Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(65)

On the other side of the street, I kept my head up, walking even slightly faster now, as if intent on my destination. I didn’t have to see Anya. One of the first tricks of recon is to utilize all your senses. I could hear her footsteps, the rhythmic clicking of black boots against the sidewalk. As long as the beat stayed steady, so did my own pace. Another block, two, three, where I remained to the side and just slightly ahead.

Then she slowed. My pulse jumped. It took everything I had not to pause, glance over. Instead, I conducted a quick mental review of the buildings we’d just passed.

A squat residential had been to the right. Front porch light on. Chain link, some toys in the yard. A dilapidated day care had been my initial impression.

Or a foster home with young kids.

I disappeared around the corner just as I heard the creak of the gate swinging open behind me. Anya, entering the yard of the run-down house.

Patience. I’d like to say I learned it during training in the months after my recovery. But in truth, Jacob had always been a master of perseverance. The women he stalked, waiting for just the right one. The way, according to him, he’d spent hours on that Florida beach until I’d come dancing drunkenly into his line of sight. And he’d known—he’d simply known, he told me later—that I was the one for him.

A predator’s true love.

I thought again of the cute waiter in the café. The normal people, relationships that would never be mine. And once again I fiddled with the bandage.

I’d just turned back toward the house where Anya had disappeared into the yard when I heard a shout, followed by pounding footsteps.

Anya reemerged under the streetlights. Flying past the chain link, heading straight up the street as fast as her patent leather boots would take her. Hot on her heels emerged Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren.

I smiled. All dark thoughts forgotten as I stepped out of the shadows.

“Hey, Anya,” I shouted from the opposite corner. “Can I have your autograph?”

The startled girl turned.

And my smile grew even larger as D.D. took her down.

This CI business was getting to be fun after all.

? ? ?

ANYA WAS SHRIEKING AS D.D. dragged her to her feet. “Get your hands off of me! Let go! How dare you—”

“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren, Boston PD. Now shut up.”

If anything, Anya increased her howling. I crossed the street as Phil came jogging up the sidewalk and several porch lights came on. The neighbors, about to enjoy a show.

“We have questions concerning Lola and Roxanna Baez—”

“What did they lie about this time?”

“You been at the theater all day?” I asked Anya. D.D. still had a grip on the girl’s arm.

“Of course. Thursday night is dress rehearsal. This is it.”

I exchanged a look with Phil and D.D. In other words, Anya hadn’t seen the news.

“You’re a pretty serious actress,” I said.

She arched a brow. “Doug—our director—he used to work on Broadway. He says he can get me auditions, arrange for me to sign with a major talent agency. This play is it for me. Next month, I turn eighteen. Then New York, here I come. This time next year, I’ll be the newest Broadway star.”

“Wow,” D.D. said, “Lola must’ve been really jealous.”

“Oh, please, she was the lead like five years ago, and it didn’t last. Not once Doug saw me.”

“What brought you to the theater?” D.D. asked.

Anya flushed, hesitated. She was no longer struggling, but standing stiffly, her chin up. “We heard about the play from Lola and Roxy, of course.”

“‘We’?” I interjected.

She shot me a look. My blue windbreaker and baseball cap seemed to throw her. Was I a cop? Not a cop? Undercover cop?

“Roberto. My boyfriend. He believed in me. When he first overheard Roxy and Lola talking about the local production of Oliver Twist, he said I should audition. I mean, Lola has her talents . . . but I’m better.”

“You and Roberto joined the community theater,” D.D. repeated. “You took over the lead role—”

“Doug saw my potential right away. I was too old for the part of Oliver, of course, so Lola got to keep it. But the very next play, Doug built it all around me.” The girl visibly preened.

“And Roberto?” D.D. asked.

“He became the stage manager. Kept his eye on things.”

“What about Roxy?”

“Roxy?” Anya arched a brow. “Roxy’s ugly,” she said flatly, as if this should be obvious. “She worked set design. Out of sight.”

“That was five years ago,” D.D. stated. “When Roxy and Lola were living with you and Roberto at Mother Del’s. We hear Roberto wasn’t always so nice to the new kids at Mother Del’s.”

“Lies! It’s Lola and Roxy you should be questioning. You know, Roxy could’ve slept in my room, the larger room. But no, she opted to wedge into the nursery with crying babies just to stay with her sister. Night after night, always whispering. Then they started poisoning our food!”

“Poisoning your food?” I couldn’t resist.

“Yes. We’d eat dinner, then be sick for the rest of the night. Or they’d lace our food with other kinds of drugs, where we’d fall dead asleep and barely be able to move the next day. I caught Roxy one day. She was grinding up some kind of pill—Advil PM, Roberto got her to confess later—and stirring it into the spaghetti sauce.”