Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(15)
D.D. frowned. “That’s not normal.”
“To add to the puzzle, I just did a quick check: The computer browser was cleared at two A.M. last night, and substantial amounts of the hard drive wiped. So while we are seeing internet postings from Lola Baez, the only activity is from first thing this morning.”
“Someone’s trying to cover their tracks.” D.D. looked at Phil. “Most likely Roxanna Baez, whose lack of social media accounts indicates a certain level of paranoia right there.” She took it one step further: “Something happened in the middle of Friday night that was serious enough that Roxy did her best to delete all traces of computer memory. And then, what? First thing this morning, she works on erasing her entire family? Who is this girl?”
Phil could only shrug. “We’re beyond my detective-grade tech savvy. Computer geeks will have to take it from here.”
D.D. sighed heavily. Nothing against the tech geeks, who were brilliant, but more experts meant more time, the one resource they didn’t have right now.
“Any other devices we should know about?” D.D. asked.
D.D. and Phil had recently attended a class on home electronics and how they could be used to assist in a murder investigation. From the digital water meter that showed a guy using hundreds of gallons of water at three in morning—helping to prove the prosecutor’s argument that he was hosing blood off his back patio—to so-called smart appliances such as refrigerators, Amazon’s Echo device, et cetera, et cetera, which recorded short periods of time throughout the day, homeowners had placed themselves under more voluntary surveillance than most understood. Basically, that snapshot the smart fridge took to help you figure out what fruit to buy might also include a view of your ex-husband’s dead body, which you’d planned on burying later in the day with the shovel Alexa had ordered for you from Amazon.
Every time D.D. thought her job couldn’t get any weirder, it did.
“Nothing too high-tech,” Phil reported. “Just the smartphones, two home computers, and an Xbox.”
D.D. arched a brow at the mention of the gaming system.
“Already on it,” he assured her. Pedophiles loved to hide digital files—say, incriminating photos—as attachments to computer games, where the file sizes were already so huge and graphic-rich that it was hard to see the piggyback. Inside stereo speakers was also a favorite spot for stashing thumb drives. In this house, given this crime scene, they couldn’t afford to assume anything.
“I’ll talk to our three nine-one-one callers,” D.D. said. “See if I can determine at exactly what time the first shot was fired, then who might have seen something on the street. Given the position of Charlie Boyd’s body, the shooter had to have come through the front door, meaning we should be able to find a witness.”
“Or Roxy Baez did it herself, acting alone.”
“Gonna be a long day,” D.D. said.
“And probably an even longer night,” Phil agreed.
Phil walked back into the house while D.D. squared her shoulders and headed for the noise and chaos of the front street. Eyewitness testimony—with all its inherent strengths and weaknesses—here she came.
? ? ?
SIXTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD MRS. SANCHEZ HAD the kind of direct stare and firm voice D.D. liked in a witness. Yes, she’d heard shots. Was standing at her kitchen sink, washing the breakfast dishes, when she heard a distinct pop, pop, pop. Not terribly loud, but no mistaking the sound. She’d just set down the plate, was trying to figure out what to do next, when she heard more.
She’d picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1 immediately. Six minutes after nine. She’d looked at her watch to note the time.
No, she had not heard screaming or sounds of a commotion. Just the shots and then . . . nothing. She wasn’t even sure which place they’d come from. Across the street, she thought. But given the options, an entire row of houses, most of which had been turned into multiple units . . .
Yes, she’d peeked out from her window on the second story. But no, she hadn’t seen anyone running down the street. In fact, the sidewalks had been quiet for such a sunny morning.
Had she heard sounds of arguing or any disturbances earlier in the morning?
No, but then she spent most of her time in her kitchen, catching up on chores while watching her shows. Not much she could hear from back there.
How well had she known the family across the street?
Well enough. Charlie had come over last year when he’d noticed the railing of her front steps was hanging loose. Technically, her landlord was responsible for the repairs, but Charlie had volunteered to fix it himself, given how long landlords could take to get around to such things. He’d brought Manny with him, a chatty little thing. Sweet boy. Mrs. Sanchez had produced some cookies, and after that Manny had taken to showing up on his own in case she had any more sweets.
On nice days, she liked to sit out front, which is how she’d come to know Hector; Manny had dragged his father over for introductions. The younger girl started visiting, as well, especially if there was a chance of snacks. The oldest was shy—at least that’s what Manny said. Roxanna might wave and nod when out playing with the dogs, but she rarely crossed the street.
They seemed like a nice family. And no, Mrs. Sanchez had never noticed strangers coming and going at odd hours or vehicles pulling up for short periods of time before driving quickly away. Which already made them much better than the previous owners—the ones who’d lost the house to foreclosure, the ones whom Mrs. Sanchez had reported twice as probable drug dealers.