Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(28)

We want to generalize our experiences. Being kidnapped and held captive, that was bad. Being safely home, that is good. But the truth is, any situation contains both highs and lows. Jacob and I used to play the license plate game in his big rig driving across the interstate. That was good. I woke up screaming in my own home. That was bad. You can’t separate it all out.

I had a rape survivor tell me she thought of her post-trauma emotions as being like old European plumbing. On one side of the sink is a faucet for cold. On the other side is the faucet for hot. You can turn both on, but the streams don’t mix. They’re forever separate, two halves to one plumbing whole.

I liked that analogy. I had a spout for all my trauma emotions and a spout for my real life. They existed side by side but didn’t mix. And some days, I poured more out of one faucet than the other. And some days, I went back and forth—strung out and sleep deprived, yet breaking out into spontaneous laughter at something I saw on TV. One faucet on, the other suddenly kicking in. Just like there are times you can be happy, having a good day, and yet there’s still a shadow around your vision, a creeping sense that this can’t last, the worst is yet to come.

I didn’t cook under stress. I didn’t clean. I’d tried meditation and mindfulness and a bunch of other stuff to calm my squirrel brain and give me at least a minute or two where I wasn’t assessing the latest possible threat and revving up with fresh suspicion.

But I wasn’t good at any of that.

I liked to fight. I liked to run. And I liked to read. Hours and hours of studying other cases, reviewing other missing persons reports. If I examined each case closely enough, maybe I could be the one to find the key to the puzzle that brings that person home again.

It was how I first got involved with the missing Boston College student. And it was why I became more and more interested in Roxanna Baez.

My mother bakes to feel in control.

Me, I’m still trying to save the world.

So I met with Sergeant Warren and the Phil guy. I told them what I knew about Roxy Baez. And then, after they politely but firmly dismissed me from the investigation, I did what I do best.

I went hunting.

? ? ?

I DIDN’T HAVE A COP’S authority to ask questions of potential witnesses or suspects. But I did have a survivor’s network of contacts and a comfort with lying.

Which brought me to the doorstep of Tricia Lobdell Cass, guidance counselor at Brighton High School, shortly after one on Saturday. She answered at my first knock, cracking the door wide enough to expose one leg and a shoulder. The half welcome someone gives a nonthreatening but unknown person standing on her front porch. I wondered what people dreaded more, uniformed officers or door-to-door salespeople?

“My name is Florence,” I said, as the name Flora Dane was well-known in Boston. “I’m a friend of the Baez family. A neighbor. I was hoping you could help me with the dogs.”

The guidance counselor’s eyes widened at the name Baez. Clearly she’d heard the news. But my follow-up inquiry about the dogs had thrown her for a loop. Which was what I’d hoped. I didn’t know if guidance counselors had doctor-patient confidentiality with their students, but I figured at the very least they’d feel an obligation to protect a kid’s privacy. So I wasn’t asking about Roxanna. Why go straight for the no when you can work sideways into a maybe?

“I’m not sure I understand,” she began.

“The police have found the family’s dogs. Rosie and Blaze? Sweetest dogs in the world. I’m sure you’ve heard Roxanna talk about them?”

“Yes.”

“They can’t exactly go home right now.”

“Oh, well, of course not.”

“And we feel it would be awful if they ended up with animal control. Locked up in a strange kennel, sleeping on a concrete floor, abandoned.”

“Oh . . .”

“So I volunteered to see if I could find someone who could take both dogs. A neighbor mentioned your name as the guidance counselor at the high school. I thought you’d know some of Roxy’s friends. Maybe one of them might be willing to take the dogs for a bit?”

“Um, okay. I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I can try.”

The woman opened the door. And I walked in. Just like that.

I wondered if this was how Jacob felt every time a new victim granted him entrance.

Tricia Lobdell Cass lived in the lower level of a triple-decker. Bay windows, crown molding, worn wood floors. She had a flair for potted plants, ivy and jade and ferns grouped in front of windows, on top of tables. The sitting room also held piles of books and a broken-down blue sofa covered in orange, red, and hot-pink pillows.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, this time telling the truth.

Tricia walked over to the sofa. She indicated that I could take a seat but remained standing herself. She seemed anxious, like she wasn’t sure what to do. First time dealing with a missing student, I figured. Or something else?

“Water?” she asked belatedly.

“No, thank you.”

Since she remained standing, I did the same.

“Um, any word on Roxy?” she asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“And the dogs?”

“They were left tied up outside a coffee shop. Both appear perfectly fine.”