Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(53)

“How are you going to find her?” D.D. asked.

“Found Mike Davis, didn’t I? And the guidance counselor from Roxanna’s high school. You have your network, I have mine.”

D.D. appeared less frowny but still troubled. “How far are you going to take this?” she asked abruptly.

“I don’t know.”

“If you find Anya, if you decide she did shoot and kill four people today . . . ?”

“Will I burn her alive?” I asked bluntly.

“Or subject her to some other form of your ‘justice’?”

“I don’t actually like hurting people,” I said, but I couldn’t tell if D.D. believed me or not. “I’ll get her story,” I stated at last. “I’ll report back to you. Just as I did after talking to Mike Davis.”

“Who you now apparently have someone following.”

“If he meets up with Roxy, wouldn’t you like to know? And if Anya looks good as the shooter, wouldn’t you want eyes on her, as well?”

“I don’t trust you,” D.D. said again. Phil muttered something under his breath that was no doubt agreement. “You’re too hard,” D.D. continued. “Too angry. Makes you unpredictable.”

“Funny comment coming from you.”

“Yeah? Gonna tell me about the bandage on your hand? And why it keeps showing fresh blood?”

“I injured myself. All right?”

“No. No, it’s not. Because that’s the truth, but not the whole truth. Which is a problem when someone like you is talking to someone like me.”

I glared at her, my left hand now tucked self-consciously behind me.

“I’m getting a dog today,” D.D. said abruptly, which threw me for a loop while earning a startled glance from Phil. “My husband and son are looking for the lucky pooch right now. Which means I have three good reasons to go home tonight: Husband. Child. Dog. What about you, Flora? What incentive do you have to do right?”

It was a good question. One I hadn’t thought of for a long time. I should say my mother, who loved me very much. Sacrificed. Endured. Baked. Or there was Samuel, my FBI victim advocate, who’d taken dozens of my middle-of-the-night calls over the years. There was also my brother, somewhere overseas, who I knew still loved me. Or maybe my group, my new little band of misfits, who looked up to me.

I had a life. I wasn’t sure exactly when or how it had happened, but I had a life. Which I guess went to prove I hadn’t lied to Sarah when I first showed up on her doorstep. You could survive something horrific and still learn how to live again.

“I’ll report back,” I said at last.

D.D. continued with her stare. Then, when I didn’t blink: “Be careful.”

“Always.”

I sauntered off. In search of a killer, and as happy as a girl like me was ever gonna get.





Chapter 20


D.D. HAD A TEXT FROM HOME. With a photo. She desperately wanted to unlock her screen and view it. Photo of Dog? Photo of Alex and Jack with Dog? Photo of anything at all from home? Because she could use a slice of family right now. A moment to remember the good things in life.

But first things first. She got on the phone with Neil. She and Phil liked to tease Boston’s youngest detective about his bright red hair and perpetually youthful features, calling him the Richie Cunningham of homicide detectives. In truth, Neil had matured nicely over the past few years. With the addition of Carol Manley to the squad, he was no longer the rookie, and had taken the lead on more investigative angles. If D.D. felt like a proud mama, then Phil was a positively beaming papa.

“Any more major findings from the Boyd-Baez residence?” D.D. asked Neil now.

“Nothing that stands out.”

“Interviews with the neighbors?”

“Everyone agrees that they seemed like a normal family. No loud arguments, parties. No strangers coming and going at odd hours. Sounds like Juanita was a good cook, while Charlie was known to help with small fix-it jobs around the neighborhood. Everyone liked them, though no one seems to have known them that well. Juanita and the kids only moved in during the past year.”

“Anyone see the shooter walk into the home shortly before nine A.M.?”

“No.”

“What about images from security cameras on the street behind the Boyd-Baez place? We know the shooter jumped the fence. He or she disabled the video cameras on that building, but surely there are some other systems on the block.”

“And yet . . . no.”

“Really? This is a densely populated area. Whatever happened to Big Brother’s always watching?” D.D. asked crankily.

“Not on that block,” Neil informed her. “I’ve been digging into the family finances. So far, it all appears pretty straightforward. Monthly paychecks in, monthly expenses out. No major deposits or withdrawals. Limited credit card activity. They weren’t living high on the hog, but they were getting by.”

“What about cash transactions? Anything that might indicate illegal activities, drugs?”

“Charlie’s contracting seems to be a mix of working as a sub on bigger jobs, with some smaller, independent projects on the side. For many of those he probably was paid in cash. But again, no unexplained deposits or high-end purchases—say, jewelry, electronics, designer shoes—favored by drug lords to launder their profits. And we didn’t find a safe in the house or hidey-hole under the bed. Not even a wad of bills in the freezer.”