by Lisa Gardner
“What about the kids?” Phil changed gears. “Roxanna’s sixteen, right? Not easy to have a teenage daughter.”
“Roxy? Hell, I’d adopt her. Organized, responsible. That girl is sixteen going on sixty, and Juanita knew it. Of all the things . . . I think Juanita regretted the toll her drinking took on Roxy most of all. After Hector left, during the dark days, as Juanita called them, Roxy took over care of her younger siblings. She fed them, did the laundry, got them off to school. If anything, Juanita was trying to figure out how to get Roxy to relax a little. Especially with Charlie around, Roxy could go back to the business of being a kid. But I don’t know if you can rewind the clock like that.”
“What about other family? His, hers?”
“As for Charlie, I don’t know. Juanita has a sister, Nina, with four kids. But they live in Philadelphia. When Juanita hit bottom and the state took her kids away, they were sent to foster homes because Juanita’s family was ruled as living too far away. Plus, I can imagine, having four kids of her own, Nina wasn’t crazy about taking in three more.”
“So, locally speaking . . .”
“I only hear about her, Charlie, and the kids. Oh, and Rosie and Blaze, of course.”
“Is Roxanna intense?” Phil interjected. “Maybe puts a lot of pressure on herself? We’ve heard she hasn’t been sleeping.”
Nancy paused, seemed to consider the question. She took another sip of coffee.
“Juanita’s been asking some questions,” she said at last.
“Some questions?” Phil asked, exchanging a look with D.D.
“It started with Lola, the younger daughter. She’s always been a handful—rebellious, unfocused, impulsive. Not to mention hanging out with the wrong crowd. But in September there was an incident. She was in trouble with a male teacher for not turning in her homework. He was lecturing her on how bad her grade would be, this was no way to start off the school year, et cetera. Apparently, Lola responded with some suggestions for how she could improve her grade. Some very explicit suggestions . . .” Nancy looked at them. “There were other kids in the classroom at the time, all of them, who then watched Lola reach down and . . . touch the teacher in places she shouldn’t have been touching.”
D.D. blinked her eyes. Beside her, Phil had gone wide-eyed, but he spoke first. “This September? Lola’s thirteen? We’re talking eighth grade?”
Nancy sighed heavily. “The principal told Juanita this wasn’t the first time Lola had come off as inappropriate—last year there had been some red flags, but nothing this serious. The principal was concerned that the behavior had started about the time Juanita had moved in with Charlie.”
“The principal thought Lola was being abused by Charlie,” D.D. stated.
“Juanita swore it wasn’t Charlie. In her opinion, Lola’s behavior had started before Charlie was ever in the picture. She thought something had happened while the girls were in foster care. Roxy and Lola were placed together. Lola won’t talk about those days. And even Roxy doesn’t say much. But according to her, Lola’s been different ever since Juanita got her back.”
“So Juanita’s been investigating the girls’ foster care placement?”
“She’s been digging around. A few weeks ago, we had a patient in the ER who’d sliced his palm open cutting his bagel—you’d never believe how many of those we see between six and seven A.M. Trust me, you’re better off with donuts. But this guy turned out to be a lawyer. He and Juanita got to talking. He said he’d be interested in helping her.”
“What kind of lawyer?” Phil asked.
“Litigation, I guess. But he was telling Juanita if she could prove the state failed to protect her kids after taking them away . . .” Nancy shrugged. “Sounded like serious money. You know, suing-for-millions-of-dollars-in-damages kind of money.”
“If Juanita could prove her case,” D.D. said slowly. “Could she? According to you, neither girl was talking.”
Another shrug. “Like I said, Juanita was asking questions. And not just because of the money. Something was wrong with Lola. The girl had become wild. She and Juanita fought nonstop, like every night. It’d been taking a toll.”
“Lola’s been acting out.” Phil turned to D.D. “Roxy’s BFF. Her sister?”
“Possible. Though why not simply ask for advice for her younger sister from the group of survivors?”
