Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(106)

Mike flinched. He glanced at me. “Never get caught alone at Mother Del’s,” he said solemnly, which I took to mean yes.

“That must’ve been very frustrating. That Roberto bullied not only kids, but grown adults, as well.”

He bounced two times quick.

“Is that when you two decided something must be done? Roberto had already destroyed enough lives. Five years later, still hurting Lola and Roxy. And now going after someone as nice as Ms. Lobdell Cass.”

“We hated him,” Mike stated abruptly. “Some people are made for hating. Roberto was made for hating.”

“Anya thinks Lola and her gang arranged for Roberto’s suicide. But I spoke to them this morning. They say they didn’t do it, and I believe them. It was you and Roxy, wasn’t it? Roberto had to be stopped. And Ex-lax and sleeping pills weren’t going to be enough this time.”

Mike wouldn’t look at me. He jiggled his legs. He drummed his fingers. In his own way, I thought, this was as close to a confession as we were ever going to get.

“Have you seen Anya this morning?” I asked.

He jerked his attention back to me. “What?”

“Anya. Someone took a shot at me while I was talking to Lola’s gang a few hours ago. The shooter missed. I didn’t have time for a close enough look before she ran away.”

Mike flinched.

“Maybe when you went to the theater this morning, you saw Anya? Getting supplies—say, a brunette wig?”

He shook his head.

“Mike, Anya blames Lola and Roxy for everything. In her mind, they took the love of her life from her.”

Another head shake, as if trying to ward off my words.

I tried again. “She’s been plotting revenge ever since—”

“She didn’t love him.”

“Who? Anya didn’t love Roberto?”

“She used him. He used her. That is not love.”

“To be honest, for some people, it’s close enough.”

“She has the director now. She doesn’t need Roberto anymore. Just ask Lola.”

The way Mike said that drew me up short. “What do you mean, ‘ask Lola’?”

“She knew Anya was with the director. She saw them together. In the theater. Naughty, naughty.” He rocked back and forth on his heels.

I think I got it. “Lola wanted revenge. She wanted to make Anya pay for everything she and Roberto had done. But Roberto was dead. So Lola went after Doug de Vries instead?”

“Lola took pictures. Lola sent pictures. Friday night. Roxy found them on the computer. Lola and the fat director. Ugly photos. Disturbing.” Mike frowned. “Roxy had to purge everything. She called me for help. I am good at computers. For Roxy, I came. For Roxy, I helped.”

“But you could only clear the computer’s memory, right? The pictures that were already sent . . . What goes out on the internet stays there.” A concept I knew too well.

He shrugged. “Roxy cried. She told Lola she was better than this. Lola told her to stop pretending. Roxy told her she couldn’t keep saving her. Lola told her she didn’t want to be saved. Lola left. Roxy did not talk any more. She sat in their room. She looked so sad. Once, I could help her. But not anymore. Once, we could save each other.” He paused, looked at me. “Not anymore.”

I understood. Five years later, Roxy and Lola’s world wasn’t getting better but worse.

Forget Roberto and Anya and their acts of revenge. Lola had debased herself with the theater director, then distributed exploitive photos of herself on their home computer. It was one thing for Roxy to try to save her younger sister from two older, bigger bullies. But how could you save someone from herself?

Then, on the heels of that thought: “Lola didn’t just send the picture to Doug de Vries, did she? She also sent them to Anya.”

“Revenge must be revenge, or it isn’t sweet.”

Anya had implied to D.D. and me that she’d been with Doug during the time of the shooting. But he was hardly a reliable alibi. Given the existence of incriminating images, he’d say anything to keep Anya on his side. He needed her help for the cover-up. Meaning Anya could’ve donned the costume of her choice from the theater, walked to the Boyd-Baez house, and opened fire.

Was that her real self? I wondered. The woman who’d walked from room to room, calmly eliminating her targets. Until she reached the upstairs and zeroed in on her final enemy. Or had she approached the whole exercise as a role? Anya Seton, playing Female Kick-Ass Assassin in this morning’s performance of Vengeance Is Mine?

Did either way make it any less scary?

My phone rang in my pocket. I almost didn’t answer it, then realized it was Sarah. I hit the accept button, placing it to my ear impatiently.

“Yes?”

“She’s gone.”

“What?”

“Roxanna. She was here, still asleep on the sofa, when I returned with the groceries. I set out some food. Then I thought I’d take a few minutes to shower. Five at the most. When I came back out . . . Her bag is gone, too. She took everything with her.”

“Okay. Contact Sergeant Warren—”

“She just called. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to say.”

“You might as well tell her. We’re going to need her help.”