by Lisa Gardner
Maybe Roxy’s advanced skills had nothing to do with me and my group. Maybe this was how good you got during a lifetime spent preparing. I wouldn’t know. At sixteen, I’d still been an innocent girl growing up on my mother’s farm. Which made me feel lucky in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.
I wished Roxy would make contact. Not that I expected her to magically call me; I barely knew her. But Sarah had spent time with her. Coaxed her into joining our internet support group, vouched for Roxy’s character. Surely if there was anyone Roxy thought she could trust in this madness, it would be our little band of misfits.
Except we were still new to her. While, by all accounts, Roxanna Baez was used to taking care of things on her own.
I hadn’t heard anything more from Sarah. I assumed that meant she was still following Mike Davis. Making my next project Anya Seton.
Standing on a street corner, I started by Googling her name on my phone. First thing that came up was a page on the high school website promoting last spring’s theatrical production of Beauty and the Beast, starring Anya Seton as Belle. Interesting. So Roxy and Lola’s former nemesis was now an actress.
No Twitter handle that I could find. It was possible she did Snapchat or Instagram, but if she did, it was not under a user name I could figure out.
I kept scrolling down. This time I discovered a community theater website. A fall production of Wicked. With Anya listed as playing the role of Glinda. I clicked on the schedule and learned that practice had just wrapped up. Then I mapped the location of the theater on my phone and headed over.
Brighton was small. One of those places with too many streets and too many buildings so nothing was ever in a straight line. More like toggle over two blocks here, then backtrack a block there before heading out on a leftward spoke at a rightward angle. But modern technology kept me on track.
By the time I arrived at the theater, which appeared to be an old New England church, light flooded through the thin front-facing windows, though the grounds appeared quiet. I peered in the window closest to the door, which was covered in at least an inch of grime. Next, I tried the door, which allowed me to enter a small vestibule. I discovered a second door, in an even heavier wooden frame. This one, however, was locked.
I knocked.
No one answered. Either rehearsal was done for the night or the actors were too involved in their greatness to keep an ear out for newcomers.
If I were a teenage girl who’d just wrapped up play rehearsal at seven thirty on a Saturday night, what would I do next?
Depart with friends seemed like the winning answer to me. Anya was the lead actress, meaning she liked attention. Leaving alone, heading back—to what, foster care?—would be too much of a letdown. So she’d look for ways to keep the theater magic alive. Accompany some of the cast and crew going for dinner, drinks, coffee, whatever.
They’d walk. No one, especially teens, could afford cars in Boston. So someplace close. I consulted my phone again, identified three restaurants and a café within walking distance. The restaurants sounded too expensive, the café a better fit for an aspiring thespian’s budget.
I spotted the likely group seated in a far corner the moment I entered Monet’s. My timing was off, though, because I’d no sooner picked a table by the door than they were pushing back their chairs, standing up.
I skimmed the group quickly. I wasn’t sure what Anya looked like. The photo I’d seen of her from the Beauty and the Beast page had definitely involved a wig, not to mention a very large yellow ball gown.
But now my gaze settled on one girl in particular. Long strawberry-blond hair tumbling down a black trench coat in perfectly groomed waves. Exotic green-gold eyes turned up slightly at the corners. She would be absolutely stunning if not for the calculating grin on her face as she turned toward the much older, heavyset man beside her, placing a hand on his arm.
Anya Seton. I’d bet my life on it.
I turned away, let the group pass. Four younger people, one graying adult. Cast, I would bet, out with the director.
I studied a poster on the wall, the café’s namesake’s famed rendering of water lilies. The group exited the door out onto the sidewalk, still talking among themselves.
“Would you like a menu?”
I turned to find a waiter staring at me. I regarded him blankly.
“No.”
Through the window, I could see the group was breaking up.
“You know them?” I asked the waiter quickly.
He shrugged. “They’re regulars.”
“Girl with the reddish-gold hair, that Anya Seton by any chance?”
He gave me a suspicious look. “Why?”
“I, um, saw her in a play once. Thought that had to be her.”
“Yeah. She’s in most of the local productions. Gonna be a big star one day.” He rolled his eyes. “Likes to tell us that as she signs a napkin and leaves it as a tip.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Cuz, you know, Brighton community theater is only one short step from Broadway.”
“Everyone’s gotta dream.”
“What, this isn’t the pinnacle of my career?” He gestured to his latte-stained black apron.
I was startled enough to laugh. And realized for the first time that the waiter was a nice-looking guy. Late twenties, warm brown eyes, rueful smile.
In the next moment, I faltered. Because I didn’t know what to do with cute guys. Rarely even noticed such things. There were ways that I had healed and ways that I was still broken. Unconsciously, I started fidgeting with the bandage on my left hand. Rubbing it just slightly, feeling the corresponding twinge of pain. It both grounded me and made me sad.
For no reason at all, I thought of my mother. All the hopes and dreams she still had for me. The strength she found to still care, though I knew most of my actions, including my current search for yet another missing girl, broke her heart.