“To protect her younger sister’s privacy. Especially if it involves sexual abuse.”
Slowly, D.D. nodded. She could see Phil’s point. Not to mention a girl with Roxy’s alleged sense of responsibility might already feel guilt-stricken that her sister had been assaulted while they were together in foster care. Another reason to seek help while still trying to guard her sister’s secrets.
“Name of the lawyer?” Phil was asking.
“I don’t know.” Nancy frowned. “Hang on, Juanita’s locker’s over here. She might have a business card.”
She got up, moved over to the bank of gray-painted lockers. A bit of fiddling and she had it open. D.D. and Phil didn’t say a word. It was nice of the nurse to do their job for them.
From what D.D. could see, the locker held a stack of clean scrubs, a cardigan for layering, and several plastic water bottles. The inside of the door was plastered with photos—the kids, Juanita and the kids, Charlie and the two dogs. Happy family moments frozen in time.
By all accounts, Juanita Baez had reinvented herself in the past few years. Sobered up, cleaned up, anted up to get her children back. Good job, stable guy, decent home. D.D. knew the kind of requirements the court placed on addicts to get their kids back. Success stories were few and far between.
But Juanita Baez had done it. Only to realize that that one-year gap had cost her children more than she realized?
“Here it is.” Nancy had found the card taped to the door near the bottom. “Daniel Meekham.”
“Did Roxy know her mother was speaking with a lawyer?” D.D. asked.
“I don’t know how much Juanita shared with them. Juanita was angry. But she also blamed herself. If she hadn’t been drinking so hard . . .”
“Did she believe Roxy was abused, as well?” Phil spoke up.
Nancy shrugged. “Roxy doesn’t act out the way Lola does. Not to mention, Lola’s a looker. And Roxy’s, well, Roxy. Good girl, smart, but not gonna stop traffic, if you know what I mean. Then again, does that matter when it comes to abuse? I don’t know. I think what Juanita had mostly at this point was a lot of questions. And two girls who still didn’t trust her with the answers. Sad but true.”
D.D. nodded. “Do you think Roxy would’ve harmed her own family?”
“No.” Definite statement. Not an ounce of doubt.
“What about Hector Alvalos?” Phil asked.
“Manny’s dad?” Nancy sounded surprised. “I . . . I don’t know. Juanita and Hector have had their ups and downs. But with both of them sober . . . To be honest, Juanita doesn’t talk about him much. Other than mentioning Hector picking up Manny or dropping him off on Sundays. I assumed that meant all is well on that front.”
“And Roxy’s and Lola’s fathers?” D.D. asked. “Doesn’t Juanita ever talk about them?”
“Never.”
“No chance they’ve recently reentered the picture?”
“At three A.M., something that big would’ve come up.”
“She know their names?” Phil pushed.
“Two different guys, that much I know. Clearly Roxy’s dad was white. I mean, her hair’s brown, her eyes a greenish hazel.”
D.D. nodded. They just had the family photos for reference. Lola Baez had the same exotic beauty as her mother, with jet-black hair, dark eyes, dusky skin, delicate bone structure. Roxanna, however, stood apart—her hair more brown than black, her skin paler, her features larger, more awkward. She was hardly an ugly duckling, but standing between her mother and
younger sister, she probably felt like one.
“Juanita in her younger days,” Nancy Corbin was saying now. “Let’s just say half her battles with Lola are due to the fact they’re too alike.”
“She’s never reached out to the girls’ possible fathers,” D.D. filled in for her. “Maybe she’s not even sure of their names.”
“Haven’t you ever been young and stupid?”
“Not quite that stupid.” D.D. paused, waited to see if the woman had anything more to add. Then, when Nancy remained quiet: “All right. If you think of anything else”—D.D. held out her card—“please give us a call.”
“Sure.” The nurse hesitated. “You really don’t know where Roxy is?”
“No.”
“Someone could’ve taken her?”
“We are pursuing all leads.”
