Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(98)

“You think Lola Baez arranged for Roberto’s suicide? And, what, the girlfriend took out the entire family in revenge?” Captain Wallace already sounded skeptical. D.D. couldn’t blame him. Especially given that Anya apparently had an alibi for the entire day.

“I think I have questions,” D.D. said at last. “I’d like more information. About Roberto’s death. About everything, for that matter. Maybe Roberto was on a bender. Or maybe someone got him drunk, which then made it easier to manipulate him into shooting himself. Or even waited till he passed out, then moved the handgun into position, wrapped Roberto’s fingers around the handle, and pulled the trigger. Stranger things have happened. Got a list of people who were in the theater that day?”

“Yep. Check the file. But I can tell you now, Lola Baez’s name isn’t on that list. On the other hand, the building has multiple entrances and exits, with cast and crew coming and going all afternoon. Truthfully, if you did want to shoot a guy, the community theater building is the place to do it. From what I could tell, no one pays much attention to anything other than their own little piece of the puzzle. Lots of activity. Very little accountability.”

D.D. nodded. Sounded like the perfect place to get away with murder to her. Again, if only they had some kind of proof. She rose to standing. “Thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch.”

The captain and detective stood. “Hey, any news on Roxanna Baez?” Captain Wallace asked. “If what you’re saying is true and her family was targeted, she could still be in danger.”

D.D. smiled. She hadn’t yet canceled the Amber Alert for exactly this reason—she didn’t want to give away any information on Roxanna’s location one way or another. Plus, with a mysterious shooter still running around taking potshots, she wanted all the police presence in Brighton she could get.

“Trust me,” she said. “That’s what I’m worried about next.”





Chapter 34


ROXY COLLAPSED ON SARAH’S SOFA the moment D. D. Warren left and was asleep in a matter of minutes. The stress of the past twenty-four hours, the toll of life on the run. Rest was what she needed most, and I was happy she had the sense to recharge. Sometimes, after living in an elevated state, constantly looking over your shoulder, it was hard to come back down. Hence my own chronic insomnia.

Now Sarah and I hovered near the door, talking in low whispers, while the dogs sat patiently at our feet.

“Do you think she’ll be all right?” Sarah was asking.

I shrugged. “As okay as any of us.”

“I don’t think she killed her family. Or shot at anyone,” Sarah said fiercely. She had a loyal streak. It was one of the many things I liked about her.

“I think the police might be starting to see things that way, too.”

“But that means someone is after her . . .” Sarah’s voice drifted off. I understood her unasked question.

“Tell me about the community theater. Was anyone in the building when you went looking for Roxy?”

“No. Too early on a Sunday morning. Place was quiet. I conducted basic recon, like you said. Local businesses weren’t even open yet.”

“Front door, back door?”

“Front door. It’s a community theater, right? Sneaking in the back would look suspicious. Whereas someone walking through the front . . .”

Sarah was my star pupil. Basic trick for breaking into any building: Don’t look like you’re breaking in. Wear normal clothes. Stroll through the front door. Neighbors will think you’re a guest. And if someone does call the cops, you can always pretend to be confused. Oh, this isn’t so-and-so’s house, business, kidnapping hideout? My bad.

“Was the front door unlocked?” I asked.

“The outside door, yes. But it opens to a small foyer with a locked inner door. I’m not as fast as you yet, but I got it.”

I nodded. This foyer setup was common in Boston. The outer door often was unlatched, allowing visitors, tenants to get out of the cold before finding their key for the real door. It also helped create an air block to preserve heat in the main building during the winter.

“So you were out of sight while you picked the lock?”

Sarah nodded.

“So far, so good. Where was Roxy?”

“I searched through the building first. Big performance space in the middle. Tons of little rooms all around. It’s a little bewildering. But once I determined the place was empty, I started whispering Roxy’s name. I figured once she knew it was me, she’d appear.”

“And did she?”

“She was up in a storage attic. Had made a nest behind some boxes. Pretty smart. I could’ve walked around forever without seeing her. Especially in an attic. Once I explained we could help her . . . She trusts me, Flora.”

Sarah looked at the sleeping form on the couch. I got her real fear then. Not that the mystery shooter would magically appear at Sarah’s apartment gunning for Sarah, but that Sarah would fail to protect Roxy. Because we’d all failed once. That’s how we became victims. And trying to find the strength to believe we wouldn’t fail a second time was often the most difficult part of being a survivor.

“I’m assuming you paid attention exiting the theater?” I prodded gently.

“We went out the back. Roxy knew an exit that dumped us onto a rear alley. So anyone who might be watching the front . . .”