Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(24)

“When I said start talking, I meant about something relevant to the case.”

“I also started receiving letters from other survivors. Women—and men—with stories of their own. Considering how I’d helped rescue Stacey, they wondered if my approach—”

“Chasing predators, endangering yourself and others?” D.D. interjected coolly.

“—might work for them. So . . . I started holding meetings.”

D.D. stopped. Caught midstep, I stumbled slightly, had to catch myself. Phil, on the other hand, paused easily, expression unconcerned, as D.D. squared off against me in the middle of the crowded block. “You started holding meetings? As in, like, you’re a leader? Peter Pan with your own group of Lost Boys? Or Robin Hood with his merry band of thieves?”

“Or a support group, where we try to figure out this whole business of living in the real world again.”

D.D. stared at me. Crystalline blue eyes. I remembered that about her. An uncompromising face to go with an uncompromising woman. She was too thin, like me. All hard angles and planes. But with her short blond curls and penetrating blue eyes, she could be beautiful if she wanted to be. Except I don’t think she wanted to be. Strength mattered more to her. To both of us.

And we made our choices accordingly.

“What does Samuel think of this?” she asked abruptly, referring to my FBI victim advocate and probably one of the only people in the world I truly trusted.

I hesitated. “He thinks a support group is a good idea. Be empowered and all that.”

“And your mom?”

“Given that she’s pretty happy with Samuel . . .”

“They’re together?” D.D. was caught off guard enough to end the staring contest. “Finally? Well, that explains a few things.”

My turn for shock. “You knew?”

D.D. shrugged. “That explains a few things,” she repeated. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure you out.”

“That makes two of us.”

Fresh eye roll. “Tell me about Roxanna Baez,” D.D. said. “Why are you here?”

“I saw the Amber Alert this morning and immediately recognized her name. She’d already been brought to my attention.”

“She’s one of your band of survivors?”

“Kind of. Roxanna Baez recently talked to one of the other members of my group. Looking for help. Not for herself, but for a friend.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I know. Oldest line in the world. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say she was probably looking for help for herself.”

“What kind of help?”

“If you’d like, you can judge that for yourself. I come bearing gifts. Transcripts. From a chat room.”

We’d halted across the street from a looming medical complex, St. Elizabeth’s. D.D. glanced at the building, then at Phil. They exchanged a look.

“We didn’t find a record on the girl’s computer that she had logged in to any chat rooms,” D.D. said.

“You won’t. This chat room doesn’t exist. At least, not anymore.” I turned to Phil, held out a sheaf of folded papers.

“And you know this how?” Phil asked sharply.

“Because I’m the chat room leader, and I’m good at making things both appear and disappear.”

D.D. nodded, clearly not surprised, and apparently already one step ahead.

“It’s time for more coffee,” she announced. “Good news, you get to join us.”

“Where?”

“Has to be a coffee shop in the med center. And as long as we’re there . . .” She and Phil exchanged that look again. I was probably in trouble. Wouldn’t be the first time.

“I get the gunslinger’s seat,” I called.

“Somehow, I never doubted you’d have it any other way.”





Chapter 10


THEY FOUND THE HOSPITAL CAFé, but even D.D. could handle only so much caffeine. She went with water, then, upon second thought, added a bagel with cream cheese. God only knew when she’d be able to eat again. Phil joined her. Flora declined all. Woman probably didn’t eat anything she didn’t prepare herself, or pass through poison control.

“You’re bleeding,” D.D. said to Flora once they were all situated. She nodded toward Flora’s hand.

The woman raised her left arm self-consciously. She had a bandage over the meaty edge of her palm. Sure enough, red notes had bloomed across the white surface. Flora shrugged, lowered her arm again.

“What’d you do?” D.D. asked.

“You know how it is. All the hand-to-hand combat training. Hard not to leave without at least one or two reminders of your time on the mat.”

D.D. nodded, though in her experience, self-defense training led to bruising, sometimes abrasions. For a wound to still be bleeding like that, it made her think of a gash. Which made her wonder just what kind of training Flora was into these days.

Phil had taken the chat room transcript. Now, he spread the pages out on the table. “No URL, IP address.” He regarded Flora skeptically. “This is beyond sanitized. For all we know, you typed this up. Script from a play.”