Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(90)

“But I told Flora”—Sarah spoke up—“Roxy was with me during this morning’s incident. It couldn’t have been her.”

D.D. ignored Sarah completely, staring at Roxy instead. The girl climbed reluctantly to her feet, went on over.

Roxy was wearing a long-sleeve thin red T-shirt with a pair of faded jeans. There was a stain on the left arm of her shirt, more dirt along her torso, as if she’d recently been crawling. Maybe scuttling around the vacant office space, or shimmying along the catwalks above the theater. Or pulling herself through a tight window to hide her comings and goings.

Her face was pale and too square, like her cheeks and chin were still sorting themselves out. Instead of jet-black hair, she’d inherited flat, dull brown locks. I remember what Anya had said—that Roxy was ugly. I thought that was harsh. But compared to her mother’s and sister’s exotic beauty, Roxy looked plain. You wouldn’t notice her in a crowded room, which, for the past twenty-four hours, had probably come in handy.

She did have pretty eyes. Hazel with deep green flecks. I wondered if she appreciated this feature, or if every time she looked in the mirror, she just saw what wasn’t there. Personally, I didn’t look in mirrors anymore. I was too intimated by the harsh gaze I found staring back at me.

D.D. opened up a plastic container that seemed to contain large plastic envelopes. She had Roxy take a seat at the table.

“When was the last time you washed your hands?” she asked the girl.

“I don’t know. This morning.”

“Shower? Plenty of soap and water?”

Roxy glanced down at her dirty clothes and smudged skin self-consciously. “I haven’t had a chance for much of anything these past twenty-four hours.”

D.D. nodded her head. “Good. The key principle behind evidence collection,” she said, unwrapping the first plastic envelope, which I could now see contained some kind of cloth, “is transference. For example, fire a gun, transfer gunshot powder onto your skin.”

“Does it matter what kind of gun?” Roxy asked curiously.

“No. The test will detect traces of nitrites common in most GSRs.”

“But time should matter, right? Hector, he was shot yesterday afternoon.”

“You know when Hector was shot?” D.D. asked evenly. She slid her left hand into the plastic envelope. When she pulled it back out, her hand was encased in some kind of plain white mitt. A sterile mitt, I realized. That’s what the plastic was all about, to protect the cloth from cross contamination prior to use.

“I saw Hector get shot. I was across the street. I wanted to make sure he got the dogs, that Blaze and Rosie were okay.”

On the floor next to Sarah’s couch, both dogs glanced up at the sound of their names, thumped their tails.

“You didn’t use them for bait?”

“My dogs?” Roxy sounded genuinely horrified.

“Did you see who shot Hector?” D.D. picked up the first of three spray bottles. She took two steps toward the kitchen sink, then, holding her gloved hand above the stainless steel, started to methodically spray down the cotton mitt with whatever substance was in the first spray bottle. She kept misting.

Roxy, Sarah, and I stared in rapt fascination.

“Hector?” D.D. prompted, saturating the glove.

“Umm . . . I didn’t see. Couldn’t see. From my window, I looked over and down at the coffee shop tables. I could see the dogs a little bit. Hector, as well. Then . . . I heard the gunshot. It startled me. I fell back from the window. By the time I regained my view, people were running and Hector was down on the ground. I didn’t know what to do. So I grabbed my pack and I ran, too.”

D.D. looked up from the sink. Her blue eyes were nearly crystalline. “Where?”

“Umm . . . I could hear sirens coming from my left. So I headed right, down the street. I found another café, ducked into the bathroom. I had a black sweatshirt in my pack. I put it on. Then I twisted my hair into a knot on the back of neck so it would look shorter, you know, from the front.”

“Good thinking,” D.D. said wryly. She glanced in my direction. “How very prepared of you.”

“I’d, um . . . I’d recently been doing some reading on the subject,” Roxy mumbled. Then, stiffening her spine: “I was still worried, though. So many police cars were pouring into the area, and of course, there was the Amber Alert, my picture flashing on every screen. So I bought a scarf from a vendor across the street. Big red flowers. The scarf reminded me of my mom. I thought she’d like it.”

Roxy’s voice caught. “Patterns distract. People see them, not you. So I, um, I wrapped the scarf around my neck. Then I started working my way toward the community theater. But it was slow going. So many cops. I kept having to duck into stores, that sort of thing. But once I made it to the theater, I collapsed. Holed up for the night.”

D.D. didn’t say anything. She returned to the table with her single mitted hand. She stared hard at Roxy, and belatedly, the girl lifted both her hands off the table.

“Ideally, this test should’ve been performed right after the alleged incident,” D.D. explained. “But nitrite residue is tougher to get off than most people think, especially under the fingernails. It’s also easy to smear onto other surfaces, such as your backpack, which you most likely grabbed right after the shooting but never thought to wash. Or other items of clothing.”