“She’s a good girl. Whatever happened . . . She doesn’t deserve this. She already had her family ripped apart once. It doesn’t seem right for her to have to go through it again.”
D.D. and Phil shook the nurse’s hand. They left her to return to her shift while they returned to their work.
They’d just made it back to the lobby, D.D. turning over this newest information in her mind, trying to identify the next logical step, when Phil’s phone rang. He glanced at the screen. “Neil,” he said, referring to his squad mate, whom they’d left behind at the crime scene, working with Detective Manley.
They both stopped walking as he answered it. In the way these things worked, Neil did all the talking. Phil nodded. His eyes widened.
“Coming.” He ended the call, returning the phone to his pocket, before announcing to D.D.: “There’s been another shooting—Hector Alvalos.”
D.D.’s mouth fell open.
“And get this, a girl matching Roxy Baez’s description was spotted running from the area.”
Chapter 14
I LEFT TRICIA LOBDELL CASS’S house and walked around aimlessly, trying to think big thoughts. Who was Roxy Baez? Responsible student, caring sister, walker of dogs. Maybe she’d lied to our group about having a friend in need. Did I still believe she needed help? For herself? Her sister?
And given all that had happened, where would she go now? What would she do?
I hadn’t lied to Sergeant Warren earlier. On the support group’s discussion board, I recommended fleeing to a public location if one felt in fear of one’s life. Someplace with a lot of witnesses and cameras.
But in Roxy’s case, that would’ve brought her to immediate police attention. According to the latest news bulletins, at least, the search remained active. The cops had found the dogs, but not the girl. How? How could a teenager disappear so completely?
I would put my money on a friend. Had to be. Maybe this Mike Davis? But someone she trusted, and who trusted her enough to hide her given the circumstances. Which would make that person a coconspirator.
I kept checking my phone compulsively, hoping Roxy’s guidance counselor had made contact with Mike Davis, that he would call any second and have all the answers to my questions.
When my phone actually buzzed, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I answered it quickly. But it wasn’t some kid named Mike Davis. It was Sarah, from our survivors group.
And the news she had was even more shocking.
• • •
THE COFFEE SHOP WHERE I’D met Sergeant Warren and Detective Phil was now roped off with ribbons of yellow crime scene tape. D.D. and Phil were kneeling down next to the tree where the dogs had been tied up. Both dogs were now gone. And there were bright red stains marring the sidewalk.
Not the dogs, thank heavens, who remained uninjured, but Hector Alvalos, who’d arrived to pick them up.
I didn’t try to duck under the crime scene tape. In my experience, D.D. already had an instinct for these things. Sure enough . . .
“What the hell? Seriously, you again?”
She stared at me hard. I didn’t flinch.
“I have information,” I said.
“Be still my beating heart.”
I didn’t take the bait. I was used to her sarcasm by now. We all had our reasons for being hard. I knew mine. I always figured D.D. had her own story to tell.
A few minutes passed. She conferred with Phil, their voices too low for me to catch. Then finally, reluctantly, she rose to standing and crossed over to where I stood.
“Hector Alvalos?” I asked.
“How do you know that?”
“Everyone talks. Not to mention, you ever want the inside scoop on a news story, tip the cameraman. No one ever pays attention to the cameramen.”
She frowned. “I’ll have to remember that,” she said finally.
As close to praise from her as I’d probably ever get. “Is he okay?”
“Fortunately, he got shot only a few blocks from a major medical center. Bullet hit his shoulder. With any luck, he’ll recover.”
“Where are the dogs?”
“After the shooting, some teacher from Roxy’s school showed up to take them. She swears she can handle them for a few days.”
I nodded, wondering if she meant the guidance counselor, Tricia Lobdell Cass.
“This Hector, he’s the father of one of Roxy’s siblings?”
“Manny. Her younger brother.”
I pursed my lips, tried to make sense of this news. “Was Hector close to the family? Spent a lot of time at the house?”
“Apparently, he picked up his son every Sunday.”
“Could he have been the shooter this morning?” I asked.
D.D. gave me a look. “What? Hector Alvalos shot and killed his ex and her new family, including his own son?”
I shrugged. “Domestic violence. Gotta look at all the players, right? Even the exes.”
“Are you going to become a detective, Flora? Give up this vigilante business, go legit?”
“Then I’d have to do paperwork.”
D.D. sighed, but I could see a faint hint of a smile. “Things I should’ve thought of years ago. All right, you want to learn how to think like law enforcement? Yes, as a matter of protocol, we’ll check Hector’s alibi for this morning. The man does have a record. At the moment, however, we have no reports of any recent tensions between him and his ex.”
“But you still believe Roxy, the responsible one . . .” My turn to press.
D.D. held up her hands. “I’m not saying I believe a sixteen-year-old girl shot her entire family either. Especially given how close she seems to have been to her siblings, and without any addictions or evil boyfriends to lead her astray. Currently, I’m approaching the family’s murders with an open mind.”
“Except for this incident.” I nodded toward the stains on the sidewalk, where Phil was still kneeling down, examining them. “Rumor is that a girl matching Roxy’s description was seen running up the street.”
“That’s what we’ve heard.”
“How good a look did the witnesses get? They saw her face? Enough to recognize her from her photo all over the news?”
“Mmm, more like reports of a dark-haired female running up the street. Wearing jeans and a hoodie.”
“That’s it? According to the guidance counselor I spoke to at Roxy’s school, there are Hispanic girl gangs at both the high school and middle school. That description could fit any of their members.”
D.D. scowled at me. “You’re conducting interviews of Roxy’s associates?”
“I was looking for help for the dogs,” I said primly. “Worked, too. Sounds like the guidance counselor is the woman who came to get them.” Then, before D.D. could wind up again, I added: “Baby-blue backpack. If it really was Roxy running up the street, she’s always carrying this light blue backpack. You should be able to see that on the area’s security cameras. That’ll be more reliable confirmation than any eyewitness statement.”
“Gee, thanks for the insight,” D.D. said, but her voice wasn’t as sarcastic. Reliable confirmation was important, and she knew it.
“Did anyone see her shoot the gun?”
“No. People heard the shot. Hector went down. Then came reports of a girl fleeing up the street.”
“Same side of the street or opposite?”
D.D. regarded me thoughtfully. “You’re the survivalist. You tell me.”
I considered the challenge. “Handgun? Not a rifle?”
“Nine-millimeter handgun.”
Okay. So the shooter would need to be relatively close. Same side of the street would be ideal. Hell, walking up to Hector and then pulling the trigger would be best. But up that close, the shooter shouldn’t have missed. Multiple bullets to the chest or stomach made more sense than a single shot to the shoulder. Not to mention, Roxy Baez was now one of the most sought-after people in Boston. Could she really have walked straight through a crowd of coffee drinkers without any of them noticing?
I turned my attention to the other side of the street, where there was another designated spot of urban greenery. A tree, with some low bushes, bright patches of pansies. Someone could stand pressed against the tree—say, a skinny teen keeping her face averted—and go unnoticed for a bit. Which would give her a line of sight on the dogs.
I paused. Maybe I wasn’t the best at thinking of a normal sixteen-year-old’s worries. But a girl who’d just lost her entire family, was in fear for her life . . .
This? Lying in wait to avenge her family’s deaths? I could see it perfectly.
“You said Hector was here for the dogs?” I asked Sergeant Warren.
“Yeah.”
“Because you called him?”
“Because Roxy left notes attached to the dogs’ collars asking whoever found them to please call Hector’s number.”
I nodded. “If it were me . . .” I turned, gave her a little shrug. “The dogs make excellent bait,” I said at last.
D.D. stared at me. Blinked. “You’re saying . . . Roxanna wrote the notes intentionally. Not call this number because these dogs deserve a great home. But call this number in order to bring this man to this location where I’ll be waiting for him.”
