Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(16)

Were they really dead? All of them? Such a waste. Such a terrible, terrible waste. Who would do such a thing?

This time, D.D. was the one who didn’t have the answer. She left Mrs. Sanchez with her card and a request to call if she thought of anything else. Then D.D. moved on to the next 9-1-1 caller.

Mr. Richards lived in the building next to the Boyd-Baez family. He’d been in the basement, starting the laundry, when he’d heard the shots. At first, he’d thought it was the sound of a car backfiring. But then when he heard it again . . .

He knew immediately it had come from the house next door. By the time he’d run upstairs, though, and peered through the window, he hadn’t seen anything. Not on the street, or in the backyard, which he could see from his third-story unit.

What about the dogs? D.D. asked.

That made him think. Mr. Richards didn’t know the family well, but he was used to the sight of the two brown-spotted dogs sleeping on the back porch. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen them that morning. Not that he’d been paying much attention, he added hastily.

Had he heard the sound of arguing, any disturbances, maybe while he was eating breakfast? His apartment was much closer than Mrs. Sanchez’s.

Mr. Richards shook his head. He’d been gathering laundry, though, then lugging it all the way down to the basement washer and dryer. The morning had been quiet, just like any other morning, he reported. And then . . . He shrugged, spread his hands. As witnesses went, he’d heard more than he’d seen, and that was that.

D.D. thanked him for his time, moved on to caller number three.

Barb Campbell was a twenty-eight-year-old English teacher, currently house-sitting her parents’ rear apartment on the second floor of the building to the left of Charlie Boyd’s fixer-upper. She’d been reading when she’d heard the shots. Close enough, sharp enough, her first instinct had been to duck. It had taken her a few moments to realize the shots had come from the side of her apartment, and not out front.

She’d belly-crawled over to a window, peering out. Most of her view was obscured by the side of the Boyd-Baez residence. But looking diagonally, she could just make out a thin slice of the family’s backyard. And a foot disappearing over the rear wooden fence.

“What size?” D.D. asked immediately. “Male, female? Adult, child?”

“I don’t know. A foot. The sole mostly. Black? Maybe the bottom of a boot?”

“Did it have a heel? Say, fashionable versus functional tread?”

“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe a tennis shoe? I was pretty rattled. I’d never heard gunshots before. Especially that close. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

“How long did you watch?”

“Probably several minutes. You know, in case the person came back.”

“And . . .”

“Nothing.”

“No sounds of commotion from the residence on the other side of the fence, the property behind the Boyd-Baez house?”

“It’s not a residence. That building is office space. Maybe a dental clinic, real estate? Something like that.”

“What about right before the sound of shots fired? What did you hear then?”

Barb Campbell flushed. “I was reading. And I don’t exactly hear much when I’m lost in a good book.”

“Dogs barking?”

She shook her head.

“Voices arguing? Screaming?”

Another shake.

“Had you noticed anything going on earlier at the house? Maybe glanced out while you were pouring a cup of coffee, picking up your novel?”

“Um, the dogs. I heard the jangle of their collars as they came around the side yard.”

“They were running or playing?”

“No, the girl had them. Looked like she was taking them for a walk.”

D.D. stared hard at Barb Campbell.

“You saw someone leave with the dogs?”

“The taller girl. Long dark hair. Maybe eighteen or so? She stopped right beneath this window to pick up her backpack.”

“Her backpack?”

“Yes. A ratty light blue thing. Looked like she was retrieving it from behind a bush.”

“What time was this?” D.D. asked sharply.

“I don’t know. Maybe eight thirty? I was just getting ready to read.”

“What was she wearing? Color of her shirt, maybe a jacket?”

“Um, I wasn’t paying that much attention. Red shirt, maybe? I can picture red. And blue jeans, I think. I don’t know. Nothing special.”

“Did you see her leave through the front gate?”

“No. I just saw her walking down the side yard. But she had both dogs on leashes, then she grabbed her backpack. Where else would she go but through the front gate?”

“Did she seem agitated, upset, anything?”

“Honestly, I have no idea.”

“What about a phone? Did she have her cell in her hand? Did you hear her talking to anyone?”

Barb Campbell shook her head.

D.D. handed the woman her card, but her mind was already elsewhere.

At eight thirty in the morning, approximately thirty-five minutes before the shootings, Roxy Baez had left the house with not only the dogs but also a backpack she’d secreted away. Filled with items she’d stolen from her family? Supplies she already knew she might need for her future life on the run?