting that Hector come get the dogs. She has ties to the victim and plenty of opportunity. As for motive . . . there’s much about this family we haven’t learned yet.”
“If Roxanna is the one who shot at Hector, where’d she get the gun?” I asked. “I asked Mike Davis about it. He declined to answer but based on his demeanor . . . it’s possible he helped Roxy get a firearm. Or knows something about it.”
“I’m curious about training,” D.D. said. “Shooting from behind a tree across a crowded street . . . Helluva good shot.”
“Hector have any knowledge of the family playing with firearms?”
“No. According to him, Juanita hated handguns. End of story.”
“So if Roxanna was practicing,” I considered out loud, “it was on her own time, with a gun she’d have to have acquired illegally.”
I frowned. The questions Roxanna had asked during the group chat had made it sound as if she was relatively new to handguns. But the across-the-crowded-street ambush . . . D.D. was right: pretty fancy shooting. Again, who was this girl and where had she learned these things? Especially in a matter of weeks. Because my support group’s survival tips were good, but not that good.
“What did you think of this Mike Davis?” D.D. asked me now. “You said he’s Roxanna’s friend. Any chance he’s hiding her?”
“He still lives at the foster home, so he certainly doesn’t have her stashed there. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s helping her in some way.”
“We should get eyes on him,” D.D. said to Phil.
“Already done.”
They both stared at me.
“What?”
“We should get trained eyes on him,” D.D. said dryly.
“Again, taken care of. You have your network, I have mine. Isn’t that how this works?”
“But I don’t trust you. Or your network.”
“And yet when have I not gotten the job done?”
My voice had grown edgy again. D.D. didn’t offer a snappy retort, but neither did she look away. We were not the same. I knew that. I had my style; she had hers. But she couldn’t argue with my results. Rapists, kidnappers, murderers. I had accrued my own track record the hard way these past few years. I had a feeling Sergeant Warren was one of those cops who couldn’t sleep until she had all the answers. But I was a trauma survivor who just couldn’t sleep.
Whatever worked.
“You know that saying about just enough rope,” D.D. murmured.
I shrugged.
“Fine.” D.D. turned to Phil. “We’ll focus on tracking down this Anya and bringing her in for questioning.”
“Wait.”
“Now what?” Phil’s turn, and he didn’t sound happy.
“I think . . . respectfully . . .” Which we all knew wasn’t an easy word for me to say. “I think you two should focus on Mother Del. She runs the foster home, knows all the players involved.”
Both detectives scowled at me.
I continued, “While, um, while I take a crack at Anya.”
Phil threw his hands up. “What the hell—”
“She’s a foster kid! A product of the system. No way she’s talking to two detectives. Doesn’t matter if she’s guilty or innocent. You said it yourself: Foster kids don’t play well with authority figures. And while I’m sure you have some interrogation techniques you can roll out just for such occasions, you still won’t be able to trust anything she tells you.”
“Whereas you . . . ?” D.D. prodded angrily.
“I’m Flora Dane. I rescued a college student—”
D.D. snapped: “Then I saved both your asses.”
“I burned a rapist alive. Which, in certain circles, is not as frowned on as you might think. I’m a survivor. That makes me more Anya’s people than you are.”
D.D. muttered something under her breath. Stared at Phil. Grimaced again. But I knew I had them. Because I was right. A teenager from foster care? A kid who was a product of the system? Anya was by definition more like me than like them. And if she was a murderer as well . . . that still didn’t make us so different.
“How are you going to find her?” D.D. asked.
“Found Mike Davis, didn’t I? And the guidance counselor from Roxanna’s high school. You have your network, I have mine.”
D.D. appeared less frowny but still troubled. “How far are you going to take this?” she asked abruptly.
“I don’t know.”
“If you find Anya, if you decide she did shoot and kill four people today . . . ?”
“Will I burn her alive?” I asked bluntly.
“Or subject her to some other form of your ‘justice’?”
“I don’t actually like hurting people,” I said, but I couldn’t tell if D.D. believed me or not. “I’ll get her story,” I stated at last. “I�
�ll report back to you. Just as I did after talking to Mike Davis.”
“Who you now apparently have someone following.”
“If he meets up with Roxy, wouldn’t you like to know? And if Anya looks good as the shooter, wouldn’t you want eyes on her, as well?”
“I don’t trust you,” D.D. said again. Phil muttered something under his breath that was no doubt agreement. “You’re too hard,” D.D. continued. “Too angry. Makes you unpredictable.”
“Funny comment coming from you.”
“Yeah? Gonna tell me about the bandage on your hand? And why it keeps showing fresh blood?”
“I injured myself. All right?”
“No. No, it’s not. Because that’s the truth, but not the whole truth. Which is a problem when someone like you is talking to someone like me.”
I glared at her, my left hand now tucked self-consciously behind me.
“I’m getting a dog today,” D.D. said abruptly, which threw me for a loop while earning a startled glance from Phil. “My husband and son are looking for the lucky pooch right now. Which means I have three good reasons to go home tonight: Husband. Child. Dog. What about you, Flora? What incentive do you have to do right?”
It was a good question. One I hadn’t thought of for a long time. I should say my mother, who loved me very much. Sacrificed. Endured. Baked. Or there was Samuel, my FBI victim advocate, who’d taken dozens of my middle-of-the-night calls over the years. There was also my brother, somewhere overseas, who I knew still loved me. Or maybe my group, my new little band of misfits, who looked up to me.
I had a life. I wasn’t sure exactly when or how it had happened, but I had a life. Which I guess went to prove I hadn’t lied to Sarah when I first showed up on her doorstep. You could survive something horrific and still learn how to live again.
“I’ll report back,” I said at last.
D.D. continued with her stare. Then, when I didn’t blink: “Be careful.”
“Always.”
I sauntered off. In search of a killer, and as happy as a girl like me was ever gonna get.