Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(107)
“Do you know where she went, what she’s doing?”
“I think so.” I looked directly at Mike Davis as I spoke. “Roxy’s heading back to the theater. She believes Anya murdered her family. And now, Roxanna is looking to even the score.”
Chapter 38
D.D. APPROACHED THE COMMUNITY THEATER building, lights off. If Roxy was already there, preparing to ambush Anya, D.D. didn’t want to spook her. Also, she had no idea about possible theater rehearsals, other people being present. The last thing she needed was a hostage situation involving the lone survivor of a family massacre and an equally vengeful target.
She had issued a BOLO for Anya Seton. Now, D.D. slowed her vehicle, driving by the front of the building while trying to search for any sign of activity.
She didn’t know much about the community theater. It looked like a former church, tall and plain as many of the historic houses of worship were. The white front featured chipping paint and a pair of recessed doors that formed an arch. One of the doors appeared to be cracked open.
Given the bright, sunny day, it was impossible to tell if any interior lights were on. D.D. didn’t see actors coming or going or people milling about out front, but that didn’t mean anything. Chances were, a building of this size could be filled with dozens of aspiring thespians, let alone two girls engaged in the final act of a five-years-running play.
She turned the corner, went around the block. And immediately spied a silver Honda sedan parked down a narrow backstreet at the rear of the church. The plate read: DRAMA.
Doug de Vries’s vehicle, had to be. From here, she could just make out someone sitting in the driver’s seat. The angle of the sun, however, blocked her view of the passenger’s side, meaning Anya might or might not be in the vehicle with him.
D.D. cruised past. Eyes forward, hands flexing and unflexing on the wheel. One block up, she made a right and looped all the way around the next block, parking one street over and up from the rear alley.
She got on her phone to Phil. “At the theater. Have eyes on de Vries and his vehicle.”
“Okay. I’m at his house with a full team. His wife is here. She said he’d gone out, but has refused to offer anything more. She’s waiting on her lawyer.”
“I need to know if there’s a rehearsal scheduled for this morning.”
“D.D., she’s already requested a lawyer.”
“I know, I know. But requesting a schedule is hardly asking someone to risk self-incrimination. I just need to know how many people might be in a gigantic building where I may have at least one armed suspect. Tell her having a pervert husband is bad enough. Surely she doesn’t want to be held accountable for a hostage situation, too.”
“You have such a way with words.”
Rustling, followed by the low murmur of voices as Phil relayed her message.
Then: “Rehearsal is set for this evening. But apparently the theater is pretty informal. Doesn’t mean people won’t come in earlier to work on set pieces, run lines, whatever.”
“In other words, your guess is as good as mine?”
“Exactly. Want me to call for backup?”
“I don’t know,” D.D. said, and she meant it. In any dangerous situation, protocol demanded SWAT. And yet two teenage girls . . . The mom in her wanted to believe there was a better answer to all of this. Even as the cop knew kids could kill just as easily as anyone else.
“Put out the call, but no one moves until I say so,” she determined. In other words, plan for the worst but don’t stop hoping for the best.
She ended the call, then exited her vehicle, unsnapping the holster at her waist and willing her left arm to cooperate. As Flora Dane could attest, D.D. could still get lucky with some one-handed shooting action. But since her injury, she didn’t have the aim or accuracy she used to, and she knew it. All the more reason to take this slow and easy.
She walked down the street toward the rear alley, keeping her body as close to the buildings as possible, and out of sight of de Vries’s silver automobile. The back bumper jutted out. She paused with her back against a storefront. Being a Sunday afternoon, most of the block appeared quiet.
She eased her gun out of its holster. Wrapped her right hand around the grip, followed by her left.
Quick step out, glance through the rear window, gun still held low and in front.
Backseat, empty. Passenger seat, empty. Which left just de Vries, who sat still, facing forward.
She dropped back, wondering if he’d seen her. Something nagged at her. The outline of his head. Straight up, staring forward. Same as when she’d driven by.
Who sat like that anymore? Especially alone in a car? People stared down at their phones. Or maybe nodded their heads along to music. But sitting so perfectly still . . .
She got the first tickle of a bad feeling as she eased around the corner, ducked low, and raced along the side of the car to the driver’s seat.
“Hands up! On the steering wheel! Keep them where I can see them,” she barked, zeroing in on de Vries through the driver’s-side window.
The community theater director gazed right at her. But he didn’t move a muscle.
? ? ?
DUCT TAPE. IT TOOK HER a moment to make out the silvery mess. De Vries had been wrapped with what appeared to be miles of the material. His eyes were wild above the bright gray patch stuck to his mouth. More bands of tape bound his left hand to the door handle, while his right wrist was attached to the gear shift. A rush job but an effective one. Especially given the pièce de résistance, which D.D. was just now making out.