The group outside was scattering. Anya heading up the block, her arm looped possessively through the director’s, the others headed in the opposite direction.
“I gotta go,” I heard myself say.
Cute waiter guy shrugged. “You don’t have to chase her for an autograph. Come by this same time tomorrow. She’ll give you one happily enough.”
“Um . . . thanks.”
He nodded. “Do I know you?” he asked abruptly. “Are you also an actress, because you look familiar. Maybe I saw you on TV?”
“No,” I said. “You don’t know me.”
Then I turned my back on him and headed out the door.
• • •
AFTER THE WARMTH OF THE café, the night air hit me like a slap. I hunched my shoulders in my thin windbreaker and trucked up the block. At least the dark blue color helped me blend in with the shadows. I could hear footsteps ahead. The low murmur of voices punctuated by laughter.
As we approached the street corner, I slowed, not wanting to get too close. Anya and the director waited for the cross light. He whispered something in her ear. Very intimate for a purely professional relationship, I thought. She giggled in response. The sound made me shiver.
Two more blocks. At the third, he reluctantly unhooked his arm. More whispers. Reminders of upcoming rehearsals, or promises of a different kind of rendezvous? Anya turned her head, offering up a pale cheek in gracious offering. He brushed his lips across the porcelain surface. Then he turned left, most likely heading to his place, while Anya kept going straight.
I hesitated. A lone woman walking the streets of Boston at night learned to be aware of her surroundings. No way the sound of my footsteps wouldn’t draw notice. Especially as Anya was a foster kid, with plenty of reasons to develop street smarts.
So I didn’t continue straight. Instead, as the guy went left, I crossed to the right, keys out of my pocket, held in my fist with one key protruding be
tween my knuckles. If Anya looked over, noted my presence, she’d see another lone woman, walking briskly and practicing basic self-defense.
On the other side of the street, I kept my head up, walking even slightly faster now, as if intent on my destination. I didn’t have to see Anya. One of the first tricks of recon is to utilize all your senses. I could hear her footsteps, the rhythmic clicking of black boots against the sidewalk. As long as the beat stayed steady, so did my own pace. Another block, two, three, where I remained to the side and just slightly ahead.
Then she slowed. My pulse jumped. It took everything I had not to pause, glance over. Instead, I conducted a quick mental review of the buildings we’d just passed.
A squat residential had been to the right. Front porch light on. Chain link, some toys in the yard. A dilapidated day care had been my initial impression.
Or a foster home with young kids.
I disappeared around the corner just as I heard the creak of the gate swinging open behind me. Anya, entering the yard of the run-down house.
Patience. I’d like to say I learned it during training in the months after my recovery. But in truth, Jacob had always been a master of perseverance. The women he stalked, waiting for just the right one. The way, according to him, he’d spent hours on that Florida beach until I’d come dancing drunkenly into his line of sight. And he’d known—he’d simply known, he told me later—that I was the one for him.
A predator’s true love.
I thought again of the cute waiter in the café. The normal people, relationships that would never be mine. And once again I fiddled with the bandage.
I’d just turned back toward the house where Anya had disappeared into the yard when I heard a shout, followed by pounding footsteps.
Anya reemerged under the streetlights. Flying past the chain link, heading straight up the street as fast as her patent leather boots would take her. Hot on her heels emerged Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren.
I smiled. All dark thoughts forgotten as I stepped out of the shadows.
“Hey, Anya,” I shouted from the opposite corner. “Can I have your autograph?”
The startled girl turned.
And my smile grew even larger as D.D. took her down.
This CI business was getting to be fun after all.
• • •
ANYA WAS SHRIEKING AS D.D. dragged her to her feet. “Get your hands off of me! Let go! How dare you—”
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD. Now shut up.”
If anything, Anya increased her howling. I crossed the street as Phil came jogging up the sidewalk and several porch lights came on. The neighbors, about to enjoy a show.
“We have questions concerning Lola and Roxanna Baez—”
“What did they lie about this time?”
“You been at the theater all day?” I asked Anya. D.D. still had a grip on the girl’s arm.
“Of course. Thursday night is dress rehearsal. This is it.”
I exchanged a look with Phil and D.D. In other words, Anya hadn’t seen the news.
“You’re a pretty serious actress,” I said.
She arched a brow. “Doug—our director—he used to work on Broadway. He says he can get me auditions, arrange for me to sign with a major talent agency. This play is it for me. Next month, I turn eighteen. Then New York, here I come. This time next year, I’ll be the newest Broadway star.”
“Wow,” D.D. said, “Lola must’ve been really jealous.”
“Oh, please, she was the lead like five years ago, and it didn’t last. Not once Doug saw me.”
“What brought you to the theater?” D.D. asked.
Anya flushed, hesitated. She was no longer struggling, but standing stiffly, her chin up. “We heard about the play from Lola and Roxy, of course.”
“‘We’?” I interjected.
She shot me a look. My blue windbreaker and baseball cap seemed to throw her. Was I a cop? Not a cop? Undercover cop?
“Roberto. My boyfriend. He believed in me. When he first overheard Roxy and Lola talking about the local production of Oliver Twist, he said I should audition. I mean, Lola has her talents . . . but I’m better.”
“You and Roberto joined the community theater,” D.D. repeated. “You took over the lead role—”
“Doug saw my potential right away. I was too old for the part of Oliver, of course, so Lola got to keep it. But the very next play, Doug built it all around me.” The girl visibly preened.
“And Roberto?” D.D. asked.
“He became the stage manager. Kept his eye on things.”
“What about Roxy?”
“Roxy?” Anya arched a brow. “Roxy’s ugly,” she said flatly, as if this should be obvious. “She worked set design. Out of sight.”
“That was five years ago,” D.D. stated. “When Roxy and Lola were living with you and Roberto at Mother Del’s. We hear Roberto wasn’t always so nice to the new kids at Mother Del’s.”
“Lies! It’s Lola and Roxy you should be questioning. You know, Roxy could’ve slept in my room, the larger room. But no, she opted to wedge into the nursery with crying babies just to stay with her sister. Night after night, always whispering. Then they started poisoning our food!”
“Poisoning your food?” I couldn’t resist.
“Yes. We’d eat dinner, then be sick for the rest of the night. Or they’d lace our food with other kinds of drugs, where we’d fall dead asleep and barely be able to move the next day. I caught Roxy one day. She was grinding up some kind of pill—Advil PM, Roberto got her to confess later—and stirring it into the spaghetti sauce.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Why would they do such a thing?”
“They came from a home. No way were they sharing with a bunch of foster kids.”
“You and Roberto never did anything to deserve this? Being older. Bigger. I’ve heard some stories about Roberto—”
“Shut up!”
“Never get caught alone at Mother Del’s,” I intoned.
“Shut up!” Anya screamed louder. More porch lights came on.
“Who gave Lola the whiskey that sent her to the hospital?” D.D. asked curtly. “You or Roberto?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Answer the damn question!” Behind D.D., Phil was doing a slow circle, showing off his detective’s shield in case any of the spying neighbors thought they should be calling the cops.
“It was a joke!”
“An eight-year-old girl ended up in the emergency room.”
“What about all the crap she did to us? We couldn’t even eat anymore! Besides, this was all five years ago. What do you care?”
“More like, what do you care,” D.D. said coolly. “Because last year, they came back. Lola was even more beautiful than before. I already know she wanted to return to the community theater. A girl that stunning, why wouldn’t she?”
I looked at D.D. in surprise. I hadn’t realized she’d had a chance to talk to the theater director, who’d I just seen for the first time tonight. Then, in the next instant, I got it. The detective was bluffing. And she was good at it. Something for me to remember.
“Lola showed up, started sniffing around. So what? It’s been years. Doug knows my talent. He even chose Wicked as our next production, as I’m perfect for the part of Glinda. He wants back to Broadway, too, you know. And I’m his ticket in.”
“You sound like you have a very close working relationship with this Doug,” I said.
“Talent recognizes talent.”
“He work this tightly with all his lead actors and actresses?” D.D. piled on.
“Shut up.”
“What did Roberto think about that?” My turn again.
“Shut up!”
Anya’s lips were trembling, her eyes overbright. On the
verge of tears, I would think, except by her own admission she was a very talented actress.
“Why are you asking all these questions! So Lola wanted back in. I’m still the star. Doug knows what he’s doing, and as director, it’s his call, not mine, after all.”
“Oh, that.” D.D. rocked back on her heels. She was no longer holding Anya’s arm, but kept her gaze on the girl’s face. “Lola Baez was shot and killed this morning.”
There was no mistaking it: a small flash of surprise followed almost immediately by a look of triumph.
“And Roxy?” Anya asked.
“We don’t know. But Lola’s younger brother, her mother, and the mother’s boyfriend were all murdered in their own home.”
Anya regarded D.D. stonily. “Hang with garbage, end up in the dump,” she stated.
“Excuse me?”
“Lola. Look at the black dot on her cheek. That’s no beauty mark. It’s a gang tat. They all have them. Las Niñas Diablas. The letters are microscopic, written in some loop. They pride themselves on being beautiful and deadly.” Anya snorted. “Like Lola was ever anything else.”
“Lola was part of this gang?” D.D. asked.
“Everyone knows that.”
“Then why would they kill her?”
“Don’t look at me. I’m no gang bitch. How am I supposed to know how they think? She got her revenge. Maybe she wanted out after that.”
“What revenge?” I asked.
Anya’s eyes glittered harder. “Roberto,” she choked out. “His death four months ago. That was them. I know it.”
“He shot himself—” D.D. began.
“Bullshit! Roberto would never do such a thing. It was those bitches. They were hounding him relentlessly, most likely on Lola’s orders. They got the gun. They shot him. Which I tried to tell the police, but nobody would listen. Everyone sees only what they want to see. First they dismissed him as just another loser in life. And then, when he died . . .”
She blinked hard, wiped at her eyes again.