Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(108)

A box cutter, taped to the bottom of the steering wheel and positioned with its blade wedged into the most sensitive part of a man’s anatomy. Basically, the slightest movement on de Vries’s part risked immediate castration.

Knowing what she did about the man, D.D. couldn’t help but be impressed.

She glanced around the alley. No sign of Anya Seton or Roxanna Baez. Or Flora Dane, for that matter, because this certainly reminded D.D. of Flora’s handiwork. Which maybe Flora had passed along to her newfound support group, including Roxy? Hey, ladies, want to ensure an evil pervert doesn’t bother you again?

D.D. took an experimental sniff of the air. Sure enough, a whiff of pepper. Remnants of bear spray, most likely from one of the cans she’d found in Roxy’s backpack.

Meaning Roxanna had gotten here first, then taken some time to play with the first target of her rage.

And now?

D.D. circled the car, popped opened the passenger’s door, stared down at de Vries. She reached in a hand and ripped the tape from his whiskered face. The man gasped in pain.

“Talk,” she ordered.

He did.

? ? ?

MIKE KNEW A SIDE DOOR into the theater. On the run, moving with a sense of urgency, his normally bounding gait smoothed out. His limbs and joints seemed to find themselves, working together with a kind of fluid efficiency he still couldn’t master in everyday life. I was surprised by how hard I had to work to keep up, and how ragged my breathing grew.

Mike Davis had once worked in the theater. With Roxanna. Set design, something like that. I had a vague memory from things Anya had said, or maybe it was from Roxy. But he definitely knew where he was going, striking a direct line from the school counselor’s house to the former church.

The door squeaked when he jerked it open. I winced at the noise, but he didn’t seem to notice. I was trying to run a quick catalogue in my mind, possible self-defense weapons. Laces from my tennis shoes. A clip in my hair that happened to disguise a small razor blade. One tiny black plastic lock pick, which looked like a shortened bobby pin but was perfect for releasing wrist restraints. Add to that some hand-to-hand combat basics, the sharp point of my elbow, the hard-edged heel of my hand, the razor jab of pointed fingers, and I had many tools at my disposal.

The question was, for what?

The side door led us straight to a set of steps, headed down. The stairwell was narrow and dark and smelled slightly of mildew. Basement access, I realized. But I wasn’t sure why we’d want to head directly into the bowels of the building, when most likely the action was happening overhead.

We shuffled along in the dark. Then, abruptly, Mike drew up short, motioning for me to pause. I halted directly behind him, working on calming my breathing while straining my ears for sounds of activity.

The faint murmur of voices. One high and strident. The other low and angry. Anya Seton and Roxanna. Had to be.

In front of me, Mike bounced soundlessly on the balls of his feet, clearly focused on the conversation, trying to make out the words.

He looked up, and that’s when I got it. The voices weren’t coming from ahead of us but from on top of us. Somehow, we’d worked our way under the stage. That’s what the side door must be—the safety egress for the trap room under the stage decking.

We eased forward. The voices grew louder, but the words were still hard to distinguish. Roxanna and Anya had to be standing nearly on top of us now. Unfortunately, the acoustics of a theater were designed to project their voices out into the audience, not down into the pit.

In the dark, Mike tugged at my hand, then pointed ahead. I could just make out the glowing outline of a door. He eased it open to reveal a second flight of stairs. Lighter and brighter this time. They appeared to be leading behind the main stage area, where windows placed up high allowed for natural light. Better for us to see, but also better for us to be seen by. We tiptoed up cautiously, flinching at each groaning riser.

“You’re insane!” I could hear Anya Seton’s voice clearly now. “You and your sister both. Beneath those poor-little-me exteriors, you’re nothing but ruthless manipulators, prepared to do anything to get what you want.”

“Lola was eight years old—”

“Please, that girl never did anything she didn’t want to. Including play you like a fiddle. When are you going to wake up and smell the coffee?”

“She was my sister!”

“She killed my boyfriend. Who never hurt anyone.”

“Now who’s insane?”

“Lola shot Roberto in the head. She liquored him up, then took him out. And I told her as much. I let her know I was on to her.” Mike and I crept around the corner. I could just make out the back of Roxanna. She held a bright yellow aerosol can in her left hand—bear spray. What concerned me more was her right arm, extended straight in front of her, pointing a gun directly at Anya’s head. Where had Roxanna gotten the gun? There hadn’t been a weapon in her backpack. Unless she’d stashed it in the theater, already planning to return.

Anya stood ten feet in front of Roxy. Her face was easier to see, and the blonde wasn’t a pretty sight. Her eyes were bright red. Snot still streamed from her nose, gluing strands of hair to her cheeks. Compared to pepper sprays intended for self-defense, bear spray contained significantly higher levels of capsaicinoids, and Anya looked it. Most likely Roxy had ambushed Anya with the spray in order to drag her into the theater. Which would also explain Anya’s hands, bound in front of her with strips of duct tape.