Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(79)

I returned my attention to the map. What had Sarah mentioned yesterday? She’d parted ways with Mike Davis when he’d started his work shift at Starbucks. If I were Roxy, I thought, I’d certainly think about swinging by my best friend’s job for snacks. An inconspicuous way to touch base, maybe get some quick intel, while also safely refueling. I marked the location of Mike’s job on the map, an X nearly midway between Mother Del’s and the high school. In other words, a neighborhood that would be well-known to Roxy.

Other considerations for a teenage girl on the run? Change of appearance, or some kind of disguise. Given the Amber Alert, Roxy’s picture was literally everywhere. If she truly wanted to stay hidden, she’d need to take some basic steps. Scissors to cut her hair. Maybe hair dye, which would also require access to a bathroom. A wig? A hat? Sunglasses?

Again, twenty-four hours later, not a single patrol officer had spotted her. Frankly, I wanted to find her simply to ask her how. Because right now, she was my star student and we’d only swapped a few posts on the group message board.

Which brought me to something else. A niggling idea . . .

I loaded up Sarah’s virtual memorial for the Boyd-Baez family. Overnight, it had taken on a life of its own. So many posts, a good number in Spanish. Family friends? Members of Lola’s gang? Their rivals?

I started to pay attention to location, which many posts automatically revealed, depending on the user’s privacy settings. Then I studied the ones that didn’t. No way Roxy was using her cell phone. Police would’ve found her via the GPS locator the moment she turned it on. But it was possible she had a burner phone. Again, another recommended item in a bugout bag. And being that savvy, she would’ve adjusted all the settings to hide her location.

But IP addresses, which were linked to all online activity, included some information that couldn’t be disguised. Basically, they functioned like a return address on an envelope, except the data included the internet access point used by the computing device to connect. Hence, spammers sent their e-mails pinging around the globe before arriving at the final location as a way to bury the original IP address under layers and layers of other network data. But the original was always there for the savvy geek to find.

In this case, I doubted Roxy had the time, energy, or expertise to disguise her digital trail. Meaning that Sarah’s thought to identify repeat visits to the memorial page from public IP addresses was a great idea. In particular, I looked for visitors that didn’t post but just viewed the page again and again.

I found dozens. Next, I plugged in the IP addresses and narrowed my list to online portals in Brighton. Following up on those locations, I found myself staring at an address I knew I knew.

The café last night, Monet’s. The one with the cute waiter, where Anya had been eating with her theater friends. Someone had used their Wi-Fi connection to visit the virtual memorial. Many times. Including after D. D. Warren and I had run down Anya and grilled her on her relationship with Roxy.

I stared at the map. Mother Del’s, the high school, Monet’s, the Boyd-Baez residence, Mike Davis’s job.

Then I simply knew.

Hide in plain sight.

Roxy Baez was brilliant.

Sarah had woken up. She now padded across the small space, stood behind me.

“Are you still going to try to talk to the gangbangers today?” she asked me.

“Absolutely.”

“How?”

“I’m going to make them an offer they can’t refuse: Roxy Baez.”

She stared at me.

“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I have a job for you, as well.”

? ? ?

WHAT DO YOU BRING TO meet with a bunch of female gang members best known for their love of knives? I debated the matter. A thin blade of my own? Sharpened chopsticks in my hair? My favorite lock picks?

I didn’t do guns. Which was just as well, given Massachusetts’s tough firearms laws. So, best defense against a group of knife-wielding assailants? I was partial to a broom handle. Some kind of long stick. To do their dirty work, knife attackers had to get in close. Meaning something that extended your reach, kept them at bay, came in handy.

I thought it might be a bit too conspicuous, however, to show up with a hiking stick. Las Ni?as Diablas might take that personally, and given that numbers wouldn’t be on my side, I didn’t want to start the conversation by pissing anyone off. In the end, I chose a long scarf. Something that appeared fashionable, but could also be used to whip around someone’s neck or tangle up knife-wielding hands.

Then, I did something more questionable. I called up the guidance counselor, Ms. Lobdell Cass, and asked if I could take Roxy’s dogs for a walk. If these girls had really known Lola, then they’d probably met her dogs, Blaze and Rosie. And while they might not think twice about attacking a female opponent, I was betting they weren’t hardened enough to harm two elderly spaniels.

Jacob wouldn’t have cared. He hated animals. Except for the gators, of course, which he promised to feed my body to on a weekly basis.

And that was the difference, I told myself, as I stopped by Tricia Lobdell Cass’s house. Jacob was true evil. Compared to him, Las Ni?as Diablas were simply a bunch of girls playing badass.

Tricia answered the door after the first knock. I walked into her cheerful, plant-happy, blue-sofa space. Blaze and Rosie heaved to their feet, sniffed my hand, wagged their tails.