Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(21)

“The building had four cameras, covering front, back, both sides. All were dismantled.”

She turned, studied Phil. “How often does the building super check the cameras?”

“Every day. Meaning the cameras were taken out earlier this morning.”

She nodded, her mind now firmly made up. “This was a planned event. The gun, the security cameras. This wasn’t an impulsive act of rage, but a calculated crime. Any luck with Roxanna’s cell phone?”

“Cell company’s been pinging away. Nothing. But we do have a discovery of sorts. The Brittany spaniels, Rosie and Blaze. We’ve found them.”

? ? ?

THE DOGS WERE TEN BLOCKS away. A decent distance, given the length of the streets. Both had been tied under a copse of trees, near a corner coffee shop. Plenty of shade, D.D. noticed when she first approached. And they’d been left with a bowl of water.

The dogs raised their heads as she and Phil approached. A uniformed officer was already standing guard, attracting attention, as pedestrians tried to figure out why two old dogs required a police escort.

The Brittany spaniels were lying down. The first one, with a longer, shaggier white-and-brown-patched coat, wagged her tail at the sound of D.D.’s approach. She stared up with big brown eyes, whining slightly.

D.D. held out her hand first, then, when the dog nuzzled her palm in greeting, stroked the dog’s long, silky ears. The dog closed her eyes as her companion lumbered slowly to his feet and shuffled closer. More hand sniffing, ear stroking. The second dog had a shorter coat but seemed equally sweet. D.D. wondered how Alex and Jack’s dog search was coming.

“Coffee shop barista phoned in the report,” the officer explained. Officer Jenko, D.D. read on his uniform. “She saw the pictures on the news, recognized they matched the dogs outside. According to her, she’s never seen the dogs before, doesn’t know anything about the Boyd-Baez family.”

D.D. nodded, keeping her attention on the dogs. She kneeled, getting up close. Both dogs seemed well groomed, in good condition. No sign of injury or blood spatter. She gently lifted the first dog’s front leg. The shaggy spaniel didn’t seem to mind, obediently holding up her paw. The footpad appeared rough, but again no evidence of blood or trauma. Should she be bagging the dogs’ paws as evidence? Things they never thought to mention at the police academy. Then again, given that the dogs had walked all the way from the crime scene to here, any evidence discovered on their paws would be cross-contaminated, worthless in a court of law.

D.D. lowered the dog’s leg, went back to stroking her long ears. She could feel the dog tremble slightly beneath her fingers, press closer into D.D.’s hand. She was anxious, D.D. thought. The change in schedule, a day that wasn’t like the day before. The dogs knew something was up; they just didn’t know how bad yet.

“Working on canvassing the area for potential witnesses now,” Phil was saying from behind her.

“Hang on.” D.D. had just found it. A square of paper folded up tight, wedged beneath the dog’s collar. She eased it out, unfolded the note carefully.

“My name is Rosie,” D.D. read out loud. The shaggy dog lifted her ears at the sound of her name. “I am a twelve-year-old Brittany spaniel. I’m blind but gentle. I like to be outside in sunny weather, listening to birds. Please don’t separate me from my friend Blaze. If found, you can call . . .”

D.D. rattled off the number, then frowned and looked at Phil.

He dialed the number while she inspected the second dog’s collar. Sure enough . . . “I am Blaze,” she read, “a ten-year-old Brittany spaniel. I’m blind but a very good boy. I love to be outside with my friend Rosie. If found . . .”

“The number belongs to Hector Alvalos,” Phil reported, lowering his phone.

D.D. straightened slowly. Both dogs moved in closer, pressed against her legs. So much for her dark jeans, which would now be covered in white and brown hairs. She supposed she should get used to such things.

“Why Hector Alvalos?” D.D. asked.

“I don’t know; he’s not answering his phone.” Phil paused. “He knows the dogs, visiting the house to pick up Manny each weekend. Maybe he watches them sometimes.”

“Most people put their home numbers on their dog’s collars,” D.D. countered. “Or their phones. Given that Roxanna didn’t . . .”

“It’s as if she already knew there wasn’t a home for them to return to,” Phil finished for her.

“Anyone know exactly what time the dogs showed up?”

“Best estimate is sometime around ten. But most of those patrons are gone by now.”

“We’re going to need to pull all receipts from nine thirty on. Then call those customers and have them return to be interviewed. Someone saw something and we need to know what.”

“Or,” Phil replied, “we could review the security camera footage. Mrs. Schuepp is loading it up for us now.”

“Or,” D.D. agreed, “we do that.”

Phil gestured toward the coffee shop. D.D. fell in step behind him, leaving Officer Jenko, back on duty, guarding the two beautiful dogs.

? ? ?

LYNDA SCHUEPP HAD BEEN RUNNING the coffee shop for eight years. A brisk woman with wavy brown hair and hands that moved even faster than she talked, she had them in a back room and set up with a security monitor in a matter of minutes. D.D. wondered how much coffee the woman drank on the job. D.D. wished she had some of that coffee.