Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(52)

“Except Roxy was out walking the dogs, so Anya had to settle for taking out the rest of Roxy’s family instead.”

“Conjecture,” Phil intoned. He definitely didn’t like me. “So who shot Hector?” he pressed now. “Roxanna or Anya?”

I shrugged. “That was your interview, not mine. Maybe having seen him pick up Manny earlier, Anya assumed he was part of the family, and in her twisted mind, she wants them all dead.”

“Hector didn’t spend time with Lola and Roxanna,” Phil stated. “Nor did he visit them in the foster home. No reason to associate him with them.”

“Who knows how twisted minds think?” I deadpanned, and my voice, or maybe it was my stare, must’ve been edgier than I’d realized as Phil looked away first.

D.D. arched a brow. “Now, now,” she said.

I eased my posture.

“I don’t like Anya as Hector’s shooter,” D.D. said. “Second investigative lesson for the day: The simplest solution is generally the right one. Based on the blue thread from the backpack, we can place Roxanna near the scene of the crime. We also know that she wrote the notes specifically requesting that Hector come get the dogs. She has ties to the victim and plenty of opportunity. As for motive . . . there’s much about this family we haven’t learned yet.”

“If Roxanna is the one who shot at Hector, where’d she get the gun?” I asked. “I asked Mike Davis about it. He declined to answer but based on his demeanor . . . it’s possible he helped Roxy get a firearm. Or knows something about it.”

“I’m curious about training,” D.D. said. “Shooting from behind a tree across a crowded street . . . Helluva good shot.”

“Hector have any knowledge of the family playing with firearms?”

“No. According to him, Juanita hated handguns. End of story.”

“So if Roxanna was practicing,” I considered out loud, “it was on her own time, with a gun she’d have to have acquired illegally.”

I frowned. The questions Roxanna had asked during the group chat had made it sound as if she was relatively new to handguns. But the across-the-crowded-street ambush . . . D.D. was right: pretty fancy shooting. Again, who was this girl and where had she learned these things? Especially in a matter of weeks. Because my support group’s survival tips were good, but not that good.

“What did you think of this Mike Davis?” D.D. asked me now. “You said he’s Roxanna’s friend. Any chance he’s hiding her?”

“He still lives at the foster home, so he certainly doesn’t have her stashed there. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s helping her in some way.”

“We should get eyes on him,” D.D. said to Phil.

“Already done.”

They both stared at me.

“What?”

“We should get trained eyes on him,” D.D. said dryly.

“Again, taken care of. You have your network, I have mine. Isn’t that how this works?”

“But I don’t trust you. Or your network.”

“And yet when have I not gotten the job done?”

My voice had grown edgy again. D.D. didn’t offer a snappy retort, but neither did she look away. We were not the same. I knew that. I had my style; she had hers. But she couldn’t argue with my results. Rapists, kidnappers, murderers. I had accrued my own track record the hard way these past few years. I had a feeling Sergeant Warren was one of those cops who couldn’t sleep until she had all the answers. But I was a trauma survivor who just couldn’t sleep.

Whatever worked.

“You know that saying about just enough rope,” D.D. murmured.

I shrugged.

“Fine.” D.D. turned to Phil. “We’ll focus on tracking down this Anya and bringing her in for questioning.”

“Wait.”

“Now what?” Phil’s turn, and he didn’t sound happy.

“I think . . . respectfully . . .” Which we all knew wasn’t an easy word for me to say. “I think you two should focus on Mother Del. She runs the foster home, knows all the players involved.”

Both detectives scowled at me.

I continued, “While, um, while I take a crack at Anya.”

Phil threw his hands up. “What the hell—”

“She’s a foster kid! A product of the system. No way she’s talking to two detectives. Doesn’t matter if she’s guilty or innocent. You said it yourself: Foster kids don’t play well with authority figures. And while I’m sure you have some interrogation techniques you can roll out just for such occasions, you still won’t be able to trust anything she tells you.”

“Whereas you . . . ?” D.D. prodded angrily.

“I’m Flora Dane. I rescued a college student—”

D.D. snapped: “Then I saved both your asses.”

“I burned a rapist alive. Which, in certain circles, is not as frowned on as you might think. I’m a survivor. That makes me more Anya’s people than you are.”

D.D. muttered something under her breath. Stared at Phil. Grimaced again. But I knew I had them. Because I was right. A teenager from foster care? A kid who was a product of the system? Anya was by definition more like me than like them. And if she was a murderer as well . . . that still didn’t make us so different.