Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(38)

Where there was a smiling picture of a beautiful brunette with a crisp blue suit and a fat string of pearls. My name is Sandra Johnson, and I’m here to sell you a brand-new future! the poster proclaimed. Below the photo, the Realtor’s cell phone number had been written in with a thick black marker.

“Sure you don’t want to go vigilante?” Flora asked.

“Gee, I feel so honored. Now stand back. I’m the one with the shield and the gun. I go first. If all else fails . . .”

“I have powdered coffee creamer and I know how to use it.”

“What?”

“Look it up sometime.”

“God help me,” D.D. muttered, then pushed open the door and eased into the dusty room.

She paused first. In an area with limited visibility, it was always smart to use your other senses. What did she hear? The nervous breath of an intruder on the other side of the blue fabric divider? Creak of a floorboard as the person stepped back? Click of a hammer as an anxious teenager cocked her weapon?

Nothing. The faint whir of traffic noise from the street outside. That was it.

Smell? Dust. Disuse. A space that been empty for a while. Had to be incredibly expensive, this amount of commercial real estate in Brighton. Meaning it would take the right company with the right plan to finally put it under agreement. And until then . . . great hangout for a kid on the run, where she could remain tucked behind the dividers, out of sight of anyone coming up the stairs, while hunkering low enough not to be spotted from the street.

Chances were, the girl was long gone. If she had been here, waiting for Hector’s return and her opportunity to ambush him, then mission accomplished. She’d fled up the street, and this was all old news.

Some small prey, once flushed from their burrows, kept on running. Others instinctively doubled back and went to ground. More often than not, it was those rabbits that lived to see another day.

Meaning it was possible Roxanna had returned here, back to her safe place, which is why they couldn’t find any trace of her on the street. And even now, she was hunkered down in one of the empty cubicles. Backpack at her feet.

Gun held tight to her chest?

The door leading into the abandoned office space didn’t sit directly in the middle, but closer to the right-hand corner. D.D. turned in that direction now, wanting to be able to get around the long blue cubicle wall as quickly as possible and peer into the other half of the room. She kept her footsteps light.

Flora remained in the doorway, ostensibly out of harm’s way. Or maybe simply positioned to grab Roxanna if she attempted to escape. D.D. still wasn’t certain of Flora’s loyalties in all of this. But if Roxy had truly killed her own family, including her two younger siblings, God save her from Flora’s wrath as much as from D.D.’s quest for justice.

The air grew dustier now that she was moving. D.D. wrinkled her nose, fought the sneeze. With her left hand, she unsnapped her hip holster, slowly slid out her firearm. During the brutally cold days of winter, she could still feel the ache in her left shoulder, ghosts of the avulsion fracture she’d suffered two years ago. Given her own choice, she preferred to fire her weapon with a single-arm stance—her right arm. But with regular PT and time, she could now achieve the two-handed Weaver stance required to clear her physical and return to full duty. And on a warm day such as today, her left arm rotated smoothly, bringing her Glock 10 up out of her holster and into the ready position without undue effort.

She neared the end of the long cubicle system. Eased back on her footsteps. Slowed her breathing.

In.

Out.

Crouch low.

She stepped around the cubicle wall. The sun poured in through the bank of street-side windows, illuminating a clean, empty space. Fast now, boom, boom, boom, no time to think, she kept low and raced down the line of boxed spaces. Nothing, nothing, nothing.

And then: Water bottle. Empty, crumpled, sitting in the middle of an abandoned office cube. And footprints. Faint, but there. Oval spots in the thin film of dust coating the floor. She peered closer. In the stream of sunlight, she made out a thread. Light blue, heavy-duty, the kind of thing that might unravel and fall from a fraying backpack.

D.D. finished her inspection, then returned to the middle cubicle as Flora entered the office space.

“Got anything?” Flora asked.

“Empty water bottle. Single blue thread.”

“Not exactly a smoking gun.”

“No, but signs that someone was camping out here. My money’s on Roxanna Baez.” D.D. raised her gaze, studied Flora. The woman had walked around the divider unit and was looking at the crumpled water bottle on the floor. Then she turned and considered the view out the window directly across from it.

“From here, she could see the dogs,” Flora confirmed. “Not the best view, as it’s partially obscured by tree branches and umbrella stands. But . . . it would do. She could hide out, keep watch. Minute Hector appears, she darts back down the stairs to the open street and makes her move.”

“You tell her about this place?” D.D. asked evenly.

“Me?” Flora sounded genuinely surprised. She reached reflexively for the bandage on her left hand, which D.D. noticed had fresh pinpricks of blood. “This isn’t my neck of the woods. First time I’ve been to that coffee shop, building, everything.”

“What about someone else from your group?”