Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(23)

Phil nodded, scribbled a note.

“You and me,” D.D. continued, “we’ll head to St. Elizabeth’s, talk to Juanita’s coworkers. Figure out if she had any enemies, expressed any recent fears. Better yet, maybe she had a close friend on the job, someone who knew the family and Roxanna well enough, Roxy might feel comfortable enough turning to for help.”

“And the dogs?” Phil asked.

D.D. hesitated. She should call animal control. Have the dogs picked up, quarantined. She could still feel Rosie’s and Blaze’s trembling forms pressing against her legs, seeking comfort.

“Leave a message for Hector,” she said. “If he’s willing to take them, that’ll work. Not to mention, it’ll give us an excuse to pay a visit to his apartment later to check up on the dogs.”

Phil wasn’t fooled for a moment. “And keep the dogs in a home environment. Softy.”

She made a face. Phil laughed.

They finished up their lattes, took a copy of the security video, and exited the coffee shop.

Where they came face-to-face with none other than Flora Dane.

D.D. didn’t require any further explanation. She said simply: “Shit.”





Chapter 9


I’D MET BOSTON SERGEANT DETECTIVE D. D. Warren several times before. The first had involved a crime scene featuring one serial rapist burned to a crisp. And myself, naked, wrists bound, standing over his smoking remains.

She hadn’t been fond of my approach then. When I decided to personally get involved with the case of a missing college student, she’d been equally unhappy with me. And yet, in a dark, boarded-up house, when I found myself cornered and armed with nothing but a piece of glass and a plastic straw, D. D. Warren was the one who saved the day.

D.D. was tough. I respected that about her. And I’d found the missing girl, which I liked to think D.D. respected about me.

Still, I’d taken pains for this afternoon’s meeting. Given the media frenzy following the Stacey Summers case, I’d become more recognizable on the streets of Boston. People seemed drawn to survivors. We were at once heroic and accessible. Neighbors worth admiring, but also good for whispering about behind our backs. Hence, the continued pressure to write about my ordeal with Jacob. People wanted to know, whether I wanted them to know or not.

After talking to Sarah, I’d started listening to the police scanners. Didn’t take me long to hear the news that the family’s two dogs had been located at a coffee shop in Brighton.

Of course D.D. would want to check out the dogs in person. Which made this the perfect place to meet.

For the occasion, I wore an oversized navy blue windbreaker that added bulk to my undersized frame. It also helped disguise my various instruments of self-defense—plastic lock picks, a Leatherman multipurpose tool, my custom mini pepper spray, and a combat pen that had more uses than you might think. I also wore two paracord survival bracelets. One bracelet included a compass, the other a whistle and flint fire starter. Amazing what you could find on the internet these days. Especially given that the corded bracelets were currently popular with kids and available anyplace and everyplace in Boston.

For the finishing touch, I’d pulled a blue Patriots cap low over my dirty-blond hair. Given this was Tom Brady country, it would’ve been more conspicuous to walk around in public without one.

Now, D.D. and her fellow detective came to a halt in front of me. D.D. wore dark dress jeans, currently covered in dog hair, and a caramel-colored leather jacket. I liked the jacket, but respected the dog-haired jeans—a detective not afraid to get dirty.

She glanced around—like me, aware of the public location, the potential for prying eyes. Her job made her a media target. My past made me a media darling. Spotted together, we were an ambitious reporter’s wet dream.

“Don’t suppose you’re just in the area?” D.D. said. The other detective peeled off, approaching the uniform guarding the two dogs and murmuring something low in the officer’s ear.

“Are those her dogs?” I asked. Stupid question, but I had to start somewhere.

“Whose dogs?”

I flashed her an impatient look. “Roxy’s.”

D.D. turned and started walking, heading up the block. I fell in step beside her. As we passed the dogs, her colleague—Phil, I think was his name—also joined our procession.

“I told the officer to stay with the dogs for another hour,” Phil murmured to D.D. “Hopefully we’ll hear from Hector by then. If not . . .”

“Are the dogs going to be all right?” I asked sharply. With the family dead, Roxanna missing . . . I hadn’t even thought about the spaniels.

D.D. shook her head. “Talk first,” she ordered, never breaking stride. “After that, we’ll see if I’m in a sharing sort of mood.”

I took a deep breath in, let it out. All right. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’ve never met her,” I said. “At least not in person.”

“Not helping.”

“I have a group.” I shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I’m not the only survivor in Boston.”

D.D. glanced at me. “Okay.”

“After the Stacey Summers case, I was in the spotlight for a bit.”

“Okay.”

“Which brought out future husbands, TV producers, and all the other assorted fruits and nuts